A Mom's Day Out

!!Squeamish Man Alert: Girlie Issues Discussed Below!!

Last night I shaved my legs and armpits, washed and dried my hair, and went to bed anticipating today. I woke up this morning, shoved my novel in my purse, got the older two off to the bus, dressed my three year old (who walked out of this house with a pink shirt, black yoga pants, and a pair of bright yellow bloomers pulled up on the outside of her breeches ) and dropped her off at the neighbors. With giddy anticipation, I pulled out of the neighbor’s driveway and headed to Starbucks, to indulge myself in my favorite mom treat: a venti half-caf two-pump mocha latte. Four dollars worth of mocha chocolately goodness; a treat I don’t indulge in very often any more because my thighs were starting to resemble turkey drumsticks of Renaissance proportions.

Headed down the street towards my morning destinations: Shopping? Lunch with friends? A rendezvous with my husband? Nope, nothing that exciting, just an appointment with my chiropractor and OB/Gyn.

It’s a sad day when going to the doctor’s office is tantamount to mom’s day out. I can justify asking my constantly benevolent neighbors to watch my daughter when I need to work or when I have to go to the doctor, since working helps to pay the bills and the doctor, well, I don’t think age three is the right time to introduce her to the world of stirrups—at least ones that aren’t attached to a saddle and belted to the back of an animal that neighs. I cannot bring myself however, to leave my daughter in the care of someone else in order to go shopping (unless that someone else is my husband which is altogether different). That just feels a little too Housewives of New York City for me. “Here watch my kid for a few hours while I go rummage around the Christmas Tree Shop,” makes me feel a tad shady.

But with a doctor’s office excuse, a day out it was, and I started the morning with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. Obviously the latte was the exciting part (another sad statement) and the thought that I might be able to catch up on my current novel (downright pitiful). The trepidation part was knowing that after my 10 minute neck and hip manipulation, I was going to have to visit the dreaded Ob/Gyn.

I think going to the Gyn-ie doctor doesn’t rank high on most women’s list of Fun Things To Do. In fact it’s utterly unfair that men don’t have to go to a man-specialist to get their urethra swabbed annually, which is the closest thing akin to a pap smear I can think of. My physician is great and a very nice man, but when you are sheathed solely in a tissue-thin, crisp-folded Johnny, heels cupped in metal stirrups, and edged all the way down to the “end of the chair please,” it just feels humiliating. Yeah, yeah, it’s a necessary evil, I get it, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less embarrassing. Unless of course, you have gas.

Because of all the mornings in all the days of all the months of this year, I realize as I’m sitting in the very small exam room that I’m gassy. Maybe this wasn’t the morning to suck down a venti-sized coffee filled with dairy product. The good news is that I experience my first tummy rumblings before I’m undressed. I slip out the room, visit the parlor, and guess what? No gas. None. Not even when I try really hard. My face is red, my abs are tight, and I’m giving my body every fair opportunity to do it’s thing. Not even a blip.

Reassured, I head back to the exam room, change into the Johnny, and resume my seat up on the pleather, paper lined table-chair. The rumblings start again. Damnit. What to do? I can’t really head to the bathroom again with my arse hanging out the back of the stylish garb I’m wearing, and I can’t really relax and let things go (as it were) because the room is so small and there is no fan. No air freshener. Not even a spare pack of matches lying around. Holding it in, I run the risk of something accidentally slipping out unbidden, right while my very nice OB/Gyn is performing his medical due diligence. In fact, the whole exam passed relatively quickly because the only thing running through my brain was, Do not relax. Do not relax. Hold it in. You can do this. You’re almost done. Three more minutes. You will never be able to set foot in this office again if you relax. My doctor could have told me that the reason for my “lower left quadrant discomfort” was a rusted Volvo he found lodged in between my uterus and my ovary, or that the cause for my jumping-jack induced urinary episodes were a result of a runaway circus clown honking my bladder while trying to make my other organs laugh, and I would have just nodded. That’s how hard I was concentrating.

Yes, I know, this doctor delivered my youngest girl and no doubt witnessed all kinds of horrors on the other side of the white sheet that I prefer to not think about. But that was different. Delivering my baby was the point, no matter what else came out with it.
You’ll be glad to know I made it through the appointment with my dignity in tact, although I have to go back next Friday for an ultrasound. The good news is it’ll be another mom’s day out—two in one week!! This time I’ll remember to treat myself with the venti mocha after my appointment. Lesson learned.

Jimmies vs. Johnnys

Those that know me know that my family originally hails from Arizona. We are transplants from the Desert Southwest and if you were to ask me which I prefer, I would respond with a resounding, “EAST COAST, ANY DAY!” I’m not a lover of three-digit days for months on end; not a fan of drought and dead plants; not one who enjoys being surrounded by asphalt and cement, white rock front yards, and stucco track homes. I prefer the four distinct seasons, rain, snow and beaches in the summer. I enjoy planting and gardening, and running barefoot through my green lawn in June. Honestly, I prefer almost everything about living in Massachusetts, with the exception of a few things. Language being one of them.

I remember when my husband and I first came to Massachusetts looking for a house back in 2000. When we checked into the hotel it was all we could do to keep from laughing out loud at the desk clerk who not only omitted all “huh ah’s” (her R’s), but added them back into words that didn’t require them; (sawrs=saw, worsh=wash). We went to our room and laughed hysterically at the accent, wondering how we would ever look people in the eye. Now of course, I don’t even heah the accent anymoah.

One thing I have not gotten used to, however, is the different words people use heah, versus in Arizona. It’s one thing my old home state has over Massachusetts, and that is words that make sense. Picture this:
My husband and I take our son for ice cream (which, we discovered, is only a seasonal favorite around here, and we had better eat up, because come October the ice cream shop owners skip town until April, leaving you stranded and only able to purchase frozen treats through the local frozen food section).
We order a scoop for my son and my husband.
“You want Jimmies?” I was asked.
“No,” I replied. “I want my own. The one I ordered.”
“No, Jimmies…you know rainbow, chocolate…Jimmies.”
“You mean sprinkles?” I asked.
“They’re called Jimmies,” was the retort.
Not where I’m from they’re not. They’re called, Sprinkles, because you SPRINKLE them on top of your ice cream. Where the hell did Jimmy come into this? You don’t “Jimmy” on top of your ice cream, and if Jimmy did something to it then I probably don’t want it.
Whatever. I got my son chocolate Jimmies. Fine.
I then order a shake.
“What do you want?”
“A chocolate shake.”
Blank stare.
“You know, a shake, where you mix ice cream together with milk, and “SHAKE” it up so that it’s blended? A SHAKE?”
“Well, we don’t have shakes, but we have Frappes.”
“What’s a frappe?” I ask, becoming annoyed.
“We blend ice cream with milk and then you suck it through a straw.”
“So it’s a shake, then.” I say.
“No, it’s a frappe.”
Whatever. I order the damn frappe. It’s runnier than the shakes I’m used to, more like really cold chocolate milk, but I drink it.
I make a mental note; jimmies=sprinkles, frappe=crappy shake. I’m one step closer to being a native. Ha. Then I went to the doctor.
“Here’s the Johnny. Put it on with the opening in the back,” the nurse tells me.
“The what?”
“The Johnny.”
“You mean the gown?”
“Yes. They are called Johnnys.”
Not where I’m from they’re not. They are called gowns, “hospital gowns” to be more precise, because it’s an article of clothing that you wear when in a hospital (or a Dr’s office, which is very hospital-like). I’d like to know who Johnny is and if he is related to Jimmy, because apparently they were two very influential people back here on the East Coast. They were probably brothers who sat too long at the Union Oyster House and after having one-too-many Sam Adams (on Patriot’s Day no less), decided to screw with the English language.

Now I’m not a big Arizona flag-waver, but at least our words make sense. I have never accidentally ordered a hospital gown on my hot fudge sundae, nor have I asked where I should place the opening on my sprinkles. They are two very distinct words: hospital gown and sprinkles. Not Johnnys and Jimmies.
In Arizona we have shopping carts or shopping baskets (because you use them to SHOP), not carriages, which are devices you push a baby in, or a vehicle pulled by horses. Women carry purses, not pocketbooks—which by very definition is a book that can fit in your pocket ie: a wallet. In Arizona when we order coffee “regular,” it means NOT decaf; it does not refer to a size and it does not mean, “Please add as much cream and sugar as you think I’d like.”

It has taken some time to get used to these differences and to switch the way I order, ask or refer to things. (Although I cannot bring myself to call my purse, my “pocketbook.”) Would I rather live in Arizona? Heck no. I’ll deal with the differences in word choice and try to fit in, even if I’m not a “Townie.”