One of my favorite "funny read" blogs is putting together a book of blog-ish anecdotes as a fund raiser for some plane crash victims. And I want to be in that book. I don't know why- but I MUST be in that book. I'm pretty sure it's not the deep desire to help out with the fund raiser like I wish I could say more than it is a need to see my name in a book. (But I'm not THAT horrible and plan to buy the book even if I'm not in it.)
Anyways, I've been thinking of what to write and submit for the book, and during a long wait in the Dr's office this morning I came up with this - only I think it's too offensive to old people, and maybe bad receptionists, so it won't be going in, since I really don't want to come across to total strangers as a complete jerk. But I still have a desire to share, so here ya go:
Every time the kids or I have a Dr’s appointment I think that MAYBE we’ll actually see the Dr on time. You know, MAYBE my appointment time really means something. Just MAYBE.
Believe it or not, this has actually happened a couple times. But only a couple. And it really doesn’t seem that impressive when I realize that I’ve sat in some kind of physicians waiting room about 192 times this past year (I’m not kidding – literally that many – at least – we go to the Dr WAAAAAY too much around here.)
Today, however, was not one of those times. Not even close. In fact, I sat in that waiting room so long that I’m pretty sure they have some kind of typing pig making the appointments. (Did you know that pigs are actually pretty high on the intelligence roster? I think they come somewhere after monkeys and dolphins – so see, I’m not being THAT rude by calling their receptionist a pig. And you just thought I was being a jerk, didn’t you?!)
I was seeing the Ophthalmologist today for a Glaucoma check up. And Glaucoma, as you may or may not know, is an old people disease. Like a REALLY old people disease. But luckily in my family we all carry a mutated gene that does nothing other than cause Glaucoma - that we know of. I’m sure one day the medical world will announce that the mutation also causes abnormally scatterbrained and psychotic behavior, and then everyone that knows me will go, “Wow, that makes so much sense.” Then they’ll probably lock me away somewhere I can’t “hurt others.” Whatever – as long as they give me pills where all I have to think about are butterflies and unicorns.
But now I’m getting off the subject. That happens a lot around here.
Bananas.
See what I mean?
SO, ahem, there is nothing I like better than sitting in the Ophthalmologist’s waiting room for OVER AN HOUR hoping to see the Dr. sometime before my accompanying 3 month old starts wailing for some breast milk. And just to make me more comfortable and at ease in what seems like a week long waiting room get-away, I get to sit there with all the 75+ year old people who also have old people eye diseases. (And the slightly younger, yet still old, people who volunteered to drive the really old people to their Dr’s appointment, because YES, they are that old.)
I was getting really impatient. Mainly because I conned a friend into watching my other kids for my “super fast appointment.” And partly because I didn’t even want to imagine myself breastfeeding my baby there. All the old men trying to get in a free peep show only to realize that after 4 kids my boobs sag just as much as the 90 year old woman across from him. Yikes. So I sat there NOT thinking about what it would be like to nurse my baby, and started people watching instead. (I had to keep my brain occupied with something and my options were SO limited.)
One old lady kept making these really weird grunting sounds and had to tell me how she had forgotten her “stockings.” Although I noticed that she had not forgotten to fluff her hair or put on her oversized gold earrings. And another lady loudly announced that she had to use the restroom, and then shuffled off at the speed of…well, an old lady. (sometimes an analogy is just not good enough.) And yeah, don’t worry, Shuffle Princess, they’re not going to call your name while you’re gone - - remember the pig receptionist who made the appointments so close together that the Dr can’t keep up? We’re going to be here for awhile.
After a few minutes an old man hobbled over and sat near me and my lady friends. And suddenly the grunting stopped, and Earring Mama daintily crossed her stocking-less feet. Then Shuffle Princess whipped out her lipstick and mirror. So then I looked over at Gramps, who seemed to be the instigator of all of this womanly improvement. To me he just looked like your standard old man – floppy over grown (probably hairy) ears, wrinkled saggy skin, sporting a cane, bowler hat and Dockers.
And then I started thinking, what if he was really attractive, but in an ancient about to kick the bucket sort of way, and I just didn’t know it because, you know, I’m far from that bucket?
Do really old people find other really old people attractive? Is there still a standard? Or does just merely breathing suffice? And more importantly, am I going to find old men attractive when I’m that antique? Because, eeew. And, holy cow, are they going to find me attractive? Will I have to wear big earrings, lipstick and stockings? Because I’m so not into any of that.
So much to think about.
And then all of this suddenly seemed insanely funny. I think I was starting to lose it from waiting so long without food, water or real entertainment. So then I started suffering from the need to laugh but not wanting to look overly psychotic. This actually happens to me A LOT. I think it’s because my internal monologues are so hilarious…to me. And it’s never a good idea to suddenly burst out in torrents of laughter when it public. Other people just don’t seem to handle it very well.
I was able to hold in the laughing, but couldn’t help smiling. Like BIG smiling. Not just grinning. So then I had to hurry and think about how to disguise my obviously out of place smile and looked down at my THANKFULLY still sleeping baby. How precious, right? A mother smiling at her infant. I’m sure I won over those old people in that very instant - - when really I was openly mocking old age attractiveness in my head. Suckers.
You know, it’s really a good thing that these seemingly hilarious brain monologues stay INSIDE my head. And hopefully, whoever is reading this is not old. And if you are, I just throw away hate mail, so don’t bother sending any.
So I continued to wait. A couple centuries went by. Then I waited some more and my brain moved onto other, less laughable, topics like: Are these real walls? Or just those portable “we need a bunch of teeny rooms” walls that will be relocated someday to a Dr’s office where they actually see their patients on time? And why, for the love of all things entertaining, do they not turn on that TV? I’d even watch C-SPAN at this point.
By some miracle I was called into an exam room before having to put on a nursing booby show for any old men, where the Dr dilated my eyes just so I could drive home with a complete inability to focus on anything. (Not to mention the annoying side effect of being blinded by minuscule things like THE SUN.)
Coolest of all – I get to go back next week. But this time I’m going to be prepared with water, snacks, one of the 50 bottles of breast milk in our freezer that would have come in really handy today, and quite possibly I’ll take a book, or the portable DVD player, or maybe if I crochet there I’ll fit in better. ANYTHING really, so I don’t have any more hilarious brain conversations about old people – because you know how they get me laughing.
Anyways, I've been thinking of what to write and submit for the book, and during a long wait in the Dr's office this morning I came up with this - only I think it's too offensive to old people, and maybe bad receptionists, so it won't be going in, since I really don't want to come across to total strangers as a complete jerk. But I still have a desire to share, so here ya go:
Every time the kids or I have a Dr’s appointment I think that MAYBE we’ll actually see the Dr on time. You know, MAYBE my appointment time really means something. Just MAYBE.
Believe it or not, this has actually happened a couple times. But only a couple. And it really doesn’t seem that impressive when I realize that I’ve sat in some kind of physicians waiting room about 192 times this past year (I’m not kidding – literally that many – at least – we go to the Dr WAAAAAY too much around here.)
Today, however, was not one of those times. Not even close. In fact, I sat in that waiting room so long that I’m pretty sure they have some kind of typing pig making the appointments. (Did you know that pigs are actually pretty high on the intelligence roster? I think they come somewhere after monkeys and dolphins – so see, I’m not being THAT rude by calling their receptionist a pig. And you just thought I was being a jerk, didn’t you?!)
I was seeing the Ophthalmologist today for a Glaucoma check up. And Glaucoma, as you may or may not know, is an old people disease. Like a REALLY old people disease. But luckily in my family we all carry a mutated gene that does nothing other than cause Glaucoma - that we know of. I’m sure one day the medical world will announce that the mutation also causes abnormally scatterbrained and psychotic behavior, and then everyone that knows me will go, “Wow, that makes so much sense.” Then they’ll probably lock me away somewhere I can’t “hurt others.” Whatever – as long as they give me pills where all I have to think about are butterflies and unicorns.
But now I’m getting off the subject. That happens a lot around here.
Bananas.
See what I mean?
SO, ahem, there is nothing I like better than sitting in the Ophthalmologist’s waiting room for OVER AN HOUR hoping to see the Dr. sometime before my accompanying 3 month old starts wailing for some breast milk. And just to make me more comfortable and at ease in what seems like a week long waiting room get-away, I get to sit there with all the 75+ year old people who also have old people eye diseases. (And the slightly younger, yet still old, people who volunteered to drive the really old people to their Dr’s appointment, because YES, they are that old.)
I was getting really impatient. Mainly because I conned a friend into watching my other kids for my “super fast appointment.” And partly because I didn’t even want to imagine myself breastfeeding my baby there. All the old men trying to get in a free peep show only to realize that after 4 kids my boobs sag just as much as the 90 year old woman across from him. Yikes. So I sat there NOT thinking about what it would be like to nurse my baby, and started people watching instead. (I had to keep my brain occupied with something and my options were SO limited.)
One old lady kept making these really weird grunting sounds and had to tell me how she had forgotten her “stockings.” Although I noticed that she had not forgotten to fluff her hair or put on her oversized gold earrings. And another lady loudly announced that she had to use the restroom, and then shuffled off at the speed of…well, an old lady. (sometimes an analogy is just not good enough.) And yeah, don’t worry, Shuffle Princess, they’re not going to call your name while you’re gone - - remember the pig receptionist who made the appointments so close together that the Dr can’t keep up? We’re going to be here for awhile.
After a few minutes an old man hobbled over and sat near me and my lady friends. And suddenly the grunting stopped, and Earring Mama daintily crossed her stocking-less feet. Then Shuffle Princess whipped out her lipstick and mirror. So then I looked over at Gramps, who seemed to be the instigator of all of this womanly improvement. To me he just looked like your standard old man – floppy over grown (probably hairy) ears, wrinkled saggy skin, sporting a cane, bowler hat and Dockers.
And then I started thinking, what if he was really attractive, but in an ancient about to kick the bucket sort of way, and I just didn’t know it because, you know, I’m far from that bucket?
Do really old people find other really old people attractive? Is there still a standard? Or does just merely breathing suffice? And more importantly, am I going to find old men attractive when I’m that antique? Because, eeew. And, holy cow, are they going to find me attractive? Will I have to wear big earrings, lipstick and stockings? Because I’m so not into any of that.
So much to think about.
And then all of this suddenly seemed insanely funny. I think I was starting to lose it from waiting so long without food, water or real entertainment. So then I started suffering from the need to laugh but not wanting to look overly psychotic. This actually happens to me A LOT. I think it’s because my internal monologues are so hilarious…to me. And it’s never a good idea to suddenly burst out in torrents of laughter when it public. Other people just don’t seem to handle it very well.
I was able to hold in the laughing, but couldn’t help smiling. Like BIG smiling. Not just grinning. So then I had to hurry and think about how to disguise my obviously out of place smile and looked down at my THANKFULLY still sleeping baby. How precious, right? A mother smiling at her infant. I’m sure I won over those old people in that very instant - - when really I was openly mocking old age attractiveness in my head. Suckers.
You know, it’s really a good thing that these seemingly hilarious brain monologues stay INSIDE my head. And hopefully, whoever is reading this is not old. And if you are, I just throw away hate mail, so don’t bother sending any.
So I continued to wait. A couple centuries went by. Then I waited some more and my brain moved onto other, less laughable, topics like: Are these real walls? Or just those portable “we need a bunch of teeny rooms” walls that will be relocated someday to a Dr’s office where they actually see their patients on time? And why, for the love of all things entertaining, do they not turn on that TV? I’d even watch C-SPAN at this point.
By some miracle I was called into an exam room before having to put on a nursing booby show for any old men, where the Dr dilated my eyes just so I could drive home with a complete inability to focus on anything. (Not to mention the annoying side effect of being blinded by minuscule things like THE SUN.)
Coolest of all – I get to go back next week. But this time I’m going to be prepared with water, snacks, one of the 50 bottles of breast milk in our freezer that would have come in really handy today, and quite possibly I’ll take a book, or the portable DVD player, or maybe if I crochet there I’ll fit in better. ANYTHING really, so I don’t have any more hilarious brain conversations about old people – because you know how they get me laughing.
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