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Star Wars, Condoms and Loads of Corrections…

Who is your 'Doctor'?

Image by Matthew Stewart | Photographer via Flickr

I’m having one of those weeks. And if I’m still sane on Saturday, it’ll be a bloomin’ miracle!

Well, sane-ish…

On Monday I visited the doctor in the morning and the vet in the afternoon. And no, I don’t have fleas, but thanks for asking.

My GP has (finally) decided to test for this Addison’s Thingy. I’m glad he took two weeks weighing the options before coming to a considered conclusion. Honestly. I’m relieved the thought of me lapsing into a potential coma didn’t rush him into making any kind of hasty decision. And I’m sure my blood-pressure hasn’t suffered any long-lasting effect. I mean, everyone has constant palpitations from time-to-time, right?

But the good news? There’s only a small chance I may go into ano  anna  annofalactic shock from the stuff they’ll use to inject me during the test.

Well, that’s okay then.

The visit to the vet was much more comfortable. My job was holding two recently neutered dogs in the back of my neighbour’s car while she drove to the clinic so they could have their stitches yanked.

Two nervous, yelping, yowling, fidgety dogs. And the poor puppy was so upset, he couldn’t help barfing up his dinner. All over me. 

sadDog

.Image via Wikipedia

When I finally got home, Youngest said, ‘Urggg! What’s that horrible smell?’
‘That’ll just be me, son. I’m plastered in puppy puke.

‘On Tuesday I was back at the docs. Youngest has tonsillitis. It’s viral rather than bacterial, which means NO antibiotics, lots of lazing about in front of the TV rest,  plenty of expensive designer drinks fluids and bucket-loads of whining tender loving care.

Today I’m taking my friend to the dentist. She’s needs a tooth pulling. And she’s really phobic. I’ve promised to hold her hand; when if she feels any pain, she can break my knuckles squeeze my hand. Boy! am I looking forward to that one!

Tomorrow I have my Addison’s Thingy Test. They take an initial sample to test the levels of Whatever-It-Is in my blood. Then I get the injection of Whatever-It-Is into my blood and I have to wait for half an hour for Whatever-It-Is to circulate my bloodstream. Finally I have another blood test to see if my body has naturally generated Whatever-It-Is in response to the synthetic injection of Whatever-It-Was they injected me with.

I’m not sure when, exactly, I’m supposed to go into ano  anna  annofalactic shock. I’ll have to ask.

Finally, on Friday – if I’m still alive – I’m having an ultrasound scan. I’m not sure I want to go into details. Oh, alright, then. Since you’re so persistent, but I’m warning you: it’s not pleasant:

I’m having an … er…internal examination to see if really heavy monthly occasions are being caused by anything more …er…sinister than normal. It’s part of the whole Is-It-Time-For-a-Nap-Yet exhaustion thing. I’ll have this Star Wars type light saber instrument covered with a condom poking around where nobody’s poked around for a very long time.

I wonder if we’ll go to dinner first…

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A decidedly dirty date…

The worst thing about internet dating is the actual dates.  

Bob the builder

He couldn't fix it...

Meet Adrian, aged 49, builder, and a bit of a knob. I knew this because I’d met him years ago when he’d built a shed for my neighbour. Last week he contacted me through my oh-so-fabulous dating site, and suggested dinner.

I wasn’t keen. He wore down my resistance, and we compromised with takeaway pizza at his house. Do I know how to have fun, or what?

I knew Adrian had a dog because he’d posted a photo of it on his site. A ratty looking, terrier thing with an evil glint in its eye, so I took my dog along. Mainly because I thought they’d scrap and I’d have an excellent excuse to make a fast getaway. Wrong! They immediately became the best of Pedigree Chums, the traitors!

Well, Adrian built his house and I was honoured to have the guided tour. I couldn’t comment on the actual building because I couldn’t see any of it underneath the piles of junk, hanging cobwebs and filthy, dirty dishes. It was foul! Even the dogs declined to jump on the furniture for fear of the resident wildlife…

Two rats...

Yikes! There's two of them!

I perched precariously on the edge of a chair, nursing tea from a stained, chipped mug and wondering how the hell I was gonna dispose of it, when the ratty dog thing leapt on my lap, bouncing me backwards. Adrian was warbling on about his new teeth, screwed in that day and giving him jaw-ache. Well, that made two of us. The terrier thing lunged at me, pinning my hair down to the back of the sofa, and started snogging my face. I couldn’t move! Hot tea was slopping down my leg. I tried swatting him away with my free hand but the mutt was on a mission. My dog, thinking Woof! That’s a fun game! jumped up and squatted on my free arm. (He’s a big, butch labrador, but he has no brain.)

It was a canine snog-fest with me caught in the middle, making this muffled, strangulated noise out of the corner of my mouth; I was too scared to open it – a dog’s tongue would’ve been in there tickling my tonsils. ‘Gerrofff….’elp….meeee…’toff… fcks…seck….arghh…’eeellllpppp…’

Adrian was completely oblivious. He was too engrossed in his new diatribe against self-obsessed women to notice that his dippy, demented dog was eating my face.

Us girls only want a bloke for his wages. Nobody’s interested in a lowly builder. Poor Adrian can’t find a woman because he isn’t bringing in the dosh.

If I could’ve opened my mouth, I would’ve put him straight: poor Adrian can’t find a woman because he’s a bit of a knob.

Two pints of milk, a jar of crunchy peanut butter and one delicious male…

As I’m already tiring of this internet dating malarkey, I’m making a list of other, less obvious ways to meet men and find lurve. In best Blue Peter fashion, here’s one I made earlier…

Curtis the sock monkey...

No, a list, stupid. Not a monkey made from old socks. Honestly.

  • Midnight Grocery Shopping: Rumour has it that Saturday night is this season’s new black for sad singletons doing the weekly food shop. Supermarket aisles should be stacked with unattached males, so slap on some lippy, shoosh up your hair, and shove a bloke in your trolley.   😉
  • Make your own magic: Don’t rely on your Fairy Godmother; she’s probably off her head on Fairy Dust. Be your own matchmaker! Print up some dating cards, stating your name, phone number and vital statistics. Carry them with you at all times, and whenever you meet a man who makes your knickers twitch, whip out a card! Make eye contact and emphasise how much you’d like to hear from him. You may end up being arrested and carted off to the local Care in the Community programme, but, hey, at least you’re being pro-active, right?
  • Volunteer for volunteering: The ideal place to bag yourself a kind, altruistic, socially conscious man. Although you might end up with a meths-swigging homeless person  camped out on your sofa over Christmas… But think how empty life would be if you never, ever took a risk…
  • Buy a dog: Or borrow one. Or, if you’re really desperate, hang around outside your local shop where the neighbourhood terriers are parked, and pinch one! All’s fair in love and war and all that jazz. Dog-walkers are the friendliest, most sociable people on the planet. I once met a gorgeous bloke in the woods. We met up for months and chatted our way across the local countryside while the dogs frolicked and gamboled together. Do dogs gambol? Or is that just lambs? Anyway, I was close to gambolling myself. Until the morning I met The Wife….And if you really can’t lay your paws on a pooch, just buy a lead and haunt the local dog-walking areas. When you meet a potential mate, just fluff around being female and squeak a bit about having ‘lost’ your favourite canine companion. He’ll be offering his superior searching services quicker than you can say bitch in heat.  😉

   More novel ideas tomorrow… In the meantime, share your stories – how did you meet your mate? The more ridiculous the better!

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