I have a heat rash.
Outside, a million degrees.
Dog shat on the floor.
This morning at the breakfast table.
K: Knock knock
Me: Who’s there?
Me: Chicken who?
K: Chicken pox.
Me: That’s a disease, K.
K: (looks at me like I’ve got nine heads) I know. It’s a disease joke.
Maybe I should try to set a better example for the children.
Yes, it is January. It’s also 18 degrees this morning, so I am not sweating. This post is from last August… My most sincere apologies for the delay, you know, stuff and life and other stuff. Hope you like it.
It’s the very ass crack of dawn, J and K are begging to go to the beach, and I am already sweating.
We must be down the shore (we don’t go to the beach in New Jersey — we go “down the shore”. I don’t know why).
I drag my eyelids open to see the house on Long Beach Island.
I’m on vacation.
I go to “down the shore” every year in order to sit in the sand (in my prescription hat)
and slowly accumulate beach detritus in all the many cracks and crevices upon the plenary of my sticky white vastness. I continually sweat off the compulsory half inch of sunblock I apply and reapply faithfully, but no matter how vigilant I remain to the task, I undoubtedly forget some tiny portion of my skin which will then turn a brilliant, yet grossly unhealthy shade of magenta and stay that way for the rest of our trip. Yesterday I missed my double chin.
This is not a good look for me. I look like I’ve dyed my amish beard purple, and believe me when I tell you that there is no cream in the universe that will successfully hide a third degree double chin sunburn.
I am inordinately tired this morning because last night I slept in a room with my children. At one am K awoke (sort of), screaming: “DON’T EAT THAT” over and over again. It must have been one of the vegetable nightmares. Again.
Later on I was awoken by my son, who wanted me to know that I had woken him up during one of the more lively portions of the war my brain had quite unsuccessfully waged against the springs in my shitty, borrowed, beach house mattress over REM sleep.
I drag ass into the tiny kitchen and drink hot, life-affirming coffee. This is the highlight of my day.
I sweat more.
There are seven of us in this 200 sq foot apartment, the kids, the husband and I, my mother and father in law and my sister in law. There is something about this place that they all enjoy.
In my humble opinion, beaching is an occupation for only that lucky majority born with normal levels of melanin and far less freckly skin.
Which is to say, not me.
The apartment is so small that it’s impossible to pee without an audience. This, by far, tops the list of beach shit that doesn’t work for me. When I pee, I must be so completely alone that even I am not in the room, so on LBI, of course, I do not urinate at all.
It’s not so bad, I do sweat profusely, but this morning’s different. I need to make a deposit in the porcelain bank.
I’m prairie dogging it.
I sized up the bathroom in preparation to fire the rear thrusters. It’s a three by three foot square in between my sister-in-law and my mother and father-in-law’s bedroom and the walls are no more than glorified construction paper. This is going to be bad.
I have but one thing going for me.
They’re all still playing sleep survivor.
No one wants to be amongst the first up with the kids, you see, and I was already awake to keep them as close to some facsimile of quiet as I could manage. No one wanted to join me. I couldn’t blame them, and as for myself; if there had been any other choice before me… Any hint of reprieve from dropping the payload… I’d have taken it.
Things went as well as could have been expected on my end, but the toilet did not fulfill it’s contractual obligation.
I flushed, yet the shit remained.
I stared at the shit. It stared back at me. I recited the Lord’s Prayer and flushed again, ignoring the screaming voices in my head warning that everyone knows two flushes always equals a shit.
I was frozen with fear.
This was my worst nightmare. Trapped in a tiny apartment with my severe potty neurosis, all my inlaws and a stinky shit that won’t go down the pipe.
I scanned the room desperately for help.
My eyes stopped on the window:
No, the fall might be far enough to break my legs, but it would not kill me. What it would absolutely do is draw my theatrically sleeping family to the very room where my aromatic gift sits waiting to be discovered, while I languish 20 feet below, just a little too far from the ocean to drown myself before paramedics arrived.
Thankfully, there was a plunger.
If you have ever looked favorably upon me, please make me stealthy now, for should anyone ever find out what I am about to do here, I will have to divorce my husband and flee the country.
I won’t go into detail regarding my disagreement with the toilet, but I will tell you that no one, neither the toilet nor I, came out well in the end.
War is hell.
The sweet stink of argumentative shit permeated the apartment. It had been cold last night, no windows were open.
Still, they pretended to sleep.
Never let it be said that they did not afford me some comfort in my darkest hour.
My children are not so delicate.
“What’s that abhorrent smell?” asks J.
“smells like argumentative shit” says K.
Okay, not really. But it was something like that. Close enough for Government work, or something of the like.
As always, I am impressed that we ever set foot on the beach at all. The sheer magnitude of crap we bring along is staggering. Every person is loaded like a pack animal for the pilgrimage across sizzling asphalt and blistering sand to the ocean. If our flip flops haven’t melted to the street before we make it to the dune, we scale that rocky hump. If no one has broken an ankle or sliced too deeply into a foot on one the thousands of jagged rocks lining the side of the dune, we hike down the other side and remove our flip flops, in preparation to insert our bare feet into dry sand; each grain baked to precisely the temperature of the surface of the sun and piled just deep enough to swallow one’s entire foot, so that each step, without exception, is burnier than the last.
From the house, it seems to be a walk of around one city block to the water. Not far. Just out the driveway, really. Once en route, however, it becomes startlingly clear that this estimate is impossible, and that I have, once again, been taken in by what can only be described as “the beach mirage”. At any point during our journey to or from the beach I would tell you that we will undoubtedly fall off the edge of the earth before we get there. We are the summer version of the Donner Party. It must be at least sixty miles, uphill all the way. We are trekking through a mountainous Sahara Desert.
Yet, miraculously, we make it every time. The children rejoice.
Umbrellas, beach blankets, chairs, toys, books, hats, and one shit ton of sunblock emerge from our beach bags.
The children immediately beg to go in the water.
For ten years, until last year, actually, I managed to keep my feelings regarding ocean water a secret from my husbands family. I have very strong feelings regarding the sanctity of the ocean and all the animals who reside therein.
They do not wish the pleasure of my company, and I’m cool with it.
It all comes down to very simple logic:
In the ocean, everything that might happen across my skin is a jellyfish. Shells (jellyfish), rocks (jellyfish), seaweed (Jesus H. Fuck, that’s a jellyfish), even other people, although a persons touch inevitably bears a second option:
In 2 inches of ocean water I will dance like someone is shooting at my feet every time the current pushes a new load of crap to shore.
Last year, upon the exposure of my secret, my sister in law made me walk out into the ocean past the breakers. This, she said, would help me to overcome my fear. Instead, I took a huge wave right in my lady testicles, fell backwards into the ocean, took a nice gulp of seawater and spent the next week listening to humorous anecdotes about how I looked flailing around in the surf to avoid mythical jellyfish and sharks, and surreptitiously picking sand out of my girly bits.
There is no help for me.
By eleven am, the children are tired of the water and instead roll their wet salty bodies around in the sand; which congeals upon their bodies to form a completely impenetrable layer of sand glue that no brillo pad or pressure washer can remove. They do this every day, and every day they are genuinely surprised at how categorically unyielding their sand cement has become when they return to the house to shower.
At the beach J says:
Look Mom! I’m making sand angels! I’m Sandy the Sandman!
You’re going to be Sheldon the shower man when we get home.
He laughs and laughs.
Later, in the shower:
J: MOM! MOM! Quit scrubbing me!!!! I swear by all that is holy, I’ll never roll around in the sand again!!! Gaaaaaaak…
Replay scene twice daily for five to seven days.
This morning, in particular, was a special one:
I watched as K brought a shovel full of sand to her mouth, opened up, and ate it like it was brownie batter.
I swear, that child has Pica.
Me: K, we don’t eat sand.
K: I wasn’t.
Me: You just put a shovelful of sand into your mouth. I watched you.
K: No, you didn’t.
The sun must be getting to you, Mommy. Why don’t you close your eyes for a while.
Then it’s time to pack up all our shit, make like the Chosen People, and do our forty years in the desert back to the house for lunch.
K walked back to the apartment bowlegged, holding up the bottom of her tiny bikini with both hands, while the crotch dangled between her knees. Upon removal, I found a perfect sand sculpture of her can.
She likes to sit in the sand and let the waves crash over her. The repercussions are messy and time-consuming, but with a little spray glue I probably could’ve sold that thing online to some anonymous buyer and sent her to college with the proceeds. (Don’t be like that, you knew coming into this that kiddie porn jokes weren’t off the table)
Once the children are clean and fed, it’s time to drag our 900 lbs. of beach shit (and my sad and broken body) across the steaming asphalt, the rocky dune and the searingly hot sand, set up all our shit again, watch the children soak themselves in sea water, roll themselves in sand, and head back to the house again.
They charge people money for this.
It’s true. In order to have the privilege of accruing sand in your slot machine, you must wear a badge that identifies you as eligible to do so. Otherwise, you are subject to the will of the Beach Badge Boy.
You can always pick out the Beach Badge Boy because he’s always the kind of kid you want to punch in the mouth. Also, he is the one doing the Beach Badge Boy walk. If he is in flip flops, He walks like he spent the day on horseback and then jumped off his horse, only to find himself walking to your beach blanket in a river of lava. If he is in socks and sneakers, he invariably has blisters all over his feet which are causing him to walk like he has Parkinson’s disease. He is trying to be cool, for he is always fourteen years old and trying to impress scantily clad teenage girls (or other boys, whatever), but the Beach Badge Boy walk, along with the tiny notebook and three inch backpack he has slung over his shoulders is making it entirely impossible, so instead, he takes his job very, very, seriously.
Woe to those not wearing the badge.
You may see your Beach Badge Boy three or four times in a day, for he is always making sure. And while watching him walk around in four inches of sand with poor footwear is generally diverting, you can be sure that your Beach Badge Boy is vigilant in his pursuit of those who do not wear the badge. Beach Badge Boy has power over you, and he knows it. In fact, that has got to be the only perk to being a Beach Badge Boy, besides exceptionally well-toned calves from walking around the beach in four inches of blisteringly hot sand all day.
Friends, your beach badge boy is making sure. He needs to know that you are wearing your little plastic pin with a number on it that invariably pokes and pricks your skin upon any sort of jostle, either by it’s nasty sharp plastic edges or when the safety pin twists the wrong way, or comes undone, which happens… Always. It’s especially pleasant when your beach badge wounds come in contact with saltwater.
The Beach Badge Boy is the law on New Jersey beaches. Although, presumably, New Jersey beaches are wantonly ignoring child labor laws. He is the law, he and the beach patrol — the beach patrol is the guy wandering around in half of a police uniform and stinking of poor life choices.
By the end of the week I am spotted magenta, and suffering from a mild case of stockholm syndrome. My feet are leaden, my back is broken, and Ive acquired an irrational fear of my prescription hat. My family loves their beach time. My husband feels refreshed when it’s over and can never wait to go back.
Before we leave for another year, we always let the kids go to the beach one last time. Then we take them back to our mountainous home covered in sand and beach muck. K, of course, can be found holding up her tiny bottoms, for she is replete with sandy ass sculpture, and always, as I walk away from the sand and surf for the very last time, I hear the tinkling bells of my daughters laugh and I think to myself:
But they’re so happy. It’s got to be worth it.
a change in my weekend plans, bile geyser, child vomit, life, mom and dad sick, ride the regurgitation, salad shooter, sick kids, spraying puree, Stomach virus, the call of the walrus, throwing it into reverse, Up the down chute, writing
This post is from last year ’round this time. Since I have it readily available, I don’t feel it necessary to write a new post, as the account of my life two weeks ago is almost precisely the same as what you’ll read here, with one exception.
This year K is older and wiser.
We tried to teach her how to use the hurl bucket, so she was no longer upchucking all over the house (and us). After I gave her instructions, the bucket, and she was horizontal on the couch watching Dora, I went into the kitchen for… Whatever I went into the kitchen for… And heard the telltale sound of the wretched wretching. I walked back to the couch and found K; still on her back, but spewing spectacularly into the bucket, which she was holding upside-down on top of her face. The puke was dripping everywhere, her hair was soaked in green chunks, and K was genuinely shocked at how miserably wrong my directions had been pertaining to the use of the hurl bucket.
Enjoy Throwback Thursday.
Last week on Wednesday morning, K started having (This is the point where you decide whether or not you want to keep reading. This post is not for the faint of heart.)
diarrhea. There. I said it.
She was fine otherwise and running around like usual, so we went on with our lives. Naturally, when the preschool informed me on Wednesday afternoon that K had had a shitty, shitty, day, (literally, not figuratively) I pretended to be insanely surprised.
Although the Pedialyte in her lunchbox may have given me away.
K got sick first, a full day before the rest of us; blowing chunks like an automatic lawn sprinkler at dawn.
The walls, the floor, dripping down out of the tiny cracks in the ceiling, she was straight out of the exorcist.
It sucked, but we managed, as we had not yet begun our own appointments in the Oval Office.
It was… My time. I try to take a zen approach when reviewing the menu. I watch TV (preferably old sitcoms) while meditating and chanting:
“I will not puke tonight I will not puke tonight I will not puke tonight.” Sometimes it even works.
The husband fell next, 2am, and judging from the sounds I heard coming from the bathroom, Uncle Ralph had called on the big white telephone, and the husband had answered.
I was extremely busy not barfing in the living room. Any small move on my part would have resulted in the immediate jettison of all chunky cargo, but the husband was retched out. I nominated him to clean up the child and the upchuck in J’s room, which he did. This is especially impressive since there was still a vomit comet as well as a shart ejecting itself from J’s orifices (orifii?) during the time the husband was working. STILL, somehow, the husband managed to get the child clean and settled on the couch before he went back to the bathroom to drive the porcelain bus himself. He deserves some kind of award for that.
Like a Pukey or something.
Maybe I’ll get him a statuette.
K slept. I suppose she had done her time.
We divvied up the buckets and watched “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air” because our only other option was food related and… Not three, not two, but only one payment of 19.95. Plus, the TV remote wasn’t immediately available, and there weren’t any volunteers to go look for it.
We were lepers. We were pariahs in our own families and community. If they could’ve, the neighbors would have draped plastic over our house and piped o2 in and out. As is, I’m pretty sure I saw a hazmat suit as I dragged my unwilling body out to the car to get Gatorade and crackers.
Why would I go, you ask?
Well, relatively early in the day we had begun to speak of the unspeakable – one of us would have to go out for supplies. I submitted that in the interest of myself, the husband should go. His suggestion was almost identical.
Throughout the day, we played ginger ale and crackers survivor. We began to hoard Pepto Bismol and Immodium. We had a staring contest. Eventually, someone had to help J with his acid chowder, and since I was up anyhow, what’s another 5 miles?
I gathered my strength, got my keys and swore to myself that I would NOT:
de-eat in the car, blow my groceries in the store, fertilize the bushes or shart. That’s the big one. No sharts. I had no spare pants, and I had no choice but to go to the closest grocery store (where like Cheers, everybody knows your name). I’d never get over a public sharting. I can’t even pee in a public restroom without a complete fortress of solitude, so I made a plan; just in case.
Should I shart at the grocery store:
1. Back away casually from the cart.
2. Place the super saver circular casually over the affected area.
3. Casually back out of the grocery store.
4. Abort! Abort! Abort! Drive home with super saver circular between shart and leather seat.
5. Never go there again. Ever. Even if I have to drive three hours each way for a loaf of bread. Never.
At the grocery store, I might as well have been walking around asking people if I could eat their brains. I was given a fifty foot berth in every direction (a good thing, really, since the realistic probability of a shart was way higher than I would admit at the time). Luckily, neither yak nor shart came for me then.
The shart cart (all part of my plan) ended up serving a dual purpose; as face plant happened to be a real risk on numerous occasions. Unfortunately, in my half-conscious grab for sick people food, I accidentally came home with onion flavored Ritz crackers. The mere sight of those crackers caused all of us to nearly jazz up the carpet (it was a very close call) again, which would’ve totally blown all my hard work. They still haven’t forgiven me. I don’t blame them.
Why do those crackers even exist? Good God, why? Why???
I’m gagging even now just thinking about it.
The rest of the day was spent nibbling crackers (non-onion) and then watching as the crackers took the short cut out anyhow. Good times.
Better. Fewer sharts. (The majority of actual sharts have been left out of this post to protect the innocent. Just know I argued to include them) On Sunday, nobody went for the ol’ second chew.
Things were getting better, thank you to the good and gracious immune system. Someone turned on the food network at some point; retribution was swift and severe.
To any of you out there that know us personally: Sorry.
If it makes it any better, we’re healthy now.
It probably won’t, though.
Is Beth Teliho.
The feeling is mutual.
Well, my release hasn’t come yet, but thank you for helping me get there. Every little diddle helps! We haven’t made it to the peak yet, but you can all help get things flowing by Pre-ordering! Make sure to keep watching as I get closer and closer to what I hope will be a huge eruption, April 7.
I have to say it feels great, after all the public courtship and all the time I spent working so hard on the pre-release, to finally heave a huge sigh, and just ride these final few thrusts into what I hope will be a huge climax.
It must be killing you to be so close and still have to wait! I don’t think I could do it. I’d be spasming uncontrollably by now.
Well, it’s definitely been a long, slow, ride, but I’ve had some work to take my mind off of all the burgeoning excitement. I’ve been restlessly whoring myself to everyone: the media, the internet, and lots of generous bloggers, so that’s distracted me from the BIG explosion I’ve been waiting and hoping for.
Can you tell me a little more about the climax part?
(laughs) Well, I certainly don’t want to blow my whole load now, so how about just a little taste?
Mmmm… Sounds yummy.
Order of Seven is quick and dirty, just how I like it. It crawls under your skin and consumes you, pounding your senses with mystery and suspense, holding you captive while daring you to go there with philosophical questions. If Sixth Sense, Da Vinci Code and Girl with the Dragon Tattoo had a foursome with Percy Jackson – that would be Order of Seven. Trust me, this is a ride you want to get on.
Thanks so much for being here today Beth. I’m practically vibrating with excitement. Everybody, go online right now and claim your copy of Order of Seven; make sure you’ve got a finger or two drenched in the final countdown to April 7th.
Thanks for having me. Really. You were slow and gentle, yet knew when to pull my hair. I’ll be back….
Want more of Beth? I most certainly do. Fortunately, you can find her all over the place. Like down there…
Get your minds out of the gutter! I meant down THERE ↓ ↓ ↓
Goodreads giveaway, running Feb 23 – March 23. Enter for your chance to win one of 7 signed copies of ORDER OF SEVEN!!!!
I have a bad back, so I go for therapeutical massage frequently. I’ve always seen female therapists; not for any real reason, just because there are more women than men in the field.
Lately, my back’s been so tight you could bounce a quarter off it and my neck has gotten so stiff that friends have started making “stiffie” jokes. It’s time for a massage when people start to make boner jokes about your neck. (Haha, by the way, very creative.)
I called my massage therapist (you have to call them therapists. They correct you if you accidentally slip in “masseuse”, and you do NOT want your masseuse angry with you) to schedule an appointment. She’s a popular lady, so I’m used to waiting a few days to get in, but this time it was a TWO WEEK wait for an appointment. The only one in the office who was free soon enough for my liking was:
The Massage Dude.
Hey, I’m amenable. I don’t discriminate. I’m sure he’s wonderful, of course I’ll see the dude. Why not?
Everything was as usual as I walked into the office, there was a waiting room full of ladies, peaceful colors everywhere, the waterfall was tinkling and Enya was playing softly in the background.
The place is like a monastery; you don’t want to speak above a whisper – if you talk at all. I waved hello to the receptionist, thought briefly about giving her the old Buddy Christ,
but sat down across from the serene waterfall instead, my back to the massage rooms.
The Massage Dude came out to get me. I got up and turned around to greet him warmly (as I am wont to do) and…
I was startled.
Let me preface the rest of what you will read here with a better understanding of my usual “massage therapist”. My usual lady is a sage-burning, bangle bracelet tinkling, warm, relaxing, hippy-dippy delight. Her long, flowy, hair is always down even though it’s a thousand and one degrees in her room, so it tickles my back while she works. She’s strong but gentle, and afterward she sings a little song to me and leaves me there to get up and dressed at my own pace. No rush. There’s always cold water waiting. I could take a little nappy if I wanted to. It’s a beautiful thing.
SHE SINGS A LITTLE SONG.
And so, on that fateful day, I had it in my mind that the Massage Dude would be just like her, only… A dude… You know, a crunchy dude.
Massage Dude looked like an Olympic gymnast. All he was missing was chalk on his hands and a pommel horse. He was considerably shorter than me, 5’4”– tops, and might have been friendly with the ‘roids.
I schooled my surprised face (I’m not very good at this. Once surprise and/or disappointment have begun the facial expression party, all a good schooling does is to add “confused disgust” into the conveyed emotional mix. I end up looking like I smelled something very bad.) and shook his beefy hand.
His neck was wider than his head, which made his head look sort of pointy. The whole effect made him look like a gigantic upside-down novelty pen. Like, If you clicked his feet, a pen tip would pop out of the top of his head. He could schedule his own appointments while practicing his handstands. He should have had the name of the office written across him.
I wasn’t getting a little song.
Upon this squat yet sturdy body, he was head to toe white. A white athletic shirt, tight enough to see every rippling ab and peck beneath it, tucked into white pleated stirrups.
The kind of stirrups that show, even upon first glance, whether Mr. John Thomas is swinging righty or lefty. Where do you even get those?
Does Amazon carry them?
He must have Googled “stirrups that show off my tool” and bought them online.
YET… it is not for me to judge others in the Zen garden which is my massage therapists office. Besides, weird massage experiences make for good blog fodder. Just ask Whyistherebreadinmykoolaid?
I followed him back into his room (also white and antiseptic, which was a disappointment. And absolutely no scent of burnt-sage-meant-to-cover-the-telltale-scent-of-marijuana. Which was a rather big disappointment) and he introduced himself.
For our purposes, I think
Douchy McDouchington Massage Dude will do just fine. Then he left me alone, presumably to go do some work on the rings to undress, (I was wearing clean and pretty undergarments that day, just for the record) hop on the table face down, and pull the sterile white sheet up to my neck. I don’t really know why I bothered to do that, he was just going to turn it down anyway.
The bed was really narrow, narrow like the width of the pillow narrow, so my shoulders and hips came just to the edges of either side. My poor squashed boobs were locked in a fierce battle with my upper arms for table space.
There was a knock at the door and The Dude walked in,
lubed up put massage oil on his hands, and began the massage.
I stifled a scream. Instantly I knew why it is that I see a woman.
He was rough, and not good rough either. Bad, bad, rough. Rough like he had a recipe calling for the juice of one Naptimethoughts.
I had to tell him several times to lighten up, interrupting him as he talked incessantly; making sure I knew all his credentials, his training, and his background in physical therapy. I pretended to care with my eyes closed, mumbling “Really” and “Good for you” at regular intervals. Don’t try this at home, kids. Not listening to a stranger is a finely honed skill one can only truly develop with years of practice not listening to their husband.
When he finished with my legs, butt and lower back, he went to work on my upper back and shoulders. Since he’s shorter than most men, he had to lean over the table a little. He leaned in maybe 30 degrees, but it was enough. It was that moment that I felt it on my upper arm.
There was no doubt.
It was not a pencil in his pocket. He was not saving a banana for a snack, and even though my memory of the 80’s is kind of foggy, I’m pretty sure stirrups don’t have pockets.
It was his private eye, and it was staring at the sky. It was his tubesteak.
I was facing away from him with my eyes closed when his pizzle made its first dramatic appearance, but there’s no mistaking the feel of the pink cigar with naught but thin white fabric between… The two of us. My eyes popped wide open and immediately turned to saucers, looking in every direction for…
A little bottle of Boner-be-Gone tucked away on one of the shelves?
Every muscle in my neck and back stiffened along with his… Unit. I tried to squeeze in on the narrow table, so it wouldn’t be so… Touching me, but I could shrink no more.
I tried to move over, almost my whole left shoulder and hip were dangling dangerously over the table’s edge and I was willing my leftover flubber to stay where it was. Who falls off the table in the middle of a massage? It was all, sadly, to no avail.
Donkey Kong was in hot pursuit of the princess.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I say something? How do you tell your massage therapist that his hard on is creeping you out?
Me: “Hey, not like it’s any big deal. but it seems that you have a fire down below. Could you, maybe, put it out before we continue?”
Because I want to be a part of that conversation. As far as I could see, here is the best case scenario to come out of that mess:
Him: “Oh, thank you so much for bringing it to my attention! I’ll just nip into the other room and have a little flute solo. Back in a tic! And no worries, I’ll wash up.”
Then I’d just offer my thanks and wait quietly while he jerked the chicken and came back to finish my massage, no harm no foul. Because that’s not disgusting, horrifying and mortifying all at once.
Oh. My. God.
Plus, I had turned my phone off in the car. I couldn’t even pray for a disruption.
There would be no salvation for Naptimethoughts, and Massage Dude was climbing onto the tiny table. There was simply no graceful way to deal with this… Problem.
Him: “You’re really stiff (Jesus, that doesn’t even require a joke, snide comment or horrifying pause). I’m going to try and get at this trigger point under your shoulder blade”
Me: “Umm… Okay”
(That’s his sausage rubbing on my buns. Oh, and there’s his knapsack swinging around back there too. Maybe I should just ask him to stop. No, he’ll ask me why, and THEN what do I say?)
Me: “Listen, when your boner was just rubbing up against my arm, I was good with it, really, but now your coin purse is all up on my ass, and this is (just now) getting weird.”
Him: “Oh, my apologies Ma’am. I’ll just go finish off the zipper trout so we can get down to business.”
Because that would work out well for all parties involved. There is no way out of this. Short of faking my own death (and what if he tried to give me mouth to mouth? Plus, since I’ve never actually died, I’m not really sure how to play it. I’d probably screw the whole thing up, give a totally unconvincing “Blehhhhhhhh” in the end, and he’d laugh, and I’d just have to get back on the bed and
let him finish finish him it THE MASSAGE. Finish the massage) or have a stroke, which, at that point, was a real possibility.
I no longer noticed what he was doing to my back, all I could feel was the twig and berries on my ass. This couldn’t end well.
And then it was time for me to turn over.
I don’t know what my face looked like, but I imagine it did not say “serene relaxation”. I turned over anyway, careful not to look at Willy Wonka.
He asked me if I was comfortable having my chest and thighs massaged.
Errrrmmmmm. No. Upon reflection, I was not comfortable with his hands in between my thighs.
How could he not know that I know he’s sporting some wood below the equator? He’s wearing STIRRUPS. Everyone can see it in its flaccid state, it’s like a train wreck after he’s pitched a tent.
Shouldn’t someone talk to him about his work attire? Not that I’d be first in line to have the “we can all see your penis” conversation with a co-worker either, but they could draw straws or something. Don’t they have a boss somewhere? Or a full length mirror? Whoever gets the short straw could just put him in front of the mirror and ask him if anything jumps out at him.
Him: A full body might be a good idea, since you’re so impossibly tight today.
Me: No thanks, if you want to touch me there, you have to buy me dinner first. (Haha hahahaaaaaa yeah. I made a funny. Cough-boner-cough)
So he took to my head, which is always the final, and usually my favorite, portion of the massage. But IT was there too. He wasn’t rubbing it up against the top of my cranium or anything disgusting like that, but I KNEW it was there. It was there, inches from the top of my head, taunting me, with posture like my mother always wanted me to have at the piano.
Him: “Are you usually this tight?”
Me: “…… yes?……”
Him: “You need to come back to see me more often. Your back and neck muscles are likely to spasm if you don’t keep them loose. Have you been to PT recently?”
Me: “No, conventional physical therapy is extremely
hard on DIFFICULT on my (don’t say boner don’t say boner) BACK, since both my neck and… (boner) BACK are injured. I swim and do massage therapy instead.”
(How does he not know?)
Me: Oh, look at the time. (I looked down at a freckle on my wrist) I have a meeting, so time is tight for me today. It was so nice meeting you, (ram rod) MASSAGE DUDE. (Please leave now)
I started dressing while he was still in the room and I was out of there before the massage oil dried on my skin. I did not tip him. His tip was big enough when I left.
My dear readers, my friends… I have failed you, and perhaps I have failed myself as well. The other day while commenting on Omigosh She’s Naked (very funny— read it) it came to light that I have neglected to relay to you one of my life’s— truly— most humiliating experiences.
That simply won’t do.
There is some closure for me, some (dramatic pause) dissolution of the embarrassment that I feel as I hand it over to you, my loving congregation, my partners in crime, my compatriots, and my companions down this blog we call Naptimethoughts, to laugh with me at my own ridiculousness and foibles.
Therefore, this omission can not stand.
I intend to right it today.
Please accept my humble apologies for forgetting to offer up this plate of mortification, indignity and shame for your amusement and hedonistic relish.
I remember it as though it were yesterday…
The year was 2008, May. I was quite pregnant with J. My feet were disappearing like a fart in a fan factory and I hadn’t seen my legs since Rudy Giuliani was running for President. I had not shaved anything in the lower region of my body since it had gone stealth. Underwear had become my most elusive foe, and I had given up on socks entirely. This particular day, I was wearing clogs, maternity pants (which frequently irritated my armpits), and a maternity shirt that made me look like some crazy circus tent. I was a hot mess. Even Dora wouldn’t explore me.
I drove to my appointed destination and waddled inside. I took up two chairs in the waiting room, from which my ass STILL overspilled, and watched some lady in a sweatsuit, who apparently had not been getting enough sunlight, pick up a prescription for vitamin D.
I judged her harshly and immediately.
She must be the World Record Holder of Lazy. Who can’t go outside for ten minutes a day? Only someone in a sweatsuit defending their title.
Normally, I would have given her the benefit of the doubt, and allowed “Vampire” as a second option, but I was quite irritated by the two (formerly) outer edges of my plastic throne that had recently come together to form the very center of my seat, and, just then, happened to be riding up my ass like it was an episode of Bonanza. I was not feeling charitable.
I waited. For a doctors office, there wasn’t a great deal of reading material. Not even an old issue of Highlights. Goofus and Gallant would have been a welcome distraction.
I had just begun reading a pamphlet on Inflammatory Bowel Disease (Urrrgh, that shit ain’t right) when I was called back to see the doctor.
Now, let it be said that I had been to see this doctor once before. My prior appointment had been easy peasy. A breeze. I had no reason to believe that this appointment would be different in any way.
Oh, but friends, I was wrong. So wrong. So horrifically, mortifyingly, frightfully and heinously wrong. I walked into the exam room, where the nurse instructed me to disrobe to my underwear and put on a backless blue paper “gown”. With that, and before I could so much as pee a little (for all you men out there, that’s what pregnant ladies do. We pee a little), she was gone.
She was gone, and I was wearing naught but my girlie bits as undergarments.
Panic set in.
I stared at the blue paper gown.
I looked around that room as if underwear and a razor might magically appear before my very eyes, if only I willed it so.
Then I stared at the gown again.
Nothing good could come of this.
A choice had to be made. Either I stayed dressed, and confessed my nakedness (as well as my fear for his wellbeing upon seeing it), when the doctor (whom I do not know any better than pair of magic underpants) came into the room, or I put on the gown and hope for the best.
I took the gamble and put on the gown. I mean, what was he really going to do to me? He’s not an ObGyn, he’s a rheumatologist. And he’s a DOCTOR, right? He must have taken Anatomy at some point.
The blue paper gown didn’t fit, of course. I should have known, my baby “bump” had grown from hill to mountain to “effecting the tides” by then. I tried to gently tug it closed around my (probably) hairy ass, and it ripped in front, halfway up Mount J.
(Please remember that this event occurred before I had any kids, so I cursed like a sailor. Now, as is right and proper, I look around the room first.)
After a thorough search of the room for another blue paper robe, a stream of naughty words, and a few “Jesus Christ, where do they keep these things?” I noted the time.
The likelihood was that the doctor would be in any minute, and I had no choice but to admit defeat by paper robe and my own severe lack of foresight.
I sat on the table, naked ass towards the wall, and waited.
I had just enough time to wonder if the single plastic chair in the room would hold my girth long enough for me to try and squeeze out the room’s only (gigantic) window, when the doctor came in.
He was not the easygoing type. In fact, my impression of the man to date said very clearly:
“I’d prefer not to see your vagina today.”
I saw him take note of the rip in my paper robe. I tried to hold it closed with my fingers, but the ass portion of the blue paper robe kept creeping past it’s boundaries. I opened my mouth to confess… It had to be done… But he cut me off (quite tersely, might I add) with a bunch of questions regarding my health.
I started to relax a little. Maybe the tiny blue paper robe was just a prerequisite for everyone’s second visit, examined or not. Besides, I really didn’t feel like explaining why I was nakey under the drapey.
Then he said:
“Please lay down on the table.”
I felt the word vomit coming. He had to know the truth before it was too late, but he was talking again (he kept fucking talking) telling me how he was simply checking my joints for full range of motion. I did a quick tally of all the joints in the body. Knees, ankles, shoulders, elbows, wrists… Not bad, no need to lift up my blue paper gown. He turned my wrists in directions God never meant them to go, but we were okay. He moved my feet around, and assured me that they were still there (strained laughter).
I made nervous jokes about my hairy legs, and why I might (I couldn’t really be sure) have the lower body of King Kong, and just as I was feeling like this might be okay, just as I thought I might get away with minimal scarring, he bent both my legs at the knee.
Range of motion, you see. Hips are joints too. Fuck. Hips, I forgot about hips. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
Everything moved in slow motion, the anticipation of my pending abasement was written by each passing second across my face. I grabbed at the ripped blue paper gown, which was all there was between me and the money shot, but it was too late. He pushed my knees apart, checking my hips for… Full range of motion… And suddenly there seemed to be a spotlight IN MY BAJINGO (and really, at that point in my pregnancy, I couldn’t say for sure that there wasn’t) shining up into his face. His eyebrows had disappeared into his forehead. He made a noise, I think he might have swallowed his tongue.
My appointment had turned into the beginning of a very bad 70’s porno.
I took the moment to inform the good doctor that I had chosen to go commando that day.
I think he understood, but I’ll never be sure. All the color had drained from his face, and he took a step back, like there was something in there that he was afraid would bite him (which is also entirely possible. I hadn’t seen the Holiest of Holies for myself in quite a long time, I really couldn’t tell you what might have taken up residence). As he gathered himself, he pronounced all my joints healthy, and said to see the receptionist about a follow up appointment.
Right. A follow up. Because I’d be coming back to that office EVER AGAIN.
In fact, if I’d been able to get my irritating maternity pants on properly, I’d have been out of there faster than the fat kid in a game of dodgeball. Unfortunately, it took a little while for my feet to find their way back into those designer pants, and then for me to get them pulled up, sans eye or hand assistance. But you can bet that when I finally got them back on, I waddled out of that office like my ass was on fire, back to my car and home, to bear my shame alone, for Naptimethoughts was not yet a glimmer in a secretary’s eye.
Update: My hoohaa is perfectly normal again. I can look at it whenever I like, and I’m positive there are no monsters living in there. I can also reach my feet, and it’s no longer a danger for me to shave my lower extremities. Not that there’s hair on my feet. There isn’t.
This question comes from our friend Pieter, at Ah Dad. Strangely, Pieter’s question mimics almost exactly the evening we shared at Gotham Comedy Club in Manhattan, during the time he spent in the US on business. If you’re interested in further Naptimethoughts tom foolery, here is a link to my previous assessment of that evening, Laughing With Ah Dad.
He writes to Ask Naptimethoughts:
I’m thrilled to have an opportunity to drain some of your wisdom for my own benefit. My question is this:
How should a person, who paid for the ticket and all, handle a very rude and/or unfunny comic in an established comedy club, like umm.. I don’t know Gotham maybe?
I want to be prepared next time.
Dear Ah Dad:
This can be a tricky situation. You paid for the ticket, there’s a three drink minimum, and you want to get your money’s worth, right? So you don’t want to get yourself kicked out.
However, you also don’t want to let a rude or unfunny comic to walk away thinking that he or she was funny and inoffensive, because that would be terribly rude of you.
Most of the time, you will not be asked backstage to visit the rude and unfunny comic after the show, which is a pity, because that is clearly the best time to call quiet attention to the comedian’s poor choice in vocation. You must always be gentle, and remember that what you’re doing is a delicate dance. You want to get your point across, but not hurt anyone’s feelings. One idea, should you end up face to face with your shitty comedian, is to quietly toss your ticket stub at the comic’s feet and say in a nice, yet firm voice, that:
“Your show stank so bad that oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling so that the audience could remain comfortably in the building. It sucked so incredibly bad, that I’ve asked my wife to back over my head with the car, just so that I will never again have to think upon the show that you just presented.”
Or perhaps, although yes, slightly colder, but quicker to the point:
“Your comedy stinks so bad that your teeth are plotting a revolt”.
Unfortunately for you and the comic, you will likely not get the chance to be quite so graceful, so these are my recommendations for a gentle reprimand of the pitiful comedian while they are onstage.
First, there’s the traditional, simple route, you yell:
from your place in the audience. This is a tried and true method to get your point across, but you want to make sure of a couple things before setting out to help your comic in this manner.
Hopefully, that will to get your point across without embarrassing the comedian, because remember, you feel for this person. You are simply performing a community service by letting him or her know the truth, before someone uncouth comes along, and really hurts his or her feelings.
Another option is to throw rotten fruit and/or vegetables at the person on stage. If you decide to go this way, be aware that this method takes some preparation. Be prepared to stink like rotten fruit and/or vegetables whenever you go see a show starring a comic with whom you aren’t familiar. You might want to carry a dedicated bag for your rotten food. Most people who use this method of comic communication choose tomatoes as their rotted item of choice, and I think that’s very kind of them. Tomatoes are soft and squishy when they rot, as opposed to something like a potato, which is still hard, but black and slimy. We don’t want to do permanent damage to our comedian friend, after all.
Our last option requires one to be very close to the stage. Throwing a drink in someone’s face usually gets the point across, but I think it ought to be your last resort. Throwing a drink says “You disgust me to the point that I am willing to sacrifice my liquor just to tell you so”.
If your comedian is particularly sensitive, he or she might see that act as an offensive and hurtful display, especially at a horribly bad show, where most people require a few martinis in order to laugh in the first place.
If you choose this option, be prepared to hurt some feelings. I don’t recommend it.
Hope this helps!
*Naptimethoughts will probably give you bad advice. In fact, I can all but assure you that Naptimethoughts WILL give you bad advice. If I were you, I wouldn’t take anything that Naptimethoughts writes to you seriously AT ALL. If you have a real problem, please seek the advice of a real therapist or Psychiatrist. Ask Naptimethoughts is nothing but a fun way to give Naptimethoughts stuff to write about, and/or plug your blog.
Today I am cutting the virtual ribbon (with my giant imaginary scissors) for a BRAND NEW feature on Naptimethoughts. I call it “Ask Naptimethoughts”.
It’s my own personal advice column.
That’s right, I have answered all of your prayers in one easy link.
I, Naptimethoughts, am here for you.
I am here to answer any and all of the questions you may be grappling with in your daily lives. Feel free to ask anything*… Anything you like*.
Please send your questions (and/or excessive and insincere praise, moral support and flattery) to:
Naptimethoughts@gmail.com, or feel free to leave your question in the comments section below.
I will *answer your questions, *solve your problems for you, and *generally improve your life. All for free, because that’s just the kind of gal I am.
*Naptimethoughts will probably give you bad advice. In fact, I can all but assure you that Naptimethoughts WILL give you bad advice. If I were you, I wouldn’t take anything that Naptimethoughts writes to you seriously AT ALL. If you have a real problem, please seek the advice of a real therapist or Psychiatrist. Ask Naptimethoughts is nothing but a fun way to give Naptimethoughts stuff to write about, and/or plug your blog.
*All that other stuff I wrote about improving your life and whatnot? Yeah, that’ll never happen, but you might get a laugh out of it.
Of all the 365 days that it takes for our Earth to revolve around the sun, I own the number one shittiest day upon which to be born. That day– that birthday— shittiest of all– is December 26th.
Or as I like to call it, National Sleep It Off Day.
The day of my birth is so shitty, in fact, that when I was a child, my parents (the very people to blame for my shitty birthday) suggested to me that we pretend that I was born sometime better, like in the spring or summer.
You know you’ve got a shitty birthday when your own parents are in league to change it.
I gave the idea it’s due ponder… as well as any small child could, but in the end I said no.
No, said I, bearing a martyrs load of first world problems at far too young an age, I was born on this shitty, shitty, day, and to celebrate the day upon which I made my grand entrance at any other time would be a great untruth.
No, I would keep my shitty birthday, because shitty or not, it’s mine.
Often when I tell people my birth date, they tilt their heads just so, and look up at me with the same pity you’d address someone who’d just told you they’d contracted some devastating disease.
“Wow” they say “that’s a pretty shitty birthday”.
And yet, they do not understand the layers and depths of shit to which my particular birthday falls. Most group my birthday along with all the other shitty holiday birthdays, those born on Christmas Day, Christmas Eve, New Years Eve or New years Day, and although all those birthdays are shitty in their own respects, they don’t even begin to smoosh the fecal yule log that my birthday serves up for supper every year.
People say things like:
“You must hate those combo gifts, or people wishing you a “Merry Birthmas”, or “Happy Chrisday” (Just an FYI for all of you out there with good birthdays, when addressing someone with a shitty birthday, you should understand that it’s not about the presents. People with shitty birthdays get used to combo presents by the time they’re old enough to pronounce “presents”).
And then they clap me on the shoulder, give me a quick, quiet, smile that says that they alone understand my plight, and go on to say something like:
“It could be worse. You could have been born on Christmas”
Yes, it must be shitty to have been born on Christmas Day, and for people born on Christmas Day or Christmas eve, I do feel your pain. However, you should all take heart; for unto you, born these days, is given a birthday worlds less shitty than mine. Because even though you have to share your birthday with another important calendar day, and that sucks, your birthday falls at a time when everyone is happy, and celebrating. There’s togetherness and love. Peace on Earth, goodwill to men, and all that good shit. You, your family and friends have spent weeks, possibly months, preparing for the celebration that is (in part… in very small part, believe me I get it) your birthday.
For me, not so much. If I’m very lucky, some family or friend has made it through the festivities with little or no hangover, manages to wake up before the 27th, and remembers to call.
Probably not, though.
Sometimes people remember my birthday on Christmas Day, and although that’s extremely nice of them to go out of their way like that, it’s kind of like a premature ejaculation of good tidings, making the next day just a little more cold and depressing.
Hell, even I’m exhausted the day after Christmas. Since the kids came along, I don’t even give a crap about my shitty birthday. Happy birthday to me, there are plenty of leftovers, so I don’t have to cook dinner. Get out the candles and cake. Or don’t. You probably won’t, anyway.
Not that I’m bitter or anything.
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