Funny Friday: Valium

So, my husband had a vasectomy this morning. The procedure was a breeze, and he’s fine, aside from feeling a little embarrassed at some things he said. He had to take a Valium before the procedure, and his comments reminded me of the time he was drugged up and had his wisdom teeth out. I had no choice but to write them down, of course.

Regarding another urologist who walked into the building:

That man looks way too happy to be doing his job. 

After a bunch of nurses walked in, he loudly remarked:

That’s way too many white people. ???

When his urologist entered:

Look it’s the man whose gonna cut open my penis! I hope you don’t take too much!

On a female patient who came in:

You think that woman’s gonna get a vasectomy? **Giggles.** Ask her. Ask her.

Thoughts on Valium, while kicked back in a chair in the waiting room:

I could go through life like this. I wouldn’t be useless either. 

Regarding a nurse who came in only five minutes early.

That woman’s late for her work. That’s unacceptable. 

I have no idea what this one was about:

I’m not gonna say what I want to say. All these bitches walking around.

To the doctor:

I need to get my hands on some more of these valiums.

After the procedure was over:

Oh, yeah! I got the snip-snip-sniparoo! No more babies for you. 


Hooray For Doughnut Holes

I’m going back to the grocery store topic again today.

Sometimes Sam does the grocery shopping and takes the kids with him, which is nice. I get “free time,” which really means I catch up on folding clothes mountain, clean out the fridge, and spend a few minutes (maybe more) visiting the blog world. I used to admire the man for taking both kids shopping. Taking both kids anywhere increases my anxiety quite a bit, especially when we’re running an errand and my focus can’t be solely on them, but Sam has always acted like it’s a piece of cake.


Little Man and I do just fine shopping when he isn’t hiding under clothes racks to intentionally scare me. Baby Girl and I don’t always do just fine together. There’s always the risk of her having an epic tantrum that’s so bad that I’ll have to leave everything behind while doing the Mom Walk of Shame to the car. You might think that taking both kids shopping would make things easier — since LM could help with BG since he’s a few years older — but you’d be wrong. They often get on great together, but, as siblings do (apparently no matter how much age difference there is), they sometimes aggravate each other to the point of making the other explode. Maybe it’ll be BG flailing around in the cart like an octopus crying because Little Man “shared” her toy. (By “share,” I mean that LM decides to teach BG about sharing by taking her stuff. Sigh.) Or it might be LM huffing and puffing up a storm because BG cuffed him in the head for some reason. You get the picture.

With that in mind, you’d think that Sam wouldn’t be so quick to volunteer. Who wants to put themselves on the parenting front lines when they don’t have to, amirite?

Lest you think he’s SuperDad, I found out his secret. A few weeks ago, we all went out one Saturday to get some groceries. Usually I’m the one pushing the cart and barking out orders, but that time I was being a terrible mother, who was preoccupied with catching certain little monsters doing something on my phone and let him take the lead, and I learned the secret behind his “it ain’t no thing” attitude.


For starters, Sam put both of the kids in the cart. He didn’t put BG in the seat where she can be safely strapped in, either, but put both of them in the big area. I nearly had a heart attack. (“It’s okay, she likes it…I’m watching her!” he told me.) BG was dancing and squealing while holding onto the side of the cart while LM encouraged her before I insisted on moving her to the seat. Then, Sam grabbed a handful of cookies from the sample box and handed them to the kids to feast on. After that he beelined to the toy section and gave BG a couple of toys to “look at” (which he had no intention of purchasing). And then he started checking stuff off the list, with no problem, except for when BG tried to open the cereal (which Sam helped her finish so she could eat it, too).


He violated all of my uptight grocery shopping rules. We don’t put monkey toddlers who can bust their heads open in the cart without being strapped in. We don’t take more than our fair share of sample items. We don’t let them take toys we aren’t purchasing and put their grimy little hands all over them. We don’t let them open food in the store.

Oh wait, I don’t.

(I also don’t have to worry about — as I found out — having to “pay back” the store for a doughnut Sam gave Baby Girl out of the case and forgot to pay for last time. Another time it was a banana, he told me.)

Now that I know his secrets, I don’t feel like he has the upper hand with the parenting stuff as much. (Not that it’s a competition, but ya know…) When Baby Girl started sobbing because there were no sample cookies while shopping on Monday, I opened a package of food in the store for the first time ever to keep the peace. Plus one for crappy store doughnut holes, which no one would touch later. And, yes, we paid for them. No petty thefts for the toddler on my end. 😉

We The People

Before you scroll past this post with the speediness of a bat exiting The Fire Place, this is not one of those posts. You know, the ones that tell you how to vote, fuss at you for writing in I.P. Freely, or shame you for shamelessly shaming shamers. Nope, nada, no. None of that this time, but the title got your attention, right? Which is good, as long as it didn’t cause scroll fever.

This post is about one of the biggest scams of our times. Before you assume I’m talking about you-know-what after I said I wasn’t, let me show you the bullshit my husband brought home today:

You see that? Seven-point-five ounces. 7. Point. Five. Ounces. Only 90 calories instead of the usual 140. And this six pack costs more than a 12-pack of 12 ounce cans. What the actual fuck?

When I confronted my husband over his failed attempt at soda purchasing, he said he thought he was being helpful. “Well, I know you said you were cutting back on Coke, so I thought this would help.”

Help HELP?! I think not. The only thing it does is guarantee that I’ll drink two. And I’m always trying to scale back my Coke consumption, but not by drinking the shriveled penis version of a can of Coke, which leads me to say —

This is America, and We the People demand the right to rot our teeth with appropriately sized drinks! To rapidly spike our blood sugar! To rise our blood pressure! To feel sluggish and tired and all the other horrors this infographic says Coke can cause! We the People — mainly Anxious Mom, probably — think this can size is only suitable for children*, people with inferiority complexes who want to feel bigger than they really are without going to the Adam & Eve sex store, and for display purposes in a larger-than-average-sized dollhouse. That’s it.


Not sure that was worthy of being called a mic drop moment, but I really wanted to use this gif.

Is there a candidate out there who would make soda distributing great again? Because I’d vote for that guy. As long as s/he bans 7.5 ounce cans of Coke, 16.9 ounce bottles, 12 ounce plastic bottles (let’s limit 12 ounces to aluminum cans, okay?), 16 ounce cans (they’re just wrong), and fountain cups that are smaller than 32 ounces, then we’re good. (I’ll probably go for keeping 8 ounce glass bottles of Coke, as long as there is an agreement that they remain ice cold at all times.)

In summary — Cokes shouldn’t come in all sizes.

Whew. I feel much better now.

*Said children would only be pretending to drink the Coke, obviously.

[I’m pretty sure that there is at least one person who’ll think ‘That bitch, can’t appreciate her own husband for getting her a drink,’ if I don’t include a statement assuring everyone that this post is in jest, but that person will probably get Unappreciated Husband Rage and not even read to the end, so I’ll pass.]


Finding The Hat

While cleaning out some stuff pushed to the back of our wardrobe last week, my husband found his baseball cap. It’s a gray University of South Carolina Gamecocks baseball hat (for our 2011 College World Series win) that gives him permission to yell “Go Cocks!” or otherwise loudly talk about “The Cocks” wherever he goes without being looked at too strangely.

Here’s what it looked like brand new. Little Man has one just like it that I bought on sale that he’s been waiting to grow into for quite some time. Sam’s hat barely resembled this one after a few years of being worn regularly.


“E! I found my hat! I thought I’d lost it, but it has been here all this time!” he exclaimed after he pulled it out. He put it on and admired himself in the mirror.

I gave him a fake smile. “Good for you,” I said flatly.

He noticed my lack of enthusiasm (and possibly the light leaving my eyes) and quickly realized that I was the reason his hat had been missing.

“You hid it! I can’t believe you hid my hat from me! That’s so wrong!”

Did I mention that this hat is from 2011? Do you know what a hat looks like after it’s been worn everywhere for five years? In case you don’t, it looks like garbage. Even worse, it smells like garbage. (Reminder: he works from home, meaning he rarely has to wear grown-up clothes…meaning wears baseball hats a lot more than the average guy.)

“I only hid it because I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away,” I stated. This is true. I would’ve had the guilt had I thrown out something I know he loves. So I did the only thing I could do without crossing the line — hid it somewhere I knew he likely wouldn’t look.

After some back and forth over whether the hat belonged in the garbage, I gave in and decided that if I was going to have to continue seeing and smelling the damn thing on a daily basis, that I’d make it less disgusting. (Sure, I suppose I could have done that sooner, but he was supposed to come to his senses and throw the dirty old thing away.)

So, here is the hat after I threw it in the dishwasher, as I read that’s a good way to wash a hat, and it sure wasn’t getting hand-washed treatment. (No, I didn’t wash any dishes with it, in case you’re wondering. We would have surely gotten some illness, despite the sani-rinse.)

Yep, that’s the hat on the best day it’s seen in quite some time. It still looks dirty and like it’s about to fall apart at any minute. Sam was also really happy that I did something thoughtful for him in cleaning up his hat. I pointed out that it wasn’t for him, and after noticing that it shrunk up a bit when he put it back on, let him know what he looked like, A League Of Their Own style.

What thing have you wanted to throw out of your partner’s?


You’re So Lucky

Whenever I talk to someone about my husband, I’m often told how lucky I am.

“He cooks? Wow, you’re lucky.”

“He helps out with the kids? You’re so lucky.”

“He changes diapers [in public restrooms]? My husband would never. You don’t know how good you’ve got it.”

Those are just a few drops in the bucket of my perceived luckiness (or otherwise good fortune), but they’re fairly representative of the type of comments I’ve gotten over the years. Many of these comments make me question the standards some women have for their husbands. I don’t think it should be considered luck that my husband changes the diapers of the child he helped create or cooks some meals, as he eats, too.

(I also wonder whether people ever think that my husband is lucky to be married to me. Probably not. If I’m letting my husband do so much to help out, then he probably got the short end of the stick in this marriage in their eyes, and they haven’t gotten past the tip of the iceberg as far as the things my husband does goes.)

But this post isn’t really about the roles husband and wife or mom and dad have in the home. Because at the end of the day (when I’m not griping about my husband’s slobbiness or attempts to give us frostbite by adjusting the thermostat), I really do feel lucky. Just not in the ways those other women think I am.

I feel lucky that I have a husband who copes with my mental illness as well as he does. Not only did he encourage me to get help when he noticed things were spiraling out of control, even though I was adamant that nothing was wrong with me, he didn’t bat an eye when the many, many labels started getting thrown at me. I was scared that he might leave me and want to find someone normal, but he told me that I was “perfectly imperfect” and that he loved me just the way I am.

I’m lucky that my husband can pick up on my mood shifts. I’m not talking so much about the big cycles (although he’s aware of those, too), but the ups and downs that I often experience throughout the day. I try not to let things show, but he can often tell by the slight edge to my voice or my sudden quietness that I need my space or need him to take over doing homework with Little Man or whatever it is that I need in order to try to get a handle on myself.

I’m lucky that I have a husband who picks up the slack when I’m depressed. While I’m not about praising my husband for doing chores around the house or running errands, I do appreciate it so much when he takes on some of my load (on top of his full-time job) when making myself get out of bed in the morning is like climbing a mountain. Does everything get done during those weeks and sometimes months? No, but he tries. (For the record I do try, too, but during those times getting one or two chores done feels more exhausting than deep cleaning the entire house.)

I’m also lucky that my husband tries to reel me in when he notices certain moods (I guess you’d call it) getting out of hand. For example, a few weeks ago, we had dinner with some friends. On the drive home, I told my husband I got a weird vibe and didn’t want to do anything with them again. He was shocked, as these are long-time friends of ours. Instead of arguing with me about it, he said it was something we could talk about later, that we didn’t have to make any decisions at the moment.

A week later, he asked if I still felt that way. I told him that I didn’t and couldn’t understand what came over me in the moment to feel so strongly, as no one did a thing the least bit offensive and were awesome as always. I guess it’s just part of the whole mood disorder thing, but the main thing was that he was looking out for me on that.

Staying with that same “reeling me in” theme, I’m lucky that he tries to divert my plots to go off my meds and quit seeing the psychiatrist and the therapist. Yes, I know I shouldn’t do this when I’m of a rational mind. Occasionally I’m not of a rational mind, though. I doubt everything, including the legitimacy of my disorders, and am convinced that all I need to do is quit everything and mentally toughen up. He makes sure that doesn’t happen, thankfully.

So, yes, I think I’m lucky to have a spouse that supports me through thick and thin. Is thinking this a bit hypocritical since I raise my eyebrows at other women when they tell me I’m lucky my husband does things? Especially since this is kinda what he promised when he said his “through sickness and in health” vows? Probably. But I still feel lucky to have someone who loves me in the way that he does.