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    Just in case you didn’t know how the baby gets out

    December 18, 2008

    Yesterday Derek took The Boy with him to the doctor’s office for his semi-annual skin check and then then off to give his final exam.

    The man has lost his mind.

    Apparently all went well at the doctor’s office because the doctor’s children had the audacity to move away with the grandchildren and the doctor didn’t seem to mind when The Boy insisted on checking out every single mole on his father’s body with the $3,000 scope.  Whatever.  I’m not sure if that is supposed to increase our payment to the insurance company since he could have broken the scope or to decrease it since a 3-year-old gave his father a clean bill of health from cancer in lieu of the specialist with 50 years experience.

    They had some down time so they went to the Natural History Museum and then it was off to school to administer the final exam.  Apparently the hot college girls plied him with candy but he was unable to help them cheat since he didn’t understand economics or the law.  Which makes him qualified to head up the bailout.

    When they got home, The Boy was already asleep but I could see that his father had something to get off his chest.

    D:  I bought The Boy a book about the human body today at the Natural History museum today.
    K: That’s great.  He needs one.  I heard you hit a wall in the shower the other day when you ran out of bone names.
    D: Well….there’s something else.   He started to discuss how a baby comes out of a woman’s vag1na to be born as we were walking down the road.
    K:  I’m sorry?????
    D:  Well….I read the book to him.  Maybe I should just show it to you.

    The book was only 12 pages long and it had some kickass organ magnets.  I flipped to the page where the woman was GIVING BIRTH.  If you were wondering what page it was on, it was directly across of the page describing, in detail, male and female reproductive organs.

    K:  You didn’t happen to explain s–e–x  while you were at it, did you?  Because that’s information that I’m sure the kids at preschool will love to hear about tomorrow.
    D:  NO, I didn’t.
    K: I was just wondering.

    So we are going to be THOSE people.  The people whose kid tells the rest of the kids about babies and vag1nas while riding on the tricycles at the preschool.

    The Boy greeted me morning with the words, “Mom, did you know that a baby comes out of a woman’s vag1na?

    Yes. Yes, I did. Technically, mine, but wouldn’t it be nice if we could redirect it to someone else’s vag?  And thanks for bringing up that downer that pregnant women everywhere are trying to ignore. I didn’t add the bowling-ball-through-the-hole-the-size-of-the-sharpie analogy.  I’ll save that for later.  Now I have to go into Santa-overdrive.  No use blowing birthing and the Santa myth all in the same year.

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    Mommy Needs Daddy to Shut the Hell UP

    December 17, 2008

    If it makes you feel any better, my husband told me the other day he isn’t reading my blog anymore because I don’t post enough.

    Did anyone know he read my blog? Who knew?

    So we went to the new practice the other day. They were really nice but I could see I was going to have some trouble. I mean, the scale is practically in the waiting room. Is there anyone out there on the street that can’t see what I weigh?

    We went to an exam room and I begged off to the lav. And what did my wondering eyes see? A magical scale there had appeared.

    K: Hey, I weighed myself when I was in the bathroom. I weighed (grumble).
    Midwife: Oh, that scale isn’t calibrated. We don’t use it.

    Damn. My husband looked at me in disbelief.

    Then we were downstairs and I was on the scale. With my jeans and clunky boots on.

    K: You know, these boots are really heavy and so are these jeans. They have to weigh at least three pounds. So that makes me (grumble). Which is great since I started out at (grumble).
    D: WHAT??? (turning to the midwife, who was clearly no-nonsense and writing down the EXACT WEIGHT ON THE SCALE). You know she lies about her weight? At the last place they had the honor system. She “weighed herself” in the bathroom. And lied.

    I looked first to see if Judas had stuffed the 30 pieces of silver in his pockets or if it was already strewn on the floor at my feet.

    D: And that starting weight? Okay….




    He is so not coming with me the next time I go to the office because that’s my glucose test. You think anyone would notice if I gave it to The Boy? Kidding. I kid. I do. Really. I just think if I lie by TWO POUNDS to make myself feel a little better that the whole world SHOULDN’T COLLAPSE.

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    The post where I offend everyone about their Thanksgiving traditions

    November 30, 2008

    K:  Dan is talking crazy about appetizers for Thanksgiving.  Because there isn’t enough to overeat on Thanksgiving.  Although I do so love the carmelized onion dip. 
    D:  We always had a pickle and olive platter.  It’s very traditional.
    K:  Did you just say a pickle and olive platter is traditional?
    D:  Very.
    K:  Um, were your grandparents born in Washington state?
    D:  Yes.
    K:  And your great grandparents?
    D:  I think they were born in Washington too.
    K:  So your great history of “tradition” is a few generations born on that OTHER coast?
    D:  Yeah.  What are you trying to say?
    K:  How long have your people had tradition?  I mean, you’ve only been there for like a hundred years.  It’s not your people settled in the birthplace of the freedom.  Traditional?  It’s not like they fought in the Revolutionary War.  I’m not saying I AM a card-carrying member of the DAR but that’s due to laziness.  Hundreds of years of laziness. 

    This would be the point were I apparently crossed the line.

    D:  HEY, my PEOPLE fought in the Revolutionary War.
    K:  As members of the French army.  That hardly counts.
    D:  Um, this country couldn’t have won the war without the French.

    It’s only been how many years since those words have been spoken? And will they ever be spoken again? I think not.

    K:  Sure, your people did make that road up the street from our house that is now known as The Ultimate Shortcut to Ikea.  But you know what I’m saying.  Pickles and olives for a Thanksgiving appetizer?  Seriously?

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    How to guarantee a short conversation with your mother

    November 21, 2008

    My Mother Ginny:  I’m just calling to see how he is doing. 
    K: Why are you calling?
    MMG: I’m checking on how he is feeling and what happened with the stitches.
    K: Mom,  did I tell you about Derek getting a vasectomy because it’s not like I would keep that from you but it doesn’t seem like something that would have just come up in conversation with your mother. “Hey, did I mention The Husband is getting fixed?” It’s not like I would hide it or anything.  It just seems surprising that we would have discussed it but it was nice of you to call to check on him. His stitches are fine.  He’s fine.  A little whiny, you know, telling doctor that he hadn’t changed his mind–he still didn’t want to do it–but what do you expect?  His stitches look alright, I guess, but it’s not like I’m in a rush to check them out again.

    Cue the chorus of crickets, Bob.

    MMG:  I was calling about Ethan’s stitches.
    K:  Oh, hmm.  Hmm.  Yeah, they need 4 people to hold him down to get them out but he’s fine now.
    MMG:  Great.  That’s all I was calling about.

    Shockingly, it seemed as if we had nothing left to say.

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    I don’t see another doctorate headed our way any time soon

    October 30, 2008

    Last night we were discussing economics because I am obsessed with the Great Depression now. There was some discussion regarding the fact that all the big economists had sons who were now economists. Except Adam Smith. I don’t even know about Adam Smith. And that would be great, great grandchildren anyway. We were talking Friedman.

    Then I brought up the splinter in my hand. I was trying to dig it out with a rusty pin needle because why use the $4,000 in medical supplies my husband has in the bathroom when you can take out a sewing kit from the ’70s and have at it. It was then that my husband offered to help.

    This, my friends, is a bit of a Catch-22. The man has had secret fantasies of being a doctor that have remained well-hidden. These fantasies would have probably been realized along with his PhD and J.D. if he could get over that pesky fear of blood, bodily fluids, disease and the smell of well, anything. His father joked at the husband’s law school graduation that all that was left was med school. I turned to my husband and told him I would LEAVE him if he ever considered one more second of education. He retaliated by getting a teaching job two days a week. Bastard.

    But back to surgery. My husband is a bit between when it comes to empathy and solution-oriented medical attention. Add the recent issue regarding the fact that he is OLD and can’t see anymore, I was leery, to say the least. But he wanted to help and I really should have gotten this piece of glass out of my thumb two days ago because now it is permanently embedded in my thumb bone.

    He sat down beside me on the couch and looked at my pin. He was off to find a sterilized stick pin he had purchased for $38 and his handy-dandy magnifying glass with light. Then he grabbed my hand. And pricked my thumb. Twice. Not even remotely near my splinter. I screeched.

    D: SORRY!!! The pin wasn’t in my line of sight under the magnifying glass yet.
    K: So you decided to do the stab-to-find method?

    We started laughing so hard we were crying. He started to poke me again. With tears in his eyes. Because tears in your eyes help a blind man see even BETTER.

    In case you are wondering, it went downhill from there. I know. How is that possible? I still have the glass shard in my thumb but now I have a 1/4″ incision as well. We couldn’t find the glass.

    We probably should have just given the tweezers to The Boy and had him take it out.

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    Sometimes you just need to turn to the 9 kabillion people on the Internet for advice

    August 5, 2008

    In a couple of weeks we’ll be celebrating my in-laws 50th wedding anniversary. In the invitation, we asked everyone to send pictures from the last 50 years. It has been the BEST thing ever.

    Last night some pictures came in the mail and I thought I was going to cry. With laughter. You see, I was going to cry because on one particular picture of a large group, there was a small Postit note that said “Turn over.” On the back was a long explanation of how the sender loved this picture from years ago so much because it had everyone in it. And that was part of the apology. Everyone included the prior Mrs. Derek. Not that she loved Mrs. Derek. You hare hard pressed to find anyone who has anything good to say about the former Mrs. Derek.

    I’ll be honest. I have only seen one picture of the former Mrs. Husband. It was a wedding picture (not theirs) from a former marriage of a relative (which also ended in divorce). Other than attempting to sell her waterford wedding crystal on E-Bay (the only thing she didn’t take when she left), I would have to say she really isn’t a subject of conversation over here. So there she was, in all her glory, complete with her microbangs.

    K: What the???? Where are her bangs?
    D: It was the soccer haircut.
    K: You mean she had those bangs with a mullet?
    D: Sort of.
    K: Damn that Janine Turner.
    D: Who?
    K: The Northern Exposure chick with the microbangs. Making everyone else think they could pull it off too. And let me tell you, my friend. It didn’t work.
    D: (overwhelmed with boredom over a fashion discussion) Whatever.
    K: So what are we going to do with the picture?

    People are a little sensitive in my husband’s family about the former Mrs. Derek. It’s not like we can leave her in there because people will be sad when they see it.  “Wasted his youth, years of torment, broke his heart.” He could not care less about her being in the picture.  Honestly.  And neither could I.  If she wasn’t so poorly behaved, I would have to be doing a LOT more around here to keep him happy.  Wrong, but true.  We started to brainstorm about keeping the picture but removing her.  Sharpie out her face?  Cut her head out with manicure scissors?  Photoshop in Cheryl Tiegs (hey, that’s his middle school fantasy)?  Make her face into a talk cloud above the head of the person in front of her?

    Then, with my husband’s permission, I suggested we ask you, oh great Internet, for your brilliant ideas about what to do with the dime-sized former Mrs. Derek in the nostalgia picture.  I can’t post the picture because I am protecting the guilty.  But can I just say my husband was HOT in the ’90’s.

    So let me know what you think we should do with the picture.  If you think we should go with the conversation cloud in lieu of her head, tell me what it should say.   We’ll pick the winner together and we’ll send you a little something.  It’ll be a surprise.

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