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Poop. Do Not Eat.

September 21, 2010

Round two with the acupuncturist tonight. This time I was on my back, with lots of needles in my stomach. Kind of like rabies shots, but without any vaccine involved. Or pain. Or attack by possibly-rabid wild or stray animal of unknown origin.

It didn’t hurt this time either, but it also wasn’t as relaxing, and I was neither instructed to take a nap, nor were there any nap-related follow up questions. Maybe she knew this wouldn’t be awesome.

As I was getting ready to leave what I’ll call the exam room for lack of an appropriate term, I noticed that her Sharps bucket runneth over, and I was able to take a peek at the needles without touching any icky medical waste. Come to find out, they’re not just pins, but rather have a bit of twist to them, like a slender screw or coil of some sort. This increased my fascination a hint, but I suspect just knowing their physical structure will make the needles hurt next time. There’s a reason I keep my eyes closed at the dentist’s office.

I got some more insight into this whole spleen fascination of hers, and why she seems to be ignoring my initial complaint, which was crazy neck pain. Apparently weak spleen is caused by overactive liver, which would have been precipitated by stress. Fix the stress, fix the liver, fix the spleen, fix the neck. Or something like that. On my way out, I was given two different bottles of pills. One is for that whole liver/spleen nonsense. The other is “Happy pill: You take! You like! Fix stress!” Well, it’s been a long time since someone has handed me a pill with an endorsement like that, and certainly never at $10/200, so how could I say ‘no’?

More to come on those once I start taking them.

On my way home, I treated myself a bit for my courage in driving out to the ‘burbs at rush hour just to get stabbed repeatedly and sold some pills, two services easily found within blocks of my own neighborhood. I stopped at the only local place I know of that makes their own ice cream and picked up a pint of Double Dark Chocolate, which they sell in a plain deli container. Knowing Boyfriend’s penchant for overdoing frozen dairy confections of all sorts, I stuck it behind some leftover soup in the freezer, but not before replacing its hand-written label with one that said “Poop. Do Not Eat.” I am hoping that if my deception does not work, he’ll at least understand the seriousness with which I consider this ice cream.

Upon my arrival home, I learned that I’d been beckoned via the magic of cellular telephony to enjoy a bottle of Syrah/Grenache with a dear friend on my porch, being an unseasonably warm night and all.  Armed as I am with a bunch of liver/spleen elixir, I figured half a bottle of wine and half a pint of ice cream would be fine on a Tuesday night.  “You take!  You like!  Fix stress!”

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