Fishing for compliments, OB-GYN style:

{image via pinterest}

Me: What would you do if, say, a Victoria’s Secret model walked in and you were supposed to give them their annual exam?

Y: Well, we had a doctor tell us that he had to pass off an attractive patient to another doctor because he didn’t think he could handle it.


Me, hands on hips: ARE YOU CALLING ME UGLY?

Y: What?! No? What are you talking about?

Me, sobbing: I’ve never been walked out on by a gynecologist before. I must be ugly.

{I didn’t actually sob or put my hands on my hips (or care), I’m simply trying to give you some tips to help you spice up your standard does my butt look big in this conversation. You’re welcome, and happy Friday!}

the sweater that sealed my fate

I admit it: I used to make fun of older ladies who wear coordinating tops and bottoms emblazoned with zebras, reindeer, or any other kind of animal. I always wondered at what age you decide clothes with pictures of animals on them are the way to go. But when I saw this sweater, I knew two things: a) I had to have it, and b) I was officially, undeniably, a Crazy Dog Lady.

Of course, there were other signs: a blog that’s 80% about my dog, my catalog of Ike songs is so large it might be a candidate for a Glee tribute show (Ikeyjandro is my favorite, followed by Don’t Cry For Me Ikeytina); the fact that I started tucking Ike in at night; the notion that Ike dropping a tennis ball in the bathtub is worthy of 6+ pictures.

My one saving grace is that I don’t refer to Ike as my… cringe… furbaby.

But the dog sweater may have canceled that out.

Y&Ike > college?

Here’s a sappy post, just in time for [a week and a half after] Valentine’s Day:

A few months ago, Y and I drove to my hometown and stopped at our alma mater to use the restroom, since Y has a bladder the size of a walnut (this is according to his med school friends, and they’re so trustworthy I can’t help but assume they know what they’re talking about).

As I walked through the student union, a wave of nostalgia nearly knocked me over. I passed the computer lab where my friends and I rushed to meet on room assignment day so we could all log in at the same time to trick the system into putting us in the same apartment sophomore year. I passed the place where, about 5 years ago, Y pretended I tripped him and fell moaning to the ground, screaming why would you do this to me?! as about 50 people watched (typical Y).

I walked out of the union feeling depressed and wondering why the world was so unfair and didn’t just let us stay in college forever. Then I turned toward the campus parade ground and saw this, and before I could even think about it, a huge smile was plastered on my face and I forgot about college:

not a hoax

When you inexplicably disappear from your blog, it’s tricky to jump right back in. You can’t just ignore the fact that you’ve been gone for two weeks, yet you’re too lazy/ashamed to explain why you’ve been a deadbeat blog parent (or, you just have no good excuse).

It’s similar to when someone has been mispronouncing your name for so long that you decide it would just be too embarrassing to correct them and let it carry on forever.

You have to finesse your way back into the blog habit by subtly acknowledging that you’ve been absent. Or, in my case, giving your husband nightmares that you’re slowly morphing into Joaquin Phoenix.

All that to say… I’m still here. Promise.

it takes time

Things I haven’t yet gotten used to: A breakfast of mimosas and beignets with a side of discussion about yeast infections that can happen under obese women’s breasts.

I hope I ruined your breakfast, too. Misery loves company.

mistaken identity

There are a lot of problems with my dog.

My vet told me the problem with him “is that I’ll never find another dog just like him”.

I’m guessing my dad (and everyone else who’s met Ike) would say the problem with him is his ridiculous energy level.

Y might say Ike’s problem is lack of judgment when choosing a sitting position.

But I think the biggest problem with Ike is his name, particularly when trying to tell some gross story about him.

“Ike rolled around on a dead squirrel the other day,” I told my friends, laughing at the memory. They were not laughing. They looked down at their hands. It was silent for a moment.

“Um, why?” one had the courage to ask.

I was confused. It wasn’t that disgusting, was it? Dogs did weird stuff like that all the time, right? “I don’t know, because he’s a dog? He wanted its scent on him?”

My friends breathed sighs of relief. “Oh, IKE! We thought you said ‘I’ rolled around on a dead squirrel.”

This happens probably once a week. The miscommunication, not me {or Ike} rolling around on dead squirrels.

If you must know, I roll around on animal carcasses because my wolf ancestors did it to mask their scent to predators. My wolf ancestors also wore sweet specs like these.

The worst is when he does something that a human might possibly do, but never would admit to anyone, ever. Like the time Ike sharted on the bed. Or the time Ike had diarrhea all over our house. No, not me. IKE.