Hello Kitty is not a Cat and Other Deceptions

Years from now, I'll tell my children that I remember exactly where I was when I heard the startling news that Hello Kitty is not really a cat. Of course, I'll say I was reading on a G-rated website and not Dlisted, which is my new favorite thing in the entire world, other than Mom's new dog, Hello Puppy.

This picture is your reward for reading this long, boring post.

But, now that I know that Hello Kitty is not a cat, I'm wondering about Hello Puppy. Maybe he's not a dog at all, but really a perpetual 3rd grader named Puppy White who lives in a London suburb with his parents, George and Mary. I'm sure that Mom is just imagining him peeing on the rugs and chewing the furniture legs because he's really in London asking his mate for proper DI-rections to the loo and noshing on some black pudding.

In all seriousness, there is a brilliant lesson in the Hello Kitty story, which is that things are not always as they seem. For example, when I wear yoga pants and flip-flops you might think that I'd just practiced Bikram yoga and executed a flawless crow pose. The truth is likely that I've just been to physical therapy where I had needles inserted into my back. (Also, I could never do Bikram yoga after reading this article. This wasn't a big sacrifice as I never considered doing Bikram yoga prior to reading the article. Just like it's easy for me to not go to Hobby Lobby because Michaels is closer and I already know where to find everything.)

Tired, Stupid, or Early Dementia?

Whenever I make some bad miscalculation or decision (and this happens more often than I'd like to admit) I play a little game which I like to call "Tired, Stupid, or Early Dementia." Sometimes brain tumor is thrown in there as a fourth possibility, but I assure myself that since I never get headaches, a brain tumor is unlikely. Feel free to play along and try to guess the answers.

Foot in Mouth Disease

Hey, y'all going to the doctor seems to be my new hobby. I was lucky enough to take the Girl to the doctor four times last week and I took the Baby to the doctor today, after my own trip to the dentist. Do you know, I get frustrated at the doctor sometimes. I mean, by and large the actual medical treatment I've received has been fine, it's just that the bedside manner of some of these folks leave much to be desired.

Warning: the first story contains a discussion of a gynecological exam in purely G/PG terms, but if this is distasteful to you, please rejoin us in two paragraphs when I talk about lawyers.

When I was in law school, I went to the Emory Clinic for my medical needs because it's your only option when you're on the university insurance. When I went in for a gynecological exam, the nurse practitioner asked if I would mind if a student conducted the exam. Now, I should have just said no since I wasn't practicing to be a lawyer on people with real legal problems and I was far less likely to cause lasting harm on someone with my ineptitude. But, since it seemed rude to refuse, I agreed to let the student examine me. So, she starts poking around and after a minute backed away from my nether regions with what I can only describe as a horrified look on her face. She says in this stage whisper to the real nurse, "She doesn't have a uterus."

Okay, I hope it's not over-sharing to let you know that I, in fact, do have a uterus. I've used it three times to grow babies, so I'm fairly sure it's been there for a while. Although I did see a fascinating program (on TLC, I'm sure) about a British lady who had triplets, one of which grew outside the uterus.   After I started laughing because, really, the whole thing was ridiculous, the real nurse took a peek and located my uterus, which must have been hiding to play a trick on the student nurse. Silly!

Lawyers are generally not specimens of good health. It's a job with long hours and a lot of stress. When I worked at a big firm, we were always going to the doctor to see whether it was the drinking or the stress that was going to take us. One day, a colleague came back from his physical looking chagrined. "The doctor told me I was in pretty good shape for 37," he said. Unfortunately, my friend was 27. The doctor's manner turned more grim after my friend corrected him.

I know I'm being unfairly critical because I'm sure I would do and say worse if I were a doctor. I'm terrible about delivering bad news because I'm such a pleaser. I'm sure I'd say things like, "it's sort of terminal" and "you have six months, but, on the bright side, maybe you'll be hit by a truck tomorrow." Once I start going off the rails with my crazy talk, I just keep on going; trying to make it better, but making it much, much worse.

For example, the other night I was at a party and a friend was telling me about the back injury that was going to prevent her from exercising for a month. I went off on this whole thing about how she didn't need to worry because she'd probably just atrophy instead of getting fat. As the words were coming out of my mouth, I knew that it was the most ill-concieved pep talk ever, but I just couldn't stop blabbing. I tried to make it better by saying that when  I'm unable to exercise, I atrophy, too and I start looking like an Oakie. I sucked in my cheeks to show her. In my head I was picturing this:

What is my problem? I'm pretty sure that it did not help her feel any better, but because she's very nice and southern she was totally gracious. If she were from New Jersey she probably would have flipped a table and called me a "prostitution whore" like Teresa from Real Housewives of New Jersey.

Can you all do me a favor? If you all are ever with me and I start going off on some crazy-talk tangent, please just yell, "Prostitution Whore!" to get me to stop. Alternatively, you could yell, "you have no uterus!" Whatever seems most appropriate under the circumstances.

Sick Day

My throat has been hurting over the last few days. I didn't mention my sore throat to anyone, because I failed to negotiate any sick days into my mom contract, so I was hoping it would magically get better. Each morning I'd wake up hopeful, then I drink some water and feel like I was swallowing razor blades. Here's the thing about being a stay at home mom: you can't get sick. I know, I know, that's not realistic because everyone gets sick. But, if you look at the facts, you'll see that I'm right.

You can't get sick because first of all, you have no time to visit a doctor. When I call my regular doctor I can't ever get a same-day appointment. I find this to be ridiculous because after a few days you'll either be better or you'll be hospitalized, so what's the point? Your other option is a doc-in-the-box, but during cold and flu season you'll wait for two hours to be misdiagnosed. So, just forget about going to the doctor unless you are truly at death's door, and, in that case, just skip the doctor and go right to the ER. Second, if you think that you'd feel better if you just lay quietly on the couch watching HGTV and Bravo all day, think again. There is laundry and dinner and drop-off and pick-up and when the kids get home, they'll want to watch Dora or Wild Kratts or Spongebob and they'll jump all over you and whine about needing juice or pretzels or they'll clog the toilet or knock the pictures off the wall while jumping on the bed. Things will get out of control fast. You know it's bad, when this starts looking like your best option:

Knowing that the cards were stacked against me, I set out yesterday morning to get myself diagnosed and treated in the 2.5 hours I had between dropping off the Baby at school and having Thanksgiving lunch with the Girl at her school. My first stop was the CVS Minute Clinic. Whoever named the Minute Clinic was clearly unaware of the meaning of the word "minute." Hour Clinic, Day Clinic, Eon Clinic all would have been more apt names for the nurse's station tucked in the back of the CVS. There were eight names before mine on the waiting list and a sign said that I should calculate 20 minutes for each person. When I realized that, at best, I would be spending the next 1.5 hours in CVS, I beat a hasty retreat.

My next stop was a local urgent care center. Again, this place was misnamed as no one moved with any sense of urgency and no one seemed to care. I would rename it the Slow Indifference Center. Maybe I'm just bitter because they confirmed what I already expected: I had strep throat. This makes me the Benjamin Button of illnesses. No joke. When I was 26 I had shingles, which is a condition most common in people over the age of 60. You can't even get the vaccine unless you are over age 50. Strep throat, on the other hand, is most common in children ages 5-15. When I'm in my 70's I expect to have a terrible case of colic.

The easy part should have been getting some medicine now that I was diagnosed. However, that's not the case when you're allergic to the two drugs that are most commonly used to treat strep throat. You know it's a bad sign when the nurse practitioner asks:

"how allergic are you to penicillin and cleocin?" 

Me: "I break out in hives."

Nurse: "But, you don't go into anaphylactic shock?" 

Me: "Well, no, but I don't really want to take the risk that I could this time!" 

She looked irritated and sent me out with a prescription for something that she though might work and instructions to get a new toothbrush and to call my dentist about how to disinfect my lovely bite guard.

 
When I went to pick up my prescription, I had about 15 minutes before I had to be at the Girl's lunch. Another bad sign: when the pharmacist need to talk with you before she'll fill your prescription. According to the pharmacist, because of my other drug allergies, I had a 25% chance of being allergic to my prescribed medicine. Her suggestion was that I have someone present with me when I take the medicine in case I had a severe reaction and needed assistance. So, I texted Mom who agreed to come over with her anti-allergy kit of Benadryl and an Epi-Pen and stand at the ready when I took the medicine.

In the end, I got my prescription and I didn't have any reaction. Also, Mom wanted to help so she folded two loads of laundry and I ate frozen yogurt for lunch. And, this morning I woke up and only felt like I was swallowing small thumbtacks instead of razor blades, so I think I'm on the mend. I have a few hours left while I'm still contagious, during which time I am available to commit germ warfare Jeffrey Amherst-style against criminals and evil-doers. Have a great day!