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Keeping the Romance Alive with “Date Night”

For date night on Saturday, me and my old man went to Bed Bath & Beyond. Got new sheets and finally, FINALLY, a Keurig coffee machine. The procrastination allowed us to invest in the brand new Keurig 2.0 (cue oooohs and ahhhhs). I’m drinking my second cup of Keurig coffee (10 oz., strong setting) this morning. Tully’s Hawaiian Blend.

We brought five coupons with us to the store and when I asked what we could use them on (because the fine print said Keurig products were exempt) she said, “everything”.

“Everything?” I asked, and she nodded patiently like this customer did not comprehend the word.

Enter the “moral dilemma” because: do I point out that the coupon says “no” to Keurig products? Or do I defend myself in court later by saying, well, this long-and-dark-haired chick works here, she’s the professional. She should know. I’m sure they went over this in BBB Orientation and included it in the corporate Welcome Packet.

And then the prosecuting attorney would say, “Ignorance is no excuse for the law, Nanny Goats!” And then my boozing, Bozo-lookalike attorney would scream from across the courtroom, “Objection, your honor! Irrelevant!” And then the judge would say, “Overruled”, and turn to me and say, “Where did you get this Bozo?” and I would say while wringing my sweaty palms, “Errrrm, Craigslist?”

It’s like when the cashier gives you too much change. Do you say anything? Or do you figure you get screwed over so much in life that it’s finally coming around; this extra five bucks is payback for those times when someone shorted me because I never pay attention or count the change when someone hands it to me, I just assume they can count, it’s part of the job description, they had to pass some test upon hiring, right?

Besides, Bed Bath & Beyond has a precedent of ignoring the coupon rules anyway because you can use expired coupons. Like, really expired. Like, last night I handed her a couple that died in 2013. Which is what my online classified clown of a quack lawyer would self-righteously bring to the attention of the sleepy jury to get me off.

The sheets we purchased at Bed Bath & Beyond were a sort of royal egg blue which, after they were put on the bed, looked horrible with the other colors of the bedclothes. I wanted chocolate brown sheets, but the old man said no because it’s harder for him to see fleas. Or earwigs. Or mouse poo. Or maybe it was bedbugs (which, just so you know, we don’t have, but he would never know that if he couldn’t see them either way and plus, in a marriage you have to pick your battles).

Also, who are we trying to impress with our bedroom? No one would know that we lacked interior decorating skills unless I idiotically posted a picture on the internet announcing that our sheets don’t match our comforter.

Man, this coffee is good. I think I’ll go make another cup.

unmatching bedsheets

Not Your Grandma’s Resolutions

You know what day it is, right? This is the day that the whole world comes together and says, “I wish I’d worked more”. No, wait. That’s what people say on their death bed. Or rather, what people never say on their death bed. Also? The green squigglies are telling me that “deathbed” is one word. Also? Happy New Year.

If it’s not too late to declare my New Year’s resolutions, I’d like to name them here. In addition to the Word document boiler template called “New Year’s Resolutions” that provides the 3 default items, I am adding one more item:

• lose weight
• eat better
• exercise
make a podcast about aliens

aliens, new years resolutions

I will call my podcast The Alien Degenerates Show and open it with pop music expertly mixed by my sidekick, DJ Memphis. I will dance to the delight of my live Google Hangout audience and then do a couple of quirky, self deprecating jokes followed by interviews of various aliens of ill repute.

Everybody knows that podcast audiences have no interest in boring goody-goody aliens, they want to see the dregs and baddies of extraterrestrial society who only want to ruin our lives and possibly end them. People want nasty beings with pus oozing out of their dark almond-shaped eyes and glinting scalpels at the ready.

My bucket list of alien degenerates includes the likes of Joel Grey, Jennifer Grey, Zane Grey…you know, all the Greys.

I will intersperse these interviews with golden nuggets of alien trivia in the form of a pop quiz with our audience and give away spaceship rides and private tours to Area 51. Questions like: What was used for the slime on the aliens in the movie, Alien? Answer: K-Y Jelly.

I know!

And then I will end my podcast with famous alien recipes where DJ Memphis will don his mother’s famous red chef’s hat with the ET casserole patch sewn on the front. DJ Memphis and I will take to the studio kitchen and prepare one of Mommy J Memphis’s  favorite dishes of the week like Abduction Pancakes (yum!), or Dark Almond Surprise. My mouth is already watering!

So, if you know of any aliens interested in being on the show (or in one of our recipes), please let us know in the comments. Also, what’s #4 on your New Year’s resolution list?

 

(Image by Stefan-Xp)

Real Men Do It With Their Hands

Before this upcoming biblical proportion storm arrives and kills us all, I just want to tell you that I loved you and it was fun and I don’t regret anything. Except for that pink rabbit-themed hot tub party in Brother Dinklemeyer’s gazebo where we all got naked, went crazy with Instagram and lost our jobs. I regret that. I’m so embarrassed about the whole thing, bringing a fuschia rabbit. I mean really, who does that?

But that’s not why I brought you here today. Today I want to talk about real men.

Real men make things. They make things. With their hands.

“Make” is a wonderful and creative word. It applies to artists and craftsmen and TV shows. Some TV shows value making things so much, they put it in their name: How It’s Made, to name one.

How It’s Made reveals how all kinds of things are built, manufactured etc. Everything from pencils to super cars.

I don’t watch it but I can’t help catch parts of it now and again because my husband likes to stare at it for hours and hours. And whatever channel it’s on (Discovery? Science? The Dirty Hands channel?), holds marathons of the show. All. The. Time.

how its made

The men (and women) in this show are actual people doing their job. They are not pretty or skinny like Hollywood. And they have real work hands with greasy fingers and scuffed nails.

how its made

Oh, there it is. Right there on the screen. The Science Channel. Duh.

Meanwhile, the show is sponsored by such products as Sears Craftman tools where not-real men tell you how awesome these tools are. Tools that go around corners and shoot laser beams and make coffee.

And the guy in the commercial who is “allegedly” using these Sears Craftsman tools? Not an ounce of pudge or speck of dirt anywhere to be found.

craftsmanThis guy wouldn’t know a hammer if it hit him.

Commercials are supposed to relate to their audience, so I figure the advertising wizards assume that a good portion of their target market consists of yuppie weekend warriors, he-man wannabees with the meticulous fingernails of CEOs and the hair of underwear models.

It’s like these commercials are the romance novels of bathroom breaks.

Or something like that.

Meet My New Buddy, Perry Mennow Paws

Have you ever sat on the cold, concrete tombstone of a stranger, just to watch a gravedigger? It’s twilight and all you can hear is the shovel cutting into the soil and the birds chirping in the trees. These gravediggers, they all seem to wear flannel plaid snap-front work shirts and muddy boots. Most have beards. They won’t tell you their name. They never talk to you no matter how much you flirt with them or compliment their cracked, dry hands. Not that I’ve ever done that. I’m just curious if you’ve ever done it.

So anyway, after my recent bout with anxiety for many, many weeks and much research and much meditation and cutting out the sugar and the caffeine and the chocolate, and lots of walking and reading books on how to cope with anxiety, and talking to others with similar experiences, I’ve learned there are different types or levels of anxiety and many different ways to alleviate or cope with it and it’s different for everyone.

For me, it’s drugs. Drugs, I tell you!

I was hoping to do it without pharmaceutical intervention but all the non-drug solutions didn’t make a difference. I literally documented every hop, skip, and jump, and my body’s response to it and what works and what doesn’t.

And what works is the drugs.

Some day I hope to say “no” to drugs. But if I’m right and this whole out-of-the-blue situation is simply my brain boarding the hormonal roller coaster known as perimenopause, then it’s a temporary thing and I can eventually go off this medication.

Also? Why doesn’t Microsoft Word recognize “perimenopause”. And for that matter, why don’t any of the self-help books I read that describe all the causes of anxiety recognize perimenopause as one of them? This sounds like a call for a public awareness campaign. And it should start with a letter to all the spell checkers. I just need a mascot (what do you mean, “Ewwww gross”? This mascot wouldn’t look like an irregular menstrual cycle. How would you even design that kind of costume? Why are you “ewwwing” again?)

Anyway, if you ever experienced the long periods of paralyzing fear and high anxiety that I did, you’d understand why I was desperate to stop it and this was a situation that screamed for better living through chemistry.

I’m back to my old self now and can go to the grocery store all by myself, anxiety free.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to the cemetery…you know, for a friend.

gravedigger
image source

I’ve Got All the Bells and Whistles

I think I have adoraphobia. It’s like the little fuzzy kitten version of agoraphobia where I am capable of leaving the house, I just don’t want to. Isn’t that cute?

Okay, it’s official. I’ve become one of those people that won’t shut up about their health problems (oh, my aching back!). To wit:

 

heart event monitor boxShortly after my anxiety and panic attack mini-series, I was prescribed this drug, that drug, and the other thing. The other thing was a heart monitor that I have to carry around for 30 days and I’m on the home stretch with only one day to go. It was given to me in a very attractive Iron Man lunch box.

The contraption consists of a necklace whose large boxy pendant swings around and slaps on your chest all the time and requires a AAA battery that has to be changed nearly every day and if you don’t pay attention to the battery level, you wind up getting rudely awakened by a “BEEP-BOOP-BOOP” at three in the morning and you have to replace the battery right then and there or else you are serenaded by more beeping and booping.

heart monitorThe batteries they give you are some cheap ass generic brand that don’t last as long as, say, what the Energizer bunny would provide, and the reason I know this is because they don’t give you enough batteries to last the month and so you have to go to the store and buy real batteries (like Energizer) and then suddenly the batteries last twice as long.

So, what you do is, before you go to bed you put in a new battery, and then when you get up, you observe you still have 80% battery left, so you exchange it with a previous partially already used battery so that it runs out and beep-boop-boops during the day. It’s all very scientific and mathematical and probably too complicated for you to understand.

So anyway, from the boxy pendant protrudes three wires with red, black, and white electrodes at the end that you snap onto three separate electrode pads that are placed on three geographically-specific parts of your body. The first bag of pads were great and stayed where they lay, but now that I’m near the end, I’m using this other bag of cheap ass pads they gave me that have trouble staying put and the monitor screams when one of the electrode pads falls off. (Did I mention there is also a monitor? Yes, it’s like a clunky cell phone that you have to keep within a certain distance of yourself and recharge so often I just leave it plugged into the wall all the time unless I leave the house. If you leave the house and forget to bring your monitor with you, your boxy pendant goes “BRAP-BROP-Boooooo”, until you turn around and go back home and grab your monitor.)

So anyway, these slippery electrode pads occasionally slip off and the monitor (which is plugged into the kitchen wall) starts going “BREEEEEP-BREEEEEEP!” And you run to the monitor to see what’s wrong and the screen says, “The red electrode has been disconnected” (it’s usually the red one that falls off) and it gives you the option to push “SILENT” on the touch screen, only no matter how much you touch it, it doesn’t respond (I know, like your wife – haha – yes, you’re very funny – can we get back to me now, Mr. Interrupter?).

So now I have to whip up my shirt which requires running out of the kitchen because we have no curtains in the kitchen and you never know who could be Peeping Tomming and I have to fish around my shirt for the red wire only to discover that the electrode pad for the red wire is totally stuck to the inside of my shirt. It has no problem sticking to my shirt but can’t seem to stick to me.

So I’ve incorporated Band-Aids into the mix.

They actually call this contraption a heart event monitor because it’s supposed to catch what my heart is doing during an “event”. If an “event” happens, you use the touch screen to report it so they can zero in and know where to look on the timeline to analyze your heart rate. Just before getting the monitor, my heart was racing and I had a tachycardia event. In the almost 30 days since using the monitor? Nada.

In the morning, when the normal bedroom alarm clock goes off, I roll over, and the monitor starts screaming that one or more electrodes has been disconnected and I’m fumbling around trying to unpeel several adhesives pads off of my shirt, check what color the wire is, so I know on which part of my body it belongs. Meanwhile, my husband joins in on the beeping and booping as if it’s become an earworm for him.

“Breeeep breeeep. One or more of your electrodes is disconnected…,” he says sleepily.

“I know! I know!” I say, fiddling with my boxy pendant and wires trying to plug myself back in like a 1940’s Lily Tomlin telephone switchboard operator.

Did I mention Thursday is the last day I have to wear my necklace that came in the Iron Man grey lunch box? Life won’t be the same without it.

Thank God.

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