My cousin C. has been suffering from a horrific headache that sent her to the ER and for now she is on prednisone while waiting for an office to quit screwing around and set up her MRI. They don’t even know what the heck it is…atypical migraine, trigeminal neuralgia, who knows. She’s afraid it’s a brain tumor.
Her daughter’s good friend from childhood killed herself last week.
My cousin S. and his wife are getting divorced.
June, you suck. Big time.
I actually saw this typo after I posted and decided it sounded even better than “slutty.”
Not one of the main problems with society right now, but those t-shirts where a cartoon character or whatever is supposed to be your body (example)…yeah the illusion doesn’t work; it doesn’t look like your body.
Stop wearing them.
Fingers crossed for your cousin…while it didn’t land me in the ER, one of the weirdest, most persistent headaches I’ve ever had – complete with shooting pain in my face and a spike-like sensation in my forehead – turned out to be related to a dying tooth. (The dentist actually said “eww” at one point during the root canal.)
My miniest of mini-rants for today…and hopefully it’s very gentle too: please learn how to use Google. Or Bing, or Duck Duck Go…any good search engine, really. I don’t know much about the things you keep asking me, but I care enough to do a bit of research. But it’s getting exhausting. I get home from work, and instead of chilling I’m over here trying to figure out what’s going on with your A/V setup, or why your vehicle is doing something. 
I like to shop at the local, organic produce stand. You can now reserve produce and pick it up on the days the stand is open. Awesome! Except I had to create a user name/password, put in my mailing address, credit card info, and phone number. I ordered a freaking box of strawberries, and a $3 handling fee was tacked on. I cancelled the order, sent them a FB message, went to the local regular store, and bought a box of locally grown berries with no handling fee. How come I can walk down the streets of Edinburgh, Scotland (where I just spent 2 weeks) on any day and find a farmer’s market, but here in Illinois, with its rich soil and agricultural heritage, I have to reserve strawberries and pay a handling fee? That was my tipping point yesterday and I went on a loud, public rant about Trump.
Mr.Wrekker wanted me to ride to Wal-Mart with him. See, it usually takes me 3 days to work up the courage to hit Walmart. Against my better judgement, I agree. He wants to buy camo fabric to make some cushions for his deer stand seats ( another rant). So, I make through the visit. Ugh. Here’s my rant; the man drives like a drunken 16yo. I was a nervous wreck for 35miles. And, get this, he was texting at one time on the curvy part of the road. I had to scream at him to get him to stop. Who, exactly am I married to?
Your $3 strawberry handling fee is the combined effect of Chinese tariffs, Canadian dairy policies, European socialism, illegal Mexicans, and Obamacare. Trump is doing what he can but youse guys should have elected him decades ago, when he first offered his services.
Must we be politically correct even in the Pit?! There is very, VERY little in this world more annoying than a dog that barks and Barks and BArks and BARks and BARKs and BARKS without end. The house behind mine had a dog like that and, I kid you not, he waited until he knew most people were going to bed before he began his endless vocal harassment. I used to fantasize about kidnapping him, gassing him, and removing his larynx.
Dunno, but was anything preventing you from texting the local constabulary about the fact that he was texting while driving? Giving license plate #, make and model of your car, and location/destination?
Or is texting while driving even illegal where you are?
I can’t turn my own husband in. Jeez. Yes it’s illegal, everywhere. Even in the outback, lawless So. Arkansas. There just never any traffic out here. But I’d still prefer to live through a trip to Walmart.
Turning in a SO is beyond the pale IMHO. Besides, who knows their license plate number? Not me.
Yea, I was gonna say I didn’t even know his lisc. Plate number. But, really calling the law would’ve been fruitlesd. We would have been home long before they got all the way out here.
Mr.Wrekker drives really slowly, I am not sure how much danger I was really in. I still didn’t like it.
I’m going to have to turn in my dad to the DMV. He is truly scary. He’s almost 80, and falls asleep, stops in the middle of the road because he’s not sure where the lane is going or because he wants to look at something, gets in the fast lane and stays there at 10 miles under the speed limit. He is going to kill someone. I’ve talked to my mom several times, and she won’t do it, so I’m going to have to. (Yes, I’ve talked to him. My sister has talked to him.)
We had to take my FILs keys. My husband and his sister were mortified to have to speak to him about it. His insurance was dropping him anyway. That helped. He didn’t have much choice. You might talk to his agent. I don’t know if that’s even legal so check first.
I could’ve sworn I just heard an overhead page at the hospital for a Critical Care Musician.
I imagine this ensemble showing up at the bedside.
JFC, two of my friends have fallen for that thing floating around Facebook that purports to show a badly burned dog, but is actually a picture of a dog with a slice of ham on his face. I’m sitting here debating whether or not to tell them. One of the posts has already received a ‘sad’ reaction.
I say tell them. Let us know how they react.
Doesn’t matter how slow. Texting while driving totally takes your eyes off the road. I tried it once at 25 mph, and looked up just in time to slam on the brakes – I was heading into the back of a parked car. And I keep thinking “What if it’d been a kid and not an inanimate object?”
If my wife had been in the car, it would’ve been “Turn your phone off before you get in the car from now on, or I’m never riding with you.” Come to think of it, it might’ve been “I’m not going to stay married to a thoughtless idiot. Let me out. Now.”
You could, y’know, talk to him. No matter how little he cares about other cars, pedestrians, or how you feel, you’ve got to know SOME way to get through to him.
Yea, I talk. He swears he doesn’t usually do it. He won’t do it with me in the car ever again. I assure you.
2017 vehicle with 10k miles. Arkansas road. Rock chip. 12" crack (and growing).
Comprehensive insurance, but still.
Grmph.
