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My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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2:20 a.m. - 2010-11-19
Jeeze, not the best day I've ever had, that's for certain. Princess hurt her hip somehow and is gimping around. Right? Not two days after her successful adventure at the doggie salon the poor thing is laid up. I've put hands on her and will do more tomorrow. I can feel how angry her hip is and will do my best with it. Both Mick who was squatted down next to her and Princess herself turned hopeful eyes up at me and asked the mute question, "You can fix it, can't you?" If it's a simple strain, sure, I can help. So will time. But if it's dysplasia�well, crap. My dead iPod was stubborn about recharging. Took hours. The dishwasher, iffy and erratic for a while now, gave it up entirely on Tuesday and today I washed dishes for over two hours. Nothing had been getting very clean in the fluky machine and Mick was ticked about hand washing so the stuff piled up. I took after the mess today and made it all better. Using the broken dishwasher as my drying rack and then spreading even more stuff out on all three counters and on the rolling caf� table with the leaf up. But go me! Except for the empty coffee mug and the full glass here on my desk every utensil, fork, knife, spoon, pot, pan, baking dish, bowl, cup, plate, platter, and cookie sheet is scrubbed sparkling and put neatly away. I was correct about my needing a new prescription, my left eye had gotten a lot worse and the right one just a bit. There was a snafu about getting my glasses though, namely neither my eye doctor nor LensCrafters took my insurance. Pissed me right the hell off. Paid cash for my check-up, Grace has been taking care of my eyes for years now and I like and trust her. The glasses joint, however, didn't offer dick, despite being the biggest chain in the biz and should jolly well take Blue Cross/Blue Shield. It's not like I have vision coverage by Insurance-R-Us or have a policy through those Nigerian guys who want you to send them your bank account number in exchange for sharing a $12,000,000 windfall. Buttheads. Then had the gall to want to charge $600.00!!!!! for one stinkin' pair of glasses. With frames from the $99 bin. $500 for LENSES? Kiss my ass, LensCrafters. This "Oh, we don't take your insurance" thing got me tweaked for more than the outrageous arrogance, the whole fricken reason I agreed to do the quickie Justice of the Peace job instead of holding out for the real wedding was because Mick was nutzoid about getting me and Wolf onto the health insurance. Okay, fine. I do appreciate not being one of the unwashed, uninsured masses anymore, but if this big whoop-dee-doo medical insurance was soooooo goddamn vital don't you think that SOMEBODY would take it? That at least I'd be getting some payback for forfeiting the pretty dream wedding and giving into Mick's bullying demands for his peace of mind by having me and the kid covered ASAP? And for fucking what? So after a year of prescription discounts and the cost of my surgery we've just now broken even on the cost of the premiums? Wow. That was so worth blowing off the flowers, music, friends, dress, party, pictures, and once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be a real bride and hurry onto this fabulous insurance that Mick insisted was so goddamn important we couldn't wait another 5 months and do it right. So the shitheads at my GP's office, my ophthalmologist, my shrink, and now the glasses place can all smirk and say they're out of network? Great. Perfect. Color me overwhelmed with joy. Then I go to the hippy store and who do I run into there but Mo? Except for my shitty mother coming back from the dead, Mo was the last person I wanted to see today. I got what I needed to and beat feet outta there before I smacked my former friend across the chops. I cannot, will not forgive her for the way she did me dirty when I was at my lowest. The day didn't get any better after that bit of mishegos and even managed to get suckier. Wolf got home and told me he'd gotten a write-up for some dopey misbehavior, and oh btw, I'd missed the Parent-Teacher conference. So at dinner Mick tells me our general invite to the family for Thanksgiving netted us ONE guest, his nephew. The folks would be here, but only after they'd stopped by SIL's. Time yet to be determined, because, you know, figuring out when she might get around to offering her parents a cup of coffee before tootling off to wherever she was having Thanksgiving dinner just wasn't that big of a deal for the amazing fabulous SIL. And OF COURSE I can arrange my day around it. I mean, it's only my favorite holiday and I'm only cleaning house and planning, shopping, and decorating for a week, and then getting up at dawn to start cooking. No problem. I can juggle everything around at the last minute. Hey, 20lb turkeys aren't that tough to do. The eight side dishes? The appetizers? My own sanity? So not important. SIL's convenience comes first, right? I'm just shitty LA the daughter-in-law. Second choice. As always. Everyone's least favorite child forever and ever. Amen. Who gives a flying fuck whether I'm hurt or my meal is charred? Gee whiz, MIL is going to get to see her very own wonderful daughter! Who'll offer her mother a cup of leftover coffee reheated in the microwave! And then and only then will they bother to come over here for my crappola stupid turkey dinner with all the fixings. I flipped out. Told Mick to get his mother on the horn and inform her that dinner was on the table at 3:00 sharp. They were here to eat it or not, but I wasn't about to bend my whole holiday around their sad devotion to their idiot inconsiderate daughter, Ms Flaky Pants. Even her own son was sick of her shit and gladly accepted our invitation and would be here on time, wine in hand. So, let's see. Limping dog. Recalcitrant electronics. Deteriorating eyesight. Shitty useless insurance. Rip-off corporate eyeglass gougers. Discipline case child. Bad mom moment with teachers. Broken dishwasher. Mo. Coming in dead last with the in-laws. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention I accidentally ran over a squirrel.
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