It is no secret that Lisa and I are not exactly what you would call “daredevils”. We are pretty happy to stay in our comfort zone, which includes firm ground, yoga pants and yummy snacks. Taking a risk for us is less like skydiving and more like buying the grocery store brand of cheese.
So when we first discovered the blog of McCall Humes, we were hooked immediately! See, she is trying all of these amazing “firsts”, and we get to sit back and live vicariously through her experiences (that is practically like doing them ourselves). And we might also be doing some serious laughing at her description of those experiences. Y’all, she is RIDICULOUSLY funny! Like makes us feel like we might need Depends funny!
We talk all the time about her blog, so we decided that rather than selfishly keep her funny to ourselves we would graciously share it with our Dose Peeps. We are givers, we know.
One of McCall’s firsts was riding a real bobsled at the Olympic Park in Park City, Utah. Oh yes, she did. And the re-telling of her experience was glorious and not to be missed. Here is just a brief snippet of what happened to her that day…
In the museum lobby there is a bobsled anyone can climb in. For a minute there, while trying it out, I wondered if I might just need to tell them to strap this one behind their shuttle and tug me up the mountain, ’cause getting in and out of that bad boy took effort. Seriously. It’s like climbing out of a tube of toothpaste. How do the pros get into those things so fast? Those guys are pretty much the tallest and heaviest athletes in the Winter Olympics. Some of them were football players in their previous careers and yet they are able to mount this sardine can in seconds flat. I, on the other hand, had to try three times before successfully getting out. And no one else was sitting with me. And there was grunting.
Trust us when we say that the above paragraph is really only the beginning of the adventure and what follows will have you crying with laughter!
We are closing comments today so you can go and share all the Dose love directly with McCall herself!
You are laughing already, aren’t you? But with her, not at her, we know! Fine. At her. We totally get it because we were, too! We love you McCall!
If this post looks familiar to you, then you are the proud owner of a copy of “I Just Want To Pee Alone”, which features this essay. We are finally able to share it with
our loyal readersthe whole world today! And now we sit by the phone, because at any moment Oprah is totally calling us, right?
Let it be known right off the bat, we have initials that go with our full names. Lisa’s are M.D. and Ashley’s are R.N. You might think that being married to someone in the medical professional would come with certain benefits. Maybe we’re like Albert Schweitzer and Florence Nightingale all wrapped up in one, diagnosing their aliments and caring for them with compassion during their man-colds. Surely we’re consumed with keeping track of their Motrin dosing schedule and lovingly applying cool compresses to their foreheads.
You might think those things, but you would be wrong.
Because neither of us is involved in patient care on a daily basis anymore, we really enjoy functioning as private WebMDs for our friends. Our fellow moms always come to us with legitimate and normal concerns. We love to help them. But our husbands are another matter. Something about taking our marriage vows eliminated our tolerance for their whining, sniffling, and dramatic overreactions to their every ache and pain. In fact, we endlessly complain about their latest hypochondriacal maladies to each other. Daily.
Hence our conversation from last Tuesday:
Ashley: Seriously, get ready for the latest complaint from my damn husband. Keep in mind that every.single.word I am about to share with you came directly from his lips.
Lisa: Oh God, I can tell this is going to be good.
Ashley: That man looked at me last night and said, “I am really worried about my knee. It feels really spongy–YES HE SAID THAT VERY WORD– and loose around my kneecap.” I let him know that he is over 40 now and that’s going to happen. I told him to get a knee brace from Walgreens, and he’d be good to go.
Lisa: Yep. Total weekend warrior syndrome. That was good advice. Did it reassure him?
Ashley: Ha! No, not even close. He wondered if he should make an appointment with an orthopedist for a custom brace or maybe an MRI.
Lisa: Wow. Just wow.
Ashley: The best part is yet to come. The *next* thing he said to me was (and I quote), “I am really nervous it will just buckle, and I will need emergency knee surgery.”
Lisa: Bwahahaha! Oh, Lawd! What is he, a linebacker for the NFL all of the sudden? Which orthopedist do you have on retainer? I wonder if knee buckle surgery is arthroscopic or invasive?
Ashley: I wonder if it’s covered under our insurance! I assured him that I was pretty confident he was safe from a dreaded case of “the knee buckle”.
Lisa: This must be the week for joint complaints in the over 40 male population.
Ashley: Oh, do tell!
Lisa: My brave little soldier of a husband has decided that he has a raging case of tennis elbow. Except, instead of taking an ibuprofen and going on with his life like a normal person, he thinks it’s best to go around the house wincing and moaning every time he tries to pick something up. He has even taken to freezing in mid-motion and crying out in agony.
Ashley: Did you tell him to get a brace? Maybe our husbands can go together. Perhaps they can find a buy-one-get-one-free special or something.
Lisa: Oh, I wish it were that simple. Unfortunately, the over-exaggeration of his “pain” led our sweet, somewhat anxious son to decide that his father was gravely ill. Bobby was so concerned that he took me aside because he was worried his father had somehow contracted elbow cancer.
Ashley: Poor kid! Hey, wait a minute! Don’t *you* have tennis elbow from time to time?
Lisa: Why, yes…yes I do. In fact, when I tried to commiserate with my dear husband at dinner and offer tips for dealing with it, do you know what he actually said to me?
Ashley: No, but I can’t wait to find out.
Lisa: He said, “Oh, that’s right. I forgot you had tennis elbow.” Um, OF COURSE HE DID because I don’t go around complaining about it all of the time.
Ashley: I bet he felt bad then, right?
Lisa: Oh, no! In fact, he had the nerve to say, “My case must be worse than yours. You would not be able to function with pain like this.” You will be proud to know I suppressed the urge to stab him with my fork.
Ashley: Bravo, sister. You deserve a medal for that.
Don’t judge us. We are caring people.
If you had to put up with the litany of complaints we do on a daily basis, you’d become hardened to their whimpers, too. After years of cases of “malaria” that turn out to be nothing more than a zit, we feel totally justified in our penchant for dismissing their illnesses outright. We have no problem assuring our husbands they won’t catch rickets just because they spend all day in an office environment.
As a rule, we are always correct.
But…let’s just say that *hypothetically* there may have been a time when each of our husbands complained of a severe cough. We might have suggested they suck on a Ricola and relax. Let’s just say that they both continued to insist they were getting worse by the second and begged us to listen to their wheezy chests. Maybe we assured them they didn’t have the bubonic plague and that, while colds are indeed unpleasant, they are harmless. Let’s just say that after they each spent days lounging in bed, we sent them to the doctor so he would tell them to man up. It’s *possible* that they both *hypothetically* came home with the official diagnosis of pneumonia.
Boy, did we learn a lesson.
No, that lesson isn’t that husband coughs should be taken seriously. Have you even read a single word we’ve written?
The takeaway is that husbands who cry wolf-itis, only have themselves to blame when we tell them to take two aspirin and call us in the morning. Obviously.
You were all so incredibly kind to us last week when we came clean about the mess that is
our lives this blog and from the bottom of our hearts we thank you. Your comments totally lifted our spirits, reminded us that the world is good and pretty much sent us into the Oprah ugly cry for hours!
We decided that the best way to show our appreciation would be an attempt to make you laugh.
Let’s just say that I might have showed the video below to Lisa after her surgery, and it is possible she ruptured a suture or two from the hysterics that ensued. Needless to say, her surgeon loves me. What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t test the strength of her stitches?
So do you want to laugh today? Of course you do!
This post is the very first post we ever wrote together. We sat at Lisa’s kitchen table (otherwise referred to as The Dose of Reality headquarters) and re-capped a conversation we had in carpool line the day before. Absolutely nothing about the photos in this post was staged and absolutely nothing about our houses has changed in the last 2 years. You want the name of our decorator, don’t you?
Nothing gives us greater joy than when we read something that we can both relate to on every single level! After reading the latest post from Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms, we found ourselves not only doubled over in laughter but having the following conversation while on the phone in the EXACT.SAME.CARPOOL.LINE. Don’t judge us because we often sit two cars apart talking to each other. We always hang up before the line starts moving because we are nothing if not strict rule followers!
Ashley: Oh my Gosh, that article was so funny. Did I tell you that I almost killed myself in MY shower today because the kids always want to use my bathroom? First, I first impaled my foot on a naked Barbie leg and then practically slipped on a sampling of foam alphabet letters that were greased with Abby’s shampoo. It is hard to shower when you are trying to side step buckets and the entire collection of The Little Mermaid figurines. I know you can relate to that!
Lisa: Ummm, no. You know good and well I cannot relate to that. I know it must be really hard with your pool like jacuzzi bathtub and separate multi-head shower experience because everyone wants to be in your bathroom. NOBODY wants to be in my bathroom, including me. Our “master suite” bathroom is the size and shape of a refrigerator box complete with the ever popular 1970′s shower/tub combo! Thanks 2008 economy for delaying the bathroom remodel of my dreams until….never.
Ashley: Okay, okay, I get it. My bathroom is one of the only decent places in my house, or at least it used to be when my decorative baskets held scented bath gel and candles, NOT Disney Princess bubbles and Little People toys.
Lisa: I dream of having the space for something called decorative baskets. I don’t care what they are filled with. I am lucky to fit a small trash can next to the toilet. But it is a space to call my own, even if it is because it holds only one person at a time.
Ashley: Well, maybe you can cry about it in your giant kitchen with your 27 foot long island with the restaurant grade lighting and double refrigerators. Don’t you even have multiple sinks, too! Oh, and I forgot your built-in desk, too!
Lisa: The little sink is just a prep sink, so that hardly counts! And I would love my island more if it served any other purpose than a backpack receptacle and free form file cabinet for all school forms, papers, and art projects. And you know I can’t actually work at my desk because it looks like the before picture on an episode of Hoarders!
Ashley: Oh yeah, I have all that clutter, too, without all your extra annoying counter space. But I know you secretly covet my 2001 blueberry wallpaper. Honestly, what was I thinking? I don’t even like to eat blueberries much less look at them covering my entire kitchen wall surface. Like with your bathroom, my kitchen upgrade has been pushed back to the year…20never.
Lisa: Mmmmm, blueberries, your kitchen always makes me hungry. Do you have any snacks in your car?
Ashley: I have some day old Goldfish and a petrified french fry or two.
Lisa: I’ll take the Goldfish, but you’ll have to walk them over here, because I am not wearing shoes, and my shirt has a hole in it.
Ashley: Sorry, no can do. I’m not wearing actual street clothes, and I haven’t had a shower today.
Lisa: Oh well, I’ll just wait until I get home. By the way, did you ever find the dance video form I left at your house last week?
Ashley: Of course not, because it is buried under a pile of bills and school papers on my dining room table. And by dining room table, I mean my desk.
Lisa: I hear you. My dining room table still has the dregs of our school supplies, and I think maybe a leftover box from the car raffle. This is why neither one of us ever host dinner parties, isn’t it? Well, that and the fact that every other piece of furniture in both of our houses has been chewed, peed on, or otherwise “improved” by our kids.
Ashley: Dinner parties?! We can’t even let people come in our front doors! Both of our dining rooms are the first places you see in our actual entry halls. Everyone thinks we are being nice and casual by having them come in the back door, but really we are just attempting to hide the dining room. Okay, now I am just depressed. Is there hope for us at all? Do you think we will ever have nice things or uncluttered houses again?
Lisa: Well…no. But that’s okay because if we had nice things that were always neat and organized we would have to spend all of our free time making sure they didn’t get ruined. This would really take a chunk out of our time browsing on Facebook finding funny somecards.
Ashley: Good point. We don’t need the pressure of nice things anyway!
Point proven! We couldn’t deny you this, could we?