“Here I sit,
so broken hearted.
Came to shit…
and only farted”
Yep, that pretty much sums up yesterday, a day that started out with sooo much promise. The Spousal Unit had an appointment with the VA Hospital in Durham. We planned to arrive in time to have a lovely lunch, knock out his doctor visit in fifteen minutes and go visit my long-lost girlfriend and her husband who just moved to Apex from New York. Having not seen Merle Dean and Bud (oh come on, you know I almost never use real names) in fourteen years, I was wild with excitement; we had some MAJOR catching up to do. Of course, I had to get her autograph as well; it’s not every day you get to see Ben Stiller’s former babysitter!
I should be old enough to know better than to form expectations about outcomes, yet if we do that successfully, how would we ever get excited about something or look forward to it? Hum, that’s a conundrum to ponder. Anyway, suffice it to say not one single thing went according to plan. We hit bad road construction which delayed us so we had to sacrifice lunch. Blood sugar issues require that I eat healthy food at least every four hours or else my head spins around and I start to morph into Zuul from “Ghostbusters”, or maybe it’s the Gatekeeper or The Keymaster; I get so fuzzy it’s hard to recognize my own inner demons. The short follow-up doctor’s visit turned into a three-hour gang bang, complete with three acts, popcorn, and an intermission, part of which included having The Unit fall asleep so they could monitor his breathing. By the time we were sprung from the hospital, it was so late that, with the 30-minute drive over to Apex, and Bud and Merle Dean having dinner reservations to celebrate their 25th anniversary, we decided it was just not enough time to enjoy a leisurely visit. And that “lunch” didn’t happen until 5:30, which means I had gone EIGHT hours without food.
The poor Unit was so quaking in fear of my inner Zuul, I’m surprised he didn’t ask for a seat on the opposite side of the restaurant. Then, to top off this peach of a day, I decided to check the stock market closing numbers before I opened the menu. The DOW was down 246 points for the week! Could someone, anyone really, (even a five-year-old child would suffice), please dash over to Washington DC and straighten this unholy mess out? I hate all those political clowns so much, visions of performing anesthesia-free circumcisions on all of them are dancing in my head. Have you ever seen such fools in free-fall? If our country and economy weren’t being hurt so badly by all this, it might just make a great Broadway farce.
I love how, at the end of the debt-ceiling debacle, they all began shouting about job creation. Where have you people been for the past two years, stuck in a closet with your heads up your asses? How’s it smell up there? I understand Mr. Obama has been quite busy with all the worldwide trips he’s taken his family on during his stint in office, but even with all that, you’d think he’d have taken one itty-bitty minute to read a newspaper or two. He just woke up Monday and discovered that people need jobs? Can we please turn this pathetic administration into the one-hit wonder it so deserves to be? Pretty please? It would make Zuul so happy. I sadly remember the Jimmy Carter debacle all too well, and this is deja vu all over again.
Could the entire Obama administration and all elected politicians just STEP AWAY FROM THE FUCKING ECONOMY? We Americans are wonderfully clever and resourceful. Neither we nor the economy need your misdirected ‘help’ and interference. Piss off, hosers.
Moving on before I have a stroke. Are any of you ladies plagued by a snoring husband or boyfriend? Mine snored so loudly, I gave serious consideration to murder on many, many nights. I mean, you could hear him from three stories away. I’m talking not being able to sleep at all, not for a single second. I thought I might have bedded a buffalo, except The Unit is much less hairy, and smells waaayyy better. I was so sleep deprived it wasn’t even funny. I feared getting pulled for a DUI at 10AM any given morning. But then this little puppy walked into my life six months ago and I haven’t heard a peep out of The Unit since.
It’s called a CPAP mask and while it truly is a sight to behold on the object of your affections, you quickly come to see the inherent beauty in the beastie. When The Unit had his sleep clinic visit, they determined he stopped breathing approximately 90 times per minute! That is not a typo. With the addition of this sweet little baby into the marital bed, he is down to stopping breathing only 20 times per minute, which freaked the sleep doctor out big time. They said that was totally unacceptable and would ‘adjust’ the machine and his mask so he would not stop breathing even once per minute. Hence the visit to The VA yesterday. Women, I can’t recommend this enough if you share this problem. As ridiculous as it looks, it DOES work. Not only are we both sleeping great through the night, he has the energy of a 16-year-old. Projects are started AND finished! LIFE IS GOOD!