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EVELYN AUCOIN

Evelyn Aucoin
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A Good Morning Thanks to Apathy and Meds

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Thank You
Thank You

As I age, I often reflect how dealing with doctor’s office has evolved. In my twenties, I hoped I was pregnant. In my thirties, I prayed I wasn’t pregnant. And now, in my forties, I prepare myself for the lecture about my cholesterol.  So in the course of dealing with my aging earthly vessel, blood work was recently required.

Now, the morning of my 7:30 am lab work appointment is a perfect example of how my apathy (pronounced: “don’t-give-a-crap-o-meter”) is impacting my day to day existence. I arose at 3:30 am due to a personal power surge (aka hot flash).  As a consequence of ADD and attitude, I do not arrive at the lab 10 minutes late.  I spent YEARS getting myself and two kids out the door in an hour flat, now I shuffle around for nearly 4 hours, not even having breakfast (fasting required for my stupid blood work).

Being late normally freaks me out, but I am working on my anxiety (in other words, I am medicated), so I just tell myself it is fine. If I am late for my appointed time, and it takes longer, it is not a big deal. I had deliberately not scheduled any meetings or calls until later in the day, in the event this turned into an extended adventure as many medical-office-involved appointments often can.

So, I arrive at 7:40 am. The lab opened ten minutes before, and there are already a dozen people in the waiting room. I sign in and take a seat. My inner germ-phobe is grateful I have sanitizing gel in my purse, because these chairs appear to have seen more bodily fluids that the set of Law of Order and CSI, combined.

The cast of characters includes, a very polished women, with the signature Texas Realtor (R) blond shoulder length bob, Buick-sized leather purse, black sunglasses the size of salad plates. She signs in, and trots to the farthest corner of the room, continuously typing one-handed on her Blackberry. She sits next to an elderly guy, with a beard in which could conceal a six-pack of Lone Star Beer, wearing a Duck Dynasty t-shirt. I love Texas.

Then, Hyper Woman (HyWo) enters. You have all spotted a HyWo in nature before. I would bet some serious cash that she needs this blood work to monitor her hypertension medicine levels, because they have an uphill battle. She is the size of an Amazon, extra-large smart phone in her extra-large hand. She signs in, and then STANDS at the window, tapping her ginormous pedicured foot, right next to my seat. I know I have scored a front row view of an inevitable confrontation. I make a mental note that I need to keep more snacks in my purse. I am too mesmerized to start video on my iPhone, unlike the natural instinct of any teenager would have done in this situation. YouTube gold was on the horizon.

It is now 7:55 am and the first human behind the glass partition is spotted by the HyWo, who starts tapping on the glass like a horny cardinal. “Well, it is spring”, I tell myself.

The HyWo articulates and speaks v-e-r-y slowly to the Barely Above Minimum-Wage Phlebotomist  (BAMP). HyWo explains that she has to get to work, and she has an appointment at SEVEN THIRTY (note: she arrived after I did).

HyWo continues: “Your clock is WRONG, I was ON TIME. My phone is GLOBAL TIME.” HyWo now holds up her phone to BAMP’s face through the glass. I tense, and ensure I have a clear path to the exit.

BAMP stares blankly at her; she is clearly on better drugs than the rest of us.

BAMP comes out from behind the glass (unarmed, thankfully), and reads sign in sheet list of names – three have checked the box next to our name, in the column labeled “Appt?”.

BAMP: “I see I have three Appointment People. You have not followed the system” We have each failed to document our appointment time in the requisite spot. She calls us each by name, and has us walk up to the list and write down our appointment time.

BAMP explains, “How else would I know your appointment time?”

ME, feeling a little feisty: “Um, don’t you have a schedule of the appointments?”

BAMP: “I would have to start the computer. It is better if you just write it down like you are supposed to.”

Naturally.

After we three “Appointment People”  have completed this assignment, BAMP sighs in exasperation, “Two of you can’t be at 7:30! There is only ONE appointment per time slot.” Me and HyWo are the offenders, of course. “Now, I am going to have to start the computer and see who really has it.” The computer appears to be slightly newer than a Commodore 64.

It is now 8:05. HyWo asks BAMP if she is the only one here, and BAMP says yes, she doesn’t know why BAMP2 hasn’t arrived yet.

HyWo is corrected, and told her appointment wasn’t until 7:45 (“So much for your global time”, I think), and I am ushered to the back at 8:15 for my blood draw. Which is then further delayed by the arrival of BAMP2, who needs to be let in via the employee entrance after giving “the secret knock”. Security in the health field is serious business!

So I finally leave at 8:25 am, completely amused, as HyWo is huffing and puffing as she shuffles into a room with BAMP2. “I guess my meds are working”, I ponder, as I perform a sanitizer ritual worthy of a germ exorcism in the parking lot. Work was going to be boring after this Monday morning start.

All I Wanted Was An Ottoman

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I titled my blog “Worn out Women” (note: original blog title before it was rebranded in 2017) because many of friends and I lament about how simple things turn into ordeals and it just wears us out. Case in point: I wanted a chair and an ottoman. I shopped around until I found a chair and ottoman that would work.

Sept 18, 2014: Using American Express points (because I am a points diva), and an online code for a 10% discount, I order the chair and ottoman I have carefully selected in Everyday Suede – Metal Gray. I order a large ottoman so that my 55 pound Australian Shepherd who think he is a lap dog, will have a place large enough for his hairy butt to sit without crushing me. Custom orders (I am so special!) take 10 to 12 weeks – so I receive an estimated delivery date of Nov 20th.  I sell the current furniture for a whopping $40 in the neighborhood garage sale.

October 30th: My chair arrives! Early! Surely my ottoman is not far behind.

Late November: Checking the handy online statuses, the estimated shipping date for the ottoman changes three times, and keeps moving later and later.  Emails and phone calls.

January 2nd (15 weeks after order date): The large box arrives! Joy! I carefully open the box to find an Everyday Suede, Metal Gray, ottoman, the correct size, but with completely different feet than the chair. I go to my email of my original order to be sure I am not crazy. The picture clearly shows matching dark wood, square feet, not light wood, round “bun-style” feet.

The emails and phone call ensue. They are so sorry! they will make me another ottoman immediately! It will take about 8 weeks. Meanwhile “enjoy” the wrong ottoman they tell me. They obviously pictured a lot more fun happening on it than I did.

Feb 10th (20 weeks since order): Another large box arrives. FINALLY! And I open the box, glowing with anticipation, to find another Everyday Suede, Metal Gray ottoman. This one has been packed by an apparently drunk, blind factory worker late on a Friday afternoon, as it has been crammed in a reused box, not covered, and top of the ottoman permanently marked by the inside of the top of the box. And as I pull it out, I am sure the neighbors heard the expletives fly. Large, light wood, bun-style feet. Just like the ottoman sitting in the living room, that is wrong. I now have two ottomans, each slightly smaller than a Buick, that are NOT WHAT I ORDERED.

I email the customer service representative who has been helping me. You cannot call him because “he is virtual” and does not have a number. I inform him in this email:

“Please send me up the ladder. You have been great, but apparently the problem is bigger than the scope of influence to which you have been empowered. In other words, this is bullsh*t – send me to someone with a title and reputation to lose.”

Calls and emails fly. It occurs to me if I had decided to get fertilized instead of ordering a chair and ottoman I would have a fully formed fetus instead. I could have grown an entire person in the time Pottery Barn has failed to send me the ottoman I ordered.

Pottery Barn asks me if I want a different ottoman, and explain to me as if I am an idiot, demanding customer, that the real problem now is that they do not make the one I ordered anymore. 

I explode. YOU MADE IT WHEN I ORDERED IT SIX MONTHS AGO. And honestly, if I had not kept the email with the picture, they would have never believed me. You can Google the model number I ordered all day, and no evidence that they ever made this ottoman can be found. They cannot seem to fill my order,  but they can WIPE THE INTERNET CLEAN of its existence. Why is my ottoman in witness protection? Do they have homeland security running their damn IT department? Maybe the IT department COULD FIGURE OUT HOW TO GET ME MY F%^^&*&^ing OTTOMAN.

So now, they predict on April 14th (29 weeks since order), I will receive the correct feet, and then they will send someone to install them on the ottoman. If you see a mushroom cloud over Cypress, Texas in mid-April as least now you will know why.

(Update: After tweeting about my frustration, Pottery Barn issued me a full refund for the chair and ottoman, and allowed me to keep them both. Kudos to Pottery Barn for stepping up and making the situation right.)

Objects on iPhone Screen May be Larger than They Appear (part 2)

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(See part one below for the beginning of this adventure)

Pepper and I were kindred spirits immediately. The second day she was at my house, I went into her area with a bag of dog treats. As I pulled the treat out for her, she came and sat at my feet. That is probably one of the saddest moments in fostering, because it is the second you know she was someone’s pet. I searched Craigslist and lost pet websites, called every ad that could have been her, but nothing. What was her story? I will never know.

I settled into a daily routine with Pepper and the puppies (sounds like a rock band?). There was a lot of googling and texting involved since I was clueless to the ways of gruel and whelping boxes.  My husband just shook his head a lot. He actually put his head in his hands and sighed when he discovered my daily weighing of the puppies, to be sure they were getting nourishment nursing, was conducted on his food scale protected by a paper plate.

Momma was a different story. She was one of the gentlest dogs I have ever known. I would walk her and play with her, and all my trepidation about the breed melted. Some dogs are mean, some are not, and breed may create a disposition, but it does not absolutely define. (#labelbreakers). One of my good friends has two “pigs” as she calls her pitties. I was intimidated by their big heads and massive, square jaws as I went to her house the first time. And then her female pit decided to say hi by sticking her nose all the way up my skirt unnoticed until her cold nose hit my bum. I grew up with German Shepherds and giant Dobermans (think of a Doberman the size of a Great Dane), so I know first hand other breeds who can get a bad wrap.

To market her, my case manager at the rescue league decided we needed a cuter name, so I changed it to Peppi. Peppi the Pit Bull. She should have her own blog.

About six weeks passed, the puppies weaned, and another foster stepped up to help save my marriage. But finding a foster for the “Terrier Mix” was going to be near impossible. I was secretly glad. Peppi and I had bonded, and she was a piece of cake to obedience train, and had never had a single accident in my house (even though she had been entirely in an outdoor kennel for six months prior) so she would be a great dog if we could just find the right home.

We had her picture and story up on the rescue’s Facebook page. Sure enough, one fateful day they receive an inquiry about her. I offered to let the potential adopter introduce her 12 pound, long-haired Dachshund to Peppi at my house. The foster managers of the rescue warned me to be cautious, but I assured them that Peppi was gentle, and I would manage the introduction.

The potential adopter and her 20-something daughter show up with their precious dog, and we introduce the dogs, and chatted while the pooches sniffed butt.

POTENTIAL ADOPTER: “Ideally, I want this dog to go with my daughter to graduate school.  She will be living alone, so I want her to have a dog for companionship, that is sweet as pie to her, but will put the fear of God into strangers.”

ME: “Peppi is a canine missionary. One look at her, and they will start praying.”

That is when I knew it was meant to be. Ultimately all the puppies and Peppi the pit bull went to forever homes. All because I was tipsy on Facebook and love dogs. Never underestimate how dropping your filter and taking a risk can be the best choice.

IMG_0107 IMG_0117

My favorite picture of Pepper/Peppi – and the pile of big-bellied,  puppies that by a happy accident ended up at my house.

Objects on iPhone Screen May Be Larger than They Appear (Part 1)

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So one night cruising Facebook in early March 2014, an urgent request pops up on the page for Cypress Lucky Mutt Rescue. I had recently fostered a dog, Snickerdoodle, (which is, as they say, another story) so I liked to see the updates of the other misfit, mixed breed, random parade of canines that passed through the rescue’s ranks.

The plea is something like this:

URGENT Help needed – at a shelter in South Houston, a box of newborn puppies, no momma, was dumped on the front step last night. When the workers arrived this AM they had no idea what to do – they are not equipped to bottle feed five puppies! One of the workers took a risk – the no-kill shelter had a six month resident, a sweet dog named Pepper, who was lactating from a hysterical (false) pregnancy.The workers put the puppies in with her, and she is feeding them! But this is an outdoor shelter, and the puppies will not survive (due to the weather /elements) unless we can find a foster to take all six dogs. Look at how cute they are – the puppies even match their foster mom!

And I see a picture of 5 tiny puppies, eyes closed, fragile and innocent, and the big eyes of a sweet momma dog. All are black and white – it looks ike a pile of Oreos.

Did I mention I was past my second glass of wine this night?

One of my many talents I like to brag about, is my knowledge of dog breeds. As I look at the black and white momma, I think what a cute Boston Terrier! So in a moment of dog adoring passion, fueled by Cabernet, I post “I will do it!”

The kudos and the love flowed from the rescue group “Evelyn are you sure? You are awesome! You are a hero!” Yes I am, I think. And then the text messages fly setting the appointed time for the arrival of my house guests the following afternoon.

Oh, did I mention my husband was already asleep?

So I go to bed, glowing with nobility and ego in full splendor.  And the next morning, I open my eyes and think “Oh sh*t!”

I do often cite one of my many philosophies as “ always do sober what you said you would do drunk.” I think when your filters are off (or slightly drowned) a lot of true feelings and insights can emerge. And by living up to your unfiltered ideas and desires, it will help keep you honest. This situation is one of those times.

So at the appointed time, the lady from the shelter arrives after a nearly two-hour drive at my house. She comes to my door, requesting to “see my set up” for the dogs. You know, all 6 of them.

So I take her to my laundry room, and show her the extra-large black wire kennel I have set up, with towels and blankets. She takes a quick look, and says “There is no way they will fit in there”. I think how silly! So to appease her, I demonstrate how I can use a baby gate to make a secure area of the laundry room. With the gate in place, when the doors to the kitchen, garage and wine cellar (don’t look surprised) open, no dogs can rush in or out, and my dogs, Coco and Captain, also are segregated from the unvaccinated puppies and momma dog.

Once the shelter representative was satisfied, I grab a leash and follow her to the car that contains the two large crates – one with momma and one with the pups. She opens the back of the Hyundai, and opens the first kennel door, and reaches inside to attach the leash to Pepper. Pepper is a black and white pit bull, approximately 55 pounds, who immediately jumps out to greet me. I seriously thought I was going to poop my pants right there.

ME: “Oh, I had no idea how big she is.” (Pregnant pause – no pun intended) “Um, what kind of dog do you think she is?”

SHELTER REPRESENTATIVE: Gives the standard rescue league answer in this situation: “Terrier Mix”.

Well, I think, at least I was right about the “terrier” part.  So I take the leash as lady grabs the kennel of pups; who are at least twice the size I estimated through my wine haze when I thought they were snuggled up to a Boston Terrier.

The lady heads to my front door with the puppies, and mama knows where they are, so Pepper literally drags me into my own home – just as Chris, my spouse, arrives home from the office. One of the golden moments of timing that could have never been planned to execute in this manner. So Chris walks through the living room, looks up to the open front door, to see a  stranger carrying a large kennel of whimpering puppies, being followed by a pit bull, who is dragging his wife behind her, through the living room, kitchen and into the laundry room. Let’s just say he was surprised.

It only now occurs to me that I have, in fact, 8 dogs in my house. I fear I have leaped far over the line of being a crazy dog lady. (to be continued…)

Pepper the misunderstood Pit Bull giving kisses

How to Confuse a Southern Baptist Girl

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To say I had quite a vivid imagination as a child would be an understatement. My six-year-old universe centered around the church where my father was the minister. Yes, I am one of the notorious “Preacher’s Kids” of which legends of wildness are often expounded. Sunday School, Sunday morning church, Sunday night church, Wednesday night church (mid-week Jesus check-in), programs, and church luncheons, and the occasional revival weekend. Both sets of grandparents were Southern Baptists as well and I attended a Baptist parochial school. Our whole religious view was that there were Southern Baptists and then there were Non-Southern Baptists. And we were right and their beliefs were questionable. Understandably, I was concerned  in 1976 when my father decided to move to the Methodist denomination.

This was a monumental shift for me. In hindsight, I can accept the reality of the situation. The Methodists paid better and provided housing, so our poverty-level family of five needed the economic benefit. I always tease and say my father being capitalist outweighed his designation as either a Baptist or Methodist. More accurately, a survivalist.

It was a big event when my Mother, my two little brothers and I were invited to officially “tour” the new church and the house where we would be living. In my mind, there was a looming crisis. I somehow knew about nuns (perhaps the Sound of Music?) and I was on high alert to figure out if we were venturing into nun territory. Living in an uber religious household, I assumed I would be expected to “marry the church,” which was how my mom had explained my earlier inquiries about nun life; outside of my Southern Baptist Bubble.

So we were dressed nicely, reminded of our manners, and showed up at the appointed time for the tour on a sunny spring day in Houston, Texas. The tour hostess from the church was a lovely, older woman, with short salt and pepper hair. As introductions are made, she introduced herself as Mary Nun. Not kidding. From that point on, I do not remember another thing she said because I assumed my life was OVER. I will never have a husband! Or children! And I will have to be a nurse or a teacher. And I won’t be able to wear cute shoes! OH MY GOD WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME! Oh no – a vow of poverty. Are nuns allowed to have dogs? I bet not because they all live together. And so on the record of panic played in my head…

I am barely contained this internal meltdown for the couple of hours we walked around the properties.

When we finally got in the car to leave, I exploded into a crying, sobbing, hysterical mess. Snot running down my face, my poor mother assumed I was freaked out about the move itself, until I started a verbal vomit of all my worries. Well, once my gentle mother stopped laughing, she explained to me that I was not being shipped off to a convent anytime soon.

And the real punchline is that I  converted to Catholicism 20 years later. And I actually like nuns. But I am sure my shoes and I agree it was not my destiny.