Sleep Is Good If You Can Get It

The only thing more divisive to a marriage than the remote control is spousal sleeping habits.

I am a quiet, self-contained sleeper. My husband - a loud, rambunctious hoarder of sheets.

I sleep like a feather, always coasting just beneath the gauzy film of wakefulness. P-Dawg, on the other hand, has held entire conversations while zonked out cold.

Every night, I assume the same position in the corner of the bed that I staked out years ago. There is even a small Rima sized divot on my side of the mattress. The P-Dawg knows not where his divot is.

I follow an elaborate bedtime ritual involving moisturizer, nasal spray, lip balm, chamomile tea, and a book. Once my pillows have been satisfactorily configured, I crank up the noise machine, align my body with the mattress, pop a melatonin tablet, and slowly drop off to the land of nod.

P-Dawg, on the other hand, is down for the count and snoring before his head hits the pillow. He is a human furnace whose presence can easily raise the temperature under the covers by at least ten degrees and cause me to wake nightly in a peri-menopausal sweat.

Whilst slumbering, it is imperative that no portion of my body touch another living thing. Every morning, I wake up in the same position I fell asleep, with the sheets tucked neatly about my person in a perfect cocoon. Sometimes there is no need to make the bed, only to fold down the corner of the duvet from which I emerged and smooth it out. It's a mystery why no one has ever given me a prize for that.

My husband, bless his heart, nightly flails and thrashes about in a tangled ball of blankets, never assuming the same position twice. He has no boundaries, and whenever I am rudely awakened by the sound of a MedEvac helicopter coming in for a landing, it's because P-Dawg has been snoring directly into my unprotected ear.

The P-Dawg does not believe in "hospital corners" and considers having one's feet trapped beneath the covers cruel and unusual punishment. He defies my heartfelt conviction that sheets belong tucked neatly under the end of the mattress by nightly poking his tootsies out of their lovingly constructed 500 thread count tent.

It's always been that way. That is, until this morning, when I woke up with limbs askew, pillows thrown asunder, and a thin crust of drool clinging to my cheek.

"Have the aliens landed?"

"No," said the P-Dawg. "You were snoring like a rabid warthog all night long. I couldn't fall asleep for hours."

"You lie!" I said.

"No, really" the P-Dawg insisted, with a few demonstrative snorts.

I refuse to believe it. On the other hand, it wouldn't hurt the good doctor to get a taste of his own medicine every now and again.

There's one in every relationship - a statue and a steamroller, a snorer and a snoree. Which one are you?

It's Not Like I'm Garfield

Rimarama: "You know what? I am SO GLAD I signed up for this Erma Bombeck writers workshop! I think it will be really good for me."

P-Dawg: "Oh?"

Rimarama: "Yeah! I mean, I'm sure that BlogHer would be fun, but I feel like I'll get a lot more out of this from a writing standpoint, you know what I mean? I've always wanted to hone my humor writing skills. Plus, I get to meet KC."

P-Dawg: "It's funny, when I think of "humor writing,", I never think of you."

Rimarama: "What are you saying?"

P-Dawg: "I don't know."

Rimarama: "You don't find me the least bit entertaining?"

P-Dawg:

Rimarama:

P-Dawg: "It's just that when I think of a humor writer, I think of somebody like Lewis Black, you know? Someone whose all crass and crotchety."

Rimarama: "Are you telling me you've never once laughed at anything I wrote?"

P-Dawg: "I -"

Rimarama: "Have you even chuckled inwardly?"

P-Dawg: "I've chuckled inwardly."

Rimarama: "'What about, "guffawed?' Have you ever guffawed?"

P-Dawg: "Well . . . it's not like you're Garfield."

Refined, with a Hint of Ridiculous

We had some friends over for pizza and wine last weekend. In preparation for his former med school buddy and fellow wine enthusiast's visit, the P-Dawg purchased a host of gadgetry, including something called a "wine aerator" with a "de-sedimenting sleeve."

While we mothers buzzed around, breaking up toddler scuffles and cutting pizza into bite-sized pieces, the two men stood around our kitchen island sniffing, swirling, and sampling vintages. They marveled at the supreme filtration capacity of Dan's french pewter aerating and decanting funnel, and every once in awhile, one of them would gaze out the window and say in all seriousness, "This is nicely structured, though lightly acidic." Or, "This is compact, yet surprisingly supple." And, "I'm picking up some lavender with a hint of candy corn."

There was a large wine encyclopedia open on the counter, and the P-Dawg and his buddy would periodically access it for detailed information about the bouquet, maturation, and characteristics of the vintage being imbibed. A different type of glass was used for each selection sampled, and in between flights, the P-Dawg and his friend rinsed their empty goblets with palate cleansing sparkling water.

The two of them almost keeled over dead when I filled a glass that had previously contained zinfandel to the brim with pinot noir and gulped it down between brownie bites. "Yeah, this is pretty good!"

"Hey, how come you guys aren't having any dessert?" I demanded of the P-Dawg. "Betty Crocker an insult to your discriminating palate?"

"Maybe."

"Wine snob!"

The P-Dawg sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "If I were a wine snob, Rimarama, I would have done a blind tasting and de-salinated the goblets."

(Duh.)

Play It Again

I have only a few minor regrets about the way my wedding day went down, and one of them is our choice of DJ. Because after showing up at our reception late and stoned as a wall, P@cky didn't play a single song from my Playlist of Dreams.

Creating the perfect wedding playlist was an obsessive pasttime in the weeks leading up to the P-Dawg's and my nuptuals. I spent hours selecting representative samples of the songs that P-Dawg and I wanted to hear, and I may or may not have penned a short tome describing my tastes and vision for how music could fit into our special day as an organic whole.

In between bouts of crippling anxiety over which color ink to choose for the invitations, I'd painstakingly write out song selections on the (useless) form the DJ had given us to complete.

Rimarama: "Hey P-Dawg, which do you prefer: Forever Young by Alphaville, or New Order, Bizzare Love Triangle?

P-Dawg: "Weird Al Yankovic, Like a Surgeon."

On the big day, I got a bad feeling in my stomach when the DJ finally pulled up behind our reception hall in a rusted out van with faded reggae stickers plastered all over it and ambled quite unapologetically into the room where a musicless cocktail hour was already in progress. This feeling was validated by the selections - which did not much resemble the Playlist of Dreams - that he played throughout the evening, and the fact that he hadn't even remembered what we'd requested for our first dance (Louis Armstrong's What a Wonderful World, which he eventually did play).

Yesterday morning I was driving down the very same stretch of road where my car was ambushed by that construction barrel last week, and who should I notice bumping along in a beater van with faded reggae stickers, but Wacky Tabacky P@cky himself. I always thought that if I ever saw him again, I'd at least give him the stink eye, but it seems that time softens even the most hardened of bridezillas.

I edged him off a cliff kept right on driving.

Seconds after our paths diverged, as I was fondly recalling what ended up being one of the best days of my life despite its less than perfect soundtrack, What a Wonderful World came on the radio.

Coinkydink? I think not.

Now, I know you have a more interesting wedding disaster story than mine, so spill it!!!

Foiled

We had some really strong winds come through here last night and I couldn't sleep because I had to keep a tree from falling on our house through the sheer strength of my will.

The way it works is that by staying up and fretting, I create a force field around the periphery of our dwelling with my nervous energy and thus prevent harm from coming our way. But! If I let my guard down, all bets are off.

Unable to concentrate on reading or watching TV, I got up and padded around the house in my waffle weave nightgown with the tiny rosebuds, stopping in front of each window to assess its proximity to danger. Then I woke up the P-Dawg to tell him I was pretty sure we were doomed. I had a vision of a tree crashing through our son's bedroom window and did he suppose there was anything that could be done about that?

The P-Dawg didn't think there was any danger of that happening, but he did think I should go back to sleep and allow him to do the same.

Which I did, eventually.

This morning over coffee, P-Dawg commented on the enormous tree branch that had been blown from the oak directly in front of our bedroom window. Hadn't I heard it snapping in the night?

As a matter of fact, I hadn't. Because I was fast asleep WITH MY VIGILANCE SHIELD DOWN.

Damn.

I Can't Get No Respect

Receptionist: "Doctor's office, may I help you?"

Rimarama: "Yes! Could you put me through to Doctor P-Dawg, please? This is his wife."

Receptionist: "Sure, Mrs. P-Dawg. One moment, please."

P-Dawg: "Hey, Rimster, what's up?"

Rimarama: "WHERE ARE THE FREAKIN' KEYS TO THE FRICKITY-FRACKIN' WINE CELLAR, P-DAWG??? You better not have them with you at work!"

P-Dawg: "It's ten o'clock in the morning. Why do you ask?"

Rimarama: "I need red wine for my crock pot beef stew, Smarty McSmartypants. There are probably forty bottles down there, AND NOT A DROP TO DRINK! I mean, 'PUT IN MY BEEF STEW'!!!" It's maddening!



P-Dawg: "Check your key ring, Rimster. I put an extra on it."

Rimarama: "Really?"

P-Dawg: "Really."

Rimarama: "Oh, OK. Good! Because for a minute, I thought I was going to have to bust in there all Miami Vice style, you know? Or pick the lock, at the very least, for the sake of the stew."

P-Dawg: "What were you going to use? . . . a Q-Tip????????"


Then, the P-Dawg broke into riotous, guffawing laughter and I hung up on his a$$.

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In case anyone is interested in a vertigo update, the early verdict is that the earwax/rogue Q-Tip fiber extraction really helped. I have felt better today than I have in a long time - even my sinuses are clearer and I don't have my usual daily headache. So I'm hoping it does the trick. Now, I still have to do daily exercises to help my balance system right itself after being wonked out for so long, but I am definitely doing much better. In fact, I think everyone should get their ears cleaned out and their heads checked.

The only negative, really, is the fact that P-Dawg won't stop making fun of me, and my new nickname is "Q-Tip."

And it Doubles as a Bottle Opener

Before getting engaged, the P-Dawg and I didn't shop around for rings. In fact, I didn't see the proposal coming until he got down on one knee and offered up the diamond that had been burning a hole in his pocket all evening long.

Instead, on the day after he completed Part One of his medical boards, the P-Dawg simply went down to the "old neighborhood," where a family friend who owned a jewelry store/pawn shop sandwiched between a state license bureau and an ALDI supermarket set him up with some kwality gems.

After narrowing the selection down to a few engagement ring/wedding band combo sets, my husband-to-be took them to the license bureau next door, where various employees of the state of Ohio ooooeh, aaahhed, and graciously modeled each one in turn until a decision was finally reached.

To this day, the image of my beloved P-Dawg, weighing the pros and cons of each potential ring choice surrounded by the clucking ladies of the DMV warms the very cockles of my stony heart.

But . . . it's not quite enough to make up for the fact that, though I admire my engagement ring daily, I've never been able to warm up to its companion wedding band. In true ungrateful wench fashion, I feel that I was somehow gypped out of the Hallmark memory in which the P-Dawg and I shop for wedding bands together, skipping, hand-in-hand.

Also, when worn alone, it kind of resembles the tab top on a can of soda:

I know I could have bigger problems.

When the P-Dawg finally learned of my discontent, he offered to buy me a new wedding band at some point in the distant future, when financial circumstances allowed. Our fifth wedding anniversary (which has come and gone) was bandied about as a potential occasion for the big band switcheroo. But eight years later, I'm still wearing the original.

Yesterday morning I was enjoying my second cup of joe when the doorbell rang and I found myself the lucky, albeit accidental recipient of a Thanksgiving bouquet and $250 (TWO-FITTY!) gift card from a local jewelry store.

It wasn't a surprise gift from the P-Dawg. I think it was intended for the previous owners of our home, who moved out of state with no forwarding address. Apparently, they were valued patrons of a fine, non pawn shop type of jewelry establishment - we get a mailboxload full of high end catalogs for them every day.

After briefly debating the ethical issues inherent in keeping the "gift," I showed it to the P-Dawg, who only half jokingly asked me what I wanted to buy with it.

And you know what? After all this time, it may not be a new wedding band, after all.

It turns out I've kind of warmed up to the old tab top ring. This modest little band was infused with a mighty lot of hopes and dreams on that long ago day at the DMV, and I'm not sure I want to trade those in.

Would you?

Post It If You Got It

There are days when I say to myself, "Nay, I will not post the drivel today, for it is tedious."

Other days I'm happy to post like a broken record and suffer the consequences. (BRING IT, TROLLS!!!)

One thing I've learned about myself over the last month or so of home searching: I can switch fixations faster than democratic candidate allegiances.

(As you might imagine, my heart breaks for Hillary, but I'm Barackin' it now.)

On Tuesday night the P-Dawg came home and announced that he had chosen a morsel of real estate for us to call our permanent abode.

I attached myself to his pant leg while he went about the business of setting his briefcase down and loosening his tie, until such time as he saw fit to disclose our family's future.

It was a house we had seen before (He wouldn't pick one I hadn't even laid eyes on, would you, P-Dawg?), but we had deemed it a little too big, way overpriced, and in need of some TLC in the area of fugly 80s wallpaper and carpet removal.

However, if we could get it for a good price, the P-Dawg now announced, he felt that it would be the perfect choice.

We gave them an offer yesterday morning. Alas, our offer, in comparison to the asking price, was so low that it kicked up dust on the baseball diamond as it whizzed past the sellers, who swiftly rejected it and lobbed it back into my hopeful face.

Problem is, in the space of time it took for all of this to happen, I had already made out with this new house several times and was planning on bringing my toothbrush over that very night.

You see, once my greedy little brain had wrapped itself around the possibilities inherent in this latest home, it took mere moments to dump the spindle railing death trap house and jump into bed with ChateauRama.

The teal carpeting and peach orchid bonanza wallpaper in the master bath? Pffft! I would lovingly replace it with tranquil hues and cherry cabinetry from Restoration Hardware!

In no time flat, I was delightedly googling "fugly 80s glamour bath remodel" and fantasizing about which leather sectional I would buy for my new great room.

It's what I do, this fervent devotion to one fickle fantasy after another. I was going to fill in the backyard fountain with sand for the kids and host twinkling midsummer dinner parties on the patio, dammit.

And now? . . . back to square one. When we placed the bid yesterday, we also drew up offers for two other houses that the P-Dawg had selected to low-ball in quick succession until somebody is desperate enough to sell us their home.

This is the P-Dawg's clinical approach to real estate. He believes there to be a veritable glut of serviceable homes for us to buy, and only the unfortunate matter of price inflation standing between us.

Silly old sellers, overpricing their huts in a down market! We'll show them! We'll lo-ball every dang property that is up for sale this side of the Mississippi, and then we'll see who has the last laugh.

(Like, when we're living out of a suitcase at Extended Stay America, for instance.)

"You have to take the emotion out of it, Rimster," the P-Dawg tells me as I weep over the loft reading nook that could have been.

"My hopes are not high that any of these next two offers will be accepted," he continues, "But I have six more homes to bid on lined up right behind them, and I do believe that eventually, we will hit the jackpot."

I am to be fully prepared to accept rejection after rejection, to place all my emotional chips squarely on a series of wobbly tables that are destined to collapse up to seven more times.

I don't even know what to perseverate about anymore.

And so, I will not speak of this matter again until the ink is dry on the contract for Hut Beautiful, so help me God.

Waving the White Flag

No home bid yesterday due to decision paralysis and subsequent nervous breakdown.

Am relinquishing home search and subsequent decision making to the P-Dawg.

Am flaming ball of stress, cannot order off of restaurant menu. How to make big home purchase decision?

Not possible.

The P-Dawg is out with our real estate lady as I write, looking at homes and making purchase decisions, cool as a flippin' cucumber.

He is going to pick out a house for us and I have agreed to trust him with whatever decision he makes.

In fact, it was my dingbat idea.

AM I MOTHER EFFIN' CRAZY????

Yes, yes I am.

Paging Doctor Shakespeare

Next time I abandon my blog for a week, remind me to leave a post up about something other than radish sandwiches. What if The New Yorker had stumbled upon Rimarama while scouting for staff writers? I would have blown my chance at the big time.

Which brings me to the subject of today's post.

The P-Dawg and I have a longstanding argument about the nature of writing. For almost as long as I have known him, he's talked about the book inside of him, just waiting to be written. The P-Dawg has not yet penned a single word or even determined what the subject matter of his masterpiece will be, but he does know that, when it is unveiled, his tome will quickly propel him to celebrity and millionaire status.

Once, we were sitting in the living room after the kids were in bed and the P-Dawg said to me, "Rimster, get ready to type because I'm going to start dictating my novel."

It's galling.

From time to time, as we're browsing the stacks at Borders on what we both have come to regard as a hot date night, the P-Dawg will casually flip through the latest self-help bestseller and state, "I could have written this."

Rolling my eyeballs heavenward, I always restate my emphatic and indignant claim:

"P-Dawg, you don't even know the half of it! You can't just sit down and write a book. You have to plan! Research! Write, re-write, and write again! And that's not even taking into account all the time you must devote to self-promotion! Writing is hard work! If it were that easy, everyone would be published. Why, I've been polishing my short story for going on ten years now!"

"Rimster, anyone can write a book. You just have to come up with the right idea and apply yourself."

I won't lie - I've entertained the fantasy of being published. A syndicated advice or humor column would be ideal, but neither would I snub a stint on Chicken Soup for the Soul. It's the applying myself part, the sitting down and writing a query letter and then following up with an actual piece, that gets me every time.

You can just imagine my shock and awe, then, when the P-Dawg came home from work the other day and announced that he would be writing a regular medical advice column in a local paper.

"Seriously??? I didn't even know you were applying for this!"

"No application, Rimster. Just a phone call from the paper requesting my services."

"They just called you up and asked you to write a column for them???"

"Yo."

"Wow! That's awesome!" I exclaimed, a few puffs of steam escaping from my ears despite my best efforts to stop them. "I published a small piece about the merits of radish sandwiches and Magic Erasers today."

A week goes by and the P-Dawg goes about his usual business. Then, on Monday morning, as he's rounding at the hospital, he receives a phone call from his office manager.

"Dr. P-Dawg, the paper just called. Your first column is due this afternoon."

Without missing a beat, our budding journalist locates the nearest computer terminal, makes up a medical question willy-nilly, plunks out a high-falootin' answer replete with gobbledygook medical speak, shoots it off ten minutes later, and voila - he's published.

Me, I'm working on a book entitled, Married to Shakespeare - And You Can Too!

It's all about attitude, you see.

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That thing in the oven on my radish post? A play-doh and sticker pie the V-meister made for her imaginary friend's birthday back in August. And not one comment about the appalling state of my oven! You are too polite, dear readers.

Studly

The P-Dawg picked out his son's outfit this morning:



He said it looked "studly."

Tomorrow I will post a picture of the P-Dawg and the J-Dog both in their studly hoodies.

A question for those of you with small children: At what age do you feel comfortable letting your child play alone in a "childproof" room? We didn't let the V-meister stack two blocks together without adult supervision, but we have a much more relaxed attitude with the J-dog, who has even been known to nuke his own Gerber graduate toddler meals from time to time.*

Lately, I've been letting him play upstairs in his room while I do important work elsewhere in the house. Sometimes I even forget to turn the baby monitor on.

But today, the little J-Dog wandered into the Utopia that is the V-meister's room and hit paydirt by upending her Valentine's Day goodie bag. I found him up there a few minutes ago EATING A SEASHELL.

So now I'm thinking that twenty-two months may be a bit too early to loosen the reigns and will resume helicopter parenting mode.

(Incidentally, the J-Dog is PO'd at me now because I wouldn't let him sit on my keyboard as I tried to type this post. He's standing at the front picture window crying for Da-DEE, who will be home from work in approximately eight hours.)

Good luck with that, little buddy.

I hope you all have a warm and fuzzy weekend!

*Of course not.

This Might Earn Me an NC-17 Rating

P-Dawg: "Hey, Rimster, what part of the human body expands to twelve times its normal size when subjected to external stimulation?"

Rimarama: "Your pecker?"

P-Dawg: "No, the pupil."*


*This question was originally posed by Winston Churchill during a 1930s Cambridge lecture.

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But this is how I know we're no longer newlyweds:

Rimarama (excited): "Hey, P-Dawg, I took this "Which Lost Character Are You" quiz on Facebook and you'll never guess who I am!!!"

P-Dawg: "The evil guy with the bug eyes?"

(Actually, I'm Doctor. Jack. Shephard.)

But First I Removed the Beam from My Own Eye

My husband has hyper-sensitive eyes protected by lashes so long that they enter the room a full minute before he does. (A cruel joke of nature that such bounty should be wasted on a man, but there you have it.)

You can't so much as wave an index finger two feet from his ocular orb without the P-dog flinching in terror before collapsing to the floor and folding himself into a turtle shell.

As you might imagine, a foreign particle, such as the one that was apparently trapped beneath his eyelid last night, constitutes a five-alarm emergency.

After a few minutes of back and forth over the the various chores involved in shutting down the house for the night ("Hey, P-dog, will you run the dishwasher before you go up thanks!" "I ran it last night." "Yeah, but I unplugged the Christmas tree." "I'll do it if you turn down the thermostat and check the front door"), we headed upstairs to execute our unique bedtime rituals.

My bedtime routine involves tooth brushing, flossing (six teeth a night, give or take a few, every five days on a rotating schedule - huge time saver), face washing, moisturizer, lip balm, noise machine volume adjustment, an occasional Benadryl or Tylenol PM, obsessive sheet straightening, and five minutes of reading the New Yorker before it falls on my face, waking me up.

The P-dog's routine involves tooth brushing, thorough flossing (except when on vacation), face washing, and two minutes of reading The History of the World before it falls on his face, waking him up.

Last night, his routine was shot to hell by the foreign object the P-dog was convinced was lodged beneath his eyelid.

Just as I finished positioning my stack of pillows just so and settled into bed, the P-dog came staggering into the room with one hand covering his left eye, ranting about the splinter that was rendering him senseless with pain.

Although it inconvenienced me to no end, I put my magazine down and agreed to take a look around, see what I could find.

Flipping the P-dog's eyelid back and shining an ultraviolet fold-up clip-on reading lamp into it did not yield favorable results and almost got both of us killed.

(There was a lot of thrashing, lamentation, and gnashing of teeth while the procedure was being performed, and the P-dog, besides being a whole foot taller, also outweighs me by about a hundred pounds.)

I suggested that perhaps his eye was simply a tad dry and would he like some Visine?

Did you ever see that episode of Friends where the gang wrestles Rachel to the ground in order to administer eye drops?

A similar scene took place in our bedroom last night, the P-dog being physically and psychologically incapable of himself executing this task that he considers akin to gouging his own eye out with an ice pick.

It was not easy, but I managed to keep his head relatively steady while squirting a stream of thirst quenching drops in the general direction of his left eyeball.

"Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh! You're killing me, Rimster! Killing me! Enough! Enough already!" he wailed.

But the source of ocular irritation persisted.

"Why don't you sleep on it, P-dog, and maybe it will work itself out by morning."

"I don't have the luxury of time, Rimster! If this pain does not end soon, I will be a cyclops by morning ! How would you like a one-eyed husband?"

(Squints at me with one eye shut while making pirate noises.)

After a few more minutes of moaning and writhing, the P-dog finally fell asleep.

I didn't get a good look at him this morning before he left for work, but I think I would have noticed an eye patch.

Men are so sensitive.

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I want to thank everyone who commented on yesterday's post about vertigo for your concern and earnest suggestions.

I am going to try making some changes in my diet, as Gadzooks and Alejna suggested, and see what happens. (You just gave me free license to eat potato chips all day long.)

I'm a little wary of going to a chiropractor, as Kathryn suggested, but I would give acupuncture a try.

Amy takes the cake, though. How could I not further investigate author Stasi Eldredge's claim, in her book, Captivating, that her severe dizziness was the result of spiritual attacks??? I heart you, Amy.

Another Sign of Aging

Yesterday evening, as the P-Dog prepared to go out with a friend, I noticed that the bottoms of his jeans were rolled up in a way that was not pleasing to me.

"For the love of God, P-Dog, will you please unroll those jeans? That is so totally 80s!" I chided, pointing my eyeballs to the heavens.

As the P-Dog adjusted the hems, I took note of his shoes, stumped as to how they had previously escaped my attention.

(They don't call me "eagle eyes" for nothing.)

"And those Docs!" I practically fell off the couch. "Those are so 80s, it makes me want to spray my hair pink and go to a Smiths concert! And smoke a clove! At Denny's!" I yelped. "What's next? A safety pin nose ring?"

"Aren't you going to comment on my leather jacket?" P-Dog said, as he pulled his collar up around his ears and stepped out the door.

I shouldn't be so hard on the P-Dog.

After all, I'm writing this post in a Depeche Mode concert tee and some chunky Mary Janes.

But the only safety pin I'm sporting is holding up my pants.

Fear Mongering, It's Scary Stuff

Whenever possible, the P-dog and I like to kick back and watch the evening news.

This shouldn't come as too great a surprise, since we also consider the symphony a happening place to be on a Saturday night.

The evening news hour hasn't been the same since the Brokaw/Jennings/Rather trifecta disintegrated, but we've gotten into the habit of having a cup of Ovaltine (I kid) and taking in a V1agra commercial or two with our evening Bushapalooza as a way to unwind.

(No, we didn't catch the last Golden Girls re-run on Nick at Night, why do you ask?)

But in reality, watching the news does more to key me up than to help me chill out. More often than not, I end up turning it off in disgust, boredom, or because someone needs my assistance in getting his head extracted from the space between couch and wall.

Last night, the news catapulted me into a full scale paranoia-induced meltdown and resulted in the exchange of cross words with the P-dog, all thanks to a segment about a recent increase in cases of deadly, drug-resistant staph infection.

As always, the underlying tone of the piece was No one is safe! This can happen to you! The world is a dangerous place! Be very, very afraid!

Obedient media consumer that I am, I took this information very much to heart and became immediately convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that a lingering rash I've noticed on the little V-meister is caused by nothing less than the lethal drug-resistant staph bacteria itself, a time bomb waiting to explode by crossing the blood barrier to wreak complete havoc on her fragile little system.

Naturally, I blamed the P-dog, who happens to be in the medical profession, for not being more concerned about the V-meister's rash, for not alerting me to the fact that it could be DEADLY, for being lackadaisical about our children's welfare, blah blah blah and then there was the time when she had a 104 fever and you were going to put her to bed without even taking her temperature is it only people with challenging medical conditions that you care about what about your own flesh and blood blah blah blah.

I can be kind of high-strung.

After conducting numerous Google searches and consulting several medical texts, we've pretty much come to the conclusion that the V-meister has your garden variety (possibly skid-mark related) contact dermititis, but my whole point here is that the fear mongering perpetrated by the media in this country is getting too much for me to take.

Have you ever watched Glenn Beck? I try to avoid him like the plague he warns is imminent, but sometimes I can't help but stop and stare in wonder at his gigantic talking head for a few moments while channel-surfing. I would be very surprised if the man does not, in fact, live in an underground bunker. Every other show he does is about signs pointing to the end of days.

Do you watch any one of the early morning news shows? Have you noticed how many segments to do with childhood illness and accidents happen to run during the 9-10 o'clock hour when the stay-at-home mom set tunes in over their morning cup of joe?

Have you ever noticed what a huge amount of airplay even the slightest, casualty-free airline mishap gets?

Did you, even for a moment, consider not having your children vaccinated because of the (as yet uncorrelated) possibility that certain vaccines might cause autism?

Are you, like me, afraid of microwaving anything inside a tupperware container because of that "microwaving plastic causes cancer" email that was going around?

I know that sensational stories garner ratings. I know that perspective and a grain of salt is what I need. Just because Brian Williams told me more people died of drug-resistant staph infection than of AIDS last year alone, doesn't mean I'll get it.

But I'm still afraid.

Not just of super-viruses. Of everything.

What I want to know:

How do you sort out what to keep and what to throw away?

What is your metaphorical sieve?

How do you leave your house in the morning when the world at large would have you believe the sky is about to fall down?

Letter To My Teenage Self

This post is a response to yet another writing challenge posted by Amy. The assignment was to write a letter to your teenage self. I tried to go by the name “Veronica” in high school because I loved the Elvis Costello song by the same name. After this one, I’m taking a break from the “open letter” style of blogging, promise.

Dear Veronica,

Go ahead and blow your nose. Splash some cold water on your face. Then get up, take the Smith’s “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” off the eternal repeat setting of your stereo, and put your journal away. Why don’t you go outside and get some fresh air? Your mother is right, you know.

Somebody is going to love you.

It’s not going to be the goofball football player everyone and their sister has a crush on. It’s not going to be the supremely coiffed philosopher with impeccable taste in clothes and music. (He’s gay.) It’s not one of the parade of naughty or nice boys you spent endless summers at Lithuanian camp pining away for. And it’s not the guy who played Jesus in your high school production of Godspell.

Your future soul mate is a member of the juggling and chess clubs. He got the highest score on his high school math entrance exam and he is down in his basement right now, playing Dungeons and Dragons.

He’s your man.

You will meet him at a college party. Your initial reaction will be one of mild terror, as he’s going to look like this and you will be convinced that he is the drug-dealer your mother always warned you about:

But he’ll grow on you. It will take several years. In fact, after eventually dating him for a summer you will casually dump him to live in France, the place you are convinced your true soul mate resides. Once you discover that French men are actually kind of creepy and return home in hopes of rekindling the flame, it will be too late. He will be taken, dating someone else.

This man you will eventually marry, he will take you to the symphony for your first date, having borrowed his dad’s wing tips and donned an ill-fitting suit over his Jane's Addiction T-shirt. On your birthday, you will dine together at a little Ethiopian restaurant in the hood, where you will sit cross-legged on straw mats and share a dish of wat stew and injera bread. You will drink Rolling Rocks and eat thirty-cent hard boiled eggs together at Ernie’s dive bar, where you will later end up making out by the bathroom door while Patsy Cline plays on the juke box.

He will love you even after you throw out his favorite flannel shirt in hopes that it will help him come around to wearing the black turtleneck you got him from Banana Republic. One night, when you can’t sleep for the steady sound of cars driving over a steel plate in the road outside your apartment, he will indulge you by going outside clad in a ski mask and hoodie to try to move it.

When you are pregnant with your first child, he will go to Burger King at seven in the morning the day you wake up famished and nothing but a sausage, egg, and cheese croissandwich will do. He will stay by you as you scream, cry, pummel him, and threaten to jump out the window of your maternity ward room, convinced that you made a colossal mistake in daring to become a mother and fearing that you will never smile or laugh again after the birth of your daughter. He will change, clothe, rock, and bathe your baby because you are unwilling and afraid until the day your melancholy veil is lifted and you come to realize how lucky you are.

Later, when your children are older, but not yet so old that spending long winter days cooped up indoors won’t send you into a funk that only a chick flick viewed alone in a dark theatre can ease, he will come home from his own long day and allow you to high-tail it out into the cold, dark night for the sake of your sanity even before he’s had the chance to remove his suit and tie.

He is handsome, intelligent, and funny. You can talk to him about God, literature, art, and poop. And you will never have to do your income taxes again.

He’s the one.

XXOO,
You

P.S. Put out that stupid cigarette.