What Drives a Marriage?

Two of my friends recently had summer weddings. Neither invited me to the festivities, but I guess I can’t blame them. I shouldn’t have made passes at their fiancés. My husband pointed that out when we were in the waiting room at Jiffy Lube today. Perhaps he’s right. Live and learn.

I always get butterflies in my stomach when I enter a Jiffy Lube. Bad memories. In fact, I hate being a female and entering any mechanic shop all by myself. I feel like the mechanics prey on women’s ignorance about cars. Is that a stereotypical thing to say? Well, too bad, I said it. If you're naive and a female, you're probably going to be cheated, even on something as simple as an oil change.

The first time I got my oil changed, I was 21. My husband, Joe (back then he was my fiancé), had forewarned me that the mechanics might try to scam me into paying for things that aren’t necessary. Sure enough, the mechanic called me over and said the color of my car’s oil indicated that I needed to change the differential fluid. I said, “No way, Jose!”

The mechanic also told me my brake line was somehow severed. Did Jose think I was born yesterday? As much as he pleaded for me to be reasonable, I stood my ground and told him to buzz off. I felt proud as I drove off to morning mass. But when my car crashed through the church right onto the altar, barely missing Father Steinberg, I realized maybe not all mechanics lie. Again, you live and you learn, but God bless the unfortunate altar boy, Abdul, who took quite the hit. He left Catholicism the next day, saying I smacked the Islam right back into him.

After that incident, Joe took care of all the typically manly stuff, and I focused on looking pretty. My husband eventually got fed up of my ignorance and told me it’s time for me to overcome these issues. He reminded me what he told me two years before, “Just go to Jiffy Lube, get your car done, and don’t let them do anything extra.”

Simple enough. We lived just outside of Philadelphia at the time, so one Saturday morning, I woke up early and went to a seedy looking Jiffy Lube in seedy Bensalem without Joe’s coaxing. The bays were all empty, and several mechanics were standing around waiting for a customer. I felt very awkward, being a young girl with all those men staring at me. But I walked up to the counter confidently and said, “I’m here to get my car done.”

The cashier guy said, “What do you want done?”

Yikes. What the heck kind of question was that? I racked my brain, but I didn’t know how to answer, so I said, “Well . . . I don’t know. What is it you do?” All the men stood around laughing. This is a true story. Years passed before Joe asked me to go to a car place again.

That’s when the next car incident occurred. We had an honest mechanic, despite living in New Jersey, so when Joe said my car desperately needed an oil change, I decided to take care of it. I took my three little sons (all under age five) with me to Factory Tune in Williamstown and asked the mechanic to work on my car. Wouldn’t Joe be surprised when he got home?

Well, surprised he was! He took one look at the Visa receipt and said, “What the heck did you do to the car, honey-bunch?” He really used worse expletives, but I’m keeping this clean for the youngsters.

“I got the oil changed for you!” I responded, still clueless.

“For $60?!”

Long story short, I asked for a tune-up, thinking that meant the same thing as an oil change. Who’d have thought those two aren’t synonyms? It explained why I did so poorly on the SATs. Joe was not happy. He cannot abide improper word usage. He decided to get the oil changed himself the next day, and I retook the SATs to improve my score. I was just glad no one got hurt this time.

So then we adopted a new system. Joe handles all things to do with cars. Now and then he explains automotive things to me, but it’s hard for me to understand since I don't listen. Luckily, we’ve been married a long time, so he doesn’t really notice what I do anyway. Everybody’s happy.

But going back to my newlywed friends, I love the excitement I see in their eyes. They even smell like happiness and sunshine, and that’s such a nice thing to see. (The smell isn’t so pleasant, though.) I believe all married couples who’ve been together for a long time need to be exposed to newlyweds to get a refresher course in how to appreciate and fully live the moment.

So while we were waiting at Jiffy Lube today, I told my husband about the two happy brides and how they gave me a sense of perspective. I also told Joe that I’m lucky to still be married to my best friend and the only guy in the world I’d want to spend my life with. “I know you are,” he responded as he stared at the hot, young chick who just walked in the store. And so it goes when you’re married for a while. Congratulations my newlywed friends!

Here's some insight into marriage for all of us, married or not:

"My wife and I were happy for twenty years. Then we met." ~ Rodney Dangerfield

"When you see a married couple walking down the street, the one that's a few steps ahead is the one that's mad." ~ Helen Rowland

"I don't think I'll ever get married again. I'll just find a woman I don't like and give her a house." ~ Lewis Grizzard

"My wife and I had words, but I never got to use mine." ~ Fibber McGee

COMMENTS:
Who would purposely live in Bensalem?
~ Karen

I thought Joe had all those babes. You're saying he's happily married?
~ Steve, PA

Why are all your comments questions?
~ Jackie

Anger Surges After Surgery

Hi everyone. As summer rolls on, you must be wondering how I am doing after my surgery. So nice of you to ask . . . finally. Yes, thanks for all the cards and gifts you sent, and by that I mean thanks for nothing. No one sent a card or called, including my family. They didn’t even show up at the hospital. They all had excuses – one had to go the post office, others were watching TV. My husband didn’t even have the decency to HAVE an excuse. He said was in the waiting room during my surgery, went out for coffee, and just “plum forgot” to go back. How can you forget that your wife is having surgery? Do you know how embarrassing it is to have to call a taxi when you’re discharged from the hospital because your family forgot about you? I had to pretend the taxi driver was my husband, calling him “Honey.” He backed away, as if I was a nut case, and the nurses shook their heads at me.

The taxi took me home, and when I rang the door bell, the whole family looked surprised to see me standing there, all bandaged up. They took me upstairs and holed me up in a dark, remote bedroom. They put some frozen TV dinners on the nightstand and told me to ring the bell if I needed anything. I knew, of course, that there was no bell. Then they shut the door behind me and wished me well, never to return to the room again.

Three weeks later, I emerged from the room and went downstairs to the kitchen. My husband and sons looked surprised to see me. Some had obviously forgotten me and then tried to pretend they didn’t. The eldest son extended his hand as if he was meeting me for the first time and said, “Nice to meet you,” but when I gave him a quick rap on the head, he suddenly remembered who I was. “Oh! Mom! Welcome home!” he said, as if I had just returned from a trip.

I scolded all of them for forgetting to take care of me. My husband said it was much quieter when I was “gone.” Again, I reminded them all that I wasn’t gone at all. I was upstairs! Instead of apologizing, they looked dubious, as if I had made up the story.

My husband tried to change the subject by handing me a card that sent by my night-time employer. I clean some offices late at night to earn extra money. I was glad that someone remembered me, but I was soon disappointed when I opened the card. It read, “Happy Bar Mitzvah Morrie,” but someone crossed out “Morrie” and wrote “Janie.” My false name is Jackie, as I’ve told them a million times. Adding insult to injury, their “well wishes” were really just thinly veiled to-do lists for when I return. One person wrote, “Feel better and please fix men's room toilet, which keeps overflowing.” Another person jotted, “Get well soon and we need more ant poison by the vending machines.” I looked at the other messages and realized how empty my life is. No friends, no family. No one cares. I was mentally plotting a bloody revenge when the doorbell rang.

I looked out the window to see a flower-delivery van in my driveway. My heart jumped. Could someone have sent flowers to me? A large, sweaty man was standing at the door holding a package in one hand and a cigar in the other. “Delivery for Janie Phillips,” he croaked.

“I’m Jackie. I mean Janie,” I said. He coughed a horrible smoker’s cough into the package and then told me to sign for it. Then he handed over a beautiful edible “flower” arrangement made of fruits. The arrangement sparkled in the sunlight, as if to say, “You are special, Janie!” I gave the guy a generous tip and told him to be careful as he tripped over the rotting jack-o-lantern on our front stoop. He hacked a whole lot more all over my bird bath and then said, “Thanks.”

I was so excited. I never get packages, so I ripped open the card to find that the edible arrangement was sent by my two younger sons, who used their own money to buy something to cheer me up. I was ecstatic! I hugged and kissed the two boys, and they said, “See, we didn’t forget.” How thoughtful. When I went to bed that night, I realized that life wasn't as bad as I thought. Some people in my family really love me. And some is good enough for me.

No matter how bad you feel, keep your spirits up and never stop shooting for the stars. Even if you don't hit 'em, at least you can take comfort in knowing you've got a gun.

Octopus Predicts a World Cup Win for Spain

Ah summer. Don’t you love it? Summer is my favorite time of the year with the exception of a few other seasons. This summer, I am beside myself with excitement about the World Cup. Spain will face an unknown opponent tomorrow at 2:30 Eastern time, 7:15 military time. I can't wait to see the match!

I am secretly rooting for Spain. I have nothing against the Netherlands. Who doesn’t like wooden shoes, windmills, Jackie Chan, and everything else stereotypically Dutch? But Spain is a well oiled machine that deserves to win, and I'm not the only one who thinks so. I just learned that Germany’s Paul the Octopus, a credible sea-life psychic, has predicted that Spain will prevail, and to have my humble opinion seconded by none other than Paul the German Octopus means Spain is certain to win. I go so far as to predict a final score of 13-1.

Wait. Do you know much about Paul? He’s a real octopus (not those fake ones you see in restaurants and aquariums) who has accurately predicted the winners of the last six World Cups. Paul was born in England, but chose to emigrate to Oberhausen, Germany as a young squid. Paul is well traveled, so he must be intelligent and have psychic capabilities.

I tried to create my own “Paul” by capturing a squirrel in my backyard and asking him to choose between Spain and the Netherlands, but the squirrel was wild and made too many demands for nuts and special treatment. He also chattered constantly and barely spoke English, so I finally got rid of him. We cooked him and ate him. Anyway, soccer is the real subject here, so let's not lose focus.

I'm looking forward to the World Cup final, and I hope you are too. If you weren't planning to, you really should watch the World Cup -- it's the "Super Bowl" of Futbol!

Also, don't forget to take the survey at the top of this blog to let me know which team you think will win. I suggest you choose Spain. If you have friends, ask them to vote too. I'll write again soon. ~ Jackie

P.S. Sorry I haven’t written in a while. The squirrel monopolized all my free time.

Click on the title of this post "Octopus Predicts . . ." to connect to an article about Paul in the Vancouver Sun, my first source for reliable information. I just fixed the link. It wasn't working before. You can also scroll to the bottom of the article to see the U-tube video of Paul making his exciting decision. (Note added 7/14/10.)

A Most Unusual St. Patrick's Day

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, readers! Sure, it’s several days after the fact, but while you were all out drinking green tea and stuffing your faces with green jalapeños and green lettuce leaves, I was in the hospital undergoing major surgery. I bravely chose the luckiest day of the year to have a body part removed.

The events leading to my surgery started months before. I was having a lot of pain for quite some time and finally made an appointment in January to see a Japanese doctor who requires that you speak to him through a translator. Dr. Yamagata is cheaper and more compact than other doctors. He takes any insurance, as long as the insurance card is plastic or laminated. He is allergic to latex.

After the examination, Yamagata's translator said my uterus just wasn’t doing its job anymore and that I’d need a hysterectomy. He said it’s obvious the uterus has never been good to me, making his point by pulling out copies of my kids’ very mediocre standardized test scores; a good uterus wouldn’t even consider hosting such offspring. He added that my uterus was “getting old and needed to go,” pausing at that moment to eyeball my husband, Joe, who was staring at his shoelace deep in thought. Joe later explained that he was wondering how his laces became tied because he couldn't remember tying them. “You don’t need to settle for mediocrity anymore, Jackie!" the translator said, snapping me out of my thoughts. "It’s time to have a hysterectomy!” he added dramatically. The doctor clapped in approval.

I had a gut feeling that neither the doctor nor his translator, who wore a chef’s hat, was qualified to make medical decisions. Maybe I should go to a doctor who had a degree posted on his wall. Mine just had a framed 2008 calendar. Maybe I should go to a doctor who speaks English so he can understand what I'm saying. When I asked Yamagata if this surgery was medically necessary, he told me he bought his shoes at the Macy’s One-Day Sale. When I asked him how long the surgery would take, he said gazelles run faster than raccoons. I couldn’t argue with his logic, but something was amiss. I couldn’t put my finger on it.

My husband whispered that we should just listen politely and leave, but then the doctor’s impressive use of confusing medical terms swayed us into thinking that perhaps this man knows what he’s talking about. He said a surgery would change my life. The clincher was when he got out several 8 x 10 glossies of famous people whose uteruses he removed . . . Tina Fey, Drew Barrymore, Angelina Jolie and that guy who plays James Bond – not the Timothy Dalton Bond, who was cold and distant, but the new, sensitive Bond who cries all the time. He said I could be like any of them if I had a hysterectomy. I asked him specifics about the surgery. My husband asked if he could keep the picture of Angelina Jolie.

With the evidence weighing heavily in favor of having surgery, I told the doctor that I’d agree to do it if he could perform the surgery on St. Patrick’s Day. The translator quickly made a phone call, in which I overheard him saying Dr. Yamagata can finance the purchase of the new yacht after all. When the translator hung up, he said the surgery date had been set.

I went home to talk to Paul the paperboy about the situation. He told me to relax and go ahead with the procedure. He agreed that only the coolest people have surgeries. He gave examples of Hollywood actors who go into surgery looking like 60-year-olds and come out looking like 20-year-olds. Paul Cynewski said all of his customers who had operations told him they wish they had done it years ago. He assured me that surgery will change a mediocre life into a great life. I reflected for a moment. Didn’t David have surgery before he killed Goliath? Didn’t New Orleans’ quarterback Drew Brees have surgery right before he won the Super Bowl? Didn’t Donald Trump have a hysterectomy before he fired the surgeon? The paperboy told me I was making the right decision. He also said my porch would look more inviting with a garden gnome on it. I like that kid.

So when March 17 rolled around, my husband and I went to the hospital feeling confident. We were a bit flustered to meet a “Dr. Grogg,” who said he would be performing the surgery instead since Dr. Yamagata was taken away in cuffs. I wondered if he meant hand-cuffs or a formal shirt with the sleeves cuffed.

Dr. Grogg was really nice. He could pronounce the word uterus without help from a translator. He had the look and feel of a real surgeon. He didn’t even have an eye patch. His name tag was an official hospital ID that read “Dr. Terry Grogg, M.D.” I recalled that Dr. Yamagata’s name tag was a sticky label that said, “Hello. My name is_______.” He scribbled on it, “Doctar Yamagata," misspelling doctor. Joe must have had the same thoughts running through his mind. He squeezed my hand, and we exchanged relieved smiles that said God was taking care of us. My husband kissed me goodbye, and, as they wheeled me to the surgery room, I saw him take out his photo of Angelina Jolie.

In the operating room, the anesthesiologist asked me to count backwards from 10. It was unfair. If I had known they were going to quiz me, I’d have practiced the night before. Embarrassed, I spoke as slowly as possible, hoping I was correct in starting with the number 8. After that, I don’t remember anything.

The next memory I have is of waking in a hospital bed with several nurses around me. They said everything went well and offered me chocolate Jell-O pudding. They showed me a photo of Bill Cosby and asked me if I recognized him from the Jell-O commercials.

I saw that my husband was in the room too. As long as Joe is with me, I always feel like everything will be ok. He was very helpful and attentive. He stayed overnight at the hospital with me, despite the fact that the “guest bed” was really an uncomfy chair that pulls out into a semblance of a bed. He had me take the chair so that he could get a good rest.

The next morning, my sons came to visit me and brought with them their most recent tests from school. Each of them got As! Removing my uterus had already made a major difference. In a couple hours, Dr. Grogg discharged me from the hospital, and we were on our way back home. As we pulled into our driveway, I saw that the paperboy had placed a garden gnome on our doorstep. I like that kid.

An hour later, I awoke from a deep sleep to the frightening sounds of loud banging on the front door. Suddenly the door was kicked in and the scene was frenzied. An angry policeman was yelling and pointing a gun at us. He shouted that I was under arrest for stealing the garden gnome from my neighbor. I cried, swearing I did nothing. That I just had surgery. I showed him the scars as evidence. The sight of the incisions made the cop feel faint, and he dropped to the floor like a banana peel.

When he regained consciousness, Officer Sal apologized for the wrongful accusation over and over again. He felt so bad that the tossed the keys to his cruiser to my sons, telling them to go out and take a break, and he'd take care of me. He then brought me cranberry juice, a Percocet and the heating pad. He took a Percocet himself and wrote up a restraining order so the gnome neighbor wouldn’t bother me again.

In retrospect, Dr. Yamagata was right in saying surgery would change my life for the better. I wanted to visit him in jail to thank him, but he has fled the country.

Jackie's Note: This posting to dedicated to our good friends Ellie and John, who also had surgeries this week. My surgery went well, and I'm doing fine. Thank you for your prayers. My real GYN is Dr. Stuart Jones. Dr. Terry Grogg is the one who did my robotic surgery. They're both fantastic!

The character of the translator in this posting is entirely fictitious. Paul Cynewski no longer delivers our papers. <>

READER'S COMMENTS:
~~ Are you now a male without a uterus? 3/22/10
Jackie's comment: I am offended, but I'll look into it. I'll get on Wikipedia now.

~~ Did Obamacare pay for this??? If I'm going to pay for 30 million people, you might as well be added to the list!!! I'm glad the doctor's name wasn't Mengala. Keep us posted on Joe's Vasectomy. He should "feel your pain". Who won the raffle of the uterus? 3/23/10
Dr. Pig, Veterinary Medicine
The Ohio State University
Class of 1921
Youngtown, Ohio
Jackie's comment: I'll keep my political comments to myself, but no, my neighbor is paying for this. She's on vacation so I used her ID and insurance card. I don't recognize the name Dr. Pig, but you must be a female. No man I know would wish a vasectomy on another male.
Regarding the raffle, the proud winner is Bernie Gutman, of Queens, New York. For those of you who don't know, I raffled off my uterus before the surgery. Bernie, you'll get a package in the mail soon, compliments of the US Postal Service. They said if you don't get it tomorrow, it'll probably show up eventually. And don't worry, Bernie, no one is judging you for entering such a raffle.

~~ Glad you're better. 3/24/10
Liz

~~ Good to hear it went well. 3/24/10
Tina, NJ

~~ My dear friend Jackie....so glad to hear you are feeling better. If you enjoy gnomes as you profess, you may enjoy watching The Amazing Race. Gnomes tend to make cameos on that show. John's surgery was peanuts compared to your Shyamalan tale. He was hefting toddlers and baby brothers around shortly after he crawled home from the operating table. What a man. 3/25/10
Joan McAvoy, Dayton
Jackie's comment: John is truly a man! I am in awe of his manliness. I'm glad to hear he is better. Did he see that this posting was dedicated to him (and to Ellie from NJ)? Hey, I have a stack of books for your toddlers. I assume they like anthologies to do with Middle English literature? There are even some plays about my personal favorite, medieval morality.

~~ I had no idea you had a hysterectomy! Well I'm glad things went well. I'm surprised to hear you raffled off your uterus. I thought your people ate them as part of some fertility ritual??? 3/27/10
Dawn, Dublin, OH
Jackie's response: Wouldn't be too late for "fertility" if you removed a uterus to eat it? I'm not sure what was in the water in Long Beach Island, but I can tell you drank a lot of it. Some people really eat the placenta after birth and some animals eat their offspring, as your husband would tell you, but I'm not a weirdo. I eat things normal Americans eat, like fudge and asparagus.
Yeah, I'm doing remarkably well. Gained a ton of weight for some reason (from 106.5 to 115) just after surgery, but what do I care? I'm married. It's Joe's problem now. Thanks for writing. Oh, and thanks for all your post-op "help."