Saturday, December 29, 2007
For some reason, the idea of losing at Scrabble is unacceptable to me. The little devil pops up at my ear and whispers "He is beating you and the last word he placed on the board was 'fun?' You call yourself a writer? A voracious reader? A brilliant legal mind? He barely reads! The last thing he read for fun was a fishing magazine at Barnes and Nobles which he was too cheap to even purchase. He refuses to see foreign movies because he doesn't like reading subtitles. You are going to let HIM beat you at scrabble?" I argue back, "Listen, I can't help it that all I have are a series of 'I's and 'E's. What the heck am I supposed to do with that? Even Dickens couldn't come with a word worth more than 4 points with the crap I keep getting!" But even the little angel on the otherside of me shakes his head and says, "Listen, you need to step up your game before I smack you silly. Now I need to take a little break, but when I get back, I better not hear you've lost again..."
At this point, it's not like I have a choice anymore, I must cheat, and cheat I will. Strategically holding the bag so the light hits the letters just right, I spy a Z and slyly pick it up along with a few 'O's and 'S's and a very fortunate blank. Utilizing a carelessly opened triple word score box, I crow elatedly over a well placed "Zooms" adding an 'S' to the end of his "fun." As I gloat openly and outrageously at my triple word score, HE coughs carefully and asks me, "Did you cheat?" I look him in the eye ready to angrily deny it and then deflate like a flattened whoopie cushion. I cannot lie to him. He knows me too well. Not because I can't lie, although I do not consider what I do lying, more of a strategic manipulation of certain facts and truths to my benefit, but never outright lies. It is part of the aresenal of a good lawyer. You admit only certain facts, omit others and speak vaguely on all other points. Is this lying? Perhaps that is a topic for another post. For now, I sullenly nod and cross off all my illgotten points. I am losing again. Oh and funs is apparently not a word, which he so graciously pointed out to me. I was not having funs.
Forced to return my purloined tiles, I instead exchange my original crappy tiles for even shittier ones. Now along with all my 'I's, I have only 'U's and 'O's. Apparently for this round of Scrabble, I am to be the Queen of Loose Vowels. As I lose the game 98 to 50 points, I throw a little temper tantrum and kick the board over as I blame everything on the crappy tiles I received. He looks over at the sulky angry brat I've become and asks me if I want a rematch. And I sulk a little longer but then finally agree but ask to go first. He graciously concedes. Viciously shaking the little grey bag, I reach in (without cheating) for my first seven tiles. 'I's. Why did it have to be 'I's? I may have to cheat again. But this time, I hope he doesn't catch me.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
So I ask you, why is it that men are such wimps when they get sick? This is an age old question for women. To the ABC News article titled "Are Men Wimps About Getting Colds?" I would answer with a resounding DUH! According to a study by Benenden Healthcare, "Male workers are more likely to call in sick with "the flu," while women tend to go to work and carry about their business when they feel an illness coming on." Is this really news for anyone out there? In fact, there is even a phenomenon called "Man Flu." It even has it's own Wikipedia page . So what is Man Flu? Apparently it is a phenomenon by which men and women suffer the same illness but by which men piss and moan and take 3 times longer to recover than the average woman. I'm sure all my women readers are nodding their heads in sage understanding. Apparently a man will take 3 days to recover where a woman would take a day or a day and a half at most. So why is this? Do women get sick less? Actually, no, in fact, women are more likely to get sick more often because they have more contact with children. Are they stronger? Hard to answer because we would have to consider physical, emotional, pschyological, etc., and how do you analyze all that? Perhaps it is a matter of pain tolerance. After all, the old joke is that if human existence depended on men being pregnant and delivering our babies, then mankind would go extinct faster than you could say "Ice Age."
When I was pregnant for the second and third time, I had very bad pre-term labor. In order to keep from going into early labor, the doctor put me on a terbutaline pump that injected terbutaline into my system every four hours. The problem was I had to insert the needle which would provide the medicine into my system, into my leg and then change sites every few days. Well it was pretty hard to stab a large needle into my own leg. It was NOT like a thin insulin needle, this was bigger, it had the plastic tubing around the needle, and you had to stab it hard past the outer muscle in order to insert it properly. I asked my husband to do it. The first time he nearly passed out and left the needle partly in, partly out, with me screaming at him and him screaming at me that he couldn't do it. I finally slammed the needle in with my palm. But changing it was so bad that I would wait too long to change it and get an infection in my leg before being forced to change the injection site. I finally got my husband to get consistently good at it, but his hands would curl up into claws and he would wince and moan as if he were the one getting the needle. On top of all of this, I also had gestational diabetes and had to inject myself with insulin three times a day. This I did by myself with no hesitation. But if the roles were reversed, I doubt my husband would have been able to go through all that I went through.
In a recent article in Men's Health magazine on Why Men Are Babies the author discusses two types of men, the whimpering crybabies and the stoic silent types that never say a word until they are dead. There are good reasons for both. Men still feel that they are the stronger sex and that they shouldn't get sick and if they do get sick, well then, it must be a horrible illness that is thoroughly incapacitating and everyone around them should coddle and nurse them until they are better. But when weird things happen to their bodies, they are less likely than a woman to go to a doctor and check it out. They will more likely ignore it. This is why men don't catch testicular cancer or prostate cancer soon enough. Because even their doctors will admit that men are babies. (Now I say this because I do think more men need to be more concious about taking better care of themselves.)
OK - I just want to amend my post to also say that my hubby is only sick once a year and is only incapacitated with the flu. So he is that crazy mix of stoic suffering through all other ills and then turning into a baby when incapacitated by the flu. So I shouldn't really complain, it is just hard because usually he is not sick alone - I have a full house of sick people. He is a wonderful hubby and I am just so happy he is better.
So with that rant over, I shall leave you with one last funny ad which cracked me up in my sick bed. Thos Brits have a sick sense of humor.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Shrieks of “it’s my turn,” “No my turn,” “let go,” “No, you let go” started to get louder and louder until finally I had had enough.
“That’s enough!” I shouted up to them. “No one plays with it anymore. Please put it away.”
There was a few minutes of absolute silence followed by whispers and giggles and then a loud farting sound exploded in the air as the kids began shrieking in laughter again.
“Didn’t I tell you to put that whoopee cushion away?” I shouted. To which my oldest girl responded, “Apparently we didn't actually need it.”
A neighbor brought by homemade brownies she had made for us the other day. After the polite thank yous, I sent the plate of brownies up with the girls while I stood chatting with my neighbor. After several minutes of chit chat, I headed up to snag a brownie for myself only to find that the girls had demolished all the brownies, leaving none for me.
“I can’t believe you didn’t save me even one brownie!” I cried out, quite miffed.
The older two had the grace to look a little guilty but the youngest, who is not yet 4, replied, “But Mom, you said chocolate is an evil tentashion for you, so we was helping you by getting rid of it!”
The other two brightened up and eagerly agreed, the middle child even going so far as to say, "Yeah Mom, we don't want you to get fat!"
I bet they were high fiving each other when I left.
While driving in the car with the girls, my middle child lets out a massive burp. My youngest who sits right next to her cracks up and says “do it again!” My middle child burps again, not as loud. “Again!” says the youngest. Another burp, another "again."
“That’s enough,” I chime in. But they don’t listen to me as burps and "agains" keep coming and my middle child is starting to wheeze from the effort.
“Stop it!” I say just as the last burp turns into a vurp – vomit burp with a little spillage, and the middle child starts crying. The youngest stops laughing and says "ill, don’t do that again.”
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
1. I love tabasco. When I went to New Orleans, one of the best parts of the trip was being able to buy a gallon size of tabasco sauce. I put it on everything except sweets, but not for lack of trying. The world is a better place because of tabasco. In fact, I have even composed an Ode to Tabasco.
Ode to Tabasco2. I am not good at poetry. See number 1.
Oh glorious red marvel of hot treasure
How I adore thee all the time!
Boring foods now have become a pleasure,
although you burns me behind.
3. I hate surprises. My husband knows better than to ever throw me a surprise party cause that would piss me off so bad. I've been known to turn to the end of a book I was reading, just to make sure who ever I was liking or hating, lived or died by the end. Of course I would never do this anywhere near Josephine Damian who has promised to smack me upside my head if she ever caught me doing it. Now I've found themoviespoiler.com which is like my new best friend now! I can know exactly what happens before I go see a movie! Ha, my husband hates this! If I ever even inadvertently give away some small inconsequential plot detail of some movie he wants to see, he refuses to see it claiming I have ruined the experience for him. Talk about overly dramatic. I mean just because I told him Bruce Willis was dead in Sixth Sense. Sheesh. ;o)
4. I don't believe in the line "it's the thought that counts." Cause it doesn't. It's not just the thought that counts but how you execute it. Seriously. I would rather receive no present than have a crappy insincere one. For example, I was once friends with a woman who, when she had her first baby, I sent her a lovely baby present. When I had my second child, this woman sent me a present also. I wish she hadn't. It was a baby blanket that no longer had any labels on it so I had a sneaking suspicion it had been used once before. Plus, it smelled of cat piss. I swear to you all. Cat Piss. I would much rather have never received anything from her, or just a card congratulating me would have been much preferable to a nasty stinky baby blanket that some miserable cat pissed on.
5. My embarassing karaoke story. Back when I was a wild young thang, we all went out drinking at some bar that was having a karaoke night. I got drunk enough to be persuaded to sing Like a Virgin on the bar's stage. I was so toasted I couldn't remember the lyrics and couldn't read the words on the screen so I just kept singing "touched for the very first time" and "like a virgin" over and over again and throwing in alot of "Whoas!" All I can remember is that there were alot of military guys out that night who were trying to convince me that I was the next Madonna and trying to persuade me to sing it again but luckily for me, my girlfriends were wise enough to drag me home. The moral of the story is never go out without a good group of girlfriends to save you from yourself.
So I dare anyone else to share an embarrassing story with me! Come on, let's hear it.
Monday, December 17, 2007
I was at the Gap, looking for a pair of pants for my oldest daughter since it is now too cold for her to wear pants with her ankles exposed. (This is not my fault since it seems that my daughter sprouted over night!) There I was at the sales rack. (Cause who wants to pay full price for anything? I mean I may hate shopping, but I'm not stupid.) As I placed my hands on a particularly cute pair of jeans that had just been marked down, a woman snatched it out of my handS and loudly proclaimed, "I saw that first!" And then scurried away like a rat. I was literally too surprised to say a word - literally stood there with my mouth open and my hands still in a clutching position outstretched before me. (The only other time I ever had anything snatched out of my hands was at Filene's basement in Boston, and not to be mean to anyone from Boston because I love Boston, but sometimes the term Masshole can be quite accurate.) I suddenly realized that the store had filled up and that crazed women were systematically snatching items off of racks and tables with the frenzy of sharks at a fresh kill. Apparently I had arrived right before a big one day clearance sale day was scheduled. Me and the one other man who was not a store clerk stared at each other with open mouthed horror.
A table we stood near had shirts and pants marked up to 50% off. Nimbly and with his long arms, I watched the man lean over a bunch of women (who were clawing through the once nicely folded piles) and snatch up a bunch of shirts and pants. I started to back away in horror but the thought of my poor kid's naked ankles strengthened my resolve and I muscled in and grabbed up a few pair of pants. As I was pulling my arm back, one of the price tags caught a woman in the mouth, bringing her head around as if I had fish-hooked her and was reeling her in. Spitting the tag out of her mouth, she shrieked "Watch it bitch!" I began to apologize profusely but realized she had already forgotten about me as she continued to frantically paw through the diminishing piles of clothing, even as the pile in her arms was growing to ginormous proportions!!
Hurrying away, I looked at the pants and shirts I had managed to grab up. None were in the right size for my oldest, but the prices made me blink. $4.99 shirts and $9.99 pants, Holy Corduroys! No wonder the women were like piranhas attacking a capabera. Determined, I trudged back to the table, determined to get a pair of pants that would fit my 8 year old. Alas, I was too late, in the space of ten minutes, the table had been decimated. The remaining pile of clothes compiled of size 14s and 2s in shades of green that looked like they came from a herbivores dungpile - none of them usable by any of my girls. As I stood forlornly by the table, a sales clerk came by to fold up the unwanted ones.
"Look at those women," the clerk snorted, correctly judging me as a shopping rookie. "They walk out with armloads of stuff that I'll just have to restock when they come back to return them after the holidays."
"And all I needed was a pair of pants," I sighed.
The clerk gave me a sympathetic look and said, "Honey, you are just not aggressive enough."
No kidding! Those women scare the crap out of me.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Lord, the air smells good today,
straight from the mysteries
within the inner courts of God.
A grace like new clothes thrown
across the garden, free medicine for everybody.
The trees in their prayer, the birds in praise,
the first blue violets kneeling.
Whatever came from Being is caught up in being, drunkenly
forgetting the way back.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Middle child shrieks, "Oh I know! My favorite song!" And proceeds to sing this:
O dreydl, dreydl, dreydl, I made it out of clayI start cracking up and oldest says: "That is most definitely NOT a Christmas song! It is a Hannukah song and you can't sing it for Christmas!"
And when it’s dry and ready, o dreydl I shall play, Hey!
"Well I don't care cause I like it!" middle child responds.
"You're not being in the Christmas spirit!" oldest says.
"I'm being in the holiday spirit and since that includes Christmas and Hannukah I can sing what I want!" middle child replies very smartly.
Intervening in what looks like a Christmas/Hannukah fight between the girls, I interject and say, "That's right sweetie, it is very nice of you to sing all holiday songs!"
"See! I told you!" middle child replies and sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry at her.
"Now that's not being in the holiday spirit. Remember, Santa's always watching," I chided her.
"Don't worry he didn't see me cause I was crossing my fingers!" she replied with a big smile.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
So my middle name is like 13 letters long and I just don't have that many interesting facts about myself to make this an interesting post. Well, I was feeling weird so I decided to write up the facts and make up a middle name depending upon what I got so here goes:
O - is for OCD. During the winter my hands turn into little alligator clutches cause I wash my hands so much you can actually see the dried up diamond shape markings of my skin. And I would rather pee my pants than use a port-o-potty.
S - is for sarcastic. Try to understand that I'm not trying to hurt your feelings, I really am smarter and better looking than you.
S - is for serious. No seriously, I am smarter and better looking than you.
H - is for happy. Truly I am, especially after I punched that last moron who told me to turn my frown upside down.
E - is for eating. My new avatar is a pig. Need I say more?
L - is for laughter. Hey, if I can't laugh at you, then who will?
A - is for anal. It comes with having OCD. I don't like when people touch my stuff. They'll put it out of order. I don't like lending people my books because I hate it when they bend my spine. I don't like naked dolls. If I see a naked doll, even if it is at someone else's house, I must dress it. This is non-negotiable. While in the Barbados, I got into a little fight with my friend's 3 year old who insisted that her Barbies needed to swim naked in the pool and began screaming at me when I kept trying to sneak clothes on their naked bodies behind her back.
So OSSHELA is now my middle name. But I didn't like the sound of that so I started playing with the letters and switching them until I realized that my real middle name is actually "ASSHOLE." Ain't that a bitch?