Rambo the Determinator

The husband had an odd dream about me Tuesday morning. He dreamed that I was secretly working for the government building a thirty foot cyborg capable of commanding weapons of mass destruction. His eyes got big when he told me it literally had the power to defend or destroy the world. This disturbed me at first. The husband does not know all the same things you people do. He does not know about the secret workings of my inner world in quite the same way that I lay it out in here. I'm more careful with him because I don't want to scare the bejesus out of him. Let's just say he understands in principle, shall we? And he 'knows' because his unconscious told him that I am involved in a clandestine operation to meld woman with dissociated robot/ autopilot self = 'cyborg'. Jesus. There's just no hiding some shit, now is there?

At first I told myself he dreamed this because I was barking out orders about what to say and do at the crack-of-dawn doctor's appointment for the daughter's knee right before he dozed off while watching The Terminator - the ultimate cyborg. Then it hit me - The Terminator is what he used to call me in the past when my Rambo-ness would appear. That's what he would call me when an outrageous action would occasion me to get all funky on some ass. Like when our former condo board illegally discriminated against our tenant, like when I sued the hell out the dirtball, like when I went after the county for a shocking first ammendment violation, like when I refused to accept him home from the hospital with a pulse ox level of 84 and no diagnosis and I went down to the hospital to hijack his chart and diagnose the pulmonary obstruction myself and demand the proper specialist and testing to confirm... and yes, I had the balls to demand he be treated before being discharged. The man was green, people. Green I tell you! Yes, these were Rambo moments. All quite successful.

Tuesday the daughter and husband came home from the knee specialist and the daughter was in tears. Her knee braces are inappropriate for her situation and they do not fit. I asked the husband why he left with them instead of insisting the situation be corrected. He said he did insist and the doctor and the tech doing the fitting told him they were the correct braces. Baloney. The child can barely walk in them and they nearly cut off her circulation. "But they came in three or four times and they just didn't listen to us," the husband said.

Apparently this is a job for The Terminator. I'm going down there Wednesday afternoon. I WILL leave with a proper and healthful resolution for my child. Period. I don't feel so bad about the husband's dream anymore. Do I worry that he sees me as the mean ol' terminator? Maybe not. My terminator wears nice shoes and often carries a clipboard. Besides, he said I have nice skin.

:-)