Archives For what the what what moments

God has a sense of humor. How do I know? He made this big old stupid world, right? And everyone in it.

Including me. Now, I’ve been a douche a time, or two–or three. If we’re honest, we all have.

That disclaimer out of the way, here are some of my pet peeves:

On the evening of April 1st, my wife and went to visit my father-in-law (who is recovering from surgery). The visit went well, he’s doing well. That was all fine and dandy. Afterwards, we knew we needed to get a few things from the store. Also fine, but first: we were hungry.

So we went to one of our favorite Mexican places (which we hadn’t been to in quite awhile), were seated, asked for water, etc.

We placed our orders. But there was something missing…

Chips! Our waiter hadn’t brought any. Thinking that perhaps this was a sign of the economic times, I asked him. His answer:

“We’re out.”

Did I mention this was April 1st? Even so: he wasn’t fooling. Not having those crunchy, delicious bits of fried corny goodness was like a kiss without a squeeze, or (for those that roll that way) apple pie without the cheese. (Who puts cheese on pie? Eww!). <--it's the Canadians, right? Figures!Our meal--incomplete though--had me at burrito! Om-nom-nom!----------------The next day, mainly because I had to, but mostly because I wanted to, I took an extra day off work to spend time--sans kids--with my beautiful bride of 21+ years. It being the day before her birthday, I wanted it to be special. We went out for breakfast; which, thankfully, was uneventful.Then we went shopping. I don't know about you, but shopping always does two things to me:I get tired, and I get hungry. (And maybe just a wee bit cranky, too).Anyway, because we were relatively close (relatively being about fifteen miles), we decided to try out this place we'd seen on T.V. Famous for their pies, they also have a cafe for the road-weary traveler. It's quite historic--having been since the late teens of the last century. It's also, being so old, quite rustic.Ok, it's pretty much a truck stop. <--this we didn't know ahead of time, ok?Anyway, we park, walk into the gift shop--to the left is the saloon, to the right, the "restaurant"--and seat ourselves (there's a sign telling us to).I excuse myself to the restroom; when I get back, my wife tells me:"A girl came over with menus, asked about drinks. When I asked her about the fajitas, you know what she said, 'I'm not your waitress. I just bring drinks.' How was I supposed to know?"How was she indeed? (Hint: she wasn't). If someone comes to your table bearing: menus, cutlery, and asks about drinks, what would you conclude?It gets better.We finally make the acquaintance of our waiter. Or, rather he deigns to grace us with his presence.You know the type: God's gift to waitstaff, and patrons, everywhere. Talk about putting on airs! This guy didn't want to be there.Like the "waitress on graveyard, and the surly night manager" in Randy Stonehill's cheery Yuletide ditty, Christmas at Denny’s, captain douchecanoe was “wishing that all of us losers would leave.”

Or at least just my wife and I. So we did. (Hope he enjoyed his 9% tip).

That was Monday afternoon.


Because I’m a little slow, and because–I don’t know–it was her actual birthday, I decided to try again, and take my wife out for a quiet birthday dinner.

Did I mention anything about God having a sense of humor? I did? Ok.

While we’re waiting to be seated, I excuse myself to the restroom to freshen up (this is a recurring theme in my life–ask my wife); while I’m gone, she’s seated.

She texts me, I find her.

Guess where?

In a restaurant with an abundance of available tables, where do we two introverts get seated?

In the cheering section, or in other words: next to four drunk guys pounding shot after shot.

We tried–we really did–we tried to abide. But after we counted four, or five, rounds, and some other tables opened up, we asked to be moved.

And we could still hear them!

Apparently we weren’t the only ones who complained. And we will go back at some point. After explaining that it was her birthday, the manager did right by us, and comped our meal.


Like I said, God has a sense of humor, or sometimes maybe He just likes pushing our buttons a little. I suppose there’s a lesson in all of this about life not always–or ever!–meeting our expectations.

Or maybe He’s telling us not to dine out anymore?

Or maybe it’s a lesson in patience?

I don’t know. It’s definitely one of those three, or four.

How about you? What was your worst experience dining out?

As with millions of families, mine was stricken with illness(es) this past month. It started with my wife’s grandmother falling, and subsequently breaking her hip (she’s 98). Which was followed by a very serious surgery. (It’s cool–grandma came through with flying colors).

That stressor was followed by each of the four (including me) members of my family falling like dominoes in the path of the crud. First, my wife; then, our daughter, me, and lastly our teenage son.

Lisa developed a deep, throaty, yet gurgly cough that left her feeling rather phlegmatic. I had a cough, and congestion–and did our son. Our poor little girl–though it seemed she just had a “bad cold,” one day she awoke with a high fever that wouldn’t come down.

Turns out, after a trip to the E.R., she had pneumonia (did I mention her grandpa had it, too?).

Awesome? Not so much. The good news is that we seem to have caught it right on the cusp of turning bad, and no hospitalization was required.

We dodged a bullet on that one. And thank God for that!

That was a week ago Sunday. And where do you think we ended up again this past Sunday?

You guessed it: the E.R. This time, it was my wife, who although she seemed to have gotten over the crud, now had severe abdominal pains, accompanied with bleeding.

We get checked in, get her triaged, give a urine sample, finally get back to a room.

And we wait.

And wait some more.

(Anyone who’s ever been to the hospital can attest to the interminable waiting which occurs).

Someone comes in, asks for a urine sample. We tell them one was given at triage.

We wait.

Someone else comes in, again asking for a urine sample. We say, again, piss off… Er, rather, you’ve already got one.

More waiting…

Finally, a doctor shows up, and says…

[Based on her level of discomfort, the presence of blood, etc., I’m not sure what I expected to hear. But I thought it was something serious]

What he actually said was:

“Your pregnancy test was positive. And you have a raging UTI.”

Pregnancy what what? I didn’t know we were even trying. Or that you were testing.

My wife says “Doctor, you’re kidding, right?”

To which he replies “No, ma’am, not even with a gun to my head would I joke about test results with a patient. But I can see this is unexpected news. We can follow up with a blood test.”

He exuents like a boss. We’re sitting there thunderstruck. My first thought is “Sweetie, is there something you need to tell me?” But I know my wife, you? There weren’t no “funny bidness” going on.

She calls her mom; I start laughing, and can’t stop. After the month we just had, after spending two consecutive Sundays in the E.R.–this is how God shows up?

We’re having another child? It’s too much, and I lose it…

[Cue Jeopardy theme here. Ok, roll theme]

Yes, we waited some more.

And yet some more.

Then the “vampires,” er, phlebotomists came, pulled blood from her arm.

Yep, you guessed it–more waiting.

(In the meantime, my Mrs.’s pain level has been steadily declining).

At this point, I’d say we’re about four-and-a-half hours into this little adventure in odyssey, when the doctor returns, begins telling us that her HCG levels (based on blood test) are 0.05, or nominal for the average, healthy, non-pregnant female the species. He then starts to mention something about a UTI, my wife asks a question, and his phone rings…

(I’m not making this up). Doc says “Hi, sweetie! No, I’m with a patient. [To us: “I have to take this”].”

What? We look at each like “Did that just happen?”

“So you’re not pregnant?”

“Guess not. And I wonder about the UTI, too.”

The doctor returns, says “That was my wife, it was about one of our kids. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

After almost five hours, and an on, then off, pregnancy? We wouldn’t mind? We ask about the likelihood of the initial labs getting, you know, switched. He poo-pops that, tells us to retest in ten days, that we’re free to go.

He exuents again like (he thinks he’s) a boss. We don’t see doctor douchebag anymore And don’t ever hope to again.

I close the door, help my wife change I to her clothes.

We wait.

The discharge nurse shows up, Lisa signs the papers, she gives her a script for Augmentin, we go.


We’re exhausted at this point, but something just doesn’t feel right. I’m leaning towards her still having a UTI, but she says she now feels fine.

We go to bed.

The next morning, we get the kids off to school, and Lisa decides to follow up with our primary care doctor. Here’s the TL;DR version:

Two tests results later, and the verdict is in–she’s neither pregnant, nor does she have a UTI.

Which means: who was pregnant? Who had a UTI? Whose sample got switched with Lisa’s?

But we feel sorry for the poor pregnant woman who left the hospital the previous night without getting the proper treatment.

In other words, “Ketchup, Mayo, you’re ‘in-condiment.'”

(Oh, by the way, I would be remiss to say that the likeliest cause of Lisa’s symptoms, and thus the cause of our trip to the happiest place on earth: a kidney stone.

Yes, we’re the proud parents of a crystalline sphere of calcium carbonate!)

How about you? Have you ever had anything weird, funny, of just plain strange happen in the hospital?