Tag Archives: Culture

Do You Leak?

7 Replies

While I was in my doctor’s office this week, getting a physical, he asked the same boring questions he asks every year.  Do you smoke?  Drink?  Any shortness of breath?  Any headaches?   On and on.  Occasionally I paused, pretending to mull over the question.  You know, just to give him a little thrill that I might have some life-threatening disease.

Then he turned the page and asked, “Do you ever leak?”

I paused for real this time.  “Do I leak?”

His eyes remained on the page.  “You know, ummm, leak.”

“Sorry, I don’t know.”  I looked down at my body.  “I mean, where would I be leaking?”

He blushed a bit (did I mention my doctor is my cousin?)  and pointed to my lower half.  “Urine.  Do you leak urine?”

“Well, no.” I exhaled with relief.  “No, I don’t.”

He looked back at page two of the form and continued with the new list.  “Any trouble with arthritis?”

“Uh…no.”

A dozen more questions that he’d never asked me before and yet, they seemed vaguely familiar.  Then he answered one of them himself.  “I can skip this one because you’re not old enough yet to need the pneumonia vaccine.”

Ahhh, there it was.  I realized why the questions sounded familiar.  They’d been asked of my father each time I went with him to visit his doctor.

So, although I’m not thrilled at qualifying for the Page Two Old People Questions, I’m trying to look at the bright side.   At least I don’t leak.

 

Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner

10 Replies

Which is unfortunate, for this Baby at least, because the corner is where I feel most comfortable.

At one point in my Crazie life, I was the personal assistant to a young woman who ran a resort in Newport Beach.  One of the more difficult tasks she assigned was to plan and execute a successful bachelorette party for her.

Concerned that a corner-dweller like me wouldn’t know anything about such things, she wrote notes.  I’d walk in each morning and find one of these lying on my desk:

“Don’t forget that the party bus should be stocked with tequila and rum for the Horny Bull shots.”

“Don’t forget to stop by the sex toy shop and buy a gift for everyone.”

“Don’t forget to order the stripper.”

Like any good assistant, I looked up the proper etiquette for throwing a bachelorette party.  Here’s a bit of what I found:  “If your bride is a classic bachelorette party kind of gal, you’ll have to track down the perfect assortment of penis paraphernalia. May we suggest: penis mints, penis pasta, a penis ice-cube tray, penis cake pan, penis straws, and penis candles.”  Since strippers were involved, I did think it best to avoid the candles, but everything else was in place.

The doorbell rang.  I brought the stripper in, pointed out the bride, and then hurried to an out-0f-the-way corner.  This may come as a surprise to you, but I’m not a big fan of strippers.  Besides the whole “treating a person like an object” thing, they’re usually sweaty and this one danced until he dripped.  Somewhere in the middle of his gyrations his eyes locked mine and like a magnet to metal, he headed straight for me.

I peered around his six-pack hoping for a rescue but the crowd squealed its delight.  And let me tell you, there’s nothing a stripper loves more than a squealing crowd.  He pulled a dollar bill from his G-string and stuffed it down the front of my shirt.  Then, he lifted the bottom of my shirt and removed the dollar bill with his teeth.  (Blech!  Just writing this made me throw-up in my mouth a little.) Finally, when no new dollar bills appeared from me in his G-string he moved on to the delighted mother of the bride.

This is why, as Mayor of Crazie Town, I’ve passed an ordinance that all houses must be built as octagons.  Lot’s more corners to hide in.