Scheduling an appointment . . .

Yesterday, Mrs. B had an epidural steroid injection at L5 to try to treat pains in her leg resulting from nerve irritation.

This morning, receptionist scheduling asshole at her surgeon's office called to set a follow-up appointment.

Scheduling Asshole: Is Mrs. B there?

Me: I'm sorry she's sleeping because of the procedure from yesterday.

SA: I know. I'm calling to schedule a follow-up appointment.

Me: I'll call you back when she wakes up.

SA: Well, then I'll just go ahead and schedule a time, and you can call back to confirm.

Me: (sotto voce - sigh. . . ) Why waste the time setting up an appointment when you don't know if we can make it?

SA: What do you mean?

Me: (sotto voce - listen, dumbass, what did I just say?) The appointment depends on my work schedule and her other appointments.

SA: Well, I can just schedule it then?

Me: (sotto voce - OK, I'll speak slowly, using small words) No, you can't do that.

SA: Why?

Me: (mental image of wrapping phone cord around her fat neck) Because you have NO idea whether or not we can make it on the day you schedule.

SA: If you know your work schedule, let's just set it now.

Me: (mental image of drawing and quartering Mel Gibson at the end of Braveheart) No, let's not. Give me your phone number, and I'll call you back.

SA: Call back soon so you won't miss out on an appointment. They're filling up fast.

Me: (mental image of strangling her under a blue-light special light at K-Mart) Right. Bye. Click.

I have found THE reason . . .

. . . I need to vote for McCain.

80% of the French prefer for Obama to win. In my book, that alone is full justification for a McCain vote.

Dooce . . .

. . . The blogger who became a transitive verb.

I've read her for years, and am impressed with her writing and photography skills. I particularly like her monthly letters to Leta.

However, sometimes Heather just needs to take a deep breath and contemplate her navel.

Anyone who has read my blog - both of you :o} - knows that my politics differ from hers. However, I hope I usually present logical reasons for my positions, and don't attack everyone who disagrees with me.

The MTV rabble . . .

. . . may love this guy.

But in terms he should understand:

Bugger off, wanker!

Although I didn't see him on the VMA awards, perhaps he is the cause of my recent first-place finish in the local cookie-tossing contest.

It really doesn't bother me that celebrities - or anyone else, for that matter - have opinions. I don't even care how logical, or, conversely, stupid they are. However, there's a place and time for everything. Awards shows are not for political punditry.

Advice that fared the Dixie Chicks well: Shut up and sing! Or, in this case, just STFU.

Oh, and grand-daughter wanted to add her opinion

Move along . . . move along . . .

. . . nothing to see here, nothing to see.

Because I spent most of the night calling O'Rourke on the big white phone. And, I had to call work and bail out of a presentation to the Naval Base Executive Officer.

No, I don't drink.

How I spent much of the last week . . .

. . . Well, not exactly. There were also scones.

Where's Bulldog ? . . .

. . . Gone to Texas.

Last Wednesday, Mrs. B. and I hopped on the big silver bird and flew to Dallas to visit son #1 (J) and family. Since arriving, we have done absolutely nothing productive - which I consider to be an excellent plan.

On Saturday afternoon, we were treated to a trip to Medieval Times. I'm sure our Brit friends would find it a bit hokey, but it was fun. Food with no utensils, jousting, duels, fair maids, busty serving wenches. Brennig would have appreciated the fact that the knights rode Andalusian horses.

A side benefit (perhaps to the backside also) is that J is a very accomplished baker. We have hot scones available every morning, and he's made lemon cookies, snickerdoodles, and a great birthday cake for Mrs. B. She's 29 again. I don't know if gen-you-wine Brit scones are better than J's, but if they are, I'm booking passage next week.

Photos later . . . when I tire of sitting by the pool with my feet up and reading a novel.