Underwhelming News!

Not so much a real post this Sunday, but here are some things that are going on here in our world...

Lorie and I are making raging progress on the diorama, as you can see. This represents 3-4 minutes finding a box and rooting through my daughters' toys.  No progress is being made because Ms. Lorie is off gallivanting and having fun without me at Ohayocon.  She keeps sending me pictures of all the great shopping and people watching and it is killing me. 
And also because I am studying for exams and that is manifesting itself in a renewal of my obsession with really cold Skinny Girl Margaritas, braiding and rebraiding one side of my head while I stare at sample questions and 

 buying a huge cloaky thing that makes me look like Angela Landsbury.  I'm pretty sure I am way dumber since my undergraduate days.  Thank you, children.  I knew the Teletubbies were making us all dumber.
But I did manage to make time to buy a deer mount on Craigslist without ending up buried in a shallow grave.  As soon as I decide if my new deer friend is a Spring, Summer, Fall or Winter, I will be giving it a make over.

And lastly, later this week we will be announcing our first contest.  Don't get too excited.  You are not getting a chance at my deer head, which I am either naming Rosebud, Lucy or Heddy.  And yes, I know that a white tail deer with 6 points is a male, but honestly after being shot with a bow 7 years ago, dismembered, stuffed with foam, and sold at night in the parking lot of a McDonalds,  does it really matter?  And please feel free to leave name suggestions in the comments section.  Daisy? Beatrix?

Survivorman

This is one of my favorite pictures of my son.  He's maybe 5 here.  I don't remember any of the reasons behind what the heck he is doing.  I am pretty sure this is soon after Uncle Dan taught him what "execution style" meant.  I also remember he wore that mask and those shorts for an entire summer. I haven't the foggiest idea what goes on in his head.


Sure, I try to relate.  I'm always up for a game of "let's beat the crap out of each other and make the loser smell my armpit."  Since he was 4, I have kept a steady supply of jars to store bugs in, even going so far as to scout for them at garage sales.  I did an impressive job acting delighted when he taught himself how to catch yellow jackets IN HIS BARE HANDS.  I told him I was proud of him when he later presented me with a jar containing 37 live yellow jackets. (I did put my foot down on keeping them in the house.  And I'll just let you imagine the sound and fury of 37 yellow jackets trapped in a water bottle.)


So the other weekend, he went to stay at his buddy Evan's house.  Evan's family lives on 26 acres in the woods in a very rural part of Ohio.  When he goes, I have to pack waders, binoculars,flashlights, a full face mask in case of air soft wars, and his many knives.  As soon as my city boy hits the woods, he turns into Les Stroud.  Evan's mom makes them check in occasionally, but they pretty much refuse to come indoors.   Henry and Evan once spent 3 solid weekends wading silently in a stagnant, goo-crusted pond, trying to catch an ancient snapping turtle the size of a suitcase.  They did finally catch it and brought it home to Evan's mom in a wagon.  No fingers were lost.   Evan's mother, thoughtfully, sent his clothes back home with him in 5 gallon zip lock bags.  The stench was unreal.


This past weekend, he casually mentioned that he and Evan were going to "kill that beaver."  Horrified, I said, 
"No, you are not killing a beaver."

(Insert mental image of my son and his best friend streaked in mud and gore as they kill, skin and eat a harmless, cute little beaver in the moonlight, Rambo-style.)

"Mom, come on.  The beaver's making a mess of the woods.  Evan's dad said we could kill it if we find it. "

"I forbid you to hunt or kill a beaver, so help me God, young man!" (That was when I realized that I am on a long strange journey with the boy child.)



So when he got home Sunday night and said, "Mom! Look what we found in the woods!," I figured it was a tail.  Or a head. He once handed me a baggie full of bee heads. That's a hard gift to accept gracefully. Moving on. 


He said, "We found some shell casings in the woods!!"

"Oh my God!!! Where the hell were you?"


" In the woods."


"No, Henry, like where?! Were you still on their property?  Did you wander onto a shooting range?  Where, exactly, the hell were you?"


He replied, "I don't know. We were near these trees.  This is my half.  Evan and I split them evenly. You know, so it's fair."  

I don't know what scares me more: the fact that he found this many (x 2) shell casings in the woods or the fact that they weren't actually in a pile.  He told me they were scattered over a fairly large area and they decided to pick them all up and keep them.  It took hours. Digging in the mud and snow. Bizarre.


So now it's my job to clean the muddy casings because he "wants them in a bowl on his nightstand for decoration."  Very classy. They will go well with the dead tarantula and the moldy praying mantis.  Oh, and the dead shark. I have rinsed them off three times already and every time, a new generation of spiders and ants emerge.  So I finally gave up and put them in a bucket on the front porch till spring.  Which has had an interesting effect on the mailman.

Voices Carry

Right off the bat, you have to understand that I love my husband.  He's a great guy.  He has all his own hair and loves to both hide in the basement with me and watch movies AND go to junk stores.  And he does all the math.  But I don't think he respects my work.

I am totally respective of his work.  When he comes home from a long day,  I listen carefully when he tells me about his day.  It's usually something like, " Bla bla widgets bla bla valves bla bla explosion bla bla halon system bla bla chlorine leak."  And I am right there, listening with shining eyes and I try to show my support by saying things like, " That's great! So work was good? Why don't you go play your video game?"  I care very deeply about whatever it is that he does. 

So, the other night, we're enjoying some family time.  The kids were blessedly ignoring us.  Winston was playing Call of Duty and ignoring me.  I was texting and surfing the internet and ignoring him.  All the elements of a beautiful evening.  Until he says...

"So who are you talking to?"

I said, "Lorie."

"And what are you girls up to?" he said.

"Well, we are working out the details of a new project.  It's starting to come together."


"Huh. What is it?"


So I told him all about it. 


"Well, there's this really gross guy that we know.  He's got this amazing type of fat distribution that makes him look anorexic everywhere but his gut.  Which looks like he's over due for sextuplets. He's got this mysterious wound on his upper lip and sometimes he actually wears a band-aid on it.  I swear to God, I once saw him eat a bowl of chilli with it on.  So gross.  And he could bore you to death inside of a minute.  Like, his level of boring is nearly a type of mind control.  The moment you see him, your eyes kind of glaze over."


At this point, Winston paused his match and was looking at me. And apparently, listening to me.  So I continued...

"Anyway, we got to talking about him and trying to figure out what the hell he does in the evenings and we decided we are going to start working on a diorama.  You know, probably an over sized shoe box. No, wait! A boot box, you know, to sort of capture his awful in an artistic way.  We think that he wears some sort of short, silky Asian robe around the house in the evenings and Lorie thinks it probably has a dragon embroidered on it.  I think there is definitely a mail order bride, but we are arguing about whether she brings him drinks in wooden tiki cups or beer cozies shaped like coconuts.  We can work that out later, so don't worry.  But we agree about the backless leather man slippers, diamond pinky ring and gold chain.  Maybe a gold plated back scratcher.  We have to figure out how to get what looks like a steam room in one corner; that's going to be tricky. We're positive he says things like, "I gotta take a steam."  But here's the thing. I think we are thinking too small.  We know dozens of weirdly gross people.  So, if we took, like, the next 6 months and really worked at it, we could make dioramas for all of them. And then, here's the great part: we do an exhibition!  Who wouldn't pay $7.50 a ticket to see really well made dioramas of bizarre random people?! It can't fail!!!"


So there I am, looking at him and beaming, thinking about how awesome it's all going to be.  He just stared at me, for so long that I thought I might have to make him put his hands over his head and say his name (stroke test), when he says,


"What the fuck is wrong with you?"


I think maybe he wasn't really listening.  Or he has no vision.  Anyway, the conversation ended abruptly.  I feel sad that even within a great marriage, there is always something that you cannot share with your partner.  But now I have some great new ideas for another diorama. 

~dana

Dream Goblin

I have a Pinterest stalker. For those who are not familiar, Pinterest is an internet cork board. You have as many categories "boards"  as you like. My favorite is " Colors that make my eyes happy!". I also have a "Dream Home" and "Clothes I Love" category. One fills up a board by going out into the internet and pinning things to it. This goes onto a communal board of people you are following or are following you. You can find things there to "repin" onto yours. Getting a lot of repins is exciting. This means a lot of someones thought you were brilliant! Who doesn't like that? But someone has gone too far. I don't know who she is, but I feel violated. She has swooped down and repinned, ALL THE THINGS! My entire dream home and all the clothes I will never wear. My identity has been stolen. I get up in the morning and she has been there in my stuff. Claimed it all as hers. Like she was going through my dreams while I slept. A dream goblin.  Granted I repinned others to create my persona, but it was in small things here and there, not all from one source.  I thought someone else was genius and took that one little part. I think we do that in real life as well. When we are creating who we are, we emulate others. We take what we believe to be the best parts of them and incorporate that into who we become. It's not deliberate, it just happens. But this is  a willful stealing of my internet soul ! STOP IT, or the Pinterest war shall begin! After all I am dangerously bored.

Thar She Blows!

Yo-yo dieting is as natural to me as breathing.  And it's not like my parents created this. They eat like normal people.  But for some reason, my 3 brothers and I all have varying degrees of insanity when it comes to dieting.  I have one brother who, over the years, has extolled the virtues of both the corn diet and the garbage bag technique.  In one case, he eats only corn.  In the other, he dresses himself in trash bags and lays prone in the garage attic.  In the summer.  Another brother has benefited greatly from the "All I consume is Monster and I rollerblade around town all night cause I can't sleep" diet.  He has recently become a vegetarian, but all he seems to eat is eggplant and potato chips. The remaining brother is an actor/stand up comedian in LA, and he has been living on a diet of Acai Berry Juice, tuna steaks and Caramello candy bars for the last 15 years.  He is so slender he can tuck in a sweater, you know what I mean?  He is so committed. We all hate him.  (Although, side note, he has this great idea for restaurants and I think its brilliant.  Instead of just offering you freshly ground pepper, he thinks they should also offer Redi-Whip.  You could just tilt your head back and open your mouth so they could squirt it in.)

All this forced inactivity from my herniated discs has earned me like 8 pounds. I'm lying. It's probably more. And that just won't do, because I am, what my grandmother loving referred to as "assy".  (as in, "Here, Dana, I clipped this toning exercise out of Woman's World for you because you're so assy.")  Most Polish people are kinda pear shaped, but I take it to a whole new level.  I tend to be a size 4 on top and a size 10 on bottom.  I look like I am wearing the bottom half of a fat suit if I put on any weight, because it goes STRAIGHT TO MY ASS.

I, myself, tend to go back and forth between what I call the Donner Party Diet and the Christian Bale Diet.  Not for the faint of heart, but they are real winners.  I thoroughly researched them on the History Channel and EOnline, respectively.   I developed the Donner Party Diet one night when the husband and I were watching a documentary on the History Channel on the Donner party.  You know, the story about those people who may or may not have eaten each other after getting stuck all winter in the Sierra Nevadas?  I recorded it, hoping for some great re-enacted footage of someone eating someone.  No such luck.  But what I did learn was that they all starved to death, not because there wasn't enough food and game available, but because they were so poorly dressed for the cold that they exerted too much energy hunting for it and starved to death.
I looked at Winston.  "That's genius!"
So, what I do is eat a tiny bit less, and couple that with marching up and down Lake Ave in the winter under dressed for the cold.  No UnderArmor for me!  It works, sorta, and doesn't require me to eliminate nachos from my diet.  There is the unfortunate side effect that I may be the first person in Lakewood, Oh to be admitted to the hospital for severe frostbite, but I'm not a quitter.

The Christian Bale Diet I can't really take credit for. Apparently, when Bale was preparing to film The Machinist, he lost something like half his body weight subsisting only on apples and coffee.  If you have seen it, you will remember fondly the scene where he shows his abs.  I swear you can make out his spine. From the front. Abs like that usually only come around in times of worldwide famine.  There are many more side effects from this one, namely:
1. Jittery and Freaked Out.
2. You Will Nap A Lot.
3. Like Every 3 Minutes. All Day.
4. Don't Plan On Doing Any Higher Level Functioning
Personally, I maintain that there really wasn't a script for The Machinist.  The studio just put Bale in a sound stage with a supply of apples and coffee and told him he had to lose 100 pounds. Then they filmed the process.

I also like to add to both of these groundbreaking diets a little add-on I call the 300 Workout.  There is this great video on YouTube called the 300 Workout, where they show how all those guys in the movie 300 got so ripped. They were flipping truck tires.  I am a little person, so when I called my dad and asked him for a tire to flip, he gave me a tire from a 63 Chevy with the rim. (He also never asked me why. Hmmm...)  Neighbors started coming over, asking me if I needed help moving that tire somewhere. It was difficult to explain what I was doing. Because as it comes out of my mouth it sounds like crazy.  And I have mentioned the herniated discs, no?

So, thank God, it's finally snowing here. I am off to put on some shorts and a hoodie and march down Lake Ave.  I've got to burn off all this coffee and apples.
~dana

Get Away From Her, You Bitch!

Seriously, the first time I saw Aliens was the very first time I felt that rush of adrenaline that made me want to kick someone's ass and put them out the airlock.   And when Ripley shows up in the loader to save Newt from the alien queen, didn't you tear up a little bit when she said that line?
"Get away from her, you bitch!"
(Sniff... so beautiful! So eloquent!)

 My son is nearly 12 and the husband and I are introducing him to great movies in the hope that he doesn't grow up liking movies like Step Up 3 or any Katherine Heigl vehicles.  We're movie snobs.  So, we started him off with The Matrix.  He loved it.  Walked around the house for days, telling me there was no spoon and that the matrix had me.  The he saw Predator.  He quotes it constantly.  He particularly likes to make me shake hands with him, while he flexes and says, in a prepubescent Austrian accent, " Dillon! What's the matter? They got you pushing too many pencils?"    He also yells, "Get to the choppa!" whenever we get in the car. When you consider the fact that my son is built with the imposing physique of a noodle, you'll be amazed that I keep a straight face.
Last night we had him pick between Aliens and Pitch Black.  He picked Aliens. Because I love him and wanted to terrify him, I made sure we sat on the couch in the basement that backs up to my 6 ft tall basement windows.  That are always spooky as hell, but especially at night. They enhance that "something is behind me" feeling.
He loved Aliens, but there was a great deal of:
"Is something going to burst out of someone chest again? Don't mess with me."
"What was that?! Something touched the back of my head." 
"Seriously, Mom, just tell me if the aliens exist. Are you sure?"
And he fist pumped when Ripley kicked the queens' bug ass.  Love the boy child!

He went to bed fine, of course, with his bedroom, bathroom and closet lights on.  Holding my cricket bat. After thoroughly checking his nightstand to make sure all 700 of his knives were there, just in case. And then...

I "sleep" with my husband and 3 random sized dogs. So I am used to floating up out of REM sleep and realizing that someone is on top of me.  Depending on my mood, and who it is, I either relax and go back to sleep or deliver a sharp kick.  But as I fluttered my eyes, I felt this bony skeletal weight all over me and something brushing my face.
"OMG," I thought to myself.  "I am being attacked by an alien parasite!  I knew these sons of bitches existed! Something is going to burst out of my chest!  These fucking dogs are useless!"


I then realized 2 things:  Alien parasites do not wear pajamas. Neither do they have braces.  Trying to flip his dead weight off of me, I frantically whispered, "Henry! Henry! Why are you all over me? Get off!"
He said, " No, Mom, I can't.  I have to lay on you so the alien can't burst out of my chest."


Worst night of sleep ever. I mostly lay awake, planning on setting up a video camera pointed at my bed, like in Paranormal Activity.  Maybe if the husband realizes that between him, the dogs, and the kids, I NEVER ACTUALLY SLEEP FOR MORE THAN 20 MINUTES IN A ROW.  Maybe then he would finally give me the soundproof bedroom with the deadbolt on the door that I have been asking for.  But, of course, it's my own fault because I tried to educate my boy child about iconic action movies.  But he rebounded today.  After his prolonged morning visit to the can, he showed me some things he found in his ThinkGeek catalog.


"Look, Mom!  You can buy a stuffed alien parasite to wear on your face! Or a t-shirt that looks like an alien is bursting out of your chest!  Can I have one for Halloween next year? Please?"

This boy child of mine is just filled with potential. Hmmm. Do you think it's too soon for Paranormal Activity?  And should I be more worried about the knife drawer?
~dana

Tiger Lily Thrills

It has finally happened. Winter.

It has been a long time coming. I was enjoying grabbing a sweater and not having to scrape my car windows. The lack of snow delayed my change of season reflection. Now it is upon me. This season takes me back to my birthplace, California. I like to think of my birth certificate as a ticket. If they ever close the borders I will still be able to get in. My son has one too, though I don't know that he feels the same way. He can't possibly remember it. I too was torn away from its soft brown hills at a very early age. I went back as an adult to be with the love of my life, Norman. After being there for a week it became the place I love most in this world.  Was it because I was with him and starting a family? That certainly has to be part of it. 

A large part of it is the weather. I know it sounds  superficial but, people ,THE WEATHER!  It's glorious. Everyday. I don't need the uncertainty of the Mid-West . I know some people thrive on the thrill of "What will today bring?", but the mail provides that for me.

 One very important piece of my love, I could get things done. All by myself, as a woman. I could call handymen, businesses, utility companies and someone would listen, perform the task and ask if everything was satisfactory. Here I can not. I can try for weeks. The minute my husband calls someone it is done, immediately. Seriously?

 "What about the people?" Someone asked me that once. I was at a loss for words. There are so many different kinds of people. Colors, languages, rich, poor, local, tourist and every other category we like to put humans in. A day is full of so many random variations of people that you can't possibly put it into words. 

I also happen to be a movie fiend. I love them. Nowhere in the world can this obsession be fed as well as it is in Los Angles. One of my favorite days, we took in an 11am show, went to lunch, wandered around some shops, took in a 4pm show, went to dinner, then did a 10pm show. So deliciously decadent. I don't even remember the shows. I remember the feeling of  being wide open to anything, in a place where anything can happen. It was magic. And this time of year in Ohio is anything but that for me. Right now this song makes me cry. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mNgdTLTLMbQ   I will snap out of it soon enough. I have scheduled events that will keep me busy and free of self indulgent navel gazing until March. Check back then. 

Sangria

It's snowing here today. And the kids don't have school so I am just wandering around the house in my jammies dusting and clearing up all the crap that appears over the week.  I think I am finally going to throw out the torso sized flower arrangement my friend Audrey sent me back in November, but I am definitely keeping the card it came with.  It says, "To Dana Thank You So Much You Are An Angel I Am So Sorry love Audrey." She sent it to me the day after she dragged me to a gay wedding, where her crazy Dominican boss made us tend bar because the bartender didn't show. And then she propositioned me.
Audrey called me up in October and said, "Hey, I'm going to this gay wedding and Tom won't go with me, so will you be my date?"
I said, "I didn't know we knew any gay people who were getting married and... hey. Is there even gay marriage in Ohio?"
She went on to explain that her boss, Suzette, was hosting a wedding of two of her customers she had fixed up.  Some guy named Raphael, who is gay, and Martina, a straight au pair who lives in Medina.
"How exactly is that a gay wedding?" I asked, all my dreams of a fab Elton John inspired blowout evaporating.
"Well, Martina is going to get deported because her visa expired, so she told Suzette that she'd pay anyone ten grand to marry her so she could stay. Raphael said giddy-up.  I think he's doing it for the money and to protest that gays can't marry everywhere. I don't know, who cares? It'll be awesome!"
"Well, obviously, YES I'm going. But I am so embarassed, because until my back heals I can't wear heels and I don't want to show up under dressed at a gay wedding."
"Just shut up. It's fine. You don't know any of these people except me and Suzette."
Suzette is Audrey's psycho Dominican boss at the spa she works at.  How she stays in business, I don't know because she is guaranteed to insult you within 2 minutes of meeting her and she swears like a trucker.  The first time I met Suzette, she wrapped her arms around me like she was going to hug me, but instead grabbed the nape of my neck and started tugging on my hair.
"Goddamn, this is the best weave I have ever seen!"
Startled,  I said, "No, it's my hair. Get off me!"
So, Suzette says, "Fuck you. It's a weave. I'm not a lesbian, but if I ever change my mind, I'm coming to find you."  And she talks to everyone like this.  She followed that up with a warning.
"Listen, bitch, I am from Dominica. I am not some (insert Spanish swear word) Puerto Rican.  If you ever call me a Puerto Rican, I will come at you like fucking Carl Lewis and mother fuck you up and down."  She scares the crap out of me, but she's hysterical when it's directed at others, which is why I keep going back.
So the day of the wedding comes, and my back ( I have 2 herniated discs) is a hot mess, so I call Audrey and tell her I don't think I can make it. She tells me she's having a lupus flare and probably won't go either.  Later that afternoon I get this phone call.
"Listen, you are going to this wedding with me. Suzette just sent me home from work and told me to get my shit together because if I don't go to the wedding she'll fire me. And I am not going alone. So put on a black dress and some flats and be ready at 7pm."
So there's me and Audrey, walking in to a swanky lakeside reception hall.  Audrey is all blotchy and twitchy with lupus and I am hunched and shuffling like Quasimodo.  We look amazing.
The room was filled with either gorgeous gay men, or vaguely bewildered looking families. We were the only white chicks in the room, and everyone was staring at us and murmuring in Spanish, probably because we looked so hot.
We had barely sat down, when Suzette stomped over and said, "What the fuck are you doing sitting there? Come on!"  We gave each other blank looks and did as we were told, which is pretty much all you can do when Suzette barks at you. She's bigger than us.
She dragged us back to the kitchen area, and said "Listen, the bartender didn't show. And neither of you two fucks are family. You two better get your little white asses behind the bar and get going. I want a drink in all these people before the wedding." Then she stormed off.
Audrey started making high pitched noises and rooting around the kitchen, all the while apologizing and begging me not to go. The bartender was supposed to stock the bar when he showed up, so there wasn't much to work with. We found the following to serve at the bar :
1 bottle white wine
1 bottle red wine
2 apples, withered
3/4 bottle of flat Sprite
1 bottle cherry vodka (WTF?)
1-12 pack of Bud Lite
Audrey grabbed some bowls and started chopping up the apples, saying "Sangria! Dominicans love sangria!Let's just mix all this shit up and serve it to them!"  We decided to keep the Bud for ourselves.
4 Beers later, Audrey and I are drunk, hunchbacked and lupus-y behind the bar, while lines of happy guests keep lining up for what we called "the brides special."  I cannot tell you how disgusting wine, apples, Sprite and cherry vodka smells, let alone tastes.  But they kept coming back for more.
Suzette came over after an hour of this and we gave her a drink.  I was worried she'd throw it at us, but she said, "This is good, bitches! Take a smoke break!"
Audrey and I looked at each other, silently agreeing to sprint to her car.  As we walked to the door, Suzette caught up to us.
"Come here, you are good little white girls, you make Suzette very happy."  In a drunken fog, I saw her hug Audrey. Then she gave me a hug. I could see the door over her shoulder and all I wanted was to be on the other side of it. Before she let me go, she eyed my bosoms and said, " Princess, you remember what I said. You think about it." Then she walked away, throwing me a sultry glance over her shoulder.
So, no, I don't really remember much about the wedding itself.  I vaguely remember a really well manicured groom, and a very hairy bride in a Good Will dress. And a mystified justice of the peace. I think I am going to avoid the spa for a while.
~dana

Also up for discussion. Why?

So, in our effort to find the end of the internets, sometimes a minion will drop something in our lap. Our latest treasure is http://www.reddit.com/r/birdswitharms/ courtesy of my daughter's boyfriend. Thanks Tyler! Now our dilemma is deciding which bird is most genius. My choices are Disco Bird and Darth Raven, Dana would like Come at Me Bro to be in the running. Here they are in order, http://i.imgur.com/rvwmn.jpg , http://imgur.com/ivJ7k , and http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lpk1ru8TET1r19uc2o7_400.jpg . Please feel free to discuss the submissions and vote in the comments or add your own. Also up for discussion. Why? How did this subculture come to be? What purpose does it serve? Existentially what does it mean? 

Can you feel that?

I have this amazing charley horse in my left butt cheek and I am getting no sympathy on the home front.  Normally when I leave physical therapy, I feel great after my 20 minute massage. I sorta feel like Nadia Comaneci. No, I won't tell you what is wrong with me because you are freaking nosy. 
But when I showed up last night, instead of my perky little therapist Julie, there was this hulking freak in a too small polo. And, side note, you just know he is the sort of guy who intentionally buys them too small to make his arms and neck look bigger. But I digress.  For the purposes of this post we will call him Dolph Lundgren.  Dolph was filling in for Julie and apparently had no clue what my deal was or what I normally do.  So I tried to explain using very small words what I normally do and then tried to do my exercises.
Things got weird immediately, because Dolph kept calling out my reps and saying things like, "That's it. 5 more. All the way. Come on," in this weird monotone.  It made me want to giggle, until I noticed he had attracted the attention of everyone else in the room.  All of whom were working silently with their therapists LIKE I NORMALLY DO.  I finished my exercises and kept thinking, "OK, all I have to do is get through the massage and I will never have to suffer with this freak again because I am so telling Julie about all this.  And it's not like he can chant like a perv while he's massaging me." My injury is in my upper ass region and spreads to both hips, so normally I get basically a lower back rub. Totally covered by insurance! Score! And Julie might say something like, " How's that? That's not too hard is it? Wow, your muscles are like concrete!"  But that's about it for conversation about therapy, we usually talk about our poodle fixation. I planned on giving Dolph the silent treatment.
However, this was when Dolph decided to go porno on me. He started kneading my hips with his giant meat hooks way too hard and saying things like, "How's that? Is that hard enough? Do you like that? Is that good for you?"  I was on the verge of hyperventilating, I was trying so hard not to laugh. So I tried to tell him that he was mangling my hips and was not even in the ballpark, when he switched and started shoving his thumbs into my upper cheek by my hip.  And returned to chanting like a disinterested porn star : Do you feel that? Is that hard enough? Do you like that?  All I could do was bury my face in my elbow and try to stop laughing.  He continued to jab his thumbs rhythmically into my left hip, all the while demanding in a monotone to know whether I was "feeling it."  I tried to find my happy place.
And then. And then he farted on me.  Loud, trumpeting, "I just ate Chipotle" farted on me. A fart that, if it had come from my husband, would have demanded that I throw the remote at him. And laying on that table, I figure my nose was maybe 20 inches from ground zero.  And you'd think he would have said something like, "Oops" or "Sorry" or "Oh my God, I am so embarrassed that not only am I bruising your hip for no apparent reason but now I've farted almost on your face and you are technically paying for it."  Nope. He just kept going. So with all the dignity I could manage, I slid off the table away from Dolph's thumbs and porn chant and mumbled, "That'sfineIgottago."
So of course all day, I get text messages like:
"Dana, is that hard enough?"
"Do you like that?"
"Can you feel that?"
Not only did I feel it, I smelled it. And, darling husband, technically you paid for it.
~dana