I bit the bullet recently and actually made a
doctor’s appointment—an appointment I did not want to make for an issue I did
not want to deal with—but I steeled myself and went anyway. It was as awful as
I had anticipated, including a surprise invasive ultrasound and a painful emergency
procedure to remove an implant that had become problematic. It was 8:00 in the morning,
I was slightly traumatized, and I had a bit of shock adrenaline running through
me.
Because I hadn’t been to see a doctor for so long, the OB/GYN (who I liked)
decided that this was a great time to give me the full run-down of everything
medical I need to catch up on now, especially since I am “getting older.” She
whipped out a form and started asking me all of these questions about my eyes
and my veins and my frequenting of adult beverages and my weight and my last
mammogram and how I managed to reach my age without being put on the pill. Then
she said I can’t eat white foods anymore, and when I turn fifty, I have to have
a colonoscopy. (Which by the way, I will just flat out will not ever do. Ever.) It was a dizzying array
of information, and I can’t remember any of it, and I’m supposed to go back
next week for something, and I think I’m supposed to fast but I can’t remember.
This is why I avoid doctors. They cause confusion and upsetted-ness. Also, I
don’t know what she means by “white foods.” If she meant “refined carbohydrates”
I would understand. But did she mean vanilla yogurt and cottage cheese?
Potatoes? Brie? I mean, it’s not like I’m going to listen to her anyway, but I’d
like to be clear on which advice I’m ignoring.
Sorry for the lack of a segueway here, but I’m not
sure how I feel about raccoons. Mr. Typist recently showed me a video of a raccoon
taking revenge on a cat but spraying it with a garden hose:
I have to give the little bastard credit—that was
a pro move, and quite strategically executed. But it did remind me of what colossal
jerks raccoons are. I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with them. I
admire their ingenuity and their fearlessness, and I admit I think they’re kind
of cute when they aren’t menacing my cat or refusing to leave my porch. And
they featured heavily in a short story I wrote once, where they guided souls
into the underworld. So I am both fascinated and enraged by them. I don’t
understand why they aren’t more scared of me, and their arrogance exasperates
me. In one video I watched (or maybe it was an article I read) a scientist said
that raccoons annoy humans because they don’t seem to sense their place in the animal
hierarchy. They act like they’re equal to us, instead understanding that they
are trash pandas and yard varmints and that they should properly fear our
authori-tay. That’s exactly how I feel about them! Gah! So irritating. (But
also kind of cute.)
I am a copious sneezer, and with me, there is no
sneeze foreplay. My sneezes are sudden, violent, and without warning. They are
not dainty little lady-like “achoos.” They sound like they’re coming from the
nostrils of a rabid hippopotamus. They are terrifying to behold, and made even
more frightening by the fact that there is no telling when one is about fly
until it’s too late. The other day, I was heading into the computer room when
one hit me full force, just as I was passing by Mr. Typist’s chair. He jumped
about ten feet, then claimed I did it on purpose to scare him. “You waited until
you got right in front of my chair to sneeze,” he accused. “You…are a sneeze ninja!” Hmph. Let the record
stand that I am not a “sneeze ninja.” I don’t go skulking about the city at
night, sidling up to complete strangers and sneezing in their ear, cackling
with glee when they jump in terror. I just have violent sneezes over which I
have no control. I’m the victim here. I have a condition. Pardon me, but I need to excuse myself to a safe space
now, with other sneezers who understand my plight.
--Kristen McHenry
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