Ahhh....it's Tuesday night and I just put my little punkin in the bed. I have officially made myself comfortable with a huge glass of Fat Bastard's Shiraz and two reduced fat Oreo cookies....livin' the high life lemme tell ya! As soon as I finish blogging I plan to catch up the Real Housewives of NYC Reunion. Honestly, that's probably why I'm already drinking; I can already feel myself getting stressed out about watching these women scratch each others eyes out. Why do I find this entertaining? I have no clue.
As I mentioned in my previous post, we celebrated my parent's thirtieth anniversary this weekend. What I didn't include is the fact that I was sick as a dog on the day of the party....figures. Last Thursday night, I noticed my throat was getting sore and I was feeling achy and gross. I knew then that this was not a good sign, but since I didn't have time to be sick, I ignored the symptoms and pushed on. Friday morning, I woke up feeling worse, even more of a sore throat, and still achy, so I popped an Advil Cold & Sinus and pushed through yet again. I packed the monkey up in the stroller, went for a walk, daring this lil' illness to keep on messing with me. Bad idea. So Saturday arrives, I wake up, at this point feeling like I've been hit by a truck, head to the restaurant with my sister to decorate, and decide at that moment as I'm standing on a chair in wedges hanging a banner, that if I don't get down soon I might puke. At this point, I decide it's time for a visit to the Doc in a Box. Luckily, one of my dad's oldest friends is a PA at a nearby clinic so I head on over. After filling out the paperwork, hopping on the scale (damn WW....haven't lost one pound since the week before), I'm put in a room to wait. After a few minutes there's a knock, and a young guy walks in. Young, hot guy that I've never seen before with a stethoscope around his neck in scrubs and a tight shirt. Shit. I thought I was seeing our family friend, not a hot guy with muscles and a tight shirt. He introduces himself, and I manage to stammer out a hello, while turning a shade or red that closely resembles that of the medical waste container. He precedes to check my stats, listen to my breathing (dying), and ask me when my last "menstrual cycle" was (DYING!!). He is calm as a cucumber- I'm at this point avoiding eye contact and trying to refrain from laughing. As a side note, why do I revert to 13 year old behavior around an attractive male? I mean, at one point in my life I did have some "game." I managed to land a hottie of a husband. It's like as soon as I got the ring on my finger, all coolness that lived inside me was gone. Poof! Finally, hottie is finished and out the door. Whoo! It's over. My Doc walks in, looks at my throat, ears, nose, etc. and declares that I have an Upper Respiratory Infection. He recommends a shot and some antibiotics, which I wholeheartedly agree to. Big mistake. Hottie walks back in, two shots in hand. He smiles at me (dying) and says "drop your pants." Wth?? You've got to be kidding me. This has got to be a dream. First of all, I haven't received a shot in my rear since I was in elementary school; second of all, why on why does the "shot-giver" have to be the hottie with the tight shirt; and finally third of all, why did I have to wear the "comfortable" underwear that I just bought in a variety pack at Walmart last week?? Oh God, just take me now!!! After two shots and one tiny band aid on each cheek, hottie left me with a wink, and utter humiliation. Moral of this story: the first day you start feeling bad, go ahead and make the dreaded trip to the Doc. If you don't, your Hanes Cotton Hipster panties just might be revealed to a hottie in scrubs and a tight t-shirt. Just sayin'!