ME: *whispering into my office phone* Um, something is wrong with me down there.
NURSE: You need to speak up, honey. I can barely hear you.
ME: My boss is in the next office, I don't want him to hear. Can you just smash the phone to your ear?
NURSE: *totally annoyed* Okay, I'm listening.
ME: Something is wrong with my crotch. It's all dry and itchy. And I was in earlier this week because I'm sick. I have some sort of upper respiratory thing. So it's not like I had to take my pants off or anything and catch someone else's crotch crud on the table. And I swear, I have been so sick that I haven't even had sex with my husband. So I am pretty sure I didn't catch something from him. And I don't think he cheats on me. Except for at his bachelor party. He did touch a stripper's boob. But I get that, I mean he was under peer pressure and ...
NURSE: *cutting me off* Are you taking an antibiotic?
ME: Yes. And this pill is big enough to choke me. I think it must be something with super powers.
NURSE: You have a yeast infection. I'll call you in a prescription.
ME: Yeast infection? What's that?
NURSE: It's caused by your antibiotic...
ME: *cutting her off* Um, yes, that sounds good. I'll see you soon. Have a great day!
MY BOSS: *standing in the doorway* Did you say you have a geese infection?
ME: Kind of. I have a geese infestation.
MY BOSS: That's odd. You don't even live on the water.
ME: I know, right? Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about this spreadsheet you sent. I have some questions about these calculations.
The moral of this story:
Don't drive away with your cell phone on top of your car. It takes 24 hours to have one shipped to you, and you may have to have a private conversation in your office that has very thin walls. And if your CFO boss does hear something that you wish he hadn't, just distract him with questions about numbers.
September 2, 2010
August 30, 2010
"Husbands who are spoiled make bad mothers." OR "I hope he dies first for the kids' sake."
ME: Shaun, I think I'm dying. I know you're playing poker. But do you think you could come home early?
HIM: I'm up $80. I'll see you when I see you.
ME: But I'm really dying here. And the kids' voices are making my skin itch. And I just looked at the microwave for 20 minutes trying to figure out how to warm up soup. Nothing makes sense. Please come home.
HIM: Momma wants a new pair of shoes, right? Just put the kids to bed early. You'll be fine.
ME: *hacking and wheezing noises* Okay. I do like shoes. *sniffing and sneezing*
***
Ugh. Why are men like this?
He was sick last week, and not only did I cater to his every need, but I also made sure that the grass was mowed and the garbage was taken out to the curb.
I stepped up my game. I was not only doing the things I typically do, but I was also pulling his weight. And I was happy to do so.
So I put the children to bed at 7:56 pm on Saturday and crashed.
At 6:45 am on Sunday, the babies woke up like clockwork.
ME: Shaun, you have to go get them. *cough, hack, cough, sniff*
HIM: I got in so late. I need sleep.
ME: Shaun, I'm so sick. Shaun? Shaun? Shaun?
HIM: *snoring*
So there I was. I was awake, and trying to muster up thoughts of what to feed children. All my brain cells could put together was toast.
Feed them toast. Put butter on it. And maybe jelly. The baby wants milk. Logan needs a sippy cup. Be quiet. Don't wake up the other one. Don't cough on their food. Put on Dora. Lay on the couch. Go Tweet something. Those people will feel sorry for you.
My husband finally came downstairs and looked at me. He told me I looked very sick (ya' think?) and sent me up to bed.
The next thing I remember, it was 3:32 pm. I had just slept all day. I awoke to the sound of our daughter crying in her crib.
When I took her downstairs, my husband told me that was her third nap of the day (she normally takes one). He also said they hadn't had lunch because he didn't know what to make (um...pizza delivers everyday) so he fed them Cheetos, and that Logan pooped up his back so he sprayed him off in the bathtub and he was pretty sure I needed to scrub the tub.
I took one look at him, handed him the pizza coupons and some Clorox Bleach Spray, and I went back to bed.
Being sick sucks. But I'm pretty sure it sucks worse for my husband. And that makes me feel secretly happy.
Oh, and I lost 6 pounds in the last 3 days. So being sick is also the best diet ever. I don't think he'll being seeing that 50 inch flat screen anytime soon.
HIM: I'm up $80. I'll see you when I see you.
ME: But I'm really dying here. And the kids' voices are making my skin itch. And I just looked at the microwave for 20 minutes trying to figure out how to warm up soup. Nothing makes sense. Please come home.
HIM: Momma wants a new pair of shoes, right? Just put the kids to bed early. You'll be fine.
ME: *hacking and wheezing noises* Okay. I do like shoes. *sniffing and sneezing*
***
Ugh. Why are men like this?
He was sick last week, and not only did I cater to his every need, but I also made sure that the grass was mowed and the garbage was taken out to the curb.
I stepped up my game. I was not only doing the things I typically do, but I was also pulling his weight. And I was happy to do so.
So I put the children to bed at 7:56 pm on Saturday and crashed.
At 6:45 am on Sunday, the babies woke up like clockwork.
ME: Shaun, you have to go get them. *cough, hack, cough, sniff*
HIM: I got in so late. I need sleep.
ME: Shaun, I'm so sick. Shaun? Shaun? Shaun?
HIM: *snoring*
So there I was. I was awake, and trying to muster up thoughts of what to feed children. All my brain cells could put together was toast.
Feed them toast. Put butter on it. And maybe jelly. The baby wants milk. Logan needs a sippy cup. Be quiet. Don't wake up the other one. Don't cough on their food. Put on Dora. Lay on the couch. Go Tweet something. Those people will feel sorry for you.
My husband finally came downstairs and looked at me. He told me I looked very sick (ya' think?) and sent me up to bed.
The next thing I remember, it was 3:32 pm. I had just slept all day. I awoke to the sound of our daughter crying in her crib.
When I took her downstairs, my husband told me that was her third nap of the day (she normally takes one). He also said they hadn't had lunch because he didn't know what to make (um...pizza delivers everyday) so he fed them Cheetos, and that Logan pooped up his back so he sprayed him off in the bathtub and he was pretty sure I needed to scrub the tub.
I took one look at him, handed him the pizza coupons and some Clorox Bleach Spray, and I went back to bed.
Being sick sucks. But I'm pretty sure it sucks worse for my husband. And that makes me feel secretly happy.
Oh, and I lost 6 pounds in the last 3 days. So being sick is also the best diet ever. I don't think he'll being seeing that 50 inch flat screen anytime soon.
August 26, 2010
I am going to win. Because I always win. At everything.
To say I that am competitive would be an understatement. I want to be the very best at everything I do.
I want to have the best hair in my office.
I want to drive the newest car in my neighborhood.
I want to have the best dressed children on the playground.
Basically I am looking at everyone around me and judging the shit out of them. But not in a bad way, just in an "I want to be better than you" way. That's all.
So when my husband came home from the doctor and told me that he had gained 15 pounds (since moving from the plant to his new cushy office job), I laughed at him and told that's the same thing that happened to me.
I stopped bartending, got a cushy office job, and I also gained 15 pounds.
HIM: Fifteen pounds? You have gained more than 15 pounds in the past five years that you've been there.
ME: Um, I don't think so, Shaun. I just carry my weight differently now that I've had two babies in the past three years.
HIM: Dude. Let's go weigh in. What did you weigh when we got married?
ME: *cricket noises*
HIM: See? You don't want to tell me.
ME: A lady never tells her weight.
HIM: We could both stand to lose some weight. Whoever loses the most weight before Christmas gets the Christmas present that they really want. So for you, it's new furniture. And for me, it's a 50 inch flat screen.
How could I turn down new furniture? I have been bitching about new furniture for three years.
So we went upstairs to weigh in. He went first. 210 pounds.
My turn.
Please weigh less than him. Please weigh less than him. Please weigh less than him.
A lady never tells her weight, but let's just say it was close.
ME: Well, it's not my fault I'm shorter than you! And I have big boobs!
HIM: Holy. Fucking. Shit.
ME: Monitor your mouth, Shaun.
So I am officially on a diet. And I would like someone to send me a gun so I can shoot myself. And I will be better at losing weight than him. Mark my words. I will win.
Oh, and Shaun, I totally know that you fucked with the scale this morning. Because there is no way I gained five pounds overnight.
Asshole.
I want to have the best hair in my office.
I want to drive the newest car in my neighborhood.
I want to have the best dressed children on the playground.
Basically I am looking at everyone around me and judging the shit out of them. But not in a bad way, just in an "I want to be better than you" way. That's all.
So when my husband came home from the doctor and told me that he had gained 15 pounds (since moving from the plant to his new cushy office job), I laughed at him and told that's the same thing that happened to me.
I stopped bartending, got a cushy office job, and I also gained 15 pounds.
HIM: Fifteen pounds? You have gained more than 15 pounds in the past five years that you've been there.
ME: Um, I don't think so, Shaun. I just carry my weight differently now that I've had two babies in the past three years.
HIM: Dude. Let's go weigh in. What did you weigh when we got married?
ME: *cricket noises*
HIM: See? You don't want to tell me.
ME: A lady never tells her weight.
HIM: We could both stand to lose some weight. Whoever loses the most weight before Christmas gets the Christmas present that they really want. So for you, it's new furniture. And for me, it's a 50 inch flat screen.
How could I turn down new furniture? I have been bitching about new furniture for three years.
So we went upstairs to weigh in. He went first. 210 pounds.
My turn.
Please weigh less than him. Please weigh less than him. Please weigh less than him.
A lady never tells her weight, but let's just say it was close.
ME: Well, it's not my fault I'm shorter than you! And I have big boobs!
HIM: Holy. Fucking. Shit.
ME: Monitor your mouth, Shaun.
So I am officially on a diet. And I would like someone to send me a gun so I can shoot myself. And I will be better at losing weight than him. Mark my words. I will win.
Oh, and Shaun, I totally know that you fucked with the scale this morning. Because there is no way I gained five pounds overnight.
Asshole.
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