So Patty Andrews has died, and now we’re all out of Andrews Sisters, which is basically like being exactly the way we were last week, ‘cos I can’t be the only one who was living her life as if we were already Andrewssisterless.
I mean, she was 94. It’s not like she was in the studio working on her new jazz fusion album, or practicing the choreography for her upcoming tour.
But enough about her. I never wrote about her why she was alive, and now I’m done.
I shall write about myself, since I reckon that’s why you shows up anyway.
It’s my weekend, so I had labs. I’m edgy like that.
Seriously, I, like Arthur Dent, never could get the hang of Thursdays anyway, even when they’re my Saturdays, so a bit of pain makes a certain amount of sense, albeit perverse.
And my tech today? Well, he was here to help, all right.
No nonsensical slow insertion of a needle, probing about to
create a hematoma find a vein, and eventually giving up, just to do it again on my other arm.
This bloke took one look at my arm, grabbed a butterfly needle, said “Ready?” and stabbed.
That vein didn’t even have a chance to wiggle away.
He filled eight tubes in about three seconds. If you’re wondering why this post doesn’t have much substance, it’s because I lost ideas in those tubes.
Talkin’ ’bout, hey, Mommy, did you feel that needle? I ask because I told that tech, “Damn, dude, you stuck me so hard my MOM felt it.”
Then, since I am me, I added, “That’s what SHE said.”
(In case you think I don’t really say that phrase very much, my tablet automatically offers a caps-locked “SHE” any time I type “That’s what.”)
Anyway, next week, I get my lymph nodes cat-scanned again.
I personally think my oncologist likes to make me drink that chalky contrast shit, as opposed to actually needing me to have another CT scan, but I do what she tells me, because she’s just trying to do her job, right?
Or, you know, laugh at me choking down two jars of berry-flavored plaster of Paris and trying not to yip.
Beyond that, I’ve got nothing else going on.
Well, I mean, I think I might have had, before that sado tech emptied my good topics into all those tubes.
drinking: ice water
listening to: Bruno Mars, Locked Out of Heaven
jackie robinson: was the perfect fit for the number 42