There's A Vinegar For That

I woke up Saturday to realize that I had only one thing planned for the entire day. Sister and I were supposed to go pick up a yard swing for Dad for Father's Day. I was sure that she would find a way to turn that into an all-day affair, which I wasn't in the mood for. I was enjoying the possibility of staying lazy for as long as possible. Sister called and plans were made. I was supposed to get up off my butt and get ready for the day a few minutes later, and then meet up with her to get the swing. Then Roommate came in. She looked terrible, and was bent over double with back pain. She said, "What are you doing today? I think I need to go to the hospital." I said, "Well, I'm not doing anything that I can't put off. Let's go." So I made the call to Sister, threw on some clothes, and we were on our way. To make that long story short, we got there between 11:30 and Noon and left around 4:30 or 5:00. She had a UTI and a kidney stone. Yucky stuff!

The sideline story is that of a white-trash nature. You know, I just can't escape it really. I swear these people seek me out like I'm the Key-Master in Ghostbusters or something. Roommate was given a wheel-chair when we arrived, but had abandoned it so she could lay across the chairs while we waited for her to be called back. I had taken over the wheel-chair. Not long after we settled in to wait, she got sick and had to excuse herself to the restroom. While she was gone, here came the white-trash. Miss Trash was sporting the complete white-trash ensemble: the shorts that were too short, followed by the white tank, that was of course too short and also allowed those of us lucky enough to be graced by her presence a clear view of her orange bra. She had the whole I've-had-a-few-kids kind of flabby stomach which was not hidden by her clothes ~ the shirt was only as long as her mid-drift and the shorts were low rise. She was also wearing the Love-My-Lips brand of makeup, and I'm sure that her hair had not seen shampoo in several days. Grant it, not many people shine up in their Sunday best to wait it out at the ER, but you could tell that she had tried, and yet had failed. She plops her tail down right in front of me. Now I had made an intentional effort to appear "closed off" to anyone else in the room. I was totally engrossed in the book that I had brought along, and never bothered to look up from it. Miss Trash didn't care. She wanted me to know why she was there. So here she goes telling me in bits and pieces about how she does "construction work for a living" and was painting a door, and trimming the bottom of it off when she slipped and cut her fingers. I was expecting to see to tendons and bones, but what she showed me were barely more than tears in the skin. She would get out a sentence, and I would go back to the book. Then here she'd go again. I know I had to be looking at her like she had lost her ever-loving mind, but I didn't care. When she finally figured out that I was not going to talk back, she got on her phone. Cell phone etiquette should be a required class. No one in that waiting room cared to know about how many times this week Miss Trash had talked to her mother and the DHR lady about "gettin' my kids back." Only the word "back" in thrash-lingo is pronounced "beck." Also we caught bits and pieces about a re-hab program that she was going to have to complete before the kids came beck. And she was griping about how easily she bruises and how all these quacks around here don't ever want to see what's wrong with her. Somewhere along the way, she had moved over to the chairs where Roommate had been camped out. I got up, grabbed our purses, and went to check on Roommate, who was just coming out of the restroom. We took up residence in a different area of the waiting room. I had to excuse myself to the restroom a while later, and when I walked away, Miss Trash made her way to Roommate (who was in obvious pain) and had the nerve to say to her, "If you think your stomach hurts, look at this," and shoved her hand in Roommate's face. Luckily she didn't linger, and I was able to ignore her for the rest of our wait.

My Papa has been plagued for years with kidney stones, and yesterday while we were visiting him for Father's Day, he was very sympathetic towards Roommate. He even showed me the last stone that he passed. Oh yeah, you read it right... He kept it. Weird, I know. And he wasted no time in letting me know what foods and beverages that Roommate needed to embrace and avoid. Then this morning, Granny called to read me a tid-bit that she ran across in Women's World magazine. There were six things that we can do to prevent kidney stones and other kidney-related problems. 1: Take a brisk walk 3 times a week (isn't this the preventative measure for everything?); 2: Add more citric acids to your diet (lemons in water, etc.); 3: drink a serving of water after every other beverage; 4 and 5 I can't remember, but 6: eat a salad full of leafy greens and use apple-cider vinegar as dressing. Of course, it's always the vinegar... Daddy and Granny live their lives with the firm belief that vinegar is the cure-all for everything! I was the first of my friends to know that there was more than one type of vinegar. Anything in your house that needs cleaned or needs some sort of preventative action can be done with vinegar. A sore throat and chest congestion can be cured with apple-cider vinegar. There are tons more, and now added to the list is the health of our kidneys. Dad and Granny both own the book "1001 uses for vinegar." I'm sure the kidney thing is in there somewhere. I wonder if there is any magic vinegar-related potion that could help me prevent encountering the Miss Trashy's of the world...