Tag Archives: humor

It’s Amazing I can Walk Anywhere

There are two basic skills that I’m inexplicably terrible at: walking and swallowing. Nine times out of ten, if I’m drinking something, I choke on it. And I fall down no less than 9 times on any given day.

The other morning, I took Oliver for a walk. I crossed the street and started down the road when I heard, “hello Misty,” in the bushes. I jumped and screamed. Turns out the bushes were not calling my name, rather, my neighbor was from his steps. “Sorry about that,” I said, “it’s like I’ve never been in public before.” He laughed, “no big deal,” he said, “I’m just out here clipping my nails.” And I thought, why can’t more men go outside to clip their nails? My husband does it in the bathroom and it’s like he on purpose misses the garbage can and for a month I keep stepping on his nasty little nails. My co-worker regularly clips his nails at his desk, which is on my list of the top five grosses things anyone has ever done in an office. I joked on Twitter, “Since my co-worker is clipping his nails at his desk, I guess I don’t need to go to the bathroom to change my tampon anymore.” Fair is fair, buddy. So, I’m thinking to myself that guys should go outside to clip their nails more often when Oliver jerks my hand to pee on a rock and I stumble and catch myself on the fence, spraining my wrist a little. “Sonofabitch!” I screamed and then immediately bent down to randomly pet Oliver, self-conscious that someone might have thought I was yelling at him like a Goddamn monster.

The walk continued. Oliver stopped to poop in some weeds and I realized right then that I didn’t actually have a bag with me. I rummaged in my pockets and managed to find a small square of tissue. I bent down and tried to clean up three turds with one tiny tissue square, holding my breath and feeling faint, while Oliver is yanking on the leash to go look at something. I manage to get it all cleaned up and am walking as quickly as I can towards my house when my boot hits the edge of a crack in the cement and my ankle snaps. In slow motion, the turds fly out of my hand, my legs buckle, and I land on my tailbone. I somehow managed to keep a hold of Oliver though, who is still pulling, now more than before because he wants to get away from me because either I’ve embarrassed him or he’s decided I’m a danger to his personal safety.

I limped back home and somehow got myself to work with only my pride slightly wounded.

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Don’t Eat That: Sidewalk Foraging Gone Wrong

For the past two years, I’ve been really into gardening. And why not? It’s pretty easy, food is insanely expensive, and who the hell knows what they’ve sprayed on it by the time you shove it in your mouth. I’ve grown lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, basil, garlic, and even chamomile. I love it. I love eating fresh organic vegetables that cost me like 1/4 of the price it would at Whole Foods (let’s be honest, you have to pledge your first born to afford to shop there). But, sometimes I get a little carried away.

I’ve noticed little chestnuts all over the ground from trees that line my street. Every day I walk Oliver through them and I think, “man, this is super wasteful also because this shit costs like 9 dollars per pound.” So, I started collecting them like I was grocery shopping on my street. On every walk, I’d shove five or so into my pockets and by the end of the week, I had an enormous bowl full. I Googled, “how to roast chestnuts,” and “how to make chestnut butter.”

Sidenote: I partially blame my father-in-law for this. For years I’ve made fun of him for his weird urban foraging, like the time he grabbed fist fulls of rosemary from a hotel vase on the Vegas Strip. Apparently, he’s rubbing off on me. 

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On my last urban foraging trek, my neighbor saw me shoving chestnuts into my pockets and he was probably like, what the fuck is that whack job doing, shoving sidewalk nuts into your sweatpants?” So, in my attempt at being normal, after I emptied my pockets at home I meandered outside to where my neighbor was now talking with another neighbor and casually asked, “you don’t mind me picking up your chestnuts, do you?”

“Not at all,” he smiled.

“If you want to take them from my lawn, go for it,” the other neighbor added, “or, if you’d like to help me harass my wife, you can step on them and really work them into the grass so she has to pop them out with a butter knife.”

“That’s just mean,” I laughed. I turned to walk away, “cool, thanks, guys. I’m gonna go roast them.”

“No, no, no!” my neighbor yelled, “you can’t eat those. They’re Horse Chestnuts and they’re not edible.”

“Seriously? I asked. “Like, gross or deadly?”

He shrugged. I thanked him and when home to google it and apparently Horse Chestnuts are useless and poisonous. I sulked for a minute, then went into the kitchen to dump out my giant mixing bowl of chestnuts into the garbage. Then I wondered, why would anyone plant shitty chestnuts instead of the edible ones? I mean, in the event of a zombie apocalypse, we could like live on chestnuts. EXPENSIVE ASS CHESTNUTS.

Now I’m researching how to plant non-deadly chestnut trees because I want one in my yard. Do any of you have nut trees?

He Shit The Bed

If our poodle, Oliver, was a human child, he’d be the one with the big bottle glasses, standing in the lunch line listing off his allergies to the exhausted lunch ladies.

He’s adorable. But, his hair is tangled even though we brush it and take him to the groomer, he kind of smells like pee because can’t aim worth shit, and he’s always sick.

Oliver eats grain free food because he’s allergic to rice. He can’t have most treats unless they’re basically 100% unicorn meat and if he eats something he’s not supposed to, he shits his brains out for days.

This week, I made F, my husband, some homemade chicken noodle soup because he had a fever (he’s also always sick).  It was delicious even though I cooked it because I’m getting better at stuff with age. And since it was delicious, I tried to shove all of it in my mouth at once while watching Girlfriend’s Guide to Divorce. While eating like a goblin, I dropped a single noodle on the floor. And, in slow motion, I watched Hoover puppy eat it before I could grab it.

The next day, F and I came home from work to find him slouched over, trembling on the couch, his eyes barely open and glossed over. I tried to touch him and he growled and shot me some mean side eye.

F shook his head, “he’s just being dramatic.”

If I heard someone else say that about their violently shaking dog, I would assume that they were negligent assholes. But this isn’t a normal dog, this is Oliver. If he gets a leaf stuck to his foot, he’ll limp for a block even after we removed the leaf. And anytime he gets a belly ache, which is at least three times per year (it was more before we figured out his food sensitivities), he acts like he’s in total organ failure. For years, I panicked every time he limped or whined and rushed him to the vet every month, sometimes more than once. Slowly, we’ve learned to take his extreme sensitivity to all discomfort with a grain of salt.

So, I didn’t panic. I calmly picked up the phone and called the vet.

The vet asked, “Can you describe how he’s acting?”

“Like he’s dying, basically. He’s growling and shaking and won’t let us touch him.”

“Oh, no. That does sound like he needs to come in.”

“I mean, I want to bring him in but I’m sure he’s fine.”

The vet cleared her throat, “Uhm, okay. So you do want to bring him in?”

“It’s just like, you know, what if this is that one time that I don’t take it seriously and it is something really serious for once? So, I want to bring him in. And clearly he’s not feeling good and I don’t want him to be sick. But, our dog is a huge wuss. So, most likely he has a belly ache.” I said.

The vet said, “Of course. Bring him down now.”

I grabbed his leash and put him in the car. He laid down and stayed like that all the way there. Then, once we got to the vet he jumped up and was instantly normal. He wagged his tail, wanted to greet everyone, and suddenly wanted to be picked up. Which, made me feel like one of those crazy moms with Munchausen syndrome.

The vet came in, took his temperature (normal), pushed on his tummy (a little sensitive), and took him into the back to give him a shot to alleviate his tummy ache. I knew the exact moment that they gave him the shot because he screamed for a solid minute, so loud that it echoed throughout the entire clinic.

Hearing your pet cry, or kid, or partner, is painful and a part of me wanted to kick open the back door and kick everyone. But logically, I knew that they were just trying to help him. The vet came running into my room out of breath and red-faced like she’s sprinted all the way to the door to explain why my dog was howling, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she gasped, “I promise, we only gave him the shot. I mean, it stings a little but…”

I nodded, “I know.” Oliver came running into the room with the vet tech and hid behind my legs. I picked him up, “did that mean lady hurt you?” and kissed his head. He looked at me like, “yeah, fuck her.” The vet shot me a look.

“The medicine will get rid of any nausea or any tummy pain that he might have.” Said the vet, “I took a fecal sample and it does look like he has more bad bacteria than normal so it looks like he ate something he wasn’t supposed to eat. He seems very sensitive to pain.”

Read: The goddamn noodle. He was practically dying over a noodle. Or tampon. He’d also eaten a tampon that week. Dogs are so Gross.

The vet gave him probiotics and antibiotics to rebalance his bacteria and sent us home. We walked in the door and the meds must have already kicked in because he ran over to his food and gobbled up the entire bowl in 3.2 seconds. Then he grabbed a stuffed squirrel and took off running around the couch.

F picked Oliver up, “a tummy ache?”

I shrugged, “Yep.”

Later that night, around 3 a.m., Oliver woke me up to go potty. I let him outside, he went to the bathroom then came running back inside. He tore through the house and jumped on our bed. Then he sat down, rolled around, and sat down again. It was dark. I was tired. I closed the door and climbed into bed. I put my hand on something wet. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight. Brown smears all over our white comforter. My husband was fast asleep.

“Babe, BABE, get up. Oliver shit the bed.” He sat straight up and stared at me, baffled.

“Oliver got poop all over the bed. We have to change the sheets.” He slowly nodded and crawled out of bed. We silently changed the sheets and I took Oliver to the bathroom to wash Oliver’s ass (when I was younger, I never thought that I’d grow up to spend a ton of time washing dog butt). I disinfected my hands, cleaned the bathroom, and settled back into bed at 4 a.m.

Oliver padded up to space between me and F, turned, and flopped down in between us. He snored like nothing had ever been wrong and all was right in the world.

 

 

I’d Like to Pay for That Coffee (and never have it)

My Tuesdays are hectic, mainly because they’re actually my Mondays. I find myself waking up and wandering around my house aimlessly for the first twenty minutes that I’m mobile. My dog, Oliver, yawns from the couch and watches me pass by one, two, three, four times before he finally realizes that I’ve lost my goddamn mind and goes back to sleep.

This morning I was really dragging ass. I’m usually at work by 8:30 the latest and today I didn’t even get out of the house until 9:00. Why? I don’t know. I didn’t even shower, I barely brushed my hair, and I didn’t eat breakfast. I spent most of the morning looking for pants. I also walked Oliver and Tweeting. When you’ve lost your pants, Tweet.

Since my head was in the clouds I decided to stop at the cafe near my house for a coffee which I rarely do because as I’ve hit my thirties my body has stopped enjoying all things awesome. I put my friend Dusty on hold (Bluetooth, you are my everything), pulled up to the window and ordered my decaf almond milk latte. Yeah, decaf, because I’m a stress case and caffeine makes me tweak out and lose my shit. But the decaf has just enough coffee to wake me up (my college self is shitting her pants right now-that version of me drank no less than 12 cups of coffee per day and still slept like I’d been Roofied). I paid for my coffee, put my wallet back in my bag, and continued chatting with Dusty about her Ph.D. program. Thirty minutes into my drive, almost to work, I realized that something was wrong. I surveyed my car.

“OH! MOTHER FUCK!” I slapped the steering wheel.

“What happened!?” Dusty asked.

“Apparently, I paid for my coffee and then just drove off like some madman.”

“And?”

“Without the coffee.” I felt ragey. And slightly afraid. Is that level of absent-mindedness even normal? Then Dusty was all, “dude, are you pregnant?” And I was like, no, my head just isn’t attached to my body, apparently.

But tomorrow? Oh, tomorrow I’m getting that damn coffee.

 

Trying To Conceive: An OBGYN I’d Probably Marry

In my last blog post, Just Stare Into My Vagina and Tell Me It Will Be Okay, I wrote about how scared I am to have a baby. Or, how scared I am to try to have a baby, since I’m not actually pregnant, yet. As of then I couldn’t find an OBGYN, with higher ratings than a dominos pizza, that was in-network.

Well, cue the trumpets, I found someone. Two people, actually, and I want both of them to be my best friends. Best friends who have both been elbows deep into my birth canal.

I’m one of those weirdos who Googles everything. Especially healthcare providers and anyone who could potentially kill me or maim me but also pretty much anything because I have entirely too much time on my hands and am addicted to unlimited information. Like six months ago I stumbled on this one OBGYN that has like the highest rating in the state and I was like, I NEED HER. But she was out of network. Well, I checked again recently and she was IN NETWORK! So I made the appointment and was more excited than I’ve ever been to have my cervix aggressively raked. Usually my lady exams are super weird so I’ve written about them way more than a normal person would. Do normal people write about their vagina exams? I don’t know. Anyway.

At the appointment, I was shown to a chair and told to wait for the doctor. After five minutes or so she came flying in, apologized for being late, and proceeded to ask me a zillion questions. But, not in a normal doctor way.

” Do you drink?”

“Yes, wine”

“GOOD! Good for you! And you can continue to do that until your pregnancy test says you’re pregnant. However, that doesn’t mean you can put the test off for eight months.”

Throughout my appointment she was informative and funny. She made jokes about dressing up as a vagina for Halloween. During my pap smear she impersonated Trump, “No, really, nobody respects women more than I do.”

When I told her I was pro-choice she high-fived me and told me I was incredibly badass and responsible. I live in Utah where like 98% of the doctors are Mormon and super republican. And while I have many friends and family who are both of those things, I am neither. And I was pretty excited about having a doctor who I didn’t feel like I had to pretend for. I also really liked her because when I told her about my experience with an Italian gynecologist she said, “That’s horrifying. Do you know how many women are sexually assaulted? That would be traumatic.” She also explained absolutely everything that she was doing, why she was doing it, and gave me a forty minute explanation of why they do a pap smear (cervical cancer screening, caused by the HPV virus). Seriously, it was the most thorough, thoughtful, kind, and hilarious appointment I’d ever had. She’s exactly who I’d want by my side while I pushed a giant baby out of my lady garden.

However. I’d just discovered, the day before, that while she is in my network, the clinic she works in, is not. Therefore, she couldn’t be my OBGYN without my having to shell out a lot of money for the out of network stuff. Sigh. I told her all of this and she listened and said, “Oh, don’t you worry! I’ve got you! One of my best friends is an OBGYN in your network! You’ll love her. She’s super progressive and funny!”

Sold.

I haven’t met her yet but I have talked with her nurse a few times on the phone and she is amazing. When I told her who referred me she laughed, “Oh, she’s awesome. Yeah, her and Dr. So and So are like best friends. You’re going to love her, she’s so great.” So, I’m actually excited about my doctor now. Sounds super trivial for most of you, I know, but for me it’s a huge relief. Which is good because I can’t be over here chugging entire bottles of wine.

I have no idea what I’m doing. Oh my God what am I doing?

 

Does This Cup Make My Vagina Look Huge?

My friend K just moved back from France. So, it made sense for us to catch up over a FOUR HOUR phone call (it actually flew by). During this conversation, we talked about work. K is a former journalist turned evil copywriter, like me. Only, replace “journalist” with “literature major,” and “pimp.”

We talked about the ideal company to work for and fun parts of our job (like strategizing ways to take down competitors because marketing is an asshole industry), and I mentioned, about 400 times, that I would love to work with Thinx. They make period underwear. And as much as you’re probably thinking, “ew gross,” what you would be thinking after you used them is, “fuck yeah.” Anyway, I have five pairs, they’re amazing, and I’m obsessed with them. I was explaining the absolute badassery that is period panties, when K said, “I really want to try cups.”

“AH! Yeah! I’m trying!” I squealed like a teenager.

And I went into a long rant about how tampons are stupid because they dry out your lady garden, mess up your ph balance, and are also full of chemicals (unless you get organic ones).

“So, I’ve wanted to try cups forever,” I continued. “My sister gave me one to try from a pack of disposables she bought at Target. I tried it in Munich. And it got stuck. In. My. Vagina. And I spent one hour squatting on my bathroom floor like Gollum, trying to hook the fucking thing so I could get it out of my vagina. It was the WORST. I just kept wondering how I would explain to Francesco that I got some silicon doo-hicky permanently lodged up there.”

“That sounds terrible,” K laughed, “when I tried it,  the same thing happened. My boyfriend had to help me get it out.”

“AH! Jesus! REALLY? Awful. So, after that shitty experience, I still wanted to try a cup. I bought a Lena on Amazon. And it took three cycles to figure it out and I felt like a fourteen-year-old again, trying to figure out tampons. And to not freak out about how it might be sucking out my guts (note: It can’t suck out your guts, apparently). But on the fourth cycle, I finally figured it out. And, it’s awesome. Except, I think it might be too small because it leaks a little.”

Then it occurred to me that she might be all like, “she has a giant vagina.” So I quickly added that my lady cave is perfectly compact. And I don’t even know why because vaginas come in all sorts of sizes and it’s TOTALLY FINE. Still. I tried to overly explain.

“I mean, it’s not like my vagina is huge. My last gynecologist had to use the small speculum. She even waved it around and said, ‘I only use this small one for my special ladies,’ which was weird and kind of scary. And F was in the corner like, WTF is happening?”

K burst out laughing. “You have the WEIRDEST gynecologist stories. Seriously, who are these people you go to?”

“Right? I noted that I DO have weird gyno experiences,  “anyway, my vagina isn’t like enormous or anything.”

K paused, “I was just remembering one time when I was over at your house and you told Francesco to buy you Super tampons and he asked, ‘like extra large?’ and you were like, ‘Yes, extra large, for my EXTRA LARGE VAGINA.”

” And it’s not extra large. It’s just extra bleedy. But yeah, that conversation sounds like me and F.”

“It does.” She agreed.

I pulled up Amazon on my phone while we were talking, “So, I’m going to order the same cup but in a bigger size. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Thanks, yeah, definitely let me know how the HUGE one fits.”

And then I just glared at my phone while K laughed.

“This should be a blog post,” K said.

“Hmm. Yeah.” I agreed.

 

 

 

 

 

Going To The OBGYN Is A Lot Like Trying On Shoes Only Not At All

I sat in the pink gown with the scratchy paper draped over my lap waiting for the doctor to come in to give me my yearly checkup. My husband, Francesco sat awkwardly in the corner repeating, “200 dollars?” He was shell shocked that we had forgotten our insurance cards and were forced to pay for the visit up front. “The money will be reimbursed when  you call in with your policy number,” the receptionist told us while I handed her my forms of 3,564 questions that ranged from “Insurance provider,” to, “Is your spouse hitting you?” Francesco was suffering from some form of financial ptsd as he usually does in his day to day life. Because he’s responsible and cares about our savings in a way that I wish I could but know I never will.

On our drive to the clinic he had tried to convince me to, “Ask the doctor how much everything will cost. Maybe we can get it cheaper somewhere else.”

I turned, “Really, where do you think we can get a vaginal exam for cheaper? What makes you think I want a cheap exam? Maybe I don’t want a discount doctor to poke my ovaries.”

Rolling his eyes, “It’s fine to ask. Maybe your dad’s friend doctor could do it?”

I threw my hands up, “Are you insane!? Dr. Mandorlay is a family friend. I am not showing him my vagina! We have insurance you crazy person! And we’re not even that poor! What the hell is wrong with you!?”

He made a right into the parking lot of the clinic, “It’s never a bad idea to save money. We don’t know how much this might cost.”

“That’s kind of the point of insurance.”

I sat on the table swinging my legs anxiously. It’s kind of twisted but i’m less worried about someone seeing my vagina than displaying it. Going to the gyno for me is awkward because of that weird moment where you have to unveil your lady bits to someone sitting one foot away from it. Preparing to go to the doctor is like going on a date where you know you’re going to get lucky. I shave, rub my legs down with lotion so she doesn’t judge me for having dry skin. I spritz my thighs with a bit of rose oil perfume so the doctor can sit down to a nice fragrant mist. I bet she’ll appreciate that, I think, she probably wishes that more of her patience oiled their legs. Then I get dressed and stress about what I’m wearing. If I wear something too comfortable I might give the doctor anxiety about having to put her hand in my hoo-haw. When I see women in sweats outside their homes I don’t associate them with the cleanest vaginas. I mean, if you can’t even bother to put on real pants who knows what’s happening down under. Do I want to go business attire? Slacks and a button-down? Do I want her to think, Power Vagina? I settle on leggins, a t-shirt, and cardigan. I went with “Casual vagina.” I started to apply makeup than worried I might take it too far. I usually wear red lip which seems a little inappropriate considering the circumstances. Like I’d somehow overdressed and was expecting something more than a simple exam. I decided on minimal makeup to somehow make it less weird. 

Come On In, Everyone! Gif By: http://www.okmoviequotes.com/

The doctor came in and introduced herself. A Colorado native, she’s been an OBGYN for a decade or so. She married into a Sicilian family. She spoke with my husband a bit about his native country, Italy, and then moved onto me. In the usual fashion, she sat on a chair and rolled up to me.

“Scoot down, scoot down, scoooooot way down. Alright, great! Now straddle for me,” she yelled in between my legs like she was screaming into a tunnel. I heard her reached for something, “Great! Lookin’ good!” I took that as a personal compliment, “Thank you.” So all the lotions and shaving weren’t crazy. Something clanked loudly, “Hmm, gotta find the right one,” more clanking. I couldn’t see her over the scratchy paper blanket. My husband peered out of the window into the parking lot. He was either uncomfortable by what the doctor was doing or he was trying to find a back alley surgeon.

“Let’s see if this speculum works. Nope. This one? Nope. Hmm. It’s your lucky day. I only use more than one for my special ladies.” I felt like I was trying on shoes. Shoes for my vagina. “You’re cervix looks healthy.” I felt scraping with her tiny, evil mini broom that they use to test your cervical cells for abnormalities. ouch. ouch. OUCH. She was finished.

She stood up, “Go ahead and get dressed. So do you know if you’re close to your cycle?”

I sat up, “Uhm, well, I want to ax murder my husband so that’s a good indication that it’s near.”

“Uh-huh,” she wrote something in my chart, probably, “psycho.”

“Also, you see my sister and she said you said she has a tilted uterus or something. Is that me too?”

“No, you don’t have matchy vaginas in that sense.”

“Cool. Is it weird that we both come to you?” It had just occurred to me that it might be odd for us to both see the same doctor.

“No, a lot of family members see the same doctor.” She smiled, “I hope you’re doing okay. I hope I didn’t kill you.”

“Jesus, could it get any worse than ‘death by pap-smear?” I laughed.

She smiled, “No, it probably couldn’t. So, see you next time!” She left.

I hopped down from the chair and started to get dressed. The tile was cold on my bare feet. I wondered why doctors offices were always freezing, like a meat locker. I contemplated taking a picture of a giant plastic sculpture of a uterus. I noticed how much space it takes up in the body which totally made sense and explained why I had to pee so often. My bladder was being pushed around by my big ass uterus. And, who invented the weird table with the feet stirrups?

I turned to my husband who was now standing anxiously, “would it be weird to do it in here?”

His eyes bugged out of his face, “Yes, yes it would be weird. What the hell is wrong with you!? Get dressed!”

I pulled on my pants, “It was just a question. I wasn’t like hitting on you. Plus, I thought you might want to get as much bang for your buck as possible. Since, you know, you’re stressed about the cost of maintaining my lady bits.”

“I’m not stressed! I was just say…Please stop talking,” he ushered me towards the door.

“Fine, but can I at least have ice cream now?”

“What are you five?”

“I just had a metal duck head inside my guts. I think I’m entitled.”

“Fine-a. We can git gelato on the way home.”

I would be free for another year, given that my results come back as normal.