From the Heart of Hess

6/14/16, 12:46 PM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Okay, peeps! The husband is going in for a heart cath in mere minutes. No stent! No stent! No stent! (Doesn’t it work if I say it three times and click my heels or something?)

6/14/16, 1:46 PM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Mother of God. THAT didn’t go well. Holy crappppp. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

6/14/16, 3:26 PM
Update from the Heart of Hess:

Okay. So, the doc said that the heart cath could take between 15-60 minutes, so I was all excited when they came out pretty shortly because I thought it meant Hess didn’t need a stent. Which was true…but only because he will be having open-chest surgery instead. Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!! I panicked a little, but gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!!! He’s going to another hospital where we’ll get more details, which I’ll then pass on here since it’s the only way for me to communicate en masse. He’s a little groggy, pretty alert though, and a whole lot scared.

Thank You Notes for April 13

Dear spring weather in Middle Georgia,

You are usually such an enjoyable season what with your plethora of fragrant blooms, your gentle breezes that whip my hair lightly from my face so that I go around looking like a celebrity in a music video, and your temperate sunshiny days that crisp up nicely after cool-enough-not-to-need-the-AC nights. So I really appreciate your completely considerate shift to one million degrees this afternoon just as I was leaving for work. Keep up the trend! It’s awesome sweating so much that the raging rivulets carve an actual valley between my boobs. A family of deer and a couple of sparrows have moved in. Thanks.

Elane

Dear every single red light from my house to work,

Thank you for managing to turn red immediately before my car arrived at each of your intersections and for staying red as long as possible even when no other vehicles were visible for three hundred miles. Great work!

Elane

Dear air conditioner in my car,

Thank you SO much for fucking up. TODAY!

Elane

Dear April 13, 2011,

The only way you could suck any more is if you were on Friday.

Elane

A Fucking Failure to Communicate

Apparently, there has been some fucktastic mix-up in my recent communication with God. I distinctly remember asking for MORE money coming IN, but noooo. Somehow, some celestial assistant doesn’t know her/his/its divine shorthand because not only is my bank account hemorrhaging green shit, but Alexis’s car is in the shop, and they’ve set bail at $400. AND the asssuck insurance company to whom we give our monthly premium for their “anorexic coverage plan” just declared my recent surgery bill “ineligible.” In tiny, little 6-point Calibri down at the bottom of the page by a 1-point asterisk is the reason for the denial: “This amount exceeds the annual maximum in plan. Because your annual maximum is 67 cents. And we are asssucks.” So. Yes. I owe TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. For a ninety-second surgical procedure. Out fucking patient.

I LOVE insurance companies and want to marry them and then catch them with the nanny so that I can divorce them immediately in Vegas and take every single cent they ever made plus the his-and-hers hand towels that were a wedding gift from their liver-spotted great aunt Eula.

I’m not mad. What makes you think I am mad?

Whiners, Unite!

I hate whiners. That’s why I work hard to keep my whining to myself or only to share it with a few poor, trapped family members. But where is that getting me really? What has burying anger and dismay ever done for me? Excluding the procurement of a Maalox/Tums addiction and expensive stays in “health spas,” not a damned thing. So. What do I have to complain about today?

How about the four fucking dollars per gallon that I just spent putting half a tank in my car? My car gets roughly a half a mile to the gallon, so the forty dollars I stuffed into its tank will get me to work and back a little less than twice. I guess I will have to hitch that last couple of miles. On the Interstate. At fricking night. Considering that I pull in a whopping $20 per hour as a RESPECTED adjunct instructor (NOT), it costs more to drive to work than I’m making by going to work. See why people go on Welfare? It PAYS to sit on your ass and eat cupcakes infused with high fructose corn syrup and fried in lard. I’m in!