The world according to my grandma

If I live to be 88 I hope that I still have my wits and snark about me, just like my dear grandma.  She’s known in my family for her hilarious stories, candid remarks, and her way of putting things.

I got the pleasure of hanging with her on Monday night and doing dinner just the two of us, so of course, I have new grandma stories to tell.

Apparently, she’s only ever gambled once in her life.  When she was a young woman several of the ladies she worked with went to a horse track.  They talked her into placing a bet.  Not knowing anything about horse racing, or betting for that matter, she made her decision as to who to place her incredibly valuable $30 on by one simple factor.

She eyed up the horses and chose the one that looked like the “biggest maniac craziod”  because she found it to be the most relatable to her, and put her money there across the board.

She walked away that night with $2500.

You learn something new every day.  Apparently crazy really does run in my family.

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Directory of lady bits doctors: Who to choose who to choose?

Finding the right woman to dive between your legs and tell you that you’re good to go in the nether bit region for another year is really quite the process.

See, since I’ve retired we changed our insurance from my employer provided to a new one.  While the insurance is great, it doesn’t have any of my usual doctors in the plan.  So the lovely woman who has been checking under my hood for the past few years will now cost me four times as much, and really, I would rather spend that money on shoes.

So I’m shopping around.

When I first started researching other providers in my area, I thought it would be really easy.  I figured I would just pick another lady and we would be good to go.  Unfortunately, I’m apparently way more neurotic than I realized.

Turns out, the doctor HAS to be a woman.  Every time I was doing research on a website on a male doctor I either decided he was too attractive or too unattractive and either way it would skeeve me out.  No offense to any dude OBGYN’s out there, but I apparently just can’t handle that.

Then I found myself looking at credentials.  My crazy parts informed me am only interested in someone who graduated from college between the years of 1970 and 1990.  Any younger and I felt like they wouldn’t know what the heck they were doing.  Um, really Nicole?  1990 was almost 25 years ago.  I would think someone who graduated in 2000 with 15 years of experience would be just fine.  But no.  Not in my brain.

Once I had it narrowed down (mind you, there were only 20 female providers in a 20 mile radius to choose from to begin with) I started looking at photos.  I then learned that anyone with a unibrow, facial piercings, or too much make up in their photos went in the “no” pile as well.

What the hell?  I guess I’m more judgmental than even I realized.

Then again, this is the person who is going to be examining my most prized possession and telling me that I’m perfect for another 12 months.

Oh, and filling my birth control.  Because really, we can’t have any more totally nutso judgmental people like me in the world.

Nuclear containment on the weekends

clean house

I hate it when our drunk friends want to crash at our house on Friday nights.  Not because we don’t have the room, or because I hate drunk people or I’m nervous that I’m going to forget that they’re there and walk out the next morning to make the coffee naked.  No, it’s because by Friday night it looks like a nuclear bomb made up of shoes, underpants and Tupperware containers detonated my home.

You see, we’re not home much during the week and when we are it’s usually just to strip down, put on pjs, eat something and pass out.  We then wake up and do it all again the next day, and are not fabulous about you know, cleaning up after ourselves as we go.

As a result, Saturday is MY personal holy day, the holy day of Clorox.  Every Saturday morning husband wakes up, goes into the office for a few hours, and then proceeds to golf or work or go drinking or whatever to keep himself out of the house during nuclear containment.

Saturday is the day I clean.

If you think I sound crazy now, just you wait.  It gets better.  For one, I freaking enjoy it.

I love having the house to myself to survey, triage, and dive right in.  I’ve been doing this a long time kittens, and have a complete and total method to my madness.  Some weekends the place only needs an 6 effort on a scale to 10 to get it back to being livable.  But some weekends, when I’m down on my hands and knees with scrub brushes attached to various parts of my body stinking of bleach and sweat and god knows what I’m scrubbing off the ground, those weekends I give it a 10.

And then we have a picnic on the floor in the living room.  Because damn it, if the floors are clean enough to eat off of, we might as well.

Hubs has offered no less than 100 times to hire a “cleaning lady” so that I can relax and enjoy myself on the weekends.  The very thought makes my eye twitch.  When I contemplate that someone else might be responsible for using the “magic eraser” on my baseboards or fold my laundry, I break into a cold control freak sweat.

No, cleaning is my job.  It’s my ME time.

I’m not a neat freak at all.  Nor am I a germaphobe.  I guess I just get some sort of sick satisfaction from taking the hot mess that my house becomes by the end of every week and pulling the princess routine on it to get it shiny and new and more fabulous than it ever imagined it could be.

Because my house has an imagination after all.

Now I know what you’re thinking so before you ask, no, I do not want to come over and clean your filthbucket of a home.  My disgusting 5 day old Tupperware and my husband’s dirty socks I can handle.  Yours will likely make me vomit.

And I don’t clean up vomit.

So really, you’ll end up worse off than you started.

See, told ya it gets crazier.