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TAKE TWO ITALIAN BEEFS AND CALL ME IN THE MORNING
So I went to the doctor, terrible blood results in hand, and she put me on iron supplements. She also suggested I start eating birds and mammals, which is not going to happen, but the discussion kind of amused me.
Doctor: Have you changed your diet recently? Have you cut way back on red meat or anything like that?
Me: Well, I don’t really eat meat at all, so…
Doctor: You’re a vegetarian?
Me: Uh, I eat fish sometimes…
Doctor: But no meat?
Me [feeling very pedantic about the definition of “meat”]: Except for fish and shellfish, no.
Doctor: So you don’t eat chicken, or steak, or pork chops, or salami, or ham, or turkey, or hot dogs, or roast beef, or…[she kind of trails off]
During her incredibly long Recitation of Meats I awkwardly shook my head or said “no” for each meat item. What part of this dietary choice is hard to understand, O Board-Certified Internist? She had a bit of a wistful look on her face during the meat inventory, so maybe she was just hungry for lunch.
Now I have iron supplements for the anemia, prescription fish oil for my genetically high cholesterol, and extra vitamin D because I have low levels and apparently that can make you all bummed out.
I feel like a total disaster. For some reason, even these minor chronic health “problems” have really fucked with my self-esteem. What are the good things about me? I forget.
ANOTHER BAD THING ABOUT ME, HELPFULLY POINTED OUT BY A STRANGER
I already complained about this to Twitter, but here’s the extended remix.
On the El platform at Fullerton, a guy with no shirt and his fly wide open said, “Can I ask you a question?”
It was eleven million degrees, I had been at work all day, and pretty much all I wanted to do was go home, take off all my clothes, and pour the wine. (Oh, and put in some laundry. Because doing laundry FUCKING RULES.) So I said no. No you cannot ask me a question.
He asked, right? Every parent knows not to phrase things as questions if you only want one answer. (Although I can only hope this shirtless, weed-smelling* dude who could not operate a pants zipper is not a parent.)
(*Not that there’s anything wrong with that! On you it smells nice! Honest!)
Apparently this guy did not know the “don’t ask if you won’t like the answer” rule, and he got mad. He said, “You don’t even know what I was going to ask!”
I said, “No, but I know that I don’t feel like talking to you.”
Shirtless XYZ Guy: You’re a total bitch.
SXYZG: Seriously, you are a bitch and you dress like a bitch.
SXYZG: Look at what you’re wearing. Total bitch clothes. Fuck you, bitch.
Me: … [puts in headphones] [makes “blah blah blah you’re still talking” puppet-mouth hand gesture at him]
SXYZG [noticing my wedding ring, I guess]: Oh, you’re married? I feel sorry for your husband. Having to be married to a bitch-dressing mega-bitch.
I don’t really care about being called a bitch, but the amount of fashion-critique was puzzling. The amount of fashion-critique coming from a half-dressed guy was also puzzling. As was the part about my poor, oppressed husband. Because it would be okay to be married to a well-dressed bitch, but a bitch who dresses like me? In supremely ordinary black capri-length pants, a short-sleeved work-appropriate shirt, and flats? Oh that is just intolerable.
SOME OF MY BETTER POINTS
1. I am flexible. Last weekend we were all set to have a minor camping adventure, but after playing at the beach all day we found out that there was a total fire ban for the whole park. There were signs everywhere but it was not posted on the website before we left, which is lame. Even more lame was the idea of camping without fire, which was pretty much the only part I was really looking forward to (other than the joy in my Special-Forces-survivalist daughter’s eyes, of course). So we went home and unpacked the car (major drag), picked up Half Acre four-packs and ordered pizza to make ourselves feel better, and promised Nora that we’d try again later in the summer. It actually was an okay dry run, since it helped me realize that we had things totally backwards—lake swimming, if it happens, should be the last thing done before going home rather than the first thing done when arriving. Because when I’m sun-addled and sandy and covered in lake water the last thing I want to do is crawl into a close-quarters sleeping space with my equally sticky and slightly brackish family.
2. I am well-communicated-with. Nora got a phone, since she’ll be at an unfamiliar week-long day camp in the near future and I wanted her to feel comfortable about pick-ups and drop-offs and the like. I also enjoy being able to locate the shit out of her with the parental GPS thing. Ha ha ha, Alan Parsons Project baby! I am the eye in the sky! The first day she was in possession of the phone I received 22 text messages from her, 11 of which contained some form of “I love you mom.” Many of them also contained useless details about the weather, new scooter or skateboard tricks, or how many hands of gin rummy she had won. So that is all heartwarming and tedious at the same time.
—mimi smartypants resembles that last sentence.