Tuesday, June 28, 2011

A really long story about me getting hit on. Oh, and Ebola.

 

A few years ago, Chris and I decided to act like responsbile adults and get some life insurance on ourselves. We went over a few plans before deciding on one that we felt would be sufficient for our financial needs.  Of course, the policy we wanted required a medical examination by a nurse before we would be approved.  Great.
Because I couldn't think of a thousand friggin things I would rather do than pee in a cup for a random stranger and answer questions about my eating habits. Terrible. Fast food at least twice a week and I wash it down with nothing but diet soda. Poster child I am not for the USDA.  
Not only did I have to subject myself to a battery of questions, but then I had to offer up the very vein in my arm for blood.
I am not a good blood giver.
It's not that I'm scared of needles because I'm not. It doesn't bother me to get a shot, or to have my finger pricked. Heck, I give shots pretty often.  It's the act of drawing blood that makes me woozy.  The thought of a tourniquet around my arm and my bright blue vein throbbing - well, it makes my stomach flip.  I have never actually passed out from having blood drawn - I have come close, but it's never actually happened.   I would rather have my toenails pulled out by my blindfolded toddler who's hyped up on pixie stix with a pair of rusty needle nose pliers than have an IV placed.  
Ughhhh.
The thought alone literally makes me feel physically ill.
Okay, long story even longer, the nurse shoves a needle in my vein (with no incident), extracts my very life juice and puts it in a little tube to be sent out with other little purple topped tubes filled with dark red liquid.
A week or so later, Chris and I got our results in the mail. We read the hell out of those papers like we actually knew what we were reading. "Oh, yeah. Our BUN is fine," I'd say. Well, I put animal blood in a centrifuge at work. I print out bloodwork results everyday and there's a BUN level listed on it. It gives me credibility. 
Everything was within normal ranges, and all looked well.
Until.
I read my cholesterol level.
The hell?
"It says my cholesterol level is moderate to high. Dubya tee eff? What's yours say? Yours has to be insane!," I sneered at Chris who was still leering over his results.
"Low."
"What?"  
"It says my cholesterol is low."
"Well, that's gotta be wrong. It says mine is moderate to high.  Are you sure you're not looking at mine?"
"Nope," he flipped his paper and pointed at his name at the top. "Christopher. That's me. Not you," he said with a shit-eating grin across his face.
"Then the test is wrong. They mixed up our blood." I was grasping at straws here. How in the holy hell did my husband - my husband - have lower cholesterol than I did?
I'm a healthy girl.  So, I cook with alot of butter. Sue me. It's called Paula Deen, ya'll.
"No, it's probably from all that fast food crap you eat all the time for lunch. I never eat fast food."
Hm. Could it be possible that my husband was actually right about something.
Nooooo!
That's crazy talk!!
But, I decided then that I would try to eat better. I just needed to eat healthier. Less greasy goodness in my belly.
Sigh.
Ok.
I told you that to you tell you this.
Earlier this week, I stopped in at Wendy's to get a salad - since you know, I'm trying to watch my cholesterol. I can't believe I just freaking typed that. I'm 28 years old. I shouldn't be worried about my cholesterol! Hell, I just need to go ahead and start slathering on the Bengay and taking a Geritol every day. Is it too soon for dentures? I'll just get those yanked out of my head, too. May as well have my hips replaced while I'm out.  What? Me? Bitter? Nooooo.


I like Wendy's salads. The kind with the chicken and the berries and the raspberry vinaigrette that's loaded with calories and fat.  What? It has fruit in it. Fruit is good for you.
Anyway, I walk in and take my place in line behind 3 men. And wait. And wait.  2 more men show up and get in line behind me.
Ugh.
Now I feel awkward.  I always feel awkward when I'm a situation where I'm the only female in a sea of men. Well, except for that fantasy with Daniel CraigCharlie Hunnman, and Jason Ritter, but let's not go there. That's mine. Sorry.
The guys that had come in behind me worked together, as I could tell by their matching work shirts with their names embroidered on them.  Dulane, who was standing next to me, was a portly fellow who looked to be in his 50s. He had cut the sleeves off of his denim shirt and left it halfway unbuttoned. The gold chain was a nice touch as it showed off his hairy man cleavage. Are you swooning yet, ladies? Think Larry the Cable Guy without the charm. Heh.
On one forearm he donned a "Shit Happens" tattoo.
On the other, a portrait of a topless lady with breasts so big there's no way she could stand upright without a back brace, waving a confederate flag.
C-L-A-S-S-Y.
I grabbed my phone to text Chris about the tattoos because that's the kind of terrible person I am, when Dulane spots my scrubs that have been emblazoned with our clinic logo.
"Oh, hey. You work for an animal hospital, huh?"
No. Ha! I could see where you would think that since I'm wearing company scrubs. But, no, I'm an embalmer over at the funeral home and this Stacey chick contracted Ebola and died. She had on these scrubs when she came in and I thought "Ya know, I look good in purple. I'm just gonna go ahead and take these and wear them. She ain't gonna be needing 'em now!" Hm. Can Ebola be spread on clothes? 
I probably should've washed these... Dillhole.
"Yes, I do," I said and prepared myself for whatever question this man was obviously going to ask me about his dog.
"So ya'll take pets?"
"Yes, sir," I said trying to refrain from pulling out my phone and taking a picture of him to plaster all over my twitter.
"So can I pet you?" He said and nudged his buddy. His amigo evidently thought this was hilarious because he doubled over in laughter. 
I'm not kidding.
Apparently, neither was Dulane, because he stared right at me waiting for an answer.
The guy in front of me in line snickered. Bastard.
Oh! *Swoon! Swoon!* Be still my heart! Let's just go out behind the dumpster and get it on right now! Please! Don't tease me with your gold chain caught in your chest hair. I have to have you. You sure know how to talk to a lady! Wooowie! 
The hell? 
"Oh, no. Sorry. No petting the employees. It's a rule." Creepy dillhole.
"Well, damn," he said. He genuinely seemed disappointed.
"But, we do have a pig. If you rub her the right way, she'll do tricks for you."
I honestly have no recollection of the little conversation that was said after this.  I was just ready to get the hell outta dodge.  You see, this is what happens when I try to do my body a favor and try to eat right. Someone else - usually a creepy someone else, also wants to do my body a favor. Next time I'm going to McDonald's for a Big Mac, with a diet coke of course, super-sized. 


Oh, and Husband - I am KIDDING about my trifecta of men fantasy.
There would be more than three..... ;)


KIDDING!!!

2 comments:

Trinity said...

I'm sorry. Did you say something after Charlie Hunnam? Now I have to explain to my husband why I have been staring off into space for the last 5 minutes, smiling.

The Bat Cave said...

Found you through Follow me Back Tuesday! I love the part about the pig! Good for you!!

~Robin
http://thebatkave.blogspot.com/