Marriage Medicine: Laughing With Your Spouse

One of the things that I love about my husband, Dale, is that he makes me laugh.

Just a giggle at times. All out belly laughing with tears streaming out of my eyes at other times.

He not only makes me laugh with funny things that he says. He has an incredibly quick wit that always keeps me on my toes. Sometimes we will be listening to a song on the radio and he will start singing lyrics that the songwriter clearly did not plan on being in their song.

There is a song by Bruno Mars called “Grenade” which has the lyrics “I’d step in front of a blade for you.” However, my husband will change the lyrics and instead, sing “I’d sip lemonade for you” or “I’d march in a parade for you” or “I’d wear a beret for you.”

Something that makes absolutely no sense with the rest of the song.

But something that makes me laugh uncontrollably.

And then there’s the dancing. When Dale starts dancing I will giggle for the rest of the day thinking about it.

There’s not a song in the world, or a reason for that matter, that he won’t start dancing to. There’s the “I’m-done-with-work-for-the-day” dance, and the “Hey-is-dinner-ready?” dance. My favorite is his “Super Productive” line of dances – when he’s gotten a lot of work done. They vary from day to day, but here’s how they go…

His dances always crack me up because it’s usually a cross between someone doing the robot and someone roller skating back in 1974. He’s definitely got some groove.

My point is, you have to have fun with your spouse. You have to be able to laugh together, about each other and about other things.

Which brings me to one of my favorite pictures. We were on our honeymoon and were on our way to the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina. I had been driving but started getting a little drowsy so I asked Dale to switch places with me.

He’s 6’2”. I’m 5’2” so I had the drivers seat as close to the steering wheel as I could get.

And this is what happened when he got in the seat to drive.photo(59)

My dearest friend saw the photo after we returned home.

“How did you even get a girl like Dana?” she said.

We laughed, because Dale got a girl like me, for the same reason that he got a girl that makes a face like this:
photo(8)
And we still laugh about it.

Advertisements

My Mother And the Middle Finger Salute

My mother, who we call Ninny, is one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. And the funny part about that is that most of the time she doesn’t mean to be funny. It’s completely unintentional – it just happens.

Some people are just funny because of things they do or the timing of when they say things. Ninny is a master of both of those things.

A perfect example of this would be what I call the “Glasses Adjustment” story.

And it goes like this:

My sister Cathy and her husband, Jonathan were at my parent’s house for a cookout, along with me and my husband. Jonathan and Dale have always had great son-in-law/mother-in-law connections with Ninny. They love to mess with her and she is just as quick to dish it back to them.

Jonathan was in the middle of telling us his favorite story about Ninny. She was staying at their house watching the kids while Cathy and Jonathan were out of the country for their anniversary. She was running late to pick the kids up from school but couldn’t find the car keys. She finally found them, jumped in the car, hit the garage door opener, and backed their brand new Mercedes into the garage door.

You see, in her haste she neglected to see that the garage door was already open and when she hit the button, the door closed, resulting in a dented car, damaged garage door, and a deflated Ninny. 2653_57801271098_5312612_n

Jonathan laughed as he told about Ninny having to call them in Italy to tell them about the accident.
We looked across the dining room table at Ninny, who was looking straight at Jonathan. She was giggling but he noticed that she was also adjusting her glasses…with her middle finger.

Jonathan said “GOOD GRIEF, I think that Ninny just shot me the bird!”

More giggling from Ninny.

My husband choked on his sweet tea, while my sister sat there with her mouth open. Jonathan started laughing.

I stared at my mother.

Our Ninny? Sweet Ninny? Did she understand what she was doing? Shooting someone the bird? The middle finger wave? The one finger salute?

And doing it so discretely that no one even noticed?

Not even her???

Until now.

The conversation moved on and we continued eating. Every once in a while someone would giggle.

“Does anyone want dessert?” Ninny asked.

“No, I’m good,” I said. “I’m trying not to eat so many sweets.”

Papa looked over at me. “You’re too thin. You don’t need to watch what you eat. You’re not fat like Ninny………..(enter LONG PAUSE HERE)……….and me.”

Dale ducked under the table in fear of flying dishes.

Cathy again sat there with her mouth hanging open.

Jonathan clapped his hands and laughed a huge belly laugh.

I looked over at my mother.

Who was looking at Papa.

And she was adjusting her glasses.

RUDE!!!

There’s one thing in this world that I absolutely will not tolerate…and that is rude people.

When I say hello to someone, is it really all that difficult to say hello back? If I smile, or say good morning, or just compliment someone, is it too hard to reply?

Or am I just overreacting?

We were leaving a store one afternoon when a gentleman and his wife were also coming out. He held the door for me so I said “Thank you!”

He looked at his wife, smiled, and said to me “That’s what I love about the South. We are from Boston and no one ever says ‘thank you.’”

I told him that generally if I hold the door for someone and they don’t acknowledge me, I will usually say “OH YOU’RE WELCOME!!!” as cheery and loudly as I possibly can. Most of the time they will reply with a very meek, “Oh, thank you.”

Many times they just ignore me.

His wife laughed and said that she did the same. I asked her if her husband got as embarrassed at her as mine does. He said he was worried she’d get in a fist fight some day because someone wasn’t going to take too well to her schooling them.

But sometimes it’s just too much for me to take.

Last night, for example, Dale and I went to Macaroni Grill to pick up some take-out. It was raining so he dropped me off at the front door so I could scoot in and not get too soaked. As I was getting out of the car I noticed a woman on the phone walking towards the restaurant.

As I would normally do, I opened the door and held it for her to come in.

SHE DID NOT EVEN LOOK AT ME. She kept chatting on her cell phone as she came on through the door.
Dale said as he sat in the car and watched her do this and thought to himself, “Oh no you didnnnn’t. You don’t know my wife.”

This particular restaurant has two sets of double doors going into the restaurant, and while I held the door for her on the first set, I did NOT on the second set.

Dale said that since she was gabbing on the phone, she wasn’t paying attention and walked face first into the door.

I, however, didn’t notice.

I was already at the counter telling the cook “thank you” for my meal.

The Mammogram: A Modern Day Torture Device


I have dreaded my yearly mammogram since I received the prescription from Doogie Howser a few months ago. I look forward to having my boobs squished by a machine about as much as I enjoy going to the gynecologist.

I imagine this same device was used in medieval times. Can’t you see it? You steal a loaf of bread to feed your starving family and you end up with your shirt off in the middle of town square while your girly parts are being crushed and people are throwing rotten tomatoes and wilted lettuce at you? Yep. It’s that kind of torture.

For those of you that have never had the pleasure of having a mammogram, please let me explain. (For you men, every time you see the word “boob,” imagine it says “wiener” and you will get the full effect of this story.)

First, I’m told not to wear lotion or deodorant to my appointment. If you are old enough to be getting a yearly mammogram, then you (like me) could also be going through early menopause. So I’m sweating profusely on and off due to stupid hot flashes but I’m not allowed to wear deodorant. I figure I’m going to smell like a New York cab driver on a hot July afternoon by the time my appointment comes around.

This is starting off well.

I check in and the nurses are so sweet that it’s hard to hate them for what they are about to do to me. Maybe they feel empathy for me because they know what’s about to happen.

I put on the pink hospital gown and cover up with the pale pink robe they provide. I look like I’m about to have a spa treatment…but I AM NOT.

Oh GREAT. The technician is a guy. He doesn’t even bother asking me how I’m doing. The sour look on my face explains it all.

I am led into a dimly lit room. Is this ambiance supposed to help me relax?

Hey what about offering me some Valium? Maybe some wine? Maybe both? Together? I can guarantee that would help more than soft lighting.

He looks at my boobs for any visual deformity. He stares at my left boob for a second longer than normal but quickly looks away.

What the heck?

Poor guy, did he forget that he told me not to wear deodorant? I’m sweating like a whore in church and now he’s probably gagging at my B.O. But he’s a professional and if he’s about to pass out at my smell, he isn’t letting on.

The technician walks me over to the boob torture device. He adjusts what he can onto what appears to be a thick piece of glass. Do you remember Silly Putty from when you were younger? Well, he’s literally STRETCHING my boob so it can be as flat as possible in the machine. I kind of expect to see a Sunday comics cartoon imprint of Charlie Brown on the bottom of my breast when this is over.

Then he LOWERS another thick piece of glass on top, smushing the small amount of skin that I have down to about a ¼ inch pancake. Since mine are so little, it’s more like silver dollar pancakes. It’s pathetic.

I imagine that this is what bacteria feel like when scientists put them on microscope slides and cover them with that little square piece of glass.

So I’m standing there, on my tiptoes, leaning over at a very awkward angle, while my boob is being smashed so thin you can see through it. Now I know this is for my own good, but since they are so small, the second-base that my gynecologist got to at my checkup last month could have easily detected a grain of sand, much less a lump. And I’m pretty sure I would have noticed if I had a lump in there. My bra might have actually fit.

(Now of course I know the importance of mammograms so I’m just trying to give it a little humor and would never skip having one!)

Finally, it’s over.

My boobs are extremely sore and now they’re a little swollen. Woot-woot! I realize that I might be able to fill an A cup for about an hour.

I head home and pour myself a glass of wine since they so rudely didn’t offer any to me at the doctor’s office. I jump in the shower.

I scrub off the horrific B.O. that my underarms have produced all afternoon and suddenly I’m feeling better.

I’m clean. I’m done with my appointment. I can relax.

And as I’m toweling off, I see what the technician was staring at.

Nope. Not a deformity.

But a single gigantic nipple hair that was so long it probably reached out and shook his hand.

I AM MORTIFIED.

That’s it. Next time I’m bringing my own Valium. And I’m going to start taking them today to prepare for next year’s appointment.

Daddy’s Little Girl

All of my life my dad has been my hero. He was always there for me growing up and is still here for me now that I’m an adult. The strength and stability I always felt being in my Daddy’s arms can not possibly be measured. He would carry me on his shoulders when my legs were tired. He could do the best cannonball into the pool out of all the dads. When I was in trouble, he could put the fear of God into me with just a look. And when he’d jokingly ask me “What am I going to do with you???,” I’d say, “Just keep me and love me,” which he still does. 4887_94743471098_643154_n

And over the past year, he has fought cancer by having a stem cell transplant and will continue treatments for many years to come. He has always been strong – not only physically, but mentally – he’s a judge as well as retired military. (Yes, my upbringing was a little strict!)

Knowing that the next few years are going to have their ups and downs, there are some things I want him to know to help keep his spirits up. So this is for my Dad…

Dear Daddy,

I want to thank you for being so strict with me when I was a teenager. I used to think you were the meanest dad EVER for giving me a curfew of 10 p.m., but now that I am a parent, I realize that what you always said is true: “Nothing but trouble happens to a teenager after midnight.”

Thank you for letting me be Daddy’s little girl, but also Daddy’s little tomboy. Thank you for making sure I could take ballet and sewing classes, but I’m sure at some point you wished you had a son. I was as close to it as you got. I love going camping and doing everything outdoors because of you. You encouraged me to go outside and play so I never was really interested that much in TV -except for “The Donny Osmond Show” of course.

Thank you for insisting on meeting my (and Cathy’s) boyfriends, and giving them the kind of handshake that could break their hand and letting them know they were in for it if anything happened to me. Thank you for telling me straight off which boyfriends you liked, and which ones you clearly DID NOT. Looking back on several of my dating mistakes, I realize you did know what was best for me after all…if only I had listened!!!

Thank you for teaching me how to drive a stick-shift. Learning how to drive an “H” shift was pretty tough on the old F150, especially since it didn’t have power steering or power brakes, but I think it is something every girl should know how to do.

Thank you for teaching me manners. I have come to realize that “Yes ma’am” and “Yes sir” were not only polite when I was younger, but beneficial to me as an adult. These are traits I have passed on to Matthew as well and he, too, has seen how people react when they are treated with respect. 4887_94991191098_2137511_n

Thank you for loving me enough to give me boundaries. Although I didn’t get in too much trouble (because I was terrified of getting in trouble with you), I know I was not the easiest teenager to bring up. I got your stubbornness so I’m sure you saw some of yourself in me! And even though I never wanted to hear it, I thank you for loving me enough to tell me “NO” some times.

Thank you for teaching me to be financially responsible and hiding my first credit card from me when it came in the mail. You taught me that if I can’t buy it with cash, then I don’t need it. This is a lesson many never learn until later in life. You taught me that just because my friends may have new cars, big houses and go on luxurious trips, they are also probably swimming in debt. Because of you, our only payment each month is for our house, and if we don’t have the cash for other things that we want, then we save up for them.

Thank you for teaching me how to stand up for myself. As a single mom for almost 10 years, I had to handle things that can be foreign to many women, such as getting work done on my car. If you hadn’t taught me how to watch when someone was about to screw me over, I would have probably would have been financially taken advantage of numerous times.

Thank you for showing me what true love is. After 52 years of marriage (and counting!) you and Mama have shown me that marriages have good times and bad times, but you stick with each other and are there for each other no matter what. Watching you reach over and grab Mama’s hand just while driving in the car makes me smile.

Thank you for teaching me to treat everyone with the same respect. The circle of friends you have surrounded yourself with come from every race, gender, and sexual orientation and EACH ONE of those friends considers you to be a very good friend to them. What an amazing example you lead!

Thank you for teaching me right and wrong. Even when Mom got a speeding ticket in a different city, you never even considered contacting the other judge to get it erased. Instead you told her that since she was in fact speeding, that she needed to pay the $250 fine. I respected that so much more than you will ever know. So many others in your position would have “called in a favor” but you didn’t – and I love that about you.

Thank you for trusting me when I announced ‘I’m getting married!!!” only four weeks after meeting Dale. Although I’m sure you ran a background check on him, you still trusted me enough to officiate our wedding ceremony. To this day, that memory makes me smile. And thank you for setting the kind of example a good husband is. When I first met Dale, I was amazed at how many similarities the two of you share and I knew immediately that if he was anything like you, I had a keeper.4887_94743461098_2165253_n

I hope you are proud of me for what I have accomplished in my life. Everything I have in my life, in some way or another points back to you. Your guidance has led me to where I am and who I am today.

And although we know the next couple of years are going to be both good and tough, please know that I plan on taking care of you and Mama as you have ALWAYS taken care of me. Cathy and I will be the strong ones for you this time.

I’m all grown up now, but I am and always will be, Daddy’s little girl.

Let me carry you on my shoulders now.