Who nominated me as the person in charge of keeping everyone alive?

When I was young and single, able sit on hard surfaces and not in charge of keeping other people alive, I did not worry about what I would 'make' for dinner. Usually dinner consisted of rice or ramen noodles or some other form of refined sugar.

I was happy.

I was probably malnourished, but that didn't stop me from stocking my fridge with beer and elbow macaroni.

Husband's culinary skills are nonexistent.

Unless you consider pouring cereal and milk into a bowl a form of culinary art.

If people in our house plan to stay alive it is clearly up to me to make sure that happens.

I figure husband has never been taught how to cook and the only way he'll learn is if we do it together...and I teach him.

Lovingly.

Without telling him that my grand plan is for HIM to learn how to cook so I'm not stuck in the kitchen keeping people alive while he reads the news on the internet.

Genius. Right?

(There's more where that came from folks.)

The other night we prepare fajitas. I explain the proper way to cut green pepper. To this he replies:

"Why am I the one cutting the peppers?"

Really?

Where in our vows did I commit to always being the one to cut peppers?

I know husband would be fine going back to the eating habits of singledom. Him eating corn flakes and me eating flavored rice. And I may or may not agree that this isn't a bad idea.

Only now we have this third person relying on us for sustenance and nutrients and I'm sure he also needs to know there are other food groups besides grains so he can have a decent lunch to trade at school. Soggy corn flakes are not going to score you any Twinkies.

Even though husband will at least taste whatever I put in front of him, I know my dream of us meandering in the kitchen making an event out of cooking some sort of pre-planned exotic meal that includes items from all four food groups while we drink wine and commiserate about our day....is a looooong way off.

However, if you come over and find green peppers on your plate, there is a 50/50 chance husband diced those bad boys up for you.

Singulair...used to prevent difficulty in breathing, chest tightness and wheezing caused by asthma

When I was a kid, our family dog gave birth to puppies. I watched my mom tenderly help the best dog that ever lived push out nine babies. Nine. It never occurred to me what a traumatic experience that was for our dog as she whined and went from one end of our porch to the other. All I wanted was a tiny furry thing to play with. My mom on the other hand is probably still not over it.

I spent the majority of last year in and out of a doctors office. With my pants down and lube on my belly.

So when it came time to get a prescription refilled, I was none too excited to be forced into paying a co-pay just so my G.P. could write out a script for Singulair. It also just so happens that they lost my chart. LOST MY CHART.

This may surprise you, but I really did not point out the irony in the fact that they won't refill a prescription if you haven't seen the doctor in year, but they have no problem being willy nilly with a patient's medical information. I've seen monkeys do a better job at organizing.

This means, I had to come in early and fill out all of those forms...again. So they could make a new chart. I seriously questioned my need for Singulair and whether or not I could just order it online from Canada.

My G.P. is drop. dead. gorgeous. She also makes intense and uncomfortable eye contact.

Which spells disaster for me.

Because apparently I'm incapable of lying to a hot female doctor giving me the laser eye like she knows I'm not being completely up front with the truth.

So when she asks if there are any other issues I would like to talk about, I was forced to tell her, yes, there is one minor issue bothering me...like a fruit fly on spoiled bananas.

It's been seven months since LB was born and my lady goods are more 'a river runs through it' than an 'affair to remember'. I'm not even expecting them to go back to what they were before, but for crying out loud people, I plan to spend LB's high school years on a football bleacher...how do you propose I do that when I can't sit on a hard surface...and you can forget my lugging around a donut to sit on, husband. Not. Happening.

When I gave her the short version of events in the delivery room, my G.P. made the "Sweet Jesus" face and from then on gazed at me with the laser eye of pity. To which I was still incapable of lying to.

ThankyouverymuchDrThorough.

She referred to my 'ordeal' as a 'trauma' and it would take time for that to fully return to normal...but that it would...eventually.

I was so happy to hear this that in my honest, unable to lie moment, I told her I was afraid to bring it up because I thought she would want me to drop trou right then so she could get in there and root around to take a look at things and to be honest, I was not in the mood for that.

I just wanted to refill my prescription for Singulair.

Two hours later...I finally had my prescription. AND...I got to keep my pants on.

What I didn't know is that I should have had her call it in to the pharmacy for me. Because the too busy updating my facebook page, self-important pharmacy assistant interpreted my "I'll be back after lunch" as "sometime before the Apocalypse" and not at around 1pm which is AFTER LUNCH.

On a positive note, did you know they make greeting cards for people who have a loved one that is incarcerated?

Apparently, there is a market for that.

So while you wait for your prescription to be filled, feel free to peruse the greeting card aisle and pick up a sympathy card for your Great Aunt Cathy to let her know you are thinking about her since her son knocked up that liquor store so he could feed his meth habit and who is now in the federal pen with a roommate named Buck.