Jan. 19: Welcome to Addington Place (it’s no Melrose)

I took a screen shot of the Google Earth view of our house a bit ago to put on Facebook, and I also made a zoomed-out one because I don’t think I’ve ever taken my blog on a tour of my neighborhood. Wheeeeee! Oh, and it’s not so much a tour as it is a picture of our roofs and a few arrows that I added. Also some landmarks (stars) and notes. And don’t forget that instruction about Dina’s driveway. That’s what she gets for laughing at me for walking out of school today carrying a robot, like that’s weird or something. Whatevs, Dina.

I introduce you to Addington Place, origin of the assface-iest homeowners association EVER, and the place I’ve called home for 14+ years (click it if you can’t read, Einstein):

BTW, I’ve forgiven Cristina for turning me on to Grimm; otherwise there would be a swastika over her house instead of a cute star. A swastika or a Mr. Yuk sticker or a Twilight poster or maybe a bonsai kitten. Something evil, for sure.

Jul. 27: Dr. Nick/Spaceman/Effer

I have a doctor appointment tomorrow. It’s with a doctor I vowed I’d never go to again—the one who wouldn’t order any kind of scan to see what was causing my back pain last year. I have to see him, though, because I need a refill on a prescription that (apparently) only he can prescribe. It’s a medication I’ve been on for years, and my refills have run out. I really can’t be off it—it’s one of those that makes me all dizzy and sick if I suddenly stop taking it. I was hoping to quietly renew the prescription online, but it’s been too long since the original prescription, and the other doctors I’m seeing now—the rheumatologist and oncologist—say it’s a primary care physician thing.

I know, I know. I need to find a new primary care physician. I haven’t been in a big hurry to do that, because any health issues I’ve had lately are directly related to chemotherapy and my oncologist has been able to handle them. In fact, even if they weren’t specifically cancer-related, it made more sense that she handle them than a doctor who is not only not an oncologist, but completely unfamiliar with my medical history.

Soooo…

Over the past eight months I’ve considered writing a strongly worded letter to my primary care physician, but ultimately it just seemed like a waste. It’s not like he’s going to respond. Several people have asked if he’s contacted me since my lymphoma diagnosis, being that he gets the results of every test I’ve had in the last eight months. But no, I haven’t heard from him, nor did I expect to. What’s he going to do, apologize? For being a bad doctor? And kind of a major asshole? Unlikely.

There’s a big part of me that wants to go in tomorrow and play all nice at first and then scream bloody hell at him. Maybe I should take my mom in with me—I bet she’d work up a good hollerin’ in his honor. There’s another part of me that thinks it would be more mature to go in and just get what I need and get out. This is not a doctor visit I ever planned to have, and I don’t know what to do. Here are my options:

1. “Hello, Dr. A-hole. Why yes, I do have cancer. If you had ordered a scan at the beginning, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be going through this hell right now. What do you have to say about that?”
2. “Hello, Dr. A-hole. Why yes, I do have cancer. If you had ordered a scan at the beginning, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be going through this hell right now. I would like you to sign this piece of paper that says I AM A VERY BAD DOCTOR AND ALSO KIND OF A MAJOR ASSHOLE. Thanks!”
3. “Hello, Dr. A-hole. Why yes, I do have cancer. If you had ordered a scan at the beginning, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be going through this hell right now. To make up for your ineptitude, I think the very least you could do is throw in a prescription for medicinal marijuana. Maybe one for all my friends, too. And enough Xanax to keep me from going home and taking my extreme frustration with you out on my family.”
4. “Yes. No. Yes. Yes. Uh-huh. OK. Yes. Thank you. Bye.”
5. “I’m sure you asked me to bring in a stool sample. Here’s my dog’s. No, really, please take it. I insist. I’ll just mash it into your hand to make sure you have a good grip on it. I’d hate for you to drop it.”
6. Cry, just to make him feel rotten.

Please offer your advice, friends. I need to figure this out before 11:30 tomorrow morning.

Apr. 19: School day

I showed up at the school first thing this morning to help with our Rex Reader program. Sunshine’s in charge of it, and she got all bossy and told us what to do and where to go (such a meanie). For the kids who read 200 minutes or more in the last two weeks, we gave them these super-cool pins that say “PAW-some Reader!” around a wildcat (the school mascot) pawprint. Fancy Lori™ and I did the 5/6 grades and got all bossy by making the kids add up their own minutes. It was fun to play hardasses. At least we weren’t like Mean Dina, who wouldn’t give sweet little Alec a button EVEN THOUGH HE READ 200 MINUTES and then she made him cry and then she threw her head back and laughed her evil laugh at him. That’s pure, diabolical wickedness in Mean Dina.

It took just a few minutes to distribute the buttons, and then a bunch of us gathered in the conference room to put special wrappers around the candy bars that were being given to all the volunteers. This is volunteer appreciation week so we’re telling volunteers how much we appreciate them with cheap chocolate.

If it were up to me, about half the volunteers would get squat. I had to go through the database and generate a list of volunteers, and that was easy. But there’s a clipboard sign-in that way too many have been using INSTEAD of the computer—I find this infuriating because I have to enter all those sign-ins manually and it’ll take hours. Hours. Even more of them have not submitted the required paperwork and/or attended the volunteer training session required by the school district. But apparently rules do not apply to those people. They keep leaving me nasty notes that say they don’t have a nametag or aren’t in the computer, but it doesn’t seem to matter how many times I let them know they have to turn in paperwork and/or be trained; they don’t do those things, and they still complain.

I’m not supposed to hate people who willingly work for free, am I? But these people who don’t follow directions are making my life increasingly difficult. I talked to the principal—he’s the guy I have to answer to if I’ve allowed a volunteer to work without being processed properly—and he suggested a kind, firm note. I’m thinking a “P.S. Don’t make me knife you!” would be totally appropriate, too, because if history proves anything, I know this note will have little effect. Parents who ignore the required procedures will still show up to chaperone field trips, facilitate reading groups, and lead pencil sharpening seminars.

I’m just doing what I’ve been told I’m supposed to do. Why won’t they?

School was out by the time I left this afternoon; it was a very, very long volunteering day for me—properly trained, applied, and logged in, of course. Thank goodness I took that Starbucks break with Sunshine late this morning or I mightn’t have accomplished so much. Yay, me! And now I’m gonna strip off this bra and take a nap.

Aug. 20: My bruises will acquit me

Last Saturday morning I was getting myself primped and polished before our day in Salem with the Lassens. Primping and polishing, for me, does not usually involve an especially lengthy amount of time because I’ve reached that point where I’m pretty sure no one cares what I look like and I’ve almost convinced myself that I don’t either. So it’s not like I was working hard to get ready. I think my primping involved a hair dryer and my polishing was pretty much wrinkle cream and mascara.

Hang on a minute. I need to cry a little over how pathetic that is.

Alright, I’m okay now.

Just as I was finishing up, I knocked a coffee mug off the counter and guess where it landed? If you’ve been paying attention to The Clumsy Adventures of Jen, you know that it landed right on my foot. Two of my toes almost immediately turned a beautiful shade of eggplant.

The other thing about this that should not be surprising is that it was not my coffee mug that fell, but my husband’s. And it was one of those large and very heavy 20-ounce Starbucks city mugs. (Now do you believe he’s trying to kill me?)

Don’t worry; I’ve already planned out my revenge. I scrubbed the shower today, top to bottom, and it is so freakin’ slippery I almost got revenge on myself. So, yeah. Victor will be sorry he left that mug on the counter. And laughed when I showed him my swollen foot. And married someone with too much time on her hands.