Tit for Tat

Recently I was contacted by a woman named Linda, who sent me this message: "Is it bad luck to have your husband's name tattooed on your body? I would be interested in your insights on this matter.” Now, I have never answered a reader’s questions before. But since I really am an authority on everything, I thought, what the heck.

Well Linda, if you need an opinion on matters of the heart and body art, you have come to the right place. I am not sure if luck has anything to do with it. I think you should be asking yourself if it is really a good idea. There is a good chance a spouse’s name will change, especially considering the high divorce rate among carnival workers. With that being said, I know that it is hard to talk people out of doing seriously deluded things once they have their mind made up.

I would recommend testing the relationship with a rub-on tattoo first. If the union lasts longer than the rub-on art then you’re golden. Ok, well maybe not. But, at least you have a good idea of tattoo size and placement.

Now let’s skip to the part where the relationship goes south. I have never met anyone who has gotten a spouse’s name tattooed on their body where the relationship didn’t end up in the crapper. So what do you do after the fact? How do you salvage your body art? How do you salvage your dignity? There are several things you can do.

You could go the traditional route and have the name tattooed over with an elaborate tiger or dragon or mermaid.

You could find a new spouse with the same name as your ex.

You could find a song with the name in it and write the lyrics around the tattoo. Names that work well with this method are: Sarah, Gloria, Lola, and Carrie. Names that do not work well are Habib, Juan-Carlos, William Robert Petit III, or Lashonda.

Add words after the tattoo, like “May they rest in peace” or “Clips his toenails in bed” or “Has a hairy back,” etc.

It can be covered up with a big band-aid or a cast.

Have the tattoo artist make a censored bar to hide it.

Think product placement. Advertisers want new outlets for their products: "Ben" can become "Ben & Jerry’s." "Tim" can become "Timex." "Joe" can turn into "Joe’s Crab Shack," etc.

Get up every morning and scribble the name out with a sharpie.

Create a diversion by writing something around the tattoo. "Sue" can become “Dr. Suess,” for example. When people ask about your smokin’ tattoo, tell them he was your favorite doctor.

Take the spouse’s name and invent a word. Say your ex is named "Stan," change it to Flackistance. Come up with a bizarre definition and use it as a talking point to meet new people.

So Linda, I have given you several useful tips, but what if you have your spouse’s face tattooed on your body? Add horns and a mustache, of course.

What if you have “Mom” tattooed on your body and you break up? Well, this is more common than you think. First off, if you are breaking up with your mom you have more issues than even I can help you with (cue banjos). Just stick to unfriending her on facebook.

So there you have it. Live and let live. Love and don’t commit to a tattoo. Just get a T-shirt that says “I’m with stupid.” Or, carry around a vial of blood or a lock of hair, those things can be used much more effectively.

Come back next time when I answer the question, “How do I train my husband to put on pants and stop eating macaroni from a pan held over the sink?”

All I Want for Christmas is . . .

I am not one of those people who only wants “Peace on Earth” for Christmas. I know, I said it, it’s out there. Maybe you are that kind of person and so I say good for you, that will leave more presents for me.

Now, don’t get upset. Before you start typing up a tersely worded email and/or bomb threat, let me explain. The whole gift thing was not my idea, blame God, he started it. He is the one who put a spotlight in the sky when his son was born that basically screamed “Hey, he's over here! It’s his birthday, bring him something shiny!” And I have to say, there is a reason why the top three gift-givers at the manger were called “Wise Men.” They brought precious metals, perfume, and Myrrh. No one really knows what Myrrh is--I bet it was the predecessor of the X-Box, but I am just guessing.

And because I am all about tradition I say let us remember the birth of our Lord by giving me something fun and exciting this holiday season. Now, I know it is bad manners to ask for something specific as a Christmas present, and I am sure there is a good reason I get such lame, I mean useless, I mean interesting gifts under the tree. But, as always, I am here to help. I have searched high and low for the best gifts this holiday season and compiled them in a list. Yippee! Now you don’t have to run all over the place finding the perfect present, just sit back, relax and shop from the comfort of your computer.



The Companion Pillow: Ooooh, how I love thee, let me count the ways! It does not snore, fart, hog the covers, complain about cold feet and is always content to cuddle. And as a bonus, it has no head so there will be no dirty looks when I sleep in on Saturdays!



Gluttony Pants: These babies will come in handy around the holidays. Too much turkey, no problem. Just move that button over to "sow" and you can have an extra slice of pie and a candy cane (or two). They come in oh-so-stylish gravy colored brown. Great for hiding stains from falling toffee, crumbs of peanut brittle, spilled stuffing and splashing cider! Every pair of gluttony pants comes with a free napkin and a quadruple bypass at the hospital of your choice!



Shillelagh: Pronounced Shu-lay-lay, otherwise known as a long stick. For a mere $60 you can get a unique, one-of-a-kind gift (the website says "no two are alike")! I will use mine to lean on when I walk, point at things, smack on the ground to emphasize a point, and whack people who cut in front of me in line at Walgreens. Ooooh, wait, stop the presses! I just looked out the window and it turns out I have some sticks in my yard. I guess I already have a shillelagh. My bad.



The Stackmate: This baby will totally come in handy. It allows you to enjoy 12 of your favorite 45's in a row! For those of you that are under the age of one-hundred 45's refers to records. Round, black, vinyl discs that used to play music. I can't wait to get my hands on my own "stackmate!" Of course, it goes without saying, I will also need a time machine to take me back to 1950 so I can pick up a record player and some records!



Circulation Improving Leg Wraps: This will help improve circulation in the legs and keep you from having a heart attack, unless of course you stare directly at them and the screamin' electric blue color causes you to have a stroke instead. They will not "go" with a typical out-fit but they do coordinate with tin-foil hats, facial ticks, and anti-psychotic meds. These booties definately make a statement!



Big Knickers: In the UK they call them big bloomers, here in the U.S. we just call them giant underwear. If I am getting the gluttony pants I am going to need some super-sized undies as well. What is the point of eating until my spleen ruptures if my skivvies are cutting off my blood flow anyway? These things take granny panties to a whole new level. They come in sizes XXXXXXXXXL or big enough to fit a 100" waist. This item doubles as a car cover.

Now that you have my list, go ahead and get crackin! There are only a few more shopping days until Xmas and I can't wait to see what you are going to get me, *wink*, *wink*. If you don't have time to go pick something out, cash and credit cards are always accepted. Baby Jesus and I thank you!

On the First Day of Christmas . . .

Ahhh the holidays! Food, family, friends, suicidal thoughts . . . This year Christmas decorations were going up before Halloween. I was waiting for the marketing people to put up a nativity scene in October with baby Jesus wearing vampire teeth. If they dressed the Christ child in a diaper and wings, holding a bow and arrow they could leave the whole thing up until February. These days not everyone celebrates Christmas, but most folks celebrate something. That is why I say Happy Holidays; just like the marketing people, I think it is more inclusive and it covers all of them.

No matter what holiday is celebrated though, it seems they all require gifts. That is another requirement of the marketing people. It is like they have a meeting and decide to add another holiday on the calendar. One guy says, “Hey lets celebrate national free to be alive day.”
The other marketing guy says, “Yeah, but it isn’t really celebrating unless they have to spend money, so let’s make them pay for the air.”
And the first guy says, “What a great idea!”

The marketing people want you to panic, which is why they do those countdowns for everything. I will be in the store and see a giant sign “Only 362 more shopping days until Christmas!” What do I do? I panic and I start throwing stuff in my cart. Those guys want me to be in a perpetual state of shopping frenzy. It is enough to drive a person to the edge. I swear I am one Nerf gun away from ending it all! Ok, well maybe not ending it, but definitely leaving a really red welt on my temple. But still, you get the idea!

So anyway, for each holiday I have to do a lot of shopping. I am not a great shopper, but I do my best. Since my husband travels so much, I will sometimes ask him to pick things up for me, which is worse than just going to the mall myself. In my defense, I start by giving him very specific instructions and a list, and have him call me on his cell phone while he is at the store. I also debrief him on the specifics before he leaves the house and try to go over every possible scenario that may occur while he is at the store, but no matter what, I always get a cell phone call like this:

“Ok I am at the store and they do not have blue ones.”
“Well, he wanted a blue one.”
“They have black and red.”
“Are you sure they don’t have blue?”
“No.”
“No, you are sure, or no you are not?”
“I mean they do not have any blue.”
“Did you ask a sales person?”
“No.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”

***Noise of me screaming into a pillow*****

“What was that?!”
“Oh nothing. Why don’t you ask a sales person for help?”
“That is ok, I rummaged through the rack and I found a blue one.”
“What kind of blue is it?”
“Blue?”
“Is it seafoam, or teal, or sky blue, or royal blue?”
“Ummmm . . . I know it isn’t navy.”
“Yes, but is it a light blue or a dark blue?”
“Well, it isn’t a bright blue.”
“Do you have something to you could compare it to?”
“You know the stars on the flag? It’s that color.”
“The stars on the flag are white. The background is blue.”
“Ok fine, it is the color of the background then.”
“Alright, I am going to take a deep breath and ask you one more question before I go shove my head in the oven and turn it on broil. You know when you are in kindergarten and you pull a crayon out of the box and it says blue on it? Is it that color?”
“Yeah! That is it exactly. And that was two questions.”
“That is the one he wants. Just go pay.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me to pick up anything else?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you are sure you don’t need me to buy anything else, or yes, you do need me to grab another gift?”

***Noise of me screaming into a pillow*****

So this holiday season, if you see a nativity where the Virgin Mary is wearing a green top hat and a button that reads “Kiss me, I’m Irish” just know that it wasn’t my idea.

I See Naked People/My Eyes Are Burning

Other than politics and celebrities, the evening news is mostly about the recession. Everyone is talking about saving money, or ways to cut back on spending money, or ways to earn more money. As most of you know, I am a genius, and this next idea is going to prove it. Let’s all cut way, way back; all the way back to Adam and Eve. Let’s become nudists!

We have all had to give up things for this economic down-turn. We have had to give up going out to eat, getting new cars, cell phones, cable TV; some of us have even had to give up our homes. I say let’s give up our clothes too! What we all really crave is living in a simpler time, well, now is the chance!

Now, I know what you are thinking, “This is so crazy, it just might work!” Think of all the money it would save if we didn’t have to buy clothes anymore. We would save a fortune in socks and underwear alone! Sometimes the big problems have the simplest solutions, and I can’t think of a simpler solution than everyone just getting naked. So c’mon people, America actually needs the shirt off of your back . . . for reals.

Every movement needs a slogan, so I have been brainstorming and here is what I have so far. How about: “Don’t be loathed, get unclothed!” Or how about: “The economy has flipped, let’s all get stripped!” Or maybe: “C’mon Dude, just get nude!” And lastly: “Get more sun, expose your buns!” Ok, these are just to get us going, once things really take off (pun totally intended), I am sure I can come up with something a little more catchy.

Seriously America, what else have we got to lose? We are running out of things to get rid of in these tough economic times. With most of our money, possessions and our dignity already gone, we have nothing else to lose but our clothes. In case you are still unsure of the nudist movement, I have taken the liberty of making a pros and cons list, so that the decision to go au natural will be obvious.

Pros
Easier to go through screening at the airport, no need for an x-ray and we wouldn’t have to waste time taking off our shoes.

No more sweat shops (take that Kathy Lee Gifford).

I was always told when I give a speech to “imagine everyone in the audience naked” so that I will be less nervous, now, there would be no reason to imagine.

There would now be no reason to “moon” anyone.

Some federal money might finally be allocated for finding a cure for some of the world’s most horrible diseases like: cankles, cellulite, varicose veins, stretch marks, and saddle bags.

People could shave messages and designs into their back hair.

My sisters would stop borrowing my clothes without asking.

Magazines would stop air-brushing cover models because, really, what would be the point?

A woman might finally be elected president!

Snuggies would finally go out of business.

No more surprises on blind dates, what you see is what you get!

Getting a new summer wardrobe would mean buying earrings and/or a new sweatband.

Wicker and leather furniture would finally be eradicated from the Earth!

Everyone could take turns being “streakers” at sporting events.

No more laundry!

Cons
Two words: “snow angels.”

It would be hard to find workers for the deli-counter (Hello! There is a meat slicer back there).

Parent-teacher conferences would be even more uncomfortable.

It would cause malnutrition in those around me.

Law enforcement/police officers—where does the badge go?

I have too much money invested in Spanx and control-top pantyhose to just let that dream die.

Campfires and stray sparks would be a health hazard.

There would no longer a reason to go to Vegas.

Letting people sit on my furniture would be problematic.

I cannot afford that much plastic surgery.

Back Fat/Front Fat.

I would have to shave my legs at least once a month, maybe more often.

Where would I put my change?

The words diarrhea and incontinence would take on a whole new meaning.

I spent, like, ten bucks on one of those clips for my cell phone and I would never get to use it.

Hazard pay, and workers compensation, would go up for welders, loggers, sheet metal workers, and anyone who has to cook bacon.

Accidentally seeing “plumber’s crack” would be the least of my worries.

I would never be able to give anyone a ride in my car . . . ever.

~~~~~~~~~~~

I started spreading the “naked truth” as I like to call it, and my sister, who is anti-everything, had this to say about my idea, “Yeah, but wouldn’t everyone see you naked?”

“Yes,” I told her. “Did you not listen to the entire propaganda, I mean, idea?”

“Yes, I heard you. But I think there is a flaw in your ‘plan.’”

I assured her, “No, way, this baby is air-tight.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, it isn’t like everyone we know is a super-model. All those people that shop at Wal-Mart would now be seen in ‘all their glory.’ Also, have you met my mechanic, Flirty-Bertie? The guy with one brown eye and one blue eye, and both eyes look in opposite directions? Well, people like that would be ‘in flagrante.’ All. The. Time. How would I ever get away from him then? Besides, he is the only person on the planet who thinks of me as a goddess, why ruin the illusion? I am sorry, but I am keeping my clothes on.”

“Well with my new plan maybe your husband would think you were a goddess.”

“There is no way I am going to let my husband see me naked!”

“But I am trying to save America! You know, the ‘land of the free, home of the brave?’”

“No one should be that ‘free’ and no one that is sane is that ‘brave.’”

“I bet John F. Kennedy had the same reaction from his family when he tried to change things too.”

“And, he was assassinated.”

“Yes, he was probably taken-out by his own sister on the grassy knoll wearing his favorite cashmere sweater (without asking) and scuffing up his new leather boots!”

“I said I was sorry! But I am still not going buff!”

“Fine, we all wear clothes! But stop borrowing mine! Are you happy now?"

I am sorry America, another great idea nixed by lobbyists. Well, if we have to buy clothes anyway, I guess we can charge them. Who has the president's Visa? Mastercard? Anyone? I wonder if they can just add it to my national debt tab? I'm coming Macy's!

Be Still, My Beating Heart

I had been having chest pains for four days. I thought it was odd, but I had just gotten some new brassieres so I just made the assumption they were too tight. I wore my old undergarments for a few days but I still had chest pains. As I was clutching my sternum one day a friend said, “Maybe you are having a heart-attack.” My response to that was, “Naaaah.” But inside, I was freaking out, so I went home and took some aspirin.

My insurance company sends me a self-care book every year, to keep me, I mean assist me, from making superfluous visits to the doctor. It has little charts in it to help me in making a self-diagnosis. For example, if I have a rash, the first box of the diagram asks if it is red and itchy? If the answer is no, it asks more questions. If the answer is yes the diagram always recommends ‘go to the doctor.’ I grabbed my book and looked up ‘chest pains’ in the index. Instead of a diagram the page said, “dial 911, or seek immediate medical attention.”

The pain got worse. I went on to read the information about a heart-attack and had to lie down. I read the other things that might cause chest pains, everything from indigestion to a blood clot in a lung. I was sure death was imminent, but just in case, I took more aspirin.

I didn’t tell my husband because I didn’t want to stress him out. I debated about following the advice in my book, but decided on a little more research instead. Hello internet old friend. Every website I came to about chest pains was like a flashing warning, GO TO THE DOCTOR, it seemed to scream. The pains continued.

My husband didn’t know what was going on. He wanted to go out to a nice dinner, I thought it would ruin the mood to mention that I may, or may not, be dying and was in excruciating pain. Besides, if I was going to die anyway, I might as well have some salmon first.

Dinner was lovely, other than me clutching my chest in between bites, it was without flaw. The next day, still more pains. By then my malady had been going on for about four days. I had taken enough aspirin at that point, had I gotten a paper cut, I would have bled to death in two minutes. I had such bad pains that I had to wear, yes wear, a heating pad strapped to my chest. My husband finally noticed something was amiss.

“Are you having chest pains?”

“What gave it away?”

“I think I should take you to the emergency room.”

“Nah, that place is a rip-off. You know they charge an arm and a leg. No pun intended.”

“I am worried about you.”

“I promise I will go to the doctor tomorrow.”

That night as I lay in bed, my chest pains continued to get worse. I started to think, that maybe, I was really ill, that the chest pain thing was really serious. So, I did what all really guilty people do at death’s door, I started to pray. I prayed for my kids and my husband, and for all the people I love, and I prayed for forgiveness. I was crying a little bit. I thought: “This is it, this is how it is all gonna end. One minute you are living and the next you are preparing for your own demise. Cut down in the prime of life. Woe is me! Good-bye cruel world!”

In the middle of my dramatic monologue (I was whispering it to myself—I didn’t want to wake my husband) my youngest son started to cry.

“Mommy, I had a nightmare. Can I come snuggle with you?” he said.

So my littlest boy crawled into bed, snuggled up next to me, with his arm across my neck. Something about that sweet gesture, his innocence, his gentleness or maybe the fact that his arm was directly over my larynx and completely cutting off my air-supply, whatever it was, I fell right to sleep.

The next morning, I sent my husband off to work, took the kids to school and went directly to the doctor’s office. There is something about saying that you are having chest pains that gets those nurses moving, I had absolutely no waiting. The nurse took my blood pressure, my heart rate, and temperature, then she wanted to weigh me. All I could think is what malicious irony that in my last moments of life I have to get on a scale. It is the first thing they do when you come into the world and now the last thing they do on your way out?

Well, dying or not, I have a policy that I must remove as many items as possible to get the number on the scale to a more manageable one. First I set down my purse and took off my shoes, then my sweater, then my earrings. I removed my necklace and rings, and socks. The nurse started tapping her pen when I removed my belt and hair clip and the lint from my pocket. I would have removed my makeup but she said something about getting paid by the hour so I just went ahead and got on the scale.

By the time the doctor came in, I was almost hyperventilating.

“Have you had any nausea?”

“Not until I ate about two bottles of aspirin to keep from having a heart attack. Technically though, it might count as one since both bottles had expired in 2007.”

“Have you had any indigestion?”

“Not until I started reading about angina, arterial fibrillation, blood clots and imminent death.”

“Do you smoke?”

“No. But do you think it is too late to start? I could really use a smoke right now.”

“Do you have a family history of heart disease?”

“No, we are cancer people.”

The doctor hooked me up to an EKG, took blood and x-rays, pressed on my ribs and chest, listened to my heart with a stethoscope and poked and prodded. Finally, she said, “The good news is, you are not having a heart attack. However, your heart is in a state of tachycardia.”

I about keeled over. Note to medical personnel—do not use big words that a lay person would not understand. I am the moron your mother warned you about.

“I have a disease called tachycardia?!!”

“No, it just means your heart is beating rapidly. In fact it is beating at 138 beats per minute. The average person has a resting heart rate of about half that. I definitely would not recommend coffee for you.”

“So I am not dying?!”

“No. Your chest pains are due to stress. I am going to put you on some medication and you need to make some lifestyle changes.”

I stopped listening when she said I wasn’t dying. But I did go on to make some major lifestyle changes to protect myself from another heart scare.

To prevent a heart attack:
1.) I buy my aspirin at Costco.
2.) I have two clothes-irons spliced together making a homemade defibrillator.
3.) I eat a heart healthy diet except for special occasions, PMS, the weekends, when I am with friends and family, and daily between the hours of nine a.m. and three p.m.
4.) I don’t smoke or sniff the clothes or belongings of those who do smoke.
5.) I drink plenty of water (do melting ice cubes in a glass of Chardonnay count?).
6.) When I get stressed I calmly take a deep breath, sit down, relax and have another slice of cheesecake.

And I always, always, always remember to take my medication . . . so hopefully my husband will never have to come home and find my lifeless body with two irons burned into my chest next to a four-foot bottle of aspirin.

I Can't Take You Anywhere

Recently both of my kids were gone for the evening at a sleepover birthday party, so that left the husband and me all alone. The house was so quiet, nobody was screaming, nothing was being broken, nobody was needed to plunge a toilet. It was so tranquil. Anyway, my husband and I were sitting all alone in our quiet house and he looked over at me and said in a husky voice, “The kids are gone and I shaved my back, wanna go out?” So we dressed for dinner and selected a restaurant that did not offer crayons, a drive thru, or nuggets of any kind and prepared ourselves for a romantic night on the town.

Since it was a spur of the moment decision, and we didn’t have a reservation, we weren’t sure that we would be able to get in at a nice restaurant. But, as luck would have it, the hostess found a table for us right away. It was the teeny-tiny one located right in the middle of the dining room that nobody ever wants. You know, the one right in the middle of the high traffic area and about the size of a TV tray, only more wobbly? Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers, and middle-aged couples with one night of freedom will pretty much take anything.

As we sat at our table and looked over the menu we began to wonder if the wait-staff had forgotten about us. My husband tapped the tines on his fork as I felt my crows feet deepen. We looked around trying to make eye contact with anyone carrying a serving tray. Eventually our waiter could not take our death stare any longer and came over and took our drink order and promised to “be right back.” I have found that most waiters are liars, and this one was no exception. To me, “right back” means he will return in 3-5 minutes, however, in the waiter’s handbook it is defined this way: “We are going to serve everyone else in the place, let them eat and pay, and then, if we have nothing else to do, we might come back and take your order, but that is a big maybe.”

In time, a long time, our waiter did return. It might have had something to do with me sticking out my foot and tripping him as he went by, but I can’t say for sure. Anyway, he did bring us our cocktails and let us order our appetizer and meal, but I was doubtful we would ever see either.

“Do you think they are getting any bites?” My husband asked.
“What?”
“Well, you did order the Salmon and that means they have to go fish for it.”
“Don’t blame me. You are the one who just had to order the pasta and sausage. First they have to grind the flour, find some sheep gut for casing and kill a pig. Seriously, whose meal do you think will take longer to make?”

The table next to us was eating a delicious looking meal and it was hard to keep from staring. My husband said, “I am so hungry.”
I said, “Me too, all I had was a single grape and some macaroni that one of the kids didn’t finish at lunch.”

Then my husband leaned in close, looked at me with love in his eyes and said, “Ok, here is the plan. I will create a diversion; you steal both plates and the bread basket. Oh, and if you can, grab the giant pepper grinder, I love those things.”

I think the couple whose food we were thinking of stealing heard us because the gentleman at the table fashioned his cloth napkin into a noose and dangled it above his plate. Thank goodness the waiter came by with our cheese platter or things might have gotten a bit dicey.

Now, about the cheese platter, my husband isn’t a big fan of cheese. He is mostly afraid of cheese that isn’t bright orange and doesn’t come wrapped in cellophane or squirting out of a pressurized can, but it was date night, so he let me order the appetizer. I helped out by refusing to tell him what any of the cheeses were--I didn’t think gagging and choking sounds would be appropriate at a fancy restaurant. He was a real sport, and was actually enjoying himself until he took a big bit of what he thought was cream cheese, and with his mouth full of bread and dairy said, “I think I taste goat.”
I said, “No you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I know what cow tastes like and this isn’t it.”
“Could you please just swallow it and stop talking with your mouth full?”
“Fine. But I want to know what kind of cheese that is?”
After he swallowed I said, “goat.”

Before my husband could accuse me of trying to poison him, our salads arrived. Nothing happened during the salad portion of the meal except that the table next to us got new residents, one of them was a cackler. The cackler was a woman who laughed so loud it was like a car accident, all screeching and broken glass. My husband leaned over again, “Ok, new plan. I create a diversion and you smack her in the face with your salad plate. Be sure to hit her really hard, you don’t want to just stun her; you need to knock her unconscious. And don’t forget the pepper grinder this time.”

I was about to question why he always gets the easy part of his plans when our entrées were delivered. We even got our own bread basket full of day old croutons.

“Hey you wanna break bread with me?”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“No really, it is hard as a rock. I think the roof of my mouth is bleeding.”

Finally, it was time to hunt for our waiter so that we could pay. We were going to order dessert but the kids were only going to be gone for one night and we didn’t bring our toothbrushes. After we had settled the bill and were on our way to the car I asked my husband what time it was.

“Only nine o’clock. Wow, it only took three hours.”
“I know. It felt like it took much longer.”
“You’re telling me. It feels like midnight.”

My husband belched sausage.

“Are you thinking what I am thinking?”
“That you need some antacid?”
“Yes, and . . . ?”
“That the night is young?”
“Yep, and if we hurry home we can be in bed and asleep before nine-thirty!”
“Well, let’s get a move on then, there is a pillow at home with my name on it!”
“Race you to the car!”
“You are so romantic!”

It Is Not a Tumor

I once had a small bump in my mouth and had convinced myself that 1.) I had never seen it before and 2.) It was cancerous. I agonized over it for weeks before finally making an appointment with my dentist. He examined my mouth, scraped, cleaned, x-rayed, but made no mention of my bump. Was he blind? Was he just gonna let me die a slow agonizing death? So I asked him, “What is with this bump?”

“Oh that, that is just a calcium buildup. If it continues to get bigger we can schedule oral surgery and grind it out of your mouth. But, it is nothing serious.”

I almost passed out. If you have to slice me open, and grind something out of me, it is serious. I don’t believe in “nothing serious.” I come from a long line of hypochondriacs—it is the pretend disease that is sweeping the nation—everything is serious.

I blame my hypochondria (among other things) on my parents. They were not fussy about medical care. We went to the doctor once every decade whether we needed it or not. My dad was an EMT and a Mensa candidate, in his mind that was the same thing as board-certified-licensed physician. My mother was not the nursing type; she was more like the receptionist in the billing department. Her contribution to our health care was forcing us to eat oatmeal once a week and putting a hand on our forehead to see if we had a fever.

To stay home from school in my formative years required a fever, vomiting and some type of internal bleeding. If you didn’t hit the trifecta you had to go to school, come home and do your chores, and homework, before you were allowed to collapse. Bleeding was not allowed unless it was an absolute necessity and you had to hold the hemorrhaging appendage over a drain. Now, sometimes, if my parents were in a good mood, a broken bone could sub for say, a ruptured spleen, but you had to have proof that it was broken, like a protruding bone or a leg that went at a 90 degree angle toward your stomach.

Now, I am not criticizing my parents, I am just saying, this type of upbringing breeds hypochondriacs. All that “toughen up” stuff and “stiff upper lip” business is only for people who think they will live a long, happy life. I was certain I would die by scorpion bite or rabid rodent by the time I was 14. A girl can dream can’t she?

Anyway, long-story-short, I lived . . . sort of. What I mean is, I tried to get on with life, (such as it was) although I was constantly in fear that every paper-cut would result in a flesh-eating bacteria or, at the very least, a staph infection that would require the removal of limbs. It is hard to be peppy when you are waiting for the other shoe to drop, and by other shoe, I mean one that is infested with antibiotic resistant bacteria.

Part of the reason I married my husband is that, he too, came from a long line of hypochondriacs and he had an arsenal of home remedies that I had never heard of before. Our romance was a blur of tinctures, mustard plasters and poultices. Aaaaah, those were the days. Then several years into the marriage, it dawned on us that we both might make it into middle-age, we became hopeful like we had never been before. But then, the unthinkable happened, we had kids.

Worrying about your own health is nothing compared to the panic you feel for your own children. Parenting books on raising a healthy child were like a drug. It became my mission to raise my little babies free of disease and blood-borne illness as much as possible. But those little buggers were against me from the start. My oldest once found a raisin on the floor of aisle six at the grocery store and ate it before I could stop him. I almost had a heart attack right there in frozen foods.

I tried to safeguard the children from future potentially deadly situations but those dang kids made it into a game. “Look Mom, no hands.” “Mommy, look how high I am.” “Hey Mom, no teeth.”

That is when I began taking anti-anxiety medication and calling my doctor more regularly.

“Doctor, do you think this mole looks cancerous?”
“No, I think it looks like a piece of orange chicken from P.F. Chang’s.”

“Doctor, I am so tired. I just don’t have a lot of energy.”
“You need more exercise.”
“I have tried that, but when I start to exercise I get all out of breath and start to sweat. I think there is something wrong with me.”
“Well, at least we agree on something.”

“Doctor I am sorry to call so late but I had to call your office, the hospital and your receptionist first just to get this number, the other number you gave me was disconnected.”

Books became too slow for diagnosing symptoms and finding rare diseases. I had to turn to the internet, WebMd became my friend. They had photos of rashes, blisters, hairy moles and a thorough guide on diagnosing head injuries, irregular heart rhythms and irritable bowels. It was a godsend! (And just a side note: Doctors love it when you diagnose yourself, it makes their day go so much more smoothly.) However, the more I learned the more distant my husband became. When I diagnosed myself with E.D. that was the last straw--he snapped, and gave up his hyper vigilance. He had some excuse about “he didn’t have time to be paranoid, blah, blah, blah . . .” He was completely destroying the foundation of our relationship. Paranoia is what our love was built on.

I couldn’t wrap my head around it, it was like surrender. I thought it might have been the projectile vomiting, the explosive diarrhea, the chicken pox, the repeated fishing out of small objects in orifices—that wore him down. You know, when the kids were sick for real. Whatever it was, with his love of hypochondria over, he began to pressure me into “leaving the kids alone.” But I wouldn’t budge, “No one is gonna die on my watch!”

I turned to my siblings for comfort. One sister introduced me to some new herbal curatives. This particular sister was always consulting a nature-path and getting advice from “healing artists.” She also started carrying around a mason jar filled with fluid.

I asked her, “What is that?”
“It is a mixture of Honey, vinegar, and lemon juice. I call it huniger.”
“What is it for?”
“Digestion, allergies, arthritis, headaches. Basically, everything.”
“Why do you carry it in a glass jar, why not a plastic water bottle?”
“I don’t want chemicals leeching into my body from the plastic, but you can if you want to. I mean, it is your funeral, but whatever.”
“Ok, let me try some.”

It looked like urine and tasted about the same, but my sister swore that it was a cure-all.

Tooth decay? Huniger.
Flatulence? Huniger.
Gangrene? Huniger.
Stab yourself in the eye with a pencil? Huniger.

I became a huniger fanatic. Once I left my mason jar on the counter with the lid off. When I came back there was a fly floating in it. I screamed when I almost drank the fly but my children laughed.

“We were wondering if you would notice,” the little demons said maniacally.
“You put that fly in there?” I accused the little hellions.
“It was just a joke mom. Besides that stuff stinks.”

That is when I realized, the disease I was fighting was not mythical, not made up, I didn’t need to have hypochondria; I had a real illness. It is the pathological organism known as children. They were trying to kill me.

My mother said, “At some point children go from passively trying to kill you, to actively trying to off you. As evidence I submit to you: teenage drivers. I rest my case.”

This knowledge changed my life. I am now free of the burden of hypochondria. Yes, folks the pendulum has swung the other way, I am now my mother.

“Mom, I have a stomachache.”
“No fever. No vomit. No blood. Go to school and stop trying to destroy me.”
“But Mom, I feel sick.”
“Me too. That is what 25 hours of back-labor without an epidural but WITH forceps will do to ya.”
“But Mom . . .”
“And don’t come home until the last bell rings. Mommy needs a nap.”