Dopey and Dry

I gave blood today.

I almost couldn't because that little drop they take at the beginning wouldn't sink, which indicates low iron. I kept encouraging it by yelling, "Dive, dive!" but it didn't listen. Kind of like my husband when I ask him to do chores.

And why must they ask me the same questions every time? I give blood every eight weeks. Oddly enough the answer to "Were you in the military or a military dependent during the years of ..." remains the same. What's past is past. Really.

I like to trip them up while they rattle off all those questions they have memorized. "Have you, in the past year, had relations with someone who tested positive for AIDs?"

"Not unless I have to kill my husband."

Then, the lovely blood collection person (that's actually her job title) wouldn't believe me when I said she couldn't use the big, fat vein in my left arm because it rolls. She insisted she couldn't find the one in my right arm... you know, the one they've used the past two or three times. So, guess what happened when she poked me? The vein moved. Imagine that.

"Tell me if you have any discomfort," she said as she gyrated the needle around in my arm.

Well, duh. But I'd already gone through the finger prick which hurts WAY more, so I was going to give blood come hell or rolling veins.

I did. It took me nine minutes to fill the bag, my personal worst. My arm is killing me, and will probably bruise. But I have O+ blood, so maybe all the torture was worth it and I saved a life.

Regardless, I'm tired and a little spacey (hey, you -- in the peanut gallery, shut up about me being spacey all the time) and intend to spend the evening eating veggie soup and reading my new Writers Digest.

What did you do today?