random

I just realized I have a lot of couple friends with couple-y names: Jaime and James, Chris and Christine, Nick and Nicole, Jess and Wes. It's slightly amusing.

quickie

My kids are seriously spoiled. Aaron got more toys today than he can possibly know what to do with, and KCB got a ton of cute clothes and she ISN'T EVEN BORN YET.

Oh well, it's all good. Mama got S1 of Chuck, an iPhone docking station, and a post-natal spa package. So I guess I'm pretty spoiled, too. :)

Come On Now!

I apologize that I haven't had a whole lot to blog about the past few months. Deployments are so day-to-day, that just getting through the monotony of the day itself without writing about the leaky toilets, recurrence of kidney stones, etc., is key.

But, I digress. The reason for my return to blogosphere is this:

I. HATE. PHILIP. RIVERS.

And, honestly, that's not entirely accurate. I don't hate the man; he does a lot of community service in and around San Diego, so I'm sure he's not a horrible man. I just can't get over the amount of fawning, praising, almost worship-like quality of not only the Chargers fans, but the announcers, sportswriters, and sportscasters as well.

Now, I am by no means an authority on the man's skills, nor do I have a vault of stats in my head to back up any of the claims I'm about to make, so please feel free to throw some numbers at me, tell me I'm wrong, way off base, or just plain mean.

It seems to me, that at 6-6, Philip Rivers just isn't that good of a QB.

Good quarterbacks find ways to win games. Now, I suppose I can't lay the blame solely at the feet of the quarterback; there is only so much one person can do (right, Steve Johnson?). But Rivers consistently overthrows his targets, and is a stinking hot mess when it comes to making big plays in the red zone. He can't rely on kicker Nate Kaeding; one Sunday, Nate's the only one responsible for putting any points on the board whatsoever, and the next, can't sink a field goal to save his life.

Now, I know that the Chargers have had an unfortunate amount of injuries this year. Still. Tom Brady's got a bunch of rookies and hobbits on his OLine and seems to be doing ok. For the life of me, I cannot understand the Philip Rivers love fest that takes place every year in December. If Philip Rivers is such a good QB, how come he can't win a game that matters in September, October, and November? Even if the Chargers win every game left in the regular season, they would still be 10-6. Nothing to sneeze at, obviously, but not stellar in my opinion.

All week, all I've heard is how Rivers is so good, Rivers is the best, Rivers is 18-0 in December. The REAL Philip Rivers is about to show up.

Well, the Chargers were stunned at home today by the Raiders, 28-13, and the REAL Philip Rivers is nowhere to be found.

And, as I and a nation of Patriots fans can tell you, 18-1 ain't all it's cracked up to be.

Hiatus

Stealing my husband's lingo for an extended absence from blogging, I'll just say that I've been on "a hiatus."

Said hiatus pretty much began the day Ian left. Early in the wee hours of that morning, the call of nature woke me from my slumber and I peed on a stick. The results woke me up faster than a triple shot of espresso injected directly into my veins. "I'M PREGNANT???" WAIT, I MEAN "I'M PREGNANT!!!!!!"

So, yes, I'm pregnant. Needless to say, it was quite the emotional roller coaster that day. We were ecstatic to find out the good news, and were able to celebrate for about 15 hours together before Ian got on a bus destined for Japan. (Well, the bus itself wasn't going to Japan...he had to get on an airplane...oh, never mind.)

Prior to and after Ian's departure, I had East Coast friends visiting. The last one left San Diego just a few days before Aaron and I packed up and headed to the East Coast ourselves. Over the course of about six weeks, I went to two weddings (Congrats Benny and Nick and Blake and Mary!!), spent a week at the family cabin in Maine, saw lots of familiar faces, spent time with family, and even squeezed (squoze) in a week in Newfoundland.

We had a FABULOUS time seeing everyone, but boy, oh, boy, was I glad to get home. There really is no place like home.

But, now that we're here, we've finally had time to let it sink in that Daddy's really and truly on his adventure. I'll be especially blue this Friday, on the 30th anniversary of my love's birth, and I really wish I could spend it with him. Not drinking. Because I can't. Which sucks. But I would TOTALLY DD for him.

At least football season starts soon. (11 DAYS!!) But it won't be the same without a Sam Winter in hand. Well, I suppose it COULD be in hand, just not open. Which is just not as fun.

48 hours

Ian deployed on his second tour of Iraq in February 2009, a mere 9 months after his return from his first tour in May 2008. As a result, he was "guaranteed" (as much as anything in the Marine Corps is ever guaranteed) at least one year stateside before he had to deploy again. 367 days later, he will deploy to the Asian Pacific, and it seems I can't accuse the USMC of not keeping their promise.

Shake, shake, shake

It appears that I will have to start dressing a bit more nicely to lounge around my house, since it seems my presence may be required outside at a moment's notice:

Maybe the Mayans were right...

Whippersnapper

A month or two ago, I bought a membership to the local YMCA. I figured it would be a good time; they have youth programs in addition to a workout facility, a pool, and a sweet playground for the kiddo. In fact, Aaron just finished up a 6-week program called the Y's World of Sports. He spent two weeks each playing soccer, t-ball, and basketball.

More importantly, y'all, they have this glorious thing called Child Watch.

With the family membership I purchased, we get two free hours of child care EVERY SINGLE DAY. They'll watch your kid while you work out or shoot some hoops or whatever it is that you do. They do stipulate, however, that you must remain on the YMCA premises. They're not that dumb. You just sign the kid in, hand him some goldfish and a capri sun, write down your phone number and where you'll be (I haven't yet gotten up the nerve to simply put "napping in my car" in the location field...maybe next week), and off you go.

So off I went.

Today, I tried out the 8:30 am Water Aerobics class. One of the many brochures I was handed along with my membership ID card was the Aquatic Center schedule. It was in this multi-colored brochure that I first saw that this class was an offering. "Designed for ages 12+," it advertised. So I pulled out my new summer bathing suit (yes, it's hotttt.) and headed off.

At 27 years old, I was easily the youngest person in the class. By a lot. Like at least 30 years. The lifeguards must have thought it was "bring-your-great-granddaughter-to-water-aerobics" day.

Apparently, the instructor who usually teaches the class was absent. In her place, Diane the Italian New Yorker, who is everything you're thinking (i.e., accent, talking with hands, Giants fan) gave the lesson. Fully clothed. On the edge of the pool. In long sleeves. She refused to actually get in to the pool.

So imagine the scene if you will. Lifeguards overlooking a heated pool on a balmy Southern California day. Geriatrics and an overweight twentysomething performing such maneuvers as the loud-mouthed, hand-talking instructor called "The Cheerleader," "The Rocking Horse," and "The Penguin."

Maybe I should look in to the 6:15 pm class. I'm pretty sure everyone in today's class would be asleep by then anyway.

In Memoriam...

1st Lt. Jared Landaker, USMC

February 7, 2007

Capt. Kyle Van de Gisesn, USMC

October 26, 2009

This Memorial Day, please take a moment to remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice so that the country they fought to protect would remain safe. R.I.P. and Semper Fi, Jared and Kyle.

You MIght Be a Military Wife...

There are, no doubt, a million of these lists floating around the internet, but below is my own personal list of experiences that have defined me as a military wife. Without further ado, you might be a military wife if...:

• You can't make it through a rendition of the national anthem. Sing it? Can't even make it to the third line without choking up. Same goes for "America the Beautiful," and "My Country, 'Tis of Thee." Play Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA" to watch me dissolve in a pool of tears.
• You know that a 96 is an urban legend.
• Your heart breaks a little each time you have to tell your three-year-old that Daddy is on a "trip."
• There is one side of your bed that is significantly more creaky than the other.
• Similarly, your master bathroom has dual sinks, and one of them has seen a lot more use than the other.
• You know to avoid the base commissary on paid weekends.
• Your relationships with women you've known for 6 months are stronger than with the friends you've known all your life.
• Your closest family member lives on the opposite coast.
• Your address book is written entirely in pencil.
• You can have an entire conversation in acronyms. Ex.: "We did a DITY move instead of using TMO when we PCSd."
• You know that Memorial Day, Independence Day, and Veteran's Day are more than just excuses to have a barbecue.
• You recently saw SATC2, and truly couldn't believe it when Carrie was whining about falling into a routine with her husband. Me? I'd give anything to order takeout and watch tv in bed with my husband every night. Two days per week away? Not on your life, sister.
• You read the news feverishly and have your google alerts set to display "Afghanistan," "North Korea," "Iraq," and "Marines."
• You don't turn your phone off. Ever.
• Said phone accompanies you everywhere: the bathroom, the shower, to the kitchen to get a glass of water...
• You consider Westboro Baptists the absolute scum of the earth.
• You welcome your husband home with joy in your heart, but you know that it means that one of your friends is losing hers for awhile.
• You know all the words to the Marine Corps hymn. All three verses.
• You curse when you trip over steel-toed combat boots, but you always straighten them back upright.
• You got married at Christmas, but your wedding colors were red, white, and blue.
• You cheer for a sports team from across the continent.
• You couldn't be prouder to be one.

Life Lessons

THINGS I LEARNED GROWING UP IN THE SOUTH:

• If you can get ready and out the door in under 30 minutes, you shouldn't even bother leavin', sugar.
• It's called a "po'boy."
• (Regardless of flavor) It's called a "coke."
• Thou shalt not be seen in public without make-up or with wrinkled clothes.
• There is no excuse for not writing a thank-you note.
• An iron skillet is a must-have in any kitchen.
• College football is a religion and the SEC is God.
• If the forecast calls for snow in any amount, your presence is required at the local supermarket.
• Tornadoes can happen at any time. Keep cold beer in the basement.

THINGS I LEARNED AT COLLEGE IN NEW ENGLAND:

• If you were unfortunate (or stupid) enough to take an 8:30 class, you slept in your sweats and set your alarm for 8:25.
• It's called a "grinder."
• It's called a "pop."
• There is no excuse for rooting for the Yankees.
• Sam Adams is a must-have in any kitchen.
• The Red Sox are a religion, and Curt Schilling is God.
• If the forecast calls for snow in any amount, you yawn and roll over.
• A blizzard can happen at any time. Keep cold beer in the basement. (Or wherever.)

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED LIVING IN SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA:

• Wearing mini-skirts and Uggs is "fashionable." (I HEARTILY DISAGREE.)
• It's called a "sub."
• It's called a "soda."
• There is no excuse for not eating organic food.
• Avocado is a must-have in any kitchen. Also, don't eat the sushi if you live more than 30 minutes from the coast.
• The Chargers are a religion, and Norv is God. (But it seems they'll NEVER make it past the first round of the playoffs.)
• A "marine layer" is COMPLETELY different than "smog." "May Gray" and "June Gloom" are things you'll just have to get over since the other 10 months of the year are beautiful.
• An earthquake can happen at any time. Keep cold beer in a doorway.

Points of Order

Just a few thoughts:

1. Yes, I stole the idea for this month's header from Meghan. Yes, I think she'll get over it. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
2. Irish people should always wear sunblock. The 2nd degree sunburn on my shoulders agrees.
3. I am currently torn between really wanting to return to work and continuing to stay at home for awhile. In the pro column for gainful employment is the second income that our family has been used to for awhile now, and the incessant stream-of-consciousness ramblings of my toddler will be much more bearable in smaller amounts. In the pro column for staying at home, I can plan an extended trip to New England and Newfoundland in July and August. And, you know, not having to...like...work.
4. I support Arizona's new immigration law. There. I said it. Maybe I have a slightly different perspective living less than a hundred miles from the border, but the way I see it is this: drug cartels and gangs = bad. By toughening up our immigration laws, we are cracking down on the number of corruptive influences that make their way into the country. Yes, I realize that a number of people come here to find work to support their families. Well, here's what I have to say to that: DO IT LEGALLY. No, I do not think that I should have to support you and your family and have my taxpayer dollars fund your health benefits when you aren't even in this country LEGALLY. I understand that Arizona's new law raises concerns about racial stereotyping and can sympathize with those who are here legally who may be subject to unfair treatment. But on the other hand, these legal citizens have probably been through the ringer in getting legal status, so if it were me and I did all that work, I might be kind of pissed if someone were reaping the advantages not having put in the work.
5. This "Everyone Draw Mohammed Day" is Stoopid. You're just fueling the fire, people. Stop being immature and leave well enough alone.
6. The Library of Congress recently archived all tweets. So that years from now, our children's children can look up what we had for lunch on any given day of the year.
7. This is awesome. I would like to meet this Nerdlington J. Techsupport.
8. Boston has no drinkable water. And MORE IMPORTANTLY, Bostonians can't get their Dunks and Sam Adams has stopped brewing. This will have HUGE repercussions, people. HUGE. Thankfully, Dunk has found another way for people to get their fix.

Quake

This is a screenshot of the big earthquake we had here yesterday, and all the following aftershocks. Yay.

Yesterday, as I was making Easter dinner for my family and friends, we had a 7.2 earthquake here in SoCal. Since I had, only a few minutes before, clogged our garbage disposal and Ian was tinkering with it, the two of us originally thought that the shaking was just the disposal trying to purge its contents. But when I looked up and saw the lights hanging from our ceiling swinging and heard the plates rattling, I knew we were having an earthquake. Ian and I both kind of froze for a minute, but when things started getting going, I sprinted for a doorway while Ian went to grab Aaron from his bed, where he was napping.

Let me just say: I HATE EARTHQUAKES. Growing up in "Tornado Alley" outside of Atlanta, and spending time in North Carolina, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts, I can deal with tornadoes, hurricanes, blizzards, nor'easters, etc. I can deal with the potential to be sucked up into the sky, buried under feet of snow. But having the earth fall away at my feet IS NOT COOL.

For the record, neither is being burned up by wildfires. I miss the east coast.

Return

I had hoped that when I had something important (to me, at least) to blog about, it would be a happier subject. But the past few weeks in North County have been anything but.

On February 25, a local high school student was reported missing, and the following Tuesday, March 2, her body was discovered in a hollow grave on the south shore of Lake Hodges, which we can see from our house. The Chelsea King case provided renewed interest in another teen missing since February of 2009. Saturday afternoon, the remains of Amber Dubois were discovered in Pala, and the local rec park, to which we often take Aaron to play, had its ponds drained in the search.

And the man suspected in both of these cases, John Albert Gardner, a registered sex offender, lives with his mother about 5 miles from our house.

As a parent, I hope to never have to know what Chelsea's and Amber's parents are going through right now. Their grief is compounded by the community's outrage that Gardner was free to commit these heinous acts in the first place. In 2000, Gardner was sentenced to six years in prison for molesting a 13-year old. In that case, a psychiatrist recommended that Gardner receive the maximum sentence, 30 years, indicating that the callous demeanor and lack of remorse indicated that Gardner would continue to be a threat to young women. Instead of receiving the psychiatrist-recommended maximum sentence, Gardner walked after serving five years.

And now, because the justice system failed in its civic duties, two teenagers are dead, and another is recovering from an attack. This despicable creature, who should never have been allowed to see the light of day after 2000, has pleaded not guilty to charges of rape and murder. This is detestable.

The system has failed both Chelsea and Amber. If Gardner is not given the death penalty for this, the system will have failed all of us.

Postseason Airing of Grievances

I realize that Festivus has come and gone, but I have a few grievances I would like to air:

• Indianapolis and the Great Forfeit of 2009: I have never seen Peyton Manning so close to tears. Jim Caldwell and Colts owe the city of Indianapolis a bit more than a shrug and a statement that they've only got their eyes on the prize. Why wouldn't you want to make history? Despite their support of the coach and the organizations, you can tell the the players are exceptionally disappointed in the decisions made by the Colts' organization.

In general, I think it's a complete cop-out not to play your starters. By not playing at 100%, teams like the Colts are giving other mediocre teams that shouldn't make the playoffs a get-out-of-jail free card, and a pass straight into the postseason. Weak.

I'm typing this as Brian Hoyer is currently playing quarterback for the Patriots and as Wes Welker sits in the locker room waiting for an MRI on his left knee. If Wes Welker misses the postseason because of this, he can take solace in the fact that he put up some of the best numbers the league has seen in years. Although I don't agree with Brady sitting out, at least there's a legitimate reason--dude's been playing with three broken ribs for weeks now. I'd still like to request that he suck it up, but, for some reason, Belichick doesn't consult me on these matters.

• It is currently 80 degrees outside. And yes, this is a grievance. It is January 3.

There's Nothing "Warm" About It...

I've never wanted to live in Seattle so badly...

Pretty Please?!

I am not above begging. Pretty pretty please with a cherry on top sprinkled with chocolate jimmies and whipped cream and chocolate sauce donate?

Points of Order

• There are TWO WEEKS LEFT, PEOPLE. Dig deep down in those pockets. Pretty please? DONATE. Every dollar helps. Thank you.
• The Christmas spirit has struck me early this year. Santa's list has been made, and I'm counting down the days until I can put the tree up. This will be our first Christmas "at home" here in SD. I'm not counting That One Year I Gave Birth to My Firstborn Child Who Was Born 3 Days after Christmas.
• Check this out: Traffic Tirades. A friend of mine here in SD started this blog as a safe way to vent her road rage. I update the Twitter feed for this blog. You can follow us on Twitter, and you know you want to. @traffictirades
• .backwards is everything now and relocated was work at cubicle My (see what I did there? I'm so clever.)
• Ian will begin to commute up to 29 Palms during the week soon, and will only be home on weekends. We're getting a practice go of it this week, and IT SUCKS. That is all.

Down to the Wire

Hi Folks,

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness month, and here's how you can help: DONATE. 

I'm almost there: 57%! And just a little over a month to go. So, give a buck for boobs, a twenty for tits, or a hundred for hooters! :) Every dollar counts, and your support is most appreciated.

~The Pilot's Wife

Murphy's (Clegg's?) Law

For the past week or so, it has seemed that anything and everything that COULD go wrong HAS gone wrong. And quite frankly, it's pushing me to the brink of insanity, were I not already there.

Settle in, folks. Grab your coffee, because this blog is my proverbial couch, and you, dear reader, are the overpaid therapist.

On Thursday, August 13, the fam all headed to the Great White North for bro-in-law's nuptials. Now, I approached this trip with a little more trepidation than usual. With that being said, those who live with me (Ian) know that I am totally bat-shit crazy when it comes to travelling with our pint-sized human. After all, this being one and the same child who screamed bloody murder for 4.5 out of 6 hours when we flew back to Boston while Ian was deployed. Couple the toddler trepidation with my habit of packing for trips 45 minutes or so before we leave (Gertrude Murphy is rolling over in her grave right now...sorry, Dema!) and you've got a huge ball of criz-zazy goin' on.

But, as it turned out, the trip was perfect. Aaron, seeming to have shed the skin of toddler, was a perfect angel the entire flight. As Ian would later relate it, "...he got a little cranky when we were getting ready to land since we had to turn off his Thomas videos."

Um, excusé moi? A LITTLE CRANKY? This body-snatcher child?! The same one who had me seriously considering throwing either myself or him (possibly both) from the plane at 10,000 feet a mere 3 months ago? A little cranky, my pinky toe.

So after we managed to wrangle our luggage into a rental car (sweet Hay-soos, I can't wait until making Aaron pack and lug his own luggage isn't considered to be child abuse!), we took off for St. Mary's, Ontario. I'm not sure how adequately that map conveys the sense of how deep in the country this place actually was. East Bumfuck is a sprawling metropolis compared to this place.

All of this is not to say, however, that Patrick and MaryAnne's wedding was not charming and perfect and all that, but holy hell, I thought I grew up in the backwoods. (Woods, that now have, apparently, the need for a Wendy's, CVS, Walgreens, Waffle House, and many other fine local establishments. It makes me feel wicked old to actually say "Back in my day, there were trees and fields, and the intersection was a four-way stop. Stop optional.")

Ian was, obviously, in the wedding party, and therefore, unable to assist with wrangling Aaron during the ceremony/reception. But, as it turned out, there would actually be no need for it. 45-minute drive to the church from the hotel? No, mom, I'm cool. 2-hour long Tridentine Latin chant mass? No, thanks, it's cool, mom, I'll just sit here quietly through the WHOLE THING and play with my trains. No sweat.

Ok, who are you, pint-sized child man, and what have you done with my son?

Aaron finally showed up at about 10:30 that night, nap-deprived and showing only a slight and fleeting interest in doing the chicken dance with his uncle Brendan before not even the promise of Thomas (ooh, hey, that's a catchy little phrase) could calm him. So, away we went. Ian "Life-of-the-Party" Brown stayed behind to dance away the night until the wee hours of the morning, and Aaron and I headed back to the hotel.

Side story: Once upon a time, I bought a new car. The dealer made the mistake of telling me that the fuel light in the car comes on when there is one gallon of gas left in the tank. Therefore, once the light comes on, I still have about 25–30 miles of highway driving to get my happy ass to a gas station. I have, on occasion, led Ian to the brink of a heart attack by pushing the limits of my car's MPGs. I always make it, though.

Halfway back to the hotel, my fuel light comes on. Now, I'm usually NOT perturbed by this, but since there was still a good 30 miles to the hotel, and I couldn't recall seeing a gas station in recent memory, I became slightly worried.

(Thought you knew where this was going, eh?)

My worry was for naught, however, and both Aaron and I made it back to the hotel in one piece, where he promptly fell asleep facedown in his Thomas pillow. (Actually, it was quite the sight to see: in the morning, I woke up first, and both Ian and Aaron were in the same position; namely, on their stomachs, one arm wrapped around the pillow in which their faces were buried, the other flung out to the side. Ahh, like father, like son.) Later that day, once Ian extracted himself from his bed, we packed our things again, and headed back to Toronto. Once everyone had arrived, the grandparents kicked the parents out, so Ian and I and Ian's cousin Alice, and her husband, Miguel got a free night out on the town and some delightful lamb chops in Greektown.

The next day, Monday, Ian, Aaron, and I joined Ian's mom, aunt, uncle, Alice, Miguel, and their kids, Miguelito and Pedro, for a trip out to Toronto Island. It was a lot of fun, since the place is an amusement park of sorts, but has many rides tailored to young kids. Our fearless offspring dove headfirst into pretty much everything we threw at him (though, for the record, the spinning teacups are a "no-no." It seems Aaron likes his tea straight up: no twirling. What can I say, he's a man of simple tastes.), but occasionally it was hard to tell who was more nervous about the rides: Miguel or Miguelito. Nontheless, we all had a good time.

Tuesday afternoon, Ian and I headed down to Buffalo to return our rental car and stay the night, as I had to leave at the ass crack of dawn to catch my flight back to San Diego. And this is where it all took a turn for the worse.

As we were rushing out the door, I realized that I hadn't printed off my boarding passes. "Eh, no biggie," I thought, "as long as I'm there on time, I can check in tomorrow morning." I turned on my iPhone, pulled up my email reservation and checked the time of departure: 8:05 am.

We returned our car, and headed off into the sunset to find our hotel. Now, apparently, in my years since working in the hotel industry, I seem to have become what Ian calls a "hotel snob." But hey, I worked for Marriott for like, 3 years, and we had, you know, standards. But since Ian's standards were cheap, frugal, not costly, and inexpensive, we found ourselves at the EconoLodge in South Buffalo. I'm sure you've seen it...on the news.

So, we found our local bookstore, had a delightful dinner, and headed back to the "hotel," where I gingerly peeled back the bedspread making sure that contact between it and my own body was as minimal as possible, and we read for a bit, and eventually went to sleep.

Now, this entire time, Ian has had a cold that has settled in his throat, it seemed, since he was inexplicably coughing himself stupid. He even spent a few nights on the couch in Toronto so he wouldn't wake the entire house with his hacking. At 2:00 am on Wednesday, he broke into one of his fits, except that, this time, he was coughing so hard that he threw up. Needless to say, neither one of us really slept well that night.

My alarm went off at 5:45, and I jumped in and out of the shower as quickly as possible in order to avoid contracting an STD, and, after a few wrong turns, we finally pulled into the airport at 7:00. I grabbed my suitcase, kissed Ian goodbye, and happily skipped into the terminal, ready to begin my huband- and baby-free "me time."

While I was standing in line to check-in, I looked for my flight on the departures board. When I didn't see it, I was a little confused, double checked to make sure I wasn't looking at the arrivals board, and looked again. Nope, not listed. Huh. I turned on my (almost dead) phone, to look for the flight number when I saw my mistake. That 8:05 departure? Yeah, that was the San Diego departure. I was supposed to have left Buffalo at 7:00. Having missed my flight, I was now on stand-by. The lady at the ticket counter was super nice, and after I showed her my military ID, she was gung-ho about getting me back home, stat.

I got on the first available flight to Baltimore, and it seemed like, even though I was completely retarded and missed my flight, I would make it to San Diego only a few hours later than originally planned.

Now, I don't know who that optimistic, life-is-good person was, but it couldn't have been me. I don't do optimistic. When asked whether my glass is half full or half empty, my reply is that it's probably poisoned, that's how optimistic I am.

After not getting on the FOURTH flight, I was getting more and more concerned. After my trials and tribulations with government health care, I was supposed to be back at work the next day, so not getting to San Diego THAT DAY was not an option if I wanted to keep my job. By now, I have also made Frenemies with 2 or 3 other people on stand-by, also trying to get to San Diego.

Now, I say "Frenemies" because, let's face it: we're competing for a seat. It acutally took us a few rounds to realize how the whole stand-by thing works: basically, you're given a priority (I'm assuming High, Medium, and Low), and if you don't get on one flight, your name and priority are automatically transferred to the next available flight, so you don't have to, as I and my frenemies did for two or three rounds, have to race each other from gate to gate to check in first, throw your arms and chest out as the losers skid to a stop behind you. It's just NOT NECESSARY. BUT, they didn't tell us that until we had missed, like, the 3rd flight. So, it was fun while it lasted.

At this point, it's pushing 4:00 EST. With all the flights overbooked, confirmed passengers are being asked to volunteer their seats to accommodate everyone, so all we stand-bys can do is pray that some idiot misreads their departure time and misses their flight. Ahem.

Also at this point, I'm seriously considering changing my final destination to Los Angeles, since it seems that I might have slightly better luck in getting there than to San Diego. It's only 1.5 hours from where I need to be, and I can either rent a car and drive home or take the train. While I'm debating this strategy, the gate agent informs me that I have the highest priority for stand-by passengers, so if there's one seat open, just one seat, it's got my name on it.

Conundrum. Wait it out for San Diego with my high priority or switch to LAX and low priority but better chances? Figuring that if I were to switch to LAX and the next flight to San Diego would have space available, I decide to stick with it, tough it out, and all sorts of other motivational cliches.

And, lo and behold, IT WORKS. Almost.

When all the confirmed passengers have boarded, stand-by passengers can be seen anxiously scanning the halls for anyone who is running. Running people are bad. They're probably running to catcht the flight YOU want to get on. Gate agents page passengers who are checked in, but not on board. In this case, they were looking for one Joe Toscana. They paged him once. They paged him again. They gave him a final warning . Then, cue choir of heavenly angels, they tell me it's a go. My frenemies glare at me as I prance down the jetway and take my seat. I squish myself between two little old ladies, who inquire as to my flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes, and overall countenance of triumph, and I relate my travel woes. But, in the middle of relation, the surfer-boy gate agent starts looking for me. I can tell he's looking for me, and for some reason, I just know they're going to take me off again. I scrunch down in my chair, but it's no use. Apparently, Joe Toscana was in the pisser on the plane when they were looking for him, and he's already on board. Damn you, Joe Tosacana, damn you!

I slink back up the jetway, tears of frustration streaming down my once-triumph-flushed cheeks as various gate agents offer their condolences. Yeah, yeah, yeah, bite me. Just get me on a plane.

And then, Kim appears. Glorious Kim. Angel Kim. Gate agent extrordinare Kim. Kim lowers her voice and levels with me. I feel like we're making a drug deal. She needs 10 minutes. 3 people haven't yet checked in for the next flight, which is direct to San Diego with stops in Denver and Las Vegas. If, in 10 minutes, those 3 people aren't checked in, she can cancel their reservations and get me a boarding pass. In fact, I only need for one of those 3 not to check in. I pray for traffic, for keys locked in cars, for long security lines. 12 minutes later, I'm hovering in a corner near Kim and she slides a boarding pass across the desk to me. A boarding pass. Sweet Jesus, the rapture! Baltimore, it's been a thin slice of heaven, but I am OUTTA HERE!

I cautiously walk, once again, down the jetway (no prancing this time, as it did me NO GOOD last time around) and settle in in the last available seat next to the Drunkest. Man. I. Have. EVER. Seen. In. My. Life. And that's saying a lot. I did, after all, go to a Catholic college.

This man was hiccupping, trying to give his trash to the flight attending DURING THE SAFETY BRIEF, and was so drunk, he was slurring his pauses. And, ohmigod, the smell. Kill me. BUT, I am on my way home, and he evenually passes out (on my shoulder).

We land in Denver, and are informed by our chipper crew that they will be doing a count of all through passengers, and once that count is confirmed, we are free to change seats, dance around, throw a rave in the emergency exit row, whatever. So they do the count. It's one over.

Finally haven gotten West of the Mississippi River, I feel it's ok not to hide. So I tell the flight attendent that I was a stand-by passenger who got a seat, and that I'm probably the one not included in their count. Ok, ma'am, stay put, we'll get you a boarding pass, you're fine, and you can stay.

I imagine my euphoria at being told I could stay would be not unlike being told I was accepted by a sorority. But, again, that whole Catholic school thing=no Greek life, and well, I was a theatre nerd, anyway.

So anyhoo, the flight from Denver takes off and I'm on it. The only way they could get me off of it would be to toss me out across the skies of Colorado. And (hopefully) that's not happening.

A short time later, we begin to descend into Sin City. Now, I was an airline brat as a child, taking my first unaccompanied flight around the age of 5, and I eventually grew up to marry a pilot. I've had my share of rough landings. So we're descending (all the while I'm looking for the Bellagio, where Ian and I will be staying in a few weeks for the old man's bday!) and we're probably, what, like 100 or 200 feet off the ground? when there's a burst of power from the engines, and we're thrown backwards as the plane begins a steep, sharp ascent back up in to the air.

Uh....ok. What just happened? The captain comes on over the PA and lets us know, hey, guys, sorry about that, but the plane that landed before us hadn't yet cleared the runway, so there might have been a bit of a collision of sorts if we hadn't waved off the landing.

Comforting. Let's all pitch in and get the air traffic controller some coffee, shall we? All I can think is, Oh Em Gee, I was almost on the evening news.

On attempt numero dos, we actually DO land, and we get the same spiel. Through passengers, stay seated until we get the count, blah, blah, blah. I straight up tell the flight attendant that his count will be one over, and it's me! it's me! so don't freak out, ok?

So, World's Drunkest Man and others deplane, they get their count (it's one over, imagine that), and then it's cool. Until it's not cool.

"There's a man who leads a life of danger/To everyone he meets he stays a stranger/With every move he makes another chance he takes/Scrawny Agent Man, Scrawny Agent Man!/They've given you a number and taken away your name."

"Attention passengers! There is someone on this plane who shouldn't be. There should only be 7 of you, and there are 8. I am coming through with a list of names, and if you shouldn't be here, you will be asked to leave."

OK, whoa. No need for an investigation, folks. I TOLD you it was me. I raise my hand and let Scrawny Agent Man know, um, hello? It's me. I already told you!

"Ma'am. What's your last name, please?"

"Um, Brown."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Could you speak directly into the microphone, please?" (OK, not really, he just asked me to repeat myself, but whatever.)

"BROWN. Like the color."

"Well, ma'am, you're not on the list."

"I know. I already told you that."

"Please gather your belongings and come with me."

Now, to the 7 other people on the plane, they're probably thinking that I've just been busted for meth possession or something (it's baby powder, I swear!!) the way this guy is making it out. Wielding his blue pen of justice, he IS Scrawny Agent Man!

SAM makes me do the Jetway Walk of Shame and tells me that I'll have to check in as a stand-by passenger.

Um, excuse, SAM, I already did that. I was told that the boarding pass I received would allow me to--

Irrelevant, ma'am. You'll need to check in with Mike. Now, he's the one over there behind the (finger air quotes) check-in counter. He's got the short, dark hair, he's wearing khaki shorts, short sleeves... (I'm sorry, SAM, am I now a contestant on a dating gameshow? Check-in desk. Got it.)

Now, Mike, bless his heart, is just so. So. Confused. He asks me my name, I tell him. He can't find my reservation. He asks me for my confirmation number, and I rattle it off without looking. Mike looks up, surprised.

"Wow. Bonus points for that."

"Mike, I don't want bonus points. I just want a seat to San Diego."

"Hmm...(looking at magic computer screen for answers)...well...OK. Tell me about Buffalo."

"Um, it's in New York. It's near Canada. They like, invented the hot wing or something. Have you been to the EconoLodge there? It's just lovely."

"So what happened in Buffalo?"

"I missed my flight. They put me on stand-by. I flew to Baltimore. They, too, have good hot wings. Man, I am HUNGRY. I got on flight 824. Denver to...where am I? Vegas. Denver to Vegas. Continuing to San Diego."

"But why are you HERE?"

"Because they pulled me off the plane."

"But why are you in Vegas?"

"Because the plane stopped here. What am I missing here, Mike?"

"Well, you were supposed to go from Denver to San Diego."

"Yes, Mike, that's what I'M TRYING TO DO."

"Well, you should be on flight 824."

"The one behind you, the one they just pulled me off of?!"

After a few more minutes of intelligent banter with Mike, I run, at breakneck speed, with boarding pass in hand, toss it at SAM, and run back down the jetway moments before they close the cabin door.

Ohmigod. WHATEVER. JUST GET ME HOME.

We take off. We land in San Diego. I fetch my bags from Southwest Baggage Center, where my bags have been since like, oh, 11:00am. It's now 8:30pm, PST, and I'm only like 10 hours later than I had originally planned, but whatever, it's cool. I grab my bags, and head for the curb, where I will be picked up by the courtesy van that will take me to the truck, and I can finally go home. Perky Driver Gal attempts to make small talk, is brutally rebuffed, and I'm finally in the truck. Wendy's junior bacon cheeseburger? Don't mind if I do! I drive home. Finally, I pull in. I throw the truck into park, grab my suitcase, and head to the door.

I turn the knob on screen door. You know the one, it's been there since the house was built in 1986. Orignal knobs that were, I'm sure, at some point, gold or something. They're, like, organic at this point. The screen door for which, if there ever were a key, it's more than possible that the knob would actually eat it if you tried to put it in there.

And. It's LOCKED.

At this point, it all comes flooding back. I've been awake since 2am EST, it's now 9:30pm PST, and I'm locked. Out. Of. My. House.

I let loose with a string of curses that would stun a sailor into silence. Since I do have my own car keys, I can get in to my car to get the garage door opener, but since the door leading from the garage to the house is, obviously locked and dead-bolted, I don't get much further than that. I'm digging through our toolbox, I'm prying screens off windows, and I've got a sledgehammer in my hand ready to take a window out when I hear my neighbor, Ken (Kent? Fred?) in his backyard. After giving him a slight heart attack, I explain my situation, and the two of us spend the next hour trying to break into a house in which I now feel completely and utterly secure.

After Ken/Kent/Fred (I don't know why, but everytime I see the man, "Fred" flashes in my head.) managed to pry open the shower window and climb up into the shower and drop down in, he let me in the front door, helped me with my bags, and I thought to myself, "Finally. I am home. And I can take a shower. And I can go. To. Bed."

But no. Oh, no. No no.

After being on a plane for, like, 5 hours, it occurs to me that I really need to go to the bathroom. But when I try to flush, nothing happens. I then realize that, while we were on vacation, Ian turned off the water to the house, and I have absolutely no frakking idea where the water main is. (Or so I thought--turns out that he actually just turned off each individual line. With the strength of the Hulk. Leaving me and my frail, petite little hands up, ahem, Shit Creek.) After repeated calls to his cell phone, I truly and utterly gave up. It's now close to 11:00 and I have to be at work in the morning. I set my alarm for 5:00, with the intention of getting up and going to the gym for the sole purpose of using their shower on my way in to work.

When 5:00 rolls around, I drag my ass out of bed, jump in my car and get ready to go to the gym. I start my car and drive off, and in my sleepy stupor think to myself, "Man, this car doesn't ride as smoothly as our rental did. Huh. Oh well."

Before I leave my neighborhood, I realize that my tire is flat. SERIOUSLY.

But, you know what? At this point, it was like, hey, whatever. What else could POSSIBLY go wrong? Everything? OK, cool. I'm just rolling with the punches. I switch out the car for the truck, go to the gym, shower the past 32 hours off my body, and go to work. I call Dan, my civilian friend's husband, who serves as Mr. Fix-It when any of the military guys are gone (and, truthfully, sometimes when they're not) to come throw on the spare, a task he's now gotten down to a SCIENCE since this is the THIRD flat tire I've had in the past SIX months. (Seriously, do I have MAGNETIC tires? HOW ELSE could I have run over 3 different nails? It's not like I frequent construction sites and go joyriding in my spare time.) $200 and two new tires later, my travel adventures (and this blog) finally come to a close.

Moral of the story: double check your departure time.

Sticks and Stones and the Kitchen Sink

As you may have heard, I recently had surgery to remove a fairly large kidney stone that has been an unending source of fun, happiness, and sunshine and rainbows. (I hope the sarcasm is just dripping.) Many of my friends, after hearing of my complications, scolded me for not updating them on my health status. But, here's the thing: IT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE A BIG DEAL. I've had kidney stones before, and, as statistics show, the probability that I'll get them again is high. This was, however, my first time that surgery was required to get them out. (Previous episodes simply involved much wailing and gnashing of teeth as I poised over the commode...P.S. I apologize in advance for anything you don't want to know, but hey, I'm trying to be discreet, and you are, after all, still reading, aren't you?) This was also not my first experience with Navy Medicine—Aaron was, after all, born at NMCSD (Naval Medical Center, San Diego) one balmy eve following the birth of Christ back in 2006—but after this experience, I certainly hope it will be one of the last.

My kidney stone originally reared its ugly head on June 12-13. On the evening of the 12th, I woke up in excruciating pain around midnight. Having had stones previously, I know right off the bat what it was. After I threw up for the third time, I had to enlist the help of my superwonderfulawesomeamazing friend, Lois, for help. While she stayed at the house while Aaron slept, I made my way to the ER down the road from us. That experience wasn't anything out of the norm, and, though it took awhile to get in and out of there, I walked out with pain meds and instructions to call my PCM.

Now, a sidenote about how military health care works. We have TriCare Prime, which means that we can go to our PCM (Primary Care Manager) as much as we want, and it's always covered; but, in order to see a specialist, any type of specialist, we have to be referred by our PCM. Even if I were to find a specialist on my own who accepts TriCare, TriCare will not pay for their services unless a referral comes through the PCM. Hoops, yes, but, more importantly, FREE.

But here's where things get slightly tricky. I went to see my PCM 2 days after my visit to the ER. TriCare did not approve my referral until 7 days later. Furthermore, they did not notify me that they had approved it until 6 days after THAT. Most unfortunately (for me), however, was the fact that my referral was picked up by an MTF (Military Treatment Facility—i.e., a Navy Hospital). The particular MTF to which I was referred was aboard Camp Pendleton, 30 miles and close to an hour away from my house. However, as TriCare operates on a "straight-line mileage" system, (basically, draw a straight line from my house to the MTF, and if it's within a certain radius, boom, it's done.), ultimately cutting both the actual time and distance in half. Whatever. I had kidney stones, I was in pain (albeit not constant), it had already been over 2 weeks since my diagnosis and I needed to see someone, STAT.

And, so, my tumultous relationship with NMCCP (Naval Medical Center, Camp Pendleton) began.

*Ring, ring*
Corpsman: Thank you for calling Naval Medical Center, Urology, this is Corpsman Whateverhisnamewas, how may I help you, sir or ma'am?
Bree: Hi, I have a referral from TriCare. I was diagnosed with kidney stones about 2 weeks ago, and would like your earliest available appointment.
Corpsman: [...][...][...][...]
Bree: Hello?
Corpsman: Yes, ma'am, I'm looking for you now. How about next Wednesday, the 8th at 0820?
Bree: No, I said I needed your FIRST available appointment.
Corpsman: Yes, ma'am, that is the first one we have available.
Bree: Today is June 29th. That's over a week away, and I've been in pain for 2 weeks. Not to mention, I won't be able to make that date since my husband will be coming home from Iraq that day.
Corpsman: [...] One moment, ma'am. [...][...][...][...][...][...][...][...][...] (at this point, we're probably on the phone for about 15 minutes.) OK, ma'am, I just spoke with the doctor, and he can stay after hours for you on Monday, the 6th.
Bree: That's still a week away.
Corpsman: Yes ma'am, but it's the first available appointment.
Bree: Well, in that case, can you put me through to someone who can release my authorization referral to a civilian provider who can see me in a more expeditious fashion?
Corpsman: No, ma'am, since NMCCP has space available, we are unable to release your authorization.
Bree: You mean to tell me that your clinic is claiming to have "space available" and you can't see me for 7 DAYS?!
Corpsman: Yes, ma'am.

At this point, I called shenanigans. I threw temper tantrums at (admittedly undeserving) underlings, I called supposedly higher-ranking powers-that-be, I even tried crying, and none of it worked. By the time I had finished, the "first available" appointment was no longer available. Of course. I FINALLY got in to see a urologist on July 13. ONE MONTH after my diagnosis. After an extensive (and by "extensive," I obviously mean "the doctor spoke so fast I had trouble keeping up, and by the time I left his office, my head was still trying to comprehend the first 7 words he spit out at me") interview, I left the office with a pre-op date, and an appointment for same-day surgery should the stone not pass on its own as well as a prescription for, as the doctor told me in his own words (the three I actually managed to understand) "medicine for prostates."

Um, excuse me, doctor, did you happen to notice that I'M NOT A MAN? I mean, sometimes my fingers swell when it's hot, but the long hair and the high heels didn't give it away? I DON'T HAVE A PROSTATE.

Oh, and maybe I should mention that all of this was arranged without any type of scan. No, no, Doc trusted me. If I was still having pain, then it was probably still in there. Drink a lot of water, try to pass it, and, for God's sake, woman, take your prostate medicine!

2 weeks and 1 day later, I head back to NMCCP for my pre-op exam. In those two weeks and one day, I had had some pain, an occassional flare up, and I assumed that the stone was still there. So, again, the Doc TOOK MY WORD FOR IT. Surgery was set for the next day.

Scans? Who needs 'em? Why bother verifying that the thing you plan to retrieve by STICKING A HOSE UP MY LADY PARTS is, actually, in fact, there in the first place? Semantics.

Wednesday, July 29--Same day surgery. All goes well. I check in, they put me under, wheel me in, take it out, and bam. I'm done. Prove to us that you can, in fact, pee, and you're good to go.

Thursday, July 30--Since I'm on some pretty heavy pain medication, I spend the day sleeping and watching movies.

Friday, July 31--Back to work. Things feel slightly weird, since, after all, I will continue on with a stent in my ureter for 3 more days to ensure everything heals all nice-like. I sit at a desk and read with my red pen poised, and it's not like I do any heavy lifting or anything, so this should be fine. And it is, until it isn't. Once I stand up to retrieve something I printed off, I come to realize that my pants are wet. I take that back. My pants are SOAKING wet. Now, I can't really remember the last time I wet my pants, so this is a little shocking to me. After telling my boss that I have to go home, because I literally just pissed myself, I call the urology clinic on the way home.

*Ring, ring*
Corpsman: Thank you for calling Naval Medical Center, Urology, this is Corpsman Whateverhisnamewas, how may I help you, sir or ma'am?
Bree: Yeah, hi, this is Bree Brown, and I was in your clinic on Wednesday for same-day surgery. I seem to be having some, uh, complications? May I speak with a doctor, please?
Corpsman: Unfortunately, there are no doctors available to speak with you ma'am. You see, we're holding a free prostate screening today, so they're all occupied with that. Is there anything I can help you with?
Bree: (after mentally correcting Corpsman's grammar) Um, well, I'm having some side effects that no one ever mentioned, so I'm a little concerned that something's wrong, and I'd really like to speak with a doctor.
Corpsman: Well, unfortunately, they're unable to speak with you.
Bree: Well, can you go grab one of them? I had SURGERY in your clinic TWO DAYS AGO, and I, apparently, no longer have control over my bladder. I. Need. To. Speak. With. A. Doctor.
Corpsman: Ma'am, I'd like to help, but I suggest that you go to the ER if you think you're having complications.

At which point, the humiliation of having peed myself in public, and the mounting frustration with Navy Medicine get to me, and I say, "Great. Thanks. Good-bye," and go home to change my pants.

But, no, the story doesn't end there. And, if you're squeamish, or don't like reading about anatomy, stop reading now, and know that I'm all better now. :)

So, for those of you who decided to stick it out, when I got home and went to the bathroom, I realized that the stent was no longer attached by a string, as it should have been, but rather, hanging half out of...well, you know. Since things have now obviously gone wrong, I pull it the rest of the way out (um, OUCH, to say the least) and I call the clinic determined to find out just what. The. Eff. Is. Going. On.

**ring ring
Incompetent Civilian Bitch: Urology.
Bree: Hi, this is Brianne Brown. I had surgery in your clinic on Wednesday, and I'm having complications. I need to speak with a doctor now.
ICB: [...][...][...] *sigh* Mrs. Brown, you were told that we were giving free prostate exams today, and you know there aren't any doctors available to speak with you.
Bree: I understand that, but I'm actually a patient of yours, one who had SURGERY in your clinic from which I am having what I believe to be serious complications; don't I rank slightly higher than someone who walks in off the street and who may or may not be sick? What would you like me to do?!
ICB: Go to the ER.
Bree: Oh, yeah, great, thanks.

And just as I was about to ask her another question, I heard a click, and realized the ICB had just hung up on me. At which point, I burst into tears, from both frustration and an ever-sharpening pain in my back. Ian, at this point most likely fed up with me, throws me in the truck, slaps his bluetooth in his ear, and simultaneously drives me to the ER while pulling rank to "bludgeon someone into submission" (his words, not mine). Although his attempts at bludgeonment were, ultimately, lost on the ICB, I still thought it was pretty sexy.

So, we get to the ER after a minor (and brief) struggle as to which ER we should go. He suggested the ER at NMCCP, and I said, no effing way you are...aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh, ooooooooooooo, ohhhhhhhhhhhh, god, it hurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrts...out of your freaking mind if you think...aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, make it stop!!!!!!!!!!!...think I'll be stepping foot in that mother effing...OHHHHHHMYYYYYGODDDDDDDDD, OOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW...hospital again. (Or, you know, something along those lines.)

So we get to the ER, where I am now crying solely from the pain. They want me to pee in a cup, and I can't, since apparently, it all came out IN MY PANTS. In public. At my job. FML. (I won't be spelling out that acronym for you, but if you know what it means, then you know what it means. If you don't, I apologize.) They FINALLY wheel me in to a room, where I change and they start the IV of pain medication. Dilaudid. It's amazing. As soon as it hit my bloodstream, my shoulders went numb, and I was all, like, "Kidney stones?! What kidney stones? This is niiiiiiice. Oooooooooooohhh, shiny lights..."

Eventually, Ian had to leave me to attend to the needs of and procure arrangements for our son, happily oblivious to what he would later refer to as "Mommy's owie." While he was gone, the doctor came in to tell me that, after looking at my scans, I had a kidney stone. And I was all like, well, that's funny, since I just had one taken out, and I HAVEN'T HAD A SCAN YET. (This hasn't been confirmed, but my suspicion is that he was looking at the one and only scan ever taken for this kidney stone, the same one that originally started this whole mess.) And he was all like, "Oh, well we should have you get one." And I'm all like, "YA THINK?!"

Well, they finally wheeled me off for said scan, and apparently, the doc was pyschic: the scans STILL showed a kidney stone. What to do, what to do? Eh, screw it; just send her home with a prescription for some anti-nausea meds to add to her ever-expanding home pharmacy.

I felt like making a tshirt that said, "I spent 6 hours in the ER, and all I got was this lousy Zofran."

Saturday and Sunday were spent muffling my screams of pain and sobbing into my pillow.

Monday Ian took the morning off work and together, we set off for NMCCP to crack skulls. I was originally scheduled to head back there anyway, to have my stent removed, but thought I would take the opportunity to rain my wrath down upon the Urology clinic. Since I didn't have an appointment, I had to wait. And as Ian and I honed our skillz on iPhone Jeopardy, I grew increasingly enraged.

Unfortunately, I didn't really have a chance to rain said wrath, because what the doc said (and I made him speak slowly this time) mostly made sense. Since the stone I had removed was so large, and in such a weird spot in the ureter, they had to blast it into pieces to take them out. During the surgery, it seemed, one of the pieces decided to be all sneaky and wily and head out to go hang out at the bar in the kidney, so the docs didn't see it, and therefore, didn't get it out. When the stent fell out (apparently, not uncommon in women, since the stent doesn't have as far to travel in men, and men don't accidentally tug on the the string when they wipe themselves after they pee) the ureter was raw and irritated from the surgery, and, as Left Behind Stone started to make its way out, it was coming through rather, uh, rugged conditions, if you will. Hence the pillow screaming.

Doc sent me home with, gasp, shock, more pills, including the prostate one again, but also the pill form of the shoulder-numbing IV drio I had had in the ER on Friday.

So that brings us to now. I haven't had any pillow screaming episodes since, and I was able to return to work on Thursday. (Slightly inconvenient for my very patient and understanding boss, since I'll be leaving again for a week beginning Thursday on a planned vacation...oh, well.) I don't know if the stone ever passed, or is passed out in the Kidney Bar, and I still have a pharmacy's worth of pills at my beck and call. I'll soon be googling the street value of Dilaudid. Make me an offer, people.

The moral of the story: Navy Medicine sucks, and while free, it certainly seems that you get what you pay for. Also, Murphy's Law applies; whatever can go wrong will.