Rants By Request, Part 2

Lots more Firefly. Lots more rants. 'Nuff said.

Before we get started...go smell your dog right quick. Over the past few days, my kids and their friends have mentioned that Hoover smells like maple syrup, so I finally decided to smell for myself. I put my nose right into the fur on his neck, and sure enough, he reeks of Mrs. Butterworth's. Bruno has no smell at all, oddly enough, and neither of them has had a bath since October or November. I realize this is not a rant, but I would like to know whether other hounds smell this way, so please advise.

Now for the ranting. I'd like to begin with the weather, which, I'm pleased to report, has improved dramatically over the last couple of days. First, I'll say that cold weather can kiss every inch of my lily-white buttocks, which might take a while. Sure, I live in Hotlanta, but it does get cold here, and it's really not to my taste at all. I'm indescribably cold-natured, and unless the house is kept around 70 degress, I'm miserable from November through March. Sure, I personally have the carbon footprint of a multinational coal-mining operation, but I honestly can't stand being the least bit cold.

Actually, I understand cold-intolerance has something to do with low progesterone, which may very well be at fault. While that in itself is inconvenient, this is a great segue into talking about bioidentical hormones vs. the synthetic crap big pharma is literally trying to cram down our throats. Let's see...so my hormonal choices are:

a) do nothing medically, grow a beard and join a sideshow under the billing of Pygmie Bearded Lady Boy

b) take Premarin or some similar pregnant-mare-derived chemical estrogen and Progestin, which chemically resembles Progesterone to about the same extent that cotton candy resembles nail polish remover, or

c) find a practictioner who is open to prescribing BHRT, submit a bazillion blood tests to titrate the levels of estrogen, progesterone, testosterone, and FSH (that's follicle stimulating hormone), and arrive at a safe level of hormones that my body knows how to synthesize.

Lordy! None of those sound exceptionally fun, but I'll take C. Ladies, best to take note of this entire issue and take action, since the pharma lobbyists are working hard to take this option away from us.

Ok, enough on this. Let's crucify lousy drivers!! I've got to say, I'm fed up with idiots who don't understand a four-way stop. Is it so hard to understand that everyone who was stopped before you got to the intersection gets to go first? I can't stand it when someone decides to wave me on when it's not my turn, or when they jump the gun on their turn. Anyone who is too stupid to negotiate a four-way stop correctly should be forced to wear velcro shoes and a helicopter-topped beanie so they can be identified visually.

Well, I didn't expect to run out of steam quite so quickly, but it is what it is. Next time, less Firefly, more rants!

Obstetrical Revenge

The previous post and the comments that followed brought to mind my favorite obstetrical revenge story, and I just couldn't resist posting it. Now, you're in luck since I'm not posting a picture with this one. I know, I know...I'm a real model of restraint.

Before I go on, I assure you that I will continue with the Rants by Request series after this small detour. I'll also say that if you menfolk (or ladies) aren't comfortable with some unvarnished vagina talk, you may want to find another way to spend the next five minutes. Don't say I didn't warn you!

Without further delay, I hereby present a special technique you ladies can use to make sure your gynecologist or obstetrician is giving you his or her complete attention at all times. I discovered this technique completely by accident, as I'm about to describe.

When I was pregnant with Tyler, I was still in the Army, and their policy is that when a pregnant soldier gets sick, she has to be seen by the obstetrician, no matter the nature of the illness. So about six months along, I came down with a fever and a brutal, violent cough, prompting me to waddle on into the OB's office.

I've never understood why, but the first part of my exam for my cough was a good old-fashioned-feet-in-the-stirrups pelvic exam. I was really less than thrilled, since I felt like death on a stick and didn't anticipate having to unlace my boots and take off my elastic-topped camouflage pants, but the Army was never big on giving me lots of choices, so I put on the crunchy paper gown and assumed the position.

In comes Dr. Peekupurcooter and the nurse whose whole job is to make sure the doctor doesn't try to strum your banjo, and the exam begins with the brandishing and insertion of an ice-cold speculum. As he's checking under the hood, so to speak, he's asking me about what brings me in today, how long I've had a fever, the usual questions, and I start to feel a coughing jag coming on that I just can't restrain.

Anyone care to guess what happens to a speculum that's stuck up your vajayjay when you're lying on your back with your legs spread and you cough violently? In case you haven't guessed, let me dispel the mystery: the damn thing shoots out of your nether regions like a rocket propelled grenade, right into the forehead of the guy who has his face inches from the launch site. And yes, it will leave a mark. Right on the forehead, exactly as you would have hoped.

Now, I'm not suggesting that you need to do this, but it certainly is very tempting when the doctor is condescending. Or if they don't validate your parking, right?

Rants By Request, Part 1

Today's post is brought to you by Firefly Sweet Tea Infused Vodka, in cooperation with the great suggestions for my booze-fueled rant post provided by you. I can't thank you enough, and I'll try to do you justice. You may be disappointed to learn that I'm going to have to break this into installments, partly because I want to give each topic full coverage, and partly because I'm so lit right now that within 30 minutes or so I may take my top off and sing Let's Hear it for the Boy.

For those of you who might like your blogs with a side of sugar, fair warning: here's where the nice stuff ends and the obnoxious, politically incorrect stuff begins. I'm sure I'll curse a few times before it's all over, and it's a certainty that I'll offend someone along the way. At least I hope I do.

I'm going to start with an issue near and dear to my heart, and that is being called Mom by people who were definitely cooked up in some other poor woman's uterus. I've kept very careful track, and there are only two people on Earth who can call me Mom. Anyway, if you've never experienced this, let me tell you that this is the most annoying, patronizing bullshit you could possibly imagine, and I don't tolerate it for a minute anymore. I can recall one dentist, Dr. Randal Rowan, who was seeing Tyler for the first (and last) time when he addressed me thusly, "Mom, you can wait right here. Tyler is a big boy and doesn't need his Mommy present for the exam.". I'm still kicking myself three years later for not saying, "Listen, you patronizing son of a bitch, I'm not your Mom, I'm a paying customer with a right to accompany her minor child anywhere she damn well pleases, and you can call me Adrienne. How does that work for you, Randal?"

You know, in general I think the medical establishment needs to be taken down a notch or two. My GP calls me Adrienne, and I call him Dave. He was a little shocked at first, but I'm not a big advocate of paying money to kiss someone's ass. Ok, you're a doctor, and it's a big deal, but I'm a big deal too. Do you even know who I am?

One more thing...I think any medical establishment that has the stones to charge for parking should be boycotted. I suppose it's not enough that when you go to the doctor you inevitably have your sovereignty as a human being violated in at least one way and pay richly for the privilege of doing so, now you have to pay to park your car. Bastards.

Speaking of what *holes doctors can be, I'll also go ahead and throw Dr. Michaeledes (formerly of Piedmont ENT) under the bus as the biggest jerk-face-doctor-jerk-guy I've ever met. As you may know, I have a condition that results in fluctuating hearing loss, so whenever I have to go to the ear-nose-throat place, I'm in dire straits and can't hear a damn thing. So here I am, deaf as a phone pole, trying to make my emergency appointment on the phone and I'm told that my original doctor had left, and had been replaced by (I thought) Dr. Michael Levy. So the doctor comes in and I asked him to clarify that his name was Michael Levy, at which he rolled his eyes and yelled, "It's Michaeledes. I'm Greek, and it's Michaeledes.", at which point I said helpfully, "You know, if you're sensitive about your name, maybe you shouldn't have chosen a profession that involves working with the hearing impaired." After a perfunctory, rudely performed exam, he prescribed me the wrong medication and sent me on my way. Then I paid for parking. Nice!

I recognize that I'm not doing a great job of staying on topic right now, so I apologize. Let's talk about cheap toilet paper, shall we? I'd like to think that only men are buying this crap, but I'm sure there are some gals out there who are guilty of this cruel false economy. If you're guilty as charged, you are hereby instructed to read the following statement out loud three times: We owe it to ourselves and one another to treat our most naughty anatomical parts kindly, even if it means parting with another precious dollar. Don't be cheap. Spring for the good stuff, and some lady's bits will thank you.

On the topic of ladies, I can't end this post without addressing what I like to call "Prosti-toys". If you're not sure what I'm talking about, think of those crazy Bratz dolls that look like promiscuous aliens. Isn't it great that some toy designer is out there thinking of ways to encourage preschool girls to be bratty and dress like whores? Trust me, by the time they're 12 they get the idea all by themselves. As if there aren't enough forces in play to teach girls to hate their bodies, deny their intelligence, and play to the lowest common denominator, we have these unholy dolls.

Oh, and how about thong underwear for itty-bitty little girls? At the risk of TMI, I think the whole thong thing is the finest example of sexist oppression since pantyhose, and I'm not effing participating. Don't like my VPL? Great! I didn't invite you to look at my ass, anyway, and I'm not paying $15 for a pair of underwear to have $10 worth of it up my crack.

Ok, folks, I'll leave it at that for now, but fear not...more rants by request to follow.

Audience Participation

You know what I'm in the mood for (besides ending a sentence with a preposition, that is)? A big, obnoxious, politically incorrect booze-fueled rant-post, that's what.

Here's the problem: I'm drawing a blank on what to rant about (another preposition!). So, in the interest of avoiding some boring radio silence, I'm taking suggestions. You name it, I'll rant about it. Trust me, this is better than the alternatives I've dreamed up so far.

Seriously, do you REALLY want to read a detailed treatise on why Otto Von Crapp's engine light is lit? Are you interested in my opinions on how drinking commercially prepared milk has contributed to 50% of 8 year-old-boys having titties like strippers? I'm warning you...it could get pretty boring.

So, let's make it simple. If you think of a topic that would be suitable for rant, be a pal and post it in a comment. Over the weekend, I promise to booze it up and get posting, and I'll cover every suggestion submitted by the end of the day on Friday. It can be anything, political, social, just so long as it's not BORING. I think that last post under the influence was a real humdinger, so I think this could be a win-win!

Come on, folks, help a sister out (look, I did it again!)!