Around the same time I met my husband, I was the office manager for a private practice pediatrician.  It was a small, but very busy practice and the staff consisted of myself, my partner in crime and fellow office manager (we were both because we got to choose our own titles! At one point, I was the Resident Biomolecular Engineer - big ha ha until I jokingly said it to one LOL), the nurse, Inna, from Siberia, Russia, and the doctor, Dr. Joy (who hates being called that and is absolutely hysterical and no-nonsense all at the same time).  Laughing until we cried was a daily occurrence.  My partner in crime was a recovering Catholic who couldn’t seem to shake her guilt, but was eternally optimistic, truthful, and supportive.  She was also a belly dance instructor with a bad dog named Sisal.  Inna was a brilliant, gorgeous, tall icy blonde who had been the equivalent of a physician’s assistant in Russia, but since her qualifications didn’t translate, she was deemed a Medical Assistant.  She was SO much fun and SO good at giving kids shots (is that sick? LOL).  Dr. Joy, who hated being called “Dr. Joy,” was the furthest thing from Joyous.  She had kind of a dark and twisted sense of humor and was definitely multi-faceted in her personality.  Quite a foodie, too.  No-nonsense when it came to her job, but incredibly tuned into her intuition.  A strong personality as I, myself, and my partner in crime, meek and mild as she was, would drop her jaw and pop her eyes out as I’d tell the Doctor, my boss, what to do.  I think Dr. Joy put up with me, more than anything.  LOL

So, one day, Inna calls me into one of the exam rooms to help her give a couple of little girls shots. My job inside the clinic, since I’m not certified for anything else, was the bubble blower. I know it’s silly, but I normally loved this part of my job. Our bubble wand was huge and had a ton of holes, so one good lungful of air generated a roomful of bubbles. So, anyway, this dad is passively pleading with his daughters to willingly get these shots, the girls are screaming, crying, and carrying on like little mini banshee’s, Inna’s standing there impatiently (cue mental image of Siberian Ice Princess, which is actually an accurate description of her - being a tall, thin blond from Siberia and all…), dad’s running around the tiny little room a million miles an hour trying to placate them with books, promises of candy and stickers, and choices (yes, choices when there is only one option - get the friggin’ shot). I’m standing there in the corner of the room blowing bubbles at a near obsessive pace (just keeping up with dad!), bubble liquid saturating my hand and dripping down my arm, not realizing that I’m in La-la land, completely zoning out. Chaos with bright, shiny, happy bubbles thick in the room. In my head is an image of me standing in a mental institution, blowing bubbles like my life depends on it. I snap back to reality as one of the girls lets loose with a particularly high pitched shriek and I start laughing. I’m standing there, trying to contain my ill-timed moment of hysteria, while I continue with the bubbles. Joy walks into the room, fanning the bubbles away from her while shooting me a look of, “Okay, enough with the bubbles…” I continue with the bubbles. By now, Inna and the children’s father are fanning the bubbles away, as well. As they manage to tackle one of the girls and get the vaccine into her leg, I get pushed out of the room.

That’s a pretty accurate description of how my days there went, in between the medical billing, and management of transcription files, of course.  And keeping Dr. Joy on her toes…  I miss that job.  Truly.  LOL

This must stop.  Someone call PETA, pronto.  I told you…I have Evil Furballs.

For some reason, for the past few days I’ve been remembering these wretchedly hysterical things people in my life, mostly my kids, have done.  What is it with this week? 

Example.  What do you think of when you think of sprinkles?  I think of multi-colored sugary topping for ice cream sundae’s.  I remember my friend Megan putting these little buds o’ joy all over EVERYthing one of her daughters ate, simply to get her to eat at all.  They bring joy.  They bring smiles.  They add, well, not any flavor to speak of, but they’re still fun to eat.  Well, now to this story comes my son.  Affectionately known as “The Prawn,” as in “The Scrawny Prawn,” due to his size at birth.  No, it’s not what you think, he wasn’t premature, small, or frail - the boy came out of my womb a full 9 pounds 3 ounces and screamin’ like a freight train.  You get my humor, yes.  Well, when The Prawn was learning to talk and express himself, as well as potty train (lovely how they coincide), somehow he got it fixed in his mind that when his little bum itched, it was called sprinkles.  So, if he was still damp from a wipey and developed an itch, he’d start digging through his clothes and state very clearly and with disdain (typically, a raised eyebrow and disgusted look on his face, akin to one that I would have if I, myself, were put out), “Mommy, I have sprinkles in my butt.”  Of course, like any good mommy, I kept my cool lest he become embarrassed for trying to express himself adequately to me, the one he trusted most in this world.  And then, calmly, for my own sick satisfaction, I would ask him to repeat himself.  ”Excuse me?  What did you say, honey?” and then smile quietly to myself, doing my best not to fall to the ground in hysterics as he repeated his previous statement.  And if I was really, really bad, I would ask him again. 

My best friend in grade school lived a block away from me.  We were playing frisbee in the rain, keeping the frisbee away from her big black lab, Buster.  Her next door neighbors lawn was flooded slightly and in an attempt to catch one of my rogue throws (I suck at anything physical.  Seriously, I had to teach myself how to run properly a couple of years ago when I decided I was going to adopt a split personality).  Anyway, she’s running to catch it, and believe me, the girl can run, and as she’s about to catch it, she starts skiing across the neighbors lawn lake.  Oh. my. God. it all happened in slow motion with Buster still trying his dumb best (bless his heart) to get the UFO while she’s skiing on one foot, backward tilt, with a frozen look of disbelief on her face.  She must have gone at least 10 feet frozen like that before she went from skiing on her foot to skiing on her rump.  Poor gal was soaking wet and had lawn rash upside her outer thigh.  Nevermind, the trauma poor Buster went through.  You know how labs are when their object of retrieval disappears (it was under his mistress).

She’s also the one who decided to teach me how to catch softballs.  I could hit ‘em outta the park, but there’s really no point in trying out for the team if you can’t catch and throw, right?  Well, she tossed me a ball, and I curled up like a flamingo on one leg, squealing like a stuck pig.  I never did get used to things hurtling my way and she gave up.  Like, after about ten minutes of watching the squealing flamingo not catch any balls.