No, not a real baby, silly: what the hell are you thinking? I'm 66 years old, and as maybe I've mentioned, one of my Edicts is "Sex is For The Young." We're havin' a dog baby: a puppy, a mini dachshund puppy to be exact.
Now, once upon a time, before I was married for the 2nd go-round, I'd made another Edict: "No More Men, No More Dogs." Then I met Jeffrey, and he swept me off my feet; or, as he likes to tell it, I flew by on my broom and he hopped on. (I knew there was a broom involved.) But after our last two dachshunds went to Doggie Heaven, (where they are, I'm sure, happily peeing and shitting on the floor, just like here on Earth) I held firm to a Partial Edict: "No More Dogs." That lasted about a month.
I started looking at people with dogs like I look at supermodels: with undisguised jealousy, bordering on an eye-narrowing hatred. I really missed the snuggly, warm little body close to mine in bed (No, not Jeff; see Edict #1.) I did realize that we used a lot less paper towels, and the house smelled better. But we were missing something. A pooch. A hound. A weiner dog.
Because for us, there is no other kind of dog.
Oh, yeah, other dogs have all the great adjectives going for them: cute, protective, sweet, regal even. And if truth be told, lots of dogs are much more intelligent than a dachshund. But there is no other dog in the world that is funnier than a dachshund; no other dog will make you laugh as much. And that's just by standing still.
So we read the books (Dog Training For Dummies was highly recommended by several people who know us well). We bought the crate, the food, and the outfits. (Oh come on; you didn't think there was going to be a mini dachshund without a skirt and matching hat, did you?) We'll get her in a few weeks: anticipation is running almost as high as when our grandchildren were born. (I said almost.) And yes, the puppy is a girl... her name will be Schotzie, which means "little treasure" in German.
Hopefully we'll house-train this dog more successfully than the last two, who liked to leave "little treasures" on the rugs. (One of my dear aunts suggested that we go to "Dog Parenting Classes", so we don't "spoil" this dog. Wait: what?? How can we spend our money on Parenting Classes, when we're saving up for her piano lessons?)
Not to mention how expensive a good Halloween Costume is these days at PetSmart.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Friday, August 15, 2014
Didn't Wanna Do Disney
I can safely say I am not a Traveler. My niece Mailin is a Traveler; that kid thinks nothing of jumping on a plane, meeting two connecting planes, and arriving in places that have no indoor plumbing. She's awesome in her fearlessness and sense of adventure. Me? Not so much. Driving across a bridge is enough of an adventure for me.
So when my daughter, her husband and two kids suggested I meet them in Disney for 4 days this August, I did not feel the Magic. I couldn't even picture myself in the Philadelphia airport, finding the right plane, and boarding it without throwing up. (It wasn't Root Canal Dread, but it was close.)
But thanks to the magic of dramamine, I made it through the flight without too much drama, except for the guy standing in the boarding line, who, during a casual conversation about the ridiculousness of the security check-point, informed me he had the right to "bear arms". Since he was wearing a very inappropriate (for his Body Type) muscle shirt, I naturally thought he meant "bare arms", and laughed politely. Apparently he was not kidding, and he informed me in that haughty/scary way people who like guns like to talk, and I smiled, looked away, and prayed that my seat was far, far away from him and his stupid biceps.
DisneyDisneyDisneyDisney. Since my daughter Sam had expertly booked, scheduled, and orchestrated the entire trip, I just had to hold someone's little hand and follow along: it was pretty great. Oh, yeah, there were times I felt like I was walking the streets of Calcutta; that was because of the cheek-to-cheek crowds, not the ambiance. There were times I felt like I was walking in the Sahara Desert; again, not the ambiance, but the god-awful heat. And there were times when I was having a blast. The Disney people should really open a Training School for the world: those people really know how to do NICE, and they should run a facility where people who don't work at Disney could learn a thing or three. (I wouldn't last a day there; my sarcasm and snarky nature would get me expelled.)
Sure, there was lots of walking and my feet hurt so much I was kind of crying, and some of the rides made me much, much woozier than I would've liked without a vodka tonic, but when my 9 year old granddaughter looked up at me and said "I'm having a super time, aren't you, Oma?" I had to answer "Absolutely!" And when we went on my favorite ride, "It's a Small World After All" , and my 5 year old grandson looked at me and said "Why does your neck jiggle like that?" ...well, that made it all worthwhile.
It was a great adventure. And let's face it: inside plumbing is pretty magical, after all.
So when my daughter, her husband and two kids suggested I meet them in Disney for 4 days this August, I did not feel the Magic. I couldn't even picture myself in the Philadelphia airport, finding the right plane, and boarding it without throwing up. (It wasn't Root Canal Dread, but it was close.)
But thanks to the magic of dramamine, I made it through the flight without too much drama, except for the guy standing in the boarding line, who, during a casual conversation about the ridiculousness of the security check-point, informed me he had the right to "bear arms". Since he was wearing a very inappropriate (for his Body Type) muscle shirt, I naturally thought he meant "bare arms", and laughed politely. Apparently he was not kidding, and he informed me in that haughty/scary way people who like guns like to talk, and I smiled, looked away, and prayed that my seat was far, far away from him and his stupid biceps.
DisneyDisneyDisneyDisney. Since my daughter Sam had expertly booked, scheduled, and orchestrated the entire trip, I just had to hold someone's little hand and follow along: it was pretty great. Oh, yeah, there were times I felt like I was walking the streets of Calcutta; that was because of the cheek-to-cheek crowds, not the ambiance. There were times I felt like I was walking in the Sahara Desert; again, not the ambiance, but the god-awful heat. And there were times when I was having a blast. The Disney people should really open a Training School for the world: those people really know how to do NICE, and they should run a facility where people who don't work at Disney could learn a thing or three. (I wouldn't last a day there; my sarcasm and snarky nature would get me expelled.)
Sure, there was lots of walking and my feet hurt so much I was kind of crying, and some of the rides made me much, much woozier than I would've liked without a vodka tonic, but when my 9 year old granddaughter looked up at me and said "I'm having a super time, aren't you, Oma?" I had to answer "Absolutely!" And when we went on my favorite ride, "It's a Small World After All" , and my 5 year old grandson looked at me and said "Why does your neck jiggle like that?" ...well, that made it all worthwhile.
It was a great adventure. And let's face it: inside plumbing is pretty magical, after all.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Cooking: Highly Overrated
I've never been a good cook. A good cook always seems to A.) have interesting, even edible leftovers in the refrig, and B.) says things like "Cooking relaxes me." Cooking make me nervous, blindingly nervous; I am always out of some herb, which leads to needing a substitute herb, which leads to looking stuff up about herbs online. A tuna casserole could take me an hour and a half to put together. And the only thing semi-interesting I have in my refrig is Portuguese white wine. (Thank God for that.) There's also some 1% milk, and some tired, pathetic asparagus I bought a week ago when I saw a recipe in a magazine, then forgot both the magazine it was in and the asparagus. I also have a couple of Paul Newman's salad dressings from 2010.
Ina Garten: she probably has lots of cool leftovers she can haul out of her refrig, reheat and serve up as a supper for her fabulously wealthy husband, Jeffrey. I'm assuming he's fabulously wealthy because in all of her shows, Jeffrey drives home "from the city" on the weekends, and she has a wonderful roast chicken for him, and a "really fabulous blueberry crumble" for dessert. My husband (also named Jeff, but not Jeffrey; sometimes I call him Just Jeff, to annoy him) would drop dead if he walked in the door and the chicken wasn't a rotisserie chicken from the Shop Rite. And what the heck's a crumble? Of course, maybe I'd be happier about cooking if my husband only drove home only on weekends, and he was driving a BMW. I doubt it: I'd still be a terrible cook. But I'm pretty sure I'd be happier...
Last night I tried to make a recipe called "Crustless Quiche". It called for evaporated milk; I bought condensed milk. I actually bought 4 cans of condensed milk, because at the Shop Rite, I didn't know that I only needed a half a cup for Crustless Quiche. (Who knew?) This mistake led me to the computer, where I spent an hour Googling evaporated vs. condensed milk, and learned a lot about this funny little milk that comes in the cute little cans, but decided in the end, what the hell, just use the 1% milk in the fridge. I also spent a great deal of time wiping off the baby bella mushrooms with a damp paper towel, because apparently mushrooms don't like to get all wet (which I can relate to, so I really didn't mind.) The frozen spinach was supposed to be thawed; I'd forgotten that, so I "quick-thawed" it by holding it under hot water, then squeezing the semi-frozen block of spinach dry (I swear the recipe called for that; why would I make that up?)
Physically, my hands were now freezing, and mentally, I was extremely uncomfortable about the cleanliness of my baby bellas; how many deer feet had meandered over these fungi in the forest? Did raccoons touch them with their dirty, albeit adorable raccoon paws...or a body part much less adorable?
As I was drinking quite a bit of wine by now, I decided to pour a little--oh, fine, a lot of wine, but my hands were basically frozen and the bottle slipped a little-- into the pan with the bellas and the spinach. I figured a little alcohol would take care of any forest contamination, and probably thaw any still-frozen chunks of spinach. Let me just add, it was now about 9 o'clock at night, and my husband, seeing that I was winging it pretty heavily, went out to get the paper, and after driving back home in his Ford Focus, asked:
"Need a hand, Hon?"
Hell no: I need Bobby Flay, more wine, and probably Take Out Chinese.
Relaxed I was not. Pertinent questions raced through my mind:
Why didn't I just buy the damn rotisserie chicken and be done with it?
What the living hell was I going to do with 4 cans of condensed milk?
And wouldn't condensed milk, by definition, be milk that liquid has evaporated from, thereby making them one and the same?
No matter. Wait till Jeff sees the fabulous dessert I've planned: Weight Watchers Mini Fudge Bars, 45 calories each.
Take that, Ina.
Messed up your dessert then called it a "crumble", huh? Can't fool me, sister.
Ina Garten: she probably has lots of cool leftovers she can haul out of her refrig, reheat and serve up as a supper for her fabulously wealthy husband, Jeffrey. I'm assuming he's fabulously wealthy because in all of her shows, Jeffrey drives home "from the city" on the weekends, and she has a wonderful roast chicken for him, and a "really fabulous blueberry crumble" for dessert. My husband (also named Jeff, but not Jeffrey; sometimes I call him Just Jeff, to annoy him) would drop dead if he walked in the door and the chicken wasn't a rotisserie chicken from the Shop Rite. And what the heck's a crumble? Of course, maybe I'd be happier about cooking if my husband only drove home only on weekends, and he was driving a BMW. I doubt it: I'd still be a terrible cook. But I'm pretty sure I'd be happier...
Last night I tried to make a recipe called "Crustless Quiche". It called for evaporated milk; I bought condensed milk. I actually bought 4 cans of condensed milk, because at the Shop Rite, I didn't know that I only needed a half a cup for Crustless Quiche. (Who knew?) This mistake led me to the computer, where I spent an hour Googling evaporated vs. condensed milk, and learned a lot about this funny little milk that comes in the cute little cans, but decided in the end, what the hell, just use the 1% milk in the fridge. I also spent a great deal of time wiping off the baby bella mushrooms with a damp paper towel, because apparently mushrooms don't like to get all wet (which I can relate to, so I really didn't mind.) The frozen spinach was supposed to be thawed; I'd forgotten that, so I "quick-thawed" it by holding it under hot water, then squeezing the semi-frozen block of spinach dry (I swear the recipe called for that; why would I make that up?)
Physically, my hands were now freezing, and mentally, I was extremely uncomfortable about the cleanliness of my baby bellas; how many deer feet had meandered over these fungi in the forest? Did raccoons touch them with their dirty, albeit adorable raccoon paws...or a body part much less adorable?
As I was drinking quite a bit of wine by now, I decided to pour a little--oh, fine, a lot of wine, but my hands were basically frozen and the bottle slipped a little-- into the pan with the bellas and the spinach. I figured a little alcohol would take care of any forest contamination, and probably thaw any still-frozen chunks of spinach. Let me just add, it was now about 9 o'clock at night, and my husband, seeing that I was winging it pretty heavily, went out to get the paper, and after driving back home in his Ford Focus, asked:
"Need a hand, Hon?"
Hell no: I need Bobby Flay, more wine, and probably Take Out Chinese.
Relaxed I was not. Pertinent questions raced through my mind:
Why didn't I just buy the damn rotisserie chicken and be done with it?
What the living hell was I going to do with 4 cans of condensed milk?
And wouldn't condensed milk, by definition, be milk that liquid has evaporated from, thereby making them one and the same?
No matter. Wait till Jeff sees the fabulous dessert I've planned: Weight Watchers Mini Fudge Bars, 45 calories each.
Take that, Ina.
Messed up your dessert then called it a "crumble", huh? Can't fool me, sister.
Monday, July 7, 2014
The Fourth
A startling thing happened to me on this past Fourth of July. I became a patriot. I was not snarky for even one single minute: it was miraculous. I had fun, damn it, and lots of it. It was a red, white and blue miracle, and, please, let me explain why this was so unusual for me...
You see, past Fourth of Julys have not been as pride producing, as flag waving, or as non-snarky. Long, long ago, I was part owner of a motel in a shore town that shall remain nameless, but it is the actual Webster Definition of the word "tacky": seriously, look up the word tacky, you'll see the name of the town. Our motel was a small but clean motel, but as the economy tanked, the clientele got less and less clean. They started drinking at about noon, after waking up on a pool chair from their previous night's bender, and by 3 o'clock in the afternoon they liked to draw signs in chalk on the sidewalk in front of our motel:
YO!! Go To Room 214 for a grate time!!!"
(Their spelling, not mine. I have spell check.) And that was just the young ladies; the young gentlemen were checking their weapons in case someone undesirable came to Room 214, and by undesirable I mean they didn't have the prerequisite money or drugs. So The Fourth of July, like Labor Day, Memorial Weekend (and I still can't talk about Memorial Weekend without a facial tic) were especially horrific. Heinous Holidays.
But that was then, and this is now. This year on the Fourth of July, for the first time in a really long time, I went to see the fireworks. The whole family went. While we waited for "dusk", I tried to explain what "dusk" meant to the 5 year old, and we sat on the ground on reusable plastic shopping bags because we forgot blankets and they were the only things in the car. The kids danced to the music (positively blaring from the speakers, but that didn't even bother me, which is really unusual...that's when I knew I must be experiencing a Patriotic High). Next to us, to the great embarrassment of his children, one very tall white man tried to moonwalk on the grass, in sneakers.
It. Was. Delightful.
The fireworks started: they were as loud and aah-inspiring as they were supposed to be, and even the musical accompaniment--everything from Kate Smith (God Bless America) to Katy Perry (Baby, You're a Firework)--was great. (I actually teared up a little during God Bless America, until my daughter leaned over and asked me if that was me singing. Smart-Ass Kid.) There was blue cotton candy, the kids got some stuck in their hair, and after the long walk back to the car, they fell asleep on the ride home. Perfect. A Perfect Holiday. We all agreed that we'll have to do it again sometime: how 'bout next year? Maybe next year we'll remember the blankets. Meh... maybe not. As long as you've got Kate Smith, you don't need no stinkin' blankets.
GBA, Kate. We had a grate time.
You see, past Fourth of Julys have not been as pride producing, as flag waving, or as non-snarky. Long, long ago, I was part owner of a motel in a shore town that shall remain nameless, but it is the actual Webster Definition of the word "tacky": seriously, look up the word tacky, you'll see the name of the town. Our motel was a small but clean motel, but as the economy tanked, the clientele got less and less clean. They started drinking at about noon, after waking up on a pool chair from their previous night's bender, and by 3 o'clock in the afternoon they liked to draw signs in chalk on the sidewalk in front of our motel:
YO!! Go To Room 214 for a grate time!!!"
(Their spelling, not mine. I have spell check.) And that was just the young ladies; the young gentlemen were checking their weapons in case someone undesirable came to Room 214, and by undesirable I mean they didn't have the prerequisite money or drugs. So The Fourth of July, like Labor Day, Memorial Weekend (and I still can't talk about Memorial Weekend without a facial tic) were especially horrific. Heinous Holidays.
But that was then, and this is now. This year on the Fourth of July, for the first time in a really long time, I went to see the fireworks. The whole family went. While we waited for "dusk", I tried to explain what "dusk" meant to the 5 year old, and we sat on the ground on reusable plastic shopping bags because we forgot blankets and they were the only things in the car. The kids danced to the music (positively blaring from the speakers, but that didn't even bother me, which is really unusual...that's when I knew I must be experiencing a Patriotic High). Next to us, to the great embarrassment of his children, one very tall white man tried to moonwalk on the grass, in sneakers.
It. Was. Delightful.
The fireworks started: they were as loud and aah-inspiring as they were supposed to be, and even the musical accompaniment--everything from Kate Smith (God Bless America) to Katy Perry (Baby, You're a Firework)--was great. (I actually teared up a little during God Bless America, until my daughter leaned over and asked me if that was me singing. Smart-Ass Kid.) There was blue cotton candy, the kids got some stuck in their hair, and after the long walk back to the car, they fell asleep on the ride home. Perfect. A Perfect Holiday. We all agreed that we'll have to do it again sometime: how 'bout next year? Maybe next year we'll remember the blankets. Meh... maybe not. As long as you've got Kate Smith, you don't need no stinkin' blankets.
GBA, Kate. We had a grate time.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Celebrities 'R Us
So I'm now going to break the first two Rules I made about my blog:
Rule #1. Never, ever, under any circumstances, mention the Kardashians.
Rule #2. Never, ever, under any circumstances, mention Justin Bieber.
It all started yesterday when I was scrolling the channels and landed on the QVC channel, and there he was, no, not The Bieb: Bob Mackie. Yes, Bob Mackie, who at one time, made beautiful (for the 1960's and 70's) gowns for the likes of Carol Burnett, and later, even Cher (when Bob was obviously on something pretty strong, maybe even illegal.)
On QVC, Bob was selling t-shirts. "And Ladies, It's my very own fun design, sizes small to XXXL!" The t-shirts had pictures of cats on the front. Seriously, cats... cats holding flowers and wearing hats, cats cavorting, cats smiling... cats. Bob himself looked like one of those guys you see at the library in the magazine room, reading a magazine about cats. He had on a shlumpy looking t-shirt, possibly a Member's Only Jacket, and too-long khaki pants, with sneaks. And that boy could hawk cat t-shirts like nobody's business: they were flying off the QVC rack.
It made me wonder: why are we so obsessed with celebrities? (O.K., that's not a new thought: it's just my damn thought tonight, and it was Mackie that set me off.) Why would anyone, ever, in their Right Mind, buy a cat t-shirt just because it was made by Bob Mackie? And why do countless people, probably just as normal as you and I (cue the crazed laughter) watch a show about an entire family of loud-mouth whiners, whose only claim to fame is that they all have big asses? I'm sorry, Kardashians, but what have you-all done that has bettered the world? Why are people transfixed with these clowns? Why do people actually buy clothes that will allow them to have that same Packed-In-A-Sausage-Casing-Look? At least Mackie made something, and there are people out there, I'm thinking in Iowa, with an overwhelming desire to have that cat t-shirt, and damn it, they will buy it tonight, in 5 installments of $7.95 each.
And then there's The Bieb. When I see The Bieb on TV, I have an uncontrollable desire to lunge for the screen, and probably do myself and the screen some harm (flat screens do not hold up well to a lunge, trust me.) I want to slap the smug right off his little Bieb face. But he has legions of fans. Why?
Probably, like they say, because It Takes All Kinds. Because I had not one, but two, Trini Lopez records, back in the Day. And I wear t-shirts with dachshunds on them, purchased from a special dachshund website, based in Iowa: those gals could sell me anything.
And I haven't done much to better the world, either. I'm a pretty darn good whiner, and yes, you might say I do have a bit of a big ass. So maybe that's it: maybe we're obsessed with celebrities because they're just like us, but with way, way better cars, houses, and t-shirts.Yeah, that must be it.
But I still want to slap Bieber. Please. Just once.
Rule #1. Never, ever, under any circumstances, mention the Kardashians.
Rule #2. Never, ever, under any circumstances, mention Justin Bieber.
It all started yesterday when I was scrolling the channels and landed on the QVC channel, and there he was, no, not The Bieb: Bob Mackie. Yes, Bob Mackie, who at one time, made beautiful (for the 1960's and 70's) gowns for the likes of Carol Burnett, and later, even Cher (when Bob was obviously on something pretty strong, maybe even illegal.)
On QVC, Bob was selling t-shirts. "And Ladies, It's my very own fun design, sizes small to XXXL!" The t-shirts had pictures of cats on the front. Seriously, cats... cats holding flowers and wearing hats, cats cavorting, cats smiling... cats. Bob himself looked like one of those guys you see at the library in the magazine room, reading a magazine about cats. He had on a shlumpy looking t-shirt, possibly a Member's Only Jacket, and too-long khaki pants, with sneaks. And that boy could hawk cat t-shirts like nobody's business: they were flying off the QVC rack.
It made me wonder: why are we so obsessed with celebrities? (O.K., that's not a new thought: it's just my damn thought tonight, and it was Mackie that set me off.) Why would anyone, ever, in their Right Mind, buy a cat t-shirt just because it was made by Bob Mackie? And why do countless people, probably just as normal as you and I (cue the crazed laughter) watch a show about an entire family of loud-mouth whiners, whose only claim to fame is that they all have big asses? I'm sorry, Kardashians, but what have you-all done that has bettered the world? Why are people transfixed with these clowns? Why do people actually buy clothes that will allow them to have that same Packed-In-A-Sausage-Casing-Look? At least Mackie made something, and there are people out there, I'm thinking in Iowa, with an overwhelming desire to have that cat t-shirt, and damn it, they will buy it tonight, in 5 installments of $7.95 each.
And then there's The Bieb. When I see The Bieb on TV, I have an uncontrollable desire to lunge for the screen, and probably do myself and the screen some harm (flat screens do not hold up well to a lunge, trust me.) I want to slap the smug right off his little Bieb face. But he has legions of fans. Why?
Probably, like they say, because It Takes All Kinds. Because I had not one, but two, Trini Lopez records, back in the Day. And I wear t-shirts with dachshunds on them, purchased from a special dachshund website, based in Iowa: those gals could sell me anything.
And I haven't done much to better the world, either. I'm a pretty darn good whiner, and yes, you might say I do have a bit of a big ass. So maybe that's it: maybe we're obsessed with celebrities because they're just like us, but with way, way better cars, houses, and t-shirts.Yeah, that must be it.
But I still want to slap Bieber. Please. Just once.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
"Open Wide..."
"Open wide!" Yes, that's what my dentist says, but I really wish my gynecologist said it, too: I mean, let's call a spade a spade: that's what I'm here for, isn't it? Let's not beat around the bush (can't believe I just wrote that) about my blood pressure, or his new recipe for cream of cauliflower soup: put the "paper gown" on, put my feet in the stirrups, and let's get it over with, Doc.
I just got back from a visit to my gynecologist: he's a lovely, lovely man, very soft-spoken and compassionate, with a uniquely Jewish sense of life's realities. ("Yes, you could lose 5 pounds, but no more: you don't want to look gaunt.") And when I remind him that I'm only 5 feet, one inch high, he straightens up to his 5 feet, 3 inch height and says "What, that's not tall enough?"
Two of my friends went with me. Nancy and Ali had appointments within 20 minutes of mine, 20 minutes of each other: we've done this for a few years now. We call it our "Gyno Party", and are totally unashamed of this, as corny (and by corny I mean weird and old-personish) as it is. Hey, if some guy, no matter how sweet and soft-spoken, is going to look up my hoo-ha...well, there'd better be shopping and lunch involved afterwards.
So, after stripping naked, donning the paper gown ("paper gown": best oxymoron ever), and putting my feet in the aforementioned stirrups, I always tell the doctor same joke: "If you hear a creak, Doc, it's just the Vault Door opening..." No, it's not particularly funny, but it helps me concentrate on something other than What's Going On Down There and What Will He Find? The Lost Continent of Atlantis, perhaps, or something even more sinister?
My former gynecologist, a tall, icy blond, had a French Poodle who accompanied her into the exam room, and she talked to the poodle more than she talked to me. Now, I was a little skeeved out by this, and there are two reasons why I really had no business being skeeved:
#1. I love dogs, much, much more than I love gynecologists.
#2. I was in the doctor's exam room because I had a pretty embarrassing situation going on: a tick was stuck tight to my, as we say in elementary school, privates.
As you can see, I was in no position to be skeeved out or judgmental towards anyone (or any dog.) But she was not amused by my Vault Door joke, and I changed gynecologists.
The hell with her and her French Poodle. If I really have to chat at the gynecologist's, I'd much rather talk about cream of cauliflower soup recipes, with someone my own height.
I just got back from a visit to my gynecologist: he's a lovely, lovely man, very soft-spoken and compassionate, with a uniquely Jewish sense of life's realities. ("Yes, you could lose 5 pounds, but no more: you don't want to look gaunt.") And when I remind him that I'm only 5 feet, one inch high, he straightens up to his 5 feet, 3 inch height and says "What, that's not tall enough?"
Two of my friends went with me. Nancy and Ali had appointments within 20 minutes of mine, 20 minutes of each other: we've done this for a few years now. We call it our "Gyno Party", and are totally unashamed of this, as corny (and by corny I mean weird and old-personish) as it is. Hey, if some guy, no matter how sweet and soft-spoken, is going to look up my hoo-ha...well, there'd better be shopping and lunch involved afterwards.
So, after stripping naked, donning the paper gown ("paper gown": best oxymoron ever), and putting my feet in the aforementioned stirrups, I always tell the doctor same joke: "If you hear a creak, Doc, it's just the Vault Door opening..." No, it's not particularly funny, but it helps me concentrate on something other than What's Going On Down There and What Will He Find? The Lost Continent of Atlantis, perhaps, or something even more sinister?
My former gynecologist, a tall, icy blond, had a French Poodle who accompanied her into the exam room, and she talked to the poodle more than she talked to me. Now, I was a little skeeved out by this, and there are two reasons why I really had no business being skeeved:
#1. I love dogs, much, much more than I love gynecologists.
#2. I was in the doctor's exam room because I had a pretty embarrassing situation going on: a tick was stuck tight to my, as we say in elementary school, privates.
As you can see, I was in no position to be skeeved out or judgmental towards anyone (or any dog.) But she was not amused by my Vault Door joke, and I changed gynecologists.
The hell with her and her French Poodle. If I really have to chat at the gynecologist's, I'd much rather talk about cream of cauliflower soup recipes, with someone my own height.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
This Is Your Pilot Speaking...
Fear of Flying doesn't even begin to cover it. Nightmare on Elm Street Meets Every Plane Catastrophe Ever is more like it. So when Jeff and I decide to fly from New Jersey to Minnesota for our niece's wedding, obviously I was under the influence of a LOT of wine.
I step into the plane, trying to look cool. I am not cool, I am catatonic. The Fight Attendant smiles at me, but I see nothing but the fear that is shining in her eyes: she knows this plane's going down. Okay, I also see that she is wearing WAY too much eye makeup for 2:00 in the afternoon, and her pants are at least twice as snug as mine. Good. Starting to feel better already.
I avoid eye contact with every one who's boarding the plane, because I know the Crazy Plane Bomber is scoping out all of us, looking for the weakest person that he can use as a hostage. I will NOT be the Weak Link. I button up my Lands' End jacket, turning it into a sort of Comfort Coat, like the ones they put on dogs during a thunderstorm. I'm so hot I could pass out.
The plane takes off, and because my husband sprang for First Class seats (to keep me from peeing my pants in the middle seat, which I swore I would), the Flight Attendant (Ms. Uber Tight Pants) immediately asks me if I want a drink. "Shit, yeah!" I hear myself say, then add to soften that faux pas, "HA! Oh, no, no, not right yet..." Jeff orders a Bloody Mary, which I try not to read too much into. I relax. I take a sip of his drink, and look at Ms. Uber Tight Pants. She looks relaxed. (I like to gauge my panic on how panic-stricken the Flight Attendants look.)
Right about then, Jeff asks me to hold onto his drink: he's going to the bathroom. I balance his glass on my "lap tray", feigning nonchalance: I fly all the time, and I am very, very cosmopolitan, despite the fact that I am wearing a Lands' End Jacket as a strait jacket/ Canine Comfort Coat. The captain's voice comes on the loud speaker. He's got a folksy, "I'm-from-Hotel-6, and-we'll-leave-the-lights-on-for-ya" kind of voice:
"This is your pilot speaking, folks, and we're experiencing a bit of bumpy air, so we're climbing to 35 thousand gazillion feet in order to avoid the turbulence that will make you lunge for your Airsickness Bags. Keep your seat belts on so that we can identify the bodies when we plummet those 35 thousand gazillion feet to Earth. "
I know he didn't say all of that, but he was thinking it. I looked at Ms. U. Tight Pants; she looks okay, but uncomfortable. Could be the pants. And as I stare at her, and listen to the Pilot, the glass-- filled with a very cold, icy Bloody Mary-- slowly slides down the lap tray, and without fanfare, slips off the tray, and lands in my lap. The Fight Attendant blinks at it.
"Oooops," she smiles, "Do you think he might want another Bloody Mary?"
Thoughts run through my head, most of them unprintable... basically what I want to spit out is this: "My crotch is full of ice, tomato juice, and lime: how 'bout a freakin' napkin, rhymes with Witch?"
I (shakily, bravely, amazingly) just ask for some napkins, and she brings me a paper towel. One. I head to the bathroom, which is the size of my microwave. While I try to get more paper towels out of the dispenser on the wall, the entire dispenser falls off the wall and onto the floor. I'm now sweating profusely, I smell like tomato juice, and there are lime fragments all over my crotch. I will NOT pick up that paper towel dispenser from the disgusting floor: I will NOT be the Weak Link. Somehow, I leave the bathroom with my head high, and the paper towel dispenser still on the floor.
Jeff looks at me as I sit down. He's drinking his (fresh) Bloody Mary. "Isn't this fun?" he smiles. "I told you, there's nothing to be afraid of...hey, Hon? Aren't you hot in that jacket?"
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