The Suburban Jungle

In the ongoing saga of low blood pressure I found myself at the cardiologist 4 times last week.

Day One:  Upon arriving it does not take a carni age guesser to know that I am at least a hundred years younger than the rest of the crowd.  I am also in the minority that is not connected to an iv or oxygen tank.

The truth is, I happen to be in a rush and would selfishly love to be the first in.  Selflessly, I don’t want to go in before any one of these people who could clearly use a once over and someone to check for a pulse.  As I am unsettled by this thought, a woman drags herself in the door and up to the window, “I am having chest pains unlike anything I  have ever felt.  I don’t have an appointment, but can I see my Doctor?”  As it turns out she takes my appointment and thankfully so, as poor Estelle is sitting across from me clutching her heart and breathing erratically.   I proactively position myself directly parallel so that I can catch her if necessary.

Nurse:  “Morty”

As they come out calling for other people, I’m thinking please call in Estelle before she codes.

Nurse 2:  “Phil”

Nurse 1:  “Estelle”

Nurse 2:  “Bea”

Nurse 1:  “Saul”

The receptionist who is joking with all the patients as if it might be there last day, pokes her head out, “Mr. Dale are you gonna give me any more trouble today young man?  Oh, and Mrs. Isenman, he’s getting to you.“

“I’ve been here over an hour is that normal?“

“Nope, he’s usually right on time, but there was a problem with the patient before you and we’ve already had an ambulance here once this morning and it‘s only 10 0‘clock“

Nurse 3:  “Joan”

Mark calls to see how the appointment went.
“I’m still waiting.“

“Oh, you are?  Are you filling out all the medical forms or are you just waiting to be called?“

“No Mark, they’re ready for me, I’m just so thrown by these forms.  So many tough questions, like my name and my age.  Then there are some real zingers like my SSN.  It’s like taking the SAT’s all over again.  They’re begging me to finish up and I’m trying to convince them that I’m eligible for the untimed version.

Nurse 2:  “Sandy”

Look I know he’s trying.  I know he was hoping I would be out so he could check it off his ‘things to remember list,’ and I know he asked that ridiculous question because he wants to seem caring, but I can’t help myself sometimes.

Nurse 1:  “Jenny”

By now the hypoglycemia that they found last week during my 5 hr. glucose test is acting up and the nurse goes to get me an apple juice, that they have for “such occasions.”  “Thanks, but really there’s no need to make such a fuss.”  Did I really say fuss?  See what an hour and a half out there did to me?  “By the way how is Estelle?”

Nurse:  “Who?”

The cardiologist Dr. Seth was, thank goodness, is not what I was expecting.  He was a referral from my, ‘roll your own’ Jamaican Doctor and I was thinking Seth might just be his first name, and that he may or may not have a surf board and that he may or may not have a medical license.  Luckily, he is Arcaad Seth, an Indian gentleman.  Look, I saw “Slumdog,” so I have a birds eye view into his upbringing.  As it turns out my sympathy for his being  part of a panhandling ring of blind singers does little for our deeper connection.  He roboticly set me up for a series of tests to “rule out the possibilities” and sternly warns me not to drive much saying, “You could hit a school bus filled with children.“

“Thank you for that.  Just telling me would not have been enough.  Did the past 30 minutes with me not give you any indication that I have some excessive worrying issues?  Maybe when I was telling you that when I yawn sometimes it feels like the blood gets stuck in my neck, and you snickered under your breath, like I was insane?

Wow, and that was just day one.  Stay Tuned.

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Example 1)  This morning’s alternating AOL headlines went something like this:  Car Dealers are desperate, month’s best deals. ‘Dancing’ reveals star replacement, see who it is. Part-time job market picking up, there may be hope. Obama to reverse stem cell policy.  Are you kidding me?  There is a replacement on dancing with the stars?  All of these crazy things are going on in politics the economy and world events and I’m pissed cause I have to wait for them to rotate around so I can find out who it is.

Example 2)  Last week I got in a blow out fight with Mark.  The kind that is so frustrating you want to throw a remote at your husbands head.  I was holding a bag of oyster crackers at the time, my favorite salty low blood pressure fix, so I threw those instead.  The bag whacked him in the chest and they exploded out like fireworks.

“I have to go get Jake,”  I yelled as I turned back to see him angrily picking them up off the floor.

I jumped in my car, having left the conversation unfinished.  I was seething.  All I could think was, ‘I bet he is mixing the oyster crackers tainted by our overly puppy peed on carpet with the good ones that are still in the bag.  He sucks.  This is why I can’t stand him, he would never take the extra second to throw the contaminated ones in the trash, with consideration for the joy that those little salty devils give me in my time of sodium deprivation.  No, why would he show such thoughtfulness?

When I got back he had picked up my daughter from our neighbors and helped her draw a picture for me.  He called me in to see it.  I went, but only after checking the pantry to find an almost full bag of ruined oyster crackers.  “Fucker.”

Well, you be the judge.  Is it just me or all we all pathetic?

I had a mammogram this week.  I have to get one every year; though tatas are small, there is miraculously  room for fibroid cysts.  My tech went so far as to comment on my boobies, saying they’re “perfectly perky.”  Well, she said that after laughing aloud at the thought of getting my A’s to stay up on the shelf of the machine.    My tech was crass to say the least, but her outrageous inability to filter actually shifted my focus and put me at ease.

After enjoying a good chuckle at my “cute and perkies,” my tech stuck on a set of beautiful nipple markers, which are stickers with silver balls that resemble starter earrings.

“Sorry, we’re all out of fringe,” she informed me, still getting a kick out of herself.

“Don’t worry, I have some at home,” I responded, doing the same.

As it turned out, she was right to laugh. The first time on the shelf, they slipped right out. The intense squeezing actually slung-shot them back towards my body.

“What?  Did you butter those puppies?“  She asked, with a snort.

I ignored her, and rubbed my chest to stop the vibration that the ricochet had caused.

The second time she was more thorough and managed to get a couple ribs onboard, as anchors, I assume.

“Um, excuse me, is it okay that you have bones in there too?”

“Don’t worry.  They won’t break.”

Squeeze, squeeze, squeezing harder. Shelf lifting.  I raised myself onto my tippy-toes to avoid my bosoms being ripped clean off. More squeezing. CRUNCH.

“What was that, bone?”

“Alright, just one more squeeze.”

“Fine, but I think milk might come out.”

“Oh, are you breast feeding?”

“No.”

After flattening my boobs into pancakes, I felt like a cartoon victim of a falling anvil. I patiently waited for them to snap back, or for an animated squirrel to come along, stick in a tube and pump them up.There was no one.  No squirrels, or skunks, or any other well-meaning rodents came to my rescue, so I shoved them back into my sports bra.  This is what all the hype was about, what my friends are dreading? The relief of finishing the test was quickly cancelled out by the anxiety of knowing I had to wait for my results.

As I passed the waiting room, I noticed the same elderly woman shakily stick her nipple markers in a plastic baggy and into her purse, where they most likely sunk into an abyss of sucking candies, saltines, and sweet N’ low packets.

I imagined one kinky grandpa with a bottle of Viagra eagerly awaiting her return, and got a chuckle of my own.  If your boobs hang down to your knees and grandpa‘s sight isn‘t what it used to be, you might need some assistance finding your nipples.  That’s one us flat chested folk don’t have to worry about -gravity.

In the end, the findings revealed another benign cyst.  I told my body it is not allowed to create so much as a zit without my permission.  I will, however, still be at next year’s appointment in case my body disobeys my explicit instructions. I want the option of stealing nipple markers in about 70 years.

When you walk into a Starbucks it’s a little like entering another country.  Some of the language is “Italianish” and the rest is completely made up, yet universal to all citizens.  When you visit Starbucks for the first time you might be overwhelmed by the cultural gap and the language barrier.  You see, Starbucks drinkers have an acute understanding of this made up ordering system, the terminology, how to conjugate the verbs, and the proper phrasing of the request i.e. size first, then special requirements, then drink type.

The employees, or should I call them caffeine scientists, are trained to do far more than make a cappuccino.  My barista knows the make, model, and color of my car and when he sees it drive up, he starts my drink.  He deduces that if I’m wearing golf or workout clothes I will require my usual to be iced and quickly dumps it and has the appropriate drink ready by the time I hit the door.  He is keenly aware of my standard approach speed and if I seem to be ambling he’ll throw in an extra shot.

But, sometimes even I am shocked by how intricate requests can get.  I think some of these drinkers actually believe they have learned another language and revel in this false sense of intelligence.

Today the woman in front of me ordered a tall 2 splenda, extra dry, machiatto with extra foam, on the fly.

Extra dry? Really? “What is extra dry… just beans?”

“No, it’s more froth.”

“Didn’t she imply that when she said extra foam?”

“No the frothiness actually refers to the consistency of the foam.”

Why do I feel like I’m having a conversation with NASA? And yet, who am I to talk? I know that a standard latte is made at 160°, which would be bad enough, except that I also know that I prefer mine at 150°. My barista who also writes, Jenny from the block on every cup, actually figured this out by watching my drinking ritual. He said, “I noticed you seem to wait about 8 minutes for your coffee to cool. I think the problem is an over sensitive pallet and I suggest you drop the temp about 10 degrees. Look, this is just a hypothesis, I will investigate further.” Soon this will be something you can major in, like criminal investigation or a show, “CSI Starbucks.”

“Everyone step away from the mocha, CSI unit (Coffee Scene Investigation) is here. There is nothing to see here, please disperse. What’s seems to be the problem, ma’am?”

Disgruntled Customer:  “My mocha is not rich enough, and it’s too wet. I specifically said grande, 18 pump, extra fat, mildly damp, 157° Mochachokaccino with extra whip that is dolloped in the shape of a pygmy monkey.”

The area around the cup is taped off and a bit is spilled into a petri dish and run out of the store to a mobile CSI van. The maverick of the team fearlessly swipes his finger through the java then smells and licks it, as if it’s cocaine. One more lick for good measure and an extra jolt. “Well your first problem is this is only 17 pumps. It’s also a mere 142°, which if my calculations are correct mean 7 minutes ago when it was made it was 155°, and not a degree more. Your other problem was in the call. The cashier/Mayor should know not to call a whip sculpted in the shape of anything other than the Starbuck’s mermaid goddess on our logo, who we in the biz affectionately call Flo.”

Disgruntled Customer: “Like flow of the coffee or the ocean?”

“No, like cash flow. Look, we’re gonna take this downtown to the lab, but just for the record Cappy Joe, or Cuppa Joe as we like to call him, is the best. He’ll have this coffee and a full report back to you by day’s end. Please enjoy a maximum of 2 hours free internet access in the mean time. And don’t forget to try one of our new hot breakfast sandwiches.”

How to retain fluids and bloat up, FAST cont…

WEEK 6

My fingers are so fat, I had to dictate this. I also had to order one of those large number phones for the visually impaired, a clapper, and a medic alert necklace in case I fall and can’t… I’m scared. The fluid retention may have water logged my brain and I fear I have officially lost it. I am babbling to myself and cannot walk across the house without a nap. I tried to cut down on salt and substitute it with garlic as was recommended by VirtualDoctor.com to even blood pressure. I ate 2 whole cloves last night.

WEEK 6 -day 2

I brushed my teeth and tongue 27 times. My tooth brush is too short. The garlic is rising from my intestines and oozing from my pores. My closest friend asked that I back up when speaking, I was down the aisle from her to begin with. I told her I needed to apologize to the sales lady for having no idea what I was looking for and she suggested I apologize for talking to the sales lady in the first place.

I warded off three vampires,or were they more sales people? I don’t know, they ran so fast in the other direction, I just assumed they were vampires. One was working the register I was at and actually turned into a bat and flew away shrieking.

I cannot take it anymore.  I must get away from myself. In the carpool line I went crazy and started swallowing Altoids whole with the hopes that they would dissolve in my stomach and take care of the guttural odor, at the source. First, I swallowed a half, then I started thinking, ‘What have I done? I don’t know if it’s safe to just swallow an Altoid without chewing it.  They are curiously strong.’

Me: “No, that’s silly, it’s fine. People accidentally swallow gum and mints all the time, it just takes 7 years to digest, but they survive. Just shove the other two in your mouth and be done with it.”

So I did and before I could talk myself out of it, I washed them down with coffee.

Me: “Holy shit. What did I just do? I swallowed more, and with coffee no less, a stimulant. What if they’re like Poprocks and my stomach explodes?”

Me: “That never really happened, or did it? I don’t know for sure. My stomach is feeling a bit sour. Should I drink some ipecac?”

Me: “No by the time I get out of carpool line they will already be absorbed into my blood stream. Maybe I should call someone and tell them what I’ve taken, so they can inform the paramedics when the ambulance arrives.”

Still Me: “This is ridiculous Jenny, could you imagine if people just died from swallowing mints? You would hear about it. It would be on 60 Minutes or the news. Whew.”

Me: “Wait, I don’t watch 60 Minutes or the news. I only watch Cartoon Network, HBO and reality TV.. Fuck, I’m screwed”

Me: “No, you would have gotten one of those mass emails warning you about swallowing mints, like microwaving saran wrap, or using plasticware with the numbers 4,6, or 7. Whew.”

Me: “Maybe I’m the first person to swallow so many Altoids and wash them down with coffee. You have to admit it’s a bit random. Why would any sane person like myself do that?”

Me in a British Accent: “Pip pip and all that… Don’t worry luv, all will be splendid. Now, let’s have a spot of tea, shall we?”

Me: “I’d love to.  You French people make every idea sound smart.”

Last month I had a scary episode. I was driving and out of nowhere I felt like I was about to lose consciousness. I was luckily in a parking lot. First, I debated if I should just put the car in park out of fear that I would pass out and glide into something. Then, I spotted an open space, sideswiped a pedestrian that then gave me the bird, and quickly parked.

My mind was racing, “Something is wrong, people don’t just pass out.” I called my husband unlocked my doors, so he could get to me, and searched for something to eat. I shoved a lollipop in my mouth… nothing. I was hanging on by a thread, when I saw my daughter’s morning sippy cup of milk. I sucked out the milk as fast as I could and after a rush of boiling heat radiated through my body, the feeling slowly eased. After a meal during which I was barely lucid, I told husband I was okay to drive myself to the doctor, which by the way took very little convincing. Thanks Mark.

Now let me tell you a bit about my Doctor. He is a Jewish Jamaican with a strong accent and the stereotypical laid back attitude you would expect of people who use the word irie, though he does not. I go to him because I am too big of a hypochondriac to go to someone high strung. When I arrived I found him outside taking a smoke break, he rolls his own, so there’s no telling what it was.

“Ello luv, I see you got yer pretty self all worked up. I don’t mean to trow the book at ya, but yer blood pressure is very low… too too low. Yer passin’ out cause yer not getting enough oxygen to yer brain daarlin’.

“That actually explains some other issues.”

“Well, ya got ta take care of dis yerself, cause yer not gonna like the medcine I’d ‘ave to put ya on. Now go to the store and buy everyting wid salt. Get some matzoh ball soup and put extra salt init, put salt on yer salt. Everyting you been taught, ferget it. Rememba ya need tons of fluids, ‘cause ya ‘ave to retain ‘em.”

“What about water?”

“Water? No. That’s terrible fer ya, that just washes the sodium away. I prefer you ‘ave a coke, that ‘as yer, salt yer caffeine, and yer sugar. It’s the perfect drink fer yer ‘ealth.”

“Yes, I believe that’s their campaign slogan. Drink Coke, It’s Perfect For Your Health.”

“OK then, I love ya daarlin. ‘Ave a space cake fer the road.”

Did I mention he takes his appointments in a small shack? I’m totally kidding, it’s more of a trailer.

So, if I want to stay awake, I must retain water and eat and drink crap, and if I want to stay thin, I must pass out. Hmmm, well I certainly wouldn’t be the first person who passed out trying to stay thin. It is against everyting, sorry everthing, in me to purposely retain fluids. But apparently, this medicine is something I want to avoid so here goes.

WEEK 1- Filled pantry with pretzels, pistachios, popcorn, pickles, peppercorn jack, and Pepsi. I know, you’re thinking they all have… salt in them, and that’s why I got them.

WEEK 2- Ate and drank all of the above. Wide awake. Feelin’ gooood.

WEEK 3- Feeling sluggish. Fingers pruning… Must have sweet, in need of a cupcake. I secretly busted a piñata at Ryan’s friend’s 4^th birthday, and ravaged the remains. I blamed it on a little kid that teases Ryan, who just happened to be the birthday boy. Ahhh, sweet sweet revenge.

WEEK 4- Cannot look at another saltine. Putting MnMs in my soup instead of oyster crackers. Can no longer wear rings. Thighs are becoming too friendly with each other. Mission accomplished. Do I cry or cheer?

WEEK 5- Too bloated to cook. Can’t get fingers around pan handles. Oven mitts don’t fit. Had Mark install salt licks around the house for convenience. Lick them each time I waddle by. Will write more tomorrow, sausage fingers too swollen for keys.

It seems that Jake’s elementary school mascot, Swampy, is enjoying the hula hoops hanging on his nether region a bit too much.

My children are in that phase where all words referring to bodily functions and private parts are hilarious to think of, let alone utter. I call it the Beavis and Butthead phase, and I am eagerly awaiting it’s passing. However, I am not holding my breath as it appears my husband never actually outgrew it himself. So, with that in mind, we were trying to think of names for our new puppy. I am throwing out the more traditional names like Max and Charlie. Jake says, “Let’s name him Gary.” Okay, not where I was going but, a name nonetheless. I say, “How about Copper or Cinnamon?”

Ryan: “I have a great idea, how about Cinnamon Toast Weiner?”

All: Ha ha ha, lots of laughs.

OK, game on.

Jake: “How about Tushie-Face?”

Ryan: “Hee hee, good one Jake.”

Minutes go by and Ryan comes running across the park and screams for all the other families to hear, “Listen listen, we should name our dog Vagina.”

Jake: “Yeah, we’d be like, ‘Come hear Vagina. Sit Vagina.’”

I am making every attempt not to make this into a big deal and give it too much attention, but the attention we’re getting is making me uncomfortable. “Could we keep this conversation down just a little bit?” Then I went on to suggest more realistic names. I know I’m a party pooper. Hee Hee…I wrote pooper.

Well, if anyone isn’t a party pooper, it’s my husband.

Mark: “I know – we should name it Penis, and then when people say, ‘Jake what are you doing?’ you could say, ‘Oh, I’m just playing with my Penis.’”

Mind you this is a concept a 7yr old would not come up with on his own volition, but it didn’t take long for him to catch on.

Jake: “Yeah…Hey hey hey, listen. I could say ‘I just taught my Penis to fetch.’”

All, but me: HEHEHEHE HAW HEW HAW HAHA -and tear filled laughter.

Ryan: “That’s not fair, ‘cause I don’t have a penis, I have a heinie.”

Taking Ryan’s penchant for the word vagina into consideration, I decide this is the wrong time for an anatomy lesson.

My husband is finally aware of the wrong turn this conversation has taken, and reeled it in by suggesting a name we can really use: Butt Munch. Ah, the ever popular with the pre-teen set, Butt Munch.

All but me: HA HEE HEE HE HA HE HEW HAW HA.

This idea sparked tons of laughter and affirmation. First of all, my children had never been exposed to this term, so they found a special joy in both it’s profanity and it’s originality. They beamed with pride as if their father, king of the potty mouths, had just coined it. Secondly, they liked the way it just rolled so easily off of their tongues. “Butt Munch. Come here Butt Munch. Sit Butt Munch. Bad Butt Munch.”

Ryan: At the top of her lungs, “Jake you’re a Butt Munch.”

Jake: “No Ryan, you’re a Butt Munch.”

Me: “No Daddy’s a Butt Munch… thanks Mark!”

Mark: “Please, they could be saying much worse.”

Me: “Perhaps you should teach it to them. Jake doesn’t know Mother Fucker, maybe you could remedy that.”

For the last two weeks Jake has told everyone willing to listen that Ryan wanted to name our new dog Vagina, and Ryan now uses Butt Munch as a verb, noun, and adjective, sometimes in the same sentence. My friend Susan asked her if she was ready to go home the other day and she replied, “No way, Butt Munch.” I’m so proud.

PS We brought our dog home a couple of days ago, and though Ryan is still calling him Butt Munch, we as a family went with the more traditional, Ass Face. I hope she comes around.

This weekend we were sent a Clifford, the bid red dog stuffed animal, along with a beautifully laminated journal containing an entry from each of the class members he spent weekends with in the past. Each page was beautifully written, typed, or hand calligraphied. All were accompany by a montage of pictures showing the quality time each child and their family spent with Clifford. Clifford attended dinners, parties, one family even took him to the dog park…alone. Either I have the craftiest mothers in my class, or these ladies are truly hard-up for companionship.

Ryan’s teacher: I am sorry Jenny; I was unable to accept your pages for the Clifford journal, as there were a few problems. You wrote that he “passed-out” from too much beer and wings while watching the Super Bowl with you and your husband. I don’t know if you are aware that we read these Clifford journals to the class first thing Monday morning.

Crappy Mom, AKA Me: I was not aware of that.
Ryan’s Teacher: I doubt Ryan would appreciate me reiterating how Clifford spent Friday and Saturday as you put it, “ …in his sack, suffocating.” Or that you “…found him sad, lonely, and dehydrated Sunday evening.” I would send him home with you for another weekend, but I fear for his health in your hands, not to mention his sobriety.

Crappy Mom, AKA Me: His sobriety? Had a known was battling alcoholism, I never would have played the drinking game where you chug every time someone scores. In my defense, it was T-Bone’s idea.

During the holiday season I was trying to teach my son about the joy of giving, and the concept that many people are less fortunate than we are. Look, I’ve spent many years spoiling him and now I must undo all that hard work so he stops asking me for presents every hour on the hour. Why did I teach him to tell time in the first place?

Anyway, I’ve been trying to find a charity that allows children to volunteer, as many children’s charities do not. It’s easy to relay facts of poverty and ailments on a cushy sofa in a perfect 74 degree room, but not easy to show them the reality of it. Last year we adopted a family for the holidays. We shopped for them and picked out their gifts according to age, likes, and height, of course. However, we weren’t allowed to give the gifts personally, so it was a very small taste of charity. It felt more like helping shop for a friend’s birthday present, with the usual sprinkling of “Can I get that too?”  Did I say sprinkling?  I meant whining, crying, and making a spectacle at the Super Target.

This year we found a charity called Kids Helping Kids. The first event was for “Facing It Together” – an organization that helps fund and find Doctors to donate surgeries for facial deformities. It sounded like a lovely idea, and with Jake being so sensitive, seemed like a good fit. I explained beforehand what to expect, and that these children were just like him. He went to his piggy bank, as he is always willing to do, and offered to help. I said this was all about giving his time, and he was very excited about the idea. Like me, he is a total sap and the first one to save a worm boiling on the sidewalk or help me send a millipede or salamander out of our house and back to their families.

He asked throughout the week. “When are we doing the charity?” If you must know, he really asked, “When are we going to help the children with no heads?” “Jake, honey, they have heads.” “I mean the children with no faces.” Well at least he won’t be scared or shocked by anything he sees, as he has certainly prepared himself for the worst.

My friend, who told us about the event, was certain that this day would be the first day of the rest of her children’s lives. She was convinced that each child would have life altering epiphanies, and would offer to donate all remaining holiday presents to charity. I was not so ambitious in my expectations, and just wanted to give him the sense of gratification one gets from helping others, and to understand there are more pressing things than the Ripstick G, or Guitar Hero World Tour.

As it turned out, the children volunteers way outnumbered the children of the charity, and getting them a space at the crafts tables among all the volunteers making snow globes, ornaments, and picture frames, was nearly impossible. Jake scooched in, and was thoroughly unaffected by the affected children (as none of them were missing their heads). He helped me check a few people in, while worrying that someone would take the last of the keylime pie, and made about 17 ornaments for the tree we didn’t have. Then my friend’s husband took him and his son to hang out in a sky box (as we were at the Home Depot Center).

To top off our generous altruistic giving, we were thanked for our help with tickets to that days Panthers game. So the boys had a ball and left hours later after Dippin’ Dots, hot chocolate and catching tee shirts that were dropped with parachutes from the ceiling. Well there’s the epiphany “If you give of yourself and your time, you get awesome stuff. You make stuff, hang out in sky boxes, get to see a professional sporting event, and prizes will actually fall from the sky.” This getting our feet wet thing might have set some unascertainable expectations for future charity events.

Hey, if you’re on FB join the new group Suburban Jungle and please invite your friend list. Thanks for the support!

I am not a fan of the chain letter. I know you’re thinking why not? Everyone loves a good threat. Well, I erase them right away because as ridiculous as it sounds, there is a part of me that feels that once I’ve read one of those things, the clock has started. How the universe is somehow connected to my AOL account, is a mystery. My password is pretty easy, maybe that’s the problem.

Some chain letters go so far as to mention G-d. The idea that The Almighty is busy checking my inbox and confirming that I have forwarded the mail to the specified amount of people, in the allotted amount of time, seems like a stretch. Yet, that irrational side is like, “What if?” “What if G-d wants me to pass on this sentimental poem about growing up in the 80’s.”

Yesterday, I got one of those emails. In the subject box it read, “Sorry, I Had To. “ I have to say, if your subject is an apology for sending an email in the first place, rethink pushing that forward button. This particular one was a message about empowering women and asked that I forward it to 9 of my Sista’s. The list of recipients was 50 scroll-downs long. Apparently, Sista’s all over the world are passing this thing around.

All I do each day is think about how to get my blog circulating, and here’s some poorly written warning- that actually refers to women as Sista’s – and it’s more popular than my well thought out, hilariously funny articles. So I will apologize in advance for the rest of this post.

If you forward http://www.suburbanjungle.net/blog-voodoo to 5 of your friends, within the next hour you will meet with great fortune. Your children will be smarter, your hair will be thicker, your boobs will be fuller, and you will receive a check for $10 MILLION! This may be a humor column, but it’s NO JOKE! I had a paralegal look it over and she said it’s legit. Just yesterday a woman in Westchester sent this on to 5 of her friends and the minute she hit that button, she got a call from her Mother-In-Law saying they couldn’t make it over for dinner! Need I say more?

Unfortunately, if you do not take this seriously, I must fear for your safety! A mother in Idaho who ignored this request, was shopping at a Gap later that day, and inadvertently smashed into the window trying to exit the store. She was not physically harmed, but she was extremely embarrassed.

I guarantee misfortune if you do not send this, because I will personally come out to your home or place of work and open fire. I will! I have a moderately powerful Nerf gun that shoots like ten rounds, and those suctions cups can have a very strong stick factor. I could get one right between your eyes and then it would take a lot of spit and pulling to get it off. I don’t know for certain, but it could leave an unsightly mark! All I’m saying is think about it… $10 MILLION or my saliva all over your face?

Okay, tick tock……………………………………………………………………….

Seriously, pass it on. Help a Sista out!

I thought I would update you on the progress of acquiring a productive sleep disorder, as mentioned in my last post.

I don’t know whether to celebrate or throw in the towel. For the last two days I have given myself subliminal messages about accomplishing tasks in my sleep, as planned. I wrote phrases on flash cards and taped them around the house, reading them every time I walked by. Thing like “tighten butt,” “scoop cat litter,” “clean house,” “make dinner,” and “esta es una lampara (this is a lamp).” What I’m also trying to learn Spanish.

Anyway, the first night… nothing. I did the usual: went to asleep, fell off some kind of ledge, confronted an old elementary school friend about calling me a weirdo, and made out with George Clooney, who was about to take me to his villa in Tuscany on a spaceship piloted by Brad Pitt, when I was rudely awoken by my son wanting me to make lunch for school. Why do I have an account with the cafeteria anyway?

Last night was different. I didn’t dream at all. No revenge, no superstar rendezvous, no awards ceremonies, or nightmares about planes, sharks, or sharks on planes. I woke up feeling funny, disoriented. My bed was not made. My buttocks were not firm. Apparently, while sleeping last night, I cooked my work out band, cleaned my neighbors house, tightened her daughter’s braces, and ate my cat.

Now this may seem like a setback. Many people would give up, especially after eating their cat, but not me and the Vietnamese. I am looking at the silver lining and calling it a success. So things didn’t go as planned, and my son needs a little therapy. Life is about learning and opening new doors and in that vein, I am opening a night housekeeping/orthodontics service, at the very low cost of ahem, achem, cha cha, kak. Sorry, hairball.

Call for an appointment. Your money back if I eat your pet. GUARENTEED.

Refund subject but not limited to pets deemed reasonable. Tarantulas, snakes, lizards, and gerbils not included. Only half refund for mid-sized rodents i.e. guinea pigs, ferrets and bunnies. Price where prohibited. You pay me if I eat anything shelled, like hermit crabs, snails, and turtles, or bacon, I mean pot belly pigs, except George Cloony’s, which I will spare in return for sexual favors…. bla,bla,bla,bla……..