The Life and Times of Poopwa Foley

Archive for the ‘things I hate’ Category

It’s 6:30 on Thursday night.  I worked a regular full time day then came home to our cheerful little house, where cleaned the kitchen, swept the floor, made some coffee, and now I’m sitting in the living room with my trusty laptop.

What do I do at work, you ask?  Well, it’s secretarial/accounts payable/accounts receivable/coffee buyer/supply orderer/filer/you name it. 

And I answer the phones.

And due to the fact that this is a very homicidal time of month for me, I am very crabby, tired, headachy, and crampy.  I’m struggling with being in a good mood and being polite.  Struggling, but winning.

sort of like this guy, but not as whacked out.

I had a very hard time yesterday with a caller who was checking status on a payment, which is code for her saying “I hate my job, I’m helping someone else, I’m condescending, I’m rude, I’m smarter than you are, I’m impatient, I’m discourteous, and in short, I’m a huge, gigantic beeyotch.”

As always, I was patient.  I was kind.  I tried to be helpful, but kept being interrupted by the snot on the other end of the phone.  I’m not sure what bug crawled up her rear and took up residence, but let me assure you that it was one of those BIG bugs.

I kept my cool.  My reward was hearing her hang up on me. 

I never get an answer to this, but why do people act this way?  Just because you’re on the phone doesn’t mean you can be nasty.  You wouldn’t burst into my office, shaking papers in my face, interrupting me and being a complete ass, would you?  Then what makes you think it’s ok to do this on the phone? 

If I could remember her name, I would look her up on Facebook just to tell her that. 

Better yet, I would look up her mother.

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So, I’m telling Joe how the conversation went between me and the (rhymes with Bohl’s) customer service guy.  We had paid his bill one day late.  We never pay anything late so I told Joe I was going to call Bohl’s and get it waived.  Seeing as how the late fee was more than the actual purchase. 
You know the part where they say on the recording “calls may be recorded for customer service training?”  I must have missed the part where they say very quietly, “we’re going to connect you to a real asshat who has been trained well on how to dick you around.”
Conversation:
Me:  Hi, my husband paid his charge card one day late.  I was wondering if you could waive that for me.  He hardly ever charges anything on it so we forgot to make the little $20 payment. 
Tool:  Let me take a look at his credit history while I pretend I’m in the United States.  Yep, it’s good and due to your excellent credit history, yep we’ll waive the late fee.  But you still owe the minimum payment.
Me:  But we don’t have to pay anything this month, right?  Because the only charge on the bill is that silly ol’ late fee.  You know, the one you so kindly just waived. 
Tool:  You still have to make the minimum payment.
Me:  There is no minimum payment listed.  There’s only the late fee for $15. 
Tool:  (trying to find this on the customer service script) That is the minimum payment and if you don’t pay it, you’ll get another late fee.
Me:  YOU JUST WAIVED THE LATE FEE.  Technically, there’s no balance.  How could I incur a late fee on a zero balance?
(He pauses for a moment.  I’ve thrown him, I know.  I savor the superior feeling.  But what’s that?  He finds his place in the book.)
Tool:  (he triumphantly sings this next part.)  Ma’am, there is a balance of $21.64, for a purchase made after the statement date.  You have to pay the minimum payment of $15 to avoid incurring another late fee, Mrs. Cackyeetoe.
Me:  Nice try on the last name. 
Tool:  We can take your payment over the phone.
Me:  (under breath) you are a total dick.
***
I finally have to give in and pay the $15 nonexistent balance.  Mostly because the vein in my temple was threatening to explode, but also because I didn’t want to incur a late fee on a late fee I didn’t owe.
You can keep your stupid 30% coupon, by the way. 
Who says gynecologists aren’t fun?  Me.
If you haven’t read about my recent invasive trans-vaginal ultrasound or even more invasive, painful biopsy, please do so now.  It will prepare you for the next chapter in the hopefully closed book of my female health.  I’ll just wait here.  I have some wine, anyway. 
Oh, are you back already?  Ok.
At the end of Fun Female Field Trip Part 2, I discussed the next step my doctor thoughtfully laid out for me in my pursuit of gynecological wellness, also known as “being able to get some sleep at night and quit worrying” syndrome.
I was assured, repeatedly, by two nurses and the doctor, that the test I needed to have to determine why I was surfing a never-ending crimson tide was quick and most importantly, painless.  This test would be done with water and ANOTHER trans-vaginal ultrasound.  I learned a long time ago not to Google things of a medical nature but I would have Googled the shit out of it if I could have remembered the name of it.  I didn’t remember the name of it because my mind had blocked it out.  It tends to do with traumatic experiences. 
For those of you who skipped ahead and didn’t read the other posts, obviously you failed in “listening and following directions” in grade school.  A trans-vaginal ultrasound is just fancy talk for an ultrasound wherein you can’t pee for approximately a week in preparation, and then a gigantic “wand” is used to view what’s going on from the inside.
Ladies, beware and trust me on this.  If you enter an ultrasound room and there’s both gel and a “wand” covered with a fresh condom, you can bet money that wand is taking a trip to hoo-hah land.  It’s messy.  It’s uncomfortable.  It’s embarrassing.  And in my case, it was inevitable.
The day of my test, I was sick with anticipation but just wanted to get it over with.  Surely anything I was imagining was far worse than what actually would happen.  What’s a little water, after all?  I like swimming and baths.  I got to the doctor’s office at 12:45 p.m. for a 1:00 p.m. appointment, and was immediately weighed (a story for another day) and unceremoniously tossed into a back room.  I was handed a sheet and given a look that clearly said you know what to do.
There I sat, getting more and more nervous, for 45 minutes.  45 minutes is not a very long time if you’re going out for ice cream, seeing a movie, or getting a massage.  However, if you’re naked from the waist down under a tiny sheet, and more importantly if you’re me, it’s a very long time.
The nurse finally came in and explained that Doctor (they always do that, too, don’t they?  Call them Doctor like you or I would say “Tom” or “Ray”) was delayed at the hospital but would be in shortly and sure enough, within a few minutes, she was there.  Let the festivities begin.
I knew I was in for an hour of fun when I heard the word catheter and uterus used in the same breath.  Oh, joy.  I was subsequently speculumed and although they tried strenuously to put the catheter where it belonged, it wouldn’t go.  I have to give them snaps for effort, however.  Those ladies were determined.  I have the scars to prove it. 
However, their amusement was bought to a halt when water ran everywhere except into my uterus.
They figured out pretty quickly what was wrong, adjusted things slightly and YEP, YEP, OH YEAH, THERE’S THE WAND.



Silhouette Sorceress by Sattva/freedigitalphotos.net
um, not that kind.
She meandered around down there for a few seconds, but couldn’t visualize whatever it was she was supposed to see.  Because I had been put in this room and abandoned for a very long time, my bladder was too full.  Oh, sorry, totally my fault.    
Great.  Tools that recently were inserted were now un-inserted and I was told that the hallway was “pretty deserted” which was a good thing, considering the sheet I had to hold around me was the size of a tissue.
I took care of business, hopped back up onto the table, and the speculum process began all over again.  Once she was able to visualize the actual area she wanted to see, Doctor was very complimentary about my bladder emptying.  (I have been waiting for years for someone to compliment me about that very thing.  Good things come to those who wait, people.  Good things come to those who wait.)
Doctor fusses.  She harrumphs.  She seems very annoyed and finally says to her cohort in torture, “Go get (name withheld).  She can work the wand while I push the water.  I need to be able to visualize the complete uterus and blahbitty blah, blah, blah blah” which I didn’t hear because my brain was stuck on work the wand.
I have nothing against Germans.  I myself am part German.  However, the woman (and I use the term loosely) they pulled in to assist with my procedure was half German and half agony aficionado.  She took “work the wand” to new levels. 
I exhausted all my deep breathing techniques and Zen thinking and concentrated only on crab climbing backward up the table to get away from my persecutors.   At this point, I’m not sure what was so attractive about having this done in the doctor’s office as opposed to in the hospital under my good friend anesthesia.
I hear the German say, “I see zee problem, Doctair.  She haz zee floppy oss.”
I finally find my voice.  “Hey, that’s a little personal, lady!  I’m right here!  It’s only floppy because I just haven’t been able to work out much lately!!”
I’m ignored.  No surprise there, because apparently (TMI, turn away now if you haven’t already) she was saying “floppy os” which is Latin for “mother of three.”
Finally, FINALLY, they see what they need to see.  And then some.  And it’s all normal.  Which is great news but I still have three women all standing between my legs, while more sensitive regions are covered by this tissue sized sheet.  Oh, wait, no, they’re not covered because the sheet has been pushed up for maximum humiliation and embarrassment.  (Or for them to be able to see, but I’m totally going with the humiliation thing.  I’m still bitter.)  Um, we’re done here.  You can go now.
The two nurses finally, finally leave the room.  Doctor pats my leg comfortingly (she thinks) and says, a glint in her eye, that I’m probably just going through early menopause.  “Don’t worry.  You won’t ever have to see me again.” (#youbetyourfloppyosIwon’t) A chirpy laugh burbles out of her and I think, of all the people on my shit list, you’re at the very tippy top right now.  I will do everything in my power to stay away from this office.
I am holding back tears, mostly angry tears because I’m pissed that my roundhouse kick to the German’s butt missed. 
I settle for letting the air out of her tires on my way to get ice cream and a 45 minute massage, floppy os be damned.

Part deux 

After my last medical visit a la the ultrasound from hell, I wanted to know when I’d find out what was going on in my “downstairs area”. 
Me:  How long will it take to get the results?
Them:  at least a couple of days.  Rest assured, you’ll have plenty of time for worrying.
Me:  (heart hammering in chest) Ok.
It didn’t take a couple of days to get the results.  The phone rang the very next day, less than 24 hours after the ultrasound, while I was lost in Naperville trying desperately to find Edwards Hospital, so that I could make it on time for my mother’s gall bladder surgery. 
It’s never good when they don’t waste any time calling you with the results. 
I listened to the results with half an ear while On Starring and Bluetoothing, watching desperately for street signs, looking for my turn, catching various words here and there out of the speakers.  Abnormal.  Hyperplasia.  Polyp.  Cyst.  And my absolute favorite, Biopsy.
I’m sure you’re all wondering how serious this really was.  And the answer is:  It was very serious because I was really, really lost.  When I finally found the hospital, I told all this to the valet parker boy, who actually yawned when I told him what an adventure finding the hospital was.  Your tip is going to suck, buddy.
Three hours I waited with my sister and stepdad for Mom’s surgery/recovery time.  Three hours is quite a bit of time to freak out reflect on the doctor’s choice of words.   
The hospital aide came out to tell us that Mom wanted coffee, and she wanted my stepdad to make it because he knew how she liked it prepared.  We all knew then that mom was recovering just fine. **
My biopsy was schedule for two weeks from that day.  Two weeks have never gone slower. 

Biopsy day

Two weeks have never gone faster, and before I knew it, the nurse called me to take two ibuprofen before the procedure, because I’d get a little crampy.  That day, I learned something vitally important.  What you think is crampy and what I think is crampy are two vastly different things.  The nurse on the phone advised me to take two ibuprofen before the procedure.  The nurse I actually saw that day in the room of horrors procedure room felt bad that I didn’t have the afternoon off, even though I sit down at my job. 
Of course, I took my cue from her facial expression, (pity mixed with compassion and a side order of sympathy) stiffened up, and unfortunately stayed tense the entire time, making it even far more difficult for the doctor and far more painful for me.
Doctor:  Relax! 
Me:  I’m trying!  (I am not trying.  I’m not relaxed at all, and I don’t know how anyone could be.)
I had the biopsy.  Here’s what I think they used… 



ntwowe/freedigitalphotos.net
There were many more sharp things sticking out of the tool they used on me.



…but it felt much larger. 
Me and my new friend Cramps went back to work that day for a couple of painful hours, then went home and curled up on the couch where I would spend the rest of the night milking this for every single second I could. 
It worked.  I got pizza that night.  And a nap.
They told me I’d get my results back within a couple of days.  I selfishly hoped that I wouldn’t get them back on my birthday, so I could sail through my 46th birthday blissfully ignorant of anything biopsy-related.  They granted that wish and called me the day after.
This time it was with a good word:  benign.  It even sounds nice in your mouth.  Say it with me:  Beeeenine.
Despite the pleasant tastiness of that word, I have to go back and be poked, prodded and ultra sounded one more time, and then my doctor will make a decision on what to do with my whiny self at that point.  Obviously, the female issues are being caused by something and they’d like to find my tolerance for pain figure out what it is. 
I’d like for them to figure out what it is too.  There are some *cough activities cough* that we’d I’d like to resume.  While I’m still young.
***My mom:  recovering nicely.  Her surgery that day was at 10:45 a.m.  She was home drinking coffee at her kitchen table by 3:30 p.m. looking for all the world like we just popped in for a visit.  It was amazing and we’re all glad she’s ok.
For those of you who are squeamish, please, for the love of God, look away now.  Don’t read any more.
For those of you who yearn to live vicariously through me…please, pull up a chair.  Let me tell you about my day.
At 45-almost-46, my baby factory has been shut down for quite some time, due to the fact that I had my tubes tied after I had my youngest daughter almost 20 years ago. 
I am now 240 months postpartum; I guess I should work on getting the baby weight off.  (#tryharder)
About 2 months ago, despite having my tubes tied, I exhibited every single symptom of pregnancy.  Sore boobs, lack of period, bloating, mood swings, nausea.  In short, I was really, really fun to be around.   When I say really, really fun to be around, I am lying through my teeth.
Just when the symptoms made me think I should go buy a pregnancy test, (despite the slim odds) or a priest for my exorcism, what should happen? 
Aunt Flo came to town.
And the flipping bitch didn’t want to leave.
I asked her nicely to leave.  When that didn’t work, I pouted.  I threw fits.  I threatened.  I drank.  I bribed. 
My family wisely hid the knives behind the furniture. 
I finally said Uncle.  I went to the doctor, explained everything, was examined, had blood drawn, levels tested, and a negative pregnancy test.  All tests normal.  (Praise God.)  So far, so good.  She then started me on something to help staunch the…well…you know.  Besides the referral to an actual gynecologist, I thought that was the end of that.
Except that I had to get an ultrasound today.  And not just any ultrasound, mind you. 
(*here’s where I would normally insert a picture.  However, I don’t have any pictures from the events of today that would be appropriate here.  After all, I don’t know you that well.)
The medical test from hell started when I had to drink 48 oz of water from 12:30 until 1:00 pm.  I’m quite the water drinker.  I drink water all day long.  However, drinking this much water in ½ hour was enough to make even me gag.
I parked the car at the hospital and despite having my legs crossed tightly the entire time was able to get to the ultrasound department.  It was approximately 7.5 miles from where I parked.  I was afraid I was going to be late.  The panicked staccato taps of my high heels on the tile floor took my mind off how badly I had to go to the bathroom.

Chris has a bad day

The first part of the test was uneventful.  I greatly enjoyed the warmth of the ultrasound gel on my lower belly.  It was very soothing.  The room was quiet and the light was dim and I would have fallen asleep except for the excruciating pressure on my straining bladder.
When the test was over, I was led to the bathroom and told to take my time.  I peed as if I hadn’t seen a toilet in a month.  The relief was immediate and immense.
The ultrasound tech was hiding in the hallway and sprang out at me when I exited in the bathroom. 
Her:  “Are you ready for the second part of your test?”
Me:  “Do you mean the part where I walk down the hall and find the exit?”
Her:  (chuckling expansively) “Silly you.  The second part, the internal exam.”
Me:  (smile fades, face pales.)  “No.  No, I’m not ready for that.”
Despite the elfin size, her iron grip lead me directly back into the room, where I am forced to “take off everything below the waist, but if you want to leave your shoes on you can.”
Leave my shoes on?  Really?  And take everything else off?  I have on black high heels, no pantyhose.  The thought of being nekked below the waist except for black high heels was a bit…pornographic to me.  The shoes came off with all the other below the waist things, and I was grateful that I had a cute pedicure.
Funny what you think of, grooming wise, when you’re having an internal ultrasound.  My feet were not the only thing I had groomed, and I was glad.
“You’ll feel a slight pressure.”  It was the only warning I got before the “wand” was “inserted” by Vlad the Impaler.
She apologized for the “pressure” over and over while applying said pressure and also for the fact that a couple of times I choked on it as it was coming up my throat.   
Finally she finished up and withdrew the entire 3 feet of wand.  I am thrown several dry washcloths to absorb all of the gel.  I feel like the guy in the shower in “The Crying Game.”
She escorted me down the hall.  I noticed that she kept looking to the right and left.  
Me:   “Did you lose something?”
Her:  “No.  I’m just looking for the right sized broomstick.  You’re not my only ultrasound today.”
***
Stay tuned.
*I went home and told my friend Lambrusco all about it. 




Get it?  Get it?  Red box???



Ok, first, it would behoove you to go online at home and reserve the movies you want first, before ever going to the Redbox kiosk.  One and done.  The only thing you have to do when you actually get to the Redbox dispenser is swipe and wait.  Swipe and wait, people, swipe and wait.  Much easier.
If you are still in the dark ages and don’t own a computer, or you just happen to be out and about and decide to pick up a movie on the way home, let’s be a little more considerate.  See below.
a)      Are your hands clean?  The Redboxes are a public use item, which means who knows what cultures might be growing on the kiosk screen.  I don’t want to use the screen after you’ve been eating Cheetos, or some big greasy hamburger, or mining for green gold, or trying to pick the apple you had for lunch out of your teeth. 
b)      The places of business putting out these kiosks also should make antibacterial wipes available just like they do next to the grocery carts.  Why?  See above.
c)      Place your phone calls before you lean on the box, head under the screen, and start cruising for a movie.  Do not call home three different times trying to get a popular consensus on what you should get, you flipping moron.  More importantly, do not call someone and leave a message, then linger in front of the screen waiting for a callback.  You’re a big boy and it’s only a dollar.  Live dangerously.
d)     Please, for the love of all that’s holy, read the trailer information for movies some other time, like at home while you’re choosing your movies beforehand.  I was once behind a man who read the synopsis of at least 16 different movies to his phone friend.  I was just trying to return one movie before the 9 o’clock deadline.  He ended up not renting anything.  And I had to pay extra because of his obnoxiousness.  My printout receipt showed 9:01 pm.      
e)      Speaking of deadlines, try to avoid the 8:55 pm rush.  It’s not pretty.  Whoever lost the fight has to return the movie, and obviously the clothing choices reflect that.  People, please remember that you will be seen returning the movie, oh Unshowered One.  Wearing orange piggy flannel pajama bottoms and a red Wisconsin sweatshirt while rocking striped spa socks…I am judging you, and I am not alone.  That schnit doesn’t fly.  You’re making Walmartians look like fashion icons. 
f)       If for some unusual reason I have to stand at the kiosk and choose instead of having reserved my movies at home like I normally would, don’t you dare stand too closely behind me.  It does not make me go faster.  It skeeves me out and gives me butterfingers, causing my fingers to slip because it makes me nervous…
g)      …and threatened.  If I feel threatened, it could also force me to break out my professional ninja moves and karate chop your solar plexus.  It’s very possible that I could miss and deliver a massive blow to your junk, making you miss YOUR 9:00 pm deadline.  Oops.  Just stay the hell back.  You’ll get your turn.
Easy enough, right?  You would think.  So many people, however, observe no Redbox etiquette whatsoever.   I’m merely here to gently guide them.
Enjoy your movie.

*thanks, Jenny-Wren, for your input…

I have many, many lists.  Some I keep to help me focus on things that need to get done in my personal life, or around the house, or TO the house.  Things that I would like to accomplish, or have accomplished.  (secret:  Sometimes I write something on a list that wasn’t there before, only so I could cross it off.  so what.)

However, looking down from my lofty perch at 45 years old, (yeah, 45.  Hey, middle age, how ya doing?) I feel that there are some things that I am now qualified to have an educated opinion on.  At least, a crabby old lady opinion on.

The following are things that REALLY DRIVE ME FRIGGIN CRAZY.

  • Hi, Mr. Telemarketer?  You who calls me almost every day at work, pretending to be friends with the president of the company?  Or want to talk to him because you’re “working on his driveway and have a quick question.” Or keep refusing to give me a company name.  Or who CHANGE their name every single time they call?  You?  You drive me crazy.  And I’ll never, ever, ever let you through to him.  I know your voice now, David/Cory.  Suck it.
  • You, in the car ahead of me?  The one who, despite the fact that the light turned green 10 seconds ago, are looking down, and so busy TEXTING that you don’t notice the light change?  Yeah, you.  Put the friggin phone down.  Put it down.  I am older, and have more insurance, and I WILL NOT HESITATE TO HIT YOU with my car. 
  • Those of you who try to sneak through the yellow/red light.  You’re not sneaking.  You’re just breaking the law.  And pissing me off.
  • Stores who don’t play fair at the coupon game.  Come on, let me use two coupons for the same thing.  It’s not like it is coming out of your own pocket.
  • (but as a side note, thank you to most of the boy check out clerks, who would find it embarrassing to turn down a coupon and therefore let me slide, pretending to be grateful for my old lady wink of thanks.  Thank you anyway.)
  • The concession stand at the movies.  How dare you.  Really?  $8 for a bag of popcorn?  When I can pop up the same amount at home for about a quarter?  And damn you for being so good that I’ll pay the stupid $8 and then just bitch about it. 
  • The movie companies who are charging $7.25 to let me in to see a movie.  No wonder so many people try to sneak in.  I, however, am not one of them, nor will I ever be, because I would be the one who gets caught.  Or if not caught, unable to enjoy the movie for the guilt.
  • When some punk got into my Twitter account and sent dirty pictures to people on my twitter list.  It’s called the Discovery Channel.  Look it up if you’re that bored.  Or at least, do some homework.  If you are smart enough to hack into my computer, apply some of those brains to real life.
  • People who buy vowels on Wheel of Fortune.  I mean, really.  You have the entire puzzle spelled out and you insist on buying a vowel.  Why?  To show the rest of the world what the puzzle is before you solve it?  Serves you right if you land on Bankrupt.  I will WATCH AND LAUGH.
  • Scary movies.  Why do you make me watch you? 
  • The resulting fear of going into my own basement, certain that someone is watching me do laundry/fold/iron from the shadows of the basement.  The fact that I will SPRINT to the stairs, to avoid being caught by whatever it is that is surely only inches from my back.
  • The grasshopper that was about 12 inches from my foot this morning.  You’re lucky that I put you outside.  It’s only because it was my birthday and I didn’t want to ruin it by killing something.

From time to time, I will be adding to this list.  At my advanced age, lots and lots of things make me angry…or if not angry, just put out with the human race in general.

Get a life.  Or make a list of your own.


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  • Mary Fran Says: Thank you for contributing to Sweeps Week! We make a great team. Maybe we'll collaborate in our next lives? SISTERS! lol :)
  • Mary Fran Says: What's better than a Baby Shower aka Early Baby Birthday Party? Baby's FIRST Birthday Party! (Although it's hard to call them "baby" by one! They grow
  • Ann Jones: I'll have to check it out, thanks for the heads up!

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