STOO-PID-ITEE

I just read a laughoutloud, peeinyourpants funny book by Jill Connor Browne a.k.a. THE Sweet Potato Queen. In fact, on my flight to and from Dallas, I'm convinced that my fellow passengers thought I was suffering from Tourette's Syndrome, given my spontaneous bouts of inflight laughter. Browne's latest book American Thighs is subtitled The Sweet Potato Queen's Guide to Preserving Your Assets. There are many, many quotable remarks, all of which could serve as blog topics for the next year. 

This post will focus on men's STOO-PID-ITEE (Browne's phrase) when it comes to medical affairs. Not the kind between nurses and doctors. 

"But if I did an actual tally of the STOO-PID people I know in regard to health maintenance, I feel pretty confident that the count would be heavily weighted on the male side. Guys as a rule, won't go to the doctor until something blows up or falls off in their hand. These same men exhibit an almost religious fervor in their determination to change the oil in their cars on a schedule set to an atomic clock. The slightest ding in a door is duly noted and seen to promptly and the tiniest ping in an engine warrants an emergency tow-in to the best mechanic within a 500 mile radius. In some cases, I've noticed that firearms are likewise maintained with loving attention. 

But a physical? Just because 'it's that time of year' and nothing is festering, swelling, gushing, oozing, throbbing or hanging by a shred? On a likelihood par with wild monkeys flying out of their hindquarters--which, I supposed might actually warrant a check-up--but only if there was a constant stream of them--a one-time occurrence would immediately upon cessation, be dismissed as inconsequential and never mentioned again except as needed for a beer-driven display of one-upmanship with his buddies--as in 'Oh, yeah? Well, one time I had wild monkeys  come flyin' outt my ass!!' (p.46)

Most of you know that my husband is a pretty level-headed guy. However I was so dumbfounded over his recent STOO-PID behavior, that I had to share it. Please harass him about this, when you see him. 

A bit of background--my daughter has been treated by a dermatologist for foot warts. Apparently they are very stubborn warts and despite monthly freezing sessions, they refuse to die. My husband thinks that the doctor should BURN them off. Even though burning has been outlawed in dermatological circles, given the massive pain involved and subsequent scar tissue, he feels confident that his untrained medical opinion is vastly superior to the experts. (not to worry--this is not going where you think it's going)

Fast forward a few months. He asks me to make him an appointment to get his warts removed. I explain that it takes at least 3 months to get an appointment as a new patient. Unless you are dying of skin cancer, forget it. Warts do not constitute an emergency.  Even though my husband has had these warts for months, maybe years, (they've become part of the family), all of a sudden it is a necessity to have them removed ASAP. 

So he takes matters into his own hands. He waits until I am out of town. Then he instructs the teenager to go out and purchase a sautering iron. He can't even buy his own sautering iron. He has to implicate the child. 

To his credit, he doesn't scarify and self-mutilate all in one shot. He tests it out on his hand first. HE HEATS THE SAUTERING IRON AND PURPOSELY BURNS HIS HAND. Apparently he felt justified in his medical decision, because he proudly showed me his burned hand upon my return. LOOK I BURNED OFF MY WART! 

Of course, once you get a taste for self-mutilation, a mere 3rd degree burn doesn't deter you. Overtaken by boldness, he next burns his foot. I'm thinking this constitutes pathological behavior. 

When one is married, one has to bite one's tongue regularly. This is the reason I no longer have any tastebuds.  I've bitten and chewed all of them off. So instead of telling the husband that he is STOO-PID, I use the psychological approach and ask him pointed questions. Why did you feel the need to take medical matters in your own hands? How did it FEEL when you felt your flesh burning? Is your inner sadist feeling UNLOVED? 

He responds that his layperson medical training has prepared him for this procedure. WHAT MEDICAL TRAINING? He knows how to ice his knees after playing soccer. Because he has removed a few stitches and can give a cat a pill, he is now a qualified medical practitioner. 

OHMYGOSH. When he is dying of an infection in the hospital burn unit, I will be tempted to tell him that his STOO-PID actions serve him right. However, most likely, I'll be too busy biting off my tongue to say much of anything. 

UNBURNED WART (Ian wanted to ensure that you knew this WASN'T his wart, but a a google image)

Real-Life 6 Feet Under Episode

 

I recently attended a funeral in Dallas. The morning of the funeral, my cousins asked me if I wanted to ‘view’ the body. Most of you will be surprised to learn that I was hesitant about seeing a dead body. Not just any dead body, but a dead body that was related to me.  Given that most of my work is about death and I collect dead things, you would think that I would RELISH this rare opportunity. However, I was feeling a bit SQUEAMISH. Yet, I wanted to be a team player, so my two cousins, their 4 kids and I piled into the suburban for the short ride to the funeral parlor.

When we arrived, a sober suited man escorted us into a back room. The smell of lilies permeated the room. Which I guess is a good thing, all things considered. It could have smelled like formaldehyde or something worse. Until that moment, lilies were my favorite flower. Sadly however, they will now be associated with funeral parlors and caskets.

The kids immediately ran up to the casket and peered in. They poked and prodded the body. Aunt Colette, why don’t you TOUCH her?  I didn’t want the kids to think I was a scaredy cat, so I closed my eyes and tentatively did the one finger touch. It was kind of like petting a rubber shark from the aquarium. 

I was busy looking at the masses of flowers, when one child shrieked, EEEWWW! Mama, did you just KISS her? Of course I kissed her. She’s my mother and I had to kiss her goodbye. That’s soooo gross. You just kissed a dead person.

One kid shouted, She’s cold!!  This began a conversation about WHY she was cold. She’s cold, because her body was in the refrigerator. Why was she in the refrigerator? Well she was in the refrigerator, to keep her body preserved. You are talking about her like she was a DESSERT!

This elicited lots of giggles and more questions.

Does she still have her legs? Why can’t we see her legs? Is that her real hair? Why does her skin feel rubbery? She looks like she’s going to pop up and yell at us. 

KIDS! Be careful not to mess up her make-up.

Next began a photo opp with my cousins’ I-phones. First we looked at before pictures. The before pictures were horrific. It was difficult to look at them. Think Munch’s Scream. The funeral home had performed a miracle. She looked peaceful, calm and beautiful. Next came pictures of the casket, the body in the casket and then all of us posing by the casket. It seems a bit irreverent, but the kids were very excited about getting their photo next to their Gigi.

The funeral was a graveside memorial with a closed casket. My cousin-in-law who originally hails from South Africa expressed his disappointment in the fact that the casket was never lowered in the ground. He had never attended a graveside service and expected it to be like the movies. The kids gathered flower petals to sprinkle on the casket, during its descent into the earth, but alas did not get the opportunity to throw the petals or themselves onto the casket amidst loud grief-stricken wails.

While we shared a few humorous moments (nothing like humor to temper the sadness), it was an occasion to reconnect with family and celebrate a great woman’s life.

Memorable kid comments—Mama, when my kids are as old as you, and you are as old as Gigi, can I boss them around, like Gigi did to you?

Our laughter encouraged this next comment. Dramatically clutching his throat and making gagging noises, one kid rendered a perfect imitation of his Gigi, Quit poisoning my food, you are killing me. 

Quest for Monkey Meat

 

My South African cousin-in-law is a hoot—very funny and always making jokes. The two of us decided to take the four kids for a walk in the neighborhood (In Irving, Texas) My idea--walk along the jogging trails. His idea--walk to the African grocery store (which he SWORE was only a few blocks away). He enticed the kids with the promise of monkey meat. Come on, we’ll get to see monkey meat.

As you can imagine, my idea was outvoted by his idea. So we set off on our adventure. A few blocks into it, the kids start asking questions. How far is it to the store? How will we know when we are there? What does monkey meat look like? What does monkey meat TASTE like?

Be on the lookout for hanging monkeys outside the store window. Dead monkeys or live monkeys?

After about 54 blocks, I express some reservations about our quest. (Ok, that may be a wee-bit of an exaggeration, but we were walking for at least 30 minutes) We are in a residential neighborhood and I don’t see any sign of any store, monkey or no monkey. He insists that it is just ahead.

I notice a home with a tree-house fort in the back yard. I see something that resembles a dog hanging from the tree fort. Look at that! There is a dog hanging in that tree house! We all run over to get a closer look. Wait a minute, that’s not a dog, IT’S A MONKEY! I kid you not, there is an honest-to-GOD monkey hanging in the tree house.  I creep up closer and notice that the monkey’s face resembles a Mandrill or baboon. I creep closer. 

Wwhewww! It is a fake lynched monkey. I have to say that the blood-thirsty kids were very disappointed in this turn of events. They immediately lose interest and return to the sidewalk. I'm still in shock. 

I ask you--what kind of sicko hangs a stuffed monkey in a tree house? 

A few more blocks up the street, wonders of wonders--there IS an African grocery store. The kids immediately ask the guy behind the counter where the monkey meat is. He does not look amused by their question. This is the great thing about kids. I'm not sure if they believed the monkey meat story or not, but they certainly weren't going to let the opportunity pass to embarrass their elders or catch them in a lie. 

I'm still in awe. What do you think the chances are of actually finding a monkey while on a quest for monkey meat? In Irving, Texas of all places.

Cousin-in-law—I love it when my B.S. comes true.

In looking for a picture of a monkey, I came across this url about canned monkey meat. 

http://www.gourmandizer.com/ezine/cannedMonkey/

Good Samaritan or Smiling Serial Killer?

Yesterday as I walking home from the train station, a smiling man in a blue truck stopped to ask me if I wanted a ride. I paused for a brief moment, then smiled, thanked him and said I was enjoying the nice weather and the exercise. The thing is--I really wanted a ride. As usual, I had to pee REALLY BAD, my briefcase was REALLY heavy and I was REALLY tired. 

From the time I could walk, my mother, grandmother, aunts, and television have taught me to believe that you should NEVER EVER get into a stranger's car or let a stranger into your car. Especially a male stranger. Bad things happen to girls in cars. As my husband continuously reminds me, Men do not want to be friends with women. They are only interested in one thing. The one thing is the 'bad thing' that can happen to girls in cars. Of course I understand the rationale behind this. I certainly would not want my daughter to get into a potential ax-murdering rapist's car. 

So even though this man might have been a good samaritan, my suspicions kicked in. Why does he want to give me a ride? His smile looks a little TOO friendly. Maybe he wants to find out where I live, so he can come back later and rob me. What would I do if he locked the doors and refused to take me home unless I performed the 'one thing'?

It's not as if I live in a high crime area. Although philly has distinguished itself as having one of the highest murder rates in the country, I live 15 miles away in the bucolic town of Media (where nothing bad is ever supposed to happen). So my truck-driving good samaritan could have just escaped from the city jail and is cruising the small towns for easy prey. Or he could be a neighbor, who runs an underground porn ring for fetishists, who like reasonably attractive middle aged women. 

As I try to concentrate on not PEEING my pants, I wonder if there is a magic age where it is SAFE to accept a ride from a stranger. As Christians, we are all called to pass it forward--show kindness and compassion, while helping those in need. I deprived this man from his daily dose of good will.  When I'm 68 and STILL walking home from the train station (because I can't afford to retire), will it be all right to get into a stranger's car? 

my guy was about 10 years older than dexter with a really nice white smile and silver-streaked hair.

The Advantages of Having a Gay Boyfriend

1. Buff, Hot, Studly Arm Candy (who doesn't have ulterior motives when dining with you)

2. Access to Fabulous Beauty Products (Sisleya eye cream at $150 .5 oz--no wonder he doesn't have crow's feet.)

3. Someone who tells you that you are BEAUTIFUL, THIN AND SEXY. (and you believe him, because he doesn't want to get in your pants)

4. Excellent advice on clothing choices and exquisite taste (especially when buying you earrings). 

5. Truthfulness--to a point (When asking whether your butt looks fat in those jeans, instead of lying and saying NO, he will find the perfect pair of jeans to showcase your figure)

6. Great hugs (without the worry that it will turn him on)

7. Did I mention the part about not wanting to get in your pants??

Dedicated to Ronnie--my BGBFF

World's Worst Bowler

My friend Marianne invited me to the Elwyn Bowling Fundraiser. I actually gafawwed in her face protesting, I am the world's worst bowler.  Marianne is a good to great bowler and plays on a league every Thursday. Later that day, I start to feel guilty. For once, I have no plans on Friday night. My kids have a reprieve from their various sports and have plans that DON'T include me. Marianne always asks me to go out and I'm always too busy. Also the fundraiser is for a good cause--Elwyn Institute helps special needs children and adults. I recant and she promises me it will be fun. (They have a bar after all). 

We arrive and claim our own lane. This is important, since I do not want to be on a 'team'. I have issues stemming from childhood traumas of always being the LAST kid chosen for the team sport. I claim a pink bowling ball to match my sweater. Fashion is important if talent is lacking. Marianne has her own ball, custom-made for her barbie doll figure. I need a beer before proceeding further. 

My first round isn't so horrible--74. I'm ecstatic. Maybe I'm not the worst bowler in the history of bowling. Marianne bowls 158 and is disappointed. On either side of us, serious bowlers effortlessly bowl one strike after another. My game quickly goes downhill. Game two--54. Marianne tries to give me pointers. Don't let your arm cross your body. Remember to follow through. Don't rush it. You are RUSHING it. Aim just off the center. I can usually follow her advice for one round and then immediately revert back to my favorite shot--the gutter ball. 

You lack consistency and follow-through. This seems somewhat prophetic and applicable to the rest of my life. 

There is a D.J., who is playing GOOD danceable music--although I feel a bit silly dancing in my bowling lane, only to throw a gutter ball. After my third game in the 50's, I need another beer. My fatalistic defeatist attitude proves to be my undoing. The first 10 gutter balls are funny. After that, it's not so funny. Just when I think my score can't get any lower, I bowl a 41. 

The D.J. doesn't believe that I bowled a 41.  In fact, he has to come over and look at the scoreboard. He tells me that he never heard of a score that low. Next thing I know, I'm honored with the WORST BOWLER AWARD. This is quite an achievement. The blow to my ego is somewhat softened when I look at my prize--1 hour full body massage. (thankfully it's not with the D.J.) 

Funny moment of the evening--while preparing for her shot, Marianne's  ball flies out of her hand, propelled backwards, nearly missing my head and landing with a loud thump. 

My love affair with PECO

Portrait of my house during the power outage. 

Like 200,000 other unhappy souls, I lost power during the blizzard of 2010. Unlike most of you, I do not have modern conveniences such as public water or a gas generator. So when my house loses power, there is no electricity to run the well's pump. Thus, no flushing toilets. (lack of heat and hot water seems minor compared to the toilet problem)

When the kids were little and we lost power, I told them that it would be just like camping. Whenever they needed to go...they could dig a hole in the backyard. The fence gave them a modicum of privacy and protected them from the neighborhood wild animals. After such fun adventures, I'm surprised neither of them likes camping. 

Back to the present. Over the past three days, I've become quite intimate with PECO. In case you aren't familiar with PECO, it stands for: 

P hiladelphia

E rroneous

C ommunication

O peration

One of the best things about calling PECO is that you never have to speak to a live person. When you call in, a warm friendly voice (which I've nicknamed the PECO princess) informs you that PECO is working hard to actively ascertain the cause of your outage. I'm thinking--that is great news! They are working to correct my problem. After the first fifty calls, that voice doesn't seem quite as warm or friendly. In fact, I think she is mocking me. How long can it possibly take to ascertain the cause and get to the fixing part? 

The deceptive princess also apologizes for your inconvenience. Inconvenience? My house is a balmy 40 degrees. Icicles dangle from the cats' whiskers. I haven't showered in 2 days. 

If you key in your phone number, the princess will let you how many other lucky folks are also out of power. Then if you are REALLY lucky, she will tell you when your power will be restored. Unfortunately this changes by the minute. I know, because I became a bit obsessive and start calling her every five minutes. She thanks me for my patience and understanding. Now I KNOW she's mocking me. 

For security purposes, we will only reveal the first 3 digits of your house number.  This seems a bit silly. Do criminals really tap into PECO phone lines to get the scoop on who is out of power, so they can rob them?  

Based on our crews working overtime, we estimate your power will be restored on February 11th at 11:59pm. I'm simultaneously outraged and impressed. It takes them 2 days to ascertain the problem, but then they can predict the exact minute of power restoration?

We have deployed extra crews and have restored power to 195, 000 people in your area. It would impress me more if they could restore it to the rest of us. 

Over the next few days, the PECO princess gets vindictive. Not only does she change her mind about the date/time of my power restoration, she takes to calling me in the middle of the night to tease me. At 4:41 am, she says, We've restored power to many homes in your area.  I'm awake and excited. I rush home only to find that she LIED. This happens two nights in a row. You can't hang up on the princess, because she will call you back, again and again. 

Lest you think that my children unduly suffered, worry not. At the first sign of snow with potential school closings, they high-tailed it to friends' houses. Friends' houses that do not lose power in storms. Ian was where Ian always is during crises. NOT IN TOWN. 

At 2pm today, power is restored and I'm planning my revenge on the PECO princess