Lucie’s “Atypical Problem”!

Can anything ever be “normal” for me?

Seriously.

I sometimes feel that my life is just one blog short of a trip to St. Jude’s Laughing Academy!

I go to specialist #1 last week to deal with some “weird health issues” that have me “rocking and hopping in my bed at night” and he tells me that I’m a “special patient with some rather interesting health problems”.

Uh-Hun.

“Hm…,” mutters the “special patient”, credulously eye-balling the young Dr.Kildare lookalike from the 60’s NBC medical TV show of the same name.

“What do you think I’ve got, Doctor?” I skeptically ask, with a cocked left eye brow.

“Am not really sure,” says the young, highly educated, very costly Dr. Kildare. “But it may be something called ‘atypical migraines’,” he informs me, as he patiently tries to explain the reasoning behind his diagnosis.

“You present with some unusual symptoms for Lou Gehrig’s and MS, so I’m pretty sure you don’t have them. Let’s start with some blood tests and go from there,” he confidently continues.

Hm…

“OK,” I’m thinking to myself, “It’s not the first ‘atypical’ diagnosis that the medical profession has used with me before, so this shouldn’t be anything that gets my knickers into a knot, right?”

Uh-Hun.

The problem is – I’ve NEVER, I repeat, NEVER had a problem with head-aches.

I have a myriad of health issues, People, but I assure you, head-aches have never been one of them.

According to the Princess, I have been known to give them, but she’s not aware of me having any.

Uh-Hun.

“OK, I’m not a medical diagnostician. I’m game. I’ve had ‘weirder diagnoses’ in the past. I’ll check it out with my GP on Thursday,” I skeptically say to myself, as I’m leaving the office.

“Sounds like the reasonable plan of action to take,” I quietly assure myself.

Uh-Hun.

So, on Thursday morning, I get into my car and start driving to my GP’s office and decide to throw caution to the wind and open my rarely used sun roof and enjoy the trip there. It wasn’t hot that day and I thought I could use a little fresh air.

Right.

I eagerly push the button to open up my roof-top and suddenly hear this low, lion-like moan emitting from the heavens and I think, “Lord, I’m no mechanic, but that doesn’t sound too friendly to me this morning.”

Uh-Hun.

I get to the doctor’s office, pull into the parking lot, and push the sun roof’s button to close the roof.

Yep.

Nothing….zippo…..no movement….no low moaning growl…nada.

The sun roof ain’t budging – not one little iota.

Cazzo!

I just dished out $1600.00 last week on this Model T. I’ll be damned if I spring for a sun roof to be repaired!

No-siree, Bob!

I’ll drive around with the damn thing open before I pay-out any more money on this jalopy this month.

Yeah, right.

Like I can afford not to have it fixed?!

I have a serious case of vitiligo (a skin condition that gives me that ever-popular brown and white cow look)  with salt and pepper, curly hair, and am not exactly what you’d call a “convertible kind of person”.

“Cazzo,” I anxiously say to myself, “You need to force this damn roof close and get to your appointment.”

Uh-Hun.

So, I grab ahold of the roof, pull on it and give it the old college try.

Nothing. No movement.

“OK, I’m an intelligent woman,” I reassure myself. “I can deal with this situation, right?”

Yep.

The next thing I know, I’m precariously kneeling on my driver’s seat, Buddha belly awkwardly sandwiched between my steering wheel and the back of my car seat, with my cotton top head sticking through the car roof, like an attentive ostrich intently looking for potential predators.

I’m wrestling with the glass portion of the sun roof, when I suddenly hear a vaguely familiar lion’s moan emerging from my now working sun roof.

“Cazzo,” I’m sarcastically thinking to myself. “If this situation gets any worse, I’m going to end up imitating a decapitation scene straight out of HBO’s now defunct, ‘Six Feet Under’ with me as the head-less  guest star!”

Right.

I miraculously get my Buddha belly and I out of harm’s way, of my now demonized sunroof, quickly compose myself and hightail it to my scheduled Dr.’s appointment.

Mei Xing, my doctor’s demure, kindly assistant, efficiently takes my vitals and nonchalantly says, “Lucie, your blood pressure’s through the roof today. I think you’d better talk to the doctor about increasing your Lisinopril, and maybe look into a different exercise program.”

Uh-Hun.

I’m thinking maybe a visit from the men in the white coats from the infamous “St Jude’s Laughing Academy” is in order.

But what the hell do I know?

I’m an “atypical patient,” in need of a “different exercise program”, don’t ‘cha know?

Have a great week, People, and be kind to one another. You never know what life is like living in someone else’s shoes.

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Momma Benedetti Goes to the Hospital!

So, last week we get a call from my cousin, Angie, who lets us know that she’s not supposed to be telling us this, but Ma Benedetti’s in the hospital.

She’s not quite sure what’s ailing the little 86-year-old rompicoglioni (pain in the butt), but she’s not feeling her “feisty self” and the doctor thought it’d be best if she’d check-in to the local hospital to undergo some medical tests.

Uh-Hun.

So, my older brother, Anthony, “takes one for the team”, makes the long distance call to my Mom’s hospital room and connects with the vertically challenged Smurf, in her hospital room.

Yeah, I know, he’s a brave soul. (Either that or totally desensitized after years of Momma Benedetti’s truisms and motherly lies).

“How ya doin’?,” he gingerly asks, aware of the fact that he’s not supposed to know that she’s in the hospital.

“I’m great today,” she coyly replies. “How are you and Lucy (his wife) doing?” she continues.

“Oh swell,” he slowly answers.

Mindful that Ma is not going to be sharing too much of her medical issues with one of her off-springs, but sincerely concerned with her physical well-being and welfare, he bravely pushes on.

“So, Ma, what’s got ya feeling kinda sick these days?”

Cazzo,” she starts out. “So who’s the stoonod (idiot) that blabbed that I’m sick?”

“And just for the record,” she animatedly counters, “I’m not sick, got it?! So, don’t go telling your sisters and brother that I am, ok?”

“No, of course not, Mom,” he dutifully answers, totally aware of the fact that all of us know she’s in the hospital.

“Why would I do that? You’re in the hospital because you like the food and the ambiance. We all know how much you like the Jell-O and sleeping accommodations,” he continues teasing her and hoping that he gets her laughing and relaxed enough to spill the beans.

“Yeah,” she says, “the Jell-O is good, but the juice is nasty,” she continues.

“Your Grandfather’s old, home-made wine was sweeter tasting than this pee water they call cranberry juice,” she responds.

“How do you kids drink this sh-t?,” she inquires.

Madonna,” she continues. “This juice could put hair on a hair-less cat. It’s making me sick, just sipping it.”

“Well, Ma,” Anthony carefully interjects, “Maybe you should just ask for another kind of juice – one that isn’t so nasty for you, eh?”

Cazzo,” Ma sarcastically responds. “I’m so glad you went all those years to college, Anthony. My 86-year-old mind would have never thought of that on my own!”

Grazie a Dio per i miei figli (thank God for my kids),” she caustically continues. “I don’t know how I’d survive without you stoonods (idiots)!”

Uh-Hun.

“Ok,” my brother lovingly responds.

“I’ll let you get back to your Jell-O and nasty cranberry juice.”

“Call one of us, if you need us,” he continues, fully aware of the fact that she’ll die before she does that.

“Bye-bye,” she responds.

Ti amo (love you),” she quietly adds on and hangs up.

Yep.

Don’t always understand my Mom and her crazy ways, but of this I am 100 percent certain – she’d lay down her life for any one of her four children and loves us with all of her heart.

She frustrates me, drives me absolutely crazy, at times, and I wanna strangle her at other times, but I love her with all of my heart and pray that whatever time she has left on this earth, that she’s able to live it in her way, under her rules, and with her passion for life.

Have a blessed week, People, and remember – we can’t change anyone, but ourselves.

So unless you want to be totally frustrated, work on yourself, and change from the other guy will come soon enough.

Catch ya next adventure, looking at life from my shoes!

 

 

Lucie’s “Quick Fix”!

Okey-Dokey, Artichokey!

Two years ago, the Princess and I decided that my medical issues were mounting and that if she didn’t want to find me belly-up one morning in my Jacuzzi bath tub, that we’d best bite the bullet, dish out the big bucks and install a handicap shower for me.

So, we did just that – install a handy-dandy, handicap shower complete with two shower heads, two handicap bars and a corner shower seat!

And on those special occasions, when I’m on that merry-go-round of fun symptoms that spontaneously shows up (uninvited as they are) and renders me totally weak and incapacitated, Miss Buddha Belly and I are lucky enough to have a corner, shower seat to “set a spell” and imagine myself back to well-ness, again.

So, this morning, I jumped into this special shower to give myself a quickie, as Momma Benedetti likes to say, so I could quickly wash-up and head-out to make my morning appointment.

As luck would have it, though, I go to turn the metal handle of the (shower) diverter switch, and the handle breaks off from the wall, slips out of my hand, and lands squarely on my itsy, bitsy (oh-sodelicate), baby toe.

Cazzo,” I’m thinking to myself, after I jump around the shower stall, cussing like a drunken sailor.

“Who needs two working feet, when you can hop (just fine) on one foot?” I sarcastically ask myself.

Uh-Hun.

The main shower valve is still working, so I figure I’ll turn off the water with the main valve, feel around the bathroom counter to find my spectacles, and see if I can locate (what I hope) is a simple screw that fell out of the diverter handle onto the shower floor.

At this point, I’m naively thinking it’s a quick fix and I’ll be able to have it working as good as new, again, and quickly get on with my day.

Yep.

That was the plan, anyway.

But when has anything ever gone as planned in my life, People?

Right.

There’s no screw for the handle, and I’m a pretty clever woman, don’t ‘cha know, but I’m no magician, and definitely no plumber.

After closely examining the handle, I come to the inauspicious conclusion that this is not going to be a quick fix.

Swell.

So, unless I want another “Princess and Lucie Super Glue Remedy”, I decide that I better call our 85-year-old, paisano, contractor buddy, Guido, and get him over here to give the situation a quick look-over and have it fixed the right way.

I’m tired of using super glue and duct tape with our various plumbing issues, and want this shower valve fixed correctly.

Uh-Hun.

I get myself to my appointment, swollen baby toe and all, and get Guido (alias “G”) on the phone to come over to the house to take a look at the situation and fix the problem.

“No problema,” G. says, “I’ve been looking for a reason to stop-by for a hug from you for a long time now, any ways.”

“This will give me an excuse to stop over”, he continues.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Yep.

All-righty.

So, G. stops by, gets one of his infamous hugs, barely eye-balls my diverter handle and judiciously comments, “Lucie, there’s no screw to this thing. Where’d you pick-up this piece of crap from? Home Depot or Orchard Supply?”

“Uhhh…..,” I start to stutter.

“I have no idea, G.”, I continue.

You put it in when you installed the shower, remember?”

“I know there’s no screw,” I smugly inform him.

“I mentioned that to you when I spoke with you yesterday. If there was a screw, I could have fixed it myself.”

“What do you think we should do, G.?” I innocently ask.

At this point, G. is leaning back on my shower seat, methodically rubbing his chin, and giving the situation what I think is his best analytical assessment and attention.

After what seems like forever and a day, he suddenly stops rubbing his chin, very abruptly stands up, and rudely blurts out,

“Ya got any Super Glue?”

We’ll Super Glue the damn thing,” he garishly declares, “and you’ll be as good as new!”

Uh-Hun.

Yes-siree, Bob.

So glad I got professional advice this time and didn’t fix it myself.

Have a grand day, People, and remember: life may not always be what we planned for, but sometimes, when we least expect it, it’s actually better….I haven’t seen G. in almost two years, and I didn’t realize how much I truly missed him, until the little rompicoglioni (pain in the butt) hugged me.

Catch ya next adventure, People, looking at life from my shoes.