Preview of the Afterlife. And Drinking.

So Her Majesty has suffered through ear infection after ear infection after sinus infection after eye infection this winter. Plus her language development is not what our super-cautious pediatrician would like. So we got a referral to an ENT to see if tubes are in her immediate future.

A sidebar at this point: hospital and doctors' visits are nothing new to us anymore. Until a recent change of health insurance, Wonder Boy was traveling up to Children's Hospital in Dallas 2 or 3 times a year for laser treatment on a port-wine stain on his face. We also spent time in the office of many specialists last year as we attempted to figure out why he had essentially stopped growing at the age of 4. We saw an endocrinologist, cardiologist, opthamologist (yes, the eye doctor), gastroenterologist, and geneticist, among others, all of whom needed their own individual blood samples and invasive (and expensive) tests run. So much so that we know the name of the best draw-er for kids in town. (It's Donny at CPL Bailey Square if you're interested. And yes, I know that technically he is a phlebotomist.).

The idea, then, that our little angel might be going "under the knife" briefly for tubes does not cause Pod and me to run shrieking for the hills.

And we've sat through all sorts of medical procedures and tests.

Now where was I? Oh, right.

The doctor wanted to test Her Majesty's hearing. To do this, we had to go into a very small room, sit very still in a chair, and wait for Her Majesty to turn her head towards certain noises. The most visible of these were two of those mechanized cymbal-banging stuffed animals in small boxes on either side of the room. These would go on and off irregularly, while the tech (watching us outside) occasionally whispered Her Majesty's name into a microphone.

So I think this may be a preview of hell. Small, stuffy room. Trying to keep a wiggly toddler still in your lap. Lots of things at the child's eye level (wires, headphones, and shiny red buttons) to distract them. Being startled periodically by maniacal clanging toys. And the whispery, slithery voice of someone who is observing you.

(Her hearing is fine, BTW).

On a completely different subject -- actually maybe it is the same -- I am sitting in our cluttered "chambre de crap," which contains our computer, piano, Pod's guitar equipment, piles of castoff clothing destined for the thrift shop, unhung pictures, discarded toys, unfiled paperwork, and useless Christmas gifts. Here is where I'd much rather be right now:

1) At Spider House with a book, a longneck, and a fresh pack of cigarettes.
2) On the balcony of the Stephen F., with a pint of Newcastle, my goil friends, and a fresh pack of cigarettes.
3) In some smoky dive with my mahaloo buddies, a Shiner, and a fresh pack of cigarettes.

Getting the picture? I need to cut loose, people! Walking the straight and narrow is getting old. Fast.