When you're a teenager (or a toddler with a phone, as the case may be today) the only people who call are your parents, your BFFs, your boyfriend and maybe the occasional prank caller. But once you have your own money and an aging body, you start getting all kinds of new and interesting phone calls. I try my best to never answer the phone. I figure if someone really needs me, they'll text me, or track me down via drone or carrier pigeon. But occasionally a call falls through the cracks. In my experience, these correspondances fall under one of three categories. The Insurance Call Today I received a call from my obstetrician's office saying that all of my recent medical claims had been denied by my health insurance company - because they have me listed as a male. Interesting. I'd like to know how many males named Julie are visiting the OB? And how many of these male OB-goers are submitting gynecological claims for pap smears, urine samples and ultrasounds? Now I will have to spend 30 minutes on another phone call with the insurance company navigating numerical prompts and shouting voice commands to a robot agent. Is the robot agent going [...]
I used to wear thong underwear.
In fact my college roommates and I used to have thong slingshot fights at the laundromat.
Until one of them would inevitably get hooked behind the washer on a drain pipe, or hung up in the light fixture (the underwear, not the roommates).
These days, my underpants are large and roomy. (To read more about what I’m currently wearing, read My Husband is Head Over Hanes for Me.)
But I do still own two thongs.
Today I saw blue sky for the first time in what feels like months.
It was sunny and warm. (Albeit 103 degrees and muggy, but I’ll take it.)
I grew up in Florida so I’m used to the
summer weather patterns. Two hours of sunshine, 30 minutes of apocalyptic cloud-to-ground lightning, an hour of sunshine, and so on.
But the last few days have defied all meteorological paradigms.
The annual mole check.
An activity I enjoy as much as renewing my driver’s license, getting a pap smear, or shopping for hemorrhoid cream.
The night before my appointment, I took inventory of every questionable mole.
Like those two spots on my stomach formerly known as Cute-Little-Freckles – that over the course of my pregnancy had morphed into two-headed amoebas.
I anticipated getting whittled on like a Halloween pumpkin.
Husband: “Your underwear are heinous.”
Me: “What are you talking about – these are from Victoria’s Secret.”
Husband: “Well, I hope you got your senior citizen discount when you bought them.”
Me: “Just because they are full coverage doesn’t mean they aren’t sexy. Look at this fun pattern!”
Husband: “Mmmm, nothing like faded pink elephants on boxer briefs to turn me on.
Husband: What does “SMH” mean?
Me: I don’t know.
Husband: Well, people keep saying it on Facebook. We should figure out what it means.
Me: I’m sure it means something gross… like “Suck My Hoo-Ha.”
After consulting a friend (and mother of two teenagers) I was relieved to find out “SMH” actually means “Shakin’ My Head.”
Maybe kids these days aren’t as dirty as I thought.