Nothing Goes In Your Nose.
November 27th, 2001 by Kevin
I’m bored. I probably have nothing even remotely interesting to say, but I can’t sleep(duh), so here I am. You know, I would pay someone to whack me in the head with a shovel every night just to get eight straight hours. Any takers?The insurance company has once again sodomized me sideways, and my operation next week is a no-go. After receiving this information from my doctor(who shares my high opinion of the blood-sucking bastards called AETNA), I called AETNA(yes, that’s AETNA MANAGED CARE, no pseudonym here - if you have AETNA, I’m sure you know what pure abject hell I am going through…). My goal for this phone call was to complain that they had once again yanked the rug out from under my shaky little feet, and I was not amused, nor happy, nor joyous in regards to their service. I repeated my Insurance Company Mantra several times before calling.
They are evil bastards, but you must remain calm. They are evil bastards, but you must remain calm.
It apparently did me no good, because I was in tears before the hold music ended. I screamed at the customer service rep for at least twenty minutes. The conversation went something like this:
Aetna Bottom-Dweller: Hello, how may I help you today?
Trance: (sob) I was, uh(snort), supposed to have surgery(sniff) next week, and they cancelled it because my doctor(snort, sob) isn’t in the plan, and I KNOW he’s in the plan, because you recommended him, and now I have to get a new doctor, and I’m so damn sick of new doctors, and I’m going to jump off of the roof(sob).
Aetna Pond Scum: OK, Miss-
Trance: And I am SO tired of you people doing this to me, I pay good money for that(sniff) insurance, and I am sick of going through eight hundred phone calls every time I have to go to the doctor, and I am NOT(sob) getting a new gyno, because that’s really hard for me to deal with (sob), and YOU try having your goddamn period for four months, and YOU try having a complete starnger stick his hand up your crotch because the insurance company won’t take your doctor! (sob) And by the way, they aren’t paying for my goddamn three thousand dollar MRIs, either!(sob) And I am BROKE - I can’t pay for f***ing MRIs and EEGs and CATs and every other goddamn stupid test I have to have every other goddamn month… And you don’t care!! (sob)
Aetna Dung Beetle: I see. And may have your social security number and home address?
So, I must get yet another new doctor. I swear, once this crap is over with, I will never see another doctor again. I will have to be bleeding out of every orifice before I darken a doctor’s door.
I had an interesting parental experience today. I was digging into a new book(finally got my Harry Potters in the mail), when my wonderful son came traipsing into the living room.
J.: Mommy?
Trance: Yes?
J.: I have a bead in my nose. But I love you!
Calamity ensued. I have beads all over the house, because I design jewelry. There are about three thousand tiny beads permanently embedded in my carpet which would probably not do any major damage, but every now and then a large one comes out of hiding. So, I had no idea what I was dealing with. I thought that once your kid was past the age of two, you were in the clear as far as the Hide-The-Foreign-Object-In-Your-Head game, but I guess not. Either that, or this is a sign of further strangeness to come.
Yes, your honor. I knew that he would be a serial killer when he was only three. He played with Barbies, wore my platform shoes, and put craft supplies in his nose.
I screamed, and dragged him into the bathroom, where I tried to look up his nose. I soon discovered that it’s impossible to look up a three-year-old’s nose unless you happen to own one of those neat little nose-flashlights that doctors have. There’s no way a Mag Lite was getting up J.’s tiny little nostrils withou major reconstuctive surgery following.
I really didn’t want to call 911. He didn’t look as if he were in pain, just terrified of the forthcoming parental beating(I’m just kidding. Don’t go calling DCFS, dear readers.). He kept frantically repeating, “I love you, Mommy! I love you,” because as we all know, you can commit any heinous crime imaginable, but if you tell your mother you love her, all will be forgiven. I figured that there must be a simpler solution than removing the kid’s nose. I gave him a Kleenex and told him to blow. He took the Kleenex, sucked in as hard as humanly possible, and then blew, weakly. By this time, I was about to have an aneurysm. I was standing over the child, screaming, “Blow!! Blow!! Blow!!” like a deranged porn director. Finally, he blew, purple as an eggplant, tears streaming down his confused little face, and out popped a large glass bead which was nearly as big as a marble. How he got it in there, I have no idea.
My child has been the most easy, low-maintenance kid on the planet. I did no childproofing, I locked no cabinets, I hid no glass tchotchkes. I simply followed him around for two and a half years yelling, “No. No. Put it down. Stop it. No. No,” and it worked. He never overdosed on aspirin, never ate cat poop or drew on the wall with lipstick, never even removed his diaper. He was basically a very clean, quiet, thoroughly brainwashed child.
The nasal invasion really threw me for a loop. I spent the next 45 minutes lecturing about what belongs in your nose(nothing) and what doesn’t(everything). He didn’t listen to a word until I threatened to take away his Matchbox cars(empty threat, since there are about 6000 of them and it wouldn’t be worth the hassle involved), and then he ran around singing, “Nothing goooooes, in my noooooooose, nothing gooooooes, in my nooooooose…”
Kids hold a lot of little mysteries, but I think the biggest mystery is how anyone could manage more than one.
D. and I have had sex for three days in a row now, so I’m apparently out of my slump. Thank God. I was starting to fear I’d become one of those de-sexualized moms who revolve their lives solely around their kids. When we first started sleeping together, we had something like four months of sex every night, no matter what. I don’t know if I’ll be able to manage that again, but it’s good that the idea is not quite so foreign to me now.
Tracy Carbone wrote on 12/26/07 at 6:07 pm :
It’s no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.
Hot Fountain wrote on 01/17/08 at 6:06 am :
Hot Fountain…
I love that to, but my hubby doesnt want it, that is really to bad….