Thank you for you pit stank recommendations on last week's post. I passed them along to my friend, and she told me that she has been considering consulting a doctor about this, as several of you suggested. However, my friend has a problem with doing that, and I told her I would throw it back to you guys for more advice, since you are all so smart.
So, you know how when you want to go to the doctor you call them and tell the receptionist you want an appointment and she asks why? My friend hates that. I mean, if you need an appointment because you think you have strep throat, that is one thing, but what if your concern is of a more personal nature and discussing it with the doctor is going to be bad enough and you don't really want to get into it with the rude woman answering the phones? And then, once you get the appointment and you go in, you have to fill out some stupid form and then you have to tell the nurse in some detail why you are there and, while she is willing to have me discuss her stanky pits with the entire internet, my friend is not so excited about having quite so many live and in person conversations about it. And my friend wishes that she were the type of woman who, when asked this question, could just say "Oh Honey, I have the stankiest pits that have ever stanked a stank, and I need Dr. Whosiwhatsis to hook me up with some of the good stuff," she just isn't the kind of woman who can be so brash and unembarrassed about it, and that is, frankly, preventing her from making an appointment. She has considered the option of just bringing it up the next time she is in, but my friend is blessed with overall good health and rarely feels the need to consult a doctor for herself.
So, how does one do this, do you think? You know, so I can tell my friend.
In other news, this is how my driveway looked at 8 AM Saturday morning:
And this is how it looked at 4 PM Saturday afternoon:
I spent the whole day thinking of Anne Lamott, except that instead of "Bird by Bird" it was "Wheelbarrow by Wheelbarrow." Someday when the children are screaming that they hate me, I will remind them of the time we hauled 25 yards of mulch (that's 12 and a half pickup trucks worth) from the driveway to the backyard to protect their precious heads and bones and teeth when they decided to fling themselves from the top of what turned out to be the distressingly expensive playset. I'm sure they will keep right on screaming that they hate me, but at least I will feel better about it.
(Please excuse my poor Photoshopping skillz, but I am just paranoid enough to not put a picture of my car on the internet.)