How long has this problem been bothering you?

There's a lot of things people don't tell you.
Some will say it's for your own good.
I say it's because we secretly enjoy watching others suffer the same fate we ourselves have sloshed through before.

Like before you have a kid, for example.
Breast feeding is natural.

LIE.

It may occur in a natural, organic way.
The magic of me making my precious perfect baby grow.
Looking all idealic in the delicate charcoal sketch in my What to Expect books.

That is where the natural part ends.

Getting it to work, in sufficient amounts, at the right times, without drenching your clothes just because another baby you didn't give birth to is crying. Not natural.

Without giving you mean, horrible red spots that are evidently only a precursor to the real delight of learning that you can get yeasty there and it will make it feel like someone is pulling knives out of two of the most delicate area-olas on the body. . Not natural.


There. I said it.
Don't say I didn't warn you.


Want another one?

I likewise was not told by a single married woman that I would be responsible for my beloved husband's complete and total body health in it's entirety. Forever.

Man and woman meet.
Man and woman fall in love.
Man and woman marry.
Man fails to notice leg has fallen off until wife carries leg into garage and asks what happened.

I need to notice when he is sick because he will say he is just tired and it's more than likely my fault he is tired because I asked him to go to the grocery store and get dry cleaning.

I need to get him to a dentist. "No, honey, that's not normal, to bleed when you brush."

I need to convince an otherwise brilliant man that a multi-vitamin is not, in fact, poison, simply because it makes his pee fluorescent yellow.

I need to break the news that he will one day be 50 and need to do that thing with the camera on the long tubes that scrapes the polups. I cannot spell it. You know what I mean. I frankly think he's already a little annoyed with me about that one.

Really, though, how hard can it be to keep an essentially healthy husband healthy?

Except I married a man who doesn't get sick.
At least not according to him.

He calls cough drops "medicine" and has suggested on more than one occasion that I "drugged" him with a Halls.

Exhibit A: Advil.
"Heather, it puts me to sleep."
"Wow, can I get some of those Advil?"

Lucio also has elevated cholesterol. Has had it forever.
Evidently, it's genetic in his case.

Care to guess when he filled his first prescription?
Three weeks after we returned from our honeymoon.
Did I mention we went to Paris and Rome? Elitist leak. Not sorry.

Lucio had seen dentists before we were married, but I suspect they had side gigs as cattle prodders because dentisty wasn't proving to be as lucrative as they had hoped.

The worst? His toes. Or more aptly, his toe nails.

Like he didn't have any.

15 years standing in a puddle behind 2 feet of oak passing beers and refilling ice stations had been hard on my handsome mans tootsies.

I think I was pregnant with Jack when those commericials started for how to erradicate funkitoenailitis. The cartoon one, where the toe nail gets lifted up.
Gross.

I could make them look right?
He could wear something besides sneakers and square toed Cole Haan's?
Sign us up!

Already tired of being forced to wear socks to bed, Lucio was open to the idea.
"Call that foot doctor, baby. I will get you in a pair of flip flops yet!"

Sneakers to the beach. If my own body image issues are not enough in a swimsuit, my beloved is marching across the sand in Nikes. Yeah, he's that guy.

Off to the podiatrist we go.

Upon arrival, Lucio is given a questionaire to complete. I am hungrily pouring over Entertainment Weekly. That Lindsey Lohan! What a rising star!

Lucio's name is called.
Lucio invites me to the consult.

Surprised? Nope. Because he hates hates hates when I ask him to call the doc back two days later because he didn't get all the answers I was hoping for.

We enter an actual office with a desk.
We sit across from the doctor.
Young. Cute thing. Bet he wears Tivas.

Scanning the piece of paper, doc is all "uh huh, yes, I see."

Out of nowhere, explosive laughter from doc.

Really? What could be so funny?


Questionaire: How long has this problem been bothering you?

Lucio's answer: It doesn't bother me. It bothers my wife.


Doc: "I'm hanging this one on my wall."


Tell the truth doc, how much business would you have were it not for the tenacious certitude of wives like me?

Toot Toot

Blop. Blop. Blop.

Giggle. Giggle. Giggle.

Two teeth missing, Jack slides around the tub laughing his 5 year old head off.

"Mommy, I tooted."

"Yes, Jack, I know...I heard it, and now I smell it. It's just gas."

"Hee hee hee what? It's what?"

"Gas. Toots are just gas from the food we eat."

"Really? What foods, Mommy?"

"In your case, broccoli and beans."

"I don't eat beans Mommy. You know that."

"Really, are green beans beans?"

"No, Mommy. Green beans are not beans. They are green beans. Duh."

"Okay, well, these things make gas and it comes out as toots. Let's go, buddy. Bath, Books, Bed." Kind of like "Gym, Tan, Laundry" except with genuine earning potential.

A few minutes later we're liberally applying Aquafore to every bendy part of our child. He gets really really dry. Like desert dry.

I've been lotioning him like this since he was born. Danielle said you knew Jack was ready for bed because he was easily seen by his reflecting off the moon.

"Why don't you put lotion on my bottom Mommy?"

"Do you need lotion on your tush?"

"No. But why don't you put it on me like you put on Piper."

"I still give you a massage, just like Piper."

"But you put the lotion all around her gashole."


Jack had to finish lotioning himself.
The adults in the room were dizzy from laughing so hard.

Damn it, the kid is already funnier than me.

Hello, AARP? I think I have some interesting news for you.

Cell phone rings.
2:45 pm on a Thursday.
In February.

I answer, "Yes, Mom."

A raspy voice says, "Hi, honey, it's Mom. Do you have any penicillin laying around the house?"

"I don't understand Mom. Do you mean antibiotics?"

"Yes, Heather. Penicillin. Antibiotics. It's the same thing. Do you have a few I could have?"

"Of prescription antibiotics?"

"Yes, Heather. Do you have any?"

"No, Mom, I don't think we do. Why would we? When we get a prescription, the instructions say to take all medication. We usually do, um, well, that."

"Oh, Heather, that's ridiculous. You feel better after a few days. You don't need them all. The doctor always gives a few extra. Don't you usually call for a refill and then keep it around for the next time? I have a terrible sore throat."

Pause. Longer Pause. Is it possible I am doing this wrong?

"Sorry. No. Sore throat, huh? Maybe it's the dry air? It's pretty dry and cold here and you did live in Florida - which is usually pretty um, moist. Maybe you need a cough drop?"

Snarky subtle judgment meets screaming silence.

"I guess I'll call my doctor to get something filled up here. You really should keep those around for when Lucio gets whatever you have or vice vera. You could give it to Jack!"

" Give what to Jack? He's been through day care and is now in Kindergarten - he's doing the backstroke in a petridish as we speak. Sorry, okay Mom. Wait - You're doctor will do that?"

"Do what?"

"Call in a prescription from a phone call?"


"Of course he will. Yours won't?

"I can diagnose pink-eye and strep at 20 paces and I still need fork over my co-pay. Aren't antibiotics for things that are viral. How do you know this is viral?"

"What honey? I didn't hear you. The baby is squeeling. I know it's viral because I had the same cold when I left here after Christmas. Can you pick it up for me? Where should I have it called into?"

"The Walgreen at Springfield and Mattis. Let me google the number. And, um, it was cold at Christmas too. Again, moisture."


"Thank you, honey. Hey, are you feeling better? Did you go to the doctor?"

"No, not for a sore throat."

Click.

At least Four per store

Sam Walton, I am sure you had a vision for affordable one-stop shopping.
I bet you were pretty ding dang pleased with yourself with the company you built.
Richest man in America living in Arkansas? Hell, yes. Why not?
I bet the people running the show in Arkansas love to know we're all shopping more and paying less.

Sam, Sam, Sam, I think the inmates are running the asylum.

Sorry, but this place that bears your name that practically runs commerce for our country, it's just plain shitty.

It's just that the people that shop there (regularly, I mean) are always a little sad.

A little "this is the life I've made and it's not great,so let's buy more cheap beer".

It's 3 year olds in pajamas crying in the arms of their older sister (Good God, I hope it's her sister) at 9:45 pm.

It's the sad generic soda.

It's the man in the cart with oxygen reeking of cigarettes.


And yet, there I was, ready to reserve all my elitist Walmart judgement when I saw the mailer that said Wii Fit Plus would be available on February 14th.

See, I've been looking for a wee Wii Fit Plus for over a month.
And there are none.
Nothing.
I looked thoughout my travels to Chicago. Nadda.
I even checked in LA. Bupkus.
Julie checked Vegas. Zilch.

Here I sat - holding a flier that reads "At least four per store"
In writing.
Golden.

I wanted to be sure to get one.
So on the 13th of February, I traveled the worst stretch of town known as North Prospect and entered at least my version of Hell. Walmart on a Saturday at noon.

I made my way to electronics.

I spoke to Kiefer.
Kiefer's maybe 18 years old and looks nothing like the vampire in Lost Boys.

He kindly tells me to come back after 10:30 pm tonight, check with the overnight guy, who would be the most likely to know if my future Wii was going on sale at 12 midnight. Or some other time. Kifer is not sure. But he asures me he has nothing to sell me at that time.

Flash forward to 9:15 pm.
Lucio is studying. Jack is sleeping.
Julie and I were unable to get tickets to see Valentine's Day at 9 pm because evidentally there is no curphew in Champaign County, regardless of how much one is needed. Note to every 15 year old filling every seat in the place - don't you have a bedtime? How about let's leave all shows after 9 pm for the grown ups who don't need rides home. K?

Without our dose of pretty skinny movie stars, Julie and I head to the Walmart in Savoy.

9:45 pm.
Wii less. Empty shelves.
Glenda checks inventory. Nadda.


Weird, I think, considering there should be 4. Each store.
Remain optimistic, I counsel myself. There will be 4. In each store.
At least one for us.

Glenda brings Justin into the mix.
Justin knows something immediately. I can tell.
He won't meet my eyes.

"Um, we sold them."
Pa schwa schwa??
"No, that cannot be right. The sale begins on the 14th."
"I know. They were sold earlier today."
"I don't understand. Who sold them?"
"I didn't!"
"I didn't say you did."

From the other side of the display, Julie, who is playing with the laptop, snickers and announces, "Jesus, this place is a nightmare. Why can't you just order it online?"

To Julie - "Because on Amazon they are selling for $50 over list. And they are only $100 to begin with. And I am not doing that."
To Justin - "I'm going to need to speak to a manager."

Enter Dan.
Dan with his small Hitler like mustache and a visible gold tooth.

"Um, I don't know what happened. We don't got any. I can't ask the manager at either Champaign (oh, yeah, that's right, the very same store I was in just 8 hours earlier with Kiefer. Yeah, those are sold too) or Urbana to , like, do anything, so, sorry, we're out."

Oh, it's on. You, Dan, just became the lead in my letter.

I begin drafting my strongly worded letter in my head and walk out of the Savoy store clutching one glimmer of hope.

The names David and Shane. Supposed managers of Urbana store.

The same Urbana store, according to the person I didn't speak to on the phone, has not sold their 6 copies.
And they will not sell a Wii until 8 am Sunday.
The 14th.
The day after the 13th in case you're keeping score.


Leaving my house this morning with the smallest hope that I will come home successful, I consider that should I come home without a Wii, I will undoubtedly come with the close to my "Walmart better send me a coupon for a Will Fit Plus" letter and a blog entry.

It's now 11:45 am.

Sitting in the plaid chair in the living room, listening to Jack bounce back and forth between the new Penguin balancing game and Ski Jump, I consider not sending my letter to Arkansas.

Nope.

I wouldn't feel right not telling them.

Miss Davis if you're nasty

I have this idea in my head where I am too cool for school, but then I remember school - both high school and college - and my dreams are dashed.

It goes without saying, I was never cool in high school.
Who knew everyone felt insecure then though? Is that one of the things Facebook is teaching us? One, just when the page starts to look familiar, they will move it around arbitrarily. And Two, the cool kids in high school were just as shitty to each other as they were to everyone else.

I was cool for two months in 1991.
In said two months, I was older than all of my roommates and could buy beer without making some fairly inappropriate comments to men in parking lots with Anita and Eileen on look out for cops?

Soon enough, Chris Vail was 21 and I knew I had had my time in the sun.

But I digress.

Hands down, my coolest friend is Jamie Davis.

When Jamie calls, he starts talking like we saw each other 2 hours earlier in Peter's kitchen. Sometimes he says "Oh, hello, Heather...it's your younger and prettier sister calling."

Sorry, quick tangent -
Jamie was one of Lucio's groomsmen.
He made the toast at the wedding.
After our big choreographed dance (me and Lucio) all guests were invited to join us on the dance floor.
Jamie and Peter slow danced.
Peter is Jamie's partner. Oh, and Peter looks like Richard Gere - whenever my mother sees him, she touchs him randomly and inexplicably.

Shortly after the whole group dancing thing, my 80 year old Aunt went up to my father and whispered to the table at large, "Tommy, there were two men dancing together!"

To which my father said, "Well, they are partners."

Auntie retorted smuggly, "In business?"

My mother, well into her third Jack Daniels, chimed, "Yes, dear, in a sense. Peter takes very good care of Jamie."

Mom then went to dance with all five of the gay men - including Peter and Jamie - who were tearing up the dance floor.

Back to Jamie.
He called today.

"Heather Finneran (I mentioned he was at our wedding, right?) I had a sex dream about you last night. We were at Peter's house, and we were in bed and I asked you if Lucio was here, and you didn't seem at all concerned that he was downstairs. And I had a total chubby. And you were glorious in your curves and I was so into kissing you. It was amazing!"

Normally, when anyone has any dream about me, my elitism shoots through the roof.
But an actual sex dream?
Too much to hope for.
Especially Jamie Davis.

You see, Jamie Davis is the pied piper.
Everyone wants to be near him.
He's like oxygen. And really, what isn't better with air?

He has his fair share of heterosexual women who've wanted nothing more than for him to tumble off the gay train - even a slip fall - and to be there to catch him.

At one point, there was this new woman friend in his life.
I didn't like her then. I don't like her now.
She believed Jamie Davis could be hers.
She was rigorous in her pursuit of our man.

She managed to get him to make out with her once when he was drunk.
And tired. This is my memory of the story. There are other details that don't leave this woman I don't like looking as bad, but hell, it's my blog, right?
Then she got all girlie nuts when he told her he was still gay.
Um, Hello?
Idiot.

When Leslie, Mel and I heard this news, Leslie announced, "Listen, honey, there's a line of women waiting for Jamie Davis to not be gay, so take a fucking number and go to the end of the line."

With all this said, when Jamie told me he'd had this dream about me, I didn't have the reaction I was sure for the past decade I would have.

I was annoyed.

And you know why.

Glorious in my curves.

Indeed.

Uh, yes, I am still exercising and trying to be better. I am down 10 pounds since new years.

10 pounds is not what it used to be.