Category Archives: Health Humor

Want To Bubble-Up Together? Here Are 6 Tips!

Once the global pandemic of 2020 began, the concept of “The Covid Bubble” or “The Pod” or “The Quaranteam” was a foregone conclusion — because self-isolation is not sustainable, and Zoom visits are not completely satisfying, and because it’s human nature to join a special clique so you can be stuck-up and exclude everyone else.

Essentially the premise to this entire idea is finding a select group of people who unanimously agree to forsake all others, thus deeming them “safe and healthy” so you can socialize together and not be so bored. Plus you’ll always have another wife to blame for the food poisoning your family gets from the backyard picnic because obviously she’s the one who left the mayonnaise out on the counter too long.

If you’re going to approach this idea, do so fully armed utilizing the following:

  1.  Keep a list of all families that are potentials to Bubble-Up with, but before you make final selections, weigh their important criteria in an official Pros/Cons list. Let’s say your neighbors are named the Johnsons:

PROS OF THE JOHNSON FAMILY

  • They just got a super cute fluffy kitten!
  • The mother is a great cook!
  • The father likes sports and will organize baseball games between the families.
  • They have a teenage daughter who babysits!
  • They have a swimming pool!
  • They share our belief system about the song, “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go!”
  • They have a Hulu account!

CONS OF THE JOHNSON FAMILY

  • Anyone who pets or “oohs and ahhs” at their mediocre scruffy kitten must also clean its litter box.
  • When she cooks, the mother uses only full fat cream, butter, cheese, and beef in her recipes and thinks “Low-Cal” is a term for people who reside in the valleys of California.
  • The father was in the military, so when a ball hits you in the head, he shouts, “C’mon Soldier, shake it off!”
  • The teenage babysitting daughter sneaks out to see her boyfriend in the middle of the night. (The boyfriend is social distancing . . . with his entire high school cheerleading squad.)
  • They don’t heat their pool, and skinny dipping is a rule, AND your husband is astonished they’ve never heard of “Shrinkage.”
  • When “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” comes on the radio, they’ll quickly change the station…to one that plays, “Achy Breaky Heart.”
  • They only watch “The Hot Wives of Orlando” on their Hulu account.

2.  Establish clearcut guidelines and boundaries regarding frequency and longevity. This is a temporary status. You are not becoming a commune, a cult, a reality TV show, or a kibbutz in Israel.

3.  The level of trust and commitment between families regarding staying exclusive must be elevated. There should be zero tolerance for infidelity. If a family hasn’t sowed their wild oats in their younger years by playing lots of Monopoly and Scrabble with other neighbors, you may be at risk for betrayal — you could catch them weakening and giving into temptation….straying over to the Smith’s kitchen table, and holding a seance for example.

4.   Don’t get all cutsie with this concept and start telling people you’re in a “Double Bubble with Barney Rubble” because that will just cause Trouble. Same with always using the phrase, “I hate to burst your bubble but….” However it might be a nice touch to invite your new group over for a bubble bath, letting them dry off with bubble wrap instead of towels, or offering everyone Bazooka Bubble Gum when they first join. (That’s the event planner in me who believes in creative themes and take-home party favors speaking!)

5.   Don’t forget to ask the most serious question of all: “Do you already have masks and gloves? This will lesson the expense of your joint family baseball tournament if their pitcher and ump already own such costly sports equipment!

6.   Never get hurt feelings if the family you ask to Bubble-Up with you declines. It doesn’t mean you guys have bad breath or your kids have too many temper tantrums. It usually comes down to the fact that your Cons far outweigh your Pros. As an example, the Johnson family (above) politely turned me down when I asked them to be in a Bubble with us. When I was certain they weren’t looking, I snuck a peek at their Pro/Cons and saw that under “Cons” someone had written, “The mother is a nosy snoop, she’ll scapegoat our condiments if they get food poisoning, and she makes crucial life or death decisions using a dumb Pro/Con chart. Plus she’ll probably end up blogging about us if she gets bored.

My Isolation From Blogging is Over

 

Yes, I admit to hoarding toilet paper to take photos like these of my children and pets. This is my firstborn son, but you can tell it’s an old picture because they don’t make it in colors anymore and I promise not to use TP so frivolously ever again. 

I somehow convinced myself that unless I wrote about the Coronavirus, (which I am so done with!) then nobody would be interested in my usual posts delving into life’s foibles. But just today I woke up adamantly declaring, “I don’t really care who reads me! If a typewriter clacks away in a deserted forest and there’s nobody around to hear the sound of a tree falling, would you still use Liquid Paper whiteout to cover up a typo?” Okay, I actually just woke up saying, “I don’t really care who reads me.” And the rest of that sentence I made up right now.

Long before WordPress blogs, I wrote only for myself. And I would never have kowtowed writing about the “hot topic of the day” just because it was the “in” thing to do. So today I’m going back to the mindset of writing for one important person . . . me.

Dear Diary,

After the WHO declared this virus a national pandemic, I tried to use my quirky humor to make this meme, which nobody understood or thought was the least bit funny. Basically all I succeeded in doing was dating myself.

That’s when I decided it was wrong of me to join the masses who try to capitalize on this crisis to get laughs. The other reason is — I was actually the first person to think up, “Ironically Passover is going to be cancelled this year due to an 11th plague.” But someone stole it from me and now they’re getting all the credit! I’m just not competitive enough for this “going viral” business, Diary.

Oh and guess what else? People are crafting personal protection out of bandanas, bras, and even diapers — so I feel terribly guilty my teenage daughter hoards face masks. Should I sneak into her bathroom and swipe them to donate to local hospitals? She has eighteen masks for oily skin and five with avocado, tea tree oil, and rosewater, which I think tightens pores?

And speaking of bras, as an overly endowed woman, I think “Flatten the Curve” would be a great tagline for a minimizer.  I also thought of selling the concept of “Corona Ice-cream Cone-a” to Baskin Robbins so we can all measure our pandemic days using their 31 flavors, consuming a different one each night. Maybe then quarantining wouldn’t be such a Rocky Road?  And how about “Corona Cologne-a” which could be an easy spray vaccine that smells nice too. People have always said I missed my calling in advertising/marketing.

So here’s a weird phenomenon. Every morning I wake up, go into my bathroom only to find the toilet seat in an upright position. I can only conclude I have a male ghost with a tiny bladder who’s been told to shelter in my place. This spook also eats all my Oreos, chips, and Hershey bars so he’s obviously switched from the Paleo Caveman diet to the Pandemeo Covidman diet.

And I’m so glad every single company I ever gave my email address to keeps me informed on a daily basis with detailed reports on how they and their employees handle Corona germs in their place of business. Yet I can’t get a single update from any of my six kids about whether or not they washed their hands before dinner.

My birthday came the same day the U.S. declared a national emergency and I figured that was oddly fitting. I consoled myself thinking about the entire country singing, “Happy Birthday” especially to me each time they scrubbed up.

Also I’m writing to Netflix and requesting they remove that message that pops up asking, “Are you STILL watching?” California is mandated to Stay Home . . . of course I’m still watching!  But spare me the guilt. At least my refrigerator doesn’t inquire, “Are you still eating?”

And regarding guilt — taking a break from Facebook right now because I can’t log in there without someone reminding me that “Shakespeare wrote King Lear during a plague!” Big Deal. I’m working on Coroneo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopandemic, and The Taming of the Shrewd (Virus).

Till next time, Diary.

Me

PS. I’m so proud that I’m sticking to my principles and writing for myself, not allowing the Coronavirus to infiltrate into my creative material.

                                                   GOT GUILT??

The Day the Doctor (and the music?) Died!

man wearing white long sleeved shirt

Photo by Miguel Arcanjo Saddi on Pexels.com

(Sung to the Tune of Bye Bye Miss American Pie)

Bye Bye Little Miss Menopause’s Guy

Took an Uber Car to Urgent Care, the receptionist did cry,

Them good ole nurses were eating Apple-a-Day pie,

Singing ‘he had a fatal heart attack, but we don’t know why?’

The day the doctor died.

And that’s when his entire office staff asked me to attend his funeral. Not only that, they said I was the patient who visited the most frequently and therefore Dr. Danzig would have wanted me to give his eulogy.

Sure he would! The man who called in sick whenever he saw my name on his appointment log?

We always had a real love/hate patient/doctor relationship going on, but right now I was in shock. Here was a guy I had faith in and went to each and every time I found a lump of cancer, suffered a stroke, had a heart attack, diagnosed myself with Early Onset Alzheimers or had numbness in my hands.  Each and every time he’d calmly tell me I was overreacting, and that symptoms of death didn’t manifest as a reflexive cough, a scratchy throat, itchy skin, flaky scalp, or a stomach that hurt when I laughed too hard.

I can own it. Yes, I was the proverbial hypochondriac. But I finally had begun to relax. Believing that he was right, and that by always following his sage advice, I would remain amongst the living.

And now he departs this earth without any warning?

You know what that means, don’t you?  Everything he told me to do — how to eat, how to drink, how to exercise, how to breathe, how to sleep, how to blow my nose, was entirely wrong. It had backfired on him and it was only a matter of time I would suffer the same fate.

This is different than your hairdresser showing up with gray hair, your teller at First American Financial declaring bankruptcy, or your mechanic’s own car brakes failing, — this is your doctor, the professional health expert that you trust to know what he’s talking about suddenly DYING!!

OMG! Before I meet my maker, maybe I should give serious consideration to writing my doctor’s eulogy. Here’s what I’ll say….

Dr. Danzig — it’s me, Little Miss Menopause. The one who’d sit in your waiting room, wringing her (numb!) hands, planning her own funeral. And now I’m attending yours, and reminiscing over all the visits and phone calls we shared…

I’ll always fondly recall the following little games we played:

  1. You’d leave the room after commanding me to undress. I’d panic, frantically trying to get that rattling, flimsy paper gown over my body in thirty seconds flat. And then, (I kid you not!) you’d strategically time your loud knocking on the door to the split second when my jeans/panties were off, but my thick woolen sweater was stuck over my head — so my voice muffled as I’d try to shout, “Give me one more minute!” You’d barge in and say, “What’s the difference if I see you naked standing vertical? I’m just going to gawk at you naked when you’re horizontal on my examination table?” You had a point, but still.
  2. Speaking of your table. Remember how you once admitted your nurse is forgetful and might not always remember to change the tissue paper between exams and how your last patient had syphilis. You little prankster, you!
  3. That time when I came in complaining that whenever I inhaled, I felt sharp pain in my lungs and you said, “The remedy for that is simple. Stop breathing.” What a card you were!
  4. Our cute phone tag shenanigans! I’d be desperate to find out my blood work results, (certain I had leukemia) and you’d (I have zero proof of this, but I wouldn’t put it past you!) have your leisurely breakfast at your desk, peruse my normal hemoglobin count which you’d record in my chart, then tell your receptionist, “Hold all my calls. I have an important meeting.” Next you’d chuckle as you’d overhear your front office phone ringing incessantly. Oh what fun!
  5. I’d bring freshly baked chocolate chip cookies to the lab, thereby bribing a technician to give me my blood results directly, breathe a sigh of relief they were fine and then proceed to hatch my plan. In your own sweet time, (bless your heart!) you’d finally return my phone calls, but hear the following outgoing message. “I’m sorry I missed you. If this is Dr. Danzig phoning, I have something urgent to tell you about glimpsing your wife in the restaurant where I was having lunch today. Leave me a message and I’ll get right back to you.” Then I’d go to a double feature at the movies and out for dinner. Wheeeee, good times!

Wait a minute, this really wasn’t a nice eulogy. It was more of a “cruelogy,” I thought as I imagined his bereaved family sobbing by his casket, none appreciating the humor in what I wrote. Serves him right though for always downplaying my symptoms, telling me they were nothing, that I was the boy who cried wolf who happened to wear dresses, and that everything was gonna turn out just fine.

A tear ran down my cheek as I imagined him experiencing his own chest pains, shortness of breath, left arm numbness, while optimistically telling himself it was probably just something he ate. Poor man believing his own propaganda. Doctor, heal thyself!

My phone rang and I answered immediately upon seeing the caller ID announcing Dr. Danzig. Really?

“Gotcha good this time!” he heartily laughed. “Now you know how I feel when you always insist you’re dying. And also — that’ll teach you to imply my wife is cheating on me!”

I seethed on the other end of the line. “You just wait, Dr. Danzig. I’m going to come in next time with bizarre mysterious symptoms and tell your entire waiting room that I was bit by a yellow-bellied sap sucker in your parking lot and it’s highly contagious.”

He chuckled, “Yes, but I saw you naked!”

Ugh, he had me there. But I was relieved he wasn’t a Dead Duck…. just perhaps a living Quack!

Readers — Do you have a healthy relationship with your physician? Do you wanna strangle him or do you love him “to death?”

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How Dare You Do Self-Care!

 

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The 70’s and 80’s commercial slogan, “Calgon take me away!” has nothing on today’s overused buzzword we know simply as, “Self-Care.” In fact my six children do a fake vomiting impression whenever they hear those two little words, probably because they got so sick of its predecessor — that classic analogy meant to justify my taking a break that went like this, “Mommy has to put her own oxygen mask on first before she can help you put on yours.” So now they officially refuse to travel on an airplane with me. (By the way, these same kids also signed a petition to prevent my talking about myself in the 3rd person, but that’s another blog entirely!)

So how did the pendulum swing so far in the other direction for females? You may recall not too long ago, most mothers put everyone else first, to the point of truly neglecting themselves, making motherhood synonymous with martyrdom. Gradually women learned it was okay to sometimes say, “No!” and that was kind of a nice, happy medium. Because sometimes we still said, “Yes!”

But now it’s gotten to the point where nobody shows up to help in an emergency because we can’t cope with any crisis until we’ve practiced good self-care. Imagine a horrible earthquake occurring, but before the American Red Cross sends assistance, they must slather Neutrogena’s soothing beauty balm onto their skin!

The next time you hang up the phone or part ways with someone while casually saying, “Take care of yourself now!” be aware that you’ve just granted someone permission to go get a mani/pedi, watch a soap-opera, and eat chocolate bonbons. That’s because “Self-Care” is loosely defined to encompass anything from aromatherapy (using essential oils!) to literally running away from life.

Join me now as we listen in on a “Self-Care, Self-Help, Do-It-Yourself Support Group” in progress: (And if you think that has too many “Self” words in it, congratulations you catch on fast!)

Leader: Take out your Self-Care journals and let’s make a list of what we need to have in our Self-Care kits. And then let’s take a Selfie holding them. Selma, please read your list?

Selma: Bath Salts, Bath Bombs, Bath Oils, Bath Bubbles, Bath Gels, Bath Sponges, Bath Scrubs, Bath Soaps…oh and you should put an actual Bathtub in your kit if it can fit.

Leader: Definitely! Sonia, your list please?

Sonia: I went the Mindful route. Is that okay?

Leader: Oh goody! Mindfulness and Self-Care go together like bagel and cream cheese, which you should also have in your kit by the way. Please continue . . .

Sonia: Mindful Yoga mat, Mindful Meditation book, Mindful Crystal, Mindful Meditation CD, Mindful Sunscreen, Mindful Money, Mindful Bra, Mindful Pillow, Mindful Birth Control, Mindful Michael Kors Purse, Mindful Nutella. . .

Leader: Terrific. You’ve discovered the main secret to Self-Care — just put the word “Mindful” in front of anything you desire and it’s automatically gonna be healthy and get our approval.

Sonia: Except “Mindful Children.” Somehow it doesn’t work with kids.

Leader: Whatever. Now let’s all recite the Self-Care first commandment together. Ready? “Caring for myself is not self-indulgent, it IS self-preservation.”

Suzanne: What about, “I think, therefore I am?”

Leader: Definitely not. You’re in the wrong place. The Self-Aware Support Group meets in the room down the hall.

Stacey: How about, “You can’t love someone else until you can love yourself?”

Leader: Sorry, you also don’t belong here. You’ll find the Self-Esteem Support Group meets in this same room but on Thursdays.

Stephanie: I have a question. I keep a diary, light lots of candles, get hand massages, eat avocado toast, go cloud-watching (I once saw one shaped like Gwyneth Paltrow!) unplug my cellphone daily, and breathe deeply while smelling roses, but still I’m completely miserable. Are some people just not good at this Self-Care stuff?

Leader: Security! Come quick! Code 5, I repeat Code 5! A Self-Sabotager has snuck into Self-Care! Calgon, take her away!

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying Self-Care is completely responsible for society’s narcissistic behavior or that we’re all returning to the “Me” generation, but perhaps “Self-Care” could include things like volunteering at a retirement center, adopting a homeless pet, buying the guy behind you a Starbucks, and leaving a comment on my blog. 😉 Now wouldn’t those things also make YOU feel good??

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And if you’re a guy, what does “Self-Care” even mean for you? Have you been sucked onto its bandwagon too, or is this just a girl thing?

I Keep Forgetting To Give Up Diet Cola!

soft-drinks-diet-coke-dementia-strokeI hate the Experts. They’re always making us give up things we like. Honestly it’s been on my (long) list of self-improvements to finally “Kick the Can” but it kept slipping my mind. And now I know why! Last week, a shocking news story went viral that was “sodapressing” for me.  Its headlines exploded (like when my son mischievously shakes my Zero Calorie Pepsi can) “Diet Soda Causes Dementia and Strokes!”

Wow. Just wow. But it was too late. My fate was already sealed. This amazing memory of mine had always been something I prided myself on until recently (hitting the big 5-0) when suddenly I’d walk into the proverbial room and couldn’t remember why.

I posted signs on the walls with hints meant to jog my mind.

This worked for a while, until I couldn’t even remember to look up and read my little signs. And to think this downhill slide into oblivion could all be attributed to my tiny, little addiction to a “sugar-free fizzy party in a bottle.”

Such an innocent vice, really. Years ago, I used to balance that red two-liter bottle of infamous carmel-colored carbonated liquid on top of my skull and tease that I was officially a “Cokehead.” But seriously, give me a break, Experts! I drink zero coffee or black tea so this was my only source of caffeine. (NOTE: YOU HAVE NO TANGIBLE PROOF ABOUT ME AND CHOCOLATE.)

And then I became engaged to a holistic, homeopathic, health and wellness doctor and suddenly I felt the need to hide my “criminal” activity to avoid disapproval. I slunk around the house (when he was over) snatching sips of the dark toxic bubbles from random flower vases and fishbowls, denying I had a problem.  “Look at the huge spider on that wall!” I’d gasp and point, then slug down my Chanel #5 perfume bottle.

Finally I recognized that my Diet Soda was out of hand. Or rather, it was always IN hand. I needed the Twelve-Steps Solution for my Six-Pack Problem. I knew I was truly frightened that a bad thing could happen if I didn’t quit. But I couldn’t even recall what that bad thing was anymore. And the only “strokes” I wanted were high praise for my writing.

Soon a well-meaning girlfriend (from AA) suggested I slowly taper off the poison by pouring something else in the cup to dilute it down little by little. Like gin, rum or vodka. Kidding.  No, she actually recommended water.

Sadly “moderation” isn’t a word in my vocabulary. (Although I was once just a “little bit pregnant” with twins.) But mainly I’m an All or Nothing type. Black or White. Up or Down. Feast or Famine. Push or Pull. Diet Coke or Death.

And so I had no choice but to go Cold-Turkey. But first because of the language lover that I am, I had to find out why we call it that? Would I soon be walking around shivering and saying “gobble, gobble?”  If you love word origins like I do, you can find out where Cold Turkey came from right HERE.

And then to my surprise, another viral internet headline surfaced from the Experts. It refuted the first study that diet soda caused these awful things. And tossed around words like “Absolute Risks,” and “Control Groups” and made some other really important points that I can’t recall at the moment.

I love the Experts! Yay. Giving me permission to continue doing something I want to do!

And then I realized. It’s not just something I want to do. I NEED to do it. I get headaches without diet soda. I crave more and more. I hear that familiar “fffsssssst” when someone flips the lid of a can and I flip my own lid trying to obtain some. (Thank you Pavlov!) Yes, I DO have a real problem, expert or no expert.

Also . . .  (and here comes my love of wordplay again!) DIET COKE starts with “D” and so does Dementia. Coke rhymes with Stroke and Croak. And speaking of croaking, Diet contains the word “Die” in it. Cola even perfectly rhymes with Ebola, which nobody has mentioned yet, but you can bet your pop-top that’ll be the next big scare. And Bubbles rhymes with Troubles. Coincidence? I think not.

Forget the experts. Forget dementia. Forget the experts. (Oh right, I already said that.) My own astute language associations (above) are all the empirical ‘absolute risk’ evidence I need to kick the habit. Starting today, I’m getting completely off that bubbly stuff you drink when you don’t want calories or sugar or fat and whose name I might recall right now if I hadn’t been drinking so much of it in the first place.

READERS: Do you have a little “addiction” you rationalize and think is innocent in the grand scheme of things? Tell me about it in the comments so I won’t feel so alone! Or before I pack up and move to Minnesoda. 😉

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Sitting IS the New Smoking??

images-17  You better have a seat before reading this — in case you’re as shocked as I am. Or maybe not!  I’d love to take credit for creating this catchy warning phrase, but a quick internet search brings up headlines screaming the same sentiment for the past few years — like this one RIGHT HERE

Beware of the Chair!! But seriously? They’re asserting that you can never have puffed a cigarette a day in your life but (even with daily strenuous exercise) your chances of heart-attacks/strokes are the same as a smoker’s . . .  if you spend the rest of your time sitting.

“Sitting is the New Smoking!”

This gives new meaning to addictions and begs the following questions…

  • If you have a problem with more than 4 sofas a day, are you a chain sitter?
  • Should you gradually wean yourself off La-Z-Boy recliners, or just quit cold turkey?
  • After good sex, how likely are you to have the urge to reach for a barstool?
  • Can you tell by someone’s breath and smell on their clothing that they are a heavy sitter?
  • Is it still legal for restaurants to have sitting and non-sitting sections in their dining rooms?
  • If you’re a super active person but your spouse is a couch potato, are you being subjected to second-hand chairs?
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She won’t be smiling when she’s charged a “Nicobean” tax for sitting on this thing.

 

But the real point is…

“This Is The New That!”

It started with our ages, “50 is the new 40.” And the television show, “Orange is the new Black.” Now anything is fair game. So here we go…

For Kids:

  • Hugs are the new allowance!
  • Bath tubs are the new swimming pools.
  • Hatchimals are the new puppy under the Christmas tree!
  • Cellphone Trackers are the new “Call to let me know you arrived safely.”
  • Google is the new library.

For Women:

  • 155 lbs is the new 125 lbs.
  • Tossing & Turning and Night Sweats are the new gym workout.
  • Gray is the new blonde.
  • Nutella is the new breakfast of champions
  • “You’re a jerk, I deserve better!” is the new, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

For Men: (a little throwback in time!)

  • “Come over for a home cooked meal” is the OLD “meet you at Starbucks.”
  • Opening car doors for females is the OLD click your remote keyless entry.
  • A goodnight kiss is the OLD blowjob.
  • A perfumed love letter is the OLD sexting.
  • Sleeping on the couch after a fight is the OLD sleeping with her best friend.
  • His Girl Friday is the OLD Siri.

Disclaimer: It is highly recommended when perusing this blog, that you be (at the very least) sitting in a rigorous rocking chair so you aren’t endangering your health with stationary sitting. Also nobody can accuse you of being “Off Your Rocker” for reading Little Miss Menopause. 😉

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No Worries – – We’ve Got Your Back.

mad magazine

When a normal person is scared they have breast, skin or bone cancer,

They simply get examined by a doctor and have a quick answer.

But I worry the procedure will have serious complications,

Or their medical equipment will have poor calibrations,

Or the laboratory will make gross errors in their calculations,

Or the results will come back with (gasp!) positive confirmations!

So instead I go to a therapist and have lengthy conversations . . .

“How do I stop incessantly worrying about everything?” I ask.

They nod knowingly, sending me home with one simple task.

“Write down everything you fear happening, make one great big list.

Because once it’s down on paper, from your mind it’ll be dismissed.”

I take my pencil and put every single dread down in plain black and white

But maybe writing causes lead poisoning, how to avoid that disturbing plight?

And reading these awful lists are more frightening than thinking I have ovarian cysts.

To the depths of despair I sink, the only thing to do is find another Shrink.

The next one prescribes Xanax, Zoloft, Valium, and even a little Prozac.

Cuz drugs have your back & get you on track when life goes outa whack.

(Never mind the side effects, like filling your arteries up with plaque!)

Oh dear, this isn’t working; I think I need to just find a homeopathic Guru.

“Don’t Worry, Be Happy” a sign over his desk sounds a little too woo-woo.

He warns, “Thinking about something you don’t want, will surely bring it about”

Oh great, now all my concerns will come true, of that there can be no doubt!

“Thank you!” I say as I pay the pretty receptionist his outrageous high bill.

I can’t think about going broke; I need to worry about writing my own will.

But first my caring boyfriend offers (for free!) his own professional tactics,

“You need an adjustment,” he says, “You should never underestimate chiropractics.”

I climb up on his special table, wondering if it’s been recently sterilized.

“Just don’t touch my neck, back, shoulders or body…I don’t wanna be paralyzed.”

He shakes his head in frustration and I fear his prognosis is gonna be bleak.

“I know you pick our dinners and movies — my diagnosis is you’re a Control Freak.”

As I drive home I realize I haven’t heard from my kids, not a peep all day long,

Now I’m sure they’ve been kidnapped or injured, or something else is wrong.

“Kids” I say, “Why don’t you phone to pester me or tell me your life is a mess?”

“We’ve been told to keep things secret, so we don’t cause you further stress.”

This sounds like bad advice from none other than my ridiculous Ex.

Now how will I know if my son is on drugs or my daughter’s having sex??!

As a last resort, I take all my troubles to an Author’s Workshop and ask for advice.

“Go home and Blog about it, I’m sure your followers will think that’s nice.”

But I worry an 800-word story about an MRI and a malignant brain tumor,

Will cause my readers to suspect, “She’s completely lost her (odd!) sense of humor!”

So maybe I’ll write a poem – but gosh, should it be a sonnet, a limerick or a haiku?

And will my depressing topic elicit comments like, “Sheesh, we really dislike you!”

Where will this ever end? There’s no remedy for being a compulsive worrier . . .

I’ll just go back to sleep, it’s clear my future’s dim and so much blurrier.

Desperate, I read the label sewn into my bed, “Under penalty of law, do not remove!”

And I smile and think, “Wow, I can do that! Now my life will start to improve!”

Yes, pillows and mattress tags are something I can completely control,

So I can cross off worrying about arrests, going to jail and never getting out on parole!

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Of Lice & Men (a miniature hell!)

FullSizeRender-4Okay, that’s my ridiculous attempt at silver linings and seeing the glass half full. Seriously? A family with six kids gets sent plague #3 ?! There must be an error somewhere.

“Dear God, I would like to apply for the (#9)Darkness or the (#2)Frogs or (#8)Locusts plague instead. Thank you.”

I also find it fascinating that two of my biggest phobias just happen to rhyme. LICE and MICE. I also don’t have great rapport with dry ICE or brown wild RICE either, but that’s another blog.

She’s just a little girl and already I’ve doused her head with Tea-Tree & Lavender Essential Oil, Campho-Phenique, Listerine Mouthwash, and Cetaphyl Cleanser. She won’t even bat an eye when she joins a college sorority and has to go through their hazing phase. On three successive nights I wrapped her scalp in mayonnaise, then olive oil and finally vinegar in the hopes of smothering these critters. On the 4th night I just tossed up a Caesar salad instead.

 Here Are  My 10 Astute Lice Observations After Dealing with this Trauma for Far Too Long.

  1. Close-Up: Whatever you do, NEVER look at a picture on the Internet of a single louse under a microscope. You will either shave your child’s head or send her to boarding school for six months so THEY can deal with these monstrous, grotesque, gargantuan inhabitants.
  2. Machinery: There is something called a LouseBuster which will make you look twice, thinking it says, “SpouseBuster.”LouseBuster It doesn’t but should.
  3. Professionals: There are people who get rid of lice for a price. I amused myself thinking up names for their businesses while I waited for them to run through each individual strand of my daughter’s long hair with a “Nit-onator” comb. The salon was simply called, “The Nit-Picker.”  How dull is that? Might I suggest “The Lice Whisperer” or “Sugar & Spice & Everything Lice.” or “Tip of the Liceberg” or “Once bitten, Lice Shy” or “Breaking the Lice” or  “At Nit’s End” or “Nit’s a Small World After All!” or “Playing Nit By Ear.” or “A No-Win Nituation” or “Laying Nit On The Line.” or “Like Nit or Lump Nit.” or “I wouldn’t touch Nit with a Ten-Foot Pole!” or “Get Over Nit!” and my personal favorite,  “Nit happens!” Gosh, who needs to blog?  I’ll just sit around and name parasitic petulance companies all day long.
  4. Longevity: Because live lice and nits cannot survive without their host scalp for longer than 48 hours, you don’t have to clean your home, you just need to starve it of humans. Move to a new residence!
  5. The Blame Game: Stay in Offensive mode when you report this experience (and you really should!) to the parents of your kid’s friends. Insist that it’s their unkempt child who gave it to your precious tot in the first place. Don’t back down on this one, trust me.
  6. Neat Freak: You will never clean your house as thoroughly as you will after a lice infestation. And by “you,” I mean your spouse.
  7. Facts: According to “Lice Literature” they can hold their teeny tiny little breaths for up to 8 hours. So if the plan is to jump in a chlorinated pool, you’ll need scuba gear. Also, they cannot jump or fly. Now that’s just a bold-faced lie — explain to me how they get on the body part that is the furthest away from the ground? I’ll believe this statement the day lice start colonizing toes and feet.
  8. Paranoia: If you go to your child’s pediatrician for the initial diagnosis (because you’re confused about identifying a nit from a piece of dandruff) and the Dr. suddenly exclaims, “Oh wow, her scalp is just teeming with them. Come closer Mom — let me educate you on what they look like,” and you run from the examination room screaming, “Teeming?? Teeming?! Who SAYS that??” Expect the physician to scribble notes in your child’s medical file about future hereditary mental illness.
  9. Mystery: If you want to capture someone’s attention, walk into Target and ask the clerk, “On what aisle would I find products to kill . . .” then whisper the rest in her ear. Ten people will follow you around the store.
  10. Controversy: If you keep your child home from school, the head-lice have won! Seriously, if you’re sick of reading about mommy/childhood vaccination wars, just write a post saying you sent your kid to school with a full-blown, active case of lice. Save this blog for April Fool’s Day.
  11. Drama:  When the lice problem finally goes away (and it will!) you will be reduced to your best Scarlett O’hara impersonation, dropping to your knees on old shag carpet, holding up the empty casing of a nit while shouting to the heavens, “As God as my witness, I’ll never be itchy again!”

And now since my home is so clean you can eat off the floor, I’m issuing a formal invitation to come for dinner tonight. Just don’t show-up empty-handed. That’s a pest-peeve of mine.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/miniature/

There are Lice Salons where classy coiffed parasites get perms and blow-drys!

There are “Lice Salons” where classy coiffed parasites can get perms and blow-drys!