Tuesday, June 11, 2013

What's Up, Doc?

A few years back I had to go to the ER because of a pain I was having in my rib cage. Fearing it was an appendicitis, or worse, I laid on the table and ---- in walked a gorgeous man in scrubs.
"Does it hurt here?" He asked, palpating my lower abdomen.
"N-n-no," I half giggled.
"Here?" He moved his tanned hand higher and stared at me with big blue eyes.
"No!" I squeaked.
This was it.
He was going to go all the way, this hot doc was gonna slide to second, he was going to---
"There you are!" My husband popped his head in the door as the doctor moved his hand away from my jubblies.
"I'll get you some medicine for the pain. I think it's a rib strain," the vision-in-scrubs said and walked out the door.
"I walked in too soon, didn't I?" Harry grinned at me.
"Bastard," I muttered and rolled away from him.
Husbands! Can't live with em- can't get groped in a hospital with them either! :)

Thursday, March 21, 2013


I broke my heel.

Okay - "broke" is a strong word. I have Plantar Fasciitis in my left foot and it hurts to the point where I'm now not-so-glad that my kid is a feather-less parrot.  Every time I step down I let fly a string of curse words that would make even the heartiest of barkeeps faint and swoon.
And the kid so kindly repeats them.
I should be careful not to say them around him - but I can't stop them - they bubble, they erupt, and he's always in ear shot.
Uh - because sometimes I use his little blond head as a crutch.  ahahaha!  He's 39" tall - so he's the perfect height.  He giggles. I scream.  We make a cute, albeit crazy, couple.

When I finally went to the doctor and he gave my my official diagnosis I had no choice but to sit back in my pleather easy chair thing (podiatrists have the swankiest "tables") and cry "THE DAMN INTERNET WAS RIGHT!" because I am an online google doc.
I will google my symptoms and decide that I have cancer.
Then I usually decide I'm too busy to have cancer since I have to raise a kid (and use him as an assistive walking device) and then settle on option number two.
This time it's that the underside of my foot hurts like hell and they, like all the doc and lawyers before us, stuck some fancy latin words together to make it sound better than "Hell heel" or "Heelishisness."
Maybe I should be the one naming stuff that ails us.

I'm renaming the paper cut to "Smuckingfit!" because that just feels better to yell than "PAPER CUT!" which, to be honest, could be that someone cut a piece of paper wrong and does nothing to describe the sheer ickiness of that tiny slice of immense pain that we all know and loathe.

I will also be renaming pregnancy to "Parasitic Procrastinator" or "Paracrastanation" - because that's what it is.
A lot.

What else shall I rename?

Saturday, February 9, 2013

Name That Tune

"I was totally gonna poke you," my husband said.
"I know you were!" I said, letting the disbelief seep into my voice. "We had maybe ten minutes before the kid would've found us!"
"Hmm," he said. "I could've done it in three..."
"What? Yeah. All I needed was three..."
I found out it's really hard to safely beat someone up while driving down the road at 50mph. :)

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Fear Me

What is it about motherhood that makes women so completely fearless?
I can remember a time when everything scared me.
Even a trip to the grocery store would be enough to send me into a  panic epic enough only to be calmed by the inhaling of an entire Hot-n-Ready pizza while watching back-to-back episodes of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" on FX.

But,  somehow, after one goes through the horrific experience of both pregnancy (and don't let the hippies fool you - it's not a "beautiful and natural thing" - it sucks. A lot) and the joy of a mandatory C-section (Oh SURE let's invite the students in to see both my vagina AND my fat rolls AAAAND my innards) to make things like the frozen food aisle seem a bit less daunting.

I used to gag and wretch at the sight or sound of other's bodily functions but now, upon entering a rest room, I see only the germs that keep me from getting out alive, er, or without Influenza. And I can get in and out without touching a single solid surface. Which makes me think that the Olympics should sponsor some sort of Housewives version of their Chariots of Fire.  We could score each other on Bathroom Dashes, Diaper Changes of Light, and Compromising for Champions.
Okay - no one would have time to watch - but I think it would be rather cool.  I could finally get a medal in a "sport," since I'm pretty sure that Couch Surfing has yet to become a world-wide phenomenon.

Also - I'm pretty proud that I just spelled "phenomenon" without spell-check.  Go me!

So, yeah, since I have become a mom I no longer suffer from the same kind of phobias I did before.  The monsters may not live under my bed anymore but I'm pretty sure they still exist so I have to don my armor, ready my Lysol and protect my 2 year old for whatever he decides lives in his closet.

Being a mom sucks sometimes.  But when you are their world, their deleter of baddies and dispensers of gogurt - you become - a god.
A god in need of a dye job, a hair cut and with ragged cuticles and dirty bras - but still - a god, nonetheless.
And gods fear nothing.
Except E.Coli - that crap is SCARY!

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Hug it out...

Aunt Sissy attempts to put h4 in his carseat... :)

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Train Hijacked

...and then sometimes we hijack trains in the mall... :)

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Emotional Me

Lately I have been an emotional wreck.  And not just the kind of wreck that leaves one rubbernecking to get a better look, I'm more like the kind of wreck that makes the evening news. 
Locally - and nationally. 

Some of my added stress, I'm sure, has to do with the fact that my bedroom is in my living room, my closet is in the hall and my bathroom is - gone - and I'm showering in my kid's bathroom whilst a plastic frog ogles my jubblies.

And, moreover, we are adding another member to our household. I would love it if I could swell with pride and tell you that it is going to be small, cute and bubbly --- a new cat! But no, I cannot.  Instead, we are moving my hub's granny in to our Below Apartment (it's not really a basement) so that we can keep a better eye on her aging self.  We're not sure how well this transition is going to go for her, or for us, hence the massive stress-thing. 

AND the kid has hit the Terrible Twos like a Ton of Terrible Bricks. 
Lord help us all on that particular torture. 

So I'm a bit of an Emo-wreck. Smudged mascara and all. 
Which, of course, prompts everyone to ask "What is WRONG with you?"
Which prompts ME to ask "What is WRONG with everyone else?"
When did having emotions go out of style? When did it become passe to be upset about something that was upsetting? When did crying become such a horrible stigma?
Why can't we just enjoy our moods?

I blame the golden age of Medication, Facebook, and Television. 

Medicate yourself enough and you can stop crying - FOREVER.  There are LOADS of stuff out right now that will help one forget their problems, their fears, their lackadaisy life, and, more than likely, their name.  

Facebook has given us such instant gratification that we can post a status update and see how much our online buddies value our humor, insightfulness or clever deductions on solving the Nation's most pressing crisis.  And our computer screens can't see us cry. 

Television has glorified emotions to the point that we are now trained to only emit a response if someone has lost a lot of weight, or got caught with a hooker (or two), had their house remodeled, or is in denial of their hoarding ways.  Nothing else is worth crying over. Or caring about.  

All that being said, I love modern medicine, Social Networking, and Must-See TV.  
I just wish I was "allowed" to shed a few tears when I stub my toe, or can't find my shoes, or burn a pot-pie in the oven.  

Until then, I shall line up with the rest of humanity and try, very hard, to shut off, shut down, and shut up.  

Wait - scratch that last one.  :)

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Ring, Rang, Rung, New Year is DONE!

I didn't go out and party for the arrival of 2013.
I didn't buy a new dress, open a bottle of "bubbly," or even put on extra eyeliner or lashes for the occasion.
I watched my two year old fall asleep on his daddy's lap, snore so loud he drowned out the droning of Carson Daly and then went to bed.
There were fireworks outside my window, but I couldn't be bothered to go to the window, part the poor excuse for a curtain (a Transformer's Blanket - remodeling is FUN), and gaze upon the heavens.

Why so glum?

I think it has something to do with the damn ball drop.
Every year I watch.
And every year I am sorely disappointed when the freakin' thing does not crash to a million pieces at the stroke of midnight.
I want it it to be a glass shattering, gravity defying mess as it plummets to the ground like a giant, angelic Pokemon ball full of shrapnel.
And then, amazingly, no one gets hurt!
Except maybe Jenny McCarthy  - and even then - just in her forehead, just a teeny scar so that it won't look so vacant all the time.
But I digress.

I want a ball to drop.
Actually drop.
During the Ball Drop.

So here's my proposal:

How to Ring in 2014
  1. Gather up as many dunk-tank Carnival booths as we can find this side of the USA. 
  2. Stick 'em in Times Square. 
  3. Gather up all the singers, politicians, writers, anchors, reporters, actors, actresses and Big Wigs and convince them to "volunteer" their time. 
  4. Sell balls to the masses for $1 each.  
  5. The clock strikes midnight.
  6. The masses kiss their lucky $1 balls that they might be the one to hit the target and dunk Christina Agu-a-layra (I can't spell her name and can't be bothered to learn), or Cheney, or Anderson Cooper, or Christian Bale (WET. HE'LL BE WET. AND COLD.  I CAN'T STRESS THIS ENOUGH - BATMAN WILL BE WET!!!), or even Justin Bieber and Kathy Griffin (together in one tank - that'd be  priceless). 

Following this new, and improved, method people will be able to actually have fun in Times Square on NYE, I will get to see Balls Drop (metaphorically and literally) and I will have solved the deficit.  
And maybe the Fiscal Cliff. 
Whatever the "f" that is. 

You're welcome, Americans.  
You're - welcome. 

 IN 2014!!!!