There’s a gal from church that’s around my same age and at roughly the same point in life, but for whatever reason, we don’t cross paths very often and thus haven’t become good friends yet. But we were sitting by each other today so we started chatting. She asked me how I was feeling these days (she knew I had a rough first trimester) and then I asked her about her recent business trip to Brazil. She told me that the trip was okay, but she hadn’t been feeling very well recently so she was just glad to be back home. “You haven’t been feeling so well?” I followed up. “Yeah,” she replied, then lowered her voice. “I’m pregnant now too.”
The first words that came out of me were, “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
I noticed the giant foot in my mouth and tried to recover with, “Um, I mean, congratulations! I’m so excited for you!” Luckily, she chuckled and said, “That’s fine. I haven’t been able to get excited yet myself because I’ve been feeling so icky.” Amen, sister, amen.
Well, I guess it’s time to come clean. I’m pregnant, I’m due March 1 (or, as I like to think of it, late February), and it’s supposedly going to be a boy. The first month was easy, breezy, beautiful. The next three months were the worst of my life. Oh wow, I had no idea it could be so bad. But then in the next month, I improved a lot and now I’m feeling so much better that I shower almost every day. *thumbs up for me*
When I was young, my older sister Stephanie and I shared a great number of things. One evening, we were in the kitchen discussing how to split the last piece of dessert when my father introduced us to an age-old procedure that ensures both parties are satisfied: One person cuts and the other chooses. It was a simple and fool-proof way to settle the sharing predicament. Or so he thought….
You see, my devious young brain quickly realized the obvious flaw in this method. It operates under the assumption that any person, when given the choice, will choose the bigger / better piece. Because, like, duh. Who wouldn’t, right? Well, as it turns out, kind generous people don’t. They do the crazy thing. They take the smaller piece.
So whenever Stephanie and I needed to share something, I would volunteer to divide it. I would then cut them unevenly, one piece noticeably bigger than the other, but only barely so. (I had to keep it subtle to keep from arising any suspicions.) Invariably, Steph would take the smaller piece, just as a kind older sister should. And I would victoriously end up with the bigger piece, as evil younger sisters are prone to do. Ta-da!
Flash-forward 15 years:
Today I made a fruit smoothie. I got out two cups from the cupboard. I filled one all the way up, which only left about three measly spoonfuls for the other cup. “Tee hee hee,” I thought. I put a spoon in each cup and brought them over to Gary. “Here,” I said, “I divided them so you can choose.” And poor sweet Gary took the three-spoonful cup without even hesitating.
And that, kids, is why you should surround yourself with nice people.
(Disclaimer: I’m not a completely awful wife; I offered Gary half of my smoothie after my little experiment. Stephanie, on the other hand, remains drastically ripped off.)
A guy joins a monastery and takes a vow of silence. He is allowed to say only two words every seven years.
After the first seven years, the elders bring him in and ask for his two words. “Cold floors,” he says. They nod and
send him away.
Seven more years pass. They bring him back in and ask for his two words. He clears his throats and says, “Bad food.” They nod and send him away.
Seven more years pass. They bring him in for his two words. “I quit,” he says.
“That’s not surprising,” the elders say. “You’ve done nothing but complain since you got here.”
A woman gets on a bus with her baby. The bus driver says, “Ugh, that’s the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen!”
Fuming, the woman walks to the rear of the bus and sits down. She says to a man next to her, “The driver just insulted me!”
“That's awful!" the man replies. "You should go up there and tell him off. Go ahead, I’ll hold your monkey for you.''
A beagle goes to a telegram office, takes out a blank form, and writes, “Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof.”
The clerk examines the paper and politely tells the dog, “There are only nine words here. You could send another ‘Woof’ for the same price.”
“But,” the dog replies, “that would make no sense at all.”
I went to a fight the other night and a hockey game broke out.
We rarely go to Fred Meyer, but last night, we needed some corned beef and rye bread, which our regular grocery store doesn't carry. While we were pulling into the parking lot, this is the exchange Gary and I had:
Gary: (sigh) Fred Meyer is just too big to be convenient.
Jody: Unless you need fixin's for a Reuben!
Gary: And tent stakes.
Later, in the store, I was picking out oranges when I heard Gary say to himself:
"Oh hey! A ginormous line is called a pomelo."
I looked over my shoulder and saw him looking at the pomelos, which I explained to him are actually like grapefruit. In reply, he simply picked up a lime and held it next to the pomelos. Then he gave me a dirty look.
Harold had never had a cold. Harold had never had a cold, the flu, or any other pesky illness. In fact, in all of Harold’s thirty years, he had never even experienced any of the symptoms associated with such things. But Harold knew all about it, of course. He had seen commercials for cold medicine with actors who sneezed and coughed and walked around in loose robes. He had also known real people who got colds. Most of Harold’s colleagues got a cold once or twice a year. Most of the time, they just came to work anyway, sucking on cough drops. Sometimes they would use a few sick days, but even then, when they came back and were asked how they were feeling, they’d reply, “Oh fine, it was just a cold.”
Harold also knew about flu shots. The government was always encouraging people to get them, but it seemed like most people didn’t bother with it. Like the common cold, the flu was inconvenient and uncomfortable, but one’s body was perfectly capable of handling the virus itself within a few days. No big deal.
So Harold knew what to expect from a cold. A little sneezing, a tight throat, and a stuffed-up nose that made you talk funny. If he ever came down with something, he’d be mentally prepared for it.
And then Harold got a cold.
On the third day of his cold, Harold was wrapped up in a blanket and lying on the couch in the living room. The Price is Right was playing on the TV and there was a melting popsicle sitting in a cup on the coffee table. Harold stared blankly ahead, his head throbbing, his throat burning, his sinuses pinching, his whole existence a haze. He was starving but didn’t want to eat anything. This is bad, Harold thought to himself. This is really, really bad.
Harold feebly reached for his cell phone. He called the nearby pharmacy.
“Do you deliver?” Harold rasped.
“Deliver? Deliver what?” the pharmacist asked.
“I need some cold medicine,” replied Harold.
It was silent for a few seconds. “Like, for a runny nose?” the pharmacist asked.
“Yeah, and for all the other cold symptoms too,” said Harold.
"Those are just over-the-counter drugs,” the pharmacist explained. “You can just come in and pick them up.”
Harold looked down at his sweat pants and the dozens of crumpled-up tissues scattered around him. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“Okay, thanks.” Harold hung up the phone.
Now that Harold had a cold, the big work deadline he had been stressing about a few days earlier seemed so trivial and unimportant. In fact, everything seemed trivial and unimportant now. But apparently, the rest of the world didn’t share his view. Harold’s boss was calling him.
“Hey Harold!” she greeted him, perky as always. “I just wanted to see if you found someone to take care of the Penderson account while you’re out sick.”
“Yeah, I talked to Cindy about it yesterday,” Harold told her.
“Oh perfect! Hey, how are you feeling, by the way?” the boss asked.
“I have a cold,” Harold said.
“Oh hey, me too!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it the worst?”
Harold’s mouth gaped open. “How are you working right now?!” he wanted to scream. “How are you even living through it?” Instead, he just quietly replied, “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”
“Well, get well soon!” she finished and hung up.
Harold stumbled to the bathroom. He threw up half a popsicle. He staggered back to the living room and collapsed on the couch. Judge Judy was starting.
Harold was positively flabbergasted. His whole body felt so weak. There was no way it could somehow recover from being so defeated. How could this possibly happen to people on a regular basis? How are we not dying in droves? he wondered. How is it that people go through this and then just move on with life as though nothing dramatic and life-threatening has occurred? How is this agony not shouted from the rooftops? WHY DON’T PEOPLE COMPLAIN MORE ABOUT THIS?!
And then Harold crumpled into a heap of tears and frustration.
This is pretty much how I’ve been feeling for the past few months. Except that pregnancy is a whole heck of a lot worse than a stupid cold.
Nugget is a very family-oriented dog. He loves doing everything with us and even tries to sneak his dinner into the living room if that's where we are.
A few weekends ago, I suggested that we have a slumber party in the living room. Nugget always sleeps in a crate, so I thought it would be fun to start a tradition of having slumber parties twice a year (on the LDS General Conference weekends) so that he could sleep near us. Gary agreed, so we pulled out the air mattresses and dressed them with sheets and blankets. I folded a blanket up for Nugget next to my side and then went to change into my pajamas. When I got back, he was curled up on his blanket, all ready for his first slumber party.
Gary and I settled onto the air mattresses, and then for several hours, I tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable enough to fall into a decent slumber. It was not to be. In the middle of the night, I finally gave up and turned to Gary, whispering to him that I was going to bed. Apparently, he wasn't sleeping well either because he was awake enough to reply, "Me too." As I turned to crawl off the air mattress, I couldn't help feeling bad about bailing on the little pup...until I realized that he wasn't on his blanket anymore. I went into his bedroom and what do you know. He had given up on the slumber party long before we did and was already sleeping soundly in his crate. Jerk.
I refer to my training sessions with Nugget as "tricks for treats". I use soft liver treats that a PetsMart employee once referred to as "crack cocaine for dogs". Needless to say, he goes nuts for them. I usually preface our training sessions by asking Nugget, "Do you what to plaaaaay....tricks for treats?!?!" and then he jumps around doing spin moves.
The other day, we were all having a quiet evening in the living room. Gary was doing homework, I was reading on the couch, and Nugget was lounging on the floor. I decided to pull a prank on Gary, so when Nugget looked my way, I mouthed silently, "Do you want to plaaaaay...tricks for treats?" Sure enough, Nugget started flipping out. Gary looked up, startled, and exclaimed, "Whoa! What's wrong with him?!"
Nothing, Gary. He's a well-trained (er...addicted) dog.