If I was asked to encapsulate my personality in three words those words would have to be,
“KNOW-IT-ALL”.
On one occasion, when I took three of the kids to see a musical production, I insisted loudly that four innocent theatre patrons had mistakably sat in our seats at the theatre compelling them to collect their bags and programmes and self-consciously get up and move to the seats behind; only to have the usher come down in a fluster, rectify the confusion and insist the poor family who had listened to my protestations move back to their original seats; which were in actual fact theirs... not mine.
Some of my unhealthiest “Overconfident Episodes” occur in the doctor’s surgery where I have usually already diagnosed my ‘disease du jour’ before arriving, researched the appropriate drug to be prescribed, and usually manage to somehow boss the doctor around enough to get out of medical tests. As you may be aware… I hate medical tests.
About a month ago I wrote about visiting the doctor regarding a recurring and nasty infection (click here) and being of good judgement and intellect, this doctor refused to listen to my whiny objections and insisted on Pinky providing a urine specimen.
Last night, Scotto slapped a letter he’d discovered in our snail-mail box down on the coffee table.
“It’s a letter from the doctor,” I sighed, “Probably a pathology bill for that stupid, unnecessary test he made me have.”
It wasn’t. The letter was a harbinger of doom, informing me that the doctor needed to discuss the results of the test with me and I should call in as soon as possible; no appointment necessary.
Panic mode set in, especially when the letter was dated a month ago, two days after my initial visit!!
Either it had been lost in the mail or the useless gits who live in this house had been too lazy to clear the letter box out properly... I’m thinking the latter.
Dreams of gothic hospitals, grave yards, black crows, grim reapers and coffins disturbed my sleep and I lay sweating in bed, eyes wide open and bulging towards the ceiling all night.
I cornered our very sensible school librarian Sue, today and narrated the story in hushed and urgent tones (we were in the actual library at the time).
“What if it’s cancer?” I hissed. “What if he wants to see me because the urine test revealed cancer and it’s been spreading for the entire month that the fricking letter was lurking in the letter box?”
“I don’t think cancer usually shows up in wee, Pinky.” she replied calmly. “Besides, wouldn’t they have tried to telephone you if it was that serious?”
I didn’t believe her. What do librarians know anyway?
As soon as school finished I sped to the doctors scuttling up to the front counter and urgently flashing the letter at the receptionist.
“Oh! Doctor Norman is away in Afghanistan.” she chirped.
“I can squeeze you in with Dr Ramadanadingdong if you like.”
I do like foreign doctors because they’re usually so gentle and pleasant but I can never understand a bloody word they say.
“Okay,” I agreed in defeat, anything to get this over with.
Two minutes later, Dr Ramadanadingdong appeared calling my name and I followed him into the room in neurotic trepidation.
“Ooooh,” he frowned staring at the computer. “This is complicated.”
“Oh sh#t! This is it.” I thought. “Who will love my children when I am gone?”
“You have been on wrong antibiotic. I give you anudder one.” he chuckled.
So that was it. Because of my sly shenanigans, I’ve avoided one simple test for the last two years which could have cleared this underlying infection immediately.
Maybe ‘totally omniscient’ isn’t the precise word to describe me; maybe ‘mentally defiscient’ or ‘utterly ineffiscient’ would suit me better.
“KNOW-IT-ALL”.
On one occasion, when I took three of the kids to see a musical production, I insisted loudly that four innocent theatre patrons had mistakably sat in our seats at the theatre compelling them to collect their bags and programmes and self-consciously get up and move to the seats behind; only to have the usher come down in a fluster, rectify the confusion and insist the poor family who had listened to my protestations move back to their original seats; which were in actual fact theirs... not mine.
Some of my unhealthiest “Overconfident Episodes” occur in the doctor’s surgery where I have usually already diagnosed my ‘disease du jour’ before arriving, researched the appropriate drug to be prescribed, and usually manage to somehow boss the doctor around enough to get out of medical tests. As you may be aware… I hate medical tests.
About a month ago I wrote about visiting the doctor regarding a recurring and nasty infection (click here) and being of good judgement and intellect, this doctor refused to listen to my whiny objections and insisted on Pinky providing a urine specimen.
I’d been able to avoid providing said specimen for the previous… oh… twelve visits. I knew what was wrong with me you see. I knew exactly which antibiotics I needed because, let’s face it… I know everything… I’m totally omniscient.
Last night, Scotto slapped a letter he’d discovered in our snail-mail box down on the coffee table.
“It’s a letter from the doctor,” I sighed, “Probably a pathology bill for that stupid, unnecessary test he made me have.”
It wasn’t. The letter was a harbinger of doom, informing me that the doctor needed to discuss the results of the test with me and I should call in as soon as possible; no appointment necessary.
Panic mode set in, especially when the letter was dated a month ago, two days after my initial visit!!
Either it had been lost in the mail or the useless gits who live in this house had been too lazy to clear the letter box out properly... I’m thinking the latter.
Dreams of gothic hospitals, grave yards, black crows, grim reapers and coffins disturbed my sleep and I lay sweating in bed, eyes wide open and bulging towards the ceiling all night.
I cornered our very sensible school librarian Sue, today and narrated the story in hushed and urgent tones (we were in the actual library at the time).
“What if it’s cancer?” I hissed. “What if he wants to see me because the urine test revealed cancer and it’s been spreading for the entire month that the fricking letter was lurking in the letter box?”
“I don’t think cancer usually shows up in wee, Pinky.” she replied calmly. “Besides, wouldn’t they have tried to telephone you if it was that serious?”
I didn’t believe her. What do librarians know anyway?
As soon as school finished I sped to the doctors scuttling up to the front counter and urgently flashing the letter at the receptionist.
“Oh! Doctor Norman is away in Afghanistan.” she chirped.
“I can squeeze you in with Dr Ramadanadingdong if you like.”
I do like foreign doctors because they’re usually so gentle and pleasant but I can never understand a bloody word they say.
“Okay,” I agreed in defeat, anything to get this over with.
Two minutes later, Dr Ramadanadingdong appeared calling my name and I followed him into the room in neurotic trepidation.
“Ooooh,” he frowned staring at the computer. “This is complicated.”
“Oh sh#t! This is it.” I thought. “Who will love my children when I am gone?”
“You have been on wrong antibiotic. I give you anudder one.” he chuckled.
So that was it. Because of my sly shenanigans, I’ve avoided one simple test for the last two years which could have cleared this underlying infection immediately.
Maybe ‘totally omniscient’ isn’t the precise word to describe me; maybe ‘mentally defiscient’ or ‘utterly ineffiscient’ would suit me better.
