The Conspiracy of Eye Doctors

Yesterday I had my annual eye exam. I dread this appointment every year but this time I held out a carrot to tempt myself through the ordeal - the promise of new glasses. I wear contacts most of the time but I do wear glasses in the evenings and sometimes for part of the day. I've tired of my old glasses, even though they're only a couple years old and since I slept on them once in the desperate sleep of the first few months of Aiden-hood, they have been slightly deformed and don't fit me quite right. Brad thinks its ridiculous that I didn't go get them re-fitted. Ah. Whatever. I figured that maybe I'd give my eyes a rest from contacts more if I could put them behind fresh, new glasses.

So I went in to see the eye doctor as soon as my insurance would allow. I made it through the horrid, suspenseful torture of the airpuffing machine and the stinging eye drops to dilate my eyes...both callously administered by a youth who looked as if he was young enough for this to be a summer job between his sophomore and junior years of highschool and had all the charm of a delinquent. Not confidence inspiring for someone like me who likes to be coddled through this dreadful experience. But I suppose it was good because it sort of threw me off balance and I didn't have time to dwell upon my palsied optometric past. I have a history of being so nervous at eye doctors that I make myself sick. I have thrown up or almost fainted in eye doctor's offices more times than I care to remember.

The actual exam itself went well, and then the eye doctor tried to explain what my insurance would cover for glasses. Confusion. I smiled and nodded as if I followed him perfectly through the convoluted percentages of frames, lenses, coatings, blah, blah, blah. We went out to the little room where all the frames are displayed. I picked out a pair in a style that I had my eye on ( no pun intended) while browsing before I was called in for the exam. I call them T.S. Eliot glasses. But here is the problem. It's really hard to see up close when your eyes are dilated. I couldn't figure out the price! And all the time, the eye doctor was pushing all these other frames at me, which I didn't like, and shouting their praises. I thought this was highly suspicious. A deliberate ruse carried out by the optometrist community. Dilate the patient's eyes and then force them into the most expensive pair of glasses while they can't see what's going on. My eye doctor is a strong minded individual who understandably enough seems to fancy himself an expert on the subject, but as Dave Ramsey says, " You are the expert on your opinion." I was almost tempted by a pair of Sarah Palin-esque glasses that he recommended for me but when I later showed Brad a cell phone picture of me wearing them, he deemed them a thumbs-down. Apparently, they oldened me. And I see what he means. And what's more, I have no idea how much they cost.

( I did think, amidst the maelstrom of advice and frames, to at least ask about the price of the T.S. Eliot glasses, having given up trying to make out the little sticker on the side through my fuzzy, dilated vision and apparently the frames are totally covered by my insurance, but I got the feeling that the eye doctor was slightly disparaging of them. Which secretly makes me want to buy them even more. I am a strange creature, wanting to vex an almost total stranger. Perhaps this is a dangerous indication of a latent desire to defy authority. On the other hand, perhaps it's a sign of a healthy shaking off of co-dependent shackles. Let the analyzation begin...)

Sigh, that's life. You go in to the office all excited, thinking you want T.S. Eliot glasses and then someone tries to convince you that Sarah Palin glasses are the way to go. And indecision grips you. And you go out with NO glasses.

Brad has an appointment there next week. We are going to go in together beforehand to look at frames and try to ignore the eye doctor and help each other decide what to get. Because we are going to be the ones looking at the other person's glasses most of the time!

As I checked out at the receptionist desk and mentioned my indecision, one of the ladies behind the counter said that she always lets the eye doctor choose her glasses. That just seems wrong. It's one thing to be a slow waffler; it's another to abdicate your decision to someone else altogether.

I wanted to scream at her.

Confessions of a Money Launderer

Remember how I posted about finding hidden treasure recently? ( Um, recently, as in like... three or four months ago...?) The jars of change that were hidden in our midst? Well, let's just say for the sake of giggles that you do remember. ( Although I haven't really written for so long that I'd be surprised if anyone actually reads this!) One of the jars was all gross and dirty. Not merely dusty but truly grubby and gunky. You see, the change was leftover from Brad's bachelor days. This change had accumulated around his sink, for some odd reason. Toothpaste plus Comet plus years of moldering in a jar = a disgusting crust that seemed to defy all my efforts. I put the change in a basin of water and left it in a bathtub for a long time. Um...months. It evaporated. ( The water, that is.) I put in more. And left it.

The other day, Brad again dangled the possibility of using that money towards a netbook... IF I finished cleaning it. Ah! I sprang - in a languid sort of way- into action.

( You see, far be it from me to complain, but let's just say that I really want a different computer. You'd understand if you could see my set up here. I have a laptop whose screen is very ill, and so we hooked it up to a giant monitor in the family room...which clearly defeats the purpose of having a laptop. I hanker to be set free from this munga monitor. Imagine me with a huge, flickering albatross around my neck and you get the picture. Something ultra-portable would be nice. A hummingbird of a computer. I told myself that this was only a temporary situation so I refused to even bring the desk chair up here...so I've been sitting on one of those papasan foot stool thingies...for months. Not even approaching ergonomically correct. It's amazing how I can get used to uncomfortable situations. The proverbial frog in a boiling pot. This is a strange thing about me. Yes, I am Foolish. So, in short, I am hungry for this netbook.)

I went back to my bathtub and hauled out the cash. ( For some reason, I just laughed aloud at that last sentence. You know it's getting late when I amuse myself to that degree.) I tried soaking the change in vinegar. I even poured in some baking soda to entertain myself with the fizzing and give myself the illusion that I was accomplishing something...and remembered Pastor Neil Sandford using the reaction of baking soda and vinegar as an object lesson one Sunday morning. But I think I can safely say that he was not using it to launder money.

I used dishwasher detergent too. Didn't really help much. But this weekend we had a church cookout. ( No I didn't just completely go off on a tangent. This does relate.) And there was some Diet Coke left over that we ended up taking home. Thanks, Bryan and Sarah!) Well, this evening, we were in need of some Nate and Penny time. Penny's been so busy with work that we haven't had time to see her much lately and I just needed my Penny fix. When they arrived and saw me in a Scrooge McDuck posture, scrubbing and sorting my cache of cash, Nate had a brilliant idea...What better solution to clean the filthy lucre with than Coca-Colaaaa!

If we have robbers tonight, I doubt they will look in the sink, in the pyrex measuring cup full of cola for the mother lode. Further bulletins as events warrant. But given recent habits of writing, or non-writing I should say, don't hold your breath.

News from Lake Woebegone

I received this in email form yesterday from my father and thought it was too good NOT to share. I have his permish to re-broadcast it. I laughed so hard that I cried at the same time, and as I read it aloud to Brad, I had to stop and re-read certain parts because he couldn't understand what I was saying, due to excessive mirth. Read this; I bet you'll think he should start his own blog.

Maybe you noticed the phrase "senseless random curve balls" in my Friday e-mail that I sent out yesterday. Well sir I'm here to tell you that one came to this house last night. It was seemingly senseless and hopefully random as in seldom.

Mama and I got to bed about 11. I was not tired so I laid there in relative peace and listened to the night sounds inside and out. Gradually I became aware of divers noises that I did not recognize. One noise seemed reminiscent of the patter of small feet. Another was like a purposeful and insistent tapping on wood with your knuckles. Another was a sound of metal clanging in the bathroom. These came on and off until I could feel my body tensing in preparation for some action. Occasionally a cold chill would break out in my body as I fought back wild imaginations of future doom. Then it happened. Some small creature from the pit leaped in the air and landed on by bare shoulder as I lay there partially covered in the hot room. In a mighty spasm of twitching indignation I thrust him from me with a wild alarm that was wholly primeval. I kid you not, I saw a furry form arcing through the air over Mama and landing on the far edge of the room. Well sir, that startled me a bit. I awoke Ma and we set bout to engage in predatory behavior of a most primitive kind. In the dim light of midnight we saw the creature zip out the bed room door into unknown regions. Then I descended to the
bottom floor to rummage through some stuff in an attempt to find a rat trap which I set with bread and peanut butter. Once more I saw the creature now in the lower apartment so I left the trap where any wayfarer would have to travel if he wanted to ascend to our quarters. During this whole process the trap slipped in my hands only to find a finger of mine that shouldn't have been there. Thankfully it didn't light with full force. One half hour later Ma heard a whap! I smiled inwardly to myself realizing the ultimate fate that must have overtaken our friendly
neighbor. But alas when I went down this morng to check my trap, it was sprung but there was no animal in sight. Groansville! Now what?

So we lounge nonchalantly in our quarters this sabbath with no certain knowledge of the means of access or exit that this guy might have. Will we get a re run tonight? I know not, oh, I know not. We did set the trap again and are hoping for permanent results before bed time tonight. Any
ideas? By the way, we don't really know whether it was a squirrel, a chipmunk, or a rat. It looked like a flying squirrel but I haven't seen any around the house. Maybe that's because they are all inside the house.

That's the news form Lake Woebegone.