Which Is Worse: A Visit To The Coloproctologist Or The Dentist?…And Other Conversation Starters

Posted on June 29, 2015 by Christine Vanderberg

The other day, someone tried to start a conversation with me by asking,”If tomorrow were your last day on this earth, how would you spend it?”

I thought of some unfulfilled fantasies, some outrageously delectable meal choices and exotic settings. But, in the end, I answered honestly, “If tomorrow were my last day on this earth, my first thought would be: I’d better run out to get some extra toilet paper! Because I know my irritable bowel will act up from the anxiety of knowing that this will be my last day on earth.”

“Then,” I added, “to calm my nerves, I would start drinking martinis the night before, listen to every Beatles song ever written, aMy Last Day On Earthnd probably sleep through my last day with an olive stuck between my teeth and a silly grin on my face.”

The conversation ended there.  It wasn’t my fault.  The question was flawed.  How can I get excited and talk about fun things to do on my last day on this earth?  Come on.

~

If it’s a stimulating discussion we’re after, let’s entertain this ethics question: If you found a bank bag full of money lying on the side of the road, would you keep it or turn it in?

Several years ago, there was a true story in the news about that. The critical question I asked was: Were the bills marked or unmarked?  My husband was shocked at my unethical standards. He thought it didn’t matter whether the bills were marked or unmarked. The proper action for him would be to turn the money in to the bank. Well, then, let’s hope I’m the one who finds the bag of money and not him.

Next question: If I find a bank bag full of unmarked bills lying by the side of the road, do I have to share it with someone who thinks I should have turned it in?  And, If the bills are marked, how long should I hold them under the mattress before I can begin spending them without worrying about getting caught? If anyone has an answer to the second question, please respond in the comments section below.

Here is a question no one asks me anymore: What do you want to be when you grow up? Even though I’m all grown up, and near retirement age, I still don’t have a clue and would love to discuss my options.

Whatever happened to the question that got us girls talking and laughing through the night at  high school pajama parties: If you were stranded on a desert island, who is the one person you wish could be there with you? No one has asked me that question since I took my marriage vows. Does everyone assume that one wants to be stranded on a desert island with his or her spouse? Maybe it’s time to revisit that question.

Or, how about this mind bending conversation starter that you can toss out at your next social gathering: Which is worse:  A visit to the coloproctologist or the dentist? You can substitute any doctor you like. The gynecologist v the dentist, the urologist v the dentist, the gastroenterologist v the dentist.  Be creative, but always end with “the dentist.” Comparing two doctors makes you look prejudiced against the entire medical profession – and you might very well be. But this will keep any doctors in the group happy to hear that people also dislike the dental profession. It ensures that your conversation doesn’t turn into an argument.

Of course, we each have our reasons for choosing one over the other. Personally, I prefer the dentist because, even though a root canal is very unpleasant, at least I can keep my clothes on during the procedure.

The gynecologist appointment is quicker than the dentist, though. And I can go out to lunch afterwards without slobbering and drooling from the lingering effects of Novocaine.

Do you see what I mean? This lively conversation can go on for hours. And the men will certainly want to weigh in with their experience at the urologist’s office.  As for the topic of a colorectal exam, that one deserves a blog unto itself!

So, with all those interesting conversation starters to choose from, please don’t ask me how I would spend my last day on this earth. Ask me how I would spend that bank bag full of unmarked bills lying on the side of the road. Now, that’s a conversation starter if I ever heard one. I could keep that conversation going all night long!

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Giving It To Him Like He Wants It

Posted on June 22, 2015 by Christine Vanderberg

From now on, I will be serving dinner in pots and pans. This is something new for me. I used to serve everything in matching dinnerware: meat on a flat serving platter, vegetables and potatoes in round or oval bowls. Even the applesauce went into a little bowl with a spoon for serving.

The dinner table wasn’t such a formal place when I was growing up, but when I married and made my own home, my dinner table slowly morphed into something worthy of a Martha Stewart photo shoot.

I can remember meals at home where my mother would put the roasting pan right on the table – meat, potatoes and onions, everything in one pot in front of my dad’s plate. During the course of the meal, each one of us would dip our bread into the rich juice that accumulated at the bottom of the pan. It was a combination of meat drippings, olive oil, oregano, garlic, onions, and whatever else my mother threw into the pot that day.

When I got married, my new husband did not embrace this type of communal eating-out-of-pots. The first time I put a roasting pan full of baked breaded chicken on the table he wrinkled his nose and asked, “Is that all fat in the bottom of the pan?”

“Fat? No; it’s olive oil.”

Also in the pan were little clumps of breadcrumbs that fell off the chicken during the cooking and turning process. They soaked up the olive oil and baked into tasty crispy delicacies that could be scraped up with a fork right out of the pan.

When I lived at home, my mother would put the pan on the table and whenever someone forked a piece of chicken, we would scan the pan for those little tidbits of crispy bread crumb balls soaked in olive oil. Sometimes forks would collide in a duel over these little treasures.

“Try one,” I urged him, scraping a piece off the bottom of the pan and holding it up to his mouth.

“No thanks,” he said, turning his face away from my offering. I got the message… The next time I made breaded baked chicken, it was served on a clean platter – no pans on the table. Besides, there was no fun picking out olive oil bread balls all by myself. Sigh

Another night, I served applesauce right out of the jar with a serving spoon poking out the top. Nothing was said at the time, but another night, when I asked him to get the applesauce and put it on the table, he poured it out of the jar and into a serving bowl. Oh, so that’s how he likes it, I thought. We were still newlywed and I was open to learning how he liked things. So the next time we had applesauce, I served it in a bowl with a spoon, just the way he liked it.

I also learned, along the way, that he required a separate little bowl for his applesauce, his creamed corn and his salad. So, on a night that I might happen to serve applesauce, creamed corn and salad, there was one flat plate, two smaller bowls and one salad bowl crowding his placemat. I only needed one flat plate for everything. I thought those extra little bowls were silly and frivolous, but I continued to set them out for him.

Then there were the extra utensils. Eating dinner at my mother’s house one Sunday afternoon, he reached for the tub of butter and whispered in my ear, “Is there a butter knife?”

“Can’t you use that knife?” I asked, pointing to the knife next to his plate.

“That’s a meat knife.”

My mother overheard us and jumped up to get a butter knife for the table.

“I’m missing my bread plate,” he whispered, while she was in the kitchen getting the butter knife. He glanced around the table for an extra one.

“We don’t use bread plates in this house,” I hissed. “You’ll just have to rough it tonight.”

He must have thought he married a barbarian. There I was balancing my bread on the edge of my dinner plate and plunging my steak knife into the butter.

After a few more dinners, I learned just how he liked things on our dinner table. I never served food in pots and pans. We used the proper sized glasses for red and white wine. He wanted his beer in a glass beer mug; I drank it straight from the bottle.

When we have a barbecue and paper cups are put out for coffee or tea, my husband gets a ceramic mug. Says he can’t drink tea out of a paper cup. He also refuses to eat take-out pizza on paper plates. And, on the rare occasion that we order Chinese take-out, he won’t eat out of the aluminum take-out cartons with the plastic forks they throw into the bag. He has to put his food on a dinner plate and use a real fork and knife.

Since we had made a pact early on in our marriage, that the person who does the cooking (always me) will never have to do the dishes, I don’t complain about all the extra plates and utensils he requires for his dining pleasure – small quirky requests, certainly nothing to be too irritated about– until recently.

My son made a delicious Sunday dinner a few weeks ago: pasta with broccoli rabe and grilled sausages. The sausages were served in a flat serving dish, but the pasta was served right out of the cooking pot.

Halfway through the meal, my husband reached into the cooking pot to take a second helping. Tossing the pasta he remarked, “What a great idea – serving the pasta right from the cooking pot! The pasta is still piping hot! Look at that steam!” Then, turning to me, sitting at the other end of the table, he repeated his observation louder, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time, with the excitement of a scientist discovering some new phenomenon in the universe. “Chris, this pasta is still hot! Why don’t you serve it like this – right out of the pot?”

This comment from a man who requires a bread plate, a butter knife and separate bowls for runny foods, who won’t drink out of a paper cup or eat off of paper plates. I wanted to throw something across the table and smack him in the head.

My mother was also at the table, and, in that moment, our eyes locked. She lifted her eyebrow and my lip curled up to answer her, as I knew we were having the same thought: Remember the butter knife?

And so, at this late age, I’ve resolved, again, to give it to him like he wants it. No more pretty soup tureen, pasta bowls or matching serving platters. Now he gets his soup ladled right out of the stock pot resting on the stove top, pasta goes on the table in a pot with a lid, sausage is served in the frying pan it was cooked in, and breaded chicken sits in the pan on the table, complete with little crispy olive oil bread balls clinging to the sides.

Bon Appetit!

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The Sicilian and The Dutchman Bearing Gifts

Posted on June 15, 2015 by Christine Vanderberg

Every nationality has its quirky stereotypes, not that I agree with all of them, but here are some of the more common ones. The Irish love their drink, the Italians love their food, all Asian kids are smart. And here is another I’m sure you’ve heard: the Dutch are frugal.

Frugality is a good trait if you are the Dutch man buying a gift. You pick something out that’s practical, frugal, and you save some money for another day. If you are the Sicilian girl receiving the Dutch man’s frugal gift, you think what the hell is this? Why did he get me this cheap thing? Doesn’t he know what I really want?

You try to remember that a gift is a reflection of love, a mere token of what lies deeper in someone’s heart. The cost of a gift should not carry any weight or enter into the emotional transaction between the gift giver and the gift receiver. One should always show gratitude when receiving a gift – no matter how small, no matter the monetary value.

Sometimes it’s tough, though, when the one anticipating a special gift for that special occasion has certain expectations and those expectations aren’t remotely met. Not even slightly. It’s difficult to hide the disappointment, but, of course, the only thing to do is to be gracious, forget your expectations and say a simple “thank you.” Later, when you are alone, you can let your true feelings out and adjust your level of expectation for next time.

Take this one particular Valentine’s Day, many years ago…

After dating my Dutch boyfriend of two years, I was anticipating some sort of jewelry to mark the special occasion. A nice gold heart necklace would be appropriate, I thought. Instead, he gave me a little doggie stuffed animal. I guessed that he was saving the necklace for later in the evening.

“Oh! Cute!” I said, laughing along with him, as we playfully tossed the dog between us, expecting him to reach into his pocket for a small jewelry box saying something like, just kidding…here is your real gift.

When the night was over, and there was no gold heart necklace dangling from my neck, I went into my bedroom and I doggie stuffed animalchoked the dog, twisting his neck, until the seams holding the stuffing inside stretched wide open and almost popped. Then I threw him across the room, relishing the thud as he smacked into the wall – Ugh! The next day, I felt bad for the poor thing, lying on the floor, but that didn’t stop me from stepping on his head and then tossing him into the garbage.

When he returned from a trip to Switzerland one year, this same Dutch boyfriend phoned to tell me he was coming over right away to bring me a special souvenir. He couldn’t wait for the weekend to see me.

It had to be some sort of jewelry, I thought. Maybe a tiny pre-engagement ring? Why else would my normally calm, levelheaded boyfriend have such a sense of urgency?

This time he handed me a small hand carved wooden box.

“It’s beautiful!” I cooed, turning it, this way and that, to study the carving on the outside, my anticipation building for what was surely inside.

“It’s a jewelry box. Open it!”

I couldn’t wait any longer and neither could he. Obviously, he wanted me to see what was inside. I lifted the lid slowly, trying to control the slight tremble in my fingers, and my eyes caught sight of…nothing… but the tinkling sound of Edelweiss filling the room.

“It’s a music box, too!”

Now, that’s a real frugal Dutchman for you, getting two gifts in one. No wonder he was so excited to show it to me.

After five years of dating, I finally got a piece of jewelry for my birthday. My boss noticed and commented, “Hmmm, this young man must be pretty serious to give you such a nice watch.”

Not serious enough, I thought. Or he would have given me an engagement ring by now.

Then we broke up for almost three years. When we got back together, I was caught off guard, never expecting him to slip an engagement ring on my finger two months later. For all the years I anticipated, expected, and hoped for this piece of jewelry, it was finally there on my finger. I had to get real close to see it, though, because it was so small.

“It’s small, I know,” he admitted. “But it was all I could afford right now. Some day I’ll replace it with something bigger.”

“It’s beautiful!” I hugged him, we kissed, and six months later I said, “I do.”

As our 25th wedding anniversary was approaching, we reminisced about the years gone by, and I brought up a promise he once made to me.

“Remember when we got engaged and you promised to get me a bigger ring some day when you could afford it?”

From the look on his face, he clearly had no memory of that promise. Or else he was being the frugal Dutchman again. But, you see, there’s another stereotype I failed to mention, and one that is true: a Sicilian never forgets. Capisce?

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Sunbathing: Clothing Optional

Posted on June 8, 2015 by Christine Vanderberg

This is the year I must replace an old bathing suit. I usually get three years use out of a swimsuit – that’s it. The first year it fits fine. The second year the elastic around the legs start to lose their tenacity, and the suit starts creeping up my butt cheeks. The third year, the elastic in the shoulder straps wears out.

During that third year, I have to be careful to remember to pull up the shoulder straps, first, to anchor them on my shoulders, before I pull down the elastic at the legs. If I do it the other way around – pulling down at the legs first, before the top half of the suit is firmly in place, I risk exposing much more at the bust than my tan line.

Bathing suit shopping makes me very cranky. I don’t come home with a suit the first day, or the second. I start looking in May and am lucky if I find something by July 4th.

“I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to find a bathing suit,” my husband said one day. “It’s not like you have a tail or something.”

I stood there, speechless for a moment, trying to decide if I wanted to kill him swiftly or torture him slowly. In my mind’s eye I viewed the following day’s newspaper headline:

Husband Killed For Thoughtless Comment

In the end, I took a few deep breaths and decided to enlighten this foolish man I had married.

“It would be easier to shop for clothes if I simply had a tail,” I told him. “A tail in the front, or a tail in the back – it wouldn’t make a difference if my body flowed in a straight line like yours does. Instead, I have a body with curves. There are curves here and here and here!” I shouted, pointing to various parts of my body. “And the men who design women’s clothing think our curves should fit proportionately – but they don’t! I can’t wear a one-piece size 14 bathing suit because this,” I said, pointing to my butt, “is a size 16, and these,” I said, grabbing my boobs, “are a size 14!”

He never made that comment again. But I digress….I still have the daunting task of shopping for a bathing suit this year.

I remember how easy it was when I was young, and the only choice I had to make when picking out a bathing suit was its color. Back then my body glided gracefully through the sand – like the The Girl From Ipanema song.

Tall and tan and young and lovely

The girl from Ipanema goes walking

And when she passes

Each one she passes goes “ah”

Nowadays, the song running through my head, as I tread through the sand is by The Commadores.

She’s a brick house,

She’s mighty mighty

And just lettin’ it all hang out

Shopping for a bathing suit makes me feel like I’m preparing for a fight in the ring. I have to get my mind psyched; I need to feel pumped with energy and in peak performance. I can’t do it on a full stomach or when my resistance is low. It is hard work and your body needs to be strong to do battle with Lycra and elastic. To hear all the grunting and groaning in the bathing suit dressing rooms, you would think there was a real fight going on behind those doors.

So, no, dear husband, I’m not shopping for a bathing suit that will cover my tail, but I do have some pretty strict criteria that need to be met before I lay down my credit card for a new suit that will cost me close to $80 or more, as compared to your $25 suit that I purchased for you for Father’s Day 1998.

  1. It has to be one-piece. My bikini days are long gone, and I need the strongest Lycra on the market. I heard someone asking a saleswoman for “The Miracle Suit,” so I followed her over to the rack where they were hanging. The tag on the suit says it can make you look 10 pounds lighter in 10 seconds. Wonder if I wore three of them at once…could it make me look 30 pounds lighter??burka
  2. It has to be black. Black is slimming. If it wasn’t so damned hot at the beach, I would wear a full-length burka.
  3. It has to be as sturdy as a Sherman Tank. I don’t want to feel anything jiggling, sagging or moving in the wrong direction when I trudge through the sand.
  4. It has to have a skirt that will cover as much as possible down below. Forty years ago, I wore skirts to school that were shorter than my bathing suit skirt, but now it’s a different story – and since I’m short, the little skirted bathing suits hang so low that it looks like I’m wearing a mini-dress. My granddaughter once asked me if I was wearing a bathing suit under my dress. “This dress is my bathing suit.” I told her.onepiece bathing suit
  5. I need sturdy shoulder straps – not those useless flimsy skinny straps that are just for show. I see some women sliding their thin bathing suit straps down their shoulders to avoid a tan line. Not me. I need thick functional, reinforced, shoulder straps that will support my anatomical abundance.
  6. No halter-tops! I had one of those once. I had to tie it so tight to hold everything up, that I felt like I was tying a noose around my neck every time I got ready for a day at the beach.

As of this date, I still don’t have a bathing suit. Bbottom half bathing suitut last week I came home with a skirted bathing suit bottom. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this idea years ago. When you buy the bathing suit pieces separately, you can buy one size for the bottom half and one size for the top. Brilliant!

Problem is, I couldn’t find a top I liked in my size. So where does that leave me? There is only one thing left to do – search for “clothing-optional” bathing areas. I’ll see what it’s like to be a man this summer and go topless: Put on my bathing trunks; grab a towel and a bottle of water and head for the sand.

To my surprise, there are lots of “clothing-optional” beaches in the area. Here is a list of some of them. Maybe I’ll see you there this summer!beach sign

  1. Fire Island: Cherry Grove http://www.empirehaven.net/
  2. Juniper woods: a lakeside resort in upstate New York. http://www.juniperwoods.com/
  3. Jacob Riis Park: Rockaway Beach – not the entire beach, just a small section at the eastern end.   http://www.nyharborparks.org/visit/jari.html
  4. Fire Island: Lighthouse beach – though they are cracking down on nude bathing, in general, you can still find a few dunes left to burrow in (Hurricane Sandy wiped out a lot of them).  If you are caught, you can face a $5,000 fine plus 6 months in jail.  It’s probably cheaper to buy a new bathing suit. http://www.nps.gov/fiis/planyourvisit/fireislandlighthouse.htm
  5. Full Tan Sun Club: Sprakers, NY  – the name of this club says it all. http://www.fulltansunclubofny.com/
  6. Gunnison Beach in Sandy Hook, New Jersey   It’s worth it to visit this site just to read the profile picture “warning” notice. http://www.gunnisonbeachnj.us/
  7. Empire Haven Nudist Park: Lake Moraria, New York – for those who want to wear their birthday suits only. http://www.empirehaven.net/

Don’t forget to bring some extra sunblock!

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