I haven't felt compelled to write anything compelling or original today. I expect villagers with torches and farm implements at any moment. Good, I can use the target practice.
Oh, just kidding. I don't need target practice, but the stress relief would be worth the price of admission. I hate villagers.
I am getting some pisstivitated at this frigging wireless keyboard. I know damn well I typed the letters, and some choose not to appear. Maybe the batteries are dying. Heh...I can relate.
Crap, it is Global Warming outside like a mother. And the next three days are supposed to get up into the 90's. Fuck. Well, it slows down the kids, so there's something. Sad that the wife has to clean a house in it. She makes killer money, but she is saving to have two crowns done. ASAP. So she is taking a fan with her tomorrow, to move about the house.
It's what you do when you don't have health insurance. Or, you could whine to a Democrat. If something catastrophic occurs to one of my immediate family members, hey, we're gonna die. I get some leeway through the VA, and Johnny gets some Social Security Disability for being a fucked up kid. But when it comes time to hit the ER, we pay. Cash and carry. Or we set up payments. We always pay, so they let us.
Hospitals are such fucking highway robbers, too. They have to make up the costs incurred from treating all those illegal aliens who never pay, somewhere. Hey, those people have to send their income back to their relatives in Mexico, you racist. Never mind that their country has one of the largest oil producing industries in the world, you racist you.
Hospital Administrators are thieves on a par with politicians.
Interesting (to me) story: After Johnny was born, and he and the wife and my family were going through our initial travails (and, oh yes, there were more to come) someone came to the hospital up in Portland and donated a nice chunk of cash for the wife to continue staying in Ronald McDonald House. They did it anonymously, and when I asked the staff for a description of the donor, their eyes fell, and they went mum. I didn't press it.
The wife's doctor, who had been with her though 9 months of the toughest pregnancy I have ever seen, and missed all of the signs that a 3rd year med student would have picked up on, and had seen more sonagram photos of the unborn Johnny that have been taken of Britney's crotch, well...he just looked defeated after the C-Section. He knew he had fucked up, and fucked up badly. Incompetently badly. He was seeing his career flashing before his eyes.
And I was tempted. I could have taken him, and his hospital, for a pile of money. Once I saw John, and went back and shuffled through the stack of sonagram photos, it was obvious to me he was wildly abnormal looking.
But I didn't. Sue. I had neither the time, nor the spirit to do so, and I was juggling two teen boys and running back and forth to Portland and working at a very intensive job that we needed me to keep, and I just didn't. Sue.
And one day, when we most needed it, in the darkest month of our life together, a person that the nursing staff refused to identify to us came in and dropped off an envelope full of cash, that took care of all of the wife's needs while she was there, and kept me in gas as I commuted to be with her whenever I could.
And one night, some horrid bitch of a nurse turned off all of the instruments in the pod where Johnny and three other critical babies were, made herself a bed, turned out the lights in there, and went to sleep. The wife woke up in her room, sat bolt upright, dressed hurriedly, and ran to the hospital, and washed and gowned up, and rushed to be by Johnny's side.
The nurse was snoring softly, and the picture was quite clear. The wife backed out softly, and went to get the Charge Nurse, and took her to show her. Yes, Sleeping Beauty lost her job. I hope she lost her license. 2:30 in the morning, with infants who are barely holding on to life...
The anguished wails of parents was something that we, sadly, got used to, over the weeks and months.
But not that fucking night.
And we still have no idea where the envelope with our first and last names came from.