By: Ann Brown
Fuuuuck. I have such a huge “To Do” list. Pobrecita yo. And I cannot get to any of it because I have a broken finger.
A broken finger. My first broken bone. Which probably speaks to the physical risks I have taken in the past 58 years. Or even the physical effort I have put out. When you spend most of your life reading, making snarky comments about other people, and day drinking, you don’t tend to sustain a lot of injuries. Although once, when I sat down on a super soft sofa, a button flew off my pants and hit me in the eye. It hurt like shit and made a big red mark on my eyeball and I had to go to Urgent Care. Under “describe how the injury occurred” I just left it blank. Fuck them. It’s enough that they fucking weigh you when you come into Urgent Care with a bleeding eyeball. Justify that, Kaiser Permanente. Like if I wasn’t such a hopeless doughball, I wouldn’t have gotten a flying button in my eye from my too-tight pants when I sat down on a sofa.
Oh, wait. Right.
Well, I don’t need their judgment at a time like that. “Mrs. Dr. Strangemom, you have a bleeding eyeball. You will have to begin an immediate course of diet and exercise.”
Maybe there’s something we can cut out of health care – the weighing in part. That could save the health industry a buttload of valuable doctor time, and money could be put back into the economy because, you know, of all the extra food we’d buy just knowing we weren’t gonna have to step on a scale when our eyeballs are bleeding.
Note to self: alert Congress. I might have the solution to the health care issue.
That isn’t, of course, what the doctor said when I got to Urgent Care. What she said was, “Are you Dr. Strangemom?”
Yeah, she is a blog follower. Very nice woman. Very competent doctor, too. And very gracious, even after I said to her, “um, yeah, all your stories have been really hilarious and yes, you should totally write your own blog, but, well, MY FINGER IS BLUE AND THROBBING AND CAN WE TAKE JUST A MOMENT AND CHECK IT OUT?” And then Robin came into the exam room while they splinted my finger and the doctor and Robin totally hit it off and on the drive home all Robin talked about was how great she was and we should totally have her over for dinner this summer. He didn’t say this next part out loud but I heard it nonetheless: Isn’t it great how you smashed your finger in the garage door and broke it to pieces because now we know this kickass doctor at Kaiser?
He kinda has a point, but I am not ready to concede to it.
However, there is an upside to My Unfortunate Injury.
I don’t know about you, but there is something very ego-boosting for me about having a broken bone. It’s like, people see me and think, “there goes a RISK TAKER. Maybe she is an athlete or something.” I am all squishy and shit around the middle of me, but I can still rock the running shorts pretty well.
I make sure that I wave my splint around so everyone sees it. Also, I have an impressive repertoire of facial expressions that says, “I am in enormous pain but I am tough.” I even have one facial expression that says, “you couldn’t handle what I am dealing with.” And one that says, “hey, asshole, that was MY parking space.” Because – and here is the best part of my injury – it is my middle finger that is broken and splinted.
Yup. I broke my “fuck you” finger.
Thank God I still have my voice.
The post How Can I Tell You to Fuck Off Without My Fuck-You Finger? appeared first on The Next Family.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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