I had my second doctor's appointment scheduled for today.
That is to say, I showed up when I was supposed to.
Just like last week .
Me and about a dozen other people (I think maybe I even recognized a few of them, could be they were still waiting, from last week) staring at Fox News.
Me? I watched the day float right on by and...you know...give me the finger.
Now that I think on it some more, it's sort of ironic, really:
Aaaand then, I swear, you could hear our collective spinally-impaired selves breath a heavy sigh of "WTH?!?" watching some other schmuck limp in ahead of us.
Fast-forward 2 hours.
[cue choir of angels]
Basically, the MRI confirmed what I already knew....my lower back...she is fubar.
In other words, less clinical like...my lower back, she is fubar...good news is, however, there are two options...other than surgery:
Requiring either a) an undisclosed voltage of electrical current or b) a sharp implement, jammed deep into my spine.
Ironically enough, they call it pain management.
So, I'm considering my options (needle, electric current, skewered, or fried?) while washing the dishes (dish washer, she is broken too) when I hear:
It was my 13 year-old son. I sent him upstairs for the laundry basket because, you know, my back, she is fubar.
Only it was more of a screechy sort of undulating: "SCR-UHHHHHHHHH-EEEEEEEEECH!" because...you know...he's 13 and his voice is changing...SNORT!
[eyes go wide]
Howwwwwever, I was much, much more, "WTH?!?" at the time, as the laundry basket comes flying down the stairs.
...laundry...on...the...stairs...wait a minute...a bee...seriously?!?
Now, I'm hearing heavy panting.
Fast-forward 2 hours...just kidding...but, the bee was sitting on the laundry and he didn't actually see where the bee went, after it popped him and, well, it took a while for him to come downstairs.
Go figure, the only one in the house to ever get stung by a bee...5 times...would find the one bee...that got in the house.
Mind you, as I'm scouring the floor, on my hands and knees, with a flash light, looking for the damned thing...beeeeecause:
[get that choir of angels back here, STAT!]
I know, I know, the boy is 13. Still, he's been stung 5...no, wait...make it 7 times...can you blame him?
I'm just happy he did not puke.
Aaaaand, then I puked. The End.