Resolution Revolution

It's a brand new year. It's time to look at things with fresh, new eyes. Unless those eyes are still bleary from staying up too late partying on New Year's Eve. Of course, if you are the parent of young'uns like we are, your New Year's Eve "partying" involved letting the kids stay up late (past 10:00 PM), then struggling to keep yourselves awake until midnight. (The Wife didn't make it. She fell about ten minutes short of the New Year.)

The new year is a time when a lot of people get introspective and try to figure out ways to make themselves and their lives better. Each New Year's Day an average of 42.7 million* resolutions get made. And of those 42.7 million, about 36.9 million* of those resolutions are broken before February 1st. (*As always, at least 85.2% of statistics found on this blog are completely made up.)

So, here are some of the resolutions I have made. Maybe you can make some use of them yourself:

--20 pounds. I'm not sure if I should try to lose 20 pounds or gain 20 pounds. Either way, I'm going to be 20 pounds different on next New Year's Day.

--Be a better husband. "Uh-on't know," is NOT a preferred answer to questions like "What do you want to do?" and "What do you want for dinner?" In fact, I should probably eliminate "Uh-on't know" from my vocabulary completely. Will I be able to do this? Uh-on't know.

--Be a better father. It's always good to pay attention to your kids. Even if it means less time on espn.com and more time putting dresses on dolls. (Much more difficult than it sounds. Cinderella's dresses are way too tight.)

--Write more. I like my job. (It pays better than staying at home doing nothing.) That said, I don't love my job, and I don't want to be doing it ten years from now. Ten years from now I'd like to be sitting at a desk somewhere, writing about farts. Or monkeys. Or farting monkeys. So, that means I have to write more than one little blog article a month.

--Make better use of my time. Whatever it is I am doing, there is a good chance there is something better that I could be doing. So, any time I am reading something or watching something and I hear or see the word "Kardashian," I will immediately stop what I am doing and do something more useful.

--Stop swearing. I do a pretty good job of not swearing around other people. But, when I am at work by myself, I have a tendency to spew profanity. I need to stop. Especially because there are so many alternative words that I could use, such as: frick, flip, shoot, poop, butt, bum, shiznit, or hot buttered toast. In fact, if said with the right inflection, pretty much anything can sound enough like a profanity that it can take the place of one. As an example, I have recently caught myself muttering, "What in the flying fairy school!" In this case, "flying fairy school" easily substitutes for another, naughtier "f" word. (Also, it shows that I have been watching WAY too much "Sesame Street.")

--Act happier. I have a good life, and I am generally pretty happy. I have a beautiful, wonderful Wife. I have two awesome, amazing kids. And yet, most people I meet probably think I am grumpy, because that's the default look on my face. I need to smile more. Maybe people could see the happiness in my heart if I tried skipping instead of walking? (On second thought, no. There is a fine line between looking happy and looking insane. Plus, if I were to skip instead of walk I would undoubtedly trip, fall, and hurt myself.)

--Make MORE resolutions as the year goes on. Why do we only make resolutions at New Year's Day? Why do we work at exercising and dieting in January, but by March we're stopping at Krispy Kreme to get a dozen every day, eating cake frosting out of the container with a spoon, and trying to figure out ways to work Twinkies into recipes? I'm going to try to use every holiday as an excuse to look how to better myself. Maybe on Martin Luther King Day I'll resolve to stop slouching. On Valentine's Day I'll resolve to stop picking my nose. (It WOULD make the day a bit more romantic.) On President's Day I'll resolve to wear clean socks every day. And so on.

This can be our "resolution revolution!" If we keep making resolutions throughout the year, by the time next New Year's rolls around, we'll be much better people. Unless, of course, we forget about it all by March and we're sitting around eating our dinner of Twinkie ravioli. (With Ding Dong sauce.)

Through the Throngs (A Black Friday Experience)

Growing up on the farm, I used to work with cattle. Last night, I was part of the herd.

Yesterday we spent a good portion of our Thanksgiving looking through the newspaper advertisements (you remember newspapers, right?) trying to find the best bargains. We were looking, in particular, for a good deal on a large television. (Our current tv is in the process of dying, and The Wife has decided she can no longer wait for my Vikings to make the Super Bowl for us to get a new one.)

So, that's how I came to be standing near the Target parking lot at 11:20 PM with a few thousand of my (not so) closest friends.

The television in the Target ad looked the most promising. (I believe it was a 68-inch tv for about $27.89) (I may be exaggerating a bit.) The store was to open at midnight, so we thought we'd mosey over that way a bit extra early. We weren't "extra early" enough. We managed to find one of the three last parking spots in the entire lot.

Four police cars were lined along the front of the store. (They weren't there for the donuts.) Crowd control can't be a fun job, but at least they weren't wearing riot gear.

When we saw the line, we were amazed. It came from the front door of the store, wound itself around like a snake through a closed off section of the parking lot, crossed the main parking lot driveway, stretched down alongside the adjoining Wendy's parking lot (that's where we were), kept going all the way to the back of the parking lot, then turned and went back toward the other end of the parking lot.

We stood dutifully in our place while the forty minutes passed until the store actually opened. A loud cheer arose as the line finally started to move.

Aside from the people standing in line, there was another group milling about in the parking lot, looking for an opportunity to crash the line. A glop of about twenty of them attempted to smush their way in where the line was most vulnerable, as we attempted to cross the parking lot driveway. Thankfully, the Target crowd control crew saw what was happening and rushed in to stop it, herding people away and shouting, "Go to the back of the line!" They were able to stop most of the interlopers, but one nasty, haggard-looking woman managed to sneak in a few spots behind us. The mob mentality almost took over, because I thought about grabbing her and physically throwing her out of the line. But, laziness prevailed and I did nothing.

As we wound our way around toward the door, The Wife, who is a math teacher, did some math. Using a quick formula based on how many people fit into each parking spot, and how many times the line wound around, she determined that there were AT LEAST 3,000 people in the line, with the possibility that the total was over 5,000.

It took 30 minutes from when the line started to move until when we were able to actually enter the store. It didn't take long to determine that the television we had gone there for was sold out. But, we had a few other things we wanted to look at, so we started out shopping.

I grabbed a shopping cart. I did this for three reasons: 1) to put the stuff in that we were going to buy; 2) to give myself a little bit of a personal space buffer; and C) to possibly use as a weapon to ram people with if need be.

Having grown up in a small town, I'm not really accustomed to large groups of people. (There were more people in the electronics department than live in all of Marsh Valley.) Still, we managed to make our way through the throngs and get a few things that we wanted.

At one point in my store wanderings I saw the nasty, haggard line-crowder from earlier. I really wanted to ram my shopping cart into hers, but again restraint got the better of me, and I did nothing. (It's a good thing I'm such a damn nice guy.)

Then it came time to check out. And wait in line again. The line for the registers ran from the front of the store, all the way up and down every aisle in the grocery section to the back of the store, through the frozen foods, and into the towel and bath mat aisles. It was a fairly fast moving line, but a long line nonetheless. As we weaved through the food aisles, it gave us a chance to look at all the foodstuffs that Target has for sale. And how high their prices are. And why we never go grocery shopping there.

About three-quarters of the way through the line, a man with a tv tried to scooch in front of us. The Wife then, in her best junior-high-math-teacher voice, said, "Excuse me, I think you need to go to the back of the line." The guy looked startled, mumbled some crap about not knowing this wasn't the end of the line, then shuffled off with his tail (and tv) between his legs. With that tone in her voice, I could see why the junior high kids think she is the "mean" teacher. (And I was very proud of her as she sent tv-boy moping away.)

It took us a half an hour to get from the back of the line to the registers. We paid for our things and escaped. All told, it took us about two and a half hours to get $40 worth of board games and pajamas for the kids. It was an interesting experience, but I don't think I'll be doing the "Black Friday" shopping at Target again.

Next year, we're going to hit Walmart.

Mr. Roboto Is a Stupid Song: My Daughter the Music Critic

"Mr. Roboto," she said, then paused a moment, choosing her next words carefully. "Mr. Roboto is a stupid song." So says my daughter, the three year old critic critic.

She's right, of course. Hey, I love "Mr. Roboto." It's a fun song. It might even be a good song. But, there is absolutely no question that it is a stupid song. Not even Dennis DeYoung could deny that. The Girl knows her music.

Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto!
(When I saw the reflection of my iPhone, I thought about re-taking the picture. But after further  consideration, I thought it more appropriate to leave it there. I think Mr. Roboto would approve.)

She has always loved listening to and singing songs. When she was first learning to talk we had a couple of toys that played the song "Pop Goes the Weasel." She didn't know all the words, but at the appropriate time in the song she would sing along, saying "Pop...wee-so." (It was cuter than I could possibly find the words to describe.)

I like music, too, and when I'm watching the kids I'll put the iPod on random and let it play. The Girl quickly latched on to some of the songs and started singing them. One of her early favorites was "We Will Rock You" by Queen. She attempts to sing the words while simultaneously doing the stomp-stomp-clap actions to the beat of the song. (She struggles, but she does so with a big smile on her face.)

Sometimes it's surprising what she picks up from random songs. The other day she was walking around saying, "He had stars in his eyes." I couldn't figure out what she was talking about. Finally it dawned on me that one of the songs my iPod had just played was "Juke Box Hero" by Foreigner. She came to the conclusion that the Juke Box Hero has stars in his eyes to "help him see."

She doesn't always get the lyrics right. After hearing "Luck Be a Lady Tonight" she managed to change the lyric "let's keep the party polite" to "let's keep the potty polite." (I guess when you are three it's more important to have a polite potty than a polite party.) (Heck, that's still true as an adult, too.)

When she first learned the children's song "Once There Was a Snowman" she morphed the line "in the sun he melted" into "in the snowy mountain."

But, more often than not she gets the words right. She saw her PopPop sing "16 Tons" at karaoke (a sight that traumatized most everyone else who witnessed it.) Though she had only heard the song once, she was soon walking around the house singing "I woke up one morning when the sun didn't shine. I picked up my shovel and I walked to the mine. I loaded sixteen tons of number nine coal and the straw boss said well a bless my soul." And yes, it is quite amusing to see a little three year old girl sing those words while trying to make her voice as deep as possible.

Her taste in music is very varied, from classics like Billy Joel's "Piano Man" to novelty songs like "Fish Heads" by Barnes and Barnes. She likes songs by R.E.M., Crash Test Dummies, They Might Be Giants, Barenaked Ladies and Ben Folds. She likes the "Mary Poppins" soundtrack, and anything from a Disney movie. She loves the kid's songs she learns at church. One of the first songs she learned to sing was the Carpenter's "Sing (Sing a Song.)" She loves the group Ok Go, calling them "The Dancing Guys" after repeated viewings of the video where they dance on treadmills. (They have a new video where they sing with the Muppets, further endearing them to her.)

And from her Auntie K (who is much more "hip" and "with it" than her parents) she has learned more modern songs, like some song about shooting kids for their shoes (I googled it and found out it is "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People), the "hotel, motel, Holiday Inn" song (Googled again: "Hotel Room Service" by Pitbull) and that "Hide Your Wife, Hide Your Kids" song from the internets.

Things changed a bit a few weeks ago. The Wife brought home from the store a three-CD set called "123 Favorite Kids Songs." It features one hundred and twenty-three children's songs. These are the old, classic songs that everyone learns as a kid, though no one really knows why. Songs like "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain," "On Top of Old Smoky," and "The Farmer In the Dell." It also includes "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt." (Despite what you might have heard, his name is NOT, repeat NOT my name, too.) And, "Jimmy Cracked Corn." (I don't care.) (Seriously, I don't care.)

The Girl, of course, fell in love with these CDs immediately. And even though there are 123 songs, she can tell you which of the three CDs any of the songs are on. The unfortunate side effect is that she has really latched onto the song "Yankee Doodle Dandy," and sings it over and over and over and over again. She'll ask, "Do you want to sing 'Yankee Doodle?'" We will say, "No." Undeterred, she'll say, "It goes like this..." and then sing it again. And again. And again. (I'm almost to the point of wishing the Brits had won the Revolutionary War.)(I've always wondered what a crumpet is.)

The Girl likes to sing. She sings in bed. She sings in the car. She sings on the potty. It's wonderful to hear her sing. (Yes, even "Yankee Doodle" for the umpteenth time.) It's great that she likes music. And it's great that she likes a wide variety of songs. Even Mr. Roboto. The day after announcing "Mr. Roboto is a stupid song," she asked me if I would play it. So I did. And apparently even a stupid song can bring a smile to everyone's face.

The One With All the Fuzzies

I've finally come to the realization that I'm never going to have a cool beard. It's just not happening. There are a couple of reasons for this: 1)The Wife doesn't want me to grow one; and B) I couldn't grow one if I wanted to.

Growing up, I always thought guys who had beards looked cool. My favorite athlete was Minnesota Vikings defensive lineman Alan Page. Alan Page had an awesome beard, so I looked forward to the day when I could have one like his. The 1970s were a great time for facial hair on athletes. One in particular, Chicago Bulls center Artis Gilmore, was exceptional. Artis was an artist with his facial hair. He would grow out his beard, then trim it into cool angles and designs. Combine it with the bushy sideburns and the massive afro, and Artis Gilmore was the coolest looking dude in the world.

In high school, there are always those one or two guys who are able to grow beards by the time they are sophomores. I was not one of them. By the time I went to college I was telling bad jokes about my facial hair, like "I've been shaving for three years, and I cut myself both times," and "I've got a basketball moustache: five on each side."

I did finally get to the point where I needed to shave every day. But, it wasn't because if I didn't I'd have that cool Don Johnson "Miami Vice" two-day stubble. No, if I didn't shave I'd have that four-hairs-growing-out-of-your-chin Shaggy from "Scooby-Doo" look.

This is me and my friends a few years after high school.
I'm the one on the left with the spottiest beard.

As I got older, I eventually tried to grow a beard. It was very patchy and spotty, like the lawn of a vacant house. I settled on a version of a goatee. I say a "version" of a goatee because an actual goatee has hair that attaches from the moustache to the beard on the chin. Mine had a bald spot.

I had that version of a goatee the first time I met my future wife. Thankfully, I had shaved it off before we had our first date. Whenever I threaten to grow it back, she shakes her head, rolls her eyes, and tells me I can "do whatever I want," with the direct implication that if I did it she wouldn't be happy.

I don't think she has to worry. A few weeks ago it hit home to me that I should be done with any more attempts at facial hair. I decided I'd try to grow my sideburns out. (Nothing like Artis Gilmore. I would settle for the much more modest Luke Perry look.) Well, it took about three weeks before my wife even noticed I was trying to grow them. And then came the kicker. My three year old daughter was sitting next to me. She was looking intently at the side of my face for a few moments, then she said, "Are you the one with all the fuzzies?" Ouch.

Of course, that's not to say that I can't grow ANY hair on my face. I have two random eyebrow hairs that think I am a Romulan. If left unchecked, they will grow about two inches longer than all the rest of my eyebrow hairs, like some kind of antennae. (Unfortunately, they don't help my cell phone reception at all.)

And then there's the nose hairs. The older I get, the more out of control the nose hairs are. I think my best chance at a passable moustache would be if I didn't trim my nose hairs. (But, I don't think The Wife would approve of that, either.)

A while back, I went to a doctor. He had a white nose hair that shot down about an inch from his nose, then curled up like a fish hook. I have no idea what the doctor told me that day because I just couldn't take my eyes off of that amazing nose hair. I don't even remember the doctor's name. To me, he is Dr. Fish-hook-nose-hair. (I've tried to look him up on Google using that name, with no success.)

So, I think The Wife is safe. I'm not going to try to grow facial hair anymore. (At least until I can figure how to do some kind of comb-over with these ear hairs.)

Now choose a title that best fits this story:
O A. The Un-Moustachioed Dandy
O B. Not By the Hair of My Chinny-Chin-Chin
O C. Artis the Artist
O D. The Shaggy D.A. (I'll leave it to you to figure what the "D.A." stands for.)
O E. The One With All the Fuzzies

One Size Fits...Sometimes

One size fits all.

It's a phrase we hear often. It's a phrase we seldom believe.

Really? One size fits all? Have you seen the different sizes people are? Take a look at Mary Lou Retton.(If you like, you can even picture her falling out of a pinata, like in her Dairy Queen commercial.) Then think of Shaquille O'Neal. (Then picture him 40 or 50 pounds heavier than the last time you saw him, because now that he is retired and no longer chasing around the Tim Duncans of the world, those Double Whoppers with Cheese add up pretty quick.) Now, picture Mary Lou and Shaq standing next to each other. (She's smiling, isn't she?) If Mary Lou stood inside Shaq's size 22 hightops, they would probably come up over her knees. Can you imagine ANYTHING that would fit one and also fit the other?

My problem isn't with the people who claim one size fits all. They are either deluded or blatant liars. My problem comes when one specific size doesn't fit the same every time.

Not long ago, I lost some weight, and it was time to step down a size in my jeans. I have one brand and style of jeans that I have been wearing for years. (Wrangler carpenter.) (I like the little side pocket for my cell phone.) I've got six pair of jeans. (That may seem like a lot, but I wear them for work every day.) They all SAY they are the same size, but they are not. Two pair are too loose, two pair are too tight, and two pair are juuuust right. (Yes, you can tell I have small children, because I just turned this story about pant sizes into "Goldilocks and the Three Bears.")

One size fits…maybe? (If I suck in my gut.)

Is it asking too much to get some consistency? In a perfect world, jeans from every different company that SAY they are a certain size would all BE that same size, so I could freely move between Wrangler, Levi, Lee, Rustler, Ed's House O' Jeans, or any other brand without worrying about size discrepancies. But that's not even what I'm asking for here. I can't even get the same BRAND to be consistent.

I have the same problem with shoes. When I try on shoes I land anywhere between size 10-and-a-half and size 12-and-a-half. It makes buying shoes online virtually impossible. Maybe it's a ploy to keep shoe salesmen in business? (If so, it's not working, because I haven't been to a store where the shoe salesman brings out the shoe and puts it on your foot for you since about 1989.)

Or, they could just be messing with our minds. Most of these shoes and jeans are made in foreign sweat shops. Maybe the workers are thinking, "Stupid, fat American thinks he can fit in a size 34? We'll see about that."

In the end, I don't care what size the label SAYS my clothes are, I just want clothes that fit. So, I may have to resort to the closest thing we have to "one size fits all": stretchy spandex! Please don't make it come to that. (I wonder if anyone makes spandex pants with a side pocket for my cell phone?)

Just another number

It all started several years ago at Radio Shack. (Nothing good ever starts at Radio Shack.) I was at The Shack buying something. (That's what they want to be called these days: The Shack. They're trying to rebrand the company, as if somehow shortening the name will make you think the whole store isn't as obsolete as the "Radio" part of their name. It's like when Kentucky Fried Chicken became "KFC" to try make you forget their food was fried. Or when the SciFi channel changed their name to "SyFy" so people wouldn't think of it as a nerdy science fiction place, but instead as a cool place where they can pick up syphilis.)

Anywho, I was at The Shack buying something, I'm not sure what. It had to have been a cord for my stereo, a cable for my computer, or a battery for my cordless phone. (Something along those lines, because unless you are a remote-control car aficionado, why else would you go to The Shack?) 

The Shack: the place to go for cords, batteries, and remote-control cars!

I was at the counter paying for my purchase, my mind wandering to which fast food place I should go to for lunch. (This was back when I was single and ate out on average 13 times a week.) My internal Arby's/Burger King debate was interrupted when the salesclerk unexpectedly said, "What is your phone number?"

"What?" I said. I was a bit taken aback. 

The clerk repeated, "What is your phone number?" I asked why they needed my phone number. "We always get the phone numbers of our customers." Who can argue with logic like that? (Anyone with a brain?) The salesclerk made me feel stupid because I didn't know that this sort of information exchange went on all the time. I gave them my phone number, because who was I to go against the wishes of The Shack, especially if it's something they "always" do? Besides, I didn't want to argue, I just wanted to take my cord/cable/battery and get me a Beef 'N' Cheddar. (Mmmm….cheesy sauce!)

That's how it began. And now, it's hard to make any purchase without leaving a piece of personal information behind. We hardly even flinch anymore. I've made several visits to several doctors over the last couple of months (to try to see why my leg seems to be falling apart), and the first thing they ask me, even before my name, is when is my date of birth. It's a good thing my junior high buddy Jim doesn't go to the same doctors I go to, or there would be some confusion. (We share the same birthday.)

Sometimes it's not clear who is asking for the information and why. Within a week of moving to my current house, I was paying for fuel with my credit card when the fuel pump asked for my zip code. I wasn't sure which zip code to give them. Was it the credit card company asking for my old billing zip code for security reasons, or was it the gas station asking for my new zip for marketing Radio Shack-ish reasons? (And just what was my new zip code, anyway?) After entering the wrong zip code twice, I was shut out of the system. (It's never good to be totally rejected by an inanimate object.)(I already get enough rejection from actual people, I don't need machines doing it, too.) I had to move to a different pump, where I finally was able to crack their zip code code.
 
The other day when I went to get my hair cut, I finally lost it. I get my haircuts at a national chain. I don't want to mention them by name, so I'll just call them "Good Clippers." I've been going to this particular "Good Clippers" for about three years now. The first time I went there, they asked for my phone number. All of the eleventeen times I've been there since, they ask me my phone number as soon as I walk in the door. I tell them my number. They look at their screen and say "Andrew?" I then say, "No, my name is Joe." We've done this dance at least a dozen times. (Or eleventeen. Whichever is bigger.)
 
Finally, this time, I had had enough. "No, I'm not Andrew," I said sternly. "I've been coming here for three years, and every single time I do, you think my name is Andrew. Andrew hasn't had that phone number for at least three years. It would be very nice if you could take Andrew's name out of your computer, so that you don't call me Andrew the next time I come in. Do you think you can do that?" I had to try to maintain a bit of civility, remembering that one of these women would soon be holding sharp instruments very near to my head.

Yes, we can do that, the woman at the register said. She type-ity typed in her computer for a bit, then said she had removed Andrew's name from my phone number. Did she really remove Andrew's name? I'll find out for sure in a few weeks when I go back. If they call me Andrew again, I'll probably lose it and punch the wall or something. I'll hurt myself, and then I'll have to go to the doctor. And tell them what my birthday is.

I've Been Waiting....

Only at a doctor's office can you be treated so poorly in order to get treated to get better. It's a good thing for doctors that we need them, because if anyone else ran a business like a typical doctor's office, they wouldn't be in business for very long.

The other day I had to go to the doctor. I was having another flare-up of my gout, and I wanted to see if the doctor could help me get it under control. (Gout: I wouldn't recommend it. But, with age and weight numbers on the wrong side of young and skinny, coupled with a love of eating red meat and a genetic predisposition, I'm even a better candidate for gout than a child actor is for having future substance abuse problems.) (I'm talking to you, Lohan.)

So, I had a doctor's appointment at 3:30 PM. I got there at 3:25 on the odd chance that the planets had aligned and they might actually be ready for me early. (Fat chance.)

I was then handed a clipboard to fill out my medical history. Now, as I get older and more creaky, I go to the doctor with greater frequency. I have been to this particular doctor's office several times in the last two or three years. And yet, here I am filling out my medical history. Again. They say they need me to fill out my medical history again because they have a new computer system. I swear, offices change their computer systems more often than Walmart rearranges their aisles, because heaven forbid you could actually walk right to where the light bulbs are without having to map out a search grid!

So, I fill out my medical history yet again. No, I do not have a sexually transmitted disease. No, I do not have any allergies to any medications (although I am starting to develop a nervous twitch every time I have to fill out my medical history.) And no, no matter how many times you ask, I am NOT pregnant!

So, I finish up with the clipboard and wait. And wait. And wait. (They call it the "waiting room" for a reason.) Happily, they have some good magazines (actually from this century), so I lose myself in a Sports Illustrated article. I'm reading so intently that I wonder if they called my name and I didn't hear it. Nope. I'm still waiting.

Finally, they call me back at 4:10 PM. (I've been there for 45 minutes.) Every time I get called out of the waiting room I think, "Okay, now we're getting somewhere." And then I'm plunked down into the little examination room, and the waiting continues.

The little examination room is fun, isn't it? It's a magical land of cotton balls, Q-Tips, and colorful posters showing what your innards would look like if someone sliced you open. And whatever you do, don't touch the haz-mat receptacle full of used needles! (Death in a little plastic container!)

Of course, the centerpiece of the little exam room is the 3-foot long exam "bed," covered with a wide swath of wax paper. The message of the wax paper: You are stinky, filthy and full of germs, and as soon as you leave we're going to fumigate the room and throw away anything you touched. (We'd burn all the furniture as well, if it weren't for cost and safety concerns.)

So, I am now sitting on the exam "bed" with my feet dangling in the air. I can't lay down, because the "bed" is too short. There is no back support, so I'm slumping there with my shoulders all hunched. (Do they have a deal with the chiropractors? I mean, the chairs in the waiting room weren't exactly La-Z-Boys, but at least they had a little support.)

Is it a bed? Is it a chair? How do you get comfortable on this thing?
(And what if parts of my body touch the area that's not covered by the wax paper?)

In a fairly recent development, they now have magazines in the exam room. Unfortunately, there are only three magazines. They are: Parenting Magazine, People, and Martha Stewart Living. (I'm not a big fan of Martha Stewart, but at least she's not so ego driven that she feels the need to have a picture of herself on the cover of every single issue of her magazine.) (I'm talking to you, Winfrey!) None of the magazines are enticing enough to make me jump down from my wax paper perch and possibly twist my ankle (Why does the exam "bed" have to be so tall? It's a good thing I'm not afraid of heights.)

Finally, an hour after arriving at the office, the doctor made an appearance. And that's all it was: an appearance. The doctor was in the room for less than five minutes. I usually spend more time changing channels during the two minute warning of a football game than he spent in the room with me. He told me I needed to get blood work and an x-ray. And then he left. The vampire nurse then came in and took my blood. (To be fair, the vampire nurse was very nice. She was the only one in the entire building who apologized to me for how slow they were.) And then I was gone. But I wasn't done. I had to get an x-ray, and there is no x-ray machine at the doctor's office. So, I had to go to the hospital.

Things went smoother at the hospital than they did at the doctor's office. Mostly. Instead of giving me the clipboard to fill out my medical history, the woman at the admissions desk just asked me the pertinent questions. (And, thankfully, she did NOT ask if I was pregnant.) (I'm not, by the way.) But, the one question that really threw me was when she asked, "Do you have a living will?" I was there for an x-ray. I didn't think it was a life-or-death situation. (But then, I guess they do put that lead apron over you, so maybe it's more dangerous than I thought.)

By the time I finished up with the doctor's office and the hospital, I had spent the entire afternoon and much of the evening trying to figure out why my knee hurt. And, at the end of the day I didn't know any more than when I started. It was very frustrating.

It doesn't have to be that way. The very next day I had a dentist appointment. (I know, glutton for punishment.) When I got to the dentist office I was led to a chair in the waiting room. I sat there for literally less than one minute when they came and took me back to the exam room! There were no questions about my medical history, because they already knew it. Compared to the doctor's visit, the trip to the dentist was like a dream come true! (Except for the needles, drills, and sharp pointy things inside my mouth.) (And the drool.)