This is what you get when my week has been weird and a congruent thought hasn’t been sighted in days. A warp-up.
They call me ... Ha Ha
My grandson now lives in that town in Nevada where whatever happens there stays there, and I have to say I appreciate that.
He lives there with his parents because he is a tiny child, and as such made me melt into a puddle of happiness when he sort of said my name this week during our FaceTime adventures.
FaceTime Adventures consists of me watching him play in a way that would be creepy if I weren’t his grandmother and we didn’t live 15 hours apart.
Anyway, he was saying everybody’s name and it came my turn. He said it, only he called me Ha Ha instead of the previously determined Ya Ya.
That might offend some people, but not me. Ha Ha is the perfect grandma name for me.
My first choice, Queen, was quickly shot down by my daughter over a spaghetti dinner to discuss what name I should be called after she announced she was pregnant. At that time, I said in lieu of Queen, I would defer to Ya Ya.
Now I’m Ha Ha, and I love it.
Something about Angels
A couple years ago I noticed I have tinnitus, a thing where myears ring constantly. God knows how long it’s been going on, and if you know me well, you will know I am not famous for being terribly self-aware. I may not notice it all the time, but like air and taxes, it is always there.
I was reading up on it the other night and when I typed “tinnitus” into the Google box, several articles came up about the connection between ringing ears and nearby Angels.
Apparently it’s not the same thing as Angels getting their wings when bell rings as we all know is true from the movie A Wonderful Life. This, my friends, is being close to Angels around the clock and I’m so used to it, I only notice the Angels every once in a while.
Someday I will probably have to concede that it is likely loud music that caused the ringing in my ears and not a sign of Angels.
However, it could be that the only way to the Angels is through music.
Text messages from the edge
Tuesday, I had to leave work early to go to my yearly womanly exam. Normally, I would never schedule a doctor’s appointment on a Tuesday, but if you’re a woman you know that if you can get an appointment within three months of calling your OB/GYN you’ll take an appointment at midnight on Sunday.
Can I get an amen?
Anyway, we women do many things to distract us from the utter fun-ness of this annual trek through the virtual wonderland of a yearly checkup. So, waiting for the doctor wearing only a backless gown and newly-shaved legs, I texted a few friends a picture of my view of the exam room.
It’s not what you men think, either. There were no cauldrons, nor drinks with tiny, bright umbrellas. Instead, my view was a detailed diagram of a uterus and a healthy set of Fallopian tubes, along with everything laid out that you know will eventually touch you in an unpleasant, yet polite, way. It’s oddly reminiscent of the movie Marathon Man, really.
By the time the doctor walked in, my friends had texted back with every metaphor not fit to print to prepare me for what they knew was to come.
That’s what friends are for - commisseration, empathy and laughter.
It didn’t stop my feet from going into the stirrups, but it made it more bearable.
My week thus far ....