Your comments yesterday killed me – people are just incredibly rude, aren’t they? I can’t imagine what people who are so rude must be thinking when they ask questions about things that are NONE OF THEIR BUSINESS. Aimee hit the nail on the head in her comment yesterday: I hate it when people are inquisitive … Continue reading “3/18/09”

Your comments yesterday killed me – people are just incredibly rude, aren’t they? I can’t imagine what people who are so rude must be thinking when they ask questions about things that are NONE OF THEIR BUSINESS.

Aimee hit the nail on the head in her comment yesterday:

I hate it when people are inquisitive to the point of being rude/cruel. I tend to err more on the side of not asking questions if I’m afraid the answer is something the person won’t want to talk about – probably to the point though where I seem like I’m uninterested. I read a quote in a book that was really fitting, “she probed beyond what was kind.”

This is absolutely me – my desire not to be rude or hurtful leads me to not ask questions, and probably makes it appear that I don’t care about what’s going on, when I either don’t know how to ask the question the right way, or am just afraid that my desire to know the answer will come across as plain rude.

The funny thing is that I’m pretty open to answering questions that are asked of me – I don’t know that I’ve ever been offended by someone who is genuinely curious and asked a straightforward question.

I suggest the following comeback when you’re faced with a rudely invasive question. This is what you do: you look confused for a moment, maybe even ask them to repeat their rude question, and then say “Oh. I’m so sorry, I don’t speak Rude Insensitive Asshole.” and then be on your way.

DO IT. Then come back and tell me all about it.

Actually, I thought that was a good comeback ’til I read Elayne’s comment, specifically:

May I suggest?
Stranger: What’s wrong with your foot?
Shirley: I’m struggling to keep it from kicking your rude, nosy ass.

(The rest of her comment, too, for that matter.)

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Monday afternoon, I had a follow up appointment with my plastic surgeon. The last time I saw him, two months after my lower body lift, he told me to come back in eight months. I originally had an appointment scheduled for the beginning of the month, but it happened to be the day Nance and Rick were arriving. Although I knew I’d have plenty of time to make my appointment and get home before they got here, I wasn’t looking forward to the appointment, so I called and rescheduled.

I especially wasn’t looking forward to the appointment this time, but I figured I’d just go to it and get it over with.

The main reason I wasn’t looking forward to the appointment was because it’s way on the other side of Huntsville and I hate the drive (especially the part that involves merging onto the Parkway, ugh), and the other reason I wasn’t looking forward it was because it was at 3:15 in the afternoon. Everyone on earth knows it’s best to schedule your doctor appointments for early in the day or right after lunch, but that’s what they had available, so that’s what I took.

I intended to stop on my way to the other side of Huntsville to get dog food, pick something up at Target (okay, UNDERWEAR if you must know), and buy some aida cloth and thread at Michael’s, but I left the house 15 minutes later than I’d meant to. So I swung by Michael’s, picked up the aida cloth and thread, and then booked it to my appointment.

I like to be on time, y’know.

So I sat in the waiting room for a few minutes and then they called me back to the exam room. The nurse/ assistant/ whatever told me to strip down, put on a pair of lovely paper underwear, and that they were going to get my “after” pictures since I’m almost a year out of surgery. I stripped down to my bra and socks (SEXY!), put on the paper underwear (DOUBLE SEXY!), covered up with the nice plush robe hanging on the back of the door, and sat on the exam table and waited for the nurse to come back. I waited. And I waited and waited. After a while, I grabbed my book which I had THANKFULLY thought to bring with me, and I sat and read. And read and read.

An HOUR after she’d brought me back to the exam room, the nurse came and told me to follow her to have my pictures taken. I did, and it took just a minute to get the pictures (from all angles, I’m sure they were QUITE flattering; I didn’t ask to see them), and then back into the exam room I went.

For another half hour.

I’ll admit, I was annoyed at first, and I even thought about claiming that I needed to leave because I had another appointment (this is the tactic I tried when the surgeon who did my weight loss surgery left me cooling my heels in the exam room for over an hour for a followup visit; if you’ll recall, he responded to my audacity by yanking out my gallbladder. I really do not like that guy. I do like my plastic surgeon, though.), but I just sighed and kept on reading my book.

The worst part was that I could hear him going into alllllll the exam rooms around mine. He’d go in, greeting the patient as he walked in, then he’d come back out and I’d hear him come out and I’d be Oh, okay, I’m sure I’m next!, but no. Off he’d go to another exam room. Somehow, there were like 300 exam rooms other than mine, and he went into every single one AROUND mine, but never came into mine. I wanted to fling the door open at one point and yell “No! You already WENT in there! Just get your ass in here and peer at my scar and tell me everything’s fine!”

At 4:45, the surgeon came in accompanied by – fuck if I know what her job was. Nurse? Medical assistant? I don’t know, but honestly I also don’t care. Female physician’s companion, let’s say. Anyway, he was in the room for – AND I AM BEING GENEROUS WITH THIS GUESSTIMATION – three minutes. Looked at my scar, asked if I was happy, told me to come back if there were any issues, but I didn’t need to have anymore follow-up visits, and bade me good day.

So I don’t need to go back again ’til I’m ready for the consult for my upper body (boobs and chins) done, and I don’t know when that’ll be. Originally I thought I’d have it done early this year so I’d be all healed up by the time planting season came around. And then I decided I’d have it done this Fall so I’d have the winter to heal. But honestly, with [reverb] THE ECONOMY [/reverb] going the way it is, I’ve put the plastic surgery on the back burner for now. It seems wrong-minded to spend that much money on something that’s really just about vanity (I’m so vain! I bet I think this blog is about me, don’t I? Don’t I? Don’t IIIIIIIIIIIIIII?), when the world economy could collapse at any moment and we could be killing and eating cats to stay alive this time next year.

(Mister Boogers will be the first one to go. We could feed off that hetred for months.)

For the record, it was my decision to wait on the plastic surgery, not Fred’s – though he didn’t fight me on it, either.

“Well, if it helps any, I love you the same whether you ever have the plastic surgery or not,” he said helpfully.

I don’t know what on earth ever made him think that my desire for plastic surgery has anything at all to do with the level of love he might feel for me, silly man, but bless his big bald pointed head for giving it the ol’ college try.

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So after I left the plastic surgeon’s office, I decided to go to the Target and PetSmart on that side of Huntsville (that way I could just hop onto the highway to get most of the way home afterward), and when I got out of the car to go into Petsmart, I smelled it.

The Bradford Pear trees are in bloom. And I know I’ve mentioned it 33 times before, but holy GOD do those things reek.

I’ve said in the past that they smell like bodies rotting, but actually I think they smell like something infected. Like I imagine a gangrenous foot would smell.

It’s too bad they stink up the world in the spring, because they really are pretty trees and they have a nice shape and all (though they tend to fall apart once they get past a certain height), but the smell is just horrific.

Not surprisingly, I don’t believe I’ve seen Bradford Pear Trees anywhere in Smallville. I guess they’re too pansy-ass to survive in the country.

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2009-03-18 (1)
When it’s snack time, Sugarbutt and Kara get a little overexcited and sometimes a little too close to each other…

2009-03-18 (2)
Which always leads to hissing and a smack or two.

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2008: Sadie’s like the older, tolerant sister who puts up with the brat.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: No doubt she wishes I’d leave her the hell alone and just let her SLEEP, GODDAMNIT.
2004: I’m known for my dumbassery, though.
2002: Good riddance to boring characters, I say.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.