Yes, I’ve been reading Salon.com again, so that you don’t have to. And yes, I’m now pissed off again. Because, yet again, they have another story of the ways we’re fucking over injured soldiers.
This time, it’s a heartwarming story of the ways we don’t promptly and properly treat people with brain injuries, because it’s more fun to claim they’re lying or have inherited mental problems or are perhaps crazy.
I’ve been thinking of how horrible it must be to know that something is wrong with you and to not be able to convince people, how terrifying that must be to know that the medical community that you depend on isn’t giving you the help you need.
So, here’s what I suggest. If you are a current member of our armed services or a veteran who needs medical help but is not getting it, I will tie you up in my back yard and come by every morning and kick you as hard as I can right in the gut. And that way, when you are laying in the grass and the dog poop wondering why you can’t get the medical attention you need, you’ll be able to look up at me and say to yourselves “Oh, that’s right, because I’m tied up in the back yard of a crazy woman, not in the hospital.”
No need to thank me, medical professionals. I’m just doing what I can to make you look good in comparison.
I had dinner with my dad again tonight. We went to that Mexican restaurant on the corner of Donelson and whatever that road with the good Chinese buffet is*. The food was fantastic and my dad was his ornery, funny self.
He insisted I call Sarcastro and tell him that my dad was sitting there crying because Sarcastro wouldn’t come out to eat with us. I don’t know if it’s funnier because Sarcastro doesn’t know my dad, and thus had no idea if some weepy old man was really sitting across the table from me or because my dad has actually only cried twice that I remember** and certainly isn’t about to start crying over people he doesn’t know.
Maybe it wasn’t that funny, but we both laughed about it for a good five minutes after I hung up. Maybe our family motto should be “Always Trying to Make Others Uncomfortable.”
Then, he insisted that our waiter make sure no one ate his chicken while he was in the bathroom and generally made a big scene.
And then, folks, I almost died when he admitted what I have been saying for half my life–he is just like my mom’s mom. He laughed and said that he felt bad for my mom, because she probably thought that she could get married and get away from her overbearing, obnoxious mom only to find she’d set up house with the male version.
So, yeah, it was really nice and good fun. What do you know?
*Yes, I suppose I should make more of an effort to remember the names of places.
**When my mom’s dad died and when he begged me to take Mrs. Wigglebottom.
I forgot to tell y’all that I won the cookie at Jersey Mike’s. They have some lame ass question and if you get it right, they give you a cookie.
The question I got right? What two years was the New Year’s Ball dark?*
See, I knew that history minor would come in handy.
If there were Tiny Cat Pants trivia, I might ask, “How many minors did your darling Aunt B. have?” but the answer sadly reveals that I have always been wishy-washy since I was utterly undecided as to a major until the end of my junior year of college when they sat me down and insisted I pick. So, we’ll skip that.
I’m sure that those of you who like to tease me about all my book learning will be crushed.
*1942 & 1943