I will be so proud if my kid...

I don’t have any kids right now, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have high hopes for any future progeny of mine. And, unlike hopes that one day they’ll rule the world with an iron fist (although that would be wicked cool); I think these aspirations are actually attainable. Let me explain.

1. Every year in church, the kids from ages 5-11 put on a program in church. I hated doing this program with a passion, but never actually had the guts to make it known just how much I hated the program. That being said, since I had to suffer through the program year after year, little Scooby and Chicky-babe have to suffer through it as well. However, I would be the proudest mother in the congregation if little Scooby or Chicky-babe were to do the program with vampire fangs stuck in their mouths. Or if they wanted to go the whole hog and wear glasses with eyes attached to slinkies, that would be okay, too. Of course, I would have to act mortified in church, but, oh man, Christmas would come early for any child of mine who had the stones to do something like that in church.

2. If my kids could learn how to whale on the guitar like a rock star, and not like the pathetic wannabe like I am (please refer to a previous post of mine), I would be so proud of my little Guitar Heroes. If Scooby or Chicky-babe were to become so proficient on the guitar as to make it big in the rock world, well, then I’ll be right there to borrow money from them like the good sponge..errr, I mean, mother I’ll be someday.

3. I would be tres exultant if one of my spawn could belch the entire alphabet in one go. YES, I know it’s gross and I would be horribly mortified and humiliated if it were to occur in public, but let me ask you this. Have you ever heard a little kid actually belch the entire alphabet? I have and I nearly gave myself an aneurysm, I laughed so hard. It was hysterically funny and I decided then and there that if I had a kid that could do that, it would be pretty kick ass. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it is possible that I would have a kid who could do that. Future Granddad has some prowess in that area, so Scooby (preferably) has a good chance.
There is a silver lining to this gastronomical feat: if a child of mine had the lung capacity to actually belch the alphabet, then that kid is getting signed up for voice lessons because clearly, I have a potential opera singer on my hands or at least, be able to belt out Bohemian Rhapsody, falsetto and all.
(I feel the need to reiterate the fact that I do NOT want my child to exhibit this particular talent in public. Save it for the frat house, Scooby.)

4. If my kids are smart-asses to me or Future Hottie-Husband, they’ll find themselves in a world of hurt. But if Scooby or Chicky-babe can deliver an attitude worthy of Shannen Dougherty at her worst, to someone who needs to be taken down a peg, then I shall call them Mini-me and we will sing “Just the Two of Us” duets just like Doctor Evil and HIS Mini-Me.

5. A debate can be aptly described as choreography of words, the dance of death. (Excuse me while I wax poetical.) I would be so proud if Scooby or Chicky-babe can hold their own in a hardcore debate. I’m speaking, of course, of the fine art of the rap battle. I would love to have my own little rapper who can throw down with the best of them while keeping it clean. And if I get this response after I tell my kid to pick up his crap for the tenth time or else it’s going in the trash: “I’ll pick it up cuz I ain’t no punk beeyotch”, I will reply with pride “Word.”

Of course, I’ll be proud of all of Scooby and Chicky-babe’s accomplishments, big or small. These are just a few of which I would feel compelled to brag about.

However, if when asked what Mummy wants Daddy to get her for her birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, anniversary, Boxing Day, Valentine’s Day, or any day that ends in ‘y’ gift and Scooby or Chicky-babe say “Mummy likes diamonds”, then that kid gets an all-expenses paid trip to college for four years.

I know I’ve left something out, so if there is something particularly funny and praise-worthy that your kids have done and you feel that it’s something I should be proud of if my kid did, let me know! Or just feel free to brag about your talented little genius.

Today, I criticize health care (and also I refer to three movies and one song)

I’m up late because for the past few days, I’ve felt like some demonic little troll has been stabbing my left side with a pitchfork from the inside of my body. Whenever I move, the evil bugger stabs me double time and has literally made me double over in pain, gasping and cursing. During one such internal stabbing attack by the troll, my boss even noticed something was wrong. It was then that I decided a visit to Urgent Care was in order.


I spent all of Friday morning at Urgent Care, where, incidentally, my doctor was MAJOR eye candy (seriously, seeing him almost made it worth having to be there), only to be told that after various tests of my bodily fluids and five X-rays, Hottie Doctor couldn’t see anything wrong with me. (I almost asked if X-rays are to trolls what mirrors are to vampires, but then decided not to, as I didn’t want Hottie Doctor to think I was crazy. One MUST keep up appearances, you know.)

OW!

Not wanting to question Hottie Doctor’s intelligence and medical degree but at the same time wanting to be rid of the damn troll inside of me, I (shamelessly) turned on the waterworks.

You see, this Urgent Care visit was merely the latest doctor’s visit in the long line of doctor’s visits this year. I, who up until this year never went to the doctor, have been in and out of my doctor’s office at least twice a month since December 2007. I kid you not. I have had a range of tests over the past few months: a CT scan, thyroid ultrasounds, “fluid” tests (I will NOT elaborate on that one), and X-rays. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve had blood taken. I’ve been exposed to so much radiation that even Hottie Doctor was worried about doing today’s X-rays. His exact words: “Poor thing, I’m surprised you’re not GLOWING from all the radiation.” (Oh, I was glowing, baby, but not from radiation. It was his fine self that had me glowing like Robert Downey Jr.’s chest thingy in Iron Man.)

Sadly enough, my testing days are not done. Lucky me, I get to go have a thyroid biopsy. What does that entail, exactly? Well, grasshopper, that means that I get to have a needle (which in my imagination equals the size of the one used in Pulp Fiction) shoved in and out of my poor defenseless thyroid. Is it any wonder that I’m procrastinating on scheduling this particular appointment? Given the choice, I’d much rather cut my own Achilles’ tendon with a dull and rusty razor. (Did you just shudder? I know I did. But I really don’t want a ginormous needle going into my throat.)

Getting back to today’s visit: I usually don’t cry at the doctor’s office. I’m a big girl now, and according to Fergie, big girls don’t cry. But today I summoned up some tears, hoping to garner sympathy (or possibly a little cuddle) from Hottie Doctor. (it didn’t work. Well, actually, it did a little. But not the cuddle part. Damn.)

I don’t understand why these ridiculously expensive tests and doctors with years of schooling and fancy medical degrees can’t figure out what’s wrong with me. Don’t get me wrong, man. It’s not like I want something wrong with me, because I certainly don’t. I would have been happy to go the rest of my days without knowing what it’s like to get a CT scan and I REALLY would not mind if the words “thyroid biopsy” were not part of my lexicon. But since something is wrong with me – I’m sure most normal people don’t have angry, angry trolls inside of them (unless your name is Rosemary and you’re in a movie called Rosemary’s Baby and in which case, dude that sucks) – I would really like it if someone could tell me what’s wrong with me.

On the up side, I did get a prescription for Lortab. On the down side, I got a hideously bruised arm and tape residue.

And you know something else? I don’t like how 49 flavor jars of Jelly Bellies always load up on the bellies that taste like caca. Peanut butter, buttered popcorn, caramel corn, and mango – I’m looking in your direction.

Boo yah.

**Update: Please note that this is for entertainment value only. I am not looking for sympathy, attention, or threats to go medieval on the doctors. There are so many more people who are worse off than I am. I have had time to gain perspective and see the amusing side of the situation. I only wrote about this in order to help myself laugh about it, and to perhaps remind everyone to count their blessings.