Category: blog

Days before same-sex marriage was legalized in our state, my former roommates headed to Hawaii for the sole purpose of getting married.

 

Upon returning home their financial advisor did as financial advisors should do and gave them some sound advice, “You should get married here too so the marriage is legal.” It is strange that states  exercise reciprocity for heterosexual marriages. I kind of wish they didn’t. Not doing so would save people thousands of dollars because if they were no longer interested in being married they could just move to another state. Interested in taunting your spouse? Put one foot in one state and the other in a bordering state then jump back and forth saying, “Married, divorced, married, divorced. My house, your house, my house, your house,” and so on.

 

These guys really want to be married and would probably be willing to get married in every state allowable just to prove it. So sweet. As we signed the marriage license, which was designed for heterosexual couples, one of my male friends had to put his name after ‘Mrs.’ “I guess I’ll be the bitch this time,” he said then pointed to his better half and added, “He was the bitch in Hawaii.” “It’s nice to have something I’ve known for years confirmed in two states – you’re both bitches,” I quipped.

 

To celebrate the marriage they popped a bottle of champagne and poured a glass for everyone. One of the neighbor girls, probably in her late teens, wasn’t interested in drinking so they began teasing her in an attempt to get her to drink it. “Don’t listen to them. You’ve heard of peer pressure, right? Well this is queer pressure. Same, same, but different. Don’t fall for it. Here, give me your champagne, I’ll take care of it,” I said, took her glass, and made another toast to my bitches, “Cheers to Queers!”

Like most states, the political situation in this state is a flurry. The most recent flurry is a result of a federal ruling allowing same-sex marriage.

 

Some people are really vocal about the ruling, others remain silent. While at work, I asked a coworker – who is kind of a big deal – for her stance on the ruling. She wasted no time to respond but did so only physically.

 

First, she leaned back a bit and crossed her arms. Then, she took another stance – this one sideways with her hands on her hips. On a roll, she took a final stance where she leaned forward a bit with her index finger in a ‘pondering position’ on her chin. “I like all three,” I informed her.

 

Later that day I informed Sleepless of this encounter and, to my delight, she spent the rest of the evening taking a stance.

It’s been at least six months since I last saw my gyno but as soon as I saw her it seemed like just yesterday.

 

We started the appointment as we always do – catching up on things and me reminding her that she removed my IUD a year ago. I also shared some new concerns, like the fact that I have hot flashes, cleavage on my back and appear to weigh a little more than I did six months before. “Do you drink soda, juice, alcohol?” she asked. “No, sometimes and yes, of course; however, I only drink socially. That said, I guess I am quite social.” “Alcohol has a lot of hidden calories,” she informed me. “They don’t appear to be hiding from me,” I informed her.

 

I assumed my position on the exam table and she did as she often does – positioned herself in between my legs and said, “Wow.” There is nothing more assuring than hearing that when you can’t see what they can see and what they can see is a major part of your body. “You definitely lack estrogen,” she continued. “How can you tell?” I asked. “Color, flexibility, thinness,” she replied, put the sample in the vial, took off her glove and attempted to throw it in the haz mat bin.

 

Unfortunately, the haz mat bin did not have a trash bag in it so she reached in the bin, retrieved the glove, and put it in the rubbish bin. She then washed her hands and, again, attempted to use the haz mat bin. Again, she had to retrieve the item and put it in the trash. She then turned around to do something, knocked the vial/sample off the counter, it fell on her skirt and then hit the floor. Fortunately, it didn’t break. She picked it up, said “Good thing I put the lid on tight,” wiped off her skirt with her hand and put it back on the counter. She then grabbed a tissue, wiped off her hand and attempted to throw the tissue in the haz mat bin. “How many times am I going to do that?” she asked. “It appears at least three,” I replied.

 

She then looked at me, with a very somber face, and said, “Your vagina looks older than you.” “Thank you. What does that mean exactly? Can I shoot it with Botox?” I asked. “It means you may be perimenopausal and, no, you may not,” she replied.

 

I (perimeno)paused for a second and then said, “OK. Well, again, thank you.” Not much more you can do with news like that. I may, however, throw a ‘going away’ party for my labia. It won’t be anything majora, just something minora.

My fourteen-year-old niece recently spent the weekend with MiniMe and I. While with us, we took her out to eat, shopping and to a movie.

 

The movie was a chick flick and in one scene a female and male actress were flirting and, eventually, kissed. It was around this moment that I heard my niece mumble something. “Did you say you don’t like the actor?” I asked. “No, I said I don’t like kissing. It looks gross,” she replied. “It looks good in the the movies, but I really just think it is probably gross,” she went on. “I could see how you might think that,” I said and, in an attempt to keep her innocent, added, “Remember, these people are actors – they’re acting. Kissing is gross.”

 

Oh to be young and grossed out by kissing. Instead, I’m just middle-aged and grossed out by what I’m missing.

I love dessert. So much so, I’ll often eat it before my main course. Thus, when That’s Not Chinese invited us to stop by for dessert on Christmas day I was more than happy to oblige.

 
“What can we bring?” I asked. “Nothing,” she replied then added, “Wait, bring whipping cream.”

 

Around three o’clock on Christmas day That’s Not Chinese sent MiniMe a text, “Are you planning on bringing the whipping cream before or after you go to dinner?” I advised MiniMe to text her back and tell her to try using direct communication,”Tell her she should just ask us to bring it before if that’s what she wants. You know that is what she wants.”  MiniMe didn’t take my advice and instead offered to take the whipping cream to That’s Not Chinese’s house before we headed to dinner.

 

After dinner, MiniMe, D-Dog and I went straight to That’s Not Chinese’s house. We arrived to find her mother leaving. “We were just about to call it a night,” That’s Not Chinese told us. “A little early for that. We’re here for dessert,” I replied. “We’re out of pie,” she advised. “You’re out of pie? How the hell does that happen?” I asked. “Look, you should have got here sooner,” That’s Not Chinese replied. “Unbelievable. I’m glad we got the whipping cream here early so you could all enjoy it. Where’s your wine?” was my response.

 

We had been there for about twenty minutes when Unfazed went into the kitchen to grab a beer. “Honey, there’s still pie in the fridge. In fact, there are three pieces,” she shouted from the kitchen to That’s Not Chinese. “Really? How is it that you didn’t know there were was pie – three pieces to be exact – in the fridge?” I asked. “You know what,” That’s Not Chinese said and attempted to leave it at that. “I do know what. You were trying to keep that pie for yourself,” I told her. “Look, I just didn’t want to get up to serve you,” she informed me. “That makes it even better. That’s like the icing on the cake. Better yet, the whipping cream on the pie, that we didn’t get!” I said. “Exactly,” she said and enjoyed her wine without a care in the world.

Many people like the holidays for the gifts. Others like the holidays because they get to spend time with the people they love most. Then there are those people who like the gifts and have zero interest in spending time with those they are supposed to (according to traditional greeting cards, talk shows, religious types and some therapists) love the most.
I’m the type that doesn’t need the holidays for any of this. I enjoy giving and receiving gifts year round, love spending any and all time with the people I love most and, as much as I love greeting cards, I’ve never been a supporter of anyone spending time with someone because they’re supposed to do so.

 

Thus, when Sleepless and Ice Cream Man stopped by on Christmas morning to bring me holiday joy – gifts and their presence – I couldn’t be more excited or polite. I offered them beverages, food, and thanks for their kindness. When they invited me to join them at Ice Cream Man’s mother’s house for brunch, I politely declined, “No thank you.”

 

Approximately 20 minutes into their visit Ice Cream Man announced he needed to use the loo and Sleepless politely reminded him to use one of the gifts they just gave me – The Bathroom Guestbook. I was so excited to see it put to use so quickly, however, as I was thinking about his review I was also remembering the toilet paper was due to be replenished. Just as I finished this thought Ice Cream Man returned to the front room with his pants dropped around his ankles, “There is no toilet paper – that will be reflected in my review. Luckily, the cranapple ambiance is fantastic and might help boost ratings.”

 

I quickly grabbed him a couple of rolls (although based on his ‘poodle doodle’ – very quickly drawn – he didn’t even use all of one). I checked the book later in the day to find his ratings were fair, as were those given by Sleepless. In an attempt to continue to drop pants while raising ratings I’m going to try and figure out a way to have Wilson Phillips began to play as soon as the fan is turned on. I know it will require a major engineering trick, thus, I must hold on for one more day.

MiniMe and I stopped by Fine Girl’s house for early Christmas Eve drinks. She did as she usually does and mixed us several amazing delicious cocktails. After a few we decided to go grab a quick bite to eat and a drink or two at a nearby restaurant bar.

 

As I was gathering my belongings MiniMe’s sister walked into front the room, ready to go, carrying her lap dog  – who was donning  a bandana with the inscription, ‘ Service Dog,’ around his neck – in a dog carrier/bag. “I’ve got a service dog permit; got it online, no questions asked,” she informed me.

 

Once at the restaurant Fine Girl’s sister led the way, holding her permit out for the hostess to see as we walked in and saying, “Service dog.” They asked her no questions but then asked the rest of us if we were over 21. “Did you hear that?” I asked her sister. “They asked if we were over 21. Pretending to have a service dog makes you look old.” She paid no heed to my comments, pulled her service dog out of his carrier, wrapped her jacket around him and held him on her lap. After a few minutes she put him down on the ground and began telling us how, if the dog barks or growls, she tells people she is training him to become a service dog and then says things  like, “Leave it. Leave it.” So convincing.

 

A few seconds later she realized her dog was no longer on her lap, let alone by her side. “Where’s my dog?” she asked. He was three chairs away, clearly not servicing her health needs. The hostess walked by just as this occurred and asked, “Geez, is your permit fake?” Fine Girl and I avoided eye contact but could not avoid laughing. Her sister just rambled on and on about the benefits of a service dog.

 

Once the hostess left we advised her, “This dog better not be a disservice to us. In fact, it would be nice if you could ‘train’ him to make him more of a customer service dog. Might help decrease our wait times for food and drinks.” “Good point. I wouldn’t mind some customer service right now,” she replied and added, “I would really like to order a seizures salad.” “It’s Caesar’s Salad,” I replied. “Whatever,” she replied as she stroked the head of her ‘service’ dog who was falling asleep, very soon to be ‘out of service.”

 

 

Although the emergency clinic doctor thought my wrist was broken, the radiologist who checked the x-rays the next day did not agree. Despite – or because of –  that fact, they still wanted me to be seen by an orthopedic surgeon. I’d been out and about all day and was sure at least one of the passersby was a surgeon. Does that count for nothing?

 

Not interested in another surgery or medical issue, I took their advice and set an appointment, simply so I could rule out a break.

 

In the meantime, MiniMe, sticking with family tradition, jammed and broke her toe. “How did it happen?” I asked. “The VCR. Who leaves a VCR on the floor?” she replied. “I had to move it to retrieve something. I really need to get a head cleaner. Didn’t you turn a light on?” I asked. “No,” she said. “Looks like you’re a victim of the 80s,” I informed her as she remained crawled up in a ball while the pain traveled through body. Confirming, once again, I have no feelings – physically or emotionally. “For the record,” I said to her, “My bones prove that, even though I have no feelings, I am sensitive. You’ll be fine.” I then walked upstairs to finish my glass of milk.

 

The next day we went to the orthopedic surgeon and learned that he was out of the office and wouldn’t be able to assess my injury for another couple of days. So, in the meantime, they gave me a brace. Splint removed, brace in place, and MiniMe’s toes taped together with limp in full force we made our way. Like the 80s, we were a sight for sore eyes.

At the behest of my friends and MiniMe, I went to the local emergency clinic to have my arm checked. We – me, MiniMe and Live Longer – arrived ten minutes before they closed, so the ‘relationship’ started off rocky.

 

Like most medical visits, they took my vitals immediately. Once on the scale I realized the real emergency might be my weight gain and not my wrist. Luckily, elastic waist leggings are in right now so i figure I’ve got nothing to lose, literally.

 

We made our way back to the waiting room where the not-so-rad rad tech was tending to my wrist. It was obvious that he was not keen on our company. He took me back to the x-ray room and begin positioning my hand. “Now I’m going to do a karate chop,” he told me. “What?” I asked, shocked. “A karate chop,” he replied. “Why?” I asked. “I need you to make your hand like you’re going to do a karate chop,” he clarified. “Oh, OK. I can do that. I thought you were going to karate chop my hand,” I said. He shook his head and walked over to the computer. “Would you like to see these?” he asked. I walked over to look at the x-rays, however, saw nothing but bones. “What does this mean?” I asked. “I can’t tell you,” he said. “You can tell me,” I replied. “No, I can’t. Only the doctor can,” was his reply. Has he never seen Airplane?

 

We returned to the exam room where Live Longer and Mini Me had been waiting and reading magazines. They found a feature titled ‘Pimp My Injury.’ In this feature were celebrities with blinged slings, wheelchairs, crutches and the like. “If she has to get a sling or a cast can you please make it look like this? Can you pimp her injury?” Live Longer asked with a sheepish grin across her face and giggling in be. He looked at the picture, said, “No,” and informed us the doctor would be with us shortly.

 

The doctor was a short, kind, older gentleman who was extremely sorry for the news he was about to share, “You’re not going to like this, but I think it’s broken. We’re going to splint it and you should definitely see an orthopedic surgeon just in case.” “What?!?! Surgeon? Surgery?” Live Longer asked. “I told you to drink more milk,” MiniMe scolded. “Those two are misbehaved,” the doctor told me. “I’ll speak with at least one of their mothers,” I replied.

 

The rad tech returned to apply the splint and appeared to take great pleasure in applying pressure for my displeasure. It was as though he was sending the three of us a message via my arm. The message being, “I don’t like you.” Once my wrist was tightly wrapped we headed home. We took our time leaving, just to get even.

 

2013 Scorecard:

Road: 2

Me: BROKE!

 

 

A pimpnholiday surprise indeed! MiniMe was not expecting her mother and her friends to welcome her ho ho home at the airport baggage claim while shouting ‘ho ho ho!’ and donning amazing attire. Also not expected was the fall on black ice after I exited the car and headed into the airport.

 

Like the time I fell and fractured my shoulder, I fell, brushed myself off, got up and said, “I’m fine.” Unlike my shoulder, I actually saw something noticeably wrong with my wrist – the back of my wrist was swelling and looked a bit like a ganglion cyst. While the other elves waited with MiniMe for her luggage, I checked in with the airport medics.

 

“I like your shorts. Where did you get them?” one medic asked and then added, “Looks like a hematoma. You should be fine.” “What should I do with it?” I asked. “Ice it. Elevate it. Do you want to go to the ER?” he replied. “No. Do I need to go to the ER?” “Only if you want pain meds,” the other medic piped in. “I don’t do drugs,” I told them, thanked them for their care, and walked away with a bag of ice hoisted on my hand, red and white striped thigh high socks peeking out beneath my ‘naughty but nice’ boxer shorts, complimented by biker boots, Santa hat and blue Christmas sweater with snowman, reindeer, tree and the like.

 

As I sat on the floor near the baggage claim carousel with Tree and Awkward, arm atop my head, I informed them I was supposed to “ice and elevate.” As I did so I realized the bag was not tied and lowered my arm so I could tie it. With the bag tied I placed it atop my head, sans arm. “Are you drunk? What was in your coffee this morning?” Tree asked. “Oops,” I said, placing my arm under the ice. “I’m not sure what was in my coffee, Live Longer made it. Fact is, I’m sober. I only get hurt when I’m sober.”

 

It’s true. I fall all of the time, but I only seem to get seriously injured when I’m sober – especially this year. Greater tuberosity fracture in April. Hairline fracture in October. Wrist in October. Third time is the arm, not the charm.

 

“You need a bone density test,” Tree told me. “You need to drink more milk,” MiniMe advised. “I need a drink,” I told them both and we headed to brunch where, to at least appease MiniMe, I ordered egg nog…with bourbon.