If you like me even a little bit, please do not read any further.
I must express the following, because I’m an expresser, but it will disturb and irritate you.
BUT if you made it this far, please call the cops if I don’t blog tomorrow. My husband is ready to kill me.
Today, I visited the phlebotomist. And it’s important to know that in addition to my flying, insect and mayonnaise phobias, I am phlebotophobic as well.
In layman’s terms, I do not like having my blood drawn. In fact, I do not like anything sharp or probing ANY where near my nooks, crannies or cavities. I especially hate probing in my crannies. And if the probe is needlely, I hate that the worst.
Let me bring home this point: I birthed both my daughters UNMEDICATED only because I preferred to not have needles near my person. Or in the room. If I were Queen, I would have outlawed all needles within town limits. Also, the world. There’s so many medical advancements these days. Certainly, researchers can work on a technology that draws blood without actually drawing the blood? Like with mind control? (I truly don’t even know what I mean by that.) (You’re not still here, right?)
I did find one phlebotomist that I liked. And I followed her across town to every lab where she ever worked because she used “butterfly” needles on me (the kind babies get) and didn’t poke right in my elbow nook. I totally have an elbow nook thing. Please do not touch me there. (Anyone calling the OCD police yet?) Anyway, she got me, you know? Really got me.
I did notice she’s not there anymore. And left no forwarding address. So, there’s that.
Now there’s a new guy, and after dragging my butt into the lab from another county, I resigned myself to a new phlebotomist. And he could tell I was nervous, with my floor pacing and hand wringing, so he asked if I were OK, and I said, “Shut up. Where’s the other lady?”
And he said, “She left town.”
And I said, “Find her.”
And he said, ” “.
And I said, “What’s with you anyway? What’s your thing with mucous?”
And he’s all, “That’s a Phlegmologist.”
And then I’m like, “Fine. Why are you obsessed with gnat butts?”
And he said, “That’s a Flea Bottomist.”
By this time, I could tell my distraction method was NOT working and it was getting late.
So I toyed with the idea of losing my marbles, then eventually let him do his unholy thing.
And I guess it wasn’t too bad.
Cycle of my life: Freak out unnecessarily, wipe egg from face, rinse, repeat.
Please tell me you people have all left by now.
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