I'll take mine on the rocks, please...

What would you do ...

... if ---

every time you visited the in-laws, your MIL spent entire days in the kitchen?

Like all day Saturday, preparing dinner for the whole clan.

And then again on Sunday, preparing a second dinner for the whole clan.

Because I'm the only family member (read: female) who's present during these elaborate preparations, I either spend my whole day in the kitchen -- "helping" -- or feeling like a lazy slob if I stay out of her way.

I don't mind cooking. Sometimes, I rather like mucking about in the kitchen, experimenting with new recipes. Most days, however, I would liken my efficiency in the kitchen to that practiced by women -- compared to men -- in the bathroom.

We go in when we have to go. If we don't need to go, we get off the toilet and exit.

Hubs, on the other hand, has read entire novels in the bathroom. He completes crossword puzzles. Contemplates world peace.

Which is we have the same argument every morning.

"Are you done in there yet?"

"Noooooo..."

"OK, either you have to go or you don't. So finish already!"

Which is wanted I wanted to yell on Sunday afternoon as MIL continued to labor in the kitchen. I wanted to wave the --- hey, what sort of kitchen tool am I allegedly using here? -- and yell, "Please, for the love of God, just finish already!!"

She starts puttering right after breakfast. We don't have lunch, because MIL is cooking and we are having a BIG dinner.

By 3 p.m., she's still going, muttering that if BIL and his wife, Perfect Linda, are late again, everything will be cold.

4 p.m. Still cooking. Still no BIL and clan.

By this time, chances are good she will have given me some task that involves sharp implements. She has clearly forgotten my amusing story about how I sliced off the tip of my finger while using a cheese grater just before a friend's baby shower. (I bled all over the hor'dourves.)

5 p.m. Still cooking. Still no BIL and clan. (But no blood.)

6 p.m. BIL and Perfect Linda arrive, along with two or three of her kids, BIL's four kids and two of his grandbabies.

Perfect Linda has it made She shows up with with macaroni and dessert -- and two babies -- and MIL fawns all over her.

They're three hours late? No problem.

By this time, I've spent the whole day drifting in and out of the kitchen, trying to decide if I'm of any use whatsoever or just a nuisance.

But back to Perfect Linda.

She's good. Real good. I remain in awe of her ability to deal with the in-laws. (I mean this in a complimentary way.)

For months after Perfect Linda and BIL married, I marveled at her serene demeanor each time they came over to the in-laws.

I mean -- hello?! Six kids and two grandchildren in tow! Is she popping Valium? Did BIL bring her back from Stepford? WTF?

Then I caught her adding bourbon to a fast-food Styrofoam cup she'd brought with her and all became clear.

Why do I admire this tactic?

Well, because MIL doesn't drink. And she doesn't really approve of other people drinking. Especially women.

Still, each night, around 8 p.m., the men -- Hubs, the two BILs and their dad -- mix up bourbon & cokes. Usually, Hubs smuggles me a glass and I sip on it discreetly, hoping MIL will think it's just plain coke.

Once, however, I made the mistake of asking younger BIL to make me a drink.

"You like bourbon?" he asked incredulously. "I don't know any women who drink bourbon."

I found BIL's amazement to be both sexist and expressed too loudly.

I refrained from telling him to use his Inside Voice.

I refrained from mentioning that time I caught Perfect Linda pouring a splash of bourbon -- OK, more like a freaking waterfall -- into the Styrofoam cup.

I refrained from mentioning that Perfect Linda waits til no one's looking and then sneaks sips, looooonng, deeeeeep sips, from older BIL's drink.

Instead, feeling the curious stares of the clan members, I simply nodded.

That's when Hubs chimed in. "Oh, yeah, she makes drinks stronger than I do."

That Hubs lived to make another visit to his mother's house is truly a testament to my self-restraint.

This weekend, after the men made their drinks, I just went and fixed my own. I figured since I'd already spent the whole damn day wandering in and out of the kitchen, no one would notice.

Unless I managed to wound myself with the ice pick.

Earlier in-law post deleted...

... for obvious reasons. But I do have stories from this weekend. Later. After I've recovered from the drive home.

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

In other news, I spent last night baby-hogging an adorable 4-week-old boy.

I wanted to take him home... or maybe make another one of my own.

... until my daughter and son -- functioning on too little sleep and entirely too much sugar -- threw the Mother of all Temper Tantrums, jointly, no less, when I put them to bed. The shrieking!!!! The screaming!!!!!

And any thoughts of tossing out my birth control pills evaporated -- pooooof!

I love my two little stinkers dearly. I do.

But last night I could have labeled and marketed them as 100-percent-effective contraceptives.

24 more hours to go ... I am such a wuss

Well, the cat is no longer around. Not sure what happened and am somewhat afraid to ask as the last time I inquired about a missing pet, I learned that my favorite dog (one that belonged to BIL) had been shot. Something about how it interfered with deer hunting.

I'm a devoted dog person. Not so fond of cats (I don't think they were ever meant to be domesticated and kept as pets) but still... despite the cat's anti-social behavior toward any other living breathing creature, I don't want to know if it, too, met an untimely fate.

I'm now feeling a touch guilty about my previous ranting post.

It's true I dread these visits -- I feel very out of place -- but still... I should probably be more patient.

Or, if all else fails, constantly drunk.

I'm on dial-up ... let's bet on how long it takes for this to post.

My new BFFs ... and no, they're not from BlogHer

We bonded, John and I, over a short-term disability plan.

Then we moved on to accident policies and cancer family coverage.

By the time Hubs discovered us, John and I were engrossed in a comparison of all our various relatives who learned too late the importance of abundant insurance.

"Um ... what exactly are we signing up for here?" Hubs inquired.

Translation: What bizarre disease or worst-case scenario have you fixated on now, you hopeless, neurotic hypochondriac?"

I lovingly slid the glossy brochures across the table. "See? If we get this and this and this and this, I promise to quit nagging you about additional life insurance."

Hubs grimaced.

"What are the rates?" he asked my new bestest friend.

As John began to explain our many options, my dear spouse shot me a look.

Translation: I knew I never should have let you attend an insurance sales pitch unsupervised.

The proposed changes to our plan remain a matter of negotiation. No problem. I have BFF John's phone number and email address. We can resume our morbid imaginings at any time, with or without Hubs' approval. John nods sagely when I describe all my what-ifs. He doesn't mock me. No indeed. He loves my adorable paranoid tendencies.

And of course, the glowing red letters stamped across my forehead: Sell me a policy, baby.

John isn't my only new friend this week.

Yesterday, I met Cindy, a no-nonsense grandmotherly-looking type who strode into a small private room at the gym and asked, "So, what seems to be the problem?"

I told her all about my horrible headaches -- possibly tension (or a brain tumor ... or meningitis ... or encephalitis) -- that have accompanied The Mono.

She nodded sympathetically and asked me for more details. Naturally, since I'm married to a man who snorts when I describe my various ailments, I was ever so happy to oblige.

And then Cindy went to work. She did things to my head, shoulders and back that...

... well, let's just say I want to take Cindy home and install her in my bedroom so that she can pummel me to sleep each night.

I think I love her.

Maybe even more than John.

On doting moms and their coddled sons

Shelly over at This Eclectic Life is discussing a topic that I just can't resist:

What tasks should all people, regardless of gender, be able to do?

Can I, the woman who is marred to a man who cooks, irons, cleans toilets and builds beautiful things out of scraps of wood complain?

Nope.

Not about him. But ... *snicker* I can go back into Ex Territory and pull forth the most perfect example evah of What Happens to Those Who Can't Do.

To save him embarrassment -- and to keep from rendering him Forever Single and Totally Unmarketable -- I will call him Al.

And now let's zip back to 1997, when I hooked up with a co-worker after a night of dancing at the the Copa.

That would be Al.

For several weeks, we went out to dinner, movies, drinks after work ... and then back to my place.

The first red flag to pop up and wave merrily was his refusal to invite me over to his apartment. It was too messy, he told me.

My girlfriends entertained themselves by speculating over the reasons why he wouldn't let me come over.

"He lives with someone," one theorized. "Married," said another.

I would soon learn, however, that NO woman, except me, of course, would have ever moved in with this man.

Months passed.

One weekend, I went out of town, so Al stayed at my place to take care of my dog. He never went home.

Eventually, we decided to rent a house together. And only then did I finally see his apartment. Flag No. 2? That would have been the little note taped to his door threatening eviction if he didn't clean the place up.

So of course I still moved in with him.

Oh, 27-year-old Cathy, what an idiot you were.

Once we settled into the house, I learned the true extent of Al's helplessness. He couldn't hook up the washer and dryer. (I did it.) He'd never vacuumed. (I did it, while he laid on the couch, cracked jokes and lifted his feet as I roared by.) Nor did he know how to iron. (In this case, I let him walk around looking like he'd foraged through the clothes hamper.)

Which is why, when we broke up -- twice -- he looked far more pitiable than me, what with the rumpled clothes and the annoying way in which he lost weight while I packed it on.

When I kicked him out the first time, we had lived together for a year.

And when we reunited, I swore to him that we would maintain separate households and that I would never spend the night with him until he purchased bathmats and hand towels. He owned neither. Oh, and he had to learn to vacuum.

When I asked Al how he could stand to live that way, he always said, with a touch of pride, "My mother always did everything for me."

Red flag No. 3, anyone? Quick, hand your little boy-child a dust cloth!

Shortly before the second breakup, Al's very proper English mother came to town for a visit.

Al's mother lived in Houston. In her free time, she traveled around Europe, attending various operas. When she came to visit Al in Arkansas, she always stayed at the finest hotels and ate at only the best restaurants. She never felt compelled to check out her son's abode.

Then, during one visit, Al's mother unexpectedly decided she would like to see where her son lived.

We had just finished lunch at a restaurant when she announced her intentions.

Al's face paled. I choked back giggles.

Oh. My. God. This ought to be good.

Gleeful, I practically skipped from the restaurant to my car. Then I followed Al & Mom as they headed to Al's house. I laughed all the way there.

I knew, you see, what awaited her: hardwood floors with a layer of leaves and dirt tracked in by Al's two dogs. Big puffballs of fur and even a few twigs. Yes, TWIGS.

And mind you, the scene I was envisioning didn't even include the revolting kitchen, the scary bathrooms or the hairy couches.

I hurried, wanting to be there when she walked into that house for the first time.

HA! See what you raised? See what I had to live with for a freaking year? See why I will never share space with this man again?

It was the most priceless moment of the entire relationship -- watching Al's prim and proper mother as she walked gingerly across the living room floor, mouth pinched and nostrils flaring.

I cackled to myself and then headed home. A few hours later, Al called. His mother had bought him a vacuum cleaner, he told me sheepishly.

And in the background, I could hear a dull roar.

Toddlers -- a study in extremes

From bliss ...



To outrage ...



And the reason?



(Back when Tootie still had hair. *sigh*)

Loving conversation between husband and premenstrual wife:

Scene: Husband walks into bedroom as grumpy wife is getting ready for bed.

Wife: Are you smiling? Why are you smiling?

Husband: I'm breathing. (dramatic pause) Is that OK?

Does your spouse read your blog? Mine refuses.

Hubs has never yet pulled up my blog. On occasion, I've read my posts aloud to him, or passed the computer over and ordered him to look at something.

That's not to say he discourages my blogging. In fact, he frequently asks whether I'm posting often enough and inquires daily about my stats. Of course, that could be because I filled his head with ridiculous notions of fame and riches. Meaning I may have dropped a few names, like this one, and engaged him in fantasy scenarios in which I made a fortune selling refrigerator magnets featuring our dog.



(OK, so she can't balance anything on that cute little snout. But she is a champion pillow humper.)

So Hubs is all for the blog. As long as he doesn't have to read it.

"I'm scared," he explains, while whipping up some migas. "I always assume I'm going to find something and go --"

He pauses, spatula in mid-air. Then gives an exaggerated shudder, complete with google eyes.

OK, so there was this essay, which basically revealed that he wasn't getting any. And he did hear from several amused co-workers.

I explained that women are very blunt, that we've been known to sketch carnal acts on cocktail napkins during happy hour with our girlfriends. You know, to explain how you got the rug burns?

Anyway...

Hubs has decided ignorance is blissful. Although I think he'd exploit the dog in a heartbeat (maybe doggie porn, given the predilection for humping?) if he thought doing so would bring in the riches.

So -- do your significant others read what you write? Just want to know if I'm the only one with a nervous husband.

C'mon baby, light my fire

Each morning, when Hubs drives the E-man to daycare, he goes past a fire station. And each morning, the E-man dons a plastic fire hat and rolls down the window so he can better gawk at those big shiny trucks.

Of course, I, too, have been known to roll down my window while passing the station, but only when the firefighters are out washing said trucks.

Shirtless.

ahem

A few months ago, when the kids and I arrived at the grocery store, the E-man was delighted by the presence of two fire trucks parked near the store's entrance. His mommy also was delighted.

By the presence of several attractive firemen.

Since I have no problem parlaying my children's obsessions into useful tactics for my own ... well ... obsessions ... we stopped by the trucks on the way out.

"Here," I said, shoving some money into Tootie's hand. "Go put that in the fireman's boot."

E-man, meanwhile, stood in front of one of the trucks, slack-jawed. I, too, was rendered awestruck — not by the trucks, but by the masculine forearms attached to the man holding the boot.

"Would you like to see the truck?" asked the Bearer of Masculine Forearms, addressing my little boy. He reached for the E-man's hand and led him toward the truck.

All together now — awwww....

I watched, misty-eyed, as the pair walked off. And repeated silently to myself, Do not stare at the fireman's ass ... do not stare at the fireman's ass...

My friend Amy has a similar reaction to firemen. So it was with great pride and joy that, when she got stuck in the elevator here at work, I summoned the fire department.

(This was after some serious finagling with the editor on duty, who contended that we were supposed to call the elevator serviceman — a sweet, stooped man of about 90 years — in times of emergency.)

But I persevered and I won. After calling 911, I dialed Amy's cell phone.

"Guess what?!" I shrieked. "I ordered some firefighters for you! You can thank me later."

And indeed, it was a dreamlike moment when the firemen pried open the doors and extended a hand to help Amy emerge. The moment was, unfortunately, somewhat ruined by the presence of an overly zealous newsroom photographer who decided to document the rescue and insisted on blocking everyone's (my) view. Still...

In a few weeks, the E-man will be moving to a new daycare. The fire station will no longer be part of his morning route. He will, I'm sure, mourn the daily sightings, as will I, particularly on truck-washing day.

The E-man will hopefully, however, be consoled by his new toy fire truck, provided by his granddaddy. And I will be consoled by the thought that no fireman, here or elsewhere, clothed or shirtless, could possibly be any cuter than this guy.

Oh, the pampering!

I'm home again, after a week away from the wee people.

I missed them like crazy, of course, but was reminded, at the same time, of how Birth 2 differed from Birth 1 -- in that the second time, I knew better than to look forward to my release from the hospital. With Child No. 2, in fact, I asked to stay an extra day. Mama did NOT raise no fool.

To any new moms considering or expecting a second child: Beg for that extra day at the hospital. Grovel, if you must. Because we're talking about 24-hour room service and your last opportunity to sleep. And yeah, yeah, yeah, you kept that first baby in the room with you constantly, insisting that the nurses bring him/her back each time they left with the rolling bassinet for exams, tests and blah-de-blah. Trust me -- when Kid No. 2 arrives, you will plead with them to keep the baby in the nursery.

"Oh, just give him a little sugar water or a paci if necessary. Just please DO NOT DISTURB me until 7 a.m." And then you'll take your Percocet, roll over and pass out with nary a twinge of guilt.

Because at home, a busy toddler awaits. And a husband. And a dog. And you will never, ever feel as pampered as you do when a nurse visits your bedside every four hours and inquires, "Painkillers, honey?"

In the past week, I've vegged in bed. I've vegged on the couch. I left the house only two times in seven days and I am telling you -- it was fucking glorious. My mom and dad brought me breakfast each morning. They asked throughout the day if I needed anything. Me? Can you imagine?!

Now I did think about those sweet little things back at home, constantly. (Many of those thoughts, I'll confess, revolved around my daughter's newly shorn head. Did I mention that she cut it all the way to the freaking scalp in the back? My kid has a buzz going up the back of her neck. I'm still cringing.)

So. I'm back home. I have many blogs to catch up on, many clothes to wash. But I can say with assurance that if there is a Baby No. 3, you will be able to look down at the asphalt and see the fingernail marks all the way from the hospital entrance to our house.

Because this past week I've had a fleeting taste of being waited on, the first since those hospital stays. And really, I would like to cultivate it.

Am trying not to hyperventilate

Tootie as she looked when I left home:



Here's what she did to herself:



And here she is after an emergency trip to a salon, where two stylists worked on what was left, all the while assuring Hubs that they see this sort of thing all the time. They were surprised, however, by how much she managed to cut off the back -- all the way to her scalp.

The phone call

First, I'm at my parents' house, so I'm way behind on my blog reading/commenting. At some point, I will catch up...

I came here for a little R&R,(in this case, that means rest & recovery), sans Hubs and the kids. As I prepared to leave on my trip, I started to give Hubs a list of instructions and warnings -- things like, "Remember, E-man will try to stand on the edge of the bathtub, so keep a close on him during bathtime." -- and he said:

"No instructions this time. I can handle it."

I've been here 24 hours. About 30 minutes ago, the phone rang. It was Hubs.

"Your daughter..." he began. Then stopped.

"What? What happened?"

Pause.

"Your daughter..."

More silence.

"WHAT?!"

"Oh, I can't believe (inaudible). It's (inaudible)awful. She cut off her hair."

"She did what? How much?"

"Oh, God. It's bad. It's really, really bad. I can't take her to daycare looking like this."

"Where was she? How did it happen?"

"I had put her to bed. And I guess her scissors were in there. I walked in, and she was standing in front of her mirror. There was hair all over the floor."

"Oh no. How much? Can you take her somewhere tomorrow so someone can fix it?"

"Well... even if they can, she's going to look like Mia Farrow. She has no bangs. She cut them all the way up to her hairline."

Silence. Then Hubs adds:

"She said she was trying to make it pretty."

NOTE: On Saturday, I took her in for a haircut. And when I left town, she was still in possession of a cute, swingy little bob. With bangs.

"Are you sure it's that bad? I'm sure they can do something."

"You don't understand. She has less hair than E-man. I mean, they would have to buzz it to fix it."

So -- I've been gone one day, and my daughter has cut off quite a bit of her hair.

And the clincher? When I asked Hubs if he had removed the scissors from her bedroom, he said:

"No. She still has them. I freaked out and ran in here to call you."

WTF?!!!!!!!!!!

Hell, why not give her a razor and see what other styles she might deem fashionable?

I can only hope she doesn't decide to give her brother a trim as well, especially since the mullet is finally growing back.

Parents are soooooo, like, stupid

E-Man: OK, so about a half-hour after the Dull-Witted Parental Units put us to bed, I'm going to start shrieking, kind of like the night that neighbor roared by our house on his motorcycle. You know, the guy Mom calls Stupid Showoff Asshole.

Tootie: OK. Then what?

E-man: That's when you rush in right behind them, all sympathetic-like, and ask what's wrong with me.

Tootie: (encouragingly) Yeah ... ?

E-man: So that's when you tell them that if I'm afraid to stay in here, I can sleep with you in your room.

Tootie: Why would I want you in here with me? You're a bedhog. Everyone knows it. That's why you didn't get to co-sleep with the Dull-Witted Parental Units as long as I did. OK, well that, and the fact that you kept trying to crawl off the bed in the middle of the night.

E-man: Dude. Think about it. They haven't eaten dinner yet. That means they'll do anything to shut me up. You know how Mom is about food. They'll go about their biz and we can hang out until, like, midnight. At least. We can just pull some toys into the bed and they'll never notice, especially not with that giant pile of stuffed animals you sleep with. The bear will have to go, by the way. There's not room for both of us.

Tootie: I don't know...

E-man: What if I told you I have contraband Lucky Charms under my crib? Mom bought some the other night because she had a "hankering." At least, that's what she told Daddy, who was kind of freaked out because she always eats that stuff when she's pregnant. Whoa... You don't think there's competition on the way, do you?

Tootie: Don't be stupid. They finally have both of us sleeping through the night. No way would they do that to themselves right now. Mom just likes sugary cereals. You know she sometimes smuggles in Fruity Pebbles too, right?

E-man: What a hypocrite. She won't buy them for us, but I've seen her snarfing bowls of that stuff when she thought we were busy with Legos. Anyway, I've been sneaking Lucky Charms a handful at a time. You work with me on this, and I'll share.

Tootie: (eagerly) OK!

A half-hour later:

E-man: Wah! Wah! Mamaaaaaaaaa! Wah!

Cathy: It's all right sweetie. Just a bad dream. Let's go back to sleep.

She rocks E-man.

E-man:nonononononononononononononononononononononononon

Tootie wanders in.

Tootie: What's wrong with E-man? Ohhhh... (she pats his back) Is he scared?

Cathy tries to place toddler back in the crib, but he clings like a burr.

E-man: No! No bed! No sleepytime!

Hubs: Hey! Dinner's about done! And it's not steak!

Tootie: Mama, E-man can sleep in my bed. Then he won't be scared!

Cathy: I really don't think it's a good idea...

Hubs: Dinner! I made mashed pototates. With gravy. (to himself, but audibly, Oh man, these are incredible)

Cathy: (envisioning potatoes and anticipating the first poultry she's had in ages. And gravy...) OK, E-man can sleep with you.

The children are tucked into Tootie's bed. After Cathy has gorged herself on mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, she finally repsonds to the giggles she keeps hearing.

Cathy: What's going on in there?!

E-man: Here, quick! Take this book. She's a sucker for reading. If she sees us with books, we'll get to stay up even later. It'll make her night. She's weird that way.

Tootie: I want Apples Up on Top.

E-man: Here, take this one.



Hubs and Cathy: Awwww...

Cathy: Oh, that's so sweet. They're reading. Together. Let's leave them alone.

E-man: Heh. Told you.

Tootie: This is great! Geez, they are so gullible. Hey, pass those Lucky Charms, will ya? You know, I'm getting kind of slee...

Steak ... again ...? sigh...

So, after Hubs finally realized that hmmm... it's been a good two weeks or so since my wife has ventured near a stove ... he took it upon himself to stock the fridge and pantry.

And he's been cooking every night. Which, on the one hand is glorious, as I can recline on the couch, sipping my water (oh, red wine, I miss you...) and watching illustrative shows such as Wife Swap.

On the other, I am probably going to be the only person who gains weight during a bout with The Mono. And my cholesterol? I don't even want to think about it.

Hubs is a meat & potatoes sort of guy, emphasis on the meat. The last time I actually used the kitchen, I made a light, summery pasta — very pretty, with all those red and yellow peppers. Hubs poked around his plate for a few minutes, then asked, "Shouldn't there be chicken or something in here?"

In the past week, Hubs has happily lugged home two bags of charcoal. I hear the back door open and shut, open and shut, as well as the cheerful clink of tongs.

Our menu these past few evenings?

New York strips.
Flank steak.
Venison.

And last night, this:



Now, I do love myself some steak. And, of course, the brats. But there's been nary a piece of chicken or fish in ... weeks? I am, of course, rendered too weak and delicate by The Mono to protest. And even if I did, Hubs would simply argue that I need my protein ... before he trotted back out to the deck with all his grilling paraphernalia.

And the dog? That furry little traitor has totally aligned herself with He-Who-Cooks-Meat. A scrap here, a scrap there and her allegiance has now been pledged to Hubs — the very man who ousted her from the bed and forbade any future pillow-humping.

Hubs walked by just now, and when I asked what was on the menu tonight, he laughed a triumphant laugh.

That means he's grilling. Again.

I do appreciate his efforts. But my weight... oh, my weight. Or maybe I'm just bitter because nothing I've made — not even homemade mac & cheese — has ever prompted the children to cheer as they do over Daddy's Deer Spaghetti.

Hmph.

On ERs and hamsters...

... or rather, here is my brain on painkillers:

I was going to tell you all about my trip to the ER Sunday night, but quite frankly, I'm so bored to death and utterly sick of The Mono, I just can't bring myself to rehash it.

OK, briefly -- After suffering with the MOTHER OF ALL HEADACHES all weekend, I went to the ER, where I wailed, gnashed my teeth and finally offered to pimp myself out to the cute flight medic in exchange for anything that would put me out of my misery. He kindly agreed to inquire about drugs without demanding sexual favors, but that might be because I was wearing a tomato-stained, holey T-shirt, an ancient pair of gym shorts and a ratty pair of flip-flops that exposed my chipped toenails.

So it's now TUESDAY and the headache is still here. Hence my disgust with this whole mono business.

Anyway...

During all this free time at home, when I'm not watching reruns of 90210, I've been pondering the difficulties of blended families, the primary one being how even the teensiest things that wouldn't even register in "nuclear" families suddenly become HUGE, GINORMOUS issues when you're talking about steps.

OK, so really, I'm still brooding over Father's Day, when my stepkids neglected to buy even a card for their dad. In past years, I've always taken them shopping. This time, however, they canceled on the day we were supposed to meet.

So by the time Father's Day drew to a close, my manly, rugged, camo-wearing Hubs was teary-eyed. I've seen him cry one other time, when we were covering the anniversary of 9/11 in New York, and this little girl walked by wearing her deceased father's firefighting dress hat. Hubs kept shooting photos even as the tears ran down his cheeks. (See why I love this man?)

I told myself I wouldn't meddle. But by Monday night, I was on the phone with Stepdaughter, asking if maybe she and her brother could give their dad a call, or, you know, send him a belated card?

Of course, nothing happened and I spent the next week kicking myself because if Hubs ever found out I did that, he would NOT be happy. Why, I wondered, did I even bother?

Here's the thing. My stepkids are good kids. They're kind and respectful most of the time. But they're also teenagers, ages 15 and 16, and like many at that age, they are a tad self-centered right now.

In a nuclear family, this wouldn't be a big deal because parents expect their teens to be thoughtless little shits. In a stepfamily, however, non-custodial parents (and perhaps their interfering spouses) tend to ... overanalyze?

Those conversations back in college, when you tried to figure out why that guy didn't call? Those can't compare to the in-depth, hours-long discussions Hubs and I have had in trying to figure out what I'm sure is perfectly normal teenage behavior.

But we don't live with the kids, you see. We play catchup on the weekends. We have no idea what is or isn't normal.

Here's what visitation is like: You know those cousins you saw once a year when you were kids? Remember how awkward things were at the start of each visit -- because you hadn't seen each other in ages -- but then by the end of you were giggling over farting contests and whispering about first kisses with the boys down the street.

That's non-custodial steplife. Just as you all start to feel comfortable and are falling into old, familiar patterns, the kids go home. And then, two weeks later, you have to start all over again.

So yeah, it's pretty easy to overreact to things.

Like the summer of Jack the Hamster.

Back in the early days of our marriage, the kids would stay with us for six weeks during summer break. And oh, the stress, oh, the overanalyzing and fretting, particularly the year Stepdaughter showed up with Jack, the elderly, three-legged hamster with a raging eye infection.

I took one look at Jack, who was sitting listlessly in his cage, and pulled Hubs aside.

"That hamster is near death. What the hell are we going to do?"

Hubs examined Jack.

"I'll be damned if that hamster dies on our watch," he declared.

And thus began six weeks of detailed rodent care -- because, OMG, if Jack died at OUR house, well, then what did that say about us? (OK, and selfishly, I did NOT want to be the one dealing with a mangy hamster carcass.) Each day, Hubs and I diligently put in Jack's eye drops and monitored his every labored move. ("Is he still breathing?" "Yeah, look, his ribs are moving.")

When the kids left, Jack still had a pulse. Hubs and I were jubilant.

Visitation had not been marred by hamster tragedy. That was one black mark that wouldn't be applied to our house.

And a week later, we did a little dance when we heard Jack had died at the Ex's house, because we just KNEW the whole reason she had sent him along for the kids' visitation was so that we would be the ones held accountable for Jack's demise. You can't fool us. We know what's going on.

See, there's that overanalyzing again. We apply a sinister motive to everything.

Hubs appears to have gotten over his Father's Day disappointment. At least, he hasn't mentioned it lately. I guess I need to do the same.

If only I didn't have all this free time at the moment ...

-----------------------

OK, just re-read this post and realize I have totally rambled. If you'd like to read something more coherent, wander over to Musing Mama, where this week's essays address the temptation to be a Controlling Parent.

Oh, the drama!

... the late-night phone calls. Accusations of betrayal. The frequent talks of splitting up.

Don't you just love fantasy baseball?

Hubs has been a devout participant for years, as have many other of our newsroom friends. Take J., for example, a sweet and mild-mannered man who once served as the league's commissioner --

-- until the year that Fluffy Bunnies (that would be the nickname of one fantasy team "owner") accused The White Squirrel of making some sort of illegal trade.

Angry emails swept through cyberspace. Phones rang up until 2 a.m. Unfortunately for one league participant, J.'s wife answered one of those calls. And she wasn't happy to be hearing from a 40-something-year-old man known as Fluffy Bunnies in the wee hours of the morning.

That was the last year J. served as commissioner. Hubs took over, but after I started getting late-night calls from distraught men with ridiculous nicknames, he too, was forced to resign.

And if all this weren't disturbing enough, a totally random Google search this evening turned up this and this ...

... which, given Fluffy Bunny's devotion to both the sport and fantasy league, did make me wonder what sort of lingerie his wife might receive at Christmas. Eeeww.

(I was tempted to use Absolutely Bananas' Photoshop tutorial to show you what I might look like in cleat stilettos, but was fearful Hubs might read my blog for the first time ever and get his own icky Christmas ideas. Because, you know, my pale, dimpled thighs were specially made for an umpire outfit that barely covers my ass.)

--------------------------------------

Since I am now a button wh**re (sorry for the asterisks, Queen Heather, but I fear if I spelled it out, those who are seeking baseball nighties for their most unfortunate girlfriends might find me via Google.) I must excitedly tell you about this award --



-- bestowed ever so kindly by This Eclectic Life's Shelly, who has deemed me a gracious blog hostess and friendly visitor to other blogs. I assume she's referring to my natural charm and charisma, as opposed to any comments I may have left on your blogs after sipping a glass or two of wine, which makes me very ... chatty.

I also thank Shelly for this --



-- which I received for explaining why other people might find my work environment kind of scary. Or fascinating, depending on whether you, too, are prone to using bizarre s**ual aides or musing over sheep s*x (damn those necessary asterisks and my paranoia, and, of course, the Google Freaks).

Tomorrow: My Sunday-night, mono-related trip to the ER, during which I meet a whole new group of Med School's Top Models.

Mono, I hate thee ...

But first, the happy news (and my belated thanks):

Julie of The Raven' Picture Maven was ever so kind enough to bestow this --



-- for my post on tick fever/irritating spouses.

Thanks, Julie! (If you're feeling even a twinge of Saturday-night nostalgia for those teen years marked by Sixteen Candles or frightening spiral-perms, head over to her place for a hilarious recap of high school in the late '80s. There are two parts. Start here.)

And ... if you'd like to read the other ROFL posts -- and they are truly hysterical, you can find a list at Chicky Chicky Baby or metro mama.

-----------------------

Not-so-good news ...

Apparently, it's not a good idea to thumb one's nose at mono. I've suffered a relapse this weekend, and really, this stupid virus is kicking my ass. Again.

(For those who've read only the ROFLpost about Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever -- well, as it turned out, the culprit behind my woes was adult mono. Ridiculous, no?)

My sense of humor is suffering at this point, hence the delay in posting, but I'm hanging in there.

-----------------------

Back to happier -- no, make that fantastic! -- news ...

Whymommy of Toddler Planet received some wonderfully encouraging test results regarding her breast cancer. So why not head over there and give her a little mama support before she starts chemo next week?

----------------------

Now I'm heading back to bed, cursing the blasted mono on my way.

Chunky matron seeks...

...older, wrinkled, grandfatherly sort of doctor — must be at least 65 or look it — to serve the many health needs of a nearsighted, allergy-prone, mole-checking, still-of-reproductive-age hypochondriac.

Hot or even mildly cute young doctors should not bother to apply.

I'm on a hot-doctor roll these days, and I say now: "ENOUGH ALREADY! My ego is fragile. My body isn't what it used to be. I'm not in any condition, mentally or physically, to disrobe in front of men MY AGE. Or ... *sob* ... younger."

In the past year, I have —

— been to an ER inhabited by the most beautiful medical staff ever.

— gone to a dermatologist to report all suspicious moles, only to be passed off to Hot Doctor No. 1. One of the moles in question was ON MY ASS.

— gone to the family clinic only to be assigned a doctor who is at least two years younger than me. (Yes, I Googled him. I had to know.)

— been referred to an orthapedic surgeon — yes, another hottie — with whom the following dialogue took place:

Cathy: Yeah, the shoulder is improving, but I still can't ... you know ... reach my arm all the way behind my back.

Hot Doctor: (Looks puzzled.)

Cathy: You know — (*reaches behind back and mimes fastening a bra*)
(oh for god's sake, Cathyyoufuckingidiot, entire crowds have gathered around your crotch in recent years. Just say it. Bra. B-R-A. arrghhh...)

Doctor: Yes, well, just — (*doctor mimes fastening a bra in the front and then sliding it around the chest*)

Cathy: That's a pain in the ass. (did i just say that?)

Doctor: OK, well, just buy one that fastens in the front.

Cathy: Um ... yeah.

(Oh, great. I haven't even hit 40, but I'm reduced to buying the Arthritis Bra? I mean, look at it:



I am SO not ready for that. Still, I wasn't about to argue this point with Hot Doctor when I couldn't even say "bra." Because then what if I actually had to say "breasts?" Ack!)

I was still blushing when I reached the car.

WTF?!!!!

Have age and childbearing really turned me into such a prudish, stammering moron?

Nah.

I mean, clearly I have no problem talking about any number of very personal issues right here in cyber-public.

And countless male co-workers who've had the misfortune to sit next to me during my pregnancies probably know waaaay more about my girly bits than Hubs ever will.

(Wanna see a male reporter haul ass across the newsroom? Just say, "Bloody mucous plug." Works every time.)

And I have no problem discussing any number of health issues with older, ordinary-looking doctors — ingrown pubic hairs, for example. Or whether certain acts of marital bliss ... ahem ... during pregnancy really do shoot air into the va jay jay, which, as we all know from the Devil Pregnancy Book, is a bad thing because it can lead to one getting an air embolism. Down there. *shudder* And you could like, die. While Hubs is still giving it his all. (how long before he would notice? hmmm...)

It's just that the young doctors make me feel so self-conscious. A lot of them don't yet have kids, so you just know they're totally unfamiliar with a woman's postpartum pooch or nipples that no pasty could cover.

When I have to bare all for them, I suddenly realize: If Hubs dies or we ever got divorced, this is what I would be dealing with if I ever wanted to have sex again. My dating pool would be limited to much-older-men-who-already-have-fathered-children, men whose ass sag could rival my boob sag, and who therefore wouldn't be as appalled (as I am) by my body's "used" condition.

Regardless — where is my senior citizen crowd of medical professionals? Get rid of all these McDreamy and McSteamy types who make me blush and babble. Bring the gray-hairs out of retirement. Please. Now.

Because if I ever decide I want a tummy tuck, or maybe to have the girls hoisted back up to ye old place of glory, well, I'd rather my doctor be so ancient that he sees my 37-year-old body as positively youthful. ("Oh, my dear. You certainly don't need any work done yet. These are the breasts of a 30-year-old. Truly. But if you insist...")

Hair products: My toddler's 'X'

So if you were to bump into us, say, in the grocery store, my 2-year-old son would lean toward you, beaming, arms reaching.

Oh, how sweet, you might think (if his hands were clean). That little boy wants to give me a hug.

But no. The E-man would rest his head on your shoulder and then gently clutch a handful of your hair.

And inhale.

Deeply.

My son is a hair-sniffer. Dogs and their butt-sniffing have nothing on this kid. I can't tell you how many times I've pried him off of daycare teachers, unsuspecting co-workers or perfect strangers.

And each time, I am reminded of this book --



-- Ferdinand, the little bull who wanted only to smell the flowers.

Of course, that story lends itself to adorable drawings, where in this case, we are reminded of this --


<

Remember? The guy pushing his girlfriend on the swing, how at one point he swoops in and sniffs her hair?

I bought my first stash of this stuff before a weeklong stay at summer camp. Loved it. And guess what? You can still find it online.

Tempting, yes, but I won't be ordering any. It was too much for Shaun Cassidy. (Or so he told Tiger Beat.) No tellling what effect it would have on the E-man.

Yeah, but they're so damn cute...

You wake up at 6:45 a.m. to the sound of rain and the mewlings of a cranky, feverish son.

Within minutes, you have discovered that you are out of Motrin and, apparently, the Children's Tylenol has expired.

Hubs has an early-morning assignment, so after he dashes out the door with your daughter, you throw on some shorts, decide to leave on the oversized softball shirt you slept in and -- hmm... bra, no bra? screw it -- pluck your barefoot and PJ-clad son off the couch, slide on a pair of flip-flops near the door and trundle out into the rain.

Two mud puddles later, you reach the car, buckle a fussing toddler into his seat and head to the nearest drugstore. A glance in the rear view mirror reveals that you forgot to brush your hair and that your impossible cowlick is going to be the first thing noticed by early-morning shoppers, if, that is, their gaze isn't immediately captured by your unharnessed breasts, which seem to be remarkably jouncy given their lack of ... ahem ... perkiness.

After a quick dash through the store with your squirming, barefoot son ("Down, Mama, down!") you return home and prepare to medicate said uncooperative child.

"No! No mess! No mess!" he declares, clamping his lips together and turning away.

When, you mutter to yourself, will this day end?
...............

But then, two hours later, your son's fever is gone and you're watching your pre-schooler march around with a paper-plate-streamer-thingy and you think, God, I wish this moment could last forever...



And you say to Hubs, "Hey, honey, let's go home and procreate!"

Strength in numbers

This woman did it ...



... and so did they ...





... with the support of all these women.



(2006 Race for the Cure participants crossing the Arkansas River)


Toddler Planet's Whymommy could use your support. Go here or here to join.

My shoe fetish...

... is an odd one.

Because it's not women's shoes that evoke longing in me.

It's my kids' old, ratty, outgrown ones. Like Tootie's first pair of "walking" shoes. Or the E-man's dirty little tennis shoes. Or both kids' crumbling sandals from summers past.

My dark secret — I have never yet given or thrown away a single pair of their shoes.

Instead, they're stacked on shelves in the children's closets, tucked into baby boxes or clustered in a heap on my own closet floor.

Silly, I know. It's just that each tiny pair holds so many memories:

The E-man's former double life, during which he walked at daycare, yet still crawled at home.

The Tootie's insistence on wearing her grubby, too-small sandals in 30-degree weather.

The hot pink cowboy boots, now scuffed and torn, a reward for Tootie when she finally agreed to give all her pacifiers to the Mee-Mee Fairy (who distributes old "mee-mees" to the younger babies in need of them — heh).

I remember laying in bed that winter morning, listening to her squeals when she found her fairy-delivered boots. And laughing when I heard the awkward clomp-clomp that followed.

It's been more than a year since Tootie could cram her feet into those boots. But every time I spot them on her closet floor, I smile, remembering the toddler who marched so proudly up and down the hallway in her cowgirl attire.



And then my heart hurts, just a little.

OK, so newspapers may not be around...

...by the time he's old enough to write (or shoot photos) for one, but at least the kid shows some interest in that which currently keeps his parents employed.

Or maybe he hates my reporting and thinks Daddy's pictures suck. Who knows what sort of criticisms drift through that agile mind as he peruses our day's work? (ha.)

Electrical warfare

I love light. Crave it. Need it.

Which is why, when I get up each morning, the first thing I do is pull up the blinds or throw open the curtains — on the few windows that actually have blinds or curtains, that is.

In the evening, I turn on all the lamps AND the overhead light.

The Hubs, on the other hand, can be found cooking in a darkened kitchen, using only the bulb above the stove to see what he's doing — which could account for the frequently too-rare meat. (I don't mind pink. It's the texture of red that bugs me.)

I'm sure the children remain in constant confusion — one minute they're basking in sunshine or comforting lamplight, and then, as soon as Daddy walks in, they suddenly find themselves in a freaking gloomy hobbit-hole.

Most couples fight over the thermostat. Hubs and I argue over light-bulb wattage.

In the weeks after Tootie's birth, the weather here in Arkansas went to absolute shit. Day after day, I got up to clouds, rain, sleet, ice or snow. Day after day, I drifted through the house, clutching my newborn and a roll of toilet paper. You know, for the sobbing. The endless, drenching sobbing.

"I just need the sun!" I wailed to Hubs each time I called the newsroom. "It's so dark!" ... gasp, sob, choke ...

Finally, I fled to my home state of Texas, where I spent the rest of my maternity leave soaking up light in glorious, glorious Hill Country sun.

By the time the E-man arrived, we were living (briefly) in San Antonio. So that maternity leave was basically one long, hot day. I am, however, one of those people who will happily sweat in exchange for a little serotonin.

That's why, even as we near July, this remains my favorite time of year here in Arkansas. Sun, sandals — or, better yet, bare feet. Even with mosquitoes, mono and temps in the 90s, life is good.




Oh, yeah, and God bless anti-depressants. Just a random bit of advice: Going off your meds in late November? So not a good idea.

Am overcome ...

... not by the evil mono virus, (although it's still kicking my butt) but by the linky love from This Eclectic Life and then this:



from Oh, the Joys.

Thanks so very much! Of course, because I was a leeetle behind in my blog-browsing, all the people I would have nominated have, well, already been nominated.

So I did the next best thing and finally updated my blogroll to reflect the blogs I read on a daily basis. Except, of course, when suffering from illness or hypochondria.

... and, while I sent an email to Shelly thanking her for this —



— I neglected to do so here (I know, I know, I hail from Texas and yet still no manners)...

Mommy has mono

... yet further evidence of my dorkdom. Because, really, who gets mono at age 37?

Yes, it's better than the dreadful Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, but still ... how ridiculous.

I mean, mono is supposed to be a childhood illness.

Or, back in the day, something that struck the cool kids in high school, allowing them to stay home for six weeks watching MTV while their classmates bickered over who would be the lucky soul to deliver that day's homework to the ailing basketball star.

So on Friday afternoon, when the nurse called to tell me the mono test had come back positive, I snickered.

"You're kidding, right?"

Oh, no, she assured me. Mono it is.

And apparently, despite having suffered from this stupid relentless virus since Memorial Day, I'm told it could last another FOUR WEEKS. Lovely.

When I told Hubs, his first question was, "How do you get it?"

"Well, remember, this is the one they used to call the kissing disease," I said. "So you've already been exposed. There's nothing you can do about it now."

Pause.

"No," he said. "I'm asking, 'How did YOU get it?'"

I stammered.

He laughed.

I'm quite sure it's yet another ailment the little stinkers have brought home from day care. Like the 72-hour stomach bug the E-man ever so generously shared right before I left to cover New Orleans' first post-Katrina Mardi Gras.

That time, I landed in New Orleans' makeshift ER, a tent city housed in the city's convention center. Despite my misery, I couldn't help but notice the number of young, spectacular-looking doctors and nurses. Or perhaps it was the Phenergan that turned the ER crew into something resembling the Gray's Anatomy cast.

Which brings me to this --

Is it just me, or has anyone else noticed that most of the doctors we see now are our contemporaries?

Friday, my doctor and I got to talking about the annviersary of Princess Di's death and where we were and he mentioned med school -- and after some quick calculating, I realized there is a distinct possibility that this guy is younger than I am.

Fresh-faced, peppy doctors and mono.

Really, I'm too old for all this.

And am just now realizing I took 12 days of vicious, "cleansing" antibiotics for naught.

Oh, that crafty, crafty Cathy

At Lindsay of Suburban Turmoil's urging, I headed over here for a little fun with anagrams.

On entering my name, I got this: "Hey! Crafty."

Now if one means crafty in the street-smart, clever sort way, well, yeah, sure, I'll run with that.

But "crafty" as involving Hobby Lobby, glue guns and the like?

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!

I am the woman who hot-glue-gunned her hair to a Christmas-tree ornament. People like me are reason that most things can be bought ready-made.

My lack of interest in arts & crafts never was a problem until --

-- I enrolled my eldest in daycare.

In October 2004, when Tootie was a mere 20 months old, I found a little note in her cubby asking all parents to "help their child" decorate a pumpkin for a Halloween contest.

Hey, this kid still eats her crayons and you want me to offer her a pair of scissors and some Elmer's glue?

Whatever. I bought a pumpkin, some construction paper and stickers, and "we" made a hula dancer. How clever, I thought. How crafty!

Then I arrived at the daycare and -- I kid you not -- some of the other kids' pumpkins were wearing outfits.

Picture it: Dressed-up, glammed-up pumpkins with teeny handmade clothes made by mothers, who, presumably also had full-time jobs.

The Tootie could have cared less. I, however, was humiliated, and I vowed right there, in front of a Cinderella pumpkin wearing a sequined ball gown, that the next project would be different.

And then came the request -- no, the demand -- that the parents, again working with their 2-year-old would-be Mini-Michelangelos -- make shoebox floats for a parade.

What the hell?

So I called my friend, Amy, who refers to herself as the blue-collar Martha Stewart.

"Hey, have you ever heard of shoebox floats?" I asked, reading aloud the latest note.

"Hmmmm..." Amy replied, aleady scouring Internet sites.

She started laughing. Hysterically.

"You should see these things," she cackled. "This might be beyond your ability."

I pulled up a few of the websites and groaned. Shoebox floats are little parade floats -- made from shoeboxes, duh -- designed to be pulled by small children.

And these -- these were quite elaborate. Some of them had actual wheels. The pumpkin-outfitting mothers would have a field day with this.

After some initial panic, I proposed making a float that resembled a wedding cake.

"OK," Amy said.

And then she rattled off a list of what I needed. Unfortunately, by the time she got to tacky glue and decoupage, I was hopelessly lost.

"Can't I just spraypaint it?" I asked.

"Oh, well, yeah, sure," she said, somewhat doubtfully.

This time, Hubs was there to bear witness to my efforts. "Um, why don't I help you?" he suggested. And, after much spraying, gluing and bickering, we finished our shoebox float.

The Tootie, by this point, had been asleep for two hours.

By now, the Hubs and I had learned our lesson. So when we found the note in the cubby about making an animal costume for the annual Christmas pageant -- well, we skipped the pageant.

There have been no such assignments in recent years. A pity, really, because now that the Tootie's older, she can do her own arts & crafts.

And when they look like something created by a 4-year-old ... well, that's because this time, they really were.

Ingredients for a Romantic Vacation

(Bearing in mind that the last time Hubs and I left town together — alone — was April 2006.)

So, back to what makes for luurrve in Denver:

1.) One hideous case of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever/Hantavirus/Bubonic Plague (no test results yet, so the disease du jour is determined via frequent Googling of all illnesses spawned by blood-sucking bugs and/or rodents)

2.) One bottle of nasty blue pills that make me feel as though someone has scrubbed down my entire digestive tract with a bottle of Clorox.

3.) Multiple anxiety attacks because the in-laws are staying at our house to care for the children. ("Will my mother-in-law rummage through my nightstand, thereby discovering the Marital Drawer 'O Fun?" or "Did I drop enough not-so-subtle hints that they are NOT allowed to drive the children anywhere unless said offspring are buckled into their respective car seats rather than stuffed into the back of my father-in-law's pickup truck?")


And then this, Saturday morning, at our Denver hotel:

"Ow! Ow! Oh, shit! Hey, help!"

Hysterical laughter and sobbing ensues.

Yes, the lower back, MY lower back — the one weakened in recent years by hauling around enough baby gear to outfit a Toddler Trek to the base camp of Mt. Everest — picked this most inauspicious time to rebel.

Still, in spite of the nausea, back spasms and Hubs' stressing out over photographing the wedding of longtime friends, we still had a good time.

Although, perhaps some of us should have refrained from mixing champagne and other assorted drinks with our Clorox meds.

One glass —



And two —



And three —




Is this dancing? A back spasm? Another symptom of tick-borne illness?

You decide.

Marital discord, with a dash of humor

SCENE: Our home, just before the children's bedtime.

TOOTIE: Mommy! Now you be the Tickle Monster!

CATHY: Mommy can't be the Tickle Monster, sweetie. Mommy's sick. Mommy has a tick-bourne disease.

Loud, rude snort from Hubs.

HUBS: You do NOT have Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.

CATHY: I didn't say I had Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. The doctor did. I hadn't even considered a parasitical sort of infection. I thought maybe I had a brain aneurysm.

HUBS: He ordered a blood test.

CATHY: Yes, and he also gave me antibiotics.

HUBS: He's covering the bases.

CATHY: I have all the symptoms...

HUBS: Yeah, once he said that might be what it was. Then you had all the symptoms.

CATHY: I didn't even know what the symptoms were. It's been at least six or seven years since I last Googled tick-related illnesses. Like, before we were even married.

HUBS: (Spluttering) You want to have Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. Because then you'll finally be able to say that you really had something. You are reveling in this.

CATHY: I am NOT reveling. I am ill. I merely feel vindicated.

Now we will pause so that, in my defense, I can share the details of today's visit to the doctor.

NURSE: So, what seems to be the problem?

CATHY: Well, I'm not really sure. I just know that I'm sick.

NURSE: Could you be more specific?

CATHY: OK, well, on Memorial Day weekend, I had this awful headache that lasted for three days. I thought maybe it was sinus-related. But ever since then, I keep running a fever and having chills. I'm exhausted. And I keep feeling nauseated. I just came in because I figured if I have a fever, I must be fighting off something, and we're going out of town and I don't want to be sick the whole time. I don't know -- maybe I have a bladder infection or something ... ?

NURSE: Have you had pain down there?

CATHY: No, but the last time I felt this crappy, that's what it turned out to be.

The nurse collects a urine sample. Negative. The nurse takes Cathy's temperature and confirms, that yes, indeed, she is running a fever. HA! Doctor then enters and Cathy repeats the above details.

DOCTOR: Have you had any bites lately? You know, ticks? Or a rash?

CATHY: Gosh, I don't know. I mean, I get insect bites all the time. We do a lot of things outside. But I haven't found any ticks.

DOCTOR: (ominously) Well, people don't always realize they've been bitten by a tick. I'm sure you probably check your children, but don't always think to check yourself.

CATHY: Ummmmmm....

DOCTOR: We've had a few cases lately of tick-related illnesses. I think we'd better start some antibiotics, and I want you to run get a blood test.

CATHY: Ummmmm...

DOCTOR: What you've just described sounds an awful lot like Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.

We now resume this evening's debate.

... HUBS: ... And you just threw up your arms and said, "YES! That's it! I have Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever!"

CATHY: No, actually, I was a little skeptical at first. Until I got back to the newsroom and looked up the symptoms.

HUBS: And you had every one of them.

CATHY: As a matter of fact, I did. I DO. I feel like shit. And now I know why.

HUBS: Rolls eyes.

CATHY: You just don't want me to have Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever because that trumps any pitiful cold or flu you've ever used as an excuse for being too sick to do something. Because if I have Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, that means that for the last 10 days, I have been working and caring for children while suffering from a disease that lands many people in the hospital.

It means, buddy, that I AM WOMAN.

Update: Karma. Either A.) The mystery illness has gotten worse; B.) This medication has unpleasant side effects; or C.) I should not have been so smug. Long night ahead. This fucking sucks.

How to cultivate your very own paranoid, neurotic hypochondriac wife:

So say you're Hubs and you happen to be married to someone who, oh, maybe, has been known to go to the grocery store for the sole purpose of stocking up on canned goods in the event of a raging bird-flu epidemic. Someone whose computer at work boasts a bird-flu comic strip, taped to the monitor by giggling co-workers. Someone who (ohmigod, I cannot believe I'm about to admit this) has actually COPIED and SAVED to her desktop the government's bird-flu response plan.

Would you, on a Sunday night, while flipping through TV options, decide on ... the History Channel's Last Days on Earth?

I think not.

Because you value your sleep. Because you don't wish to be prodded awake by your insomniac spouse, who wants to know if you'll maybe teach her how to use your .30-06-- in case she ever has to, you know, fire on the intruders who are out to steal her canned goods because they were not such thorough planners?

After witnessing all the various means through which all humanity could be wiped off the face of the planet, however, I figured out why Hubs picked this particular show. It's all part of his evil plan to haul my ass out to the country. He dreams of a homestead that would allow him to stroll out the back door each morning, piss off the porch and take aim at a deer, all while clutching a mug of coffee.

It's not that I'm against the country. I am a country sort of girl. I grew up with three ducks and four pet sheep: Holly, Dolly, Ellie and Sherman. Each morning, I awakened to the crowing of the neighbor's blasted rooster (hence the beginnings of my aversion to birds) and the pecking and clucking of the hens congregating underneath MY bedroom window. (See, they targeted me long ago.)

But Hubs. Oh dear, the Hubs. He wants to live in a house just like his Grandma Hattie's, down in -- wait -- I must breeeeeathe deeeeeeeply, breeeeeeathe, deeeeeeply -- in (yikes) South Arkansas. Or in Grandma Hattie's house itself, a notion that makes me want break out into hives just before I start slugging tequila from the bottle.

Grandma Hattie's house hasn't been changed since her death in 1998. The wall calendar? It's from 1998. The magazines? Remember late 90s hair? Yeah, I know. But that's the only reading material.

Oh yeah. And it's In. The. Woods.

So during deer season, the McHubs clan all head down to South Arkansas, where they descend on Grandma Hattie's house. Now the house? It's cute. Old-fashioned. But just a tad inconvenient. (Really, I would rather not blow my hair dry in the kitchen, right next to the coffee pot, not because I mind the proximity ((bless the caffeine, god bless it)) but because I don't think other people should have to watch strands of my hair blow into their own cups.)

And there's the little matter of the toilet, which, until a few years ago, remained encircled by handicap railings. Try rising from that contraption when you're eight months pregnant and about as graceful as a bloated whale on land. Can you comprehend the humilation of getting stuck -- in the middle of the night -- and whispering loudly for Hubs to come to your rescue, even as you pray that none of the other McHubs hear you, because, really, life would stop (without the help of bird flu) if elderly Uncle A.J. saw you nude and floundering on a toilet.

But I digress.

Hubs dreams of building a house with his own two able hands out in the country somewhere.

But here's the thing. Hubs has only ever visited the country. To live in the country, miles away from any friends, at least 45-60 minutes from work, far, far away from certain conveniences, like, you know, a Pei-Wei or friendly neighborhood bar -- that, my friends, is a whole different matter. I lived in the country as a wee barefoot child, as a bored, rebellious, stuck-in-the-sticks teenager and as a college freshman. I loved my upbringing -- I did! -- and each night I still pay homage to the callouses I developed during all those no-shoes years.

But now I'm old. And staid. And hooked on pizza delivery and the availability of Indian food.

Hubs, however, has romanticized the notion to such a degree that none of my warnings -- even those involving butting rams or rabid geese -- have had any effect.

Ever been treed by a sheep? Quite embarrassing, I assure you.

Example: In Hubs' world, the grandparents think it's fun to take the kids (and one game mother) out for a spin on Easter Sunday.



In my world, however, growing up, this mode of transportation was vital on Halloween for it ensured we would get to all the "good" houses before 2 a.m. One did not walk door to door where I grew up. It took too damn long. We'd have been left with the fruit & granola bars. ugh

So what does any of this have to do with the Last Days on Earth? Well, let's just say that as soon as Hubs sensed that first hint of germ- or other disaster-related anxiety emanating from my side of the couch, he pounced.

"You know, if we lived out in the country, we would be self-sufficent. We'd have a garden. I'd kill deer. When the bird flu hits, we'll be safe from all the panicked, marauding masses."

He leaned in closer, paused and said: "We'd be away from all the germs."

And I admit that in the depths of my southern, country-girl heart, I felt ... well, a flutter.

*blush*

That was enough to spur Hubs on. "Just think, we'd have everything! No rush to the store when everyone learns that bird flu is on the way! No next-door neighbors breathing their germy-germs over our fence!"

And oh, god help me as I began to swoon...

But then, in that twang, he added: "All we'd have to do is go to Sam's and stock up on some laundry detergent and toilet paper, the two things we can't grow on the farm. Heh!"

My eyes narrowed. It all became clear. Hubs isn't seeking to hide and protect his wife and lil darlins'. No, Hubs is thinking of how he can turn a deer camp into a HOME! For year-round! Whee! And, best of all, his wife would be urging him to go kill deer, rather than protesting it. I could see the fantsy he was creating: Hubs striding through the rugged door, made by his own rugged man-hands, bearing his family's dinner as his wife wept in gratitude and seven (... seven ...? how'd the extras slip in there?) children cheered.

Hubs, I realized, fantasizes about being a survivalist -- much in the way I once fantasized that a Starbucks might one day open in my neighborhood.

I glared at the deceptive, manipulating Hubs. "Honey, next weekend, why don't we head down south and you can teach me how to use that big ole gun? Because really, I think I'd rather pick off the marauding masses one by one than awaken each morning to a gun blast from "our" deer woods.

Our. Deer. Woods.

More frightening words have never been spoken.

It is my goal to never become an owner or resident of deer woods. I have promised Hubs he can buy himself a piece of land -- if we're ever not flat-ass broke, that is -- where he can build himself a little vacation spot and kill as many deer as he wants. And in exchange, I get my third, equally longed-for baby.

Oh yeah. Hubs also gets a new pickup. That's also part of the deal. But no hunting dog. I mean, we're not that stereotypical. I will grant him only so much in exchange for his sperm.

Now you must excuse me. Having fretted adequately over bird flu -- for the night -- I must now turn my attention elsewhere -- to figuring out the fifth most likely reason for our extinction. (I missed the first part of the show.)

Let's see ... bird flu and/or other hideous illnesses; an asteroid; global warming and nuclear war...

...?

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