Years ago, one of you said that someone you knew thought mammogram was pronounced “mammy-o-gram,” and I’ve really never been able to call it anything else and thanks for ruining my life.
Yesterday was my scheduled mammy-o-gram, and if I could actually arrange for Scarlett O’Hara’s mammy to just come feel me up and give me the OK and then harangue me about Ashley, I’d do it.
Of course I had my annual mammy-o-gram freakout and terror and obsessive Googling that comes before, and then the morning I was to get it, aka yesterday, I got an email from my regular doctor, who has not yet quit or died. She emailed all her patients to let us know she is still going with the pronouns she and her (which, why?), and also to let us know that coronavirus cases have doubled in our area in the last 10 days and to please limit our movement.
Oh, I’ve limited my movement. You should see me over here. What was that big blob thing in Star Wars?
“Terrifying Mammy-o-grams. May I help you?”
“Yes,” I said. Of course I said “yes,” the mating call of all my phone calls to professional places. “I need to postpone my mammy-o-gram.”
So now it’s in April, and the receptionist said she didn’t blame me, and we bonded over “this whole thing” and then no sooner did I do that then I got a call saying my migraine doctor appointment is next week.
And he’s holding me hostage; I can’t get more of these anti-seizure pills unless I go. There is no earthly reason a migraine doctor can’t have telehealth calls. All you DO is tell him what’s going on. They don’t weigh you or measure you or look at your tongue or any of that nonsense. That nonsense like your vitals.
So I ran from the Raiders of the Lost Ark boulder that is ‘rona this week, only to have to face it again next week.
Also, as soon as work was done I got another call last night from that goddamn Mario from that goddamn Apple Care. What they do, see, is a recording calls you first, see, asking if you’ll take the call, and if you can’t, press 2. I had worked right up till 6 and the call came at like 6 and .0001 seconds, so I pressed fucking 2 as hard as possible. I have grown officially tired of my issue and no longer even wish to fix it.
How long have I been working on this? At least a month. I’ll bet I’ve put 30 hours into fixing this thing. Hooo care at this point. Can’t they just send me a new computer?
In other news, we are under a “winter storm warning” here and I want you to brace your loins or whatever but we are expecting
AN INCH POINT TWO.
I hope we’ll all make it and your thoughts and prayers are welcome at this snowy juncture.
The thing is, they promised us it’d start happening overnight and that I’d wake up to an amazing frosty oasis of one inch of snow, and I told Forest about it and figured he’d like it, since once it’s anywhere below 40 that cat is clinging to the door, MEEPING to be outside to place his bits on cold rocks and cold ice and cold drinks and cold compresses, his fur blowing about like he’s waiting for Poldark.
But we got up this morning and dashed to the door to frolic, and?
Dull. Dull day. Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day. Fritter and waste the Blu in an offhand way.
I realize Blu is disgusting. A dog plays with it. Whattaya want from Blu? Occasionally I will clean Blu but it gets dirty again like two seconds later, as a dog plays with it. So.
Anyway, NOW they’re claiming it will begin to snow this afternoon, and they are still calling it a winter storm warning, and we are all hunkering down to be pelleted by an
INCH POINT TWO.
I have tied a rope from the house to the shed so I can feed the snakes tonight and make it back in without losing my way due to snowblindness.
I had better go. First of all, my choice of pants was stupid and I feel way too breezy and I need to put on something warmer like maybe bearskin chaps. Secondly, it was slow slow slow at the beginning of the week, and now work is crashing my way and I fear I will not get it all done and that someone will give me the pursed-lips look from behind their laptop if I say, “This is going to be late.”
[disclaimer: I am never late. Instead I give myself migraines and bite my cuticles and don’t sleep. But I do not turn in work late, even if I get zero work on MTW, and then 47 hours of work on Th.]
Not that fondly,