Tuesday, September 01, 2009

Maybe those new pills are pretty good...

I had my "yearly" Dr. Appointment a couple weeks ago, and as appointments go, it went quite well. I got another different Dr., as is common practice with the "Clinic" that my insurance company let me pick. She was great, and the student she had with her was alright too -- So, I certainly hope that since the "Clinic" is affiliated with a University, that this Doctor is a Professor and not a high-level student who's about to graduate; that's how much I liked her in that one appointment, and it's not just because I got to skip the, ahem, smear this time.

I freaked out a little bit when my lab results came back -- My cholesterol is just a teensy bit (20 points) high, my triglycerides are a good bit high. When I talked to the new Dr. on the phone, she said she was pretty sure it was a genetic thing and not solely from what I eat, and she said all the right things to calm me down about it too. I had to go back for a liver function test (praying) so I can start a prescription to lower 'em and avoid the risk of problems for the next fifty or sixty years. That's what she said... And I could just kiss her for not tellin' me it's all because of my fat ass.

The thing that really made me love this new Dr. was that she didn't doubt me when I told her I had started taking "the pill" to level-out my hormones but I was not active, and she listened without making faces when I told her that I wasn't as able to fight the urge to be a psycho during the white pill week.

So, I got switched. She gave me the big long pill pack, the one that has three months of pink pills for every one week of white pills. I have two friends who have mentioned taking this variety of pill; one mentioned that it "keeps the crazy to a minimum," and the other is uncommonly happy with the decreased number of white pills -- and hey, I like both of those options! This morning I took my third hot pink pill outta that pack; last night, I got an, uhm, urge while watching a nature show about fig wasps. Getting my urges back to a little higher frequency is kinda nice too, and I have noooo problem takin' care of 'em myself... (Okay, I'll stop before I get into T-M-I territory.)

Today, I took one of those phone calls without lashing out too, so maybe I'll be able to laugh 'em off more like I used to.

Alone on the counter, I switched my lovely morsel of Red Velvet Cake to my left hand so my right hand would be free to look up parts with the ten-key, I picked up a phone and stuck it between my shoulder and my left ear to answer as I hit F9 to clear the computer screen. An older dude on the other end asked for one of the guys.

I told him that guy was out on the yard.

He asked for the other guy.

I told him that guy was running a fork lift.

He was quiet.

I tried to sound friendly, "Is there somethin' I could help ya with?"

Now, this is one of those places where "proving myself" is like a river to wade across...

He says he needs a six-hole fifteen-inch Chevy wheel.

This is a Ford yard, but I'm already ankle-deep in that river of proving myself, I'm wading across, dammit... I ask what year it is.

His end is silent.

I ask what year it is.

His end is silent.

I hold my right hand up with a "2" and ask what year it is.

His end is silent.

I ask what year it is, making my right hand into a "3" and taking a nibble of cake from my left hand.

His end is still silent, save for a bit of labored breathing.

I'm pretty sure y'all can figure out where this is going. As my right hand turned into a "5," I decided to ask one more time even though I'd just about made up my mind we didn't have any mystery wheels... They're different for different years of trucks, even if it is a six-lug, it could be a metric or SAE, it could have a different offset, it could have a different size of center hole depending on whether the truck is two or four wheel drive.

After the sixth time I asked what year the truck was, he finally said "Ooooouuuuhhhhh, I dunno, somethin' around a '71..."

I tell him we don't have anything anywhere near that old around here, and we've handled mostly Ford parts for several years.

After a brief pause, he says, "Would it be better if I just came over there to talk to one of the guys?"

I was nice, and even though I forgot all about that "river of proving myself," I was nice.

I was nice.

I didn't say "Oh, fuck you very much" until I'd already hung up the phone.

Some sick little part of me hopes I'm still alone on the counter when he shows up.

Heh heh heh...

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