My friend B and I walk most Sunday mornings, and this past Sunday was no exception. We pretend our walks are about getting fresh air and exercise, but in reality, we walk because it is too early to drink wine in the morning, and crying uncontrollably over the Sunday paper every week seems a little nutsy, even to us. So we walk, and we talk, and no matter what the topic, B always manages to top me, effortlessly. I like to think it is because her life and the people in it are crazier than mine, but I suppose crazy is relative. And whose relatives aren't crazy? Even, or especially, the kids.
I told B about my rough Saturday night. My family had movie night, and we watched "Return of the Jedi" as both my daughters are solidly in their Star Wars phase. I forgot how long that movie was, and how creepy the Ewoks were, and after toothbrushing and storytime, my 8 year old daughter was too scared to get to sleep, what with images of Jabba the Hutt licking his mouth slit and Darth Vadar without his breathing apparatus terrorizing her when she shut her eyes.
I had to climb into her twin bed with her and tell her all the reasons she didn't need to be scared, including the fact that creepy primitive teddy bears were not going to chant "jub jub" in her room and attack her with spears. We covered everything that might be frightening, from the scratching of the squirrels trying to dismantle the attic for more acorn storage to the fact that no evil lurked in the shadows of her bedroom (which I am not able to state with absolute certainty, but did sound convincing at the time).
She tried her hardest to convince me that the only way she truly felt safe was having me with her always. I pointed out that she was eight, not two, and that she was old enough to understand that she could be safe even if her mommy was not by her side 24/7. She decided that she would try to sleep alone, but if she couldn't, she would, and I am quoting her, "perform a quiet activity" in her room such as coloring. I explained that quiet activities did not make one fall asleep, but since Tylenol PM did, and I already had one, I was finished talking about it for the night.
When I woke up the next morning, I found out she had performed a quiet activity after all. On her nightstand was a realistic likeness of me on a Kleenex, complete with a good night message. She even folded the bottom of the Kleenex over my tissue legs to tuck me in for the night. I told B about the Mommy Kleenex, which will be yet one more thing made of paper in my house that I will not be allowed to throw away. And then B did it; she topped the pocket mommy.
B told me how she went to check on her almost 7 year old before our walk and found her daughter using the computer, a Ziploc bag filled with water next to her on the desk. B, being the unassuming person she is, asked her daughter why there was a baggie filled with water next to her keyboard. Her daughter smiled at her and answered it was her imaginary goldfish. B calmly asked her to not keep the fish bag next to the computer, and left to walk with me. I laughed when she told me, as B has two real pets that were both being ignored by her daughter in favor of the bag of water.
When we returned to her house, we sat at the kitchen table, drinking water out of my favorite Pump It Up plastic kids’ cups, and who comes down the stairs but her daughter, still carrying around her Ziploc bag. She held it up proudly for me to see, all 15 of her imaginary goldfish pretend swimming in a small sandwich bag.
“Wanna help me teach my imaginary fish how to color?” she asked.
“Sure,” I answered, and she handed me a computer printout of a lemur from the PBS kids website. And the three of us sat at the table, coloring, the water in the bag jiggling slightly from the movement of our crayons on the paper.
“You know, B,” I said. “You really ought to write Ziploc and tell them how great their product is.”
“You’re right,” she answered. “I should.”
So which is odder, a mommy Kleenex or a Ziploc bag filled with water? I don’t know, but you can see why a Sunday morning cocktail is not such a bad idea. After a couple of drinks, it wouldn’t matter who tops whom.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
You Poor Asshole
I know you are going to laugh. I would laugh too if it wasn’t me. Laugh all you want. One day this will be you. And then it will be my turn to laugh. So there.
I have a hemorrhoid, painful and lonely, hanging around where it isn’t wanted. Believe the Preparation H ads. They are not lying to you. It is painful, and itchy, and sore. Sitting is challenging, as is standing and moving. Oh, and lying down too. But more than the physical discomfort is the psychological trauma associated with an unwanted anal protrusion. I am embarrassed, even blushing, while typing about my ass. It is awkward to tell your spouse or your friends, even those with whom you share all your intimate details. But I had to tell someone, first for a second opinion, and then for some validation.
I ambushed my husband in the bathroom. “I have to tell you something and I don’t want to,” I informed him.
“Just tell me.”
“I can’t, I am too embarrassed.”
“Just do it, it can’t be that bad.”
But it was that bad. “Something is wrong with my butt, and I don’t know what it is.”
“Like what? Is it bleeding?”
“Not anymore,” I answered hopefully. “But it was yesterday, and today there is a lump and it hurts.”
“Oh, that’s probably just a hemorrhoid,” he said, like he dealt with assholes all day instead of mouths.
“Should you look at it?”
“I don’t think that is necessary.”
“Well, what am I going to do?”
“Go buy some preparation H.”
“Could you do it for me? I am too embarrassed.”
“No, I’m not going to buy that for you. Buy it yourself.”
How helpful. I will remember that when he gets his first hemorrhoid. Except now we have preparation H in our medicine cabinet, so he won’t need to go buy it himself. Maybe it will expire before then. And then I will remind him of what he said to me, about buying my own. Ha!
I went to my friend B’s house after dinner to take a walk. Somehow moving seemed like a better idea than sitting by the end of the day. I drove to her house, easing over any potholes in the road.
When our feet hit the pavement, I said to her, “I have something I have to tell you, and I don’t want you to look at me while I tell you.” Yes, I needed to tell her. I was mincing along the road next to her, and I was concerned my entire 28 feet of intestines might come spilling out, so I thought it was a tidbit of data that might be helpful to her in case of a rectal emergency.
“Okay,” she said, looking at the house across the street. “Let’s hear it.”
“I think I have a hemorrhoid,” I confessed.
“Oh, is that all? I thought you had something big to tell me.” “It’s big to me, huge, and painful too.”
“But everyone gets those. It’s not that big a deal.” That’s why I told B in the first place. Not much is a big deal to her, certainly not about the human body. She helps me keep things in perspective. “Did you try tucking it back in?”
I was surprised by this comment, as I had indeed tried that, but I didn’t expect her to know about tucking. I knew to try it after looking up asshole problems on the Internet that afternoon, and along with some unflattering anonymous photos, I found some great advice on how to deal with this predicament from the comfort of your own home before breaking down and going public with your ass, and by that I mean the doctor’s office and not YouTube.
“I did try that!” I exclaimed. “All it did was make my hemorrhoid angry at me.” I looked over at B, who was gazing at the sky and trying to not laugh out loud.
“How did you get it?” Now here is a question that no one, no matter how close a friend or family member, should ask. Does anyone really want to know what caused the hemorrhoid? Is it objective curiosity, or a desire to avoid that activity? The answers came flying fast, none of which were factual. I bought it at Target, in the anal accessories department. I popped it out while bull riding. I choked on my ice and coughed until I burst at my nether seam. I was trying to win a world record by shoving as many socket wrenches up my ass as possible, but suffered trauma upon removal. I had a high heel wedged up there. I decided to go with the truth, which as usual was the most mortifying.
“I fell asleep in the car while my husband drove us home from out of town yesterday, and I guess he swerved or hit the brakes, but I was startled awake with such force that I clenched my butt and felt like I pulled something. When we got home, I checked myself in the bathroom since I still felt sore, and I was bleeding. And ever since then, I have had my problem.” Yes, it was true; I got a hemorrhoid from waking up too quickly.
B laughed harder, and then made me promise to get some medicine to make it better. I told her to forget we ever had our conversation. “What conversation?” she asked, stifling a snort.
Thanks to my hemorrhoid, I can hang up any last hopes of being a porn star. Age and childbearing has ruined the front half of my body, so I figured that the only option that remained was graphic anal sex, but it seems that too is now out of the question. Although, I am sure if I looked hard enough, and hell no, I don’t want to, I am sure there is a website devoted to lumpy assholes. (And if you don’t believe me, go Google jarmel berries.)
I wasn’t planning on quitting my day job, but right now, sitting around on my ass doing nothing isn’t all that comfortable. I suppose there is always the possibility of creating a diamond mine in there, since I am able to clench with such force that I’m sure I can render carbon into precious gemstones with little difficulty. Or, I could just suck it up, go to the CVS, hide the Preparation H tube among other benign drug store purchases, and hope the clerk thinks I am planning on using it for my puffy eye bags. Then I can stop obsessing on my asshole and get back to my other obsessions, like my puffy eye bags and how to launch my porn career.
I have a hemorrhoid, painful and lonely, hanging around where it isn’t wanted. Believe the Preparation H ads. They are not lying to you. It is painful, and itchy, and sore. Sitting is challenging, as is standing and moving. Oh, and lying down too. But more than the physical discomfort is the psychological trauma associated with an unwanted anal protrusion. I am embarrassed, even blushing, while typing about my ass. It is awkward to tell your spouse or your friends, even those with whom you share all your intimate details. But I had to tell someone, first for a second opinion, and then for some validation.
I ambushed my husband in the bathroom. “I have to tell you something and I don’t want to,” I informed him.
“Just tell me.”
“I can’t, I am too embarrassed.”
“Just do it, it can’t be that bad.”
But it was that bad. “Something is wrong with my butt, and I don’t know what it is.”
“Like what? Is it bleeding?”
“Not anymore,” I answered hopefully. “But it was yesterday, and today there is a lump and it hurts.”
“Oh, that’s probably just a hemorrhoid,” he said, like he dealt with assholes all day instead of mouths.
“Should you look at it?”
“I don’t think that is necessary.”
“Well, what am I going to do?”
“Go buy some preparation H.”
“Could you do it for me? I am too embarrassed.”
“No, I’m not going to buy that for you. Buy it yourself.”
How helpful. I will remember that when he gets his first hemorrhoid. Except now we have preparation H in our medicine cabinet, so he won’t need to go buy it himself. Maybe it will expire before then. And then I will remind him of what he said to me, about buying my own. Ha!
I went to my friend B’s house after dinner to take a walk. Somehow moving seemed like a better idea than sitting by the end of the day. I drove to her house, easing over any potholes in the road.
When our feet hit the pavement, I said to her, “I have something I have to tell you, and I don’t want you to look at me while I tell you.” Yes, I needed to tell her. I was mincing along the road next to her, and I was concerned my entire 28 feet of intestines might come spilling out, so I thought it was a tidbit of data that might be helpful to her in case of a rectal emergency.
“Okay,” she said, looking at the house across the street. “Let’s hear it.”
“I think I have a hemorrhoid,” I confessed.
“Oh, is that all? I thought you had something big to tell me.” “It’s big to me, huge, and painful too.”
“But everyone gets those. It’s not that big a deal.” That’s why I told B in the first place. Not much is a big deal to her, certainly not about the human body. She helps me keep things in perspective. “Did you try tucking it back in?”
I was surprised by this comment, as I had indeed tried that, but I didn’t expect her to know about tucking. I knew to try it after looking up asshole problems on the Internet that afternoon, and along with some unflattering anonymous photos, I found some great advice on how to deal with this predicament from the comfort of your own home before breaking down and going public with your ass, and by that I mean the doctor’s office and not YouTube.
“I did try that!” I exclaimed. “All it did was make my hemorrhoid angry at me.” I looked over at B, who was gazing at the sky and trying to not laugh out loud.
“How did you get it?” Now here is a question that no one, no matter how close a friend or family member, should ask. Does anyone really want to know what caused the hemorrhoid? Is it objective curiosity, or a desire to avoid that activity? The answers came flying fast, none of which were factual. I bought it at Target, in the anal accessories department. I popped it out while bull riding. I choked on my ice and coughed until I burst at my nether seam. I was trying to win a world record by shoving as many socket wrenches up my ass as possible, but suffered trauma upon removal. I had a high heel wedged up there. I decided to go with the truth, which as usual was the most mortifying.
“I fell asleep in the car while my husband drove us home from out of town yesterday, and I guess he swerved or hit the brakes, but I was startled awake with such force that I clenched my butt and felt like I pulled something. When we got home, I checked myself in the bathroom since I still felt sore, and I was bleeding. And ever since then, I have had my problem.” Yes, it was true; I got a hemorrhoid from waking up too quickly.
B laughed harder, and then made me promise to get some medicine to make it better. I told her to forget we ever had our conversation. “What conversation?” she asked, stifling a snort.
Thanks to my hemorrhoid, I can hang up any last hopes of being a porn star. Age and childbearing has ruined the front half of my body, so I figured that the only option that remained was graphic anal sex, but it seems that too is now out of the question. Although, I am sure if I looked hard enough, and hell no, I don’t want to, I am sure there is a website devoted to lumpy assholes. (And if you don’t believe me, go Google jarmel berries.)
I wasn’t planning on quitting my day job, but right now, sitting around on my ass doing nothing isn’t all that comfortable. I suppose there is always the possibility of creating a diamond mine in there, since I am able to clench with such force that I’m sure I can render carbon into precious gemstones with little difficulty. Or, I could just suck it up, go to the CVS, hide the Preparation H tube among other benign drug store purchases, and hope the clerk thinks I am planning on using it for my puffy eye bags. Then I can stop obsessing on my asshole and get back to my other obsessions, like my puffy eye bags and how to launch my porn career.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
With Good Reason
I just woke up from a nap, at eleven in the morning. Yes, I am aware I was sleeping in the day, and with good reason too. I was tired. From being up most of the night, trying to decide which end to stick in the toilet. I did a great job predicting, thank you very much. It's a toss up, really, stem versus stern, pie hole versus corn hole, food poisoning versus tummy bug. We all ate the same thing last night, and so far, no calls from the school, so I am thinking whatever the cause, I am the winner, the lucky one in my family.
After taking the kids to school, I did the unthinkable, I crawled back into bed. I imagine there is a slew of moms who do this on a regular basis, along with the ones who fill their water bottles with vodka or stick their hands in every open box of snack food in their pantries. I am usually the mom who goes immediately to the gym for my daily dose of light sweating and meaningless chat with other underemployed grown ups, but not today. Today I confused the cats by getting back in bed, by being home when they do whatever it is that they do while I am not at home. I read, I drank water, I slept. I got up and ate some matzoh, the bread of affliction, which has a reputation of counteracting any intestinal issues better than rice and bananas. And let me happily report, so far, so good.
Even though I had good reason to get back in bed, I can't get over the feeling that I am playing hooky, that somehow I am guilty of doing something dishonest, of not being a productive member of society. Lying between my sheets during daylight hours means I will get caught, forced to march down the hallway to the Principal's office in a public display of humiliation, the grade school version of a walk of shame. I could only doze half heartedly, as I kept expecting my mother to bust through my bedroom door and start yelling at me for doing nothing. You would think that taking a day to heal one's body would not come with an extra helping of guilt, but for me, it does. Truth is, putting one's contacts in does not constitute a good day. Perhaps tomorrow I can save the world, but for now, I must get back to staring at the cats until it is time to get in the carpool line.
After taking the kids to school, I did the unthinkable, I crawled back into bed. I imagine there is a slew of moms who do this on a regular basis, along with the ones who fill their water bottles with vodka or stick their hands in every open box of snack food in their pantries. I am usually the mom who goes immediately to the gym for my daily dose of light sweating and meaningless chat with other underemployed grown ups, but not today. Today I confused the cats by getting back in bed, by being home when they do whatever it is that they do while I am not at home. I read, I drank water, I slept. I got up and ate some matzoh, the bread of affliction, which has a reputation of counteracting any intestinal issues better than rice and bananas. And let me happily report, so far, so good.
Even though I had good reason to get back in bed, I can't get over the feeling that I am playing hooky, that somehow I am guilty of doing something dishonest, of not being a productive member of society. Lying between my sheets during daylight hours means I will get caught, forced to march down the hallway to the Principal's office in a public display of humiliation, the grade school version of a walk of shame. I could only doze half heartedly, as I kept expecting my mother to bust through my bedroom door and start yelling at me for doing nothing. You would think that taking a day to heal one's body would not come with an extra helping of guilt, but for me, it does. Truth is, putting one's contacts in does not constitute a good day. Perhaps tomorrow I can save the world, but for now, I must get back to staring at the cats until it is time to get in the carpool line.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Total Whino
I went to Total Wine the other morning, 9:45 to be exact, to pick up a few bottles of kosher wine for Passover next week. I hoped they would have a better selection than the usual Manischewitz or Mogen David that I could buy at the grocery store, not that there is anything wrong with either of those, at least not after the first two glasses. Unfortunately, even Total Wine has its limits, and it had the usual square bottles along with the new fangled "cream" white and red concord wine http://www.manischewitzwine.com/products/Products.htm, in a trendier curvy bottle. I selected one of each and got in line to check out.
One can learn a bit by studying the other people buying wine on a Monday morning. I stood behind two other people in line, and while I waited, I glanced over their selections. The guy in the front of the line held a box of wine in each hand, by the convenient built in handle grips. He made a big production out of how much he saves by driving all the way to Total Wine for all his boxed wine needs, as clearly he was a value conscious individual. He left, happily swinging his boxes, eager to get started on them, probably while still in the parking lot.
The woman in front of me was also pleased with herself, since she was able to find an entire case of her favorite drug of choice, white zinfandel. I was surprised she could not locate it at her grocery store, as she too made a special trip all the way to this wine superstore. She had the look of a woman who secretly drank cheap wine like it was water, hiding it before noon in an elegant colored iced tea glass. And then I looked in my own cart, with the two giant jugs of kosher wine, both under ten dollars for the large size, never a good sign. I smiled to myself. I was no better than the rest of the lushes in line.
When it was my turn to check out, I started to laugh. The cashier asked, "What's so funny?" " I was amused by the wine selections in line this morning," I replied. "I bet it must be frustrating to sell such crap wine while surrounded by all these wonderful choices." He sighed, "You have no idea." "Well, in my defense," I said, " I am buying this for religious purposes, not for actual enjoyment." "Yeah, right," he added, handing me my receipt and my bag.
I think the four questions on the first night of Passover should be reworked to include this one: On all other nights, we enjoy pinot or a nice cab, but why on this night must we endure Concord grape and blackberry, the jelly makers? Maybe I'll bring it up with Elijah when he swings by for a little nip on Saturday.
One can learn a bit by studying the other people buying wine on a Monday morning. I stood behind two other people in line, and while I waited, I glanced over their selections. The guy in the front of the line held a box of wine in each hand, by the convenient built in handle grips. He made a big production out of how much he saves by driving all the way to Total Wine for all his boxed wine needs, as clearly he was a value conscious individual. He left, happily swinging his boxes, eager to get started on them, probably while still in the parking lot.
The woman in front of me was also pleased with herself, since she was able to find an entire case of her favorite drug of choice, white zinfandel. I was surprised she could not locate it at her grocery store, as she too made a special trip all the way to this wine superstore. She had the look of a woman who secretly drank cheap wine like it was water, hiding it before noon in an elegant colored iced tea glass. And then I looked in my own cart, with the two giant jugs of kosher wine, both under ten dollars for the large size, never a good sign. I smiled to myself. I was no better than the rest of the lushes in line.
When it was my turn to check out, I started to laugh. The cashier asked, "What's so funny?" " I was amused by the wine selections in line this morning," I replied. "I bet it must be frustrating to sell such crap wine while surrounded by all these wonderful choices." He sighed, "You have no idea." "Well, in my defense," I said, " I am buying this for religious purposes, not for actual enjoyment." "Yeah, right," he added, handing me my receipt and my bag.
I think the four questions on the first night of Passover should be reworked to include this one: On all other nights, we enjoy pinot or a nice cab, but why on this night must we endure Concord grape and blackberry, the jelly makers? Maybe I'll bring it up with Elijah when he swings by for a little nip on Saturday.
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