Don’t Mind The Ingrown Toenail

My husband and I both have the habit of not wearing our wedding bands. It’s not that we don’t love each other or because we want to pick up other people, because we don’t (well, I don’t), but it’s a combination of being prone to losing shit and being lazy as hell. Mostly the latter.

Being lazy as hell means not taking the time to do little things in the morning or before leaving the house. Like putting on wedding bands and other jewelry (or putting them back). Or shaving. Or taking the time to put on clothing that makes us look less like hobos and more like, I dunno, non-hobos.

Screenshot 2015-08-20 at 8.21.50 PM

Not wearing our rings regularly has led to some interesting situations.

Sometimes I’ll get the You’re living in sin look from The Judges. You know, those women who live to try to make people feel like shit in the name of the lord. This sometimes happens when Sam and I are both together, but mostly when I’m out with the kids by myself. And those same heffas also love to look over my shoulder to see how I’m paying for my groceries. Because Jesus said “Let the poor and their kids go hungry.”

The more interesting–and funnier–situation is interest from the opposite sex.

The very first time I witnessed this effect of not wearing wedding bands was at a doctor’s office. Sam had an awful infection from an in-grown toenail. It was nasty and quite painful for him. I drove him while Little Man stayed with my MIL. After giving it a look over, the young female doctor said that she had to remove part of the toenail and lance the wound.


If the first time you met someone was under those circumstances, you’d probably be feeling like Clint Eastwood, even if you couldn’t let it show. This would probably kill any potential sexual attraction. Even if it were Charlie Hunnam or the female equivalent.

But not this doctor.  No, she was not to be deterred. Her stomach was made of cast iron, as she definitely found Sam attractive, which she made obvious while removing his toenail. While he was groaning in pain. And with his wife in the room.

There was a lot of flirty chit-chat, asking about a football team Sam liked, suggesting the two of them meet up at a tailgate during the upcoming weekend. There were also many caresses to his arm and shoulder. Not just “it’s okay, I’m sorry you’re in pain” pats, but “I wanna move this hand down below and I would if there wasn’t a person in the corner reading a magazine.”

Maybe she thought I was Sam’s sister. I was wearing jeans and an old t-shirt while Sam was wearing his Corporate America clothing he had on at work (back when he still drove in). Regardless of who she thought I was, it was still pretty damn inappropriate on many levels.

It took every bit of willpower I had not to laugh, as Sam looked absolutely horrified. He’s not the type to flirt and “doesn’t do well talking to girls” even now.


After it was all done and Sam had gotten instructions on care plus a prescription, we got up to head out. On the way out, I looked the doctor in the eyes and said, “Thanks for fixing up my husband.” The look on her face was absolutely priceless.

Have you ever had any strange situations come up due to lack of a ring?


Doctors and Cockroaches

Today Baby Girl had her one month checkup and Little Man had an appointment so we could get him a referral to another child psychologist for an autism spectrum evaluation.

Everything went well with BG’s checkup–she’s doing great with all of the developmental milestones. It’s funny because by her six month appointment, she was pretty far behind on a lot of things and we considered having her evaluated by a specialist to see if she needed occupational therapy. I don’t think she had rolled over by then, which was a biggie, but our doc said she could refer her or wait and see. We decided to wait and see, and now she’s doing awesome!

And then Little Man’s time came. That went fine–we explained our concerns with the other child psychologist we saw. This psychologist told us from the beginning that he was certain LM had an autism spectrum disorder–Asperger’s, but after testing, he said that while he met the criteria, he wasn’t diagnosing him because of his high IQ. I’ve sense found out that shouldn’t preclude a diagnosis, so we’re going to have a second look.

That wasn’t the interesting part of the appointment, though. The interesting part was when LM started chattering on and on about bugs, which prompted a discussion first about him becoming an entomologist and then the doctor talking about her kid holding a hissing cockroach at a festival.

I was appalled. Who lets their child hold a fucking cockroach? Ewww. (Yes, for half a second, I totally judged.)

Little Man was enthralled. “A hissing cockroach?! AWESOME!” (And then my half second of judgment ended because I remembered how many bugs LM has picked up over the last week.)

LM and our doc talked and looked at pictures of the said kid and cockroach for a few minutes, and then the boy had an idea: “Oooh, I’ll get my mommy and daddy to take me to the pet store and get me a boy cockroach and a girl cockroach and then they can have babies!”


“Yeah, if that happens, I’ll do what normal people do and call an exterminator,” I said dryly. Little Man laughed.

“Do you know where I can get one of these cockroaches?” Little Man asked the doc.

“Maybe you could try a pet store,” she suggested. “I’m not sure where one is close to you, though.”

“That’s okay, I can Google. I’m not good with locations, but I am good with technology,” LM said. This is true; in fact, he informed us last night that by the time he grows up, our iPhones will be beneath him because the technology he plans to work with is stuff to create time machines.

“I can’t wait! I so want a hissing cockroach. I just hope it doesn’t die like all of the other bugs I’ve tried to keep as pets. I had two pet frogs in my bucket, but I forgot to water then and they dried out.”

At this point, the doctor gave me a rather apologetic look.

“Thanks for this,” I said, mostly joking.

A cockroach so isn’t happening. Never. This might be a good bargaining chip for LM to get one of the other pets he wants, like a turtle or a lizard, though.


Today I Was White #18

So, I went to the doctor today. For my hand.

Let me back that up.

First, I went to three pharmacies and two medical supply stores looking for a hand splint, since my homemade splint I made using a paper plate rather sucked.

It lessened the discomfort for sure, but ace bandages irritate the hell out of my skin. Pain is preferable to wanting to claw my skin off, I’ve discovered.

So, in search of a splint I went out and turned up empty handed. I found the splint I thought I needed (assuming I have a hairline fracture) online. Why, why, why can’t any of these stores carry it?


Fine, I’ll go to the urgent care, get an x-ray, and hopefully get a splint. They’ll have splints, right?

I stopped by the first urgent care in our town.

“We don’t take Aetna insurance. But you can pay out of pocket, if you want,” the lady at the front desk told me.

Um, no.

So I went to the other urgent care. And they aren’t open on Wednesdays.


I called my husband. “Are you happy? I tried going to not only one doctor, but two! And it was a waste of time!”

After a bit of back and forth, he convinced me to go to the urgent care about an hour away. He then pointed out that I could wait to see my primary care doc tomorrow after I griped about the time, but I was like whatever. I was determined to get shit handled today.

So I drove up there, signed in, and was given this:


I smirked when the lady up front handed me this. Surely they weren’t calling people back by numbers, like the freaking DMV?

Surely, I was wrong.

“Yellow #2, you’re up!” a nurse called, and a person with a yellow card that had the number two on it stood up. White was for a doctor visit, yellow was a nurse visit, and pink was emergency.

So I waited a little while and the voice came “…18!” I assume she said “white” and I just didn’t hear it. After I went back, I let the nurse know what was up and then the doctor came back.

“Wow! Those knuckles are really pink!” she said while examining them, referring to the second and third fingers (or first and second, I can’t remember if the thumb counts as one), plus noted some swelling.

I did the x-ray and had to do basically gang signs for the technician, which I pointed out. The technician wasn’t amused.

The doctor came back shortly thereafter. “Good news, no break! I don’t know what’s wrong with your hand, but maybe it’s a deep bruise?” she asked.

“Maybe a hairline fracture that didn’t show up?” I counter questioned.

“Probably!” she said very perkily. “Don’t worry about it though, I’ll give you some Tramadol and it’ll be fine in a few days.”

“Would a splint possibly help?” I asked, knowing it would. I had done my reading.

“Um…it could, but you don’t have to use one.” In other words, I wouldn’t be getting a decent splint from there. “Just take the pain medication, and you’ll feel fine!”

All righty, then.

No “GTFO” At My Doctor’s Appointment

+1 for exhaustion

Thanks to not being able to sleep more than a couple of hours last night, despite taking my sleep meds, I was pretty darn exhausted when I went to my doctor’s appointment this morning.

While that’s not the best thing for a 30-minute drive, it did disengage my “give a fuck” or whatever it is in my brain that makes me clam up when trying to relay information about how my mood is, how my medication is working, etc.

So, when the doctor asked if I thought Effexor had made my depression and anxiety symptoms improve any, I told her that it hadn’t yet. I let her know that my mood has been lower and that I’ve been having more unwanted suicidal thoughts (which sounds weird to put it that way, I doubt anyone wants them, but it’s more of an intrusive thing that I can’t block out, is what I mean).

I asked if it’s possible that that’s just a side effect the medication can have before it starts kicking in, but she said that shouldn’t happen. She asked if I wanted to try Cymbalta, but I told her no, that I wanted to go ahead and get the referral to see a psychiatrist. (My husband was shocked by this.)

The doctor agreed that was a good idea and from there we discussed the possibility that those symptoms could be caused by an underlying condition, namely Bipolar II disorder.

When I started seeing this doctor two years go, she had said she had suspected a milder bipolar disorder in the beginning, which I had relayed to the psychiatrist at the time, who laughed it off and said that you can’t have a mild bipolar disorder. She shook her head like it was the stupidest thing she had ever heard, and that was that.

I hadn’t mentioned that to my doctor back then, but told her that today, and she seemed surprised and said that there is more than just one form of Bipolar disorder, and that the symptoms aren’t as severe as Bipolar I.

She said that it would make a lot of sense, except for one thing–whenever I get where I can’t sleep and stay up for hours doing whatever (it used to be writing stories), that the lack of sleep would catch up to me, whereas I guess that’s not typical for someone with Bipolar II? I dunno, but I’m gonna resist the urge to research out the wazoo and just wait to discuss it with the psychiatrist.

I’m going to take a lower, non-extended release dose of Effexor for a few days, along with Klonopin, and see if that helps until I go to my appointment (usually it takes about a week to get a call from the office we’re referred to, then 1-2 months to get in for an appointment). If it doesn’t, then I’ll switch back to Zoloft and Wellbutrin until then.

That game plan works for me. And, in reference to my last post, I didn’t go all Shakespeare in there, nor was I told to “GTFO” or “get the fucketh out.” 😉

Get Thee to a Nunnery

What the heck was I thinking, making my doctor’s appointment at 8:00 in the freaking morning? Obviously I wasn’t.

Going straight from waking up to taking a quick shower to going out the door leaves me no time to mentally prepare for the appointment, which I rather sucked at doing in the first place. Maybe probably sounds silly–“mentally preparing” for an appointment, but I get rather nervous about going and need a little time to calm myself (which means going from a 10 to a 9).

I’ve made my pros and cons list for my new medication. I’ve written stuff down on this blog over the past few weeks. I should totally know what I’m going to say, right?

Yet when I picture actually being in there and being asked “So, how are things going?” my mind is drawing a complete blank.

Gah. Words. Why must I suck with them?

I should just go all Shakespeare and prepare a monologue.

Or steal bits and pieces from various Shakespearean monologues. From Hamlet. Namely, Hamlet. Because I ❤ him.

Doctor: Has the new medication been working?

Me: To be, or not to be, that is the question—
Whether ’tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them?

Doctor: Ah, I see. Well, why do you think that’s happening?

Me: How the fucketh shouldst I know?*

Doctor: Can you further describe your symptoms?

Me: How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on’t! ah, fie!

Doctor: GTFO.

Probably wouldn’t get any stranger looks than normal.

Nah, might be better to just shove that pros and cons list (which is complete with my husband’s “acting less like a zombie”) in her face and hope there are no further questions.

*Not found in the first three editions of Hamlet.