Neti vs. Spaghetti

I went to the doctor yesterday.

I'm not a frequent doctor goer - usually only for that annual female business. I love to be told that "you're going to feel some pressure and something cold down there." Why can't they warm up those damn things? And why do they have to make small talk while they've got that up there? We both know what is going on. I have a speculum shoved way the hell up me and you are doing the shoving. So let's be quiet and just get through it. But, no, the doc has to say, "So, any plans for the weekend?," "How about them Broncos?" They could at least stick to the subject with something like: "Any plans to have sex this weekend, i.e., have something other than a speculum up here?" or "Done any horseback riding lately? Because you seem to have done exceptionally well getting your feet into those stirrups."

Yesterday's visit did not involve a speculum, thankfully. I went because I have this cold I can't kick. Antibiotics might be in order. I learned that my normal doctor, a very sensitive and fast talking woman, is on medical leave until the first of the year. Apparently she went to the Philippines and contracted some horrendous illness that no one is willing to speak of. I asked both the receptionist and the nurse what the mystery illness was, and they both were very secretive and withholding. I have now diagnosed her myself with Dengue Fever mostly because it sounds exotic and is one of those diseases that you have heard about forever, but don't really know what it is. Can't say the school nurse has sent home a memo recently saying that Dengue Fever is going around.

But I digress. So, I'm waiting in the exam room for substitute doctor (SD) to appear. I am wondering if it will be a male or female. I am wondering if he or she will talk fast. I am wondering if I should treat the substitute doctor like we used to treat substitute teachers in middle school. I can't find anything to make spit balls with, so I decide to let that one go.

In walks SD. He is approximately fifteen years old. He introduces himself: "Hi. I'm Fabio." No joke. I have two issues with this. Number one: since when do doctors allow us peons to be on a first name basis with them? Number two: WTF? Fabio? Who names their kid Fabio unless he is born with wavy long hair that is perpetually blowing away from his face and has the countenance of someone who will be on thousands of future romance book covers?

This is where the story becomes anti climatic. Dr. Fabio says I have an upper respiratory situation (no shit) and that I should try a neti pot. Now that's an invention that in all its ingenuity makes you wonder, who first tried this thing? It had to have been some parent of a kid who got the spaghetti noodle stuck up one nostril and at the same time coming out of the other. Check this out, paying special attention to how she "blows out of both nostrils" at the end (and you're not alone if you're wondering where in the hell do they get these models? The hair cut alone is an outrage).



Who knew there were special neti pot exercises? Who makes neti pot salt?

Who knew neti and spaghetti were so close in theory?



Bottom line is Dr. Fabio sent me on my way and nicely told me to stop being a pussy and deal with my respiratory situation sans drugs. Fine.

But did you know Fabio, the real Fabio, has never done pornography? What a waste.

Broccoli & Glade

I took Sam to the pediatrician today for his big boy eleven year old check up. He hates these mostly because the doctor always wants to mess with his private parts (see post dated 5/27/08 - "Break a Testicle") I told him today he'd be seeing a woman doctor (gasp) and that she would probably make him wear a gown. Not only that, but the gowns usually have some gay pattern on them like a teddy bear playing various sports. Not so cool for an eleven year old.

Anyway, we get into the elevator at the doctor's office. Once the doors close, Sam lets this enormous and thunderous fart rip. Then he says, "Broccoli, 49 cents a pound." This sounded vaguely familiar (not the fart, but the broccoli part) and Sam reminded me it was from this YouTube video we watched last year. Seriously, this thing cracked me up. We were rolling with laughter in the elevator. Although I'll say it wasn't nice of Sam to rip one when we were confined in such a small space. Like mother, like son - anyone who knows me well knows I don't hesitate to let one fly on airplanes, hair salons or any other public place (Vanessa, I ripped on at Brownies once, didn't I? And Erika, how about that one last night when we were getting our hair cut?)

Well, crap. I wanted to find the video of the broccoli, but it's not out there anymore. But in my travels, I found another flatulence related video I like as much if not more. But first, here's the verbal on the broccoli so you'll know what Sam was referring to:

"An old woman is riding in an elevator in a very lavish New York City building when a young, beautiful woman gets into the elevator, smelling of expensive perfume. She turns to the old woman and says arrogantly, "Romance" by Ralph Lauren, $150 an ounce!"Then another young and beautiful woman gets on the elevator, and also very arrogantly turns to the old woman saying, "Chanel No. 5, $200 an ounce!"About three floors later, the old woman has reached her destination and is about to get off the elevator. Before she leaves, she looks both beautiful women in the eye, then bends over and farts and says, "Broccoli - 49 cents a pound!"

And now, one of my faves:



Regardless if you think farts are amusing, you have to love that one.

In conclusion, Sam did have to wear the bear gown, but the doc spared touching his genitals. She just took a quick look and then asked about his "toilet habits." Phew.