Shut Up And Get Lost

I was asked for help by a senior citizen that I know to find out information on assisted living facilities in this area. They want to return to D.C. and they needed help in making new arrangements, as they see their abilities to continue living alone as diminishing. I was happy to oblige. Driving through some not very nice parts of the city, I couldn't help but notice how many slummy apartments bear these baronial names like..."The Newport," "The Willoughby Arms," "Bodleian Court," when they should really come clean and call themselves "MS-13 Mews," or "Carjack Crescent."


Where I was headed was a gated campus, quite spread out with two levels of retirement living: Independent and Assisted. There were even levels within those levels: three in Independent and five in Assisted. I began by being cleared by the guard at his post house and barricade, then I was directed to drive a distance to the "Town Center."

"We followed Debbie's directions to the "T."
So did the guy in the red shirt."

Upon arriving, I approached the information desk where Debbie, the "Communications Specialist," was chastizing a repairman. I know she was Debbie the Communication Specialist, because it said so on her tag. This was a sprawling community involving many roads, many buildings and many hallways, and this man was lost, trying to find out where he was supposed to go next with his toolbox in hand. "Shut up," she said to him. "I want you to just shut up and listen to me." This was an older gentleman, I should add. I paid heed to Debbie's convoluted directions, and I realized I wouldn't be able to find it myself. "You go down two miles into the area that is still under construction (no name road), then you go right, then you make another right, then you make a left, then you make a right, then a left, right, left. This will dead end, and then you make a left, then a right, left, left, right."

"Debbie said I was mean?
You go back to Debbie and say, "Eff you Debbie. EFF YOU!
...and here's five ways to eff yourself."

"You enter the building. There will be another mean lady, just like me, at a desk that will look exactly like this one. You mustn't care that she is mean. She is just mean." (I swear on a stack of Bibles she told him this). The poor soul. He had to ask her to repeat it, and I shrank back. "Listen! If I wasn't on the clock right now, I would come around from behind this desk and bite you!" Then she proceeded to give him the same directions again. He stumbled off with her last warning that if he got lost "just ask someone else."

Noticeably missing in the plant arrangement:
The Peace Lily

After this a resident shuffled up to the desk to retrieve a package, and I wanted to scream at her to run for it. This was in the Independent Living section, thank God, because if it was Blissful Dale (not real name) which is the Assisted Living section, those people would be in B-I-G trouble. When Debbie got to me she directed me to the door past "the plant there on the floor on the left wall." I almost wanted to toy with her (since there were three plants at that spot) and say "Which plant, Debbie? The first plant, the second plant or the third plant? The Philodendron Selloum, the Dieffenbachia or the Chamaedorea Elegans?" Leaving the campus, I couldn't help but think that Debbie learned her communication skills from Little Richard.

"Shut up. I said SHUT up. SHUT UP!!!"

The Waning AndThe Waxing OfThe Woo Woo

My Skin Esthetician told me a funny story and I thought I'd share it. She has her own business, and she provides many levels of service for skin care, including waxing. She was telling me the other day that I had no idea what she went through in dealing with clients, nor did I understand how clients perceived her. I should add that she has become a friend to me.


She is known in her community in certain social circles, and a client also belongs to one of those orbits. They were attending the funeral of a mutual friend, and the Esthetician was sharing a pew in the church with the client and the client's husband. The Esthetician got up from her seat and went forward in the church to perform her eulogy. She is well known as an eloquent public speaker. She heard the client lean over and say sotto voce to her husband, "That's the girl that waxes my woo woo." Since they see each other socially, she thought they had a different relationship, but she told me she now realizes that this woman is obviously bearing another perception--as nothing more than service staff for the waxing of the woo woo.




I'll tell ya. Woo woo waxing isn't for the weak of heart and spirit. It hurts. There's no getting around it. The waxer gets to know you as well as your Gynecologist, there is a lot of yelling and swearing going on, you have to be a yogi master to contort into some of the positions required to get every hair, and you'd better go into it will a steely resolve and some humor.

"I've heard that woo woo waxing is quite a workout.
Bring on the pain."

__________________________

Now for another humorous moment by a woman who knows all about woo woo. Last night I received an email from Rhinestone Cowgirl:

cube ffukcing roooooooooocks
whooooooooo!
d
runk girl


"Okay," I thought. I wrote her back, "Jesus F. Christ. Laughing and shaking head." Then this showed up:

don't flaugh! i'm vyr hapy

Followed by the next email:

ohishit i'm kinda
fdrunk

She seems very fond of her F key when she's drinking. I've since learned she was out last night with Velvet. Velvet reports that Miss RC saw an empty police cruiser and her eyes lit up. Thank God Velvet pulled her away, or we'd be reading about them in the paper with our Saturday coffee. VelvetinDupont.blogspot.com.

Miss Rhinestone + Miss Velvet = "Here Comes Trouble."

I'm on my way out for a manicure, Miss Rhinestone. I hope your head is healing nicely. Put this on it, and it will perk you right up.

Moving Forward, No Matter WhatRight, Toots?

I'm still in the throes of health problems. I went to see the doctor for what I thought was going to be a minor problem, and then the tests began, and the vials of blood (seven including today,) and then more problems are discovered, and then more problems, and I find myself sinking down a deeper health hole than I ever imagined possible, and I considered myself somewhat health conscious and careful. SURPRISE!!! I will be seeing a doctor or undergoing a procedure every day this week, and more to come. I called a childhood friend today. We quite literally go back to diaperhood together. I needed her levelheaded opinion on all of this mess. She gave me very sound advice about journaling what's been going on, so the doctors have something to look at in keeping it all straight. She was laughing when she said, "Spreadsheet it and add colors." She told me she had read a study somewhere that said doctors will listen to you for about twenty minutes and then they shut off. She also said I needed to sell myself like advertising and keep their interest going with the hope at least one of them will connect the dots and find answers for me. She also recommended keeping lots of humor in my life as I am going to need laughter as a distraction. Good tips, and I think she's right.


Last night I had my second blog dream. I think I'm fretting because I'm not writing. In the dream I was heading home, and I stopped and purchased a magazine. The magazine had some type of advertising inserted in it that played music and ran a commercial for some product. I thought it was highly annoying. When I arrived home I had another magazine or two waiting for me that I subscribed to, and they also were jangling away with commercial music tunes. I searched other blogs and no one was mentioning it, and I thought "When I awaken, I need to blog about this because it really is an annoying thing and when did magazines start doing this?" Laughing. Uh, Cube? Wake up. They don't do it...yet. I can certainly foresee the day when they begin this practice. Can't you?

I was feeling so bad last week when I kept hearing upcoming weather reports of glorious weather and "you'll want to be outdoors for this one, folks," and I knew I wouldn't be able to muster energy to do anything that I wanted to be doing, so early one evening I stopped at a store and bought lots of pretty makeup: light pinky shades for Spring, and a frivolous pair of earrings for Summer--anything to keep me feeling female. I had a male companion with me during this process and the salesgirl was saying how nice it was that he was with me and "so patient and not complaining, etc." He said he didn't mind at all, which was sweet. I showed him this one skin cream I had bought and asked him if he would like to try a little. I told him it wasn't too "frou frou." He said, "Oh, you want me to lie back and dab lotion on my face and cover my eyes with tomatoes." I laughed so hard. I said, "No silly, you aren't making a salad, and it's cucumbers you put on your eyes, not tomatoes. O.K. I get his point.

"....and a light vinaigrette behind the pulse points."

God, I love men. I realized I am many, many times blessed in having this wonderful circle of men in my life: men that make me laugh, men that give me the truth, men that share their most secret thoughts with me, knowing I will never tell and men that can casually say, "Babe," or "Doll," or "Toots" and somehow the bad stuff recedes.

She Did What?

Odd things happen to me all of the time, and I'm always exposed to the weirdest comments and behaviors, but when you're not well it takes on an entirely different hue. I'm not given over to reporting much about my life, but I felt I should explain that I haven't been writing much because I'm not well. I'm still making the rounds of doctor's offices trying to even name what it is, but in the meantime, it makes for a very dull life when I'm just working and being at home feeling fatigued and out of it.






Twice this week I had to go in to a doctor's office for blood work, five vials in all, and on the first visit, when I was signing out, the receptionist was complimenting my hands and my nail color ("Strawberry Marguarita"). This girl was a nail polish enthusiast. When she heard I was wearing one of the colors from OPI's new "Mexico" collection, she said, "Oh. I have on one of those as well, but on my toes." She then proceeded to remove her shoe and sock and hoisted up her foot, with toe ring, to show me OPI's "My Chihuahua Bites" red.



Just to establish how sick I am, earlier this week, after a long day and too stunned to even move in the evening I had on the television watching a Maryland Public TV (MPT) show called John Denver: A Song's Best Friend. I hate John Denver.


No. I mean, I really hate John Denver. I've never been able to stomach that let's wander the mountainside picking wildflowers watching the eagles soar braying kumbaya voice of his, but I sat there and watched the whole thing. The next day I thought, "Man, you are really sick." John Denver. The litmus test.