Spin It to Win It

Well, we were discussing gynecologists at our  poker table – because we love to gross out the men and make them all uncomfortable and distracted so that they can’t concentrate and we can beat them.  Especially if we are too drunk and/or ADD to know what is in our hand. 

One of the girls was talking about how an ob/gyn she went to was rude and she finally had to switch doctors.  I told her that I hoped she ate some beans and cabbage and then went to one last appointment with him before she switched. 

Our discussion included a story of a doctor misdiagnosing the flu as endometriosis, and I said that it was just a FLUke.  Cuz I’m funny.  And/or drunk.  And then I was told “thank God you’re not a doctor.”

At this point I pondered how one could make such a haphazard, random, guess at the ailments of some poor unsuspecting soul.  This is what we came up with.  In my “Thank God You’re Not a Doctor”s office I could construct a “wheel o’diseases” where the patient could cut down their waiting room time by simply spinning a big roulette wheel or one of those giant wheels like on Wheel of Fortune or The Price Is Right, and what you get is what you’ve got. 

Except I’d have to have a game show host on my payroll and that would look a tad unprofessional. 

A more simple solution would be if you could pay your office visit fee directly into a slot machine and pull the arm:  Common Cold, Common Cold, Gonorrhea! 

Oh, so close!!!!!!!!!!!!  Pick up your prescription on the way out. 

Chunk – You Are a Moron

1:45 a.m. REALLY??????????????????????????? 

You know, there is one rule, and the rule is very simple:  Be home by the designated previously-agreed-upon-ETA, or you may alternatively elect to contact one of your two original biological parental figures via email, text, or an actual live voice phone conversation.  You did none of these. NONE. 

And then you go and stay out too late and make me imagine that you are dead and/or horrifically mutilated in the proverbial ditch and not only are you dead and/or horrifically mutilated in said ditch, but you took your friend WITH you to be dead and/or horrifically mutilated in the ditch.   And your little friend that was spending the night? Well, he DID text his parents to tell them where he was.  In the meantime, I was worrying about TWO kids and not just one.  Why the h3ll do you think I’ve been so freakin’ happy about your older brothers moving out?  It is because I don’t have so dayum many offspring to keep track of now.  I know for a scientific empirically observed fact that some animals eat their young.  And it is just because the mothers don’t want to keep track of a whole litter of puppies or kittens or baby rabbits (whatthehellever you call a baby rabbit).

And just so you know, if you ever ARE dead in a ditch, I expect you to contact me via Ouija board to let me know that you are dead in a ditch so that I don’t stay up half the night waiting for you. 

So, there you have it.  You are officially grounded.  Yes, my little friend, you are grounded.  Ground-dead.  I know your poor sleep-deprived father who had to go drag your stupid butt home told you that you would be grounded until you were old enough to drive at age 16, but I will settle for just until you are 15 – which is in a week or so.  Because all kinds of child psychologists tell you to never threaten a punishment that is so long or harsh that you will not be able to follow through with it. 

But actually I think I can manage to top the “you are grounded until you can drive threat.” 

Therefore, as an ADDTIONAL punishment which will assuredly last a lifetime with no further involvement from me, I would like to leave you with the sordid, mind-scrambling, childhood-ruining information that I still have sex with your father.  

Now it’s YOUR turn to be sleepless.

Under Construction

So -- my adorable little pink beemer convertible had its fuel pump go out this week. $200 and 45 minutes of labor later, it is thankfully up and running again. To "make do" until the part we needed came in, I was able to trick the engine into thinking it had a regular normal working fuel pump by lifting up the back seat and banging on the top of the fuel pump with the butt-end of a flat-head screwdriver before turning the key in the ignition. This made Duckit pretty much wet her pants laughing.

See - to me there are three basic rules to any home improvement or car maintenance project:

1) Home Depot should offer marriage counseling services.
2) You repair things with tools; you FIX things with a hammer.
3) This is the one that MyPoolBoy hates the worst - All tools have the potential to BE a hammer - such as the butt-end of the flat-head screwdriver that I needed to use to get the fuel pump underneath the back seat of my car to jiggle enough to send gas to the engine.

Rolling Along

Thunderdrunk, I mean, Thunderduck stumbled in sometime late last night/early this morning after a day out on the lake with his buddies. When he came in he greeted the PetBull and then retreated with her to his room.

Whereupon he began to sing Army songs.

And tried unsuccessfully to get the poor dog to join in.

So of course he's hung over, and he came in and asked me if I had any Tylenol or aspirin. I handed him the last 2 Tylenol that I had, but I swear to GAWD I wish I was on some sort of freakish female hormone prescription or the pill - cuz I SOOOOOO would have given him that instead as payback for the Canine Army Choir.