Okay, so I have a confession to make.
They say the important thing is to be willing to admit you have a problem. That's the first step in getting better.
So, here it is and it isn't pretty--I'm a crier. That's right, I said it, a crier.
If you are sitting in a theater watching a movie that either makes you gag or laugh at how lame it is and you hear some freak sobbing into her popcorn bucket, chances are it's me. I bawled like a baby during "Mama Mia" when Meryl Streep sang "Slipping Through My Fingers" to her daughter (but at least I didn't cry when I heard how awful Pierce Brosnan's singing voice is).
I can't tell you how many times I've sat at home with tears streaming down my face at the end of a movie and then looked around at my family members to see dry eyes and snot-less noses. And they're all looking at me with their Mom's-a-basket-case-again faces. I ask them, "How are you not sobbing your eyes out? Are you all heartless? Have you no souls, no compassion?" and they all excuse themselves and go on with their lives as though Willy Wonka didn't just give Charlie Bucket the whole chocolate factory and invite his poor mother and grandparents to live in it with him. Unbelievable!
It doesn't take much to choke me up--a commercial with a little kid smiling up at his/her mom, a movie with a happy/sappy ending, pictures of my girls when they were bitty things, those God-awful ads on TV with the abused dogs and cats, stories on the news about people who have given up hope, and, of course, a good book. There's nothing better than a book that has you laughing on one page and trying to read through your tears on the next. A roller-coaster ride for the soul--two thumbs up.
Some of my crying jags have been embarrassing. Some have been downright humiliating. One in particular makes me wince every time I think about it.
I don't like dentists. I never have and I never will. But I found a dentist who was gentle, patient, and willing to make adjustments for big old babies like me. Instead of strapping me to the chair for three hours to fix every problem he could find in my mouth, he let me come in for several short appointments instead, ones that were just short enough to end before my panic level rose to the biting his fingers stage. A couple of weeks after one of these appointments, I received a letter in the mail informing me that my dentist had passed away from a heart attack. He actually passed away a few hours after my last appointment. The letter stated that his brother would be taking over the practice and all appointments would be honored. I was sad to hear the news, but glad to hear that all his patients, including me, would still have a doctor to treat them. I checked my calendar and saw that I didn't have another appointment scheduled for six months.
I showed up at my appointment and met the brother. He was nice and the examination went well. I stopped at the desk on my way out to make another appointment and was told there was a problem with my insurance. I wasn't worried. I knew that I was covered and it was just a matter of the right forms being sent in. The new dentist's wife was running the office and she needed some information from me to straighten the insurance tangle out. As I sat down at the little desk waiting for her to pull up my file on the computer, I turned my head and there on the bulletin board next to me was a newspaper clipping of the dentist who had passed away. In it, he was surrounded by some kids he had sponsored for some sort of sports team. A kind man who was now dead surrounded by children he had helped. That was all it took.
My throat got lumpy. My eyes started to burn. The tears started flowing.
The wife turned to ask me something and saw my tears. "Are you alright?" she asked, pushing a box of tissues toward me. I nodded, but couldn't speak. "Don't worry, we'll work this insurance issue out," she said. I cried harder. She panicked and went to get her husband. He left a patient and came up behind my chair. "Are you in pain," he asked, even though he had only given me an exam. I shook my head and continued to cry, thinking of this man losing his brother. "She's worried about the bill. There's a problem with her insurance," his wife told him. I shook my head again, trying to think of anything to say to get out of this. I couldn't say, "I'm crying over the dead dentist, even though you're not crying and you were his family and I'm just some random patient he saw a couple of times a year."
So I just kept crying and not speaking. Finally, the wife said, "Why don't you just go on home and I'll give you a call if there is any more information I need for the insurance claim." By now, everyone in the office and waiting room was staring at me. I nodded, grabbed a couple more tissues and got the heck out of there. You think I dreaded going to the dentist before--it was over a year before I could make myself face those people again. The good news is, they now think I'm fragile or maybe psychotic, because they treat me with kid gloves when I go in and who doesn't want a dentist who's more afraid of you than you are of him?
Any other blubberers out there in the blogosphere??
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Can you please do that aardvark thing for my HSA meeting?
Somehow, I've become the go-to person for my in-laws.
It's my fault. As a big fan of Everybody Loves Raymond, I remember the episode where Raymond convinces Robert to do a miserable job designing his wedding invitations so that Amy will stop asking him to help with the wedding. Raymond had a long history of screwing up everything on purpose from laundry to hiring a band for his own wedding and had trained Debra not to ask for his help. I wish I had seen that episode sooner and then I never would have painted Minnie and Mickey.
For the first eight or nine years of our marriage, my in-laws never called me to help with anything. They only called and told me precisely when and where to show up and what to bring. Oh, and what to dress my children in for the event. They were big on having all the grandchildren in co-ordinating outfits that ranged from lederhosen to identical Lacoste polo shirts bought on sale.
But then I started painting ceramics as a hobby and the trouble started. I found that I was actually good at it and I decided to start selling my pieces at craft fairs alongside my neighbor who painted terracotta. The business grew, our pieces made it into stores, and my in-laws discovered I was good for something. What a shock that must have been!
Milly asked me if I would make some favors for Phil's sixty-five birthday party. Excited about being included in the party planning for the first time, I said, "Of course!" Oh, to be young and naive again. Since Phil is a huge Disney fan and has all kinds of Mickey Mouse paraphernalia, Milly wanted me to paint four inch high Mickey Mouses for all the male guests and Minnie Mouses for the females. She had seen the ones I had painted for shows and loved them. I liked painting them, especially putting all the polka dots on Minnie's dress and hairbow, but they were time-consuming. It took me several hours to finish one. She needed fifty of each.
Now of course you're thinking, "Why didn't you just say no? Why didn't you tell her you couldn't do it?" and of course you would be right. But you have to understand, at that time, my in-laws were just waiting for my husband to come to his senses and divorce me. From day one, they made it clear that I wasn't the right religion (Christian, but not Catholic), wasn't from the right area (I was small town, they were big city), wasn't the right heritage (they were hoping for a good Irish lassie), and definitely not what they were hoping for in a wife for their little boy. I didn't have tattoos, no criminal record, no gambling or drug problems, came from a decent middle class family, had a college education, and got along easily with most people, but no matter how nice I was, I had failed at the three biggies-religion, heritage, and hometown. I was a heathen, a hick, and a mutt. I was doomed.
So for my mother-in-law to trust me with something as important as the favors for Phil's party was huge. I couldn't say no and I couldn't blow it. I had to show them this hick-heathen-mutt could WOW their party guests. I slaved over those Mickeys and Minnies, working until the wee hours of the morning again and again, feeding my husband and children take-out meals, letting the cobwebs in my house grow so big I had to untangle the dog from one, but I finished them. And they were beautiful. Everyone at the party oohed and ahed as they were handed theirs to take home (of course, they probably gave them to Goodwill or threw them away shortly after, but still) For the first time ever, I rode home from a family party with a smile on my face instead of a burning in my gut.
Then came a favorite cousin's party and could I please make centerpieces, which led to wedding favors and shower favors for everyone else getting married within the extended family.
I made a video of the grandkids performing show tunes for Milly's birthday, so naturally, when Phil decided his collection of twenty years of slides needed to be organized on VHS tapes, one slide at a time, who ya gonna call? Not Ghostbusters. Soon, all photo organizing, photo editing, and photo slideshow jobs were dumped on me because no one else in the family "could work those doggone machines and besides, you're just so good at it" or so I was told.
When an uncle I loved very much passed away, I wrote a two page tribute for his mass booklet and another secret was out--she can write, too! Now, I am the official in-house author when anyone dies, gets married, is born, or just needs a good speech.
I gave a couple of parties that turned out well and now I get asked to plan the whole party--menu, linens, favors, the whole shebang--when my mother-in-law wants to throw one.
Every time, I swear I'm going to say no, but what kind of person says no to helping out when there's been a death in the family? Or a new baby? Or it's a party for your husband's elderly parents? Or I do say no to one sister and then I hear, "But you did it for sister Y's kid! What do you have against my kid anyway?" I never knew the Irish were so good at guilt!
Maybe this is a grand plot. Maybe they are trying to keep me so busy that I don't have time to write a tell-all book revealing all their dirty laundry. My friends who have spent time around my in-laws are always telling me I should write a book with all the material they provide. Unfortunately for my in-laws, I've grown used to cobwebs big enough to trap dogs and now that I'm no longer painting Mickeys and Minnies, I use those wee hours of the morning to spill my guts. Look for a release date sometime in 2012 or 2013. (Just kidding!)
Maybe I'll write the manuscript and leave it with my will to be published only after my death. I'm afraid publishing it before my death would hasten that death considerably.
(This blog is anonymous because I don't want them to know that I can also cook a mean clam chowder, groom a fuzzy dog, and make a stunning shadow puppet of an aardvark. I'm not sure what they would do with those talents, but I am sure they would find a way to use them at their next party.)
It's my fault. As a big fan of Everybody Loves Raymond, I remember the episode where Raymond convinces Robert to do a miserable job designing his wedding invitations so that Amy will stop asking him to help with the wedding. Raymond had a long history of screwing up everything on purpose from laundry to hiring a band for his own wedding and had trained Debra not to ask for his help. I wish I had seen that episode sooner and then I never would have painted Minnie and Mickey.
For the first eight or nine years of our marriage, my in-laws never called me to help with anything. They only called and told me precisely when and where to show up and what to bring. Oh, and what to dress my children in for the event. They were big on having all the grandchildren in co-ordinating outfits that ranged from lederhosen to identical Lacoste polo shirts bought on sale.
But then I started painting ceramics as a hobby and the trouble started. I found that I was actually good at it and I decided to start selling my pieces at craft fairs alongside my neighbor who painted terracotta. The business grew, our pieces made it into stores, and my in-laws discovered I was good for something. What a shock that must have been!
Milly asked me if I would make some favors for Phil's sixty-five birthday party. Excited about being included in the party planning for the first time, I said, "Of course!" Oh, to be young and naive again. Since Phil is a huge Disney fan and has all kinds of Mickey Mouse paraphernalia, Milly wanted me to paint four inch high Mickey Mouses for all the male guests and Minnie Mouses for the females. She had seen the ones I had painted for shows and loved them. I liked painting them, especially putting all the polka dots on Minnie's dress and hairbow, but they were time-consuming. It took me several hours to finish one. She needed fifty of each.
Now of course you're thinking, "Why didn't you just say no? Why didn't you tell her you couldn't do it?" and of course you would be right. But you have to understand, at that time, my in-laws were just waiting for my husband to come to his senses and divorce me. From day one, they made it clear that I wasn't the right religion (Christian, but not Catholic), wasn't from the right area (I was small town, they were big city), wasn't the right heritage (they were hoping for a good Irish lassie), and definitely not what they were hoping for in a wife for their little boy. I didn't have tattoos, no criminal record, no gambling or drug problems, came from a decent middle class family, had a college education, and got along easily with most people, but no matter how nice I was, I had failed at the three biggies-religion, heritage, and hometown. I was a heathen, a hick, and a mutt. I was doomed.
So for my mother-in-law to trust me with something as important as the favors for Phil's party was huge. I couldn't say no and I couldn't blow it. I had to show them this hick-heathen-mutt could WOW their party guests. I slaved over those Mickeys and Minnies, working until the wee hours of the morning again and again, feeding my husband and children take-out meals, letting the cobwebs in my house grow so big I had to untangle the dog from one, but I finished them. And they were beautiful. Everyone at the party oohed and ahed as they were handed theirs to take home (of course, they probably gave them to Goodwill or threw them away shortly after, but still) For the first time ever, I rode home from a family party with a smile on my face instead of a burning in my gut.
Then came a favorite cousin's party and could I please make centerpieces, which led to wedding favors and shower favors for everyone else getting married within the extended family.
I made a video of the grandkids performing show tunes for Milly's birthday, so naturally, when Phil decided his collection of twenty years of slides needed to be organized on VHS tapes, one slide at a time, who ya gonna call? Not Ghostbusters. Soon, all photo organizing, photo editing, and photo slideshow jobs were dumped on me because no one else in the family "could work those doggone machines and besides, you're just so good at it" or so I was told.
When an uncle I loved very much passed away, I wrote a two page tribute for his mass booklet and another secret was out--she can write, too! Now, I am the official in-house author when anyone dies, gets married, is born, or just needs a good speech.
I gave a couple of parties that turned out well and now I get asked to plan the whole party--menu, linens, favors, the whole shebang--when my mother-in-law wants to throw one.
Every time, I swear I'm going to say no, but what kind of person says no to helping out when there's been a death in the family? Or a new baby? Or it's a party for your husband's elderly parents? Or I do say no to one sister and then I hear, "But you did it for sister Y's kid! What do you have against my kid anyway?" I never knew the Irish were so good at guilt!
Maybe this is a grand plot. Maybe they are trying to keep me so busy that I don't have time to write a tell-all book revealing all their dirty laundry. My friends who have spent time around my in-laws are always telling me I should write a book with all the material they provide. Unfortunately for my in-laws, I've grown used to cobwebs big enough to trap dogs and now that I'm no longer painting Mickeys and Minnies, I use those wee hours of the morning to spill my guts. Look for a release date sometime in 2012 or 2013. (Just kidding!)
Maybe I'll write the manuscript and leave it with my will to be published only after my death. I'm afraid publishing it before my death would hasten that death considerably.
(This blog is anonymous because I don't want them to know that I can also cook a mean clam chowder, groom a fuzzy dog, and make a stunning shadow puppet of an aardvark. I'm not sure what they would do with those talents, but I am sure they would find a way to use them at their next party.)
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Hey now, you're a rock star, get your colon checked, Go Play!
Okay, okay, so I know I have skipped a few days. It's not because I didn't have anything to say. I just didn't have time to say it.
But I'm back now and if anyone out there is interested, I went to my re-scheduled doctor's appointment last Wednesday. That's right--I went back to see the doctor who went home and left me in the examining room.
I wasn't kidding about taking a sign with me. I took two pieces of card stock, taped them together, then took a red Sharpie and in block letters wrote, "PLEASE DON'T FORGET ME, DR. XXXXX!" I had some star stickers in all different colors from my writing workshops for the kids at the local grade school and I put them all over the poster. Then I curled long sections of gold ribbon and stapled them to the four corners of the sign. I wanted to make dang sure he didn't miss it.
I folded the sign in half so no one could see what was written on it and took my shaven legs to his office. They took me back to the examining room pretty quickly. I noticed the nurse (a different one than last time) shooting glances at the ribbony papers in my hand, but she didn't ask. She weighed me and took my blood pressure and pulse, commenting that both my blood pressure and pulse were high for me ( I wonder why?? Perhaps worries that the doctor would rip down the sign, stomp on it, curse me out, and then banish me from his practice?). She said the doctor would probably want to re-check them when he came in. Then she asked me why I was there and I told her it was all written in the chart already since I'd been in the week before and never got checked. She looked up and said, "Oh, that was you?" I nodded and as she went out the door, she said, "The doctor will be in shortly and I'll make sure he actually comes in this time."
As soon as she closed the door, I jumped up and opened it again, sticking the sign to the outside of the door (I had thought ahead and put tape on the back of the card stock). Then I closed it and waited, my blood pressure and pulse probably doubling. It didn't take long. I heard a shriek and then a laugh, then, "Oh, my God, that is the funniest thing I've ever seen." Then, "Sheila, Sheila, come here. You have to see this." Sheila ended up being the nurse who had taken care of me at the previous appointment. Sheila laughed and made comments about how funny it was, then opened the door and stuck her head in. "I can't believe you did that," she said, laughing. "That is great. He has been obsessing all week about leaving you in here. He asks me every single morning, 'When is Mrs. D coming back?' and I keep telling him Wednesday. Then today he said, 'She's coming today, right? Make sure I don't keep her waiting' as if I can rush him. I can't wait to see his face when he sees this."
A parade of people were called back by the nurse to see the sign, including other nurses, office staff, and a few of the other doctors in the practice. One of the doctors stuck her head in and said to make sure to get a picture of my doctor next to the sign. Apparently, the whole office had been giving my doctor a bit of a hard time about leaving me stranded. I could hear my doctor in the examining room next to mine and I just sat, holding my Kindle and waiting.
I heard him come out of the other room and ask the people who were milling around waiting to see his reaction, "Okay, what are you setting me up for?" They all murmured things like, "What? Nothing. What could you possibly mean?" and he said, "I could hear you out here and I heard you say 'Did he see it yet?' and 'I can't wait to see his reaction', so I know something is up. What is it?" They just shook their heads and said, "Don't know what you're talking about." He gave up and turned toward my examining room door and ----HUGE belly laugh. I could hear the other people laughing with him and he said, "That's amazing. That's just amazing." The door opened and as he stepped in, I held up my Kindle and asked, "Would you mind coming back later? I just want to finish this chapter." He laughed and said, "After what I did to you last week, you can finish the whole book and I'll still be waiting patiently to examine you when you're done."
He apologized, said he felt just awful, and said that he was glad it was me because I was such a good sport. Most of his other patients, he confessed, would have gone through the roof if it had happened to them and he didn't think he would have handled it well if he had been the one left waiting. He also said he had finally stopped blushing about it and now the blush was back (Mission Accomplished!). He took my pulse and blood pressure, which were back to their normal-for-me low readings. He laughingly complained, "Great, the lowest point in my professional career and now I get to relive it." I replied, "Wait until you read about it on my blog."
We did the whole exam thingy (kind of a let-down after all the other stuff) and when he was finished, he said, "I have to get that sign down before any of my other patients see it and start asking questions." I told him I wanted a picture of him with it and he replied, "No way," before walking away with the sign. He called back over his shoulder, "I'm putting this over my desk in my private office where no one will see it except me." (So you can blame him for the fact that there isn't a picture of it attached to this post, although a thinking person would have taken a picture of it before leaving for the doctor's office--whoops.)
So is all forgiven and forgotten? Are Doctor X and I even? No way. Because he then sent in the nurse with a big needle full of whooping cough vaccine to shoot in my muscle (she waited until after the shot was finished before warning me that my arm was going to be sore for a couple of days) AND he gave her a slip for me to schedule a colonoscopy. A colonoscopy?? Isn't that kind of harsh payback for a little sign on the door??
No worries. I have six months before my next appointment. Plenty of time to plan my retaliation.
P.S. As the nurse was leaving, she said because of my sign, I was now a "rock star" in the office. If I'd known that was all it took to achieve rock star status, I would have brought in signs insulting the doctor years ago.
But I'm back now and if anyone out there is interested, I went to my re-scheduled doctor's appointment last Wednesday. That's right--I went back to see the doctor who went home and left me in the examining room.
I wasn't kidding about taking a sign with me. I took two pieces of card stock, taped them together, then took a red Sharpie and in block letters wrote, "PLEASE DON'T FORGET ME, DR. XXXXX!" I had some star stickers in all different colors from my writing workshops for the kids at the local grade school and I put them all over the poster. Then I curled long sections of gold ribbon and stapled them to the four corners of the sign. I wanted to make dang sure he didn't miss it.
I folded the sign in half so no one could see what was written on it and took my shaven legs to his office. They took me back to the examining room pretty quickly. I noticed the nurse (a different one than last time) shooting glances at the ribbony papers in my hand, but she didn't ask. She weighed me and took my blood pressure and pulse, commenting that both my blood pressure and pulse were high for me ( I wonder why?? Perhaps worries that the doctor would rip down the sign, stomp on it, curse me out, and then banish me from his practice?). She said the doctor would probably want to re-check them when he came in. Then she asked me why I was there and I told her it was all written in the chart already since I'd been in the week before and never got checked. She looked up and said, "Oh, that was you?" I nodded and as she went out the door, she said, "The doctor will be in shortly and I'll make sure he actually comes in this time."
As soon as she closed the door, I jumped up and opened it again, sticking the sign to the outside of the door (I had thought ahead and put tape on the back of the card stock). Then I closed it and waited, my blood pressure and pulse probably doubling. It didn't take long. I heard a shriek and then a laugh, then, "Oh, my God, that is the funniest thing I've ever seen." Then, "Sheila, Sheila, come here. You have to see this." Sheila ended up being the nurse who had taken care of me at the previous appointment. Sheila laughed and made comments about how funny it was, then opened the door and stuck her head in. "I can't believe you did that," she said, laughing. "That is great. He has been obsessing all week about leaving you in here. He asks me every single morning, 'When is Mrs. D coming back?' and I keep telling him Wednesday. Then today he said, 'She's coming today, right? Make sure I don't keep her waiting' as if I can rush him. I can't wait to see his face when he sees this."
A parade of people were called back by the nurse to see the sign, including other nurses, office staff, and a few of the other doctors in the practice. One of the doctors stuck her head in and said to make sure to get a picture of my doctor next to the sign. Apparently, the whole office had been giving my doctor a bit of a hard time about leaving me stranded. I could hear my doctor in the examining room next to mine and I just sat, holding my Kindle and waiting.
I heard him come out of the other room and ask the people who were milling around waiting to see his reaction, "Okay, what are you setting me up for?" They all murmured things like, "What? Nothing. What could you possibly mean?" and he said, "I could hear you out here and I heard you say 'Did he see it yet?' and 'I can't wait to see his reaction', so I know something is up. What is it?" They just shook their heads and said, "Don't know what you're talking about." He gave up and turned toward my examining room door and ----HUGE belly laugh. I could hear the other people laughing with him and he said, "That's amazing. That's just amazing." The door opened and as he stepped in, I held up my Kindle and asked, "Would you mind coming back later? I just want to finish this chapter." He laughed and said, "After what I did to you last week, you can finish the whole book and I'll still be waiting patiently to examine you when you're done."
He apologized, said he felt just awful, and said that he was glad it was me because I was such a good sport. Most of his other patients, he confessed, would have gone through the roof if it had happened to them and he didn't think he would have handled it well if he had been the one left waiting. He also said he had finally stopped blushing about it and now the blush was back (Mission Accomplished!). He took my pulse and blood pressure, which were back to their normal-for-me low readings. He laughingly complained, "Great, the lowest point in my professional career and now I get to relive it." I replied, "Wait until you read about it on my blog."
We did the whole exam thingy (kind of a let-down after all the other stuff) and when he was finished, he said, "I have to get that sign down before any of my other patients see it and start asking questions." I told him I wanted a picture of him with it and he replied, "No way," before walking away with the sign. He called back over his shoulder, "I'm putting this over my desk in my private office where no one will see it except me." (So you can blame him for the fact that there isn't a picture of it attached to this post, although a thinking person would have taken a picture of it before leaving for the doctor's office--whoops.)
So is all forgiven and forgotten? Are Doctor X and I even? No way. Because he then sent in the nurse with a big needle full of whooping cough vaccine to shoot in my muscle (she waited until after the shot was finished before warning me that my arm was going to be sore for a couple of days) AND he gave her a slip for me to schedule a colonoscopy. A colonoscopy?? Isn't that kind of harsh payback for a little sign on the door??
No worries. I have six months before my next appointment. Plenty of time to plan my retaliation.
P.S. As the nurse was leaving, she said because of my sign, I was now a "rock star" in the office. If I'd known that was all it took to achieve rock star status, I would have brought in signs insulting the doctor years ago.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
How To Make Money At A Wedding
I ask the question, "Am I crazy or is it them?" with the "them" being whoever has made me scratch my head and wonder that particular day. But if I'm going to be completely honest, most of the time, the scratches on my head come from things my in-laws have done. I have been married to my husband (let's call him Herbie) for 28 years and I still haven't figured out his family.
I met Herbie in college. We were friends for a year and a half, with him interested in being more than just friends. He wasn't subtle. He chased me like a dog chasing a pork chop. I finally let him catch me. That's something you should know about Herbie--when he wants something, and you tell him no, he just nods his head, "Uh-huh, Uh-huh," and then asks you again an hour later as though you'd never had a conversation about it. Then an hour later, he brings it up again and then again until he wears you out and he gets his way. His persistence was flattering when he was trying to get me to go out with him. After twenty-eight years of him using this technique to get everything from my piece of cheesecake to his choice of what home we are going to buy, flattering isn't the word that comes to mind anymore.
I finally gave in and we'd been dating for about a month when he invited me to attend his sister's wedding. Gulp. Meeting the family so soon? I said okay and we made plans to travel to his hometown for the big event. I would be staying at his parents house for the whole weekend. I was understandably nervous, but I'm a friendly person and usually get along well with people, so I figured I could handle it. I was wrong.
You should also know that Herbie is from a big Irish Catholic family. He has two brothers and SEVEN sisters. That's right. SEVEN. He is the youngest of the boys and has three older sisters and four younger ones. Herbie's father (let's call him Phil for FIL-father-in-law) started his own business with just a truck, some tools and a partner and made it into a thriving construction company. He's definitely the patriarch of the family and his word is law to them. They consult him on everything from what tires to buy to what names to give their children. My mother-in-law (we'll call her Milly for MIL) is the guy behind the curtain in The Wizard of Oz. She is more subtle in her power, but she would have The Cowardly Lion running for the door in a heartbeat.
I arrived at Herbie's parents' house in the middle of the pre-wedding chaos. Everyone was friendly and full of questions, since I was the first girl Herbie had ever brought home. It was a little overwhelming, but I handled it. There was this little ritual they do before every wedding where they each take a bite out of a banana for the video camera and say, "Go bananas!" Perhaps I should have taken this as a red flag, but I just thought, "Okay, we all have family traditions that seem odd to outsiders." The wedding was lovely, Herbie looked handsome in his tux, and it was on to the reception.
Since Herbie didn't tell them until the last minute that he was bringing a guest, they had to squeeze me in. I thought I would be at a table with the other family members' dates, but they put me at a table with nine senior citizens. Okay, no problem, I valued the wisdom and experience of those who had lived sixty years longer than me. I'd just taken my seat and was about to introduce myself when Phil (who I had exchanged about two sentences with so far) walked up and said with a perfectly straight face, "Be sure you are nice to this girl. Herbie was driving home from college for the wedding and he saw her hitchhiking on the side of the road. He felt so bad for her that he picked her up and brought her to our house. She didn't have any clothes except the ones on her back, so my daughters gave her something of theirs to wear. We invited her to come to the wedding because she hasn't had a good meal in days." And then he walked away.
Mouth hanging open, I looked into nine wrinkled but very sympathetic faces. I started to say, "He's just kidding," but before I could, they were piling their dinner rolls onto my plate, some already buttered. Again, I tried to explain that it wasn't true, but either they had hearing issues or they thought I was too embarrassed to admit to being a down-and-out hitchhiker, because they kept shushing me and the one closest to me was patting my arm. I tried to get Herbie's attention, so he could help me convince them that the story was false, but he was sitting at the head table and busy with his usher duties. I made it through dinner, refusing all the offers of food from their plates. As soon as dinner was over, I headed straight for Herbie and told him what had happened. We went to my table to explain, but there was no one there. They had all dispersed throughout the room for mingling. They all went home believing they had spent the evening dining with a hitchhiker. I found several wrinkled dollar bills under my place card.
At breakfast the next morning, Phil shared the story with the rest of the family, revealing that he had told other wedding guests the same thing over the course of the reception, pointing me out on the dance floor. Everyone thought it was hilarious, laughing so hard they were wiping tears from their eyes. They all asked a lot of questions about the reaction of the people at my table and when I told them that these sweet senior citizens believed the story and gave me their rolls and money, they laughed even harder. And yet they were sincerely puzzled as to why Herbie didn't bring girls home more often. Go figure.
I can take a joke and I don't mind being the butt of a joke. I make fun of myself all the time. But when it's your first time meeting your boyfriend's family and they spend more time laughing at you than getting to know you, it's a little odd.
Now I know what you're thinking--if it was so bad, why did you marry the guy, knowing that this would be your family for life? Well, I had to make a choice--give up the man I was in love with because I couldn't deal with his family or spend my life with the man I love and try to fit in. I chose the man, but I can't say there haven't been plenty of times over the years that I've questioned that choice, usually on the ride home from his parents' house.
I wonder if when those senior citizens from my table came to Herbie and my wedding two years later, they were surprised to see Herbie marrying the hitchhiker.
P.S. My doctor called yesterday to apologize for leaving me in the examining room. He started out by saying he was sitting there with his tail between his legs. He thanked me for being such a good sport about it and I replied that I was just relieved to hear that he hadn't left intentionally when he saw I was the patient in the room. His staff gave him a hard time about it when he arrived the next morning and he said he was blushing most of the day. It was the only time it had happened in the eight years he's been with the practice and of course, it happened to me. No surprise there. He told me not to bring any money to my next appointment (which is this Wednesday) but since I only pay a five dollar co-pay anyway, that would mean the hour I spent waiting was only worth five dollars. That's not even minimum wage, so I'm thinking to even things up, I'm going to have to bring the sign for the door and see if I can bring that blush back again.
I met Herbie in college. We were friends for a year and a half, with him interested in being more than just friends. He wasn't subtle. He chased me like a dog chasing a pork chop. I finally let him catch me. That's something you should know about Herbie--when he wants something, and you tell him no, he just nods his head, "Uh-huh, Uh-huh," and then asks you again an hour later as though you'd never had a conversation about it. Then an hour later, he brings it up again and then again until he wears you out and he gets his way. His persistence was flattering when he was trying to get me to go out with him. After twenty-eight years of him using this technique to get everything from my piece of cheesecake to his choice of what home we are going to buy, flattering isn't the word that comes to mind anymore.
I finally gave in and we'd been dating for about a month when he invited me to attend his sister's wedding. Gulp. Meeting the family so soon? I said okay and we made plans to travel to his hometown for the big event. I would be staying at his parents house for the whole weekend. I was understandably nervous, but I'm a friendly person and usually get along well with people, so I figured I could handle it. I was wrong.
You should also know that Herbie is from a big Irish Catholic family. He has two brothers and SEVEN sisters. That's right. SEVEN. He is the youngest of the boys and has three older sisters and four younger ones. Herbie's father (let's call him Phil for FIL-father-in-law) started his own business with just a truck, some tools and a partner and made it into a thriving construction company. He's definitely the patriarch of the family and his word is law to them. They consult him on everything from what tires to buy to what names to give their children. My mother-in-law (we'll call her Milly for MIL) is the guy behind the curtain in The Wizard of Oz. She is more subtle in her power, but she would have The Cowardly Lion running for the door in a heartbeat.
I arrived at Herbie's parents' house in the middle of the pre-wedding chaos. Everyone was friendly and full of questions, since I was the first girl Herbie had ever brought home. It was a little overwhelming, but I handled it. There was this little ritual they do before every wedding where they each take a bite out of a banana for the video camera and say, "Go bananas!" Perhaps I should have taken this as a red flag, but I just thought, "Okay, we all have family traditions that seem odd to outsiders." The wedding was lovely, Herbie looked handsome in his tux, and it was on to the reception.
Since Herbie didn't tell them until the last minute that he was bringing a guest, they had to squeeze me in. I thought I would be at a table with the other family members' dates, but they put me at a table with nine senior citizens. Okay, no problem, I valued the wisdom and experience of those who had lived sixty years longer than me. I'd just taken my seat and was about to introduce myself when Phil (who I had exchanged about two sentences with so far) walked up and said with a perfectly straight face, "Be sure you are nice to this girl. Herbie was driving home from college for the wedding and he saw her hitchhiking on the side of the road. He felt so bad for her that he picked her up and brought her to our house. She didn't have any clothes except the ones on her back, so my daughters gave her something of theirs to wear. We invited her to come to the wedding because she hasn't had a good meal in days." And then he walked away.
Mouth hanging open, I looked into nine wrinkled but very sympathetic faces. I started to say, "He's just kidding," but before I could, they were piling their dinner rolls onto my plate, some already buttered. Again, I tried to explain that it wasn't true, but either they had hearing issues or they thought I was too embarrassed to admit to being a down-and-out hitchhiker, because they kept shushing me and the one closest to me was patting my arm. I tried to get Herbie's attention, so he could help me convince them that the story was false, but he was sitting at the head table and busy with his usher duties. I made it through dinner, refusing all the offers of food from their plates. As soon as dinner was over, I headed straight for Herbie and told him what had happened. We went to my table to explain, but there was no one there. They had all dispersed throughout the room for mingling. They all went home believing they had spent the evening dining with a hitchhiker. I found several wrinkled dollar bills under my place card.
At breakfast the next morning, Phil shared the story with the rest of the family, revealing that he had told other wedding guests the same thing over the course of the reception, pointing me out on the dance floor. Everyone thought it was hilarious, laughing so hard they were wiping tears from their eyes. They all asked a lot of questions about the reaction of the people at my table and when I told them that these sweet senior citizens believed the story and gave me their rolls and money, they laughed even harder. And yet they were sincerely puzzled as to why Herbie didn't bring girls home more often. Go figure.
I can take a joke and I don't mind being the butt of a joke. I make fun of myself all the time. But when it's your first time meeting your boyfriend's family and they spend more time laughing at you than getting to know you, it's a little odd.
Now I know what you're thinking--if it was so bad, why did you marry the guy, knowing that this would be your family for life? Well, I had to make a choice--give up the man I was in love with because I couldn't deal with his family or spend my life with the man I love and try to fit in. I chose the man, but I can't say there haven't been plenty of times over the years that I've questioned that choice, usually on the ride home from his parents' house.
I wonder if when those senior citizens from my table came to Herbie and my wedding two years later, they were surprised to see Herbie marrying the hitchhiker.
P.S. My doctor called yesterday to apologize for leaving me in the examining room. He started out by saying he was sitting there with his tail between his legs. He thanked me for being such a good sport about it and I replied that I was just relieved to hear that he hadn't left intentionally when he saw I was the patient in the room. His staff gave him a hard time about it when he arrived the next morning and he said he was blushing most of the day. It was the only time it had happened in the eight years he's been with the practice and of course, it happened to me. No surprise there. He told me not to bring any money to my next appointment (which is this Wednesday) but since I only pay a five dollar co-pay anyway, that would mean the hour I spent waiting was only worth five dollars. That's not even minimum wage, so I'm thinking to even things up, I'm going to have to bring the sign for the door and see if I can bring that blush back again.
Friday, February 11, 2011
If It Isn't Ridiculously Good, It's A Sham!
I love to cook. I don't love shopping for ingredients or cleaning up the mess afterwards, but I do love chopping, stirring, mixing, dicing, and especially tasting. It's like being a mad scientist in a lab. Plus, I love to see someone's face light up when that first bite hits their taste buds.
Because I love to cook, I visit a lot of online recipe sites. These sites confuse me. I search through the recipes to find the ones that have been tried by a lot of cooks and have the highest rating. Chicken Parmesan with five stars next to it and that's from eight hundred ratings! Must be terrific! I scroll down to the comments left by all these five star reviewers and read, "Love, love, love this recipe! Best I've ever had. I used turkey instead of chicken, left out the tomato sauce, used swiss cheese instead of parm, added another cup of bread crumbs, cut the garlic in half, used olive oil instead of butter, and broiled it instead of baking it, and it was fabulous! Thanks so much for the recipe!" Comment after comment will be like that with each person changing six to ten things about the recipe and insisting it was fabulous. If the recipe needed so many alterations, did it really deserve five stars to begin with? I'm thinking no.
I understand the commenter who says, "I didn't have this, so I substituted that, and it was still good," because it's nice to know you can make minor substitutions if needed. But often, the cooks substitute so many ingredients to make the recipe fit their definition of five stars that you end up with a whole different dish. I might as well go on there and comment under scalloped potatoes and say, "It was to die for! I used chocolate instead of potatoes, and sugar instead of onions, added some baking powder and more butter and it was fabulous! It might look and smell just like a chocolate cake, but it's the best scalloped potatoes you're ever going to have! Try it out on your family tonight!"
People ask me for my recipes all the time, but a lot of my best dishes don't have recipes with exact measurements. I just know how much to put in by looking at it or by taste. That's how my mother taught me to cook those dishes and that's how I've taught my daughters to cook them. I'm not trying to keep them a secret so no one else can make them for their family. I just honestly can't tell you how much milk I put in my cabbage salad because if I tell you I put in a cup and you use a much smaller head of cabbage, it will taste like a cabbage milkshake. I can't tell you how much to use unless I see the pile of cabbage sitting in front of me.
Awhile ago, I started getting phone calls from one of my sisters-in-law asking me how I make this and how I make that. I thought she was having a picnic or something and wanted to serve some of my recipes. I tried to explain that I couldn't give her a written recipe for the dishes because I didn't use the same amount of ingredients each time. I told her I could give her approximate measurements on all the ingredients, but she would have to adjust for taste. A few days later, she called again to ask if I had the exact recipe for her yet. I repeated that I would be glad to show her how to make the dishes and give her a list of the approximate measurements, but I couldn't tell her exactly how much to use of each item. She called one more time and we had the same conversation again. You might think this is odd, but I've been in this family for over twenty years and believe me when I tell you, in the ballpark of oddness, this is Little League for them.
A couple months went by with no more mention of the recipes. Then, at a family party, the same sister-in-law produced a "Family Cookbook" she had made up with copies for everyone--aunts, cousins, friends, anyone who wanted one. Apparently, everyone knew about the cookbook except--you guessed it--me. In the car on the ride home, I browsed through the cookbook and found "J's Famous Cabbage Salad" listed, but except for cabbage, none of the ingredients were ones I used in my "famous" cabbage salad. The same with "J's Fabulous B-b-que sauce" or "J's Tasty Pecan Pie." They were all bogus recipes she found (probably at that online site with all the substitutions) and she was passing them off as mine!
Now someone who has been to one of my parties and has tasted my recipes is going to make one from the cookbook, expecting it to taste like mine, and when it doesn't, they'll probably think I pulled a Marie Barone and did it on purpose. And if they ask me about it, what do I say--oh, it doesn't taste right because sister-in-law, who they are either related to or friends with, went behind my back and put my name on recipes that weren't mine? Or what if they've never tasted my cooking, try a recipe with my name on it and it's horrible? Then they'll think I'm Debra Barone and I serve my family bad lemon chicken every night. And what if mine aren't the only ones? What if "Mom's Heavenly Butter Cream Frosting" and "Dad's Ridiculously Good Soup" aren't heavenly or ridiculously good? The whole book could be a sham!
If I was putting together a family cookbook, I would call people up and say the words, "I am putting together a family cookbook." Then, I would ASK if they would like to share any recipes. Then I would make sure their name ONLY went on recipes that they actually volunteered.
But that's just me. And as you all know---I'm crazy like that.
Because I love to cook, I visit a lot of online recipe sites. These sites confuse me. I search through the recipes to find the ones that have been tried by a lot of cooks and have the highest rating. Chicken Parmesan with five stars next to it and that's from eight hundred ratings! Must be terrific! I scroll down to the comments left by all these five star reviewers and read, "Love, love, love this recipe! Best I've ever had. I used turkey instead of chicken, left out the tomato sauce, used swiss cheese instead of parm, added another cup of bread crumbs, cut the garlic in half, used olive oil instead of butter, and broiled it instead of baking it, and it was fabulous! Thanks so much for the recipe!" Comment after comment will be like that with each person changing six to ten things about the recipe and insisting it was fabulous. If the recipe needed so many alterations, did it really deserve five stars to begin with? I'm thinking no.
I understand the commenter who says, "I didn't have this, so I substituted that, and it was still good," because it's nice to know you can make minor substitutions if needed. But often, the cooks substitute so many ingredients to make the recipe fit their definition of five stars that you end up with a whole different dish. I might as well go on there and comment under scalloped potatoes and say, "It was to die for! I used chocolate instead of potatoes, and sugar instead of onions, added some baking powder and more butter and it was fabulous! It might look and smell just like a chocolate cake, but it's the best scalloped potatoes you're ever going to have! Try it out on your family tonight!"
People ask me for my recipes all the time, but a lot of my best dishes don't have recipes with exact measurements. I just know how much to put in by looking at it or by taste. That's how my mother taught me to cook those dishes and that's how I've taught my daughters to cook them. I'm not trying to keep them a secret so no one else can make them for their family. I just honestly can't tell you how much milk I put in my cabbage salad because if I tell you I put in a cup and you use a much smaller head of cabbage, it will taste like a cabbage milkshake. I can't tell you how much to use unless I see the pile of cabbage sitting in front of me.
Awhile ago, I started getting phone calls from one of my sisters-in-law asking me how I make this and how I make that. I thought she was having a picnic or something and wanted to serve some of my recipes. I tried to explain that I couldn't give her a written recipe for the dishes because I didn't use the same amount of ingredients each time. I told her I could give her approximate measurements on all the ingredients, but she would have to adjust for taste. A few days later, she called again to ask if I had the exact recipe for her yet. I repeated that I would be glad to show her how to make the dishes and give her a list of the approximate measurements, but I couldn't tell her exactly how much to use of each item. She called one more time and we had the same conversation again. You might think this is odd, but I've been in this family for over twenty years and believe me when I tell you, in the ballpark of oddness, this is Little League for them.
A couple months went by with no more mention of the recipes. Then, at a family party, the same sister-in-law produced a "Family Cookbook" she had made up with copies for everyone--aunts, cousins, friends, anyone who wanted one. Apparently, everyone knew about the cookbook except--you guessed it--me. In the car on the ride home, I browsed through the cookbook and found "J's Famous Cabbage Salad" listed, but except for cabbage, none of the ingredients were ones I used in my "famous" cabbage salad. The same with "J's Fabulous B-b-que sauce" or "J's Tasty Pecan Pie." They were all bogus recipes she found (probably at that online site with all the substitutions) and she was passing them off as mine!
Now someone who has been to one of my parties and has tasted my recipes is going to make one from the cookbook, expecting it to taste like mine, and when it doesn't, they'll probably think I pulled a Marie Barone and did it on purpose. And if they ask me about it, what do I say--oh, it doesn't taste right because sister-in-law, who they are either related to or friends with, went behind my back and put my name on recipes that weren't mine? Or what if they've never tasted my cooking, try a recipe with my name on it and it's horrible? Then they'll think I'm Debra Barone and I serve my family bad lemon chicken every night. And what if mine aren't the only ones? What if "Mom's Heavenly Butter Cream Frosting" and "Dad's Ridiculously Good Soup" aren't heavenly or ridiculously good? The whole book could be a sham!
If I was putting together a family cookbook, I would call people up and say the words, "I am putting together a family cookbook." Then, I would ASK if they would like to share any recipes. Then I would make sure their name ONLY went on recipes that they actually volunteered.
But that's just me. And as you all know---I'm crazy like that.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
I thought, when the time came, I'd be Diane Keaton, not Julia Roberts
One of my daughters is engaged. I have four of them, so theoretically, I can afford to let one escape my over-protective clutches, but I'm having problems with it. Yeah, yeah, I know about the whole, "You're not losing a daughter, you're gaining a son," theory, but it doesn't feel that way to me. I really like my future son-in-law and will be very happy to have him in our family, but can't I do it without sharing my daughter?
It feels like that moment in the movie "Father of the Bride" (the one with Steve Martin, not Spencer Tracy) when the dad tells his newly engaged daughter that it's chilly out and she should take a jacket. She tells him several times that she doesn't need one and resists his warnings, but as soon as lover-boy says she might need one, the daughter runs to get it. I've spent the past 24 years trying to be bubble wrap around my daughter C and to now trust the job to someone else, no matter how nice he is and how capable he is of doing the job, feels like someone is using an icepick to pop my bubbles. Where was he when I was giving her oatmeal bathes to ease the itching of chicken pox or wiping her tears because someone at school was mean to her or showing her that monsters don't appear in her closet the minute the lights go out at night? Yeah, yeah, so he was only a little kid himself at that time, but is that really a valid excuse?
You might think I'm being unfair, but you have to understand that my daughters, along with my husband, are my whole life. I have lots of really great, supportive, funny friends, but my husband and my daughters are my BEST friends. My girls are now 26, almost 24. 22. and 17, and I know you'll find this hard to believe, but they never gave me one minute of trouble. Nobody ever stayed out past curfew, none of them ever screamed that they hated me before slamming their bedroom door, I never got a visit from the local police, they weren't bullies or bullied, their teachers raved about them, and they all chose friends who were a joy to have in my home. There are no tattoos, no piercings other than the ones I took them to have done in their ears, I didn't have to search their rooms or spy on their emails---they skipped the teenage rebellion stage completely and became smart, funny, caring individuals. Oh, I don't want you to think they are Stepford children or anything. They have their moments when they make my blood pressure sky-rocket and they sometimes gang up on poor old mom, but they are still my best friends.
So watching C make a new life with E is not only going to involve the feelings a mom feels when letting go of a daughter, but will also be like when your best friend gets a new boyfriend and no longer has as much time for you, can't do your usual girls night out activities because HE has other plans for them, forgets to tell you all the news in her life because she's busy telling HIM, no longer asks your opinion on things because HE'S already told her what HE thinks she should do, and when she has a problem or something exciting to share, your number is not the one she dials first. (I've been watching "My Best Friend's Wedding" but I think Julia Roberts went about breaking up THAT wedding in a totally amateurish way. I'll be much more efficient.)
C was the funniest little kid and she's become a truly amazing adult with a laugh that starts in her belly and then kinda explodes out of her mouth. She was born pretty much bald, then had a few curly strands of blonde hair which fell out (as most baby hair does) and the new hair grew in sticking straight up off her head, like a wheat field with one straggly strand hanging down like a tail. People actually stopped me to ask if I had cut it like that (Seriously? Who would do that to an innocent child?). But once it got past that stage, it became the most precious ringlets I'd ever seen. C started out as a colicky child, but after four months, it was like a light switch flipped and she became the most patient, even-tempered of my kids, the peacemaker--that is until you put the straw on that turns out to be the last straw for C and then the sheer magnitude of her anger is terrifying. (Are you listening, Mr. Husband-to-be?). C is gifted and so creative and hilariously funny and extraordinarily kind and she lights up every room she enters. Who wouldn't miss a best friend like that?
The wedding is going forward, so I'll have to suck it up and be mature about the whole thing (not something I'm good at). I've always put my girls first and I'll do it again. I want C to be happy, even if it makes me miserable, and to be honest, E makes her happier than I've ever seen her (which makes me like him and hate him at the same time--still working on that being mature thingy). I'll do the wedding planning, which will involve getting to spend time with C, and help her have the wedding day of her dreams. But at the end of the day, I'll be sitting in my office watching home movies of C when she was little and still all mine and I'll be eating chocolate. Lots of chocolate.
On the bright side, between caterers and florists and photographers and guests and a new set of in-laws (who so far have been lovely), I'm sure I'll have plenty of new "Am I crazy or is it them?" moments to share.
It feels like that moment in the movie "Father of the Bride" (the one with Steve Martin, not Spencer Tracy) when the dad tells his newly engaged daughter that it's chilly out and she should take a jacket. She tells him several times that she doesn't need one and resists his warnings, but as soon as lover-boy says she might need one, the daughter runs to get it. I've spent the past 24 years trying to be bubble wrap around my daughter C and to now trust the job to someone else, no matter how nice he is and how capable he is of doing the job, feels like someone is using an icepick to pop my bubbles. Where was he when I was giving her oatmeal bathes to ease the itching of chicken pox or wiping her tears because someone at school was mean to her or showing her that monsters don't appear in her closet the minute the lights go out at night? Yeah, yeah, so he was only a little kid himself at that time, but is that really a valid excuse?
You might think I'm being unfair, but you have to understand that my daughters, along with my husband, are my whole life. I have lots of really great, supportive, funny friends, but my husband and my daughters are my BEST friends. My girls are now 26, almost 24. 22. and 17, and I know you'll find this hard to believe, but they never gave me one minute of trouble. Nobody ever stayed out past curfew, none of them ever screamed that they hated me before slamming their bedroom door, I never got a visit from the local police, they weren't bullies or bullied, their teachers raved about them, and they all chose friends who were a joy to have in my home. There are no tattoos, no piercings other than the ones I took them to have done in their ears, I didn't have to search their rooms or spy on their emails---they skipped the teenage rebellion stage completely and became smart, funny, caring individuals. Oh, I don't want you to think they are Stepford children or anything. They have their moments when they make my blood pressure sky-rocket and they sometimes gang up on poor old mom, but they are still my best friends.
So watching C make a new life with E is not only going to involve the feelings a mom feels when letting go of a daughter, but will also be like when your best friend gets a new boyfriend and no longer has as much time for you, can't do your usual girls night out activities because HE has other plans for them, forgets to tell you all the news in her life because she's busy telling HIM, no longer asks your opinion on things because HE'S already told her what HE thinks she should do, and when she has a problem or something exciting to share, your number is not the one she dials first. (I've been watching "My Best Friend's Wedding" but I think Julia Roberts went about breaking up THAT wedding in a totally amateurish way. I'll be much more efficient.)
C was the funniest little kid and she's become a truly amazing adult with a laugh that starts in her belly and then kinda explodes out of her mouth. She was born pretty much bald, then had a few curly strands of blonde hair which fell out (as most baby hair does) and the new hair grew in sticking straight up off her head, like a wheat field with one straggly strand hanging down like a tail. People actually stopped me to ask if I had cut it like that (Seriously? Who would do that to an innocent child?). But once it got past that stage, it became the most precious ringlets I'd ever seen. C started out as a colicky child, but after four months, it was like a light switch flipped and she became the most patient, even-tempered of my kids, the peacemaker--that is until you put the straw on that turns out to be the last straw for C and then the sheer magnitude of her anger is terrifying. (Are you listening, Mr. Husband-to-be?). C is gifted and so creative and hilariously funny and extraordinarily kind and she lights up every room she enters. Who wouldn't miss a best friend like that?
The wedding is going forward, so I'll have to suck it up and be mature about the whole thing (not something I'm good at). I've always put my girls first and I'll do it again. I want C to be happy, even if it makes me miserable, and to be honest, E makes her happier than I've ever seen her (which makes me like him and hate him at the same time--still working on that being mature thingy). I'll do the wedding planning, which will involve getting to spend time with C, and help her have the wedding day of her dreams. But at the end of the day, I'll be sitting in my office watching home movies of C when she was little and still all mine and I'll be eating chocolate. Lots of chocolate.
On the bright side, between caterers and florists and photographers and guests and a new set of in-laws (who so far have been lovely), I'm sure I'll have plenty of new "Am I crazy or is it them?" moments to share.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Was it because I didn't shave my legs last time?
I went to the doctor for a check-up today. Nothing vital, not sick, just a check-up. Going to the doctor involves a certain level of stress. I have to interrupt my work, take another shower (no way I'm going smelling like the dogs I've had climbing on me all morning), shave my legs, put on "real clothes" (changing out of the comfy clothes I wear while writing), and style my hair instead of just letting it dry wild and curly. I always wait until the absolute last second to start getting ready so I can spend more time writing, therefore, I am always rushing and stressed. As I was stumbling out the door, grabbing my purse and keys, the dogs shot out and we played a fun game of "Get in the house!" vs. "You can't catch me!" which made me even later and more stressed.
I got to the doctor's office on time, unbelievably. I was only in the waiting room for a minute or two before they were ready to take me back to the examining room. I wasn't nervous about the appointment, since I like my doctor a lot and we have a good relationship--he takes good care of me and in return, I bust his chops, all in good fun, I assure you. The nurse did the dreaded weigh-in and then took my blood pressure and gave me a shot. We chatted for a minute and then she left, promising Dr. X would be in shortly. I sat staring into space for awhile, thinking about the plot of the book I'm working on. I could hear Dr. X in the hall talking, then in the room next to mine talking, and I figured he wouldn't be too much longer. After about a half hour, I decided to take my Kindle out of my purse and do a little reading. Usually, as soon as I take it out, whoever I'm waiting for shows up, but not this time. It was strange to be waiting so long, since this doctor's office is pretty good about getting you in and out quickly, but I thought maybe the patient before me had a problem that needed extra time.
After an hour had passed of me reading a few sentences and then looking up at the door, reading a few sentences and looking up at the door, I started to wonder if there had been some kind of emergency. Ten more minutes went by and the door finally opened. The same nurse who had taken my vitals stuck her head in and asked, "Would you like to see Dr. Y instead?" I answered, "No, that's okay, I'll wait for Dr. X. Is he going to be much longer?" She got kind of a funny look on her face and said, "Well, you see, that's the problem. Dr. X isn't here. He must have skipped your name on the list. He went home for the day."
After I closed my gaping mouth and gathered my things, I followed her into the hall. Dr. Y was standing there. He apologized and offered to give me my check-up instead, which was very nice of him, but 1) I don't know Dr. Y 2) He doesn't know me and my medical history 3) I had very specific questions to ask Dr. X concerning things we'd discussed at my last appointment and most importantly 4) I couldn't bust this strange doctor's chops. I mean, I didn't shave my legs and blow dry my hair for "Breathe in, breathe out." After going to all that trouble, I wanted to be seen by a doctor I could share some banter with.
So I said no thank you and rescheduled my appointment for next week. I'm planning to take a big poster with a picture of myself on it and lots of brightly colored ribbons and bows to tape to the examining room door to remind him that I'm in there. If I knew which car was his, I'd leave a big note on it telling him to be sure to check all the rooms before he leaves from now on. Maybe he's chuckling to himself right now, thinking he pulled a fast one by slipping out today, but all he really did was give me a whole week to think of ways to use this new ammunition against him.
It could have been worse. When I showed up, they could have told me I came on the wrong day. Or after sitting in there waiting all that time, they could have said, "What are you still doing in here? The doctor is finished with you. You can go," leaving me asking myself the question, "Am I crazy? Or is it them?"
I got to the doctor's office on time, unbelievably. I was only in the waiting room for a minute or two before they were ready to take me back to the examining room. I wasn't nervous about the appointment, since I like my doctor a lot and we have a good relationship--he takes good care of me and in return, I bust his chops, all in good fun, I assure you. The nurse did the dreaded weigh-in and then took my blood pressure and gave me a shot. We chatted for a minute and then she left, promising Dr. X would be in shortly. I sat staring into space for awhile, thinking about the plot of the book I'm working on. I could hear Dr. X in the hall talking, then in the room next to mine talking, and I figured he wouldn't be too much longer. After about a half hour, I decided to take my Kindle out of my purse and do a little reading. Usually, as soon as I take it out, whoever I'm waiting for shows up, but not this time. It was strange to be waiting so long, since this doctor's office is pretty good about getting you in and out quickly, but I thought maybe the patient before me had a problem that needed extra time.
After an hour had passed of me reading a few sentences and then looking up at the door, reading a few sentences and looking up at the door, I started to wonder if there had been some kind of emergency. Ten more minutes went by and the door finally opened. The same nurse who had taken my vitals stuck her head in and asked, "Would you like to see Dr. Y instead?" I answered, "No, that's okay, I'll wait for Dr. X. Is he going to be much longer?" She got kind of a funny look on her face and said, "Well, you see, that's the problem. Dr. X isn't here. He must have skipped your name on the list. He went home for the day."
After I closed my gaping mouth and gathered my things, I followed her into the hall. Dr. Y was standing there. He apologized and offered to give me my check-up instead, which was very nice of him, but 1) I don't know Dr. Y 2) He doesn't know me and my medical history 3) I had very specific questions to ask Dr. X concerning things we'd discussed at my last appointment and most importantly 4) I couldn't bust this strange doctor's chops. I mean, I didn't shave my legs and blow dry my hair for "Breathe in, breathe out." After going to all that trouble, I wanted to be seen by a doctor I could share some banter with.
So I said no thank you and rescheduled my appointment for next week. I'm planning to take a big poster with a picture of myself on it and lots of brightly colored ribbons and bows to tape to the examining room door to remind him that I'm in there. If I knew which car was his, I'd leave a big note on it telling him to be sure to check all the rooms before he leaves from now on. Maybe he's chuckling to himself right now, thinking he pulled a fast one by slipping out today, but all he really did was give me a whole week to think of ways to use this new ammunition against him.
It could have been worse. When I showed up, they could have told me I came on the wrong day. Or after sitting in there waiting all that time, they could have said, "What are you still doing in here? The doctor is finished with you. You can go," leaving me asking myself the question, "Am I crazy? Or is it them?"
What are you saving it for? To make soup?
I got an email from my sister-in-law. Subject line--Mom's toe fell off. Doesn't that make you want to open the mail right up? Especially if there might be pictures attached! My mother-in-law, unfortunately, had a complication after foot surgery and her toe became infected. The doctors debated whether to amputate the toe, but finally decided to let it come off on its own. When they told me that, I had nightmares about where and when it might fall off--during a family dinner? While she was sleeping in my bed at our mountain house? While trying on shoes at the shoe store--"I've decided not to buy the black heels and could you throw this ped away for me? Careful, there's a big toe in it!"
It took a year, but the toe finally came off, according to the email. But all of my guesses about where it might happen were wrong. It happened on a cruise ship. My father-in-law and mother-in-law were on a cruise to Greece with some of the family and one morning, my MIL woke up and the toe was off (I bet all you people who have cruised to Greece are now wondering if it happened in the bed you slept in.). The email went on to say that the ship's doctor had examined MIL and she was fine. That's good news and a sensible course of action. But here's where I ask myself the big question--AM I CRAZY? OR IS IT THEM?--because the email continued to say that they put the blackened toe in a freezer bag and put it in the ship's safe. IN THE SHIP'S SAFE. Why would they do that?? I asked if the doctor had told them to keep it after if fell off so he could examine it and they said no. So I asked why would you save it and they said, "It didn't seem right to just throw it in the trash." Okay, so I wouldn't want to be the person who emptied that trash can, but BURIAL AT SEA, people! You say a few words, sing a hymn or two, and then launch the stinky, blackened stub over the side.
But no, they kept it, brought it home packed in one of the suitcases (lucky, lucky agent who had to search that bag) and they put it in their freezer. With the food. Right next to the fudgsicles and cheesecake. Or maybe it's more comfortable next to the chicken fingers and the blackened catfish, I don't know. But I do know that they don't think there is anything unusual about it. Go to their house and ask where the ice cream is and they'll answer, "On the top shelf, on the left, right behind Mom's toe."
It took a year, but the toe finally came off, according to the email. But all of my guesses about where it might happen were wrong. It happened on a cruise ship. My father-in-law and mother-in-law were on a cruise to Greece with some of the family and one morning, my MIL woke up and the toe was off (I bet all you people who have cruised to Greece are now wondering if it happened in the bed you slept in.). The email went on to say that the ship's doctor had examined MIL and she was fine. That's good news and a sensible course of action. But here's where I ask myself the big question--AM I CRAZY? OR IS IT THEM?--because the email continued to say that they put the blackened toe in a freezer bag and put it in the ship's safe. IN THE SHIP'S SAFE. Why would they do that?? I asked if the doctor had told them to keep it after if fell off so he could examine it and they said no. So I asked why would you save it and they said, "It didn't seem right to just throw it in the trash." Okay, so I wouldn't want to be the person who emptied that trash can, but BURIAL AT SEA, people! You say a few words, sing a hymn or two, and then launch the stinky, blackened stub over the side.
But no, they kept it, brought it home packed in one of the suitcases (lucky, lucky agent who had to search that bag) and they put it in their freezer. With the food. Right next to the fudgsicles and cheesecake. Or maybe it's more comfortable next to the chicken fingers and the blackened catfish, I don't know. But I do know that they don't think there is anything unusual about it. Go to their house and ask where the ice cream is and they'll answer, "On the top shelf, on the left, right behind Mom's toe."
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