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.
Incontinence? Yes.
Beer? No.
Spillage? Yes.
Husband who lacks the capability of helping because he stalls out? Yep.
Crazy nasty smelly waitress with no fucking sense, being all sniffy of the drinks? OH YES.
I am so glad to see you back!
YAY! Roxane is back!
YAY!
Was Maj at school during this lunch? From your stories beer up someones nose would cause her to panic.
Maj was there! But she was busy obsessing about how the waitress had forgotten to bring her vinegar for her french fries.
Here’s Maj . . .
Hmmmm . . . There she is. Is she coming to our table? No, she is not. Does she have my vinegar? No, she does not. WHAT’S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE, LADY?
Maj was busy.
I guess the beer wasn’t for her so why should she care if you all get germs. Does all germ passing bother her or just if the germs are coming her way?
I hope she eventually got her vinegar.
She hates all germs, but she is most concerned about the ones that might leap at her.
Maj is willing for the rest of us to be germ-slayed if it means she is saved.
At least she didn’t taste the beers to identify them!
But wow! sniffing the beers in front of the customers. Thats a class act.
It was awesome in its classiness.
Just awesome.
It’s not the baby thing…it’s the age thing. I haven’t had babies and I have a leakage problem. The true feat is to stand in a public place, like Target, and sneeze, squeezing your legs together really, really tight….but not looking like you are squeezing really, really tight. I am sure my face has an excruciating look on it because I really, really don’t want to puddle myself…or the floor.
I really, really hate changing panties during the middle of the day. Excuse me now…I have to go change my panties now because I puddled myself while reading your post.
I am going with the motherhood thing, because I am far far too young to be pissing myself due to old age.
As are you . . . motherhood wears a body out, even if you didn’t pass the babies through your body.
It is so totally your children’s fault.
So is.
Lanita? You are in better shape than I am. I have had a baby and I do not pee my pants… unless I reading this blog and comments!
Off to buy a beer I like, buy bumper sticker for front and back of car.
Kris,
As a man of the male gender, let me ‘splain Mark’s totally loving and caring husbandly sneeze/beer related behavior.
As you were sneezing and ‘holding’ and seeking help, Mark saw the woman he loves strapped to a ticking time bomb. The red LED lights flicked. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1.
Her maybe even made a noise like on 24. And Jack growling “There’s no TIME!”.
Mark knows a boom is coming. He instantly knows he cannot leap onto the bomb or hurl the bomb (you) out the window. (He was trained to think like that, instantly, in the military. Or by watching TV).
All he can do is BACK AWAY FROM THE BOMB and prepare to deal with the carnage. Beer and urine triage coming right up.
This would be by handing you a roll of paper towels. Lovingly. With an expression of total caring. In a manly way.
No need to thank him. Men are just naturally like that.
Bill
OH MY GOD . . . you are so right!
But do you want to know what Mark’s version of beer triage was?
(I had the urine thing contained, so I needed no help there)
Mark took one look at the spilled beer and . . . called the dogs. And they lapped it all up. And then as far as Mark was concerned? Good as new. No paper towels required.
And yes, I cleaned the floor.
I have headaches. Headaches? Make me cranky. Cranky makes me want to run down helpful husband who suddenly gets all “What can I do to help? Can I get you anything?…” What I want to say? “Yes… you can quit cooking hot dogs in the microwave; you KNOW they make me sick (as if I’m not throwing up enough already) …. OR?? Get the hell out and leave me be, please. And thank you.”
Yes, exactly.
Although, who the fuck cooks hot-dogs in a microwave? That’s retarded.
I’ve managed to get over the cooking the hot dogs in the microwave thing, but seriously? Use a fruthermucking plate. AND AND AND!!! Don’t make it a cheese dog, with no plate, and explode the damn thing, and then look at me like I’m crazy when I tell you to clean up your own freaking mess. Because I don’t want cheesey hotdog flavored coffee.
He doesn’t use a plate????
That is fucked up.
I assume he has other redeeming qualities?
Aleese; you are far stronger than I am. Because even if you use a plate and cover it: everything reeks of hot dogs for days. I don’t like hotdogs; and especially don’t like my food or whatever to reek of hot dogs. GAG!!!
People? Listen to Kris!! Cooking hot dogs in the microwave? Is retarded. (No offense intended to the mentally challenged.)
THEY are not retards… PEOPLE WHO COOK HOT DOGS IN MICROWAVES ARE!!)
I may be heart centered and all? But this?? IS INSANITY! GRILL YOUR HOTDOGS, PREFERABLY OUTDOORS, PLEASE? THANK YOU! :)
YES!!! Exactly! Obviously? I shall be lying in wait with huge freaking migraine to run him down with car. Hope he can read the bumper sticker.
And that he has time to read it before being squished.
How’s his eyesight?
I shall wait until dark; then drive very, very fast. He will never know. hehe!
My stomach hurts from laughing so hard! Between your posts and the comments, you’ve found a sure-fire cure for a bad mood. Thanks, I needed that today!
I am so glad to have made you giggle!
Even if it is my commenters who are making you laugh?
Totally taking the credit.
As you should! Yay, you!
Snorts!
Giggle? Not exactly. Braying donkey laughter complete with snorts and tearing eyes? Oh yeah.
Reading your posts = awesome
Reading comments = super awesome
Reading your posts, plus comments, plus your reply to comments = damn near perfection.
Awwww . . . on behalf of all of us?
Thank you!
That would have totally grossed me out and I wouldn’t have been able to drink it. A couple weeks ago we went to this restaurant and the bus boys were nasty, touching their face, nose,and hair and no hand washing. I had set my fork on a little plate that hadn’t been used, after appetizers and while waiting for main food. he came up and grabbed it was like “Can I take this?” I was like of course, you touched I dont want it now. And the man grabbed the forks, which touched his hand while being pulled off. Nope not using that.
Because my older daughter is a little germ-phobic? We travel with a bottle of hand sanitizer.
She would have been all over that silverware. And the plate.
I’m behind, reading backwards, OK? I just have to say that there’s no way I could drink that sniffed beer. And also that when calamity or injury strikes me, my husband seriously cannot deal at all on any level. Like, he can’t even figure out to say “are you OK?” or “what can I do to help?” or ANYTHING. No matter what, even if I am sobbing or screaming in pain. I have always found this quite infuriating, but you, with your “I am NOT OK, I am DEAD” are making me think this through again. Maybe I should be counting my blessings.
Yes, count your blessings.
Useless and meaningless offers of help? Are way more annoying than no help at all.
Grrr, I’m growling around today a bit on the relationship front. Marriage is hard.
Sometimes.
Mostly, I find marriage to be hilariously great fun.
But Mark can be a pain sometimes.