Betty Ford Clinic
Thanks to everyone who wrote about the scary malaria drugs. I am currently fighting with my doctor (who's not really “my doctor” but a substitute while the person I usually see is on maternity leave) to prescribe something other than Lariam. Since I'm a smartypants, and work in the medical field, and have rather unfortunate (for someone with my hypochondriac tendencies) access to all sorts of high-quality medical information, I've learned quite a bit about Lariam alternatives. Now if the dude would just listen to me and phone in the damn prescription, we might have something here. We've been playing phone tag; hopefully I'll get satisfaction soon.
So it's a new month. My mom e-mailed me a “rabbit rabbit.” Which wasn’t strictly necessary as I remembered to say it this morning. Has ANYONE else ever heard of that superstition? On the first day of a new month, the first words you speak in the morning should be “rabbit rabbit,” which somehow guarantees you'll have good luck that month.
Sometimes I swear my family just made shit up to mess with my little-kid head.
We went to the Logan Square ritual Halloween performance last night. Stilt-walkers, big puppets, and fire. Oh, the fire. They had a bunch of performers doing that fire-swinging thing with the burning globes on the ends of chains. All that fire made me so excited I almost passed out. Seriously. I'm like the Beavis of diaryland.com. Fire! Fire!
I had a quick after-work drink with Sam beforehand and, strangely, instead of my usual beer mood, I was in a juice mood, so I ordered a grapefruit juice and vodka. The bartender is all like, “What' that called?” I said I don't know, but I told you how to make it…grapefruit juice and vodka. It's not like I wandered up and asked you to make a William Howard Taft Soy Ink Screaming Orgasm on the Rocks or something, it's the other way around. So just make the damn drink. He wouldn't shut up about it, though, kept coming back to our end of the bar and saying, “No, really, there's a name for that drink” and finally looked it up in the bar's tattered copy of Mr Boston's, returning all triumphant, “It's called a greyhound!” Great. Wonderful. Grapefruit juice and vodka is called a greyhound. Now please go away.
Do I sound cranky? I'm really not. I worry that with all my bitter irony and ranting about the little things, diaryland readers are going to think of me as some hateful sourpuss girl. Should I start ending sentences with little smiley faces to dispell that notion? (Just kidding. If I ever do start ending sentences with little smiley faces, please, someone, do an intervention on my ass.)