Chunks--Hobos, Leanna, Julie, & Idaho State Fair
This doctor was looking at a Hobo spider bite on my leg today, which I got while weeding by the mailbox last week, and he said, "You needed to bring the spider in with you." . . . OK. It's hot. I'm tired and having a triple ornery month. I’ve had no summer—no camping, no fishing, no horses, no Pro-rodeos, no fresh mountain air--Plus, though I’ve made it a goal to watch my mouth (no laughing, Matt), I’m seldom able to keep it shut and act with any decorum or dignity when someone, who should know better, makes stupid stupid comments like that one. I say, “What?”
“It would help if we knew whether the spider was mature and/or male, since they have more venom than females.”
“Wow." I'm biting my lip. "I agree with you about older males."
And it goes downhill from there because I’m thinking, WHAT? WHAT! I mean what exactly is a “mature” spider? Does he wear spectacles, have perfectly groomed manners, know the best restaurants in New York, read the Washington Post with his poached eggs? It's been a long errand-running burn-out day, and suddenly I'm over the edge into that dark hysterical laughing that you know you'd better quit--or else.
"I'm sorry. I just wasn't thinking. I flipped out. I think I ripped all the spider’s freaking legs off and fed him half to the snakes and half to my cat.”
And, then it got worse. What is the matter with me?
“But, I can go try to find his brother and bring him in if you want. Actually, how do people do that? Run back to their garages and find steel gloves? Catch the spider in a butterfly net? Or call the fire department? And, how can you really tell if a spider is male or female anyway?”
I don’t want to know the answer. I don't think this guy has any answers about anything anyway. Besides, he’s standing wide-eyed with that what-is-the-quickest-way-to-get-HER-out-of-my-office look. But, while I’ve got his attention, I ask, “Is there anything anyone can really do about spider bites?”
“Well, yes, if we know for sure it was a Hobo Spider or, say, a Brown Recluse, we give you a treatment of antibiotics.”
Antibiotics? ANTIBIOTICS? Hasn’t this guy ever listened to Alanis Morrisette? I’m living on a planet with degree-carrying IDIOTS. (Edited out screaming.)
“OK, thanks,” I say on my way to pay money, cash I-could-have-have-bought- ice cream-with to the receptionist for listening to a foolish talking medical degree. “If I find the spider, I’ll bring it in.”
My advice? (Sorry David.) If you get bitten by a spider, wait until your leg is gray and putrid-smelling before you pay good money to hear what you could have looked up on the Internet.
Leanna, NO, that’s never too much information (except for the joke about Labor Day). We’re with you and excited. I’m betting on Sunday night.
Julie, I wish you’d “write” about your life. Title it “The First Year of a Solitary Affair.”(Not funny.) But, I think there’s a huge market for a book about “wives of medical students,” as long as it was strictly honest. Then, they’d know they’re not so alone.
Megan (daughter) is going to the Idaho State Fair in Blackfoot with me Monday afternoon, but she has to leave there for SLC around 4:00. So I’m following her down in my car to stay for the 7:30 Pro rodeo. If you’re bored, come with us or meet us (except not you, Leanna; you’re definitely NOT invited), so I don’t have to sit alone in the fairway waiting for the rodeo, as I delightfully watch a mish- match of wonderful people (scads of writing material), as I eat bits and pieces from all the food booths--corn on the cob, tiger ears (huge scones with honey butter), cotton candy-- and as I walk through the arts and crafts exhibitions, pay to see the Snake Lady (just kidding), or ride the Widow maker rides. Seriously, do come if you can. It’s a novel experience. (I really do love it.)