glasses up, glasses down, glasses to the front, chug it down

 

(Cabbage Patchsters Beware: this post was written two weeks ago during my holidays and wasn’t posted then because I did not have access to the internet. I decided to go ahead and post it today anyway because, well, I really don’t know, truth be told. I mean, I did go to the trouble to write it and it would be a shame not to use it and I did use up all my creative genius writing it and it’s really hard coming up with new ideas some days and it has been a while since I posted anything and I hope that maybe you missed me and you wanted to know what I have been up to and … oh, who the hell am I kidding? I’m too lazy to write a new post today so read this post at your own peril. Remember you have been warned. Even Ringo tried to tell you and he knows shit stuff.)

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I stumbled across a concept that some bloggers use to develop a more personal connection with their readers as well as with other bloggers. Many do this by participating in a weekend coffee share whereby they publish a post about what they would say to if they were sitting down and chatting over a cup of coffee. Many begin their weekend coffee share by saying “if we were having coffee, I would tell you….”

I love the concept of developing a more personal connection with you, my Cabbage Patchsters. I also love the idea of a weekly chat and sharing little snippets about all the crazy that transpires in between my blog posts. But sharing it over coffee? Well, that’s just not me. I have never tried a cup of the stuff and I really have no desire to do so. I do enjoy a good cuppa tea but it is way too hot for that so I think that we need another kind of beverage. I was also thinking how drinking coffee and tea implies a certain sort of, shall we say, maturity and, if you have been following along with this blog, you will more than likely agree that my many (mis)adventures and somewhat sarcastic slant on life does not exactly fall into the mature adult cuppa tea.

So what the heck can I offer you?

I know! Let’s crack open the tequila! Yes, tequila seems a more suitable beverage to have while chatting with the likes of me. So let’s get this chin wag started; grab the tequila, the limes and the salt and let’s head on over to the Cabbage Patch.

If we were drinking shots of tequila, I would tell you that I am so happy to be sitting here with you. I would tell you that I don’t know where to begin telling you about my cluster-cluck of a week. I imagine you would pour the first shot and say, “Tequila won’t fix your problems but it’s worth a shot” and, then we would laugh and chant together, “Arriba, abajo, al centro, y pa’ dentro”. (Arriba = glasses up. Abajo = glasses down. Al centro = glasses to the front. Y pa’ dentro = chug it down.) Aaaaahhhhh. There, that’s better. Now, let’s start again.

If we were drinking shots of tequila, I would bet you the entire bottle that I had a crazier week than you. I would ask if there had been a full moon and, before you had a chance to answer, I would shake my head and roll my eyes and tell you that there had to have been because somehow Joanie lost Chachi to Donald Trump at the RNC. I’d go on to tell you how a mountain man wearing a cowboy hat (who obviously hadn’t showered in a million years) told me that he had to get back home to his tractor named, Snoopy. I’d also tell you about the patient who went from calling me Pita to Brenda to Judy to Linda and back again, never getting my name right for more than two seconds. From there I’d tell you about Cinderella’s evil stepsisters tag-teaming me because I didn’t write their appointments out the same way Pita did. And never mind the crazy old loon who sat down in the waiting room staring at me for what seemed like an eternity before finally uttering the words, “I’m used to seeing Pita sitting there”.  AND all this was taking place while I was mad with fever and battling some terrible urinary tract infection.

Lord thunderin’ jaysus. See why we need the tequila? Hit me with another, will ya?

Arriba, abajo, al centro, y pa’ dentro.

Then I would tell you about trying to pee into a container while standing in a bathroom stall smaller than a phone booth because that’s what you have to do when you need the good drugs to cure the urinary tract infection or, as I like to say, the bad swamp water pee (herein called the BSWP). Of course, I would reenact all the squatting and manoeuvring to collect the BSWP in the said container asking you incredulously, “Just how the hell are we supposed to pee in a container without getting pee everywhere but in the container because we have to squat, shift, balance ourselves with one hand and hold the container with the other?” I’d laugh and snort and chuckle and watch you begging to be hit with another shot of tequila because you seriously wished that I would just stop talking, so get ready to lick that salt and suck that lime because arriba, abajo, al centro, y pa’ dentro.

After you had finished making that funny face of yours, I would tell you that it was seriously no fun having the BSWP which ended up turning into a kidney infection requiring two different courses of antibiotics to treat it, all the while trying to deal with the escapees from the insane asylum from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The escapees didn’t care that I was mad with fever nor did they care that I was drinking litres upon litres of water trying to flush out the BSWP from my diseased urinary tract which, in some sadistic form of torture, made me run to the bathroom every five minutes. They didn’t share in my frustration that once I got to the bathroom, only a minuscule of pee would come out, but as soon as I returned to my desk, HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD, I had to go again! No, the escapees did not care one little bit. The only thing that mattered to them was that their beloved doctor was taking a holiday and just what the hell were they supposed to do in the mean time without him? You would swear that the world was going to end that very minute because he was going to be away. I kid you not.

Arriba, abajo, al centro, y pa’ dentro.

Oh, wait, don’t go yet. I haven’t even told you about Cruella de vil. Cruella takes the cake. I can honestly say that I have never ever been this angry before in all my life with a stranger. I don’t do anger. I don’t understand it and I certainly don’t know what to do with it when I feel it. I can’t express myself. I get tongue-tied and think of all the things I should have said well after the fact. I go quiet. I freeze. I become this:

But not this time. This time, something rose up inside me which can only be equated to the eruption of a mother clucking volcano which has been waiting 53 years to blow.

Me: Good afternoon, Dr. Who’s office. This is Linda.

Cruella: 

(Okay, maybe Cruella didn’t say ‘bitch’ but the sentiment certainly was there.)

Me: I’m sorry but Dr. Who will be away. (I’m not sorry at all because (1) he deserves this holiday and (2) if you’re not going to speak to me nicely, then you had better be prepared to wait extra time for your appointment.)

Cruella: Well, aren’t you just wonderfully organized (said as snidely as Cruella de vil would).

Me: (I think WTF but I do not say a word).

Cruella: I want an appointment for his first day back.

Me: His first week back is completely booked. I am now booking appointments the following week. (Sorry. Not sorry.)

Cruella: This. Is. R.I.D.I.C.U.L.O.U.S.

Me: (silence)

Cruella: I’ll take that appointment but if you get a cancellation the week before, I expect you to call me. AND WHAT ABOUT MY BLOOD WORK? (I use block caps because Cruella is yelling at me now).

Me: And what blood work would that be? (Asked in my best ‘I-really-couldn’t-care-less-about-your-blood-work’ voice. I may even have been filing my nails at this point.)

Cruella: IT’S THE BLOOD WORK THAT DR. WHO SAID YOU WOULD CALL ME ABOUT ONCE IT CAME BACK.

Me: Dr. Who did not mention this to me (True story. So, Dr. Who, you are partially to blame for this fiasco.)

Cruella: DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING? YOU PROBABLY FILED IT BUT YOU DON’T REMEMBER DOING IT.

Me (in my angriest, snippiest voice I could possibly muster): One. Moment. Please. While. I. Check. Your. File.

Cruella: I HAVE TO GO TO WORK. DON’T YOU DARE PUT ME ON……

Me: HOLD

I made absolutely no effort to get up and get her file. Instead, I watched the hold button of hell blink a few times before it went out. Then, I told Dr. Who what happened because I am fairly certain that Cruella will complain about it when she comes in. Thankfully, he told me not to worry about it. So I didn’t. I merely accepted the fact that no one with a rotten urinary tract that has bad swamp water pee flowing through it, not even peace loving Gandhi himself, could put up with that kind of crap while dealing with a fever of 103. Yes, I was that hot blooded, Foreigner. Thank you for asking.

If we were doing shots of tequila, I imagine you would be passed out by now; your head resting on a cabbage because you had out shot me by a score of 2-1. You never stood a chance, really, because you couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Your only option was to drink twice as much as me so that you could drown out the ranting and raving. The sad thing is that you missed an outstanding rendition of Hot Blooded belted out by yours truly from atop the composting pile.

 

Here, have a couple of Tylenol. You’ll thank me in the morning. Until next time!

Arriba, abajo, al centro, y pa’ dentro.

Holidays: 1
Cruella de vil: 0