Posts from category "Humor"
Of course I had seen the videos of kids drugged up after they’d gotten their wisdom teeth out, but I always thought that maybe there was a little bit of acting, or that kid was the exception not the rule. However, after witnessing my daughter Bailey’s procedure, and hearing about many of her friends’ experiences, I think that this not-so-great experience for our kids could be a highlight for us parents.
My youngest daughter, Brooke, volunteered to get up early during her Christmas break because she thought we may need someone to capture it on video. We did. As we left the house, I gave Bailey the little pills the dentist gave us to relax her before surgery. By the time we arrived at the office, Bailey was like a sloppy drunk. Her speech slurred and she was obsessed about her phone that had been purposely left at home. We kept telling her it was in her pocket. When she couldn’t find it in that pocket, we would tell her it was in another one. This game lasted until Brad helped her stumble into the waiting room and fall into one of their big, poofy chairs.
In between dozing, Bailey would wax poetic about the beauty of seeing two of everything. This also lead to her exclaiming that Brooke and I should start a band. Our inability to sing aside, I asked, “What kind of music would we sing?”
“Country, err something deep and mellow.”
We laughed because this family hates country music, not to mention we lack singing ability. Brooke zoomed her camera in on Bailey to catch the serious look on her face and asked, “What would the name of our band be?”
Bailey waved her hand as if to say that was the easiest question of all. “Brooke and Jen, and Jen and Brooke.”
“Yeah, because there’s so many of you.” Then Bailey fell asleep until the hygienist came to get her.
When it was over, they rolled Bailey to our car in a wheelchair. Brad was in the process of getting her settled in the backseat when she asked for her phone. I asked what she was going to do with that. “I have to keep my streaks,” Bailey slurred around the bloody gauze that was hanging halfway out her mouth.
“Oh, honey,” I said, “You don’t want anyone to see you right now.”
“Yes, I do. I look awesome.” A bloody piece of gauze and some red drool spilled from her mouth. Brad shoved the gauze back in and we started home.
Brad played ‘your phone is in your pocket’ game again with Bailey, and worked at keeping her nasty gauze in her mouth, Brooke filmed, and I drove. This lasted for a few minutes, but then Bailey noticed a ball of yarn in the back seat. It was actually for a Christmas Eve scavenger hunt, but for Bailey, it meant that we got a cat. She wasn’t happy about our new cat.
“Do we have a cat? Why would you get a cat? I don’t want a cat, I hate cats! Why didn’t you get a puppy? I want a puppy. I love puppies. Puppies are so cute. Why did you get a cat? Cat’s are stupid. I can’t believe we have a cat.” Tears joined the red drool cascading down her face.
Nobody corrected Bailey’s assumption because it was video gold. Brad said as he shoved her gauze back in her mouth and wiped her face with a Kleenex, “I’m sure you’ll grow to love the cat.”
“Nnnooo, I won’t! I don’t want a cat. They don’t love you, they just use you. Dogs love you. I just love dogs. That’s all. Nothing else.” Bailey sighed. “Where’s my phone?”
Bailey remained fixated on her phone until we finally get her into bed and asleep. She would later thank us, after seeing the posts from her friends who had their wisdom teeth out, for not giving it her. Unfortunately, the videos were lost forever when Brooke got her new phone, which is why I had to write it down.
Christmas brings the best, and the worst, out of people. I believe that there is far more good that comes out of the season, but let’s face it, that’s not nearly as much fun to write about. I am still wondering what it was that I did to this guy in the fast food drive thru, but I figure he needs to be wished Merry Christmas.
I innocently pulled into the drive through behind an older, slightly beat up car in my local Wendy’s drive through. I noticed that there was a car behind me, and not wanting to leave her hanging out in the parking lot, I pulled a little closer to that car in front of me. All of a sudden, these two very large paws raised and seemingly hit the roof of his car. The man vehemently stared at me in his rear view mirror. His perfectly round face was bright red, and he was yelling. It didn’t take much lip reading ability to know what he was calling me. Then he noticed that I saw him and started to wave backwards as if he was swatting away flies.
I understood that he believed I had pulled too close, which I didn’t know was a thing in a drive thru. I realized that although I couldn’t see the bottoms of his tires, but I could still see the top. I didn’t think that my white, mom-car Kia Sorento could be intimidating, so I was really confused as to why this was a thing. I checked my own rear view mirror to see if I could make this not-so-jolly man in front of me happy and back up a bit. The woman behind me was right on my bumper. So there I was.
Luckily, the car in front of him finished his order, and pulled forward. I believed the incident was over. Not so much. The mad man did not pull to the microphone to order. He pulled up to the picture of a burger and stopped. Now mind you, this was not a menu he stopped at. It was just a picture of a burger, and no matter how good that burger looked, it did not deserve the time that this man spent stopped there. I didn’t know what to do. I waited a very respectful amount of time before I tapped my horn.
The man’s car started to bounce. His arms flailed, his face went from red to maroon, and I swear I could see the saliva flying out of his filthy mouth. Then he reached for his door, and I thought, “God help me, he’s coming to get me!” Then, I have to admit, there was that part of me, the part that was sick of Christmas shopping, and tired of my sixth graders excited for break. It thought, “Bring it on, fat man!”
I will never know which part would have prevailed because instead of the door handle, he was reaching to roll his window down. I think he lost a lot of angry momentum because it didn’t seem like his window wanted to roll very well. When he finally got it down, he stuck his arm out, gave a couple fly shooing waves, flipped me off, then rolled forward to order his lunch. I stayed where I was until he ordered and pulled around to gather his lunch.
You would think this was enough, but not quite. At the light near Wendy’s, a clunker pulled up beside me. Yes, it was my friend from the drive thru. We made eye contact. He began yelling at me again. I simply waved, smiled my biggest smile, and said, “Merry Christmas,” nice and slow so he could read my lips. The light turned and, like Santa, I drove out sight.
Christmas brings the best, and the worst, out of people. I believe that there is far more good that comes out of the season, but let’s face it, that’s not nearly as much fun to write about. Tempers are sometimes short during this most festive of seasons, and I witnessed this during holiday shopping at Costco. There were two ladies who definitely needed some Christmas cheer.
My daughter and I finished our shopping, and joined the line in the center isle where we would be herded toward the check stands. We didn’t see the initial incident, but we heard the aftermath. A high maintenance, big bootied blonde woman in front of us stopped her cart, put her hands topped with long, manicured claws on her ample hips, and glared at a Latina mom next her. I knew she was a mom because she wore a flannel shirt, unpainted short nails, and her cart was full of kid food.
Anyway, blondie kept the glare on the mom while saying to her friend, “Let that bitch pass. She just cut me off. She almost hit me with her cart.”
I was thankful the herd began to move and the Latina mom took her place in front to lead us to the checkstands. I believed it was over. Not so much. When we reached the point where we would split up and go to a checkstand, the mom decided that she wasn’t going to let Blondie best her. She left her cart and strode, with as much stride as a five foot nothin’ woman can, over to her antagonizer. She tapped her on the shoulder, and when Blondy turned around, the mom said something to her.
I wished I could have heard what that was because it must have been good. The blond woman raised her hand and pointed. “Oh, don’t do it,” I muttered. But the woman did it. She put her blood red fingernail to the Latina mom’s chest. The mom brushed it away and stepped forward so she and Blondie were toe to toe, nose to nose.
I really hate it when my teacher instincts take over. Instead of standing back and watching the Latina mom pulverize the booty girl (because you know she would have), the teacher part of me took over. Before I even knew what I was doing, I wedged myself in between them just like I would do with sixth graders on the playground. I said in my most cheerful, but stern, teacher voice, “Ladies, Merry Christmas!” I placed a hand on each of their shoulders and gave a gentle shove as I said, “Now, you go this way, and you go this way.”
I don’t know if it was the teacher voice, that I reminded them it was Christmas, or the fact that I was a good ten inches taller than either one of them, but they obeyed and went to their assigned check stands. I guided my embarrassed teen daughter to a checkstand of our own. I took a deep, cleansing breath and wished I had put just one more bottle of Christmas cheer into my cart.
I am, like most of you, thinking of all the things I am truly thankful for. At the top of that list is family, time with family, friends, my home, and my jobs. But, I have also thought about those unnecessary luxuries that I feel should also get some love. They are those things, that while unnecessary, make my life easier, richer, and more fun. I am first world thankful for the following:
Online shopping. If you love the mall, the big sale, more power to you. For me, however, going to the mall or to a busy department store is what I would imagine schlepping through hell would be like. Online shopping is my idea of retail heaven. I can sit in my favorite recliner, drink a frothy beverage, and wear the sweats that were purchased when Amazon had meaning only for adventurous travelers.
The remote start and heated seats in my car. I run cold so these things make my day. No longer do I shake and shiver all the way to work. Once there, it would take my body, and my personality, an hour to unthaw. I’m sure they don’t know it, but my 6th graders are thankful I have them too.
College football. Never, in the history of mankind, has there been a better use of a Saturday than college football. I love screaming at the TV, or high fiving, waving, and whistling in a stadium with thousands of other like minded fans. It is the day that I get to exorcise all the stress and annoyances from the week. The worst day of the year is when the national championship is played and I have to remove my butt from the couch and find another outlet that will never work as well.
Variety. I wanted to write variety of beer, but then I realized that I like variety in a lot of things. I realize I am extremely spoiled with the amount of choices I have in all of my favorite things including beer, food, shoes, TV shows, music, and movies. When I walk into my local pub, it almost brings me tears looking at that long row of taps that change monthly. I grew up with three TV stations, four on clear day, and a place to rent movies that carried maybe twenty five VHS tapes to rent. Gram and I watched the same movies over and over. If Gram were alive today, she would simply shake her head as I scrolled through the choices displayed on my humongous flat screen TV and mutter, “Hell’s Friday!” Variety really is the spice of life!
As long as we remember the real stuff we are thankful for, I think it’s OK to thank the universe for those first world items as well. What are you first world thankful for on this fine Thanksgiving day?
I was a kid in the late 70’s and 80’s so political correctness was not a thing. Gram was as compassionate and open minded as anybody, but there was something about Halloween that brought out her crazy. Gram was in charge of my costumes, and although original, I have more than a few that as an adult I find cringe worthy.
Gram took a burlap sack and cut holes for my head and arms. Then she cut slits in the bottom to create fringe at the bottom. She took a western belt, added Grandpa’s turquoise belt buckle and a butcher knife. I wore moccasins purchased at Fort Hall, and a patterned headband with feathers and two black yarn braids sewn onto it. There was one last problem that Gram felt needed to be solved before I was the perfect Indian Squaw. I was the whitest white girl there was. Gram found the darkest foundation she could and caked it onto my face. I hated that costume because it was top to bottom itchy. The burlap seemed to make its way through my undershirt, and the cheap, waxy foundation was unbearable. In fact, I have not worn either one since.
Gram believed that the search for the perfect costume should begin at a thrift store called Deseret Industries, D.I. for short. It was there that she found a passion purple taffeta prom dress. The skirt and bodice were accented with a hot pink net-like stuff. Gram believed that reuse of the moccasins and the addition of blue eye shadow, fake eyelashes, bright red lipstick, and an impressive amount of costume jewelry would make me the perfect Gypsy. I didn’t even know what that was, but it was my ticket to go trick or treating. I did get tired of telling people what I was supposed to be.
One year one of my dad’s high school students (he was a science teacher) gave him a sombrero. The second I saw it, I knew if gram found out about it I would have to be a sombrero wearing Mexican for Halloween. Sure enough, Gram found me a poncho at D.I. This time, however, I did refuse to wear the foundation.
For this costume, Gram didn’t have to make a trip to D.I., she simply raided my grandpa’s closet for a threadbare flannel shirt, a pair of holy jeans, and one of the red bandanas he used as hankies. She filled the hanky with cotton and tied it to a stick. She tied the pants up with a piece of rope and removed the laces from my boots. It was the most comfortable costume I had gotten to wear thus far. Until she decided that I was a male hobo and needed stubble. She spread honey on my face then made me lean over the sink as she put coffee grounds over the honey like one put sprinkles on cookies. It was uncomfortable and it stunk.
Maybe in her own way, Gram was trying to introduce me to other cultures, maybe we are too sensitive in this day and age. I don’t know what the answer is. I did have some normal costumes. I was a vampire one year. Gram gave me a cape and some teeth, which I really hope did not come from D.I. I used the cape again, carried around an antenna broken off a CB radio and called myself a magician. Ok, maybe that one isn’t so normal. I broke away from Gram’s costumes in seventh grade. I went to my mom to help transform me into Boy George from his “Karma Chameleon” video. Even as creative as she was, I didn’t think Gram could pull off that one. At least my costumes were never store bought, and they were always memorable!
For those of you who are a little older, what were some of your cringe worthy costumes?
There are many obvious ways you know it’s fall. The leaves are turning and falling onto my lawn, the wind is blowing the neighbor’s leaves onto my lawn, my teenage driver is complaining about having to scrape her windows, and many more. But there are also the more personal reasons that indicate the change of season. For example:
On the weekends, I feel like the Dunkin’ Donuts guy who meets himself at the door. One self is just coming from making the donuts, while the other is going to make the donuts. Mine, however, is not donuts. It’s canning. Every year I ask myself why in the hell I grow so many tomatoes.
There are many reasons to love fall, but one of the greatest is college football. Fall is absolutely for shouting at my TV, beer in hand. Go Broncos, and any team from the west, and any team playing Alabama!
In my classroom I’m breaking out the Febreze far less often. I love teaching sixth grade English, but man, those guys smell funky. They would smell funky in a freezer, but at least the cooler weather makes it a little better, which means fewer trips to Costco for me.
Also an indicator for me as a teacher is when I am motivated to look up what day of the week Halloween falls on so I can mentally prepare for the sugar highs, and the sugar hangovers headed my way. By the way, damn it, it’s on a Tuesday.
Me, my girls, and the dog are shedding. Liquid Plummer anyone?
I am no longer merely dusting the bathtub. It has to be cleaned.
My razor is new, the shaving cream can is full, and the socks that I’ve started to wear to work no longer fall down. Leg hair is one of the many perks of fall.
I have casually started to look for the remote start fob for my car. I know I put it somewhere I would totally remember come fall, so where the hell is it?
My latest Amazon purchases include snow boots and a roof rake. I’ll be damned if I let winter kick my ass this year like it did last.
These are the things that truly let me know that fall is here. What is it that lets you know this beautiful season has arrived?
Hell’s Friday may be an odd name for a blog. Particularly a blog that I intend to be not at all hellish. "Hell’s Friday" is actually a catch phrase my grandmother used often. As a kid growing up in a very small, very Mormon, very conservative Idaho town, I liked when Gram said "Hell’s Friday" because it felt rebellious, perhaps even a bit dangerous. And, there’s nothing quite like a good "Hell’s Friday" to express an emotion that’s somewhere between a "damn" and a real get-your- mouth-washed-out-with-soap cuss word.
Hell’s Fridays are those instances that leave us frustrated, irritated, and surprised. It’s also the Hell’s Fridays that make life interesting, and often funny. And, of course, it is through those Hell’s Fridays that we learn those lessons we need to make it through this thing called life.
I Googled "Hell’s Friday" once. After spending way too much time digging into some obscure scholarly work on the history of England, and watching clips from Monty Python movies, I found the meaning was not quite as optimistic as my own. Hell’s Friday, according to one scholar, was the day during the plague that the cart came through to pick up the dead. Like “Ring Around the Rosie”, I think the meaning probably evolved as time went on. At least I hope so because I want this blog to be helpful and humorous for the reader.
Hell’s Friday, let’s do this thing!
Watch the “Bring Out Your Dead” clip from Monty Python:
Mrs. Funke’s Advice for the Upcoming Solar Eclipse
Idaho is in sheer pandemonium over the upcoming solar eclipse. Hotels, campsites, and in some cases, people’s personal residences are booked. There are daily news stories about stocking up so you don’t have to leave the house, warnings about traffic overload, and cell service being non-existent. One small town about an hour and a half from Boise has already declared a state of emergency. They are billing it as a once-in-a-lifetime experience, but I remember one when I was in Kindergarten, and Mrs. Funke was my teacher. Granted, it may not have passed directly over us, but evidently it was close enough for Mrs. Funke to scare the bejesus out of her group of five year olds.
Mrs. Funke was quite possibly the most interesting person I’d ever met. One, her name was Funke. She pronounced it just like you’d think, like a funky smell or doing the Funky Chicken. She wasn’t like the Fuch’s who tried to convince everyone their name rhymed with spoosh. Then, and this was the best thing, Mrs. Funke was blind! I was fascinated by her. I would watch her grade papers, which she did by holding them at nose’s length and studying small sections at a time. I didn’t know about Daredevil at the time, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if Mrs. Funke was a seemingly harmless school teacher by day and a badass crime fighter at night. My five year old brain didn’t think about the fact that being a crime fighter in my tiny town would have been pretty boring.
Yes, Mrs. Funke sparked my imagination, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be blind like her. Gram was the night custodian at our K-12 school, and I was often her helper. Mrs. Funke’s classroom took the longest because Gram made sure everything was back in the exact right place after she cleaned. One night, probably because I was chattering about how cool Mrs. Funke’s blindness was, Gram blindfolded me and told me to empty the trash. Blindness not only became uncool, it scared the hell out of me.
There was a solar eclipse in October of that year. We didn’t have glasses or anything so the whole school (we averaged about fifteen students per grade) was going to watch the eclipse on TV in the multi-purpose room. We would have to leave our building and walk across a small part of the playground to get there. Mrs. Funke lined us up like usual. Different this time, however, was she had us hold hands with the person in front and in back. There were uncomfortable giggles and a few groans because boys had cooties.
Mrs. Funke stared with her powerful milky blue eyes until all hands were taken and we were quiet. “Class, it is extremely important that you follow my directions today. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Funke,” we said in reverent unison. There was something about Mrs. Funke that was different than before. I didn’t like it.
“I want you to keep your eye on the shoes of the person in front of you. Do not look up because if you do, the solar eclipse will get in your eyes and make you blind like me. Do you understand?”
Thirteen heads snapped downward in unison. “Yes, Mrs. Funke,” we said in small, horrified voices. To myself, I muttered, “Hell’s Friday!” because I knew in that moment Mrs. Funke became blind because she looked at a solar eclipse. She didn’t really, but I didn’t find that out until much later.
That’s all I really remember about the last once-in-a-lifetime experience of a solar eclipse, but it’s a pretty vivid memory. What I really want to say, however, is that if you are planning to watch the eclipse this year, please don’t look directly at the sun. It really can be harmful, and nobody wants to be blind like Mrs. Funke. And, if you’re coming to Idaho, please be a respectful visitor.
Things You Need to Know About a Hysterectomy That Your Doctor Doesn’t Tell You
I believe in doctors and am super impressed by what they do, but sometimes they just don’t give you the whole story. I don’t blame them, our society as a whole has a thing when it comes to talking about our weird, wonderful, and disgusting bodies. I hung on my doctor’s every word, read every pamphlet, and even did some research on the internet (webmd is awesome – they don’t try to scare the hell out of you), but still wasn’t completely prepared for my hysterectomy.
My hysterectomy was what they call non-invasive which means that I had three small incisions, two on either side of my lower belly and one in my belly button. They removed my uterus, my fallopian tubes, and a fibroid tumor measuring in at about eight centimeters. This type of hysterectomy cuts down on the recovery time and severity by a bunch. The only bummer part is that you don’t have any scars worthy of having a body part removed. It seems anti-climactic.
Here’s my list of what I wished I knew:
- Prepare to slow way down. After the first few days you might feel pretty good, but don’t let it fool you. You will pay in pain and exhaustion if you overdo it. When the doctor says that full recovery will take four to six weeks, she means it. First, listen to your body. It warns you with a twinge of pain, a bit of swelling, or even a weird tightness across your midsection. If any of these occur, stop whatever it is you’re doing and relax. Second, become a nap taker. If you’ve never taken naps, enjoy the fact that you can now and your family has to let you – doctor’s orders. In short, your uterus, even though it’s gone, is still going to dictate your daily routine for a bit. You should let it have its last hurrah.
- Slowing down is not the same as becoming stagnant. Walking as much as you can is a great idea. Your doctor will tell you this. At first, just a trip around the house feels like a two hour workout. You can increase it a little bit each day. When you walk around the block for the first time, you will feel like the winner of the Boston Marathon. Avoid sitting, especially upright, for long periods of time. Do you know how long Hamlet is? I do, three hours and thirteen minutes. By the end of the first hour sitting in a hard plastic patio chair, I felt like I was in labor. By the end, I was right there with the characters writhing in pain after being poisoned. To move, or not to move, that is the question. Move!
- Take the drugs. Don’t be me where you do this stupid thing and believe you are super tough and can handle pain without pharmaceutical help. You’ll learn quickly that you need the drugs. After all, a body part was removed. Your body has to deal with that and it’s going to be painful. I only did the heavy duty drugs and the anti-nausea meds for the first couple days. After that, Aleve became my best friend. Getting and staying ahead of pain is a real thing. Your body will let you know when it’s ready to abandon the meds.
- Pooping is an issue. Religiously take the stool softeners the doctor gives you. In short, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, or poop, in this case. Know that mere softening may not be enough and you may have to move up to more invasive measures. I had my first experience with Milk of Magnesia. I will say here that movies like Dumb and Dumber do not exaggerate the laxative experience. If you get to the point of needing this kind of help, you don’t care how explosive your body becomes. Passing gas hurts, pooping hurts, but it’s better than allowing your body to keep that stuff captive for too long. Like the other hysterectomy nuances, this doesn’t last for long.
- Peeing feels weird. It’s really not that I’m obsessed with bodily functions, I promise. It’s just that all these things happen in the same general area as where your uterus used to be. Weird is the best word I can come up with to describe how peeing feels. Peeing is not painful, but it’s not, not painful. See, weird. I did ask my doctor about this one. She told me that she hears the weird pee thing a lot. And it makes sense. The uterus and the bladder are right next to one another. It goes away after a few weeks, and then you become a champion pee-er, even better than you were before.
- I actually can’t believe I’m writing this one, and I’m going to be really embarrassed if I’m the only woman who experienced this. I actually felt some sexual arousal during the healing process. Not only is that crazy, but it’s incredibly cruel because you can only imagine following that urge would lead to unimaginable pain. It could possibly ruin sex forever! This is definitely the time you need to get up and move. Give your lady parts something else to do.
There are some Hell’s Fridays involved with a hysterectomy, but all in all, it wasn’t bad. The best part of the whole experience was when I handed over all my monthly “treats” to my teenage daughters and really realized that I don’t need that crap anymore!
The dictionary says ‘hyster’ means womb, and ‘ectomy’ means remove. Makes sense, until you think of the words hysteria and hysterical which in essence both mean bat-shit crazy. Anyway, the point is that not only did you have your uterus removed, but also your crazy. Our language is super sexist, isn’t it?
I would love to hear your hysterectomy experience, so leave a comment!