My Medical Problems
A million years ago, before we even met, The Spouse managed a Wendy’s. He comes from an entire dynasty of Wendy’s managers. In order to relieve the boredom of the job, he invented games he could play while doing his various tasks.
His most successful was Dining Room. He observed that there are no more than four basic topics of conversation in any restaurant. While cleaning the dining room, the Wendy’s employee was charged with eavesdropping on the diners and keeping a mental tally of the topics they were discussing. Those topics inevitably fell into these categories:
4. Those Darn Kids
3. My Day Shopping
2. Can you Believe What SHE Did?
And Number One, that is, the most commonly overheard topic in restaurant (not just in Wendy’s . . . I challenge you to test this for yourself) is
1. MY MEDICAL PROBLEMS
I insist that it doesn’t matter if you are in a fast-food chain, such as a Wendy’s, or a high-end fancy place. I once overheard a man, in Columbus’ premier French restaurant at the time, say the words “runny bowels.”
I am not easily distracted from a meal. I can talk about anything while dining without uttering the words, “Please! I’m eating.” But I thought I deserved some sort of gift certificate from the restaurant manager for having to listen to that while I ate my foie gras.
So I warn you now: I am about to discuss MY MEDICAL PROBLEMS. Those of you with a delicate constitution, might want to scroll down to the section titled Overheard In The Old Town Yesterday.
About three months ago, during my routine GYN appointment, my doctor commented that I have a white spot on my cervix. “Come back in three months,” said he. “And if it’s still there, I can remove it.”
In the office? I query.
Sure. The cervix has no nerve endings.
Yeah, right. I counter. You go first.
My information is purely anecdotal, but my research has indicated most women reply “HA!” when told that this particular procedure “won’t hurt a bit.”
I drive home from Vienna, doubled over and grossed out at the very thought.
Flash forward to Tuesday: my Follow Up Check Up or “control” as they say on this side of The Pond. Your Loyal Correspondent is staring at the ceiling in the good doctor’s office while he tsks and reports, “It’s still there.”
Big exhale. “Okay,” I say. “One, two, three, GO!”
“Your count or mine?” he asks.
“Yours.” I say. I grip the table, inhale and . . . snip.
Nothing. I feel nothing.
He snips again.
Still nothing. I am euphoric.
Two minutes later, I am composed, seated at his desk. His nurse has placed a glass of clear liquid there for me.
“Gin?” I am hopeful.
He and the nurse crack up. “Maybe we should start offering that?” they ask me.
Yes. Yes, you should. The adrenaline rush from the experience mandates a shot of something strong.
So we wait now to hear what The Lab says, and I go back in early September for another look.
But as if that wasn’t enough, while I was at the doctor’s office, I also got A Pregnancy Test.
Now, I am currently at that time of life (or as the English say “THE Time of My Life”) when things are, shall we say, unpredictable. Call this Too Much Information, but several years ago I had my tubes tied, and I tell you, Midge, life in the late 40s would be a Wild Roller Coaster Ride of Panic if I weren’t generally sure that pregnancy is not an issue.
It hasn’t happened often, but I have had some, shall we say, LONG spells. When I mention them, laughing nervously, to the doctor, he always sort of looks at his shoes and says, “Well, anything is possible.”
I don’t care much for THAT.
So when I mention that it truly is a miracle that we are even keeping this appointment here on what I fondly refer to as DAY 35, he says, “Let’s give you a test.”
So his lovely assistant, Claudia, hands me a cup. While we sort out the bill for the day’s events, we anxiously wait to see what color the stick will turn . . . Interestingly, given that I have had A Procedure (“See and Treat,” the doctor calls it) and A Test (“Pee and See,” The Spouse calls it), the price is the same as always. Hum the waiting theme from Jeopardy to yourself with me . . . Do, do do, do. Do, do, do . . .
Ladies and gentlemen, the results are in and I’m NOT!
Collective sigh of relief. However, I did just buy a new and bigger car. So I can’t use my usual excuse, which is “I can’t have more kids! I’d need a bigger car!”
Overheard In The Old Town Yesterday
I’m walking towards The Spouse’s office at lunch time, and I notice a lot of American English being spoken. At the corner by the old Max Mara shop (you have to be from Bratislava to get this reference, I know), I see an American guy, call him "Dude," talking on his cell phone.
Dude: “. . . Yeah, man, I’m in Bratislava!"
Friend on other end: . . .
Dude: “SLOVAKIA”
Friend on other end: . . .
Dude: “Not much. This place is a real shit hole.
Me: [laughing and unable to catch his eye]
A million years ago, before we even met, The Spouse managed a Wendy’s. He comes from an entire dynasty of Wendy’s managers. In order to relieve the boredom of the job, he invented games he could play while doing his various tasks.
His most successful was Dining Room. He observed that there are no more than four basic topics of conversation in any restaurant. While cleaning the dining room, the Wendy’s employee was charged with eavesdropping on the diners and keeping a mental tally of the topics they were discussing. Those topics inevitably fell into these categories:
4. Those Darn Kids
3. My Day Shopping
2. Can you Believe What SHE Did?
And Number One, that is, the most commonly overheard topic in restaurant (not just in Wendy’s . . . I challenge you to test this for yourself) is
1. MY MEDICAL PROBLEMS
I insist that it doesn’t matter if you are in a fast-food chain, such as a Wendy’s, or a high-end fancy place. I once overheard a man, in Columbus’ premier French restaurant at the time, say the words “runny bowels.”
I am not easily distracted from a meal. I can talk about anything while dining without uttering the words, “Please! I’m eating.” But I thought I deserved some sort of gift certificate from the restaurant manager for having to listen to that while I ate my foie gras.
So I warn you now: I am about to discuss MY MEDICAL PROBLEMS. Those of you with a delicate constitution, might want to scroll down to the section titled Overheard In The Old Town Yesterday.
About three months ago, during my routine GYN appointment, my doctor commented that I have a white spot on my cervix. “Come back in three months,” said he. “And if it’s still there, I can remove it.”
In the office? I query.
Sure. The cervix has no nerve endings.
Yeah, right. I counter. You go first.
My information is purely anecdotal, but my research has indicated most women reply “HA!” when told that this particular procedure “won’t hurt a bit.”
I drive home from Vienna, doubled over and grossed out at the very thought.
Flash forward to Tuesday: my Follow Up Check Up or “control” as they say on this side of The Pond. Your Loyal Correspondent is staring at the ceiling in the good doctor’s office while he tsks and reports, “It’s still there.”
Big exhale. “Okay,” I say. “One, two, three, GO!”
“Your count or mine?” he asks.
“Yours.” I say. I grip the table, inhale and . . . snip.
Nothing. I feel nothing.
He snips again.
Still nothing. I am euphoric.
Two minutes later, I am composed, seated at his desk. His nurse has placed a glass of clear liquid there for me.
“Gin?” I am hopeful.
He and the nurse crack up. “Maybe we should start offering that?” they ask me.
Yes. Yes, you should. The adrenaline rush from the experience mandates a shot of something strong.
So we wait now to hear what The Lab says, and I go back in early September for another look.
But as if that wasn’t enough, while I was at the doctor’s office, I also got A Pregnancy Test.
Now, I am currently at that time of life (or as the English say “THE Time of My Life”) when things are, shall we say, unpredictable. Call this Too Much Information, but several years ago I had my tubes tied, and I tell you, Midge, life in the late 40s would be a Wild Roller Coaster Ride of Panic if I weren’t generally sure that pregnancy is not an issue.
It hasn’t happened often, but I have had some, shall we say, LONG spells. When I mention them, laughing nervously, to the doctor, he always sort of looks at his shoes and says, “Well, anything is possible.”
I don’t care much for THAT.
So when I mention that it truly is a miracle that we are even keeping this appointment here on what I fondly refer to as DAY 35, he says, “Let’s give you a test.”
So his lovely assistant, Claudia, hands me a cup. While we sort out the bill for the day’s events, we anxiously wait to see what color the stick will turn . . . Interestingly, given that I have had A Procedure (“See and Treat,” the doctor calls it) and A Test (“Pee and See,” The Spouse calls it), the price is the same as always. Hum the waiting theme from Jeopardy to yourself with me . . . Do, do do, do. Do, do, do . . .
Ladies and gentlemen, the results are in and I’m NOT!
Collective sigh of relief. However, I did just buy a new and bigger car. So I can’t use my usual excuse, which is “I can’t have more kids! I’d need a bigger car!”
Overheard In The Old Town Yesterday
I’m walking towards The Spouse’s office at lunch time, and I notice a lot of American English being spoken. At the corner by the old Max Mara shop (you have to be from Bratislava to get this reference, I know), I see an American guy, call him "Dude," talking on his cell phone.
Dude: “. . . Yeah, man, I’m in Bratislava!"
Friend on other end: . . .
Dude: “SLOVAKIA”
Friend on other end: . . .
Dude: “Not much. This place is a real shit hole.
Me: [laughing and unable to catch his eye]
posted by The Expatresse at 5:28 PM
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