The non-BF is always trying to find a reason for me to stop taking my Crazy Pills. Every ailment I claim to have, he says, “Maybe it’s Those Pills You Take.” He will ask if I checked on the side effects, did I talk to my pharmacist, etc. I told the Office Mate today that he does NOT want me to stop taking my Crazy Pills.
I knew she would agree. Before I got on them, I was a Super Bitch. Now I’m Just A Bitch.
So this morning, during our daily commute phone call (my commute is 5 minutes, so really it’s HIS daily commute call), I said my nose was hurting. I think I have been complaining about my nose hurting for about three weeks now.
Him: Maybe it’s Those Pills You Take.
Me: Nope. It’s allergies because of this stupid hot weather in Texas. It is a Snot Fest every morning these days.
Him: Maybe it’s Those Pills You Take, and BOOZE.
Me: Nope, booze only intensifies the drowsiness side effect. And I don’t drink while I am operating heavy machinery. I learned my lesson after that forklift incident.
Him: I think you need to talk to your doctor. You’ve been saying your nose hurts for a while now. I think maybe it’s Those Pills You Take.
(Note: The non-BF will never call them by name. I have no idea why. I really should Sharpie “Those Pills I Take” on my bottle.)
Me: No, it isn’t Those Pills I Take. Okay, if I am going to be honest here, I was cleaning my nostril some time back, and I scratched the inside and it hasn’t fully healed yet.
Him: So basically, it’s because you’ve been picking your nose, and all this time you’ve been blaming it on the weather?
I’m so glad he doesn’t get grossed out by stuff like that. Or things like the time my IBS flared up and I shitted (shat?) my shorts. He’s so awesome that way.
My quote up there is from Samantha Jones and I’d post a photo of her, but I can’t find one that isn’t copyrighted (YET), and after hacking my hometown’s Wikipedia page yesterday, posting a copyrighted picture today may very well be pushing it.
I took one of those stupid “Which Sex And The City character are you?” quizzes a long, long time ago, back before the non-BF. Naturally, I scored Samantha. Like there was ever a doubt.
These days, I’m probably more Charlotte (minus the husband and two kids) because, yeah, she shit her pants, too. And I totally have one of the Tiffany & Co. necklaces she was sporting in one episode. Plus, I am sorta classic/preppy in my dress style. And I’m very particular about certain things. Well, most things. Personality-wise, though, I’m a combo of Carrie and Miranda – high maintenance and bitchy. But in a really good way.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I love Web MD and self-diagnosis. As the non-BF said, “Five minutes and an internet connection and you’re a MD.” In all honesty, I’m really healthy (all that clean living I do!) and the only health issue I have that isn’t self-inflicted is allergies. (And IBS, but that might actually just be Booze Shits.) However, everyone I know in the Dallas area has allergies. Our air quality is for shit here.
Still, I’ll get a headache and a pain in my lower leg, look up “pain in head” and “pain in lower leg” and five minutes later, I decide I have tumors in my brain and fibromyalgia. I had a car accident earlier this year, and they did a CT scan because I kept getting dizzy. It was much easier to handle than the MRI was (I crawled out of the tube and had to be talked down from the ledge). The doctor told me he had the results.
Me: It’s a tumor. Do I have tumors? I bet you found a tumor.
Him: (Silence, and a strange look.) No, everything is fine. Your brain is normal.
Me: Oh. Okay.
Him: You seem disappointed that you’re okay.
When I posted on Facebook that my brain was normal, quite a few friends objected. My friends list is a lot lighter now.
I just got my over-sized Miniature Pinscher, Rainbow (aka the Maxi Pin) a Thunder Shirt. Being skeptical, I kept all the packaging and the receipt because I really didn’t think it would work. If it’s on an infomercial late at night, it can’t work, right?
I put that bitch on him and went to get my keys, walked outside the front door, closed it and used the clicker to make my car honk. Normally, the little shit gets all frantic and starts barking if I even appear to be leaving the house. (Applying perfume is the worst, since dogs have a strong sense of smell. He knows that I’m leaving because if I am staying home, I don’t really care whether or not I am stinky.)
Not a sound. Total silence. He did run to the door, though.
Since then, I’ve done it a few more times. Every time, he doesn’t bark. I am going to send those Thunder Shirt People a cookie bouquet and pledge my first-born to them.
I think 17 times is overkill, though. It works, bitch. Just leave it alone already.