Princess Panties

Doors at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in NYC

“Mommy! You’re wearing princess panties?!??!??” My daughter’s squeal of delight reverberated off of the metal walls of the stall. 

She stared in awe.

The overly crowded movie theater bathroom seemed to fall deathly silent in an instant.

“Shhhhhh!”

“Mommy. They are so beautiful! I want some.” She reached out reverentially to touch them as I hovered over the toilet seat doing my business. I swatted her hand away.

“Not until you are much, much older.”

We washed our hands then headed back out into the hallway where her brother and her dad and the dozens other men were standing, waiting on their female companions.

“Daddy! Daddy!” she called loudly as she skipped happily over to him. “Did you know Mom is wearing princess panties?”

So much for the element of surprise.

And from that moment forward, my lacy underwear was known as “princess panties.”

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Deflowering

Close up of a rose
“Who hogs the sheets at night?”

The bride and groom hesitated. A room full of reception guests held their breath waiting for the answer.

Awkward silence dragged on.

“Uh, we don’t know?” The bride offered, finally.

Mercifully the MC seemed to sense the faux pas and appeared set to quickly move on to the next question. The relief in the room was palpable until he got the next question completely out. 

“So who snores the most?”

Another awkward silence. The bride and groom turned to look at each other in disbelief.

Granted, it was a second wedding but there were four (yes FOUR) pastors present at the reception plus two sets of parents in their 70’s and 80’s, deeply religious people. Three fourths of the room sat frowning disapprovingly, their arms crossed. The rest leaned forward grinning in amusement, not wanting to miss a single word. 

Always know your audience….

Thursday Thoughts From the Throne #5

Mission door in San Antonio

I have been pondering this from the toilet for a long time now:

You know what I hate? Items that have what they are emblazoned upon them. Like a pillow that has “pillow” in huge letters written across it. Or a towel that says, “towel”. Granted, before I have enough coffee to clear my sleep deprived brain, towelling off with my pillow after a hot shower is not entirely implausible…. but still. Seems like if I *did* do something like that I would kind of deserve the subsequent damp bedding, you know?

So every morning I blow dry my hair while standing bent over in front of a cream colored canvas “hamper” hamper. I am compelled to roll my eyes at it every morning, although the “hamper” hamper certainly never seems to appear to have its feelings hurt. The effect of eye rolling is dulled somewhat when done upside down. 

I surely do hate the thing and yet principle dictates that I cannot just toss it out until it wears out. I needed something collapsible and lightweight for lugging large amounts of laundry downstairs (I only do laundry once a week because….laundry) and it was the only option at the time at the local Target store. Mind you, the purchase was made before an Amazon Prime membership opened up a whole new fabulous world of shopping variety delivered to my front doorstep at the touch of a screen. Wicker is cute but it is expensive, heavier, and it dang sure does not last long with repeated trips up and down stairs but you know what? Cream colored canvas “hamper” hampers apparently DO last.

For years. 

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Feel free to join in with your own Thoughts From the Throne. Steve Still Standing did, of sorts. Check it out

And since apparently Thursdays are door days all over the blogosphere, I decided to throw in a door for your viewing enjoyment.

Thursday Thoughts from the Throne #2

Shadows of children on the pavement

I am sure everyone at one time or another while in the throws of a deeply passionate kiss has found themselves gasping for air… not because of how passionate that kiss is, but rather to keep from suffocating on the great globs of thick, nasty, post nasal drip that keep gathering at the back of your throat, reaccumulating as soon as you swallow it down. 

And you pray they cannot taste it, too….

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What the hell is Thursday Thoughts From the Throne? Glad you asked! Check out the explanation here and feel free to join in with your own.

Thursday Thoughts From the Throne #1

Thomas Fuller quote over NYC bridge

If you will recall my corny post from last month, Twindaddy of Mental Defecation correctly deduced that I had written that post while sitting on the toilet. Truth be told, I do a lot of blogging from the potty. Clearing the bowels tends to clear the mind. In the comments Twindaddy graciously offered to allow me to use “Thoughts from the Throne” which was a recurring feature on a previous blog. I love alliteration. Alliteration is sexy. 

So I am going to try to make this a recurring feature. It may not be every week, but from time to time you may see this title and I wanted you all to know where it came from. 

Also, you should know the above image was created using Pixlr. Desley Jane at Musings of a Frequent Flying Scientist did a post on this recently. I have found that it is addictive…. 

Getting the Worm

Flowers in the NYC Metropolitan Museum of Art

“Mommy? Can I go potty?” 

Her voice pulled me out of a deep sleep in the midst of a nightmare about a movie set with Nicole Kidman and a patient who ran a telephone ministry dial-a-prophetess line. The movie was to be a psychological thriller. The prophetess had just robbed me of money and souvenirs I had pilfered from the set. I am not sure what a dream like that says about my life right now…

“Sure, baby. You don’t even have to ask, you know.” I have lost count of how many I times I’ve said this to her. 

“Ok!” 

I heard her skip down the hall to the bathroom. I glanced over at the clock. 3AM. I would have groaned out loud but that would have taken too much energy.

A minute or two later…

“Mommy, I wiped but I didn’t flush because I didn’t want to wake anyone up.”

“Thanks, sweetie. Go on back to bed.”

“Ok!”

And I heard her skip back down the hall to her bedroom.

Sleep? For me, it was gone. Just like that I was turned into the early bird. Too bad I don’t like worms.

Oops! I Did It Again….

Inside the Intrepid aircraft carrier in New York City

“MOM*!!!! Gross. Say ‘Excuse me…'” 

“What?”

“You farted!”

“Nah….”

Technically she’s right. I did fart, not that I would ever admit it out loud. It just sort of escaped. I don’t know if you truly get grassier in old age or if you just get less motivated to curtail the explosions when they rise to the surface. All I know is that I fart. I fart a lot. 

In fact, I come from a long line of farters.

One of the few times I was brave enough to have friends over in high school a sound erupted from the next room. The longest, loudest, wettest fart I had ever heard. My friends grew silent. One whispered, “Was that what I think it was?” Yes. Yes it was. That was the sound of my own mother making sure I never, ever had an adolescent social life to speak of. 

It is old news, that smelling farts may actually help prevent stokes and heart attacks. Unfortunately, my kids are not interested in the research. In their minds, it is chemical warfare. AND they are big enough that I cannot blame it on them anymore without them fighting back. Maybe I need a dog?

You may be expecting at this point that I will wrap up the post with some pithy moral lesson or propose a solution to an ethical delimma. Not this time, folks. But if you, too, fart a lot you do not fart alone. 

* To convey the proper level of shock and disapproval the word “MOM” here should be read with two syllables as in MOoo-ooOM.

** The photo above is from a WWII era aircraft carrier in NYC named the Intrepid. I highly recommend a visit if you are ever in the area.

The Boobs Have It

Display in museum in New York City
Do you know how many breasts I have touched? 

Thousands of them.

It is staggering when I reflect upon it. 

So many breasts. So very many. All shapes and colors and sizes. Hairy. Not hairy. Moles and rashes and skin tags galore. Droopy. Perky. Somewhere in between.

During breast exams I have for years and years referred to the exam as the “boob check.” Whenever I made reference to my breasts of anyone else’s I nearly always called them boobs or boobies. 

To be honest, I thought it was cute.

Touching another woman’s breasts makes me uncomfortable, maybe even a bit embarrassed. I feel the same when someone else is looking at or touching mine in a nonsexual, clinical sort of way. So I made fun of breasts and joked about the situation. It took some of the sting out of the situation to act goofy.

One of the many beautiful things about blogging  is that from time to time someone says something that makes me reexamine a part of my life and causes me to make some changes. 

Mark at Exile on Pain Street made a comment on one of my blog posts a while back (ok, maybe it was WAY back in July of 2015) that has stuck with me:

“I hate that word. Boobs…. Boobs sounds comical and crude. It lacks decorum. They’re beautiful! Not something to make fun of.”

This. From a MAN. 

At first, I blew it off. What does he know about women’s bodies anyway? What gives him the right to tell me what is disrespectful about the term boobs. I can can dang well call them anything I want, can’t I? I own a pair after all.

But it ate at me. 

And I felt kind of guilty.

I would take that comment out from time to time and chew on it. The word boob is, after all, another way to refer to someone who is a fool. An idiot. My breasts are way better than that, aren’t they? So are every other woman’s breasts for that matter. They give pleasure. They give life. Right or wrong, so much of who we are as women is wrapped up in these exocrine glands. I would never tell a man to show me his “twig and berries” if I were doing a genital exam. Why do I persist in denigrating the female anatomy during office visits? 

Excellent question.

Yesterday I was telling a woman to change into my lovely blue paper gown so we could do a breast exam when it struck me…

When was the last time I called them boobs?

It had been a long, long time, I realized.

And that made me smile…

Reflective

Central Park duck pond

“He had an awful lot to say about you.” 

I steeled myself for what was to come. I had no idea how physicians in the group I left perceived me now, almost eight years later.

Eight years? Had it really been that long?

She laughed heartily.

I relaxed.

Her dentist, apparently good friends with the other provider, referred her there for a work up for bone loss he had picked up on dental X-rays. I stumbled upon the visit in her medical record in the EHR when she requested a refill on one of her medications. Aside from the fact that it was a work up I could have easily done and referring her to another primary care provider when she had one already was itself a bit unprofessional, I did not know if she would make her way back to me or stick with him. Patients always loved him. 

So I waited.

“I told him you were my favorite doctor ever. He said you had to be right about everything but he missed working with you.”

Right about everything? Really?

Admittedly there are certain things I do not compromise on. You routinely lose my patient’s vaginal specimens and I will insist that you come and spread your legs for a speculum exam as punishment. Ok, not really that drastic but I take that sort of thing very seriously. Pelvic exams are not just physically uncomfortable, they are emotionally uncomfortable for patients and saying, “just have them come back for a repeat” is not an adequate response when I am dealing with a lost specimen for the fifth time in as many months. I will raise holy hell if I have to. But I am rambling….

It is interesting sometimes to see what people remember or think about me. Sometimes it hurts, though, and most of the time I would just rather not know. Is needing to being right about everything what I wanted to leave him with? 

No. 

Not really.

But it could have been worse. At the end of my tenure at that office there was all sorts of drama, he had been involved in some of that, and I was glad to leave it all behind when I left.

A few weeks later I ran into that same former partner at a restaurant. I was there with my kids to get something to eat after a long, tough Friday. They were beat. So was I. 

He saw me and walked over say to say hello. We chatted for a few minutes about how his kids were all grown up now.

“I used to work with your mom,” he said to my son and daughter. “Do you know what she did?” 

My kids swung their tired eyes over to him and focused on his face, warily. He was a stranger. They were used to strangers addressing their mom in public but were not used to being addressed directly themselves. I again braced myself, not knowing what he would say. 

“She told a bunch of kids at an office picnic that she would pay them $5 if any of them hit me with a raw egg. All of a sudden this whole herd of kids was running at me with eggs in their hands.” My son snickered. “So do you know what I did?” They shook their heads, leaning in close to get the scoop. “I told them I would pay $10 if any of them got her with an egg. They chased her all over that park.”

“Did they get her?” My son asked eagerly.

“Sure did.”

I interjected here. “With ONE egg, alright? Just one.” I held one single finger up for emphasis.

Now? I am a legend as far as my kids are concerned. My son in particular loves pranks. He loves knowing mom does, too. I am grateful to my former partner for giving us that.

Time passes, doesn’t it?

Time heals wounds by bending memories. It tempers recollections and feelings until sometimes bygones truly can be bygones. 

I haven’t played a good prank in years, though. That is drawback to the passage of time. I am getting so awfully dang old!