Tag Archives: marriage

Women Can Be Such Bitches|But Sometimes People Deserve It

woman-frustratedFun fact: This is an old post that I took down because I got so much flack for being such a horrible wife. Now, 3 years later, I’m over 40 and frankly don’t care if you people think I’m a horrible wife. Also, if I’m being honest, we all have our meltdowns and our horrible wife moments, if you don’t than you probably shouldn’t be at this particular site. PS you know who really thought this post was funny, my husband.

Hubby: “Jenny are you busy?”

Me: “Yeah, I’m writing.” Continue reading

Come One Come All

Like the great city of New York, I’m giving away vibrators, seriously. What am I talking about? How did this happen? How could you win?

If you’ve cracked open a paper or macbook recently, including the NY Post, whose headline read: Buzz Kill – city stops sex-toy giveaway, you would know that the lines to get a free Trojan sex toy in NYC yesterday stretched for blocks, clogging streets and blocking store fronts — Continue reading

What Those Candy Hearts Should REALLY Say – After Marriage – A little post V-Day fun

While searching for a pic I found this. I guess I

On Valentine’s Day I was reading through the V-day Sweethearts, you know, the conversation hearts, the ones that are supposed to represent the sweet nothings you would whisper in your lover’s ear before bed. Like: I love you, be mine, kiss me… blah blah blah. So in that vein, I’ve made a list of what should be etched in red on those cute little hearts.

BTW this article is not for newlyweds, so you can refrain from reading and telling me how head over heels you are. Give it a few years. Ahem- I mean, I’m happy for you. Frankly, you can avoid this article unless you’re past the 7 year itch. Sorry, but resentment and boredom takes time to cure, like a salami.

WIVES CONVERSATION HEARTS:

I BOUGHT ANOTHER PAIR OF SHOES, DON’T WORRY THEY WERE ON SALE

SHH… THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF BEVERLY HILLS IS ON

NO, I WON’T PUT THAT IN MY MOUTH Continue reading

Let me disband the rumors of my spousal abuse.

Yesterday’s post was short and sweet, well that may not be the right word, let’s call it upsetting. Apparently, some people were concerned about the spousal abuse I am inflicting on my husband. Let me clarify, I do not throw objects at Mark very often, ever really, except apparently the occasional salty miniature cracker; which by the way, he is perfectly capable of defending himself against. (He’s trained for such instances.)

The actual argument was over a little thing I like to call, my new rug. Don’t take that the wrong way, this is not about a Brazilian wax job. Anyone who knows me is aware of my mentally unstable cutting phase. Yes, I used to cut. I cut my beautiful shag carpet from its original 16×24 down to a 2×3 welcome mat. My last dog and one of my true loves, Buddy, got very old and equally incontinent. Look, as someone who pees a little each time I laugh, thanks to childbirth, a fallen cervix, and episiotomies, I have sympathy for the “incontinent,” but not so much when they pee on my rug. Buddy peed many too many times on that rug and so I got me a razor knife and went to town cutting out each pee. The odd angles made it look like a jigsaw puzzle and my family and friends, fearing for my sanity, and held an intervention. So, I threw away the welcome mat sized rug and retired my razor.

We then had this cold hard ceramic tile floor in our family room. My kids played on it, bumped their heads on it, rode their bikes on it, skinned their knees on it, and at night we all cuddled on it to watch American Idol. Then we peeled our sweaty legs off it to get in bed.

I finally gave in and bought a beautiful, currently discontinued, area rug with a link pattern from William Sonoma. The rug I describe is the very one that was being eaten by my new puppy on my husband’s first day alone with him. A day in which I reminded him repetitively, to his dismay, “to be with the puppy at all times or have him in the crate.” A day in which I forgot my pocketbook and returned a mere 20 minutes later to find my husband asleep in the bedroom and my puppy having a pricey wool link pattern sandwich. A day in which even after the incident he swore it was, “no big deal” and that I would’ve “probably done the same thing.” I can’t get mad at the dog, he’s just a puppy and puppies chew. Does the same rule apply to Mark because he’s just a husband and husbands are frustrating asses? Nah, I still have faith in men.

So, please don’t worry about Mark. I say he got off easy under the circumstances… next time I find something harder than puffed crackers, like Swedish fish or something sharper like pita chips!

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Why are Men Such Wusses? Things husbands do when they’re sick

For four days I have been sick.  Nothing crazy; just the usual sore throat in the morning, coughing, fatigue kind of thing.  Yet, in those four days, the world miraculously kept spinning. My children’s schedules did not disappear, nor did mine.  They made it to camp, and to baseball, and the Doctor.  They did not suffer from starvation because I decided to forgo grocery shopping, or making them breakfast, or packing their lunches; so that I could lie around and do something trivial, like recuperate.

Last night, I happily turned out the lights at 11PM, hoping to make up for that 4 hour “nap” I had the night before.  At midnight my dog Buddy, pacing and panting like a sex caller, sent me out like a shot for his first pee break of the evening.  At 1AM my son ran in soaking wet, exclaiming, “I think I sweated too much.”  Unable to peel myself up, I let his little naked tush into my bed where he continued to whine for about an hour straight.  “Mommy, I neeeeeeeeeed pants.”  “I’ll get you pants,” and let our heavy breather out for the 2nd time.  “Mommy, I neeeed my favorite pillow.” “I’ll get your favorite pillow” and give our letchy dog a bowl of water.  By 3AM Jack had tried 12 different positions.  Including the one where you go all the way under the covers to the end of the bed and push until you fall to the floor taking the comforter with you.  He complained about 20 different things, from being upset that I had to remake the bed after he fell out of it, to having an actual dislike for color of my sheets.  “They’re white.”

In the midst of this chaos, my husband was completely oblivious during those last few hours.  Some could argue that this has been the case for the last decade. He was sleeping with his body pillow, the one he stole from me in the 3rd trimester of my 1st pregnancy.  It has been our small person sized bedmate ever since.  A bedmate that he shoves in his crotch and smothers between his knees. Well, better the pillow than me.  He had 2 more pillows over his head and was taking up 73% of the bed.  He had built and Iron clad barricade which my son could not penetrate or budge.  Jack and I were so snug I’d have to rebirth him to get him to camp.  Finally , I gave up and wooed him back into his room by promising to make him a fort, “just like Daddy’s.”  Of course I had to remake his bed first, as the sweat had an uncanny resemblance to pee.  I got back into bed around 4 AM, after reading my dog a story and letting my son out.  Wait, scratch that and reverse it.

By 4:45 my son was back in the womb.  “Mom, can I be your snuggle bunny?”  For how many years will I get to hear that?  At 5AM my daughter was squeezing in on the other side of me.  We laid there like a hermetically sealed package of sausages, my arm coyoteed under Ryleigh’s head.  Then she started complaining.  “Its too hot with this blanket.  Mom my PJ’s hurt.  Mom I hate the color of your sheets.”  Somehow, 6:30 managed to roll around.

I banged on  my husbands fort with the door knocker he installed.  Bang…Bang…Bang.  “Please get the kids ready for camp.  I was up all night.”  Mark is a morning person so I imagined it would be no big deal.  “Grumble grumble… no.”  “What do you mean you won’t help me?”  “Grunt, I’m sick, my throat is killing me.  Besides, I was up too.”  “What kept you up?  Was it the sound of your snoring?  Or maybe the pillow over your head wasn’t soft enough.”  “I just can’t I’m too sick.”  My husband’s cold might as well be the plague, as the Earth has halted on it’s axis.


It would take a hemorrhaging artery to get him to the Doctor, excuse me the clinic, as he has never officially acquired a Doctor.  But, why go?  It’s easier to lay around and tease my children with his untouchable presence.  He’ll spend his day creating an impressive mound of snotty tissues, large enough to pitch off of.  Tissues which he is too sick to bend down and pick up, however he is not too sick to work or to make sure to keep up with his fantasy team.

He’ll refuse to use sanitizer, and sluggishly mosey around the house, putting his grubby, germy hands in every bag of chips, touching every door knob and remote, and talking on every phone.  He may even lick the straws on the juice boxes for good measure.  All in a effort to ensure that as soon as he gets better, both my children will surely contract his illness and I will have no shot at personal recovery.

Now, I should Mommy him, which in my bitter and sick state, I cannot even feign an attempt.  Listen, if I wanted another child I would adopt one from Indonesia.  If you need to be babied, call your Mom.  Better yet, go stay with her.  I don’t ask that my sickness or lack of sleep take precedence over yours.  I just ask that you go to a hotel until yours passes.”

My Wakeup Call that the Economy is Officially Kicking my Ass

Woman with empty walletOn Monday morning while half asleep and lying in bed, I reached for the remote, as I do every morning before my daughter wakes up  and begs to play “Barbies.”  I gently squeezed the “ON” button and received a wakeup call that I could not push “Snooze” on.  Your lifestyle is going down the toilet, well actually it said, You No Longer Have Direct TV Service.  Please Call Us, Deadbeat! Okay, there was no “deadbeat,” but all of the above was implied.  In a frenzy, I switched to my “Tivo List” looking for a prerecorded episode of Jersey Shore, to calm my nerves, but the Tivo service was also, no longer available. “WHY?” “Say it isn’t so.” and “What does this mean?” escaped my lips almost simultaneously.  Hello, the Bachelor narrows his bevy of possible flight attendants down to 12 ladies tonight, and what am I supposed to do while that’s happening… read?

Maybe this isn’t the first sign of my financial woes.  Has the proverbial alarm been buzzing and I’ve been sleeping through it?  Is it possible that being down to one credit card, that I randomly opened at Costco, was some kind of indicator that times are tough?  Is the credit card Roulette I play at check out not a real game?  You know, when you grab a card from your wallet at random and pray you don’t hear the dreaded “You’re Declined” which is followed by mental buzzer, while the contestant –me–  fishes through for another possible loser to swipe.

Now, in hindsight I feel almost silly.  I think there may have been other signals I missed.  Like when we cut out our annual vacations, or when we lost our savings in the market.  Darn it, have I just been phoning it in?  I’m not sure if those other signs are worth investigating, but the thought of missing the new Grey’s Anatomy/Private Practice crossover (that they haven’t stopped touting) could send anyone into a deep over-advertising induced depression.

In response to my wakeup call, I’ve done what any pop culture/ TV addict would do.  I pulled out my Costco American Express and called it in.  I know, it’s not tightening the purse strings, but I intend to skip grocery buying this week to make up for the loss.  Eating is overrated… especially after the holidays.  The truth is, I have a perfectly tasty cat just walking around the house.  Taunting me like a steak on wheels.  That’s ridiculous, why would I eat my cat when my dog is 40lbs heavier?   I may be poor, but I’m not stupid.

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I Slept With Tiger Woods

TigerWoodsOMG, I have to tell you guys something.  I often turn to my iCarly diary with my darkest secrets, but this one is just too juicy.   Here goes…  I slept with Tiger Woods.  You guys are probably freaking out, as Tiger’s reputation has been sooo perfect up until now.   Let me be the first to tell you, he’s not the squeaky clean Jonas Brother, he pretends to be.

Our affair was rather recent.  I must confess, he was passed out when I met him.  Sadly, that’s not the first time I started an affair with an unconscious man.  The other time was when this guy was hit by a subway car and I went to visit him in the hospital.  His family showed up and took me for his fiancé.  I went along with it because I was lonely and it was the holidays.  Eventually, he woke up and I married his brother.  Oh wait, that wasn’t me.  DUH.

Anywho, with Tiger it was different.  He was admitted to the hospital (where I am a candy striper) after a rather harsh battle with a fire hydrant.  –See, it’s different already.  It appears he and his wife play late night golf and he took his car to search for a stray ball, when the confrontation occurred.  I can only imagine how far one of Tiger’s balls can fly (well, I don’t have to imagine anymore).  –That was a sex joke, in case you didn’t catch on, LOL.

As it turns out, it was lucky that his wife was caddying for him, as she was able to use his iron to pull him from the wreck and beat off the fire hydrant.   I didn’t even know fire hydrants could come to life, but I saw this movie about a car named Christine and she came to life.  So, I guess anything’s possible.

Tiger  even promised me a signed Fat Head of his best friend MJ.  I can’t believe he can get in touch with Michael Jackson, but after the stint with the fire hydrant, I can see Tiger’s special.  Other people can see it too.   He also had sex with my friend Luanne who mops the floors.   And then Gertie, who resides in the nursing home area.   Oh, and Becky who was in the pediatric unit to have her tonsils out.  I ran into him wandering around the Nursery.  He says looking at the babies calms him.  I get it, they’re so sweet and innocent.

I confronted him about all those other girls, but he said, “don’t worry honey, you’re my hole in one.”  He said if we do it enough I can be his “double bogey.”  I don’t know anything about the golf but the nicknames sure are cute.  Oh yeah, he made me swear I’d never tell… Shit.

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My Cardiologist Has No Heart -Day 3

Day 3-  I feel as if I should be writing for a geriatric blog.  I’m like Seinfeld doing a gig at his parents clubhouse in Del Boca Vista , which is fitting since Mark affectionately calls me Jenny Youngman.  Seriously, take my husband… PLEASE.

It could go something like this:  “I mean hey, what’s with those stress tests anyway?  They want you to start out calm, but the first thing they do is scratch you with sand paper and stick stingy electrodes all over you.  What’s with that?  If they want you to start out calm, they should babysit your kids while you get in a shower.”

Jake was home from school, and I had to take him with me for the stress test.  They should just hook me up and let me try getting him dressed and having him eat breakfast on a time limit, that would be test enough.  I wouldn’t even need the treadmill.  We entered out of breath, and again I was the youngest by a mile.  The women who work in the office greeted me affectionately by name, like Norm walking into Cheers.

I was already winded from rushing to get us out the door, and Ryan to school, and through rush hour traffic, to be at a 9AM appointment.  I had barely enough time to stretch my eyelids, let alone my limbs.  The last thing I wanted to do was fail a walk on the treadmill.  I wanted to run circles around Morty, and Stanley, and Rita.  If I had to trip one of them, I would.

So, I found myself in the waiting room stretching.  In my own delusional competitive world. I had my leg straight in the air an inch from my ear.  I looked up out of my dazed state, to see the elderly couple sitting directly across from me.  I met the woman’s gaze.

“Are you getting a stress test?“ she asked sweetly.

“Yeah, and I didn’t have time to stretch.“  I explained, wishing I could catch the words before they hit her hearing aid.

“Oh, Larry‘s getting a stress test too,“  she said, turning to face her husband who was also stretching. He was stretching his socks to his knees, and his shorts to his man boobs.

I let go of my leg feeling ridiculous.  This might as well be a skit on SNL.  The only difference would be that I’d have prop legs that would reach way behind my ears.  Maybe I could twist them around each other and let them unravel with a helicopter effect.

“What time is yours?” she asked, knowing they’d been waiting a lot longer.

“Nine.“

“Oh?  Larry’s is at nine, too,  They must have two machines.“

“Yeah, well if we go head to head, Larry’s toast!“ I said cracking my knuckles.

“What?“

“I said, good luck.“

I remember my first day here.  I wanted to give my appointment to Every Tom, Dick and Larry in the waiting room, but now I’m a pro and I’m hoping to get the call.

Nurse:  “Jenny.”

“See you later, Suckas!”

Nurse:  “Um Jenny, your son can’t come back with you.”  The nurse warned, “Too much radiation in the room.”

The elderly lady, who clearly missed my trash talkin’ to Larry, graciously offered her sitting services.  Even though she probably wouldn’t get far with him, I still don’t leave Jake with strangers.  She could bribe him with stale sucking candies from the bottom of her purse and slowly amble out the door.  Than I would have to rely on one of the other waiting room occupants to throw out a cane to trip her and foil her evil plan.

To avoid such a kidnapping scenario, I brought him back to the nurse’s station.  There, a nurse, not used to seeing anyone under 70, reluctantly allowed my 7 year old and his DS in her seat.  The desks around him were stacked with files. Tons of them.  I put Jake’s water on a desk far away, and went in for the test.

Well, I passed, but I could barely stand by the end.  I held on to the bars heaving, and wondered why I hadn’t walked over some bodies on the way into that room.  The doctor came in to tell me that I seemed winded, but all was good, minus a couple skipped beats.  He informed me that I also passed the heart monitor and never even asked to see my elaborate log.

“But, I’m not sure if I read the echo yet,” he added.  “Wait here a minute, while I check it.”

During that minute someone came into the nurse’s station and knocked Jake’s water into about a thousand files and films.  The office went into complete mayhem.  The nurses rushed in to resuscitate the paperwork (If only they moved so fast on the patients).

“Whose water is this without a cap?” a bitchy nurse yelled.

“Mine, but I didn’t spill it,” I heard Jake sadly confess.

“Well, you have to have a CAP on YOUR WATER,“  she reprimanded, getting obvious joy from making him feel badly.

I turned to my nurse, “Is she serious?  He needs to cap his water?  When?  How regularly do you plan on seeing us?“

“Can he come in with you, NOW?“ the bitchy one asked my nurse.

I turned to Jake and said loudly, “Don’t worry, that mean woman clearly had a bad experience with a cap when she was a child.“  I took him into the checkout area and waited there.

Nurse:  “The Doctor would like to go over your echo.”
He met me in the nurses station and quickly explained that I probably have a congenital thing in my aortic valve.  He then drew me a picture, and told me to refrain from asking questions till he was done.

“No problem, I’ll ask if I’m dying after you finish your diagram.  Hey, don‘t forget to shade.”

He told me that it wasn’t a big deal, and may not be an issue for 20, 30, 40 years.  “20 years?  That only makes me 56,” I whined fearfully.

“So, 50 years then,” he said, like I had talked him into it.

“What then?“ I needed to know.

“Maybe a valve replacement, but we’re getting way ahead of ourselves.  Just don’t run a marathon or lift weights.“

“Um okay,“  I said, thinking, “this is a lot to lay on someone in the nook of the nurses station, where the nurses are still hissing and giving the cross sign.”

“Go home and look it up and then I’m sure you’ll have a bunch of questions for your next visit.”

Note to self, find new cardiologist, one with heart.

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A Trip To The Zoo, Day 2

This was the first round of tests, an echo cardiogram and a heart rate monitor to wear for 24 hrs.  I was supposed to have a stress test but, I had rolled my ankle the day before while tripping over my puppy and trying not to crash into Jake on our afternoon walk/sprint.  Being that I was too frail for the stress test I did the others and rescheduled for Thursday, at this point what’s one more visit?  I am already getting hellos from the staff.

As I left the office in my workout clothes with the wires and electrodes hanging from me, I was keenly aware of the stares.  I know they weren’t thinking this is some girl who runs marathons and needs to be monitored to remain in tip-top shape, no they were thinking, “Oh, so young, so sad.“  I really wanted to announce to the office that I was 97 when I walked in and that they took me back and ’Cocooned’ me.  “Seriously, ask the nurses to peel there faces off.”

Instead, I walked out with my little 24hr card, a log for episodes or stressors. Funnily enough, my father in law called the minute I walked in the door.  He wanted to know if I could pick up and store his bed in our garage storage because my husband told him, “no problem.”  This is the room which is now an office, which had so little space, we had to give away our own extra bed to fit in the desk.  Now, I am set up to be the unwavering, nay saying bad guy.  “Can you excuse me a second, I want to write something down.“

Father in law:  “What”

“I’m wearing this heart monitor and I’m wondering if this phone call is affecting it.“

This went on throughout the day as I kept a mini diary of my moment to moment stuff.

1PM:  Have a great idea for an article.

1:45PM:  First round of carpool, pick up 3 wound-up 1st graders and listen to them argue over which seat they get and who gets to play the Nintendo DS.

2:15PM:  Puppy drags me and Jake around neighborhood despite our best efforts to drag him.

2:45PM:  Second round of carpool to pick up Ryan.

3PM:  Have a playdate for both kids, but realize Jake has a fever, so I had to bring him home.

3:15PM:  Still listening to Jake crying and telling me I’m the…oh, what did he call me?  That’s right, “the worst Mommy ever.”

3:30PM:  Confess to being the ‘worst Mommy ever,’ just to make it stop.  Then I make a list of all the other mommies he could go live with.  This is followed by a quick “You’re not the worst mommy.  You’re the best mommy.”  To which I respond, “and don’t you forget it.”  How quickly the threat of giving him away works.

4PM:  Double shot of espresso.

4:20PM:  Poop.

5PM:  Clean puppy poop and pee out of my new carpet.

5:30PM:  Try to walk dog with Ryan on her bike, crying that her chin strap, which is barely touching her neck, is too tight.  Jake on his Ripstick, a mile ahead where I can’t see him, won’t answer my incessant screaming down the street.

6:15PM:  Ask kids 37 times what they want for dinner, while listing available menu items…  To no response.

6:30PM:  My children are melting down, hitting each other and then taking turns telling on each other in indescribably high pitched whines that are making my ears revolt and my puppy try to hang himself.

7PM:  Call them in to have the turkey and cheese sandwiches I have made for them only to hear,  “Turkey I didn’t ask for Turkey.”  “Yea, we don’t want turkey.  This turkey is yuck!”

7:10PM Mark walks in the door and goes to our room to change.

7:15PM Put out peanut butter and jelly for Jake and a grilled cheese cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan.

7:30PM:  Put out just peanut butter for Jake and a waffle cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan.  “Kitchen’s closed.”

7:31PM:  Check gage to see if I’m having a heart attack.

7:32PM:  Mark reenters and starts bugging me about calling Verizon and about insurance.

7:37PM:  Manage to escape conversation to give Ryan her bath and get Jake in the shower.

7:40-8:10PM:  Play naked Barbie’s with Ryan in the bath.  Ryan is all the pretty girls and I have the choice of being the boy, the homely faux Barbie with cut hair, or the queer fluorescent green sea horse.  Thanks Ryan.

8:11PM:  Beg pruney Ryan to get out of the bath and end up threatening to take a star from her star chart, which I actually only pretend to keep.

8:15PM:  Kids are in pj’s and have managed to sneak into my room for some late night cartoon network.

8:20-8:30PM:  The time it takes to bribe, threaten, yell, and beat them into submission.

8:31PM:  Family race into bedrooms.

8:32PM:  Ryan is crying, because someone did something she either did not like or does not allow, during the family race.

8:33PM:  Do-over of the family race, adhering to Ryan’s strict guidelines and allowing her to win.

8:34PM:  Mark walks back to our room thinking the night is done, and turns on sports.  If there is no new sports he actually rewatches some game on ESPN classic that he already knows the outcome of.  WTF?

8:35PM:  Ryan begs me to read 3 stories which I shrewdly negotiate down to 2.  Once I’m halfway into 1, Jake slinks in trying to be unnoticed and slyly gets in bed with us.

8:40PM:  I finish the first story and then tell Jake to read the next one as I slink, trying to be unnoticed, out to the laundry room.  I like this trick, it gets him to read and gives me a one book reprieve.

8:50PM:  I tell Jake he must go and he then begs me to come into his room after I leave Ryan’s.  Why not?  I require no personal time.  Nope all need it an hour to plug myself in to a wall socket and I’m recharged for the morning.

9PM:  I now find myself singing 2 songs of Ryan’s choosing, doing a tickle monster, and two kiss attacks.  What can I say, she’s really cute and she does a great quivering lip.

9:10PM:  Bring Ryan a milk in a sippy cup, as requested.

9:11PM:  Give her one more big kiss, as requested.

9:12PM:  Take the toys that are scaring her out of her room.

9:13PM:  Fix her pillow.

9:14PM:  Threaten to take more imaginary stars away.

9:20PM:  Inform Ryan that this is “the absolute last time I am coming in.”  That’s right, even if you give me the eyes and the lip, I know how to put my foot down!

9:25PM:  Go into to see Jake who is passed out.

9:30PM:  Allow puppy to drag me around the block, despite my best efforts to drag him.  Watch him relentlessly bark at a black trash bag that someone has left in the swail.  I then threaten to take away stars from his imaginary star chart.

9:45PM:  Run in to tell Mark, we should have sex just to fuck with the Doctor, but he is fast asleep.  Yea well, I’ll be fast asleep soon.  Right after I do the dishes and straighten up, and check on my kids, and wash-up, and brush my teeth, and floss, and take my vitamins, and play some kind of word game on FB with people I haven’t spoken to  in 18years to remind me I have a brain.

Day 2 in the bag, stay tuned… day 3’s a doozie.

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A Trip To The Zoo, I Mean The Cardiologist

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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Are We All Pathetic Or Is It Just Me?

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?

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Let’s Name Our Dog Butt Munch!

Let's Name Our Dog Butt Munch and Other Bad CallsMy children are in that phase where all words referring to bodily functions and private parts are hilarious. I call it the Beavis and Butthead phase, and I’m eagerly awaiting its passing. However, I’m not holding my breath, as it appears my husband never actually outgrew that phase himself. So, with that in mind, we were trying to think of names for our new puppy. I was throwing out the more traditional names like Max and Charlie when J, my 7yo said, “Let’s name him Gary or Phil.”

Okay, not where I was going, but a name nonetheless.

I replied, “How about Copper or Cinnamon?”

R, my 4yo daughter: “I have a great idea, how about Cinnamon Toast Weiner?”

All: Ha ha ha, lots of laughs.

OK, game on.

J: “How about Tushie-Face?”

R: “Hee hee, good one.”

Minutes went by and R came running across the park screaming for all the other families to hear, “Listen listen, we should name our dog Vagina.”

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

I was making every attempt NOT to give this discussion too much attention, but the attention we were getting from the other families wondering why my boy is practicing calling a vagina was making me moderately uncomfortable.

“Could we keep this conversation down just a little bit?” I said, then went on to suggest more realistic names.

I know I’m a party pooper. (Hee Hee…I wrote pooper.)

I’ll tell you who isn’t a  party pooper,  my husband.

Hubby: “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.

J: “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. (I held mine in as the family nearest to us moved their stuff about 20ft. away.)

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

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

My husband finally aware of the wrong turn this conversation had taken, reeled it in by suggesting a name we could really use: Butt Munch. (Ah, the ever popular with the pre-teen 1980′s set, Butt Munch.)

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. Yes, 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.”

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

J: “No R, 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 f@cker maybe you could remedy that right here at the park.”

So, for the last two weeks J has told everyone willing to listen that R wanted to name our new dog Vagina, and R 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 R is still calling him Butt Munch, we as a family went with the more traditional, Ass Face. I hope she comes around.

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Other stories by Jenny: 40 Things Every Woman Should Have or Should Know By 40