On Worry

by Marinka on May 15, 2015

You know how I don’t like to worry you unnecessarily, what with this being a humor blog and all, but I lately I have been suffering terribly.

Terribly, I say.

It all started a few weeks ago, when the Guy I Went to Ireland With sneezed and then also coughed.

“You have a disease,” I told him. And then made some helpful comments about the benefits of quarantines, which, in my opinion, the mainstream media refuses to cover because of the anti-quarantine special interests lobby. Don’t believe me? Try to think of the last time you’ve been quarantined. I rest my open and shut case.

But he claimed that he didn’t have a disease, but rather “allergies”. Then he said that he gets these “allergies” every season and that they go away after a while. Then he said some other things that may have involved “your hypochondria” but I was too busy buying life insurance online to really pay attention. Besides, he still has that accent, so I’m not really sure what the hell he was talking about it.

So to recap: I accused the Guy I Went to Ireland With of having a disease, he denied it and we went on with our lives, like any two normal people one of whom is in deep denial about health issues and the danger he poses to his beloved victim.

And then the unthinkable happened..
First, my throat felt itchy.
Then my throat felt scratchy.
Finally, my throat felt Itchy & Scratchy and got a guest appearance on The Simpsons.
Then I sneezed.
No, first I coughed, and then I sneezed.
Then I blew my nose. A lot.
Then I got a headache and then I retired to my bed and Woe is Me’d.
Meanwhile The Guy I Went to Ireland With went on with his life, unfazed by what he had done.

“You infected me!” I English Patiented at him from my deathbed.
“I didn’t know allergies were contagious,” he said.
“You don’t have allergies, you have a damn cold!” I could no longer contain my rage.
“And where did you get your medical degree?” he wanted to know.

If there’s one thing I hate, other than being infected, it’s when people change the subject. Like we’re talking about him having a cold and suddenly he wants to see my curriculum vitae. Very transparent distraction move.

I’m not really sure how to end this post, so this is a little awkward. But to recap: He gave me his cold. His ManCold. For which, if i may remind you, there is no cure. And there is so much no cure for it, they’re not even trying. There are no telethons, no walk-a-thons, or any kind of thon. (Also, try typing “thon” and see how quickly autocorrect changes it to “thin”). When you have a cold, people say “it’s just a cold” which is offensive to cold victims and diminishes our plight.

So that’s what’s been going on with me.

But speaking of worrying, I was thinking how one of the things I worry about is spelling. I’m an ok spellar (I know that was beneath me, but I can’t halp it) but I don’t like it when I’m speaking to someone and they decide that we’re having an impromptu spelling bee and ask me to spell a word that they don’t understand. Ok, so it most often happens with names, and people I don’t know, but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable for me. And I think there must be some kind of little known Constitutional Amendment that requires people spelling out a name to say what each letter stands for. My favorite example of this, of course, was when Phoebe on Friends did it– “P as in Phoebe, H as in Hoebe, O as in Oebe–” but we can’t all do that. Whenever someone asks me to spell something, like my name, I have a mini-stroke and immediately forget normal words. So when I’m spelling my name, it sounds something like this:
“M as in mandible, A as in anal cavity, R as in raison d’etre, I as in imbecile, no idol, no IDLE, N as in nevermore, K as in Klondike bar, A as in aural.”

It’s exhausting.
I really hope that Constitutional Amendment gets repealed soon.

{ 2 comments }

Sleigh Me

by Marinka on April 19, 2015

You know what? I love my bed. I’ve had it for years. It’s a sleigh bed, which is admittedly an odd concept. Why do we want to pretend that we are on a sleigh when resting? And why don’t we call it a sled bed, which is a lot catchier and would also appeal to children more. Not that we want them anywhere near our bed, of course. This isn’t that kind of post. But still, sleigh or sled—why are racing down a hill in a slumber? I don’t know how anyone can keep their eyes closed with all those trees looming in the vista.

And yet, I love my bed. Probably because I don’t focus on its sleighness. So the other day, I came home and wanted to crawl straight into bed. Now, the world is divided into two types of people—those who have to take off their clothes before climbing/crawling into bed and those who can do it in their street clothes. The latter group, the street clothers, are the ones that Mama hasn’t gotten to yet.

“If you lay down in bed in street clothes,” she has explained to me patiently, “it is as though everyone you see on the subway is in bed with you too.”
In case you think that mama was describing a festive scene of free love, let me reassure you: No. Mama was describing a scene of Dickensonian filth and despair, transported to the NYC subway and, by extension, my bed.

So on one hand, I had Mama and her admonition. On the other, I had my natural born laziness. It was anyone’s game.

I got into bed fully clothed and gasped.
But not because my bed was racing down a snowy hill. And not because my fellow commuters were snuggled up beside me.
I gasped because there was something unexpected in bed with me. Something hot and metal and hard and crumply.

“What the fuck is this?” I thought, and then I knew.

Untitled 2 225x300 Sleigh Me

I raised myself from the bed and walked into the kitchen where Mama was whistling a happy tune and cooking, except with no whistling.

“There was something in my bed, and it’s still there” I BabyBeared.

“Yes,” Mama said and although it was good to have confirmation that I wasn’t having a visual and sensory hallucinating episode, it raised some other questions.

“Is it what I think it is?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. I noticed, by the way, that whenever anyone asks if something is what they think it is, it always is. So really, I don’t know why people are so coy and even bother asking instead of just making a declaration. I guess it’s one of those things that passes as a “social nicety” like greeting people and not stabbing someone.

“Yes, mashed potatoes,” Mama confirmed.

If you are not from the former Soviet Union, this will sound insane to you. And if you are from the former Soviet Union, this will sound insane to you (Exhibit A: me.)

When Russians make mashed potatoes, they are terrified that they will get cold. (The mashed potatoes will get cold, not the Russians. The Russians are the ones who are terrified. Jesus. I’m reading Between You and Me: Confessions of a Comma Queen” and it’s making me absolutely insane about grammar. It’s a miracle that I’m still able to speak. A miracle that no one has been praying for, by the way, but still.)

Anyway, I have no idea why of all things the Russians have to worry about they are fixated on the temperature of the mashed potatoes, but the Superpower with intergalactic bragging rights came up with a solution to this national crisis by wrapping the pot of mashed potatoes in newspapers and putting it under a pillow in the bed and covering the whole damn thing with a blanket.

Now I know what you’re thinking—“what a grand idea! Why didn’t I think of that? A few mashed potato warming sessions and my insanity defense will be all set for that murderous rampage I’ve been planning!”

But what I was thinking was eerily similar to what I’d been thinking for the past four decades whenever I found a newspapered pot of mashed potatoes under my bedding: WHAT THE FUCK?!

Followed closely by: why are mashed potatoes the only dish treated this way? What about soup? (Soup can be reheated; mashed potatoes not so much.) Why newspaper? (What else are you going to do with the newspaper that you already read and/or the Business Section?) Why under the blanket? (To keep It warm) Why under the pillow? (To keep it comfortable) Why don’t Americans do this? (Who knows why Americans do anything.)

So here you go.

With this quick and easy fix, you no longer have to live in fear of cold mashed potatoes.

And it has the extra benefit of keeping fellow commuters out of your bed.

Really, for what more could you ask?

{ 19 comments }

8

February 9, 2015

I saw a friend the other afternoon for coffee and he told me that I looked happy. “Are you happy?” he asked and I waffled because I suspect that if I admit to being happy, the happiness gods will smite me. I’m not sure what I’m thinking exactly, that I will jinx the happiness, that […]

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Vocabulary

December 16, 2014

The other day I was sitting around, thinking of ways to make the world a better place and also plotting against my enemies. Don’t worry, nothing dramatic, and certainly not anything we haven’t seen in the Bible and maybe on HBO and other premium cable channels. So I was sitting and plotting but then that […]

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Mane Event

November 26, 2014

“Hey mom,” my son told me the other day, “I’m going to be a tiger in the class play.” “Roar!” I said, before I remembered that he was 13 and not 4. And then he told me that he was going to wear his sister’s tiger costume and I congratulated myself on being the type […]

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That Loving Feeling

October 26, 2014

If you are like most people who have absolutely nothing else going on in their own lives, you’ve probably been wondering about what’s been going on with me and The Guy I went to Ireland With. By way of background, The Guy I Went to Ireland With and I went to Ireland in August where, […]

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Shoe Math

September 26, 2014

I don’t know about you, but I always welcome the opportunity to feel like one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters. Wait, were her stepsisters ugly or just mean-spirited? Is it too much to hope that they were both, in addition to huge-footed? Anyway. I never miss the opportunity to feel like one of them. So I […]

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Get Over It

September 9, 2014

I have many important things to update on, including the fact that I am not drinking alcohol in September and that my cat is urinating all over the fucking place, but I feel like first I have to tell you about my trip to Ireland. So let’s get that over with so that we can […]

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