 Calling me at 7 at night is rarely a good idea. I work long hours, I deal with a lot of bull, and by 7, I'm in no mood to be harassed. Especially by a jealous wife. But, there she was, and I was in no mood to be a player in her baby daddy drama.
Ring. Ring. I look at the number and don't recognize it. I do, however, recognize the area code, because I have friends in Vermont and that's their area code. Okay. "Hello?" "Who is this?" Not, hello, I'm inquiring, or hello, you don't know me but... Just who is this. I laugh. "Well, who did you call?" She cleared her throat and tried to sound not psycho. "This number was listed on my husband's cell phone bill and I didn't recognize it..." Oh, Oh, Oh. A woman going over her husband's cell phone calls wondering if there is anything funny going on. I had to smile. It must be my birthday. "Well," I said in the smokiest voice I could muster, "I get at least forty calls a day because of my work. You'll have to be a little more specific than that." This is not a lie, just an omission of a crucial detail. "Your job? Which is?" True, the best thing to do at this point was to hang up. But she was making it so easy... "I make visits." Again, this is not a lie. I just neglected to mention that I am a home nurse and my daily 'visits' are usually to elderly people requiring wound care or insulin injections. "What? What kind of visits?" She was trying to remain calm, but I could hear the veins in her temples pulsing against the phone. "It really depends on what they need. What did you say your husband's name is?" "John Smith (not his real name. You've got enough problems without me plastering your name all over the internet, 'John')." "Tall guy? Red hair? Thickkk....neck?" "No! He has dark hair and he doesn't have a thick anything! Are you a prostitute?" I could tell she was starting to lose it. And now she had asked me directly what my 'business' was. I couldn't lie. "The nature of business is confidential. It's between me and my clients." Not a lie. "Oh my God! I thought he was cheating on me, but a prostitute! I can't f*@$ing believe this!" I didn't know how much longer I could hold out, so time to stop before she hangs up and starts chopping John into tiny pieces. "I'm not a prostitute." "You said you were!" "No, you said I am. I'm a nurse. In Las Vegas. And I'm pretty sure you are in Vermont." "Huh? Las Vegas? What the hell?" "Our area codes are one digit off. I think you misdialed." Click. That was it. I wanted to call her back and tell her what a crazy psycho she was. I mean, come on, who does that? You think your husband is cheating, so you call some number and expect someone to say, "Oh, yeah, John, I'm doing him every Tuesday night. You're his wife? Oh, you want to watch?" No, any mistress worth her lingerie is going to lie to you anyway, and then alert John to the fact that you are on to him. So out of curiosity, when I got home, I pulled up my husband's cell phone bill from last month. I didn't recognize half the numbers. "Hmm. Not bad, Hero." Then I did what any self respecting woman would do in that situation. I went through his billfold while he was sleeping and hired an investigator to follow him. The difference between psycho wife and non-psycho wife? How you collect the evidence.
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 I wrote this post for Erica Lucke Dean last year and since my funny bone has been way too serious this week, I thought it would be fun to replay it here:
I’ve always been open to new experiences and the stranger the better. I’ve swam with sharks. I’ve been slammed in a mosh pit. I’ve performed in a pickle costume. It’s fun to say, “oh, yeah, I’ve done that,” and I say that a lot. But I’ve yet to be asked if I ever mud wrestled, so I’ll just answer that for you right now. Oh, yeah, I’ve done that, too. Twenty years ago, I worked as a Nurse in Tulsa, Oklahoma. My good friend, Sue (name changed to protect the innocent) was a Physical Therapist. That was her day job. On the weekends, she mud wrestled at a local bar dressed as a medieval princess. One night, her designated opponent had called in sick, and she asked if I would step in. Female mud wrestling was not new to me. In my early twenties, one of my roommates mud wrestled for extra money. Twice a week, she would put on her French maid costume and prance around a mud filled ring, then strip down to a skimpy bikini and roll around with another girl to the delight of a bar full of men. A bar full of men with a lot of money, I might add, as she would bring home more in her two hours than I brought home all week. I had my reservations. It wasn’t the rolling around in the mud, or the googling eyes of horny men that bothered me. It was the bikini. Although I was in one of my ‘thin’ stages at the time, I had never worn a two piece bathing suit. Call me a prude. But after being told I would be paid one hundred dollars for a five minute bout and a promise that I could wear a low cut, side out onsie, I said sure, why not? Always willing to help out a friend. I met most of the other wrestlers in the dressing room, very normal young ladies, most with respectable day jobs. They went over the rules with me, keep it safe, no ripping off bathing suits (it was a high class bar) and make it a show. It was all very…nun-like, and I use that particular word for a reason. Yes, after putting on the costume I was to wear for the evening, I would soon be making my mud wrestling debut as Sister Sludge, the One Fun Nun. The plan was to wrestle for five minutes, then to let Sue pin me for the win. She would then move on to the next round and my work would be done. But as the crowd cheered, my competitive nature kicked in and I got serious. “What are you doing?” she whispered to me as we rolled in the muck. “You don’t want to win.” Oh, yes I did. I slammed her a little too hard and crawled on top. Nuns rule. After taking my celebratory hosing down, I went back to the ring, ready to take on the cute little daycare worker I’d met backstage. But it wasn’t her that showed up. It was the Cave Woman. And not sweet little Ayla from Clan of the Cave Bear. It was Andre the Giant in drag. I turned to Sue who was standing in my corner. “What the hell? She wasn’t in the dressing room!” “No,” Sue replied. “She has her own dressing room.” I reminded myself that this was a show and there were rules. Confidently, I turned back toward my opponent, just in time to be hit in the face with a mud ball the size of a small dog. “Start prayin’, Sister,” she snarled. And, that I did. The Neanderthal picked me up and twirled me above her head like a baton, then threw me to the ground and stomped me with her size 13’s. I rolled to the side of the ring as she grunted through bared teeth, and lumbered toward me with her arms raised high, exposing underarm hair that would shame a Sasquatch. I was trembling, I feared for my life, and raised my hands to cover my face. And that’s when I noticed. I had broken a nail. This bitch was going down. I remembered my Dad always said that everyone has a weakness. I went first for the testicles. The Wookie was not pleased. She picked me up and wrapped me in a bear hug. I had no choice but to hug back. Then I remembered another bit of fatherly advice: Cheaters sometimes win. I quickly untied her bikini top and held on to the strings. She slung me to the other side of the ring, but this time I was the one that came up laughing. That match was quickly called, and I was forever banned from the mud wrestling ring for ‘breaking the nudity rule’. Whatever. I had two hundred bucks in my pocket and an undefeated record. Groovy. Check out Erica's blog for a daily funny!  When someone I know is in labor, it brings back memories. Last week, my second cousin had her first child. A gorgeous little man with all of the right parts. Thank God the little guy made it out of the hospital with everything still attached. My youngest son was almost not so lucky.
He was born six weeks early and I got to see him for about five seconds before he was stuck in an incubator. That was just long enough for me to notice the huge gash on his nose and the fact that he had a penis. He was taken away and I was thrown in a bed. It was a small hospital and there was a snowstorm raging outside, so the hospital was having to float staff from other units to cover shortages of nurses that couldn't make it in. No big deal, there were only a few babies in the Nursery, how bad could it be? I woke up and next to me was a little plastic bassinet, complete with baby. I immediately rang the nurse. Me: Why isn't he in the incubator? Nurse (giggling): Incubator? Oh, honey, he's fine. Me: No, when he was born, they took him to an incubator. Nurse (giggling): No, he's just fine. Healthy little guy. She reached in the bassinet and handed me my little bundle of joy. Me: This is not my baby. Nurse (still giggling): Of course it is. Me: No, my baby had a gash on his nose from the forceps. This baby has a perfect nose. Nurse: He sure does. By this time I was getting pretty annoyed by her condescending giggles and assumptions that I didn't know my baby from another. Sure, I'd only seen him for a split second, but a mother knows her baby. I ripped open the diaper and that's when the meconium hit the fan. Me: And where's his penis? Nurse: What? Me: His PENIS! You know, the little wiggly thing that is supposed to be in the diaper? Nurse: Uh... Me: If this is my son, you have a lot of explaining to do. The poor female child was ripped from my arms and her little foot bracelet checked against mine. Nurse Giggly: Oh. My. I don't normally work in the Nursery. Me: Yeah, well, I don't normally give birth, either, but, I do know to check the bracelets. I got out of bed and walked the short distance to the Nursery with Nurse Giggles carrying random female infant in tow. There under the incubator was a baby with a big gash on his nose. I motioned to the nurse standing next to him and showed her my bracelet through the window. She read it and then looked at the tag on incu-baby and nodded. I somehow conveyed through the glass that I wanted her to open his diaper (I wish I could remember what kind of sign language that involved). Me to Nurse Giggles: THAT is my baby. And see that little wiggly thing? We aren't leaving here without it. Congratulations, Andrea! The fun has just begun.... |
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