I bet no one asks Cameron to scrub anything....

Occasionally at work, I hear the dreaded question...

WOULD YOU LIKE TO SCRUB A C-SECTION?

The minute I start to hear scr_ _, I start to think of the many things I would rather do....such as:

...I would rather comb the dingle berries out of my dogs bum
...I would prefer to go back to first grade and drink the skim milk that's been sitting on the counter for three hours
...I would rather go to my childhood dentist who I am sure was on a day pass from federal prison
...I would retake my orthodontic impressions with a hangover after eating a bowl of Dinty Moore Beef Stew
...I would sit through a double feature of "Battlefield Earth" and "Bio Dome"
...I would rather have a colonoscopy with no anesthesia and/or bowel prep after eating buffalo chicken calzones
...I would go on another blind date with the guy who had braces but hadn't mastered the use of dental floss and had no concept of social space
...I would rather retake 10th grade gym class which consisted of 4 semesters of tall people sports
...I would get a tattoo saying "Where's my Precious?" across my forehead

Saying goodbye to college boy....

There is nothing that can put a lump in your throat quicker than saying good-bye to your son as he makes his way off to college. This will be the third time, but it never gets easier. Granted, his room is so littered with towels and clothes we could probably outfit an entire country with t shirts. I will miss nagging him to pick up all his orange soda cans, which are now being bagged for redemption and will probably pay for his food plan for the entire first semester.  We have given up waiting for him to come home at night, mostly because we can't stay up that late anymore and expect to function at work. I think even the Rocco knows he's leaving, because he keeps offering up toys with the hopes of some tug of war. One more year after this, and then he may be going off into the world with no intention of coming home.  So even though it's bittersweet, I still have the knowledge that I get to say good bye again next year, and then call in the troops to find his carpet under all that stuff. 

I bet Cameron wouldn't mind showing the doctor her bum

Okay, so today was the day that my Cameron-like activities caught up to me in the form of bursitis. You would think that the nerves, anxiety and apprehension I was feeling was due to the fact that a doctor is putting a @@##$!#$$^%$&%$ needle into my hip. Or the fact that if it doesn't work, I'm going to have to keep sleeping on my right side. Granted, I do think Shar-Pei dogs are kinda cute, but it's not really the look I'm shooting for at this point in my life. All seemed fine until the doctor said, "lay on your side and I will prep the area". Area? Woah, wait a minute here. When you say "area"  what you are in fact referring to is my butt and I'm not too thrilled with you getting a bird's eye view of it. I should have spray tanned and had my husband use the rolling pin to break up some of the cellulite. Or maybe if I stuck a pen in the electrical outlet and blew the fuses, it could be nice and pitch black in the treatment room. It wasn't that bad after all, and he did do a great job considering I made him wear my sunglasses throughout the entire procedure. 

Who do I see about turning off the hunger area of my brain?

Okay, so why is it the minute I sign up for Weight Watchers online, that I become a miserable, hungry witch? If I had a housekeeper and HE fed me all day without telling me it was calorie controlled, I probably wouldn't even know I was doing Weight Watchers. Today I looked at my husband's ribcage and imagined it dressed up like a crown roast with potatoes and those cute little white papers that make it look fancy. The dog whined and hid under the table because I told him he smelled like roast chicken and gravy. Even the chickens won't come out of their coop because I started mixing barbecue sauce in with their water. If I can just get through one week, I'll remember my husband pays the mortgage, Rocco is my faithful companion, and my daughter would eventually figure out I put stuffed animals in the chicken coop.

So that's what the manicurist is thinking?

Me: My daughter and I would love to have our first manicure together. How much does it cost?
Manicurist: How lovely for you both. It's just $15.00 each. 
Manicurist (what she really thinks):  You look like you just came out of a coal mine. This could take all day. When was the last time you washed your hands? 

Me: Oh, that sounds wonderful. Let me go pick a color.
Manicurist to me: Go right ahead. I will get my instruments ready.
Manicurist (what she really thinks): Oh, no, here we go. Don't forget how old you are lady. I doubt you're going to pick something age appropriate; you're probably one of those crazy wannabe Cougars who wants bright purple acrylics.

Me: Do you use new instruments for each client? How do you clean them?
Manicurist to me: Oh, yes. We clean them very carefully and then put them in the autoclave machine.
Manicurist (what she really thinks): Do you go to the Italian restaurant and ask them if they wash the dishes that you're eating off of.  I wish I had ten bucks for every time I get asked that.

Me: Thank you so much for the beautiful manicure. It looks so pretty.
Manicurist to me: Yes, it does. Come back in two weeks for a touch up.
Manicurist (what she really thinks): I give it about ten minutes, and your fingers will look like they went through the wood chipper. When will some women realize they are not manicure material? Why don't you just go sign up for tractor trailer driving lessons?

Why are women so hard on themselves?

I have a friend that if Barbie was cast in a movie, this woman would get the part. She is tall, thin, and athletic. She is funny, fun to be around, and always laughing. She can wear those sleeveless tee shirts that if I wore I would end up in Glamour Magazine with my face blacked out and the caption "Don't Do This" under it. The other night, we were talking about what we've done this summer. She said that she's not enjoying her summer because she is out of shape and doesn't want to go to the beach because she doesn't like the way she looks. Now, this lady is gorgeous; I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I looked like her. I thought about it and I figure I have about 18 years to physically be able to do adventurous things without the help of a team of physicians, a hoyer lift and a home health aide to lug my pills around. I've realized that nobody is really looking at your body when you're having a great time, they are watching you having a great time and that's all. When I think about it, all Barbie probably ever did was wait around for Ken to come back from fishing, camping, hiking, boys night out, bar hopping, army training...

Who talked me into these chickens?

In a moment of maternal weakness, I let my daughter buy these fuzzy, adorable, cute little chicks that have mutated into the biggest flock of maniacs I have ever seen. I don't know how those tiny little pellets of chicken food multiply into such vast piles of chicken doot, but it's akin to the loaves and fishes story we've all heard in church. I figure with the wood chips ($26.50), feed ($14.00/bag), time I spend mucking through their smelly coop (interminable), time I spend nagging my daughter to check on them (painful), and the Prilosec ($10.00 copay) and mouth guard I need from the stress of them, each egg will cost me about $6.36 by the time they start hatching in October. By then, my yard will be a Superfund site and my stomach acid will have eroded not just mine, but all the esophagus' within a six mile radius of my house. Who wants an omelet?

Why I will never provide the baked goods at an AA meeting...

The other day, I thought it would be lovely to make a home made angel food cake for my husband's birthday. After using all of the eggs from the dairy section at our local supermarket, I managed to get 12 whites without any visible yolk. While whipping them for what seemed like the duration of the 2012 summer olympics, I assembled the cake and placed it in the oven. It looked so lovely and airy when it was done, and I carefully placed it on top of the only bottle I had, my husband's Limoncello. Later that night, ready to proudly display my work of culinary art, I tipped the bottle over and shrieked as the cap came off and doused the cake with 35% alcohol by volume. The cake was tangy and yummy, and the best part was everyone slept over because their blood alcohol was over the legal driving limit.

Why borrowing a pot from my mother can turn into a trip to the ER...

As you can imagine, after 50+ years of marriage, my mother has quite a collection of pots and pans. She has managed to fit all of  it into a kitchen the size of an outhouse. I don't know what her system is, but it is so absolutely mind boggling that it requires a degree in civil engineering to get everything to fit. It's a shame, because I think if she had been born 40 years later, she could have been the World Champion of Tetris. Needing a special pot for a recipe  from Giada (which I could swear my husband may have inadvertently called me during an intimate moment), she invited me in to take a look. I ventured into her cabinets, only to return three days later with a broken collarbone and a herniated L5-S1.  I have donned my apron and the food is cooking, but if she asks me to return that pot I'm not doing it without a neck brace and a bottle of Motrin.