You Asked

I found out years ago that I am a bit of a medical anomaly in that, while most women have only one, I have been blessed with two internal female body parts; the name of which shall forever remain a secret. 

During a recent doctor’s visit, I was discussing my “dual parts” with my gynecologist, who always seemed fascinated by the whole thing.  He regaled me with stories about how I should be in some sort of medical text book.  Then, in his meager attempt at humor, asked me if I also had two rectums.  Wasn’t that hilarious?  I mean, what with me in those hysterical stirrups and all. 

Trying to keep up with him, I explained that, well, yes, I did have two rectums, and that, while one was on my backside, the other was probably still at work.  But he could call him if he’d like.

It's Waterloo All Over Again

My daughter insists my next door neighbor Nick is a descendant of Napoleon Bonaparte for no other reason than because he’s short and bald.  We discuss it periodically and it gives us both a hearty chuckle.  I’m not even sure if the real Napoleon was bald, but my daughter says he was.  I asked my husband Jack if he knew, but since he’s currently flirting with a bald spot himself, he wouldn’t weigh in.  He doesn’t think my daughter and I are very funny.

Jack prefers to concentrate on Nick’s agricultural habits. Every April he pays a small fortune on his yard’s fixings, but just sort of throws all types of flowers and shrubs in the ground with no rhyme or reason and calls it a day.  Then two weeks later, his place is overrun with weeds which he does nothing about the rest of the season.  My husband will stare out the window for hours at a time, watching his handiwork and shaking his head, calling me periodically to, ‘come see what Nickodermus is doing now.’

Personally, my favorite part is when Nick finishes his annual Spring project.  He calls his wife outside and the two of them stand there, wine glasses in hand, looking at his handiwork, bobbing their heads up and down.  All that’s missing is a high five and some chest bumping.

As if that wasn’t enough, he recently finished his basement.  As far as I’m concerned, it was really poor planning.  There are only 16 feet separating our two houses and the one basement window my neighbor has faces the side of my house.  I’m guessing he hasn’t realized yet that he has nosy neighbors because he hasn’t bothered to put up a curtain.  I don’t know how many times I’ve walked around the side of my house and caught my husband who is ‘taking out the garbage,’ peering in their basement window staring lovingly at their 65” HD flat screen. 

On those occasions when I take a peek in, I chuckle and point out what a great view we have of Napoleon’s bald spot.  My husband, not happy with my observations, will only comment that our neighbor appears to be a Colts fan.

And the Emmy Goes To...

My father used to say the media was what was wrong with the country.  I’m inclined to agree.

On Friday, April 19^th I worked half a day.  My husband was already home.  As soon as I got in the door, I ran to the couch, sat down and began watching CNN.  My husband confessed he had been glued to it all day.  Local law enforcement agencies, state police and SWAT teams were in “dramatic” pursuit of the Boston Marathon bombing suspect.  I know it was all very dramatic; Wolf Blitzer said so every third word. 

My husband looked at me around 3:00 and asked if I thought they would catch the guy.  I said sure they will; as soon as it’s Prime Time. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I have nothing but the highest regard for law enforcement officials on every level; these people put their lives on the line for us.  But doesn’t it strike anyone as odd that they captured this kid at 8:45 pm?  My guess is that sometime around 3:45 in the afternoon the conversation between two reporters went something like this:

“Charlie, do you see blood over there by that boat?”

“I sure do, Ernie.  Let’s ask the home owner.”  Knock. Knock.  “Hey is that your boat?  Really, the shrinkwrap was closed yesterday?  OK, call that in around 6:30pm and we’ll take it from there.” 

Prime Time.

I recently read an article about the motive of the kid who shot up the elementary school in Connecticut.  It seems he had done some research and found out what the largest death toll was from a shooting spree and decided he wanted to break the record.  That’s why he picked a school with young kids; because he knew he wouldn’t get much opposition.  These people don’t care if they die; they just want to be infamous.  I’m not saying that the Boston Marathon bomber was thinking the same way, he obviously has a whole different ideology as his driving motivation.  

I worry about the nuts who were out there, glued to the TV like I was, envious of this bombing suspect and the attention he was getting, wondering how they’re going to top that.

Makes me very afraid.

Food, Glorious Food

I’ve lived in Southern New Jersey for about 10 years now.  Trust me, I’m not bragging.

I used to get a subscription to New Jersey Monthly magazine.  They had a restaurant section that did critiques of restaurants in the state; most of them located in Northern NJ.  People, Southern Jerseyans would be my guess, would write in and complain that it was unfair that NJM only reviewed restaurants up North.  Want to know why?  Because by and large, restaurants in the Southern half of the state pale by comparison; OK they stink, actually.  On a recent trip to New Brunswick to see a show, my husband and I ate at a fabulous restaurant and remembered what it used to be like to have outstanding food.  The problem is, the longer you live in the Southern part of the state, the more you start to think the lousy food is acceptable. On the way home I cried and said ‘make sure it doesn't happen to us!'

One of the other things I notice down where I live is that waiters and waitresses don’t write down my order.  Do they think I’m impressed?  Because frankly I’m sick to death of these ink-less nuts who stand in front of me nodding their heads approvingly at my selection and making comments like ‘excellent choice’ and ‘it’s the chef’s specialty’ when I announce I’ll have the Fish Sticks and Curly Fries.  Get yourself a BIC pen and a wad of paper and write down what I say.  It’s not bad enough that I’m eating off a garbage can lid, I’m tired of getting Shrimp in a Basket and mashed when I asked for Chicken Fingers and baked.

And another thing, if they can have a No-Smoking section, why can’t they have a No-Kids section for people without children?  My husband and I eat at a restaurant in a hotel by the beach whose clientele is nothing but vacationing families.  This means that in the summer I am forced to eat my meal while kids in flip flops and shorts cry and carry on, hit their siblings and run around the place.  The sunburned, addle brained parents start to drink the minute they sit down and don’t stop until after the bill is paid.  They don’t appear to be the least bit concerned, or even aware.

I say it should be a state law that restaurants be required to install huge, steel, sound proof partitions so I can eat in peace.  If that’s not feasible I’ll take my chances and eat with the smokers.

Tell Me Where it Hurts

I recently had dinner with a friend who was attending nursing school and I learned some interesting things. 

Did you know there’s a difference between nauseated and nauseous?  I didn’t.  

The way I understand it,  if you feel vomiting is imminent, you have to say you feel nauseated.  Otherwise, if you say you feel nauseous, you’re saying you think you make other people sick.  Big difference.

Does the average person know this or is it just medical people?  Shouldn’t they post signs in hospitals explaining the difference?  Say you’re in a crowd of interns and you yell ‘look out, I feel nauseous.’  No one’s going to help you.  They might back up so they don’t catch your cooties, but they probably aren’t going to run and get you a waste paper basket.

And what’s the deal with hernias?    

Years ago an aunt of mine was having surgery.  She insisted she had a Hiatus Hernia.  What is that exactly?  Because the way she made it sound, her hernia was on vacation.    

It's Making Me Nuts

My husband Jack and I are looking to buy property in another state because we want to get out of New Jersey.  A few years ago Jack took a trip to North Carolina to meet with a realtor and look at some lots.  I gave him our movie camera and explicit instructions to videotape as much of the area as he could so that I could look at it and see if I liked it. 

When he came home I couldn’t wait to view the video of the area that I might someday call home.  Imagine my surprise when I found that all he had taken was 5 minutes worth of movies, 3 of which were of a local squirrel.  Of course he looked like a really happy little squirrel which seemed to make my husband happy as well.  I could tell the squirrel liked the area he lived in and I was pleased for him.  I also noticed that North Carolina squirrels look surprisingly similar to New Jersey squirrels.

Say it for me.  My husband is an idiot.

Do I Know You?

The year was 1996 and my 13 year old daughter attended her first dance at school.  When I went to pick her up a friend of mine, who is the same age as me, tagged along.  As we walked down the hall a teacher stopped my friend and asked if she was picking up her child.  Aghast at the implication that she looked old enough to have a 13 year old, my friend declared to the teacher that she ABSOLUTELY WAS NOT PICKING UP A CHILD AND THAT SHE, IN FACT, DID NOT EVEN HAVE A CHILD!

And with her shorts in a knot my friend turned to me and bellowed “DOES SHE REALLY THINK I LOOK OLD ENOUGH TO HAVE A 13 YEAR OLD?”  I was inclined to point out to her that, as I was old enough to have a 13 year old, surely she was as well.  But I remained silent because, after all, it didn’t matter how old I looked, the joy was simply in being a mother. 

As we continued down the hall it occurred to me that the teacher didn’t ask me if I was picking up a child so I must not look old enough to have a 13 year old.

When I found my daughter, I handed her $5 and told her to find her own way home.  There was no way I was gonna be caught dead with some 13 year old and a saggy looking friend.

The Good Old Days

One of my father’s favorite things to do in the summer was to load up his car with as many screaming neighborhood kids as he could find and take us out for the day.  I think he was secretly paid by an underground group of depressed mother’s looking for a day of peace and quiet. 

He would take us to swimming holes and parks and some days we would go hiking.  Al Gore hadn’t invented the camcorder yet, so my dad always had his 8mm movie camera with him since you never knew when one of us kids was going to do something hysterical.

One afternoon we were hiking up a “mountain,” drinking from a clear stream that cascaded down the side; my dad filming the entire adventure.  The rocks got a little too tough for him to maneuver with only one hand so he had no choice but to put the camera away.  Ah, but where to put it?  It was too big for his shorts pocket so after a moment’s deliberation, he slipped the camera down his pants.  The only problem was the camera was still running. 

We never saw any of that “footage” since my father said it was too dark.  But it’s a good thing he had his 8mm movie camera with him that day since you never know when kids are going to do something hysterical.  Too bad he didn’t carry a Polaroid. 

In the Beginning

I knew all along I had to have a Caesarian section when I was pregnant.  It seems my lazy daughter decided that she was going to sit upright with her foot in my groin for 9 solid months.  I fixed her though; I rested my martini on her head. 

My doctor, a lovely Pilipino woman with a speech impediment, told me countless times that I could not schedule my C-section before my due date.  So imagine my surprise when she called me eight days before my scheduled date to tell me she was going on vacation and did I want to have my baby that day.  It seems that in matters of vacation planning, medical science could be  trumped by reservations at a dude ranch. 

So I agreed to have my baby that day.  Right after I watched General Hospital.

My daughter was born at 7:19 and I can recall waking up from the anesthesia finding myself on a gurney behind the nurse’s station.  There were pizza boxes scattered around and my then husband was drinking Mountain Dew out of a cup that said SPECIMEN on the side.  I thought to myself ‘this is hell.’  I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

It’s been a wild ride ever since.