Cell Phones & Pig Farmers

On Thursday, I left work early to go beg the Urgent Care pros to make me feel better. I had been in excessive denial for days that I was getting sick. I was vaguely admitting defeat as I called the appointment line on Wednesday, and again Thursday morning.  Unfortunately, since it was right before the holiday, of course, all of the appointments were taken.  On Thursday morning, the appointment specialist advised me that I (along with five million two hundred eighty thousand and seventy-two other patients) needed to go waste a minimum of 4.5 hours of my life by sitting through the forever-long wait at Urgent Care.

I left work at one pm.  The Urgent Care clinic opened at one pm.  I was, delusionally, hoping to beat some of the rush by arriving shortly after they opened.

* COUGH, GAG, CHOKE, CHORTLE at my own naivety *

I arrived and promptly was greeted with the sight of FIVE people standing in line, waiting to check in.  As I scanned the waiting room, I counted no fewer than TWELVE additional patients already checked in and biding their time until the medicinal fairies would cure them.  [ For those of us counting, FIVE plus TWELVE equals SEVENTEEN patients ahead of me.]  The sweet Sunday-school-teaching receptionist checks me in and cheerily informs me the wait is at least two to two and a half hours.

Freaking perfect!  Anyone familiar with the term "FML" or visited the infamous "FMyLife.com" website? Umm... YEAH!

So I'm chilling with the infectious throngs of hacking, wheezing, sneezing folks.  I'm trying my best to stay on the sidelines and out of the reach of the pukers and poor, frazzled mommies with screaming kiddos.

I had just finished my third magazine ("Golf Digest" -- a sport I abhor and don't play, "American Babies" -- my youngest is now 4 years old, and "Midwest Living" -- well, at least I live in the Midwest).  I had been waiting for over two hours and my patience was, perhaps, growing a bit thin as I kept glancing at the clock on my cell phone.

All of a sudden, an extremely LOUD and obnoxious woman sits down two chairs from me.  She is yakking away on her cell phone.  She is talking in Somali and speaking in a B-O-O-M-I-N-G voice that is at least ten decibels above an acceptable "inside voice".  As I once again glance at the clock on my own, politely-silenced cell phone, I can feel myself balling up my fists as I listen to the shrieking foreigner on her cell for the eleventh straight minute.

Seriously?!?!?  I may need to launch my aching and irritable body (all 5' 1" of me) at this much taller and larger woman.  I want to punch her into next year. On a good, healthy day, I positively despise rude people who talk on their cell phones in public and crowded places.  It's absolutely inexcusable and irritating beyond belief.  UGH!!!

I am contemplating the ways I can inflict bodily harm on this aggravating woman, when I receive a text message from a friend reminding me that if I intend to take out the freaking cell-yeller, I should exact a punishment that includes emotional harm, instead of physical harm, because it's harder to press charges and reach the threshold of "proof" in court.  Hmmm.... okay.... I can work with that.  How to cause enough emotional pain to make the shrieker leave the clinic waiting room.  Other patients are eyeing the woman with disdain too.  Maybe we could just take a vote, like on Survivor, and extinguish the monstrosity's cell phone.

Who-hoo!!!  Her poor husband's name is called and she trails behind him yakking away at obscene levels of loudness.  The collective group of waiting room patients, feeling like we've been spared additional torture we don't deserve, all sigh in relief that she is gone and things are quiet.

SIGH!

Suddenly, from the other side of the waiting room, I hear a pot-bellied, stomach-peeking-out-the-bottom-of-his-tshirt man say.  "You know, back on the farm, we didn't have those new technology things.  All we had was a party line and it was fine. All this stupid technology.  It's a status symbol thing for "those people."

"Those people?!"

Oh man!  I can feel my hackles raising again.  What does he mean "those people"?  Simply because she wasn't speaking English?  SIGH!!!  I wasn't irritated by what language she was speaking.  I was irritated because my throbbing head did NOT appreciate her LOUD-ARSE voice in a tiny, enclosed area.

So the pot-bellied man continues much too loudly.  "Well, yeah!  I mean, I grew up on a small pig farm and out there things were just right.  We had lots of pigs.  I worked hard and we used to butch the pigs... and then you can grind them up for pork... or if you do -- then that is bacon. And really, pig is the best kind of meat ever!  You can use all kinds of their parts for great stuff -- not only what people think of as an-okay-kind-of-meat.  As for me, I will never eat hot dogs again because, well, I helped to butcher the animals and somehow hooves should not be edible. By the way, do you know how much blood a pig has? When you cut..."

ARE YOU FLIPPING KIDDING ME?!?!?

I refuse to waste any more of YOUR brain cells or MY time recounting what pigs are good for and how to butcher them by the former pig farmer/butcher with a scary ol' pot-belly peeking out of the bottom of his too-short shirt.  Ewwwww!!!

So... I waited three and a half hours to see a doctor who I spent less than 15-minutes with me to prescribe me an antibiotic that has thankfully kicked in three days later to at least make me now feel human again.

Hugs to you and your family.  Happy New Year!!!