A New One Every Time

My poor hubby has been diagnosed with bladder cancer. Smart doc says "Six weeks of treatments, and you'll be good as new." Hubby complies, reluctantly.

The treatments are designed to be as uncomfortable and embarrassing as they possibly can be. This is to encourage those who are diagnosed with bladder cancer to CHANGE their lifestyle. Hubby is changing, somewhat reluctantly. It bugs me that he's not doing it fast enough, to my way of thinking, but that's for another post.

The treatments involve sticking a 16-inch catheter into the bladder (I'll leave to the imagination the route the catheter takes) and pumping in some dreadful chemical designed to boost the immune system. Dreadful chemical is so virulent that when hubby pees he must put buckets of bleach into the toilet and let it sit for 20 minutes before flushing.

Okay... we're getting to what bugs me about the whole thing.

Hubby has been for three treatments.

Each and every time, there's been a different nurse. One time, there were TWO nurses.

What's with that? WHO would CHOOSE to do that job, on purpose? Can you imagine someone asking, "What do you do for a living?" Er, um.... I pump dreadful chemicals into men. "And how do you do that?" Er, um....

You'd think there'd be ONE nurse in the hospital assigned to that job. That way, hubby could get used to that particular nurse. But oh, no. Not one. Many, many nurses.

Isobel says that they change the nurses so you don't develop a RELATIONSHIP with them. Hee, hee, ho ho.

sigh.

It'll be interesting to see if the next three weeks brings three (or four) new nurses.

Baths VS. Showers

This has bugged me for ages.

With all this "environmentally aware people-who-freak-out-if-you-drop-a-gum-wrapper-on-the-ground-are-the-new-awesomesauce" stuff going on, it's no longer surprising to hear about people who pat themselves on the back for what they've done to help the climate. You hear about people "going green" and "using less energy" and blah blah blah.*

This bugs me in general, but there is one particular thing that is bugging me especially.

I heard this lady gloating once in a video about how she takes baths instead of showers, because she wants to save water, and multiple shames on anyone who has a shower instead of a bath! Conserve water, you evil evil souls!

So, I listened to that with an expression of disbelief (and the smallest bit of rage) on my face. I then did an experiment. I went and had a shower, and plugged the bathtub up so the water would collect instead of going down the drain.

Guess how high the water got?

About two inches.

And, by the way, I took a *long* shower, going overboard in the experiment.

Now, normally, when I have a bath, I fill that sucker up about three quarters of the way. THAT is a bath. When your body is submerged.

I can only imagine what Gloating Lady would call a bath, but I'm thinking it's more than two inches deep. What a nice soak...for my heels, shoulder blades, and backside.

Then I got to thinking, and came up with this list:

- Perhaps Gloating Lady does use only two inches of water per bath. In which case, how is a shower any worse anyway?

- Perhaps she uses the water to...I don't know, give her flowers a drink afterward? But what about the shampoo, etc. that's in the water? Wouldn't that kill the flowers? Yea, that's environmentally friendly.

- Perhaps she only bathes once a week. In which case, eww.

I determined that showers are better than baths. Sure, the water goes down the drain, but didn't you know drains lead to that mystical Land of Purity and Magic that makes the water beautiful, clean and happy?

And we all know happy water tastes better.

*Note: do not take my apparent disgruntled attitude as a sign that I do not care about the environment. I do think we should be careful, and not be wasteful. However, the whole global warming/climate change thing gets on my nerves. All. My. Nerves.

Squirrels

Tree rodents.

That's all they are.

I'm sure I can find a handful of people that totally loathe them like me,
and would rather put a bullet through their eye than use peanut butter to bait them in a trap.

Waste of peanut butter.

Squirrels are awful.

We have been fighting with them for our attic since we've moved in,
and just when we think they've moved on:

*scritch-scratch-sckich.*
The ceilings are thumping, the walls are invaded.

And next thing you know the brand new drywall we've installed and mudded and sanded these past few months
are busted through by mangy gross tree rats.

What makes it worse is our neighbour right next door FEEDS them.

We've tried to be nice.

We've tried to be humane.

Now the moth balls come out.

Light

It bugs me.

Because it gets into my eyes.

Not during the day so much,

although if it is sunny

I do perpetually wear sunglasses.

No.

It's at night when I am trying to sleep.

My door doesn't close all the way,

and so light seeps in through this crack and invades my eyelids.

Even if said light is downstairs.

It finds it's way up the hall stairs,

into my room,

and directly to my retinas.

Even if said light is filtering through the curtained window in the room across the hall,

if that door is left open,

through the crack in that door,

through the crack in my door,

it assaults my eyeballs.

I can't even have an digital alarm clock.

Even if I turn the clock away from me,

the light bounces off the wall and finds it's way in.

Cover it with a towel, or other article of clothing?

It seeps through and glows at me.

So this is why I have a thick sleeping bag tacked up

over the pretty white lacy curtain hanging in my window.

And this is why I am very careful to turn out every single light

before I go to bed.

And make sure all the room doors are closed.

I think I should sleep in a cave.

Except that they're cold and damp.

And I can't sleep then, either.

Wheat.

Wheat.  And all it's crumbs and stupid proteins.

It bugs the CRAP out of me.

The story:

My boys (all of them ;) went to Grandpa and Grandma's house yesterday to help get the barn ready for removal.

Michael is too young to help, so he stayed in the house with his cousin, and they took turns playing on the computer.  He had a blast.  He didn't eat anything - just had some orange juice.

Today.

He woke up with a sore tummy.  It hurt so bad, he was almost in tears.  He couldn't even eat breakfast.

He had the scoots... twice.

The other kids went to play outside.  Michael went, too.  (He was feeling better.)

Except.

He wasn't.  :/

He couldn't make it into the house in time.  (Poor kid.)

Now he's in the house to stay, missing out on the beautiful sunshine and fun with his siblings and cousin.

And why?

Because there are wheat crumbs in his Grandma and Grandpa's house.  Not necessarily ones you can see, either.  But because his cousin ate, then touched the computer mouse, there was likely some transfer of wheat proteins onto the mouse.

So, when it was Michael's turn to play... well, I'm sure you can guess what happened.

This happens every time our kids go to Grandma and Grandpa's house.  They're always sick the next day.  Sigh.

I guess if they went there, kept their hands above their heads and didn't touch a thing - not even the couch - they'd be okay.  They could wash their hands, change their clothes, and they'd probably be fine.

Right.  Like that would happen in a million years.

So, we deal.

But, wheat BUGS ME!!!

DriveTest

Our truck broke down. It can't break down at a convenient time. Daniel has a DZ test booked for tomorrow. Mechanic Rick says there's been a delay, and the truck won't be ready until 10 am. The test is scheduled for 10 am in Clinton. The truck is in Embro. Sigh.

In order to phone and reschedule a drive test, you look up the phone number in the phone book. A computer answers and says, this number is no longer a valid phone number.

You sigh.

You phone the poor woman at the MTO Drivers' License place. She gives you an 888 number. For future reference, it is 1-888-570-6110. A computer answers. It sounds suspiciously like a Frenchman. He gives you options. French or English? Reschedule or Book? Information? You press buttons that go nowhere but back to the original menu. It insists you must type in your license number before it will transfer you to an agent. You do. It doesn't. It hangs up on you.

After it happens three times, necessitating that you must listen to the Frenchman and the same incessant choices all over again, then endure the sound of the dial tone, you phone the stinkin' MP's office to complain.

Then, you drive to Clinton to rebook the appointment.

Too bad for you. You aren't giving 48 hours' notice, so you lose the fees you paid. Oh, and you can rebook, but not until you've cancelled the first one. Don't you think you can borrow a truck somewhere?

You complain about the computer Frenchman. Matt at the DriveTest place tries the phone number and gets right through. It turns out there's a secret code that works.

Sigh. Why can't it be that simple for the general public?

So, you phone your husband and he calls the Truck Repair place. The mechanic says he'll try to get a truck.

You get home. Still no truck. You are told to rebook.

You phone Clinton. YOU USE THE SECRET CODE> IT WORKS, LIKE MAGIC.

You talk to a woman. She cannot book a new appointment over the phone. She can't take a credit card payment. Oh, and are you aware that you'll lose the $75 you already paid?

YES.

But there's nothing I can do, she tells me.

By this time I am blowing a gasket. I am on death's door with the frustration level.

Rick phones Rick, the Mechanic. He says "give me a minute". I think we should go ahead and cancel and take our chances rebooking in London. I am freaking out.

The phone rings. It's Rick the Mechanic, who has a truck for us to borrow. We have to drive to Embro, pick up the truck, drive to Clinton, pass the test, drive back to Embro, drop off the truck, pick up our own truck and do the route. Too much stress for one old Granny. But that's what we're going to do.

Here's the secret code:

Phone 888-570-6110.

When Frenchman starts talking, press 1.

Say, "Drivetest".

It will pause, then start another list of options. Say "Drivetest" again. Don't be afraid to interrupt. It's a stinkin' French computer. It will pause again slightly.

Say "Clinton".

It will ask if you mean "Clinton".

Say "YES" but try not to yell.

It will start talking. Interrupt. Say "transfer".

Halleluiah. It will Ring in Clinton. Talk to Matt. He's the only one with half a brain there.

Short version:

Call:1-888-570-6110

1

Drivetest

Drivetest

Clinton

yes

Transfer

Don't expect anything to go well. But that will get you through.

Who CARES??

Wiilie says six more weeks of winter

Updated Tue. Feb. 02 2010 1:46 PM ET

Canada's most famous weather forecasting rodent has some disappointing news for those who've had enough of winter. Wiarton Willie saw his shadow and predicted six more weeks of winter. This whole thing annoys me. Not only does it annoy me this year, but EVERY year that the news anchors have to tell us whether or not Wiarton Wilie saw his shadow. I DON'T CARE IF HE DID. I don't care if he didn't. I just don't want to hear about it, year after year. Imagine how old it gets when you're about 80. You've heard the same old story about a stupid groundhog coming out of his den to 1. be scared by his shadow OR 2. Not be scared. Either way, there's six more weeks of winter to look forward to. But, if you're 80, you've endured the same old story time and time again. And you're old, and you're NOT HAPPY. When I'm 80, those of you that love me and don't want me to spend the rest of my life in jail should distract me for the day. Take me shopping. Feed me lunch in a restaurant somewhere. Just don't take me to Wiarton.