Monday, March 29, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
SAY AHHH
SAY AHHH
I had the misfortune to have several bouts of strep last summer, and noticed some odd things at the doctor’s office.
I visited my doctor sometimes as often as every other week. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling the best, or as my Irish friend says, I wasn’t feeling the May West (large breasted and slutty??). As if I wasn’t unhappy enough, feeling like I had swallowed barbed wire, they still felt compelled to weigh me each time. Talk about adding insult to injury.
There are some mysterious things going on at the doctor’s office. Foremost is the secret little door in the bathroom. I know it’s for the patient to discretely put their pee-pee sample in. Personally, I think that it functions more as a biological speak easy, and some guy named Mugsy is on the other side of that door. This may have something to do with why I have such a hard time producing a sample. My other theories are that it is really a magician’s vanishing cabinet or maybe the white rabbit’s back door to Wonderland. I told you I hadn’t been well.
As children, whenever we needed to provide the doctor with a urine sample, my mother would hand us a LARGE empty peanut butter jar. We then, of course, would feel the need to fill it up to the brim. The jar was then placed into a brown paper bag, and we would bring it to our appointment, hoping that no one would be the wiser. I really thought that the other patients would assume we were just bringing the doctor his lunch. The nurse would peek into the bag and laugh. I would then die of embarrassment.
Speaking of embarrassment, I had a gynecologist appointment the other day and was quite amused when they asked for a picture ID. I wondered if they thought I was trying to steal someone else’s appointment time. Or is uterus identity theft on the rise? I never discovered the answer to this or as to why every year I have to fill out the same patient information sheet. I know my birthday and race have not changed since last year. I mean, if they are asking us to make a choice, I’d like to change my birthday to 1982 and I would now like to be Asian.
As far as your family’s medical history, I guess it could change or this time you could suddenly remember to mention Uncle Bob’s third nipple. Also, unless you are a shrinking senior citizen, my height will most likely be the same as last year. Again, if I’m getting a choice, I’d like to be 6 foot 4 inches tall, that way I’d be the perfect weight.
3 hours later, after I’m done with the paper work, I am brought back to an examining room and handed a paper gown that is 47 times too small. Now, for God’s sake, the nurse just weighed me, she knows I’m not a size 2. I know they have bigger gowns because they see enormous pregnant woman in their office all the time. I can’t complain too much, because I figure the doctor is going to be seeing all of me in a few moments anyways. The nurse very nicely gives me a paper blanket to cover my naughty bits with, which I use since it’s a real pretty pink color.
In all honesty, I’m always happy to see my gynecologist because she is so nice and she delivered one of my children. I also like her because she never points at me and giggles when she sees me around town.
The doctor has three kids the same age as mine, so we catch up on what has been going on with our darlings. We compare notes on their activities while she is giving me a breast exam. We talk about our last family vacation as she asks me to scoot down further, and we discuss our challenging middle children when…well for those faint of heart, when she is making sure my girl parts are working. It’s then that I realize that woman have perfected the art of conversation. We are so proficient at it that we feel as completely at ease chatting over coffee as chatting during an exam of our nether region.
There is no mystery as to why I so look forward to any doctor’s appointments. First of all, as a mom, you spend so much time looking out for your kid’s well being, that it’s nice when it’s our turn to be taken care of. Most of all, I cherish any time alone that I can get. If I have to go to the doctor because I’m sick, I think, at least I’m not at home serving up chicken nuggets, while I’m trying not to lose my nuggets. When I’m having a mammogram, I figure there are no crying kids present, so bring it on. When I am half-naked in an ill-fitting paper gown, I see it as an opportunity to catch up with another mom, all while making sure my hoochie is healthy.
copywrite2010 cwaldman
I had the misfortune to have several bouts of strep last summer, and noticed some odd things at the doctor’s office.
I visited my doctor sometimes as often as every other week. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling the best, or as my Irish friend says, I wasn’t feeling the May West (large breasted and slutty??). As if I wasn’t unhappy enough, feeling like I had swallowed barbed wire, they still felt compelled to weigh me each time. Talk about adding insult to injury.
There are some mysterious things going on at the doctor’s office. Foremost is the secret little door in the bathroom. I know it’s for the patient to discretely put their pee-pee sample in. Personally, I think that it functions more as a biological speak easy, and some guy named Mugsy is on the other side of that door. This may have something to do with why I have such a hard time producing a sample. My other theories are that it is really a magician’s vanishing cabinet or maybe the white rabbit’s back door to Wonderland. I told you I hadn’t been well.
As children, whenever we needed to provide the doctor with a urine sample, my mother would hand us a LARGE empty peanut butter jar. We then, of course, would feel the need to fill it up to the brim. The jar was then placed into a brown paper bag, and we would bring it to our appointment, hoping that no one would be the wiser. I really thought that the other patients would assume we were just bringing the doctor his lunch. The nurse would peek into the bag and laugh. I would then die of embarrassment.
Speaking of embarrassment, I had a gynecologist appointment the other day and was quite amused when they asked for a picture ID. I wondered if they thought I was trying to steal someone else’s appointment time. Or is uterus identity theft on the rise? I never discovered the answer to this or as to why every year I have to fill out the same patient information sheet. I know my birthday and race have not changed since last year. I mean, if they are asking us to make a choice, I’d like to change my birthday to 1982 and I would now like to be Asian.
As far as your family’s medical history, I guess it could change or this time you could suddenly remember to mention Uncle Bob’s third nipple. Also, unless you are a shrinking senior citizen, my height will most likely be the same as last year. Again, if I’m getting a choice, I’d like to be 6 foot 4 inches tall, that way I’d be the perfect weight.
3 hours later, after I’m done with the paper work, I am brought back to an examining room and handed a paper gown that is 47 times too small. Now, for God’s sake, the nurse just weighed me, she knows I’m not a size 2. I know they have bigger gowns because they see enormous pregnant woman in their office all the time. I can’t complain too much, because I figure the doctor is going to be seeing all of me in a few moments anyways. The nurse very nicely gives me a paper blanket to cover my naughty bits with, which I use since it’s a real pretty pink color.
In all honesty, I’m always happy to see my gynecologist because she is so nice and she delivered one of my children. I also like her because she never points at me and giggles when she sees me around town.
The doctor has three kids the same age as mine, so we catch up on what has been going on with our darlings. We compare notes on their activities while she is giving me a breast exam. We talk about our last family vacation as she asks me to scoot down further, and we discuss our challenging middle children when…well for those faint of heart, when she is making sure my girl parts are working. It’s then that I realize that woman have perfected the art of conversation. We are so proficient at it that we feel as completely at ease chatting over coffee as chatting during an exam of our nether region.
There is no mystery as to why I so look forward to any doctor’s appointments. First of all, as a mom, you spend so much time looking out for your kid’s well being, that it’s nice when it’s our turn to be taken care of. Most of all, I cherish any time alone that I can get. If I have to go to the doctor because I’m sick, I think, at least I’m not at home serving up chicken nuggets, while I’m trying not to lose my nuggets. When I’m having a mammogram, I figure there are no crying kids present, so bring it on. When I am half-naked in an ill-fitting paper gown, I see it as an opportunity to catch up with another mom, all while making sure my hoochie is healthy.
copywrite2010 cwaldman
Monday, March 15, 2010
Athletic Supporter
Athletic Supporter
I’m not interested in most sports, and honestly the majority of them leave me confused by their rules. Even while watching the Olympics, I was mystified by exactly what was going on in some of the events.
Take curling for example. I’m not quite sure what the object of this game is, other then not to fall on the ice. Why, for example, does that one guy feel a need to launch a wheel of cheese across the ice? It seems an odd sort of way to spend your time. I have to admit that I do like the leisurely way in which he slides. It looks so relaxing. He is so focused on where that cheese is going; I don’t think he’s even aware that he is still gliding across the ice. And how, in God’s name, does he get his legs in that position? It’s as if he’s playing some malevolent game of Twister. But the best part of curling by far is when those two men rush over and start furiously scrubbing in front of the wheel of cheese with their mops. If those guys are single, some woman better snatch him up soon. Your kitchen floors would be forever spotless if you married a guy with that sort of talent.
Apparently curling has become very popular since the Olympics. Nobody understands the rules, but true to the American Way, we love what we don’t fully comprehend. It’s human nature to believe if we don’t understand it; it must be very advanced and sophisticated, therefore, pretty nifty. That’s why people rave about abstract art, the stock market, and Jesse Jackson. No one has ever been able to decipher a word that man says, but he emotes with such conviction, that he must be cool.
I still manage to enjoy some sports, despite my lack of knowledge. Whenever I need a nap, I put a game of golf on. Everyone is so quiet when the golfers are putting, that you can actually hear birds singing and airplanes overhead. When the announcers start talking in their soothing hushed tones, I instantly fall into a coma. In addition to catching up on some much needed sleep, I like golf because of how civilized the spectators are. There are no loud cheers or jeers, just polite clapping. Even the rainbow-haired John 3:16 guy is reserved.
Another fun sport is Tennis. I don’t get the scoring, but I think it is so sweet that it involves love. It obviously is the hardest sport to play because of all the grunting the players do when they hit the ball. I can really relate, because that is the same noise I make whenever I get up off of the couch.
I really, really don’t get boxing, though. I guess it’s a guy thing, with all the pummeling and sweating and baggy shorts. What I do like is that extreme wrestling with the two beefy dudes with those manly muscular legs. I don’t get that either, but I enjoy imagining that it is me they are wrestling. And you know what? I would totally let them win.
Not only do the rules usually confuse me in many sports, but also what constitutes a real sport. My husband, along with many other men, have strong opinions as to what is a ‘real’ sport. By strong opinion, I mean that my husband rants and I just nod my head until I resemble a bobble head doll. His ranting starts with,” I’m sorry, but that is NOT a sport!” In this category are; synchronized swimming, figure skating, curling, surfing, skateboarding, race car driving, and many, many, more. (For a more detailed list, please call him, but make sure you hold the phone away from your ear) Apparently, if the event is judged, rather than scored, it is not a sport. Also, if it’s girly, like figure skating or spasmodic, like synchronized swimming, it’s just plain unmanly to watch.
I have my own theory on how to discern if a sport is legitimate. You know those revealing uni-suits that the speed skaters and skiers wore in the Olympics? I say, put them on the participants of some of these so-called-sports and see how athletic they really look. Can you imagine some of those curlers wearing a form fitting suit? Do you think bowlers should wear lycra? I can feel you all shuddering, so I know that I made my point.
I think that synchronized swimmers could pull off the look, but they have other reasons to be disqualified. First of all, I don’t think we are setting a good example for kids by following a sport that looks like fancy drowning. And any time you have to wear that much rouge during an event, I’m sorry, that is NOT a sport!
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
I’m not interested in most sports, and honestly the majority of them leave me confused by their rules. Even while watching the Olympics, I was mystified by exactly what was going on in some of the events.
Take curling for example. I’m not quite sure what the object of this game is, other then not to fall on the ice. Why, for example, does that one guy feel a need to launch a wheel of cheese across the ice? It seems an odd sort of way to spend your time. I have to admit that I do like the leisurely way in which he slides. It looks so relaxing. He is so focused on where that cheese is going; I don’t think he’s even aware that he is still gliding across the ice. And how, in God’s name, does he get his legs in that position? It’s as if he’s playing some malevolent game of Twister. But the best part of curling by far is when those two men rush over and start furiously scrubbing in front of the wheel of cheese with their mops. If those guys are single, some woman better snatch him up soon. Your kitchen floors would be forever spotless if you married a guy with that sort of talent.
Apparently curling has become very popular since the Olympics. Nobody understands the rules, but true to the American Way, we love what we don’t fully comprehend. It’s human nature to believe if we don’t understand it; it must be very advanced and sophisticated, therefore, pretty nifty. That’s why people rave about abstract art, the stock market, and Jesse Jackson. No one has ever been able to decipher a word that man says, but he emotes with such conviction, that he must be cool.
I still manage to enjoy some sports, despite my lack of knowledge. Whenever I need a nap, I put a game of golf on. Everyone is so quiet when the golfers are putting, that you can actually hear birds singing and airplanes overhead. When the announcers start talking in their soothing hushed tones, I instantly fall into a coma. In addition to catching up on some much needed sleep, I like golf because of how civilized the spectators are. There are no loud cheers or jeers, just polite clapping. Even the rainbow-haired John 3:16 guy is reserved.
Another fun sport is Tennis. I don’t get the scoring, but I think it is so sweet that it involves love. It obviously is the hardest sport to play because of all the grunting the players do when they hit the ball. I can really relate, because that is the same noise I make whenever I get up off of the couch.
I really, really don’t get boxing, though. I guess it’s a guy thing, with all the pummeling and sweating and baggy shorts. What I do like is that extreme wrestling with the two beefy dudes with those manly muscular legs. I don’t get that either, but I enjoy imagining that it is me they are wrestling. And you know what? I would totally let them win.
Not only do the rules usually confuse me in many sports, but also what constitutes a real sport. My husband, along with many other men, have strong opinions as to what is a ‘real’ sport. By strong opinion, I mean that my husband rants and I just nod my head until I resemble a bobble head doll. His ranting starts with,” I’m sorry, but that is NOT a sport!” In this category are; synchronized swimming, figure skating, curling, surfing, skateboarding, race car driving, and many, many, more. (For a more detailed list, please call him, but make sure you hold the phone away from your ear) Apparently, if the event is judged, rather than scored, it is not a sport. Also, if it’s girly, like figure skating or spasmodic, like synchronized swimming, it’s just plain unmanly to watch.
I have my own theory on how to discern if a sport is legitimate. You know those revealing uni-suits that the speed skaters and skiers wore in the Olympics? I say, put them on the participants of some of these so-called-sports and see how athletic they really look. Can you imagine some of those curlers wearing a form fitting suit? Do you think bowlers should wear lycra? I can feel you all shuddering, so I know that I made my point.
I think that synchronized swimmers could pull off the look, but they have other reasons to be disqualified. First of all, I don’t think we are setting a good example for kids by following a sport that looks like fancy drowning. And any time you have to wear that much rouge during an event, I’m sorry, that is NOT a sport!
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
Saturday, March 6, 2010
KIDS ARE ICKY
KIDS ARE ICKY
My kids are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I never grow tired of looking at their precious faces, and they are a constant form of amusement. Having said that, I will be the first to admit, that they should be condemned by the Board of Health.
I found out too late, that children are really gross. They often have substances coming out of their little bodies that no other human should have to clean up.
It all began when the nurse in the maternity ward excitedly announced to my husband and I that our daughter had her first stinky diaper. What she failed to mention, is that our infant had been drinking from the La Brea Tar Pit. Looking into the contents of that first diaper, I nearly bolted for the door and headed up to the Psyche ward of the hospital.
Since then, I have spread the news to every pregnant woman that I meet. It’s a simple message; say “Yes” to the epidural and “No” to the first diaper change. Moms have a lifetime to change nappies, so while you have the chance, let the nurse do it. Or better yet, let your husband do it. For God sake, you just pushed that child out of you, (which felt a lot like squeezing a Chevy through the eye of a needle); it’s the least he can do. Just make sure you have the video camera handy.
The hospital very nicely sends you home with a care package of diapers, formula, a blanket, and baby wipes. What would be more practical is if they provided you with a lifetime supply of sterile gloves and a bio-hazard suit. Believe me; you are going to need them.
At around the time that Junior starts to crawl, he has perfected the art of putting everything he finds into his mouth or up his nose. This area of expertise is only matched by his ability to find slimy substances to smear into his hair. Just so you know, the diaper change gross-out will continue for another 2 to 3 years with some projectile vomiting and drooling thrown in for variety. I know a lot about the projectile vomiting, because when our Amy was small, she was like an infant Mt. Vesuvius. It got so bad, that I was preparing to channel my South Philly relatives, and get plastic slip covers. I knew this wouldn’t work, so I decided to buy new furniture when the kids stopped being so messy, in other words, when they’re in college.
Of course, all this messiness has a way of spilling over onto mom and dad. I warn you that if you see a mother with a stain on her clothing, do not ask her what it is. YOU DO NOT WANT TO KNOW! According to her offspring, a mom’s main function is to be a walking hand towel. If a child has messy hands, he thinks, why bother to wash my hands when mom’s pant leg is so near. No tissue in sight? All you need to do is pretend that you are hugging Mommy, and use her shirt tails to wipe your snotty nose on. If there is no trash can handy for your old gum, your mother will never notice if you stick it to the seat of her pants. I’m thinking of starting a line of disposable clothing for mothers, made exclusively out of tissues.
There is also the phenomenon of how fast kids can get dirty. I’ll give one of my kids a bath and afterwards they’ll be sweet smelling and squeaky clean. They will then go play in their room for 2.5 minutes and come out with a ring of dirt around their necks and grime under their fingernails. How do they do it? They are like a magnet for filth. I’m beginning to suspect that there is a secret passageway to a coal mine under their beds.
The great equalizer is how much we love them. We get used to their ickiness because of that awesome love and also as a survival skill. We just become numb to it after a while. I guess this is nature’s way of preventing us from trading our children in for a cleaner model. The funny part is that if we see another child doing the same exact disgusting thing our kid just did, we are ready to lose our lunch. I guess the filth we know is more tolerable than a stranger’s grime.
I hate to be sexist, but boys are the slimiest of the genders. I’ve mentioned before that my 4 year old son stuck his head in the toilet. His other disgusting hobbies include missing the toilet every time he goes, excavating his nose in public, and eating things off of the floor. We took a tour of a potato chip factory once, and while I was marveling at the engineering genius of the assembly line; Donny was busy stuffing his face with potato chips he had found on the floor. True to 4 year old boy form, when I told him to stop, he only crammed the chips faster into his face.
He’s been known to eat French fries off the floor of fast food restaurants. Although it’s embarrassing and unsanitary, it can be cost effective. He can get so many into his mouth before I can stop him that I don’t have to order any fries. One time at home, he found a brown blob on the floor and popped it into his mouth. He them announced, “Oh, it is a brownie!” You really have to have a low gross-out threshold to risk what a brown blob could be in my house. This is why I never want him to look under the sofa cushions. I’m afraid he’ll come up with a full course meal.
So if you are preparing to start a family, you need to really lower your hygiene standards. Maybe work a shift as a garbage man to temper you gag reflex. Or better yet, come baby sit for my three kiddies.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
My kids are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I never grow tired of looking at their precious faces, and they are a constant form of amusement. Having said that, I will be the first to admit, that they should be condemned by the Board of Health.
I found out too late, that children are really gross. They often have substances coming out of their little bodies that no other human should have to clean up.
It all began when the nurse in the maternity ward excitedly announced to my husband and I that our daughter had her first stinky diaper. What she failed to mention, is that our infant had been drinking from the La Brea Tar Pit. Looking into the contents of that first diaper, I nearly bolted for the door and headed up to the Psyche ward of the hospital.
Since then, I have spread the news to every pregnant woman that I meet. It’s a simple message; say “Yes” to the epidural and “No” to the first diaper change. Moms have a lifetime to change nappies, so while you have the chance, let the nurse do it. Or better yet, let your husband do it. For God sake, you just pushed that child out of you, (which felt a lot like squeezing a Chevy through the eye of a needle); it’s the least he can do. Just make sure you have the video camera handy.
The hospital very nicely sends you home with a care package of diapers, formula, a blanket, and baby wipes. What would be more practical is if they provided you with a lifetime supply of sterile gloves and a bio-hazard suit. Believe me; you are going to need them.
At around the time that Junior starts to crawl, he has perfected the art of putting everything he finds into his mouth or up his nose. This area of expertise is only matched by his ability to find slimy substances to smear into his hair. Just so you know, the diaper change gross-out will continue for another 2 to 3 years with some projectile vomiting and drooling thrown in for variety. I know a lot about the projectile vomiting, because when our Amy was small, she was like an infant Mt. Vesuvius. It got so bad, that I was preparing to channel my South Philly relatives, and get plastic slip covers. I knew this wouldn’t work, so I decided to buy new furniture when the kids stopped being so messy, in other words, when they’re in college.
Of course, all this messiness has a way of spilling over onto mom and dad. I warn you that if you see a mother with a stain on her clothing, do not ask her what it is. YOU DO NOT WANT TO KNOW! According to her offspring, a mom’s main function is to be a walking hand towel. If a child has messy hands, he thinks, why bother to wash my hands when mom’s pant leg is so near. No tissue in sight? All you need to do is pretend that you are hugging Mommy, and use her shirt tails to wipe your snotty nose on. If there is no trash can handy for your old gum, your mother will never notice if you stick it to the seat of her pants. I’m thinking of starting a line of disposable clothing for mothers, made exclusively out of tissues.
There is also the phenomenon of how fast kids can get dirty. I’ll give one of my kids a bath and afterwards they’ll be sweet smelling and squeaky clean. They will then go play in their room for 2.5 minutes and come out with a ring of dirt around their necks and grime under their fingernails. How do they do it? They are like a magnet for filth. I’m beginning to suspect that there is a secret passageway to a coal mine under their beds.
The great equalizer is how much we love them. We get used to their ickiness because of that awesome love and also as a survival skill. We just become numb to it after a while. I guess this is nature’s way of preventing us from trading our children in for a cleaner model. The funny part is that if we see another child doing the same exact disgusting thing our kid just did, we are ready to lose our lunch. I guess the filth we know is more tolerable than a stranger’s grime.
I hate to be sexist, but boys are the slimiest of the genders. I’ve mentioned before that my 4 year old son stuck his head in the toilet. His other disgusting hobbies include missing the toilet every time he goes, excavating his nose in public, and eating things off of the floor. We took a tour of a potato chip factory once, and while I was marveling at the engineering genius of the assembly line; Donny was busy stuffing his face with potato chips he had found on the floor. True to 4 year old boy form, when I told him to stop, he only crammed the chips faster into his face.
He’s been known to eat French fries off the floor of fast food restaurants. Although it’s embarrassing and unsanitary, it can be cost effective. He can get so many into his mouth before I can stop him that I don’t have to order any fries. One time at home, he found a brown blob on the floor and popped it into his mouth. He them announced, “Oh, it is a brownie!” You really have to have a low gross-out threshold to risk what a brown blob could be in my house. This is why I never want him to look under the sofa cushions. I’m afraid he’ll come up with a full course meal.
So if you are preparing to start a family, you need to really lower your hygiene standards. Maybe work a shift as a garbage man to temper you gag reflex. Or better yet, come baby sit for my three kiddies.
copywrite 2010 cwaldman
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