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?

The Ritual

"Are you ready?" the P-Dawg inquires every night at eleven.

"No! I'm still brushing my teeth!" I tell him through a mouthful of foam. He stops in the doorway, adjusts the drawstring on an ancient pair of hospital issue scrubs-turned-pajamas, and waits.

When we have both completed our nightly hygiene routines, activated the security system, and dimmed the lights, it is finally time. Hand-in-hand, we make our way down the upstairs hallway to perform the ritual that has been bookending our days for the past six and a half years . . .

The Checking of the Kids.

We enter the V-meister's lair first. She is nearly always lying flat on her back and so still that I'm compelled to lean in close enough to let our molecules mingle. A pink flashlight and a copy of The Grapes of Math rest on her warm, narrow chest. For kicks, the P-Dawg takes one gravid little hand by the wrist and lifts it high into the air, then lets it drop like a weight onto the mattress. V-meister could sleep through the apocalypse. I brush tendrils of sweaty hair away from her forehead as I kiss it.

We close the door and cross the hall.

Some nights we find J-dog slumbering on the floor, some nights on his mattress with derrier in the air. And sometimes he's kneeling at the side of the bed with his face planted in Dr. Seuss's Dictionary. There is a never ending procession of items to be removed from underneath his sheets: a Twilight Turtle, a walkie-talkie, a city of Legos, an armada of matchbox cars. The P-Dawg whispers subliminal messages into his ear. "You will poop on the potty . . . you will not wake up before seven o'clock." I kiss his forehead and he flinches, swatting at my greedy love.

We close the door gently and pad off to bed. At least for one more night, everyone is safe and accounted for. Our day's work is done.

******************************************************************************************

When my brothers and I would return home from college for the holidays, our mother never failed to state how good it was having us all together under one roof. I could never understand this. What difference did it make where we were sleeping?

Oh, I get it now. And even though I still think it's creepy, Lord help me I am starting to identify with the old lady in the childrens' book Love You Forever.

You know, the one who would sneak into her grown son's house at night to watch him sleep?


The V-meister, three months old. We could
not figure out why, the first night we brought
her home from the hospital, stuck a pacifier in
her mouth, swaddled her burritolike and set
her down in the middle of a vast expanse of crib,
she would not fall asleep.

I Also Think Vladimir Putin is Kind of Cute

I have developed a crush on Thomas Jefferson.

It was bound to happen, what with all the time we've been spending together lately.

I tried to break it to my husband gently, by means of a funny anecdote over dinner.

"So," I said, idly twirling some pasta around my fork, "I'm finally starting to get into my book club book."

"Oh?" said the P-Dawg between bites of chicken.

"Yeah! It's like, all of a sudden, I'm very interested in Thomas Jefferson. As a person."

The P-Dawg put down his fork and gave me his full attention.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I can't stop thinking about him. He was a fascinating and surprisingly sensitive guy. In fact, I was so preoccupied daydreaming about plantation life this morning, that I completely missed our freeway exit while driving the kids to school!"

"You missed the freeway exit because you were thinking about Thomas Jefferson?"

"Yes, isn't that funny?"

"What were you thinking?"

"Just stuff. You don't have to make it sound dirty."

Of course it's not the first time I've become infatuated with a political figure. I have had a crush on every Democratic presidential candidate since Bill Clinton, and Josh Lyman will always have a special place in my heart.

It is, however, the first time I've ever fancied a man two hundred years dead.

Don't judge me. My friend V (also a book club member) thinks he's hawt, too. When I confided my feelings about T.J. to her this weekend, she admitted that she can't help but periodically flip over to the page with Jefferson's portrait on it as she's reading. "I only wish he wasn't a redhead" my friend V lamented.

Tell me, readers. Who is your political/historic crush?


Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love


Photo courtesy of Google Images.

I Am a (Very Sensitive) Home Economist

Yesterday afternoon, J-dog and V-meister kidnapped me and the P-Dawg by gunpoint and forced us to drive them to Red Robin for lunch. As we were waiting for our food to arrive, I noticed my husband eyeing me with a look of concern.

P-Dawg: "So, I've been thinking about what you might want to do when you eventually re-enter the workforce."

Rima: "Are you calling me lazy?"

P-Dawg: "No, no, it's just that-"

Rima: "I'm very busy, you know. Very busy. It's not like I'm running around getting pedicures."

P-Dawg: "No, of course not. But I've been thinking that-"

Rima: "I have too much time on my hands? Because let me tell you something, mister . . ."

P-Dawg: "No, it's not that. It's-"

Rima: "I spend a lot of time on laundry and general home economics. And tidying up. Do you think our family's shoes line themselves up from smallest to largest in the entryway all by themselves?"

P-Dawg: "Thank you. Listen, I'm not saying right away, but hear me out for a minute-"

Rima: "Not to mention menu planning and food preparation. These things don't come easily to me, but I do them out of love."

P-Dawg: "I know you do, and I appreciate it, I really do. But I know you want to eventually get back to work and I've been thinking about some options you may want to consider."

Rima: "Plus there's violin practice, and my charities . . . "*

P-Dawg: "For example, I think you might really enjoy starting your own business. You could do something you love, make your own hours, and not be confined to a cubicle."

Rima: "ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT?"

********************************************************************************************

While I do plan to go back to some form of work eventually, I apparently don't want to talk about it yet.

(And for the record, what P-Dawg had in mind was for us to start our own day trading business. Which I think has something to do with the stock market and is the OBVIOUS CHOICE for a person with degrees in French, English, and Edumacation who has no idea what's even in her 401k plan, regardless of the fact that she is routinely quizzed about it at the dinner table.)

On the other hand, it's heartening to know that the P-Dawg was merely projecting his own career aspirations onto his wife, and not trying to prematurely foist her on corporate America in curlers and a bathrobe.


*There are no charities

Hack Job

I just submitted the lamest essay in the history of humor writing contests to this competition. Every year I think, "I should enter that!" and every year I miss the deadline because I don't know how to use the alarm feature on my iCalendar.

This year my friend KC emailed to remind me about it in the nick of time. I couldn't just copy and paste an old blog post into the entry form (they don't accept stuff that's been previously published, even on a personal website), but neither could I restrain from giving it the old college try. So I chained myself to my laptop at the very last minute and tried to crank out some funny.

The funny was not forthcoming. I could barely string two words together. The kids were mouth breathing down my neck, my bra was digging into my armpit, and irritation oozed out of my every pore. Plus when I was putting the final touches on my stupid-ass entry, I was completely distracted by the sound of the P-Dawg trying to cough up a bezoar in the bathroom down the hall. It was the last straw vis-a-vis: my ability to produce humor, so I just spell-checked my pathetic essay and sent it off.

When the P-Dawg and I were lounging on the couch after dinner, I asked him what had happened earlier in the bathroom. "Because it was really hard for me to concentrate on my humor essay with you hocking loogies in there" I said.

"Oh, it was nothing" the P-Dawg answered. "I was just drinking some spice-infused coffee when I accidentally inhaled a clove. I tried to cough it up, but it got lodged in my nose."

"Oh, my God! Are you OK? DID YOU GET IT OUT?"

"No." the P-Dawg answered, "It's still in there."

And for a moment I was very upset with him, because an essay about one's husband getting a clove nubbin stuck in his nose would have been downright hilarious.

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."

Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them*

Yesterday morning, I was practicing my note on the violin when I remembered that I hadn't fed Valentine and Clementine yet.

After drinking a second cup of coffee, emptying the dishwasher, checking the Halloween weather forecast, and scheming ways to get my hands on some swine flu vaccine, I went upstairs to tend to the fish.

As far as I could tell, Clementine was exhibiting normal goldfish behavior, but Valentine was dead.

Carp! I mean, "crap!"

I scurried away to consult Dr. Google ("What does it mean if my goldfish is floating head down and not moving or breathing?"), posted it all over Facebook and Twitter, and was temporarily bouyed by the myriad of possible ailments that might cause a goldfish to behave in this manner (and believe me, there are quite a few.)

I'd peek in on him with hope throughout the day, but he looked dead every time.

When the P-Dawg came home that evening, I cornered him.

"I have some bad news. Either Valentine is dead, or very, very ill. He's floating motionless at the bottom of the tank, tangled up in some seaweed next to SpongeBob. I first noticed it this morning and have been monitoring the situation hourly."

"To make sure he's still dead?"

"Shut up! He might be constipated."

The P-Dawg went upstairs to investigate and silently pronounced him at around 8:30 PM while the little V-meister hovered obliviously about, marveling at Valentine's ability to sleep upside down. Then he scooped Valentine out of the tank and made his stealthy way to the bathroom down the hall.

"Where are you taking Valentine, Daddy? Is he still sleeping?" the V-meister wanted to know.

The bathroom door closed swiftly and soon a hearty flush was heard.

When P-Dawg emerged, the V-meiser was beside herself with grief. "WHAT DID YOU DO WITH VALENTINE?" she wailed.

The P-Dawg couldn't break it to her. We just weren't prepared for "the talk" yet.

"I'll tell you tomorrow," he said.

But the V-meister persisted, so the P-Dawg had no other choice but to tell her

. . . a honkin' pack of lies.

(Valentine, you see, had been unwell in her tank environment and therefore had to go - via our bathroom plumbing - straight into Lake Erie, where she is now swimming happily about with her toxic friends.)

Another thing that went down the toilet last night: my earlier pledge to be honest with my kids about the harsh realities of life.


*Apologies to Al Franken

The Lowdown on the Wrapup

P-Dawg and I went on a weekend spa getaway to celebrate our anniversary.  Timid spa virgins no longer, we signed ourselves up for massages and seaweed wraps.  I thought they'd roll me up in some wet leaves and twenty minutes later I'd be skinny, but that's not how it went down.

First I almost kicked the massage therapist's teeth out when he tried to exfoliate my feet (I'm very sensitive), and then a smelly, wet paste made out of ground up seaweed was smeared all over my bod-day - kind of a shocker when you're expecting to be swaddled in something more akin to a fig leaf.  (I am from Ohio.)

Next, the P-Dawg and I were individually folded, burritolike, in some butcher block paper and a layer of warm thermal foil.  Then we were left alone in our respective mud cocoons for about twenty minutes to dwell on the various itches that developed the minute our arms were incapacitated. 


"P-Dawg?"

"Yep."

"I have a facial twitch."

"A new one?"

"No. Will I die?"

"Someday."

(Time passes.)

"P-Dawg?"

"Right here."

"I really have to see a man about a horse."

"Me too."

"We oughtn't have pounded that mineral water."

(A few minutes are spent staring at the ceiling and listening to Enya.)

"P-Dawg?"

"Yep."

"I actually didn't realize it was going to be mud."

"Me neither."


"Do you think our bod-days are really being detoxified?"

"Nope."

"Well, crap. I was sort of counting on being a dress size smaller after this."

When all was said and done, I may have lost a pound or two of water weight and my skin was as smooth as a baby's butt for a solid week, but I'm not sure it was worth it on account of the ick factor.  Plus, I gained it all back when we went out to dinner that night, so it was kind of a wash.

And therefore I give seaweed wraps, as a general category, a solid "C" rating.  But I give our anniversary getaway weekend an "A+."

Nine

9-9-00


"And you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another but make not a bond of love:

Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls."


-Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Whistleblower

We were all in the car yesterday heading to a Labor Day picnic and the V-meister was chattering about What She Wants to Be When She Grows Up. She's enamored of the P-Dawg lately and alternates between wanting to be a doctor or a veterinarian.

She could not have been more impressed on the handful of occasions when he's taken her to the office or the hospital, where the V-meister was allowed to color in the physician's lounge and granted unlimited access to cookies and PBSkids.org at the nurses' station while her father finished up rounds. (I was home eating bonbons and watching The View, of course)

***************************************************************************

V-meister: "When I grow up, I'm going to be a veterinarian and I will take my children with me to work."

Me: "That sounds excellent!"

(pause)

V-meister: "Mama, I really want YOU to be something when you grow up, too!"

(!)

also:

(Crap!)

P-Dawg: "Mama is something. But she's taking a little break from it now to help you and your brother grow up."

V-Meister: "Well . . . what is she?"

Me: "I'm sitting right here, you guys."

P-Dawg: "She's . . . a writer!"

V-Meister, skeptical: "Does she still know how to write?"

Me: "YES! YES, I DO!" (Probably. Maybe.)

V-Meister, unconvinced: "Well. That's good."

*****************************************************************************
Ouch.

You know what? I wasn't really stung by the fact that my daughter does not yet (will she ever?) recognize mothering as valuable work, but rather because dammit! I still want to BE SOMETHING when I grow up.


"This is total bull$hit."

Blessed

The P-Dawg turned another year older yesterday. It was the coldest and most overcast August 30th either of us can remember.



But it was very good.

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.

Mission

It was on the day the space shuttle Columbia disintegrated that I took the pregnancy test.

We had decided just a few weeks before that the time was as ripe as it ever would be for babymaking and I, with a green light from my psyche, the P-Dawg, and the ob/gyn, made it my personal mission to beat the estimated odds of conceiving in “six months to one year.”

P-Dawg’s input and DNA would be required, naturally, for implementation, but I took greedy ownership of the planning and strategy phases with the same singularity of purpose I had once dedicated to making the Dean’s List, getting the scholarship, scoring the interview, landing the job.

To this end, babymaking books were purchased and studied religiously. Google searches employing phrases like, “How to get pregnant super fast” were performed, and morning temperatures were charted. I was tuned into my body’s every twitch and secretion in the way that only a woman meticulously planning conception can be.

One afternoon just days after our first scheduled attempt, I was driving home from work when I noticed how uncomfortable the tug of the seat belt across my chest had become. My ta-tas, as it happened, were sore in a whole new way, and they heralded a light bulb moment the likes of which I hadn't experienced to date.

I began groping myself right there in the driver's seat of my blue Saturn sedan, cautiously at first, then with no holds barred. Does it hurt when I press here? Yes! What about here? Yes! If I mash them together? By, God, it does! And if I press myself full tilt into the steering wheel? I just might be pregnant.

It was too early to take a test, yet impossible, from that point on, to ignore the goings on: continued soreness, strange, cramplike twitches in the nether regions, and a sharp, stabbing pain that woke me up in the middle of one night to be followed by unmistakably rosier than usual cheeks the very next morning.

I endured the requisite number of days before an early pregnancy test could be taken. On the morning of that day, with the P-Dawg still on his overnight call shift at the hospital, I planned a deliberate trip to the drugstore. As I prepared to leave, the cable channels were playing and replaying the same few clips of space shuttle Columbia breaking up in blue skies over Texas.

And in the car on the way to the pharmacy, listening to a DJ announce news of the tragedy with thinly veiled excitement, before the pregnancy test had even been purchased or peed on, I knew with certainty that a catastrophic space mission would always be entwined in my memory with the day I learned that my first baby would come to be.

The test, of course, was positive: my dear little V-meister in her earliest iteration, as evidenced by a blurry pink line. Yet I was surprised at how closely my initial joy was followed by a pang of fear and the very first inkling of the buzzing, baseline anxiety that comes part and parcel with the act of bringing a child into this world.

And I've been living with the uneasy knowledge that ecstasy and despair are never more than a heartbeat away, one from the other, ever since that day when my fervent hope was confirmed as inky smoke trails, obvious evidence of human frailty and ultimate demise, arched across a Texas sky.

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$$.

******************************************************************************************************************************************

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."

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

Do you know what happens if you sign up for Jazzercise, attend a few sessions, then stop going altogether?

Sure, there's the muscle atrophy and the weight gain la la la, but that pales in comparison to the fact that the Jazzercise people just keep on charging your credit card every month. Even if you haven't stepped foot in their smelly old gym for almost a year.

And because of this, your husband will badger you until it gets so that you can't even have a normal conversation anymore without the subject turning to Jazzercise:

Rimarama: "Top o' the morning to ye, P-Dawg! 'Tis my earnest hope that the new day finds you well-rested and in good spirits, yea, forsooth."

P-Dawg: "Did you cancel your Jazzercise membership yet?"

Rimarama: "I will do it on the morrow."

P-Dawg: "I've heard that before. How hard can it be to call them up and quit?"

Rimarama: "Tis a wretched chore, my lord. When first I endeavored to do the exercise of jazz, they gave unto me a scrap of parchment to render forth if a time came such that I was desirous to break free of the Jazzercing coil. But I LOST that slip of paper, P-Dawg, not two days forth unto the Jazzercising."

P-Dawg: "OK, so-"

Rimarama: "Plus, you have to show up in person during a regularly scheduled class, with your passport and firstborn! Also something about tap dancing and turning in an essay explaining why you are forsaking your cardiovascular health. It sounded worse than trying to get out of AOL, or even quitting the Firm!"

(Plus, you never know when the urge to don a unitard and shake your booty in the school gym will hit again.)

Well, last week I finally faced the music and worked up the nerve to go cancel. With the P-Dawg cheering me on, I pulled out of my driveway, drove across town, parked the Ramamobile, waltzed into the community center, and marched right up to the attendance ladies who were sitting at their little card table by the gym entrance, punching tickets and peddling their Jazzercise wares.

I was a woman on a mission, speeding bulletlike toward my target. I knew that if I wavered for even one second, the Jazzercise mafia would suck me in, convincing me to "just give it one more shot" and I'd end up inside that gym doing jazz hands to a Carly Simon song in my street clothes next to Velma of the velour pantsuit.

It was going to be of the utmost importance that I establish a no-nonsense "I will not take no for an answer" attitude if I was going to accomplish the dirty business at hand.

"May I help you?"

"Yes! I need to cancel my membership. I recently moved and it's been really hard to attend class at this location. Also my kid kept freaking out in the daycare room but I could never make it to the evening class on time because my husband works late. But don't get me wrong, I really enjoyed the class and it's very unfortunate that I can no longer attend but OK, see here's the deal, I lost the little slip of paper, you know, the thingy you're supposed to bring with you to cancel? They told me I needed to hold on to that and, well, I totally lost it, but you can't really blame me because I moved and then we were living out of a suitcase with my parents for like two months and I really hope it's not going to be a problem because-

"Just sign here."

"Oh! OK! Do you need to see my credit card?"

"No."

"Really? How about a drivers' license or state ID?"

"No, just the signature is fine."

"OK . . . I could write an essay explaining the reason for my cancellation! A brief synopsis, if you will."

"No, just the signature."

"Huh. I'm guessing you don't want to see me tap dance."

(silence)

"Okey-doke, then . . . (signs name with flourish.) Wow, that was so much easier than I thought it would be!"

"No problem. You could have just called."

Readers, I turned and walked out with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. It was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders and placed directly back into my wallet.

Except . . . now the weather's turned cold and speedwalking is out of the question, I need a new means of maintaining my cardiovascular health. I'll be frank - the treadmill bores me to tears and I do have a tendency to lose my footing. And if you say, "You could always jump rope in the privacy of your living room," I'll mess you up like I messed up my pot roast.

No, what I could really use is a Wii Fit, and Magpie's got one to spare.

I need a Wii Fit because it:

• Won't subject the little J-dog to the horrors of the daycare room
• Won't auto-deduct from my bank account
• Could care less what time I show up for class
• Won't charge me for missed days
• Is way cooler and more up to date than Jazzercising
• And it sure as heck won't put me through the wringer if I ever decide to break up with it. (Which I totally never would.)

Oh! Would that I had one!

What's Up, Doc?

In my family, garden pest control is serious business.

My dad is a gentle soul by nature, but he keeps a professional grade slingshot always at the ready for his rabbit nemesis. You never know when that doggone rabbit is going to turn up in the garden, and the last thing you want to be is caught unprepared.

One time it showed up during a family Scrabble tournament and my dad forfeited the chance to score a triple word score using the letter "Q" for what he saw as his golden opportunity to take Bugsy down once and for all. One minute he's sitting at the dining room table, rubbing his palms together over his trophy prospects, and next thing you know, he's crouching behind a rhododendron bush out back.

I can't even tell you how many times I've popped in on him standing stock still by the back door with his slingshot poised to shoot, but as far as I know, the rabbit and all his progeny are still on the premises.

Then there's Uncle Vic, whose been fighting the chipmunk family in his backyard for going on ten years now. After trying every method known to man to rid his vegetable garden of the chipmunk contagion, my uncle finally resorted to smoking them out with fireworks. But those chipmunks are still partying it up under his lawn, and my uncle's got a deck of cards in his nightstand with a picture of their leader on the ace of spades.

With the arrival of the P-Dawg into the Rama clan, however, a new age dawned in the realm of man-on-rodent combat - the age of technology.

When we were first married and living in the hut, the P-Dawg and I discovered a skunk family living under our back porch. After placing several unanswered calls to our city's pest control department, my husband decided to take matters into his own twenty-first century hands. And that meant "internet research."

Luckily, I happened to walk into the computer room just as the P-Dawg, his index finger poised above the mouse button, was preparing to click "Confirm Order" on a batch of powdered fox urine.

Rimarama: "Tell me you are not ordering urine over the internet, P-Dawg."

P-Dawg: "Just hear me out, Rimster! According to the extensive internet research I've been doing, fox urine is the very last word in skunk control."

Rimarama: "Are you freakin' kidding me, P-Dawg? For all you know, some dude peed in a cup and you're about to send him $39.95 for it! I can't let you do this! Please step away from the computer now."

The skunks were eventually exterminated using more conventional means, but the P-Dawg's war on pestilence was just beginning.

I got a UPS shipment this afternoon. Hoping that my new flannel sheets had finally arrived, I tore the package open to find a load of these:



"The Pestacator": A solar powered, underground rodent repellent. The P-Dawg plans to use them to wage war on the mole colony in our front yard.

Let the games begin.

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?

Let Her Eat Stroganoff

Today I'm talking about food and how much I love to eat it.

The first thing I'd like to comment on is how unfair it is that, as a petite woman of a certain age, I can only eat about two calories a day without developing the figure of a Russian nesting doll.

I was playing with those weight loss calculation websites this morning, trying to figure out how many calories I can consume per day. Bad news, my peeps: no matter how you dice it, I'm allowed the daily caloric intake of a fruit fly.

Whenever I complain about this, everyone's all, "Oh, but you're little! You're not as hungry as the rest of us!" And then I lean over and bite their head off because Like hellz I'm not hungry, betches!

When the P-Dawg was a kid, his mom would occasionally buy him and his older brothers an Arby's "Five for Five" special for dinner. The problem was that there were only five roast beef sandwiches to split between three growing boys.

To hear my husband tell it, the Arby's bag would be placed on the table and then he and his brothers would basically have at it like a pack of starving wolves. The faster you were able to scarf down your sandwich, the better your chances of getting seconds and growing to adulthood.

P-Dawg cites this "every man for himself" upbringing as the reason why he continues to eat his meals as though someone is pointing a gun to his head.

Same goes for leftovers. Let's say I'm saving a piece of cake in the fridge and come to find, when I'm finally ready to partake, that the P-Dawg has eaten it.

He'll say, "It was sitting in there for three days! I didn't think you were ever going to eat it."

"I WAS TOTALLY GOING TO EAT IT TONIGHT, P-DAWG!!!"

Then I'll sulk for the rest of the evening, hijack the TV remote, and watch E! True Hollywood Story while blogging because that'll show him.

The same thing happens when we go to dinner at his mom's house and P-Dawg's brothers are there. Say my mother-in-law has made a bowl of tasty beef stroganoff. If, like me, you have the additional self-imposed responsibility of keeping the dinner conversation going and are therefore not quick to inhale your portion, well you can just forget about seconds, missy.

This used to happen to me over there all the time. I'd help myself to a dinky little lady's portion with a meat to noodles ratio of 1:4 and by the time I was ready for seconds, the brothers-in-Dawg would be sprawled all over the living room couches, digesting what was left of the meal.

I'd go home hungry every time until one day, I decided to change up the game. As soon as we finished saying grace, I yelled, "Carpe Diem!" and dove in, helping myself to a heaping plateful of stroganoff before anyone else could have at it. There were noodles spilling over the sides of my plate, but I didn't care because I was finally going to eat my fill.

The family was obviously shocked and appalled at my balls of brass, eyeing my overflowing plate as if to say, "Who does the little runt think she is, taking a man's portion of stroganoff??? But I felt completely justified, if only a little piggish, and I'll tell you something else: I ate the whole damn thing.

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I'd also like to confirm today what everyone probably already knows, which is that Guy Kawasaki rawks. Do you know that only about five minutes after I published this post, shamelessly asking him to list my blog on Alltop, Guy took a moment out of technology empire building to leave a comment saying I'm in? (Thank you!)

And even though Rimarama is dead last on the "Moms" page, I'm cool with it because Alltop puts their banner at the bottom.

And that makes me Number One.