How to Be Super Creepy with Your Doctor, Courtesy of Calm-Ass Husband

A lag in writing has been mostly due to my being ill. Like, SICK. Luckily, I’m feeling much better, but as if my body didn’t make it clear enough to me that it’s pissed off, I finished my illness off with a UTI.

Those of you who are longtime readers of my blog, in addition to clearly being raging perverts, probably remember that I am prone to UTIs. The last major one that I had ended up with Calm-ass Husband rushing me to the emergency room because it progressed so fast and furious that it turned into a kidney infection. That was when I had morphine for the first time, and immediately began a stream of verbal diarrhea that trumps any kind I’ve had after too many glasses of wine. It began with essentially hitting on my nurse (in my defense, she was insanely hot), and ended with mortifying Calm-ass Husband, who was then Calm-ass Boyfriend, in front of the doctor.

The doctor told Calm-ass Boyfriend that I had a urinary tract infection and began to list the reasons why I might have one, when I piped up,“It’s because we only see each other on the weekends and so we don’t get to do it during the week, so when he visits me we have a lot, a lot, a lot of sex. Like…a LOT.”

I’ve only seen CAH freeze with a smile on his face like that one other time, which was the first time he accompanied me to Colorado to visit my mom. She’d end up informing us that coconut oil is a fantastic natural lube. To her credit, she is totally right.

Sadly, this UTI is not bad enough to warrant more of the magical truth serum that removes the flimsy filter I have shoddily duct taped between my brain and my mouth. It did warrant my doctor stressing absolutely no sex until after my antibiotics are done. He said other things too, that were probably more important, but that is what I zeroed in on. I IM’d CAH as soon as I got off the phone.

Me: Bad news, no sex til after I’m done with my antibiotics.
CAH: Who said that??
Me: The doctor
CAH: Well….did he say what he defines as sex???
Me: Uh, no, and I didn’t ask

“Hey doc, when you say “no sex,” what do you define as sex? Are we talking p in the v specifically – or does hand and mouth stuff count, too?”

To be fair, it IS San Francisco, I’m sure he’s been asked worse.


Why You DON’T Want a Husband Who Does Dishes: Just Call My Husband Bambi

Calm-ass Husband is like a deer. I really should just start calling him “dear,” because it is far more accurate. Although those things are spelled two different ways, I suspect he won’t notice when I’m saying it.

Growing up in Western New York, you become quickly familiar with the fact that deer are everywhere and love nothing more than for you to hit them with your car.

Ok that is not true, but when deer get hit by a car it is because they often either ran right in front of it, or sometimes even right into it. It is the most annoying thing ever because you don’t WANT to hit the deer, but they often leave you with little choice. They get blinded and confused by your headlights or something, I don’t know. I just always assumed they were suicidal.

I liken CAH to a deer because, whenever I go into our rather small kitchen to make food, he immediately runs in to do dishes. So then we get stuck in this pattern of bumping into one another and completely being in each other’s way. I’ve pointed this out to him on numerous occasions, but much like a deer drawn to the headlights of a car, CAH is still drawn to dirty dishes only when I’m about to cook.

Sidebar: I am in no way perfect and I know that CAH has his annoyances. For example, I am terrible at recycling and he has tried to drill it into my head over and over, but he still ends up having to root through the trash for recyclables, and vice versa. It got worse when we started having to keep our trash in the garage because one of our dogs developed a trash-diving habit. I just started throwing everything into the recycling can, which was still in our kitchen. Then I decided to actually try to recycle, and that didn’t go well:

CAH: Did you put a pine cone in recycling??
WAW: Yeah, that’s not recyclable?
CAH: What makes you think a pine cone is recyclable??
WAW: Because it’s like wood? And paper is made out of wood and paper is recyclable!
CAH: Where did you even find a pine cone in the house??
WAW: Under a chair, it must have rolled there when we were taking down the Christmas decorations.
CAH: And why would you not just toss it over the side of the balcony, to the wooded area below where there are other pine cones??
WAW: Because recycling was closer and I’m trying to recycle more!


And just so you don’t think I am a terrible wife for calling him out here publicly with his whole “Deer in the Headlights” act, he totally called out my pine cone recycling on Facebook:

wiseass wife

I know what you are thinking, “But your husband DOES DISHES – why are you complaining??”. I guess I am not complaining about the fact that he does dishes so much as his poor timing. I mean, if you know I’m going to be in the kitchen, do the dishes before or after, for the love of PETE!

But recently I drew the line!

I have a weekend morning ritual that is important to me. I wake up and take “my dogs” (AKA Violet the Screaming Dog, and Olive the Renegade) upstairs with me to have coffee and waste a few hours on Pinterest, while CAH gets to have some extra cuddle time with “his” dog, Dexter the Doberman.


This ritual is especially exciting now that I have my big-ass coffee cup that I found at Ikea:

Olive the Renegade terrified that she's going to be taken out by a huge cup of coffee

Olive the Renegade terrified that she’s going to be taken out by a huge cup of coffee

But I was OUT OF COFFEE! There was a tiny little bit left, which I was able to make with a little french press coffee cup that CAH bought me, but it was nowhere near the half-gallon of coffee my Ikea cup could hold.

I managed to talk CAH into running to the store to buy me some more coffee (I didn’t want to put on pants) and I impatiently waited for him to get back. Then when he did, I excitedly ran into the kitchen to make my coffee – at which point CAH decided it was the perfect time to unload the fucking dishwasher.

Dejected, I sighed and returned to the couch and waited for him to finish. He also apparently felt it a good time to wipe down the counters. I swear he does this shit on purpose. Probably to get me back for the pine cone incident.

So he finally leaves the kitchen and I make my coffee and pour it into my big-ass mug and walk back to the couch. Only, in my attempt to find space on the coffee table for the big-ass mug, I knocked over the little french press mug and got coffee grounds all over the rug. CAH immediately let out a grumble and went to go get the rug cleaner. Upon his return to clean the carpet, I decided it was the perfect time to light the new oil that I bought during my Dollar Tree Haul, which put me squarely in the way of CAH cleaning up the spilled coffee grounds.

“I just want you to smell this new oil I bought, it’s so pretty,” I said, flashing my best, “sorry I spilled coffee on the rug” smile.

He just slowly nodded at me, staying quiet, like he was questioning some of his life decisions. I don’t think he even got the irony that I was now the deer in his headlights.