Mr. Romance

9 years married. seems like 5 minutes.....under water. Should you ever forget to buy a card for someone for a special occasion, try this: " I couldn't stand to give you a card with words written by someone else." Maybe they'll coo and think that you're soo romantic, or maybe they'll think you're a boneheaded asshole and suggest that you go rub your knuckles in dog shit. Go ahead, try to guess which one I did.

For the occasion of our anniversary, I requested that the garage be cleaned out, so that I can park my car in it instead of a half mile away in a garage spot that we have to pay for. Of course the extra outdoor spot at the house is for Nick's truck, because him having to haul his beer belly half a mile is way harder that me having to schlep the kids and groceries a half a mile. So anyway, he said that the main reason we couldn't use the garage as a parking place is because my bike is in there. So I'm still looking for my bike, but you better believe that I can't wait to find it! It's so surprising how much space one bike can take up.

Magnus Chokus

CHOKE.
That is the one word summary of my board exam.

I'd choose to birth a porcupine or maybe run a marathon in 4 inch high-heeled, thigh-high vinyl hooker boots one size too small, rather than sit for that exam again; which unfortunately, is a very real possibility. Shit, shit, shit.
Things to do differently next time (praying: please, please, PLEASE don't let there be a next time):

1. Don't forget my hairbrush: So I wake up Saturday morning looking like Amy Winehouse less the crackpipe and tattoos, only to discover that I had packed the entire hair salad kit with the notable exception of my brush. or my comb. So I finger combed and used a stylish rubber band and some of H.'s pink plastic barrettes. I'm positive that I accomplished just the sophisticated, intelligent professional look that might win me a point in a crunch.

2. Don't forget my toothbrush: Ratty hair and fuzzy teefs. I was one stanky little package. I did have an eyebrow brush, so my brows at least looked neat and tidy.

3. Don't hack everyones limbs off: There usually are other treatment options. I know them, I know them in inside out, I could recite them standing on my head drunk, I just couldn't recite them during the fucking exam.

4. Don't have a cold: I'm positive that I blew the volume equivalent of my body weight out through my nose. It at least broke up some of the limb carnage. I think the bright red nose and attendant sound effects added a little approachability to my whole hot mess look.

5. Frame Mr. Bunker for some kind of a crime: The more I told him that I was going to want peace and quiet for my non-sequestered hours of the weekend, the more certain he became that this was all one very elaborately planned lover's tryst. I think that if I knew that he was locked behind bars, at least for the weekend, I wouldn't have been worried about him busting into an exam room catching me red handed, mid choke, holding an MRI study or something equally incriminating.

6. Bring smokes: After a crushing first day, I accepted the gracious invitation from a classmate to join him for a smoke outside, which did help my state of mind. This is because after relaxing outside for a few puffs, I developed nausea and a splitting headache which were sufficient in severity to take my mind off the events of the day.

In summary, it was not a good weekend. I could have studied for another month and it wouldn't have made a bit of difference. There was one question to which I truly did not know the answer, otherwise I knew everything, but those idiot examiners just could not read my freakin mind, those assholes.

On the brighter side, I did get to catch up on my gossip and fashion magazine reading during some of the breaks, so I know all about Brittney and Brad and Angelina. While perusing the pages of "In Style", I also noted that I and my women colleagues, few in number though we are, collectively form a massive fashion eyesore.

free clinic & flag day

Never mind that it's balls to the wall study time for boards, my peeps need me for the once-a-month free clinic, serving the city's homeless, needy and generally scrambled. That is where I am known as Dr. P-A and my partner is Dr. I-N. That spells PAIN for you slow ones.

The regulars line up at the crack of dawn like it's a rock concert, and then they bicker like little kids about who gets to go first. Usually Geraldine gets to go first because she is the loudest. She doesn't really even have anything wrong with her, she just wants to be first on general principal, and get the first crack at any freebies. She visits and complains about the surgery that she had 20 years ago, and asks the same questions every month about revision.

Mr. C visits each month so I can clean up his ankles after he gets shackled, which by his own admission happens because he gets drunk & belligerent in public areas. He was very suspicious of us when we started the clinic and despite his truly great need, he just lurked around for the first several months we were there. He asked who was paying, why were we there, and refused to accept any reason given until finally someone said something about community service, which he naturally assumed was court ordered, and now he's a happy regular visitor. He asks how long I have to come and probably thinks I did something pretty bad, as I told him there was no end in sight. He likes me better now that he thinks that I've run afoul of the law; I wonder what he thinks I did.

Another regular, Roberta, greeted us by saying "happy flag day" but it sounded very much like she said "happy fag day", which probably wasn't a mistake, as we were next to Stanely, our regular girly man. He took no offense, only pointed out that Roberta's flag scarf did not match her pants.

Bling

Apparently, despite our dire financial straights, which had Nick in an uproar because the outrageous extravagance of speech therapy for N., he was able to scrape up enough cash to get me a huge & sparkling ring for my birthday (trying to make up for mother's day). It is quite pretty, and I opted not to discuss this glaring hypocrisy because seemingly I'm some kind of jewelry whore.

It has been suggested to me that I could use my shiny new accoutrement as part of a home speech therapy program; every time little N. lisps or says "oh tay", I give him a gentle backhand with the bling finger hand. I dunno though, DCFS can be so freakin uptight.

(for Lisa A.: still waiting for the "gunt" to be put in it's proper place)

Zebras & Giraffes

Clearly this is one spectacular jacket. I was sure that my mini fashionista, H., would find it as appealing as I do. It even has a bright pink lining which cannot be appreciated in my ghetto photo.

Both kids were subdued over breakfast, until H. finally blurted out that zebra jackets are horrible, and she LOVES Zebras, and whaa, whaa, sniffle, please mommy don't get any more Zebra clothes. Then N. chips in, also on the verge of tears, asking if I was going to be getting a giraffe jacket, and please, please don't get a giraffe jacket.

Naturally, I considered telling them that I didn't kill the Zebra, it was a mean lion that ate poor Zebra's guts while his heart was still beating, but instead I decided to explain all about synthetics, and all was good in the world.