I have a headache this morning. I tell Mark, and he says, “Is there anything I can do?”
And I say, “No, but thanks.”
I have learned over the years that this is the proper response.
Here is how the conversation used to go . . .
“Geez, my head hurts.”
And then Mark says, “Is there anything I can do?”
And then I say, “If it were to be the case that there is something that you can do? Something that would fix this headache in an instant? Do you know how incredibly fucking pissed I would be to learn this? Why the hell have you waited until this moment to mention your genius?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I am just saying that if you have some magic that you have not shared with me in these last 24 years? I am going to fucking kill you.”
And then Mark gets all annoyed.
He is a baby sometimes.
He is only trying to be helpful, apparently.
Although sometimes, when there is something to be done, and I am super-specific about my needs?
He just stares at me blankly.
Last night? Mark hands me a glass of beer.
That’s not the annoying part . . . being handed a beer is lovely.
So Mark hands me a beer and I take a sip. And then? I have this crazy sneeze fit! I sneeze like 12 times in a row. I am standing in the middle of the kitchen and I am sneezing like a loon.
OK, so it is important to realize here that a regular person would have been able to take a few steps with her beer and set it down on the counter. I, however, am not able to take these few steps because of the tiny incontinence problem I have had since the girls were born. I am able to live my normal life just fine as long as there is no jumping required.
Jumping is trouble-causing.
Also trouble-causing? A fit of sneezing.
So taking a few steps to put my beer on the counter is impossible because my legs are all tightly crossed to prevent spillage of another kind. Because even in the midst of this sneezing emergency, I am quite clear in my mind that spilled beer is the preferable spill.
So I try to balance the beer and keep my legs crossed as I sneeze. Seriously, like 12 times.
And then the storm passes. The beer is unspilled! The urine is unspilled!
I am triumphant!
Mark is looking at me as though I have suddenly grown another head, “What the fuck?”
I smile and take another sip of my beer, “Weird, right?”
And then I sneeze again.
And again. And so in between the sneezes I hold my beer out to Mark and say, “Please, take this for me.” I say this quite clearly in between sneezes. And he is like 3 feet away from me.
But he just stands there.
And so I sneeze perhaps 7 more times. Legs still crossed and beer still in hand.
And when I am done sneezing?
There is a bit of leakage, and beer? Beer is all over the fucking place.
And Mark is still just standing there, “Seems like maybe you are allergic to the beer, babe,” and he reaches and takes what remains of my beer from my hand.
Sigh.
“Didn’t you hear me ask you to take the beer?”
“Yeah, but you were all sneezing. Anyway, I did take it.”
“Too late, babe. Too late.”
He surveys the mess, “Is there anything I can do?”
“Nope, I’ve got it.”
But in my head? In my head I am thinking, “Nope, apparently there is fucking nothing that you can do.”
Sigh.
Cleaned up. Refilled and drank the beer . . . no way am I allowing beer to be one of the things to which I am allergic. There was no more sneezing. Maybe the bubbles went up my nose or something.
Speaking of beer and noses . . . We were out the other day and ordered a beer with lunch. Our waitress? She was way stupid.
My father-in-law asked her how big the hamburger was.
If you were the waitress, wouldn’t you understand that to be a request for information about how much meat is used to make the patty? Yeah, me too.
But this waitress? She holds up her hands and makes a circle in the air so that my father-in-law can appreciate that the hamburger? Is round and about the size of a hamburger.
And then she disappears and returns with our beers. There are four of us, and we have four different beers. All in pint glasses. She has no fucking clue which beer is which.
So she smells them all, one by one, to identify our drinks.
And when I say she smells them? I mean she sniffs them. Sticks her nose past the lip of the glass and takes a big old sniff. Like she is one of those wine-tasting freaks trying to get a sense of the beer’s bouquet.
Which would be awesome if these beers were her beers. She can snort them right up her nose if she likes.
But these beers? They were ours.
So we watch in horror and hilarity as she snorts at the drinks and then passes them around the table. She correctly places two of the four drinks.
We make the necessary adjustments.
After she leaves, we all stare at one another. We discuss and determine that her nose never actually broke the foam. That’s our rule, apparently . . . Do not break the foam.
She returns with our food, and asks, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
I’m thinking, “No, I think you’ve done all you can.”
At least she didn’t sneeze.
I used to be a food server and often had to stick my finger in the food to tell if it was a red or cream sauce. Strange.
Ummmm . . . you are totally color-blind?
How can you confuse red and white?
Pretty sure the above was a joke.
NO way! She was joking?
But guess what? I also worked in food service, and I have seen worse things than fingers stuck in the food.
And that? Is no joke.
OMG. I’M BACK!!!
Have you ever seen the movie “Waiting”? Sheesh. Lotsa laughing.
Never saw that movie . . . too many bad memories from my own food service jobs I have no desire to relive.
It’s good?
Good Gravy! You haven’t seen it?!?! Ryan Reynolds stars. Linking you again. I know you hate me for it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HJEsNjH3JT8
OK, so thanks for that!
Mark just walked by as I was playing the clip, and now the movie is on our Netflix list.
That’s just swell. Thank you.
If you’re one of the waitresses I used to work with, ew. Otherwise, I don’t care as long as your hands are clean.
Waitresses’ hands? All food servers’ hands?
Spotless.
It’s a rule.
Snort.
Having been a cook, it’s not the servers you really need to worry about….
I know. I know.
Mental note to self – do Not order the sauces with thenextmartha around…lol!!
The white sauce? It is especially lovely when poured over the Swedish meatballs.
Yes, but only at Ikea!
EXACTLY!
The crazy sneezy-fit thing happened to me one time while I was holding a bowl of scrambled eggs. I held the bowl out as best I could towards my fiance hoping he would get the hint and take it. He did not. And then something strange happened and I lost the bowl of eggs. I didn’t simply drop it or spill some over the edges, I managed to catapult the entire bowl into the air. It did a few spins and then the bowl landed on the living room floor. Eggs were everywhere. Sigh.
The man, just stared at me and finally said, “Wow.”
Men. Pbbt.
Glad to hear you are not allergic to beer-skees!!!
Mark claims this morning that he tried to take the beer from my hand but that it was all crazily moving in the air as I sneezed.
Mark’s memory is not quite what it used to be.
We are both getting older.
I love it if I have a coughing or sneezing spell, the husband will always wait til the end to ask if I’m ok. If I wasn’t ok, then the end is when I would probably be dead, so that’s probably not the opportune time to ask if I’m ok.
You know what else pisses Mark off?
I will hurt myself in some minor way, and after the emergency has died down, Mark will ask, “Are you OK?”
And then I say, “No. I am dead.”
He gets all annoyed, but the girls? They laugh hysterically.
Or when you spill your drink on the counter with the babe in one arm and you are scrambling for a dish towel before the said drink runs off onto the floor only to have the husband come in right when you get done to ask, “Do you need help?”
But we could go back and forth on this all day.
All day long.
Men have this timing thing DOWN.
Or the dog is whining and doing zoomies around the house because he has to go potty. Said boyfriend/husband is chilling on the couch and waits for you to stop doing the things you are doing on the other end of the house, get the dog, and make it half way out the door before saying “I could’ve gotten the dog.”
Yes, I bet we have lots of these!!! Hehe.
Yes, Mark is always full of the things he could have done in the moments after such action would have been useful.
So annoying.
You know, it’s weird, but ever since Sophie was born, whenever I have a sneezing fit, I crap myself just a tiny, little bit. And by “tiny” I mean a lot. And by “a lot” I mean like an aged and decrepit donkey with explosive diarrhea.
And by “diarrhea,” I mean of course diarrhea. The explosive kind.
How’s the head feeling now?
You’re welcome.
Yes, I have heard that childbirth is difficult . . . on the sphincter muscles . . . of the father.
What the fuck?
I’m pretty sure it’s related to the fact that she’s always trying to climb up my butt.
The little anal monkey.
OK, I had to look up the quote, which is . . .
Hey there, little anal-dwelling butt monkey! Time for you to go home, little buddy.
From Bruce Almighty, a surprisingly good film!
Remind me sometime when you want to know lots of intimate details about my not-for-internet-stalkers personal life that I have an awesome Bruce Almighty story I can tell you.
I’m even more interesting in real life than I am on the internet.
I know! It’s hard to believe!
I have seen the stuff you share on your blog, so what would you consider forbidden?
And if this involves you acting as “fluffer” for any of the actors (human or animal) in that movie? Email me immediately.
Short of that? What would you not be willing to share? I am all piqued in my interest.
Because for me? I think I am way more interesting here than I am in my real life. Mothering is not filled with opportunities for quippy genius.
Never doubt the power of my fluffing skills. I studied well and graduated at the head of my class in fluffing.
Get it? Head?
*snicker*
I’ll pop you off a nice little email in the morning revealing my dark, deep Bruce Almighty secret, because it’s a fun one. Of course now everyone will want to know what it is, but you’ll all just have to bear the weight of not knowing… and no, I’m not secretly Jim Carrey writing under an assumed name.
I’m really Jennifer Aniston.
Hee!
Did you just ask me if I “got” a head reference?
What the fuck?
I look forward to hearing from you, Jennifer.
I always found waitressing difficult…so it constantly surprised me when stupid, stupid people would continuously get jobs doing it.
I have never been a waitress . . just food service and catering.
I just knew I would not be good at the false pleasantness required to be a waitress.
I get headaches a lot. So I will whine, “My head hurts.” I don’t know why I do this. Because the answer is always the same, “You should take something for it then.”
To which I reply, “Nooooo, I don’t want to taaaaaake something for it. I just want piiiiiiity.”
Are they crazy? Take an Advil? What is the point of suffering unless you’re going to get sympathy? Instead I get this attitude of, “If you’re not willing to do what I would do to fix the problem, you have no right to complain.”
Warning: I ALWAYS have the right to complain.
I complain, but my headaches? Especially my migraines? They fucking KILL sometimes.
I am so taking medicine. And then I might also take a nap.
I do not want sympathy. Leave me the fuck alone or be prepared to pay the price.
Normally I am SUPER nice to food people. I know they work hard and most have an undeserved bad rap. However there was one time with my husband that the waitress was very rude to use and when she brought my salad? It was brown and limp and rotted. Thrown in with some fresh pieces. Yum. Not. So I pulled out all the nasty lettuce and set it on the table on my napkin. She came back, eyed the salad on the table, asked how everything was. Are you serious? Do you not see this table salad of rotting lettuce? So I smiled and said just great. And she said “OK!” AND WALKED AWAY. Did we tip? I think not. However the next time we went there (yes we went back, Rob loves it) we overheard our waiter talking about how instead of a tip his previous customers had given him a religious angel pin. So on a $20 tab? We gave him a $10 tip. And we did it in a way where we left the money on the table and walked out, so I don’t even now how he reacted. But I hope it helped anyway.
Anyway… nose beer is totally the worst.
OK, in that situation? I so would have told her why she wasn’t getting a tip.
Because honestly? I don’t want anyone to think that I am just randomly stingy or forgetful.
I want them to know that I am not tipping because they have fucked up.
That said? You have to fuck up pretty bad for me to keep the tip . . . waiting tables is hard hard work.
And we tipped nose-beer woman, by the way.
She wasn’t mean. Just stupid.
All I can think about right now, and this is totally weird, is how if you wipe your finger on the side of your nose and then stick it in your beer, it will cut the foam. I know, I know. I’m bizarre. Why that is the only comment I have on this, one will never know.
I have heard about putting your finger in the beer to stop the foam, but why is your nose involved?
That makes no sense at all!
And it sounds all boogery.
And booger-beer? I am drawing the line there.
LMAO at booger-beer. It’s the *side* of your noise. Apparently the oil from your face (could be your chin or forehead too) cuts the foam. But if you have a boogery nose, you would want to stay away from that area. LOL
Ummmm . . . nose oil?
That is way icky. I would prefer to have the foam problem, personally.
Oh no! Your beer is going to overflow! Here, let me apply a bit of nose oil! Problem solved.
Not even.
the whole incontinence thing? um yeah – i have the same problem too after three babies, the last of whom weighed in at a glorious 11# 1 oz! for reals! and i’m telling you this because? i have been noticin’ some leakage when i’m readin’ your shit and laughin’ so freakin’ hard that i HAVE to cross my legs and hobble to the john just to finish readin without a puddle on the floor!
Others have suggested sitting on a shower curtain while reading Pretty All True. I personally find a waterproof seat to be useful when reading the comment section. You guys always make me laugh!
Always.
the whole incontinence thing? um yeah – i have the same problem too after three babies, the last of whom weighed in at a glorious 11# 1 oz! for reals! and i’m telling you this because? i have been noticin’ some leakage when i’m readin’ your shit and laughin’ so freakin’ hard that i HAVE to cross my legs and hobble to the john just to finish readin without a puddle on the floor!
sorry – don’t know why it posted twice – asshat internet
I’m sure it was the internet and not someone’s post-happy fingers.
I apologize on behalf of the inter-world.
Hee hee!
As usual…thanks for the laugh. Pretty impressive that the waitress could actually identify 2 out of the 4 beers by the smell, but then again, maybe it was just luck. Lucky you she didn’t sneeze and wet herself.
OK, but guess what?
My MIL ordered the Porter, which is pitch black and can in no way be confused with any other beer.
And I ordered a cask-conditioned IPA, which comes with a completely different style of head.
So there were really only two beers in question, and she got them wrong.
And why did she sniff all four? She was a loon.
i learned when i used to work in a bar about smelling the beers, but not in front of the customers. unless they were a bunch of drunk guys that enjoyed watching their waitress sniff their beers and then left huge tips. Yes, then I would sniff beer all night long.
Cheers to the beer-sniffing fetishists of the world!
That is way weird.
I do not mind my beer being sniffed, as long as I don’t have to see the sniffing.
Because for me? Not such a turn-on.
But not such a turn-off that I refused to drink the beer.
Snort.
I totally love that you will not allow yourself to be allergic to beer! I wouldn’t either.
Your waitress sounds like she was a real smart one.
I apparently am a little incontinent too because I just peed a little reading this post – this is a great post to come back from vacation to!
Welcome back from vacation!
I am already allergic to outside and cold.
Without beer? I would have to take up harder drugs. That would be a genius plan!
Nobody’s allergic to heroin, right?
I just found your blog and I love it. I do have a 17 year old daughter that could be Maj’s twin though – OMG – everything that I have read so far as been spot on as to how my daughter is :)
So you are saying this is not just a stage?
Just kidding . . . Maj is who she has always been.
And I’m sure your daughter is just lovely.
Right?