My Dog is Scared of a Dead Fly

MY WORLD:

So Belle, aka “Numbah One Pretty Gurrrr” aka “BOB” aka “BOOF” aka “I Kinda Blame You For Ruining My Ankle The Other Night When I Stepped In A Pothole While Walking You”, has started this NEW thing where she’s scared of a dead fly. This is no exaggeration. Yesterday, when The VP got back from work (I was still out working because of an ethic instilled by my parents at a young age, but that’s neither here nor there) she noticed that Belle was acting a little weirder than normal. After a few minutes, VP realized that there were one/MAYBE TWO flies in our apartment. (Does Jimmy live in a dumpster that he calls an “apartment”? Who has seen this “apartment”?) The VP reported that, quoting from her actual text, “Belle heard a fly and now she legit won’t move. Just standing completely still.” By the time I got home, The VP had yet to kill the fly because her hand eye coordination rivals that of a blind amputee, and Belle was in our bedroom, hiding under our bed. Totally normal behavior for a 56 pound dog to be TERRIFIED of a housefly. WE REALLY LUCKED OUT WITH OUR FIRST DOG GUYS!

After some tense negotiations between myself and Señorita Dog, I got her to come out from under the bed for a proper pet sesh. For whatever reason though, me telling her to “stop being a weirdo baby” did not stop her from being a weirdo baby once she spotted the fly land on The VP’s purse. Belle backed up the way you would if you walked in on Michael Myers sharpening his favorite stabbin’ knife. Going into hero-mode, I grabbed The VP’s “Shape” magazine and ended this insect’s life with the snap of my wrist. To remind Belle what kind of man her Daddy is, I grabbed the dead fly’s rotting corpse, smashed it against my forehead, and smeared it’s blood down my face while growling like a PREHISTORIC BEASTMONSTER!!!!!! This did not calm her down. Instead, she went right back into our bedroom and under our bed and has basically been theres since (as of 6:37AM this morning).

Therefore, since my barbaric display did nothing to soothe her newfound fear of flies, maybe Belle would appreciate hearing some of my irrational fears and how I deal with them. As a dogfather, I must be able to relate to Belle whenever possible. Belle, you are not alone, here are my most irrational fears:

Old Southern Men: Show me an old guy with a southern drawl who mumble-talks and you can find me locked in the nearest bathroom texting my mom to “just come get me now.” I’m not sure if they all have monster hands and a permanent limp too, but THEY DEFINITELY DO and it only adds to my crippling anxiety around them. Why? Because, like, they just seem murdery or mad or I’m not a real man or did he just ask me if I chew wood on a grass boat? WHAT’S A GRASS BOAT?!?!? Dealing with this fear consists of me either giving hearty courtesy laughs anytime they open their mouth, or just going full-on “bear survival mode” and sitting as still as possible while not making a sound. (If LeRoy can’t see me, then he can’t kill me and hide my body in that grass boat thing where he chews wood.) This fear has caused serious mental issues anytime I walk into a living room and an Alabama game is on the television. A flood of “oh jesus, there’s an old southern man nearby”-scaries takes over my brain as I collapse into the fetal position under the nearest coffee table.

“Jimmy, why are you under the coffee tabl-”

“I’m not Jimmy.”

The “Unsolved Mysteries” Theme Music: Do you remember that show about ghosts and scary stuff that was hosted by the dude in the trench coat? My parents would watch it when I was a kid and I’d get so scared by it that eventually I would run out of the room crying whenever I heard the opening theme music. I used to think that they kept doing this because they were SICK PEOPLE who thought a scared kid was funny (crying kids running is hilarious and needs to be an instagram account), but now I think it was a way for them to get me out of the room. Like, maybe my Dad really wanted to watch some sweet new Rated R movie that just came on HBO, but I was busy being all “hey Dad, let’s watch some lame bullshit show TOGETHER!” Quick-thinking Dad brain probably loved having the “Unsolved Mysteries” theme music trick in his back-pocket. He’d put that on and I’d be out of his hair; makes perfect sense. What’s even sadder, though, is that at 33 I still haven’t grown out of this. The VP thinks it’s funny and I know I should think it’s funny, but I don’t. When I told her of this fear she got her friends to send me audio texts and snapchats featuring that theme song. The VP would laugh like an idiot and I would try to chuckle but mostly think about “maybe I’m not falling in love with this evil beast woman.” And no, I won’t post a video with that song in it because I’M NOT IN THE MOOD TO FEEL LIKE A HELPLESS CHILD BEFORE I GO TO WORK!

Shopping Carts Behind Me: Whenever I hear that horrific rattling of old shopping cart wheels closing in on me from behind, I am POSITIVE that a serial achilles-clipper is pushing that cart and my achilles is next on his clip-list. Yes, a huge fear of mine is something happening to my achilles tendon, but has anyone in the history of grocery stores had theirs demolished by the bottom shelf of a shopping cart? If the answer to that is “yes,” I do NOT want to see the YouTube videos. If the answer to that is “no,” it may actually be worse because that means it’s DUE to happen sometime soon. The shopping cart record of not cutting an achilles is the DiMaggio hit-streak of grocery store records; and someday, some especially vicious cart pusher is going to make history. I’m gonna be the victim unless I start wearing my chain-link pants whenever we run out of paper towels.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Heard this song at my dentist’s office yesterday (clean teeth club) and I couldn’t wait to tell people about a hipstery sounding song that I liked. SO THAT’S WHAT I’M DOING! Wait…I’m not watching the video and it suc—-IT’S ABOUT THE MUSIC! JUST CLOSE YOUR EYES AND LISTEN!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The people who are saying that they’re ready for summer to be over. If you are one of these people who makes the argument that you’d rather have it be 10 degrees than 95 degrees outside, then you should wear a helmet around me because I will hit you in the head with a metal baseball bat for being a DUMB.

AM I ACTUALLY A BAD GAMBLER? OR, IS MY LUCK ABOUT TO TURN AND QUITTING NOW WOULD BE LIKE SELLING APPLE RIGHT BEFORE THEY CAME OUT WITH THE iPOD?

Fresh new deposit into my account and IMMEDIATELY on the following golfers for the PGA Championship: Tiger Woods, Patrick Cantlay, Jon Rahm, Jason Day, Marc Leishman, Daniel Berger, Aaron Wise, Thorbjorn Olesen, Joaquin Niemann. I’ve never heard of Niemann or Wise, but that’s the sign of a good gambler…you trust the odds. Oh also, real quick, my gambling-confidence is at an all-time low and I’m positive I’m going to lose every bet I make for the rest of my life and I still won’t stop. I’M NOT ADDICTED. (My Bovada account is currently at $12.60)

K bye.

Worse Jobs Than Yours and Jeans in Critical Condition (6/25/18)

OUR WORLD:

Was I the only one to mutter “fuck this world with my whole heart” this morning? My Monday morning routine has come to include vile self-talk followed by a sad march to make coffee before sitting on the couch and hugging my dog until she gives me the “are you actually about to start crying?” pull-away. (Are we sure that hugging your dog can’t turn back the clock until it’s Sunday morning again? BUT ARE WE SURE?!?!) It’s quite the scene in the Pomerantz household. (Household? You live in an apartment, pal. Quit fibbin!”) Now that I’ve finished shaking my head at nothing in particular, I’m ready to put my energy into finding perspective. This section is somewhat twisted. I’m aware that making myself feel better by thinking about the misfortune of others isn’t exactly the most noble of pursuits. GOOD THING I’M NOT NOBLE! Faithful readers, lets take a trip back to…the “At Least I Don’t Have To Do That”-Job list.

Biker Gang Organizer:

I was in the burgeoning metropolis of Rockford, Illinois for a work event at a big sports bar this Saturday. Unbeknownst to me, Rockford is home to large biker organizations (I don’t know if it’s a gang and if they read this and saw “gang” would they get mad and come find me? Oh who am I kidding? Bikers can’t read!) GANG! In the middle of my event, a biker GANG (still kinda’ scared…) pulled into the parking lot of the bar. This gang consisted of about 60ish large humans wearing leather vests and bandanas while sitting on OBNOXIOUSLY loud motor vehicles. The bar hosting my event was also the second stop on a Biker Bar Crawl. I felt so lucky! (Lucky? Or that feeling when you’re terrified and sad and annoyed at the same time but you act excited because the people around you think bikers are cool? Yeah, the second one.)

Once all of the “I’m tough because I bought a leather vest”-people had parked their bikes, however, a leader emerged. A fleshy fellow walked to the middle of the lot, did that super loud whistle thing where you put fingers in your mouth, and yelled to the crew “WHAT DOES SINGLE-FILE MEAN?!” I confidently raised my hand, but I guess I didn’t count. (Fucking bullshit.) If we’re being honest, he didn’t seem to genuinely care if people did know because he continued with his loathsome rant pretty quickly, “IT MEANS SINGLE FUCKING FILE!” Ohhhhhhhhh! But I thought, it meant…double….file. The gang looked to each other with knowing nods, shared some chuckles and said things like “I’m glad that Larry is so willing to share what he knows with the rest of us!” Seeing education live is inspiring.

But then I watched Screamy Larry head over to his clique for a few aggressive fist bumps and backpats. It was clear he was not the leader of the Biker Gang. Instead, he must’ve been the organizer guy; which makes sense because a Biker Gang leader doesn’t have to do stuff like look behind him while riding to make sure everyone is in single file. Jax Teller never looked back, only ahead (Sons of Anarchy reference. If you don’t get it, watch the show NOW.) So I started thinking how much it must SUCK to be the guy in the biker gang in charge of making sure they stay in single file while riding around towns. Further, there’s no way that the single-file thing is all Screamy Larry is responsible for, he must be like the Head of Organizing for the biker gang. So the screaming made sense. Can you imagine how frustrating it must be to have to organize a biker gang?!

Aside from the whole single-file fiasco, he’s probably in charge of: figuring out how much each biker owes when they go out for a big group lunch; making sure everyone has the right patch on their leather vest; scheduling the chores at the biker gang clubhouse; AND, Screamy Larry also probably has to keep track of all of the members’ birthdays, ensuring they don’t forget to sing “Happy Birthday” and have cake in the break room. Remember the time they forgot Knuckles’ birthday? Knuckles and Screamy Larry do. Simply can’t have that.

Today, when you’re staring at your computer screen while telling yourself not to say what you really want to say to your boss, be grateful that your job doesn’t entail having to send Venmo reminders to bikers who still owe from yesterday’s team lunch at Longhorn Steakhouse. Screamy Larry knows that half the gang doesn’t even have Venmo, but asking a biker, in person, for money is something he’s just not up for on a Monday.

Money People:

This is broad and general because the whole “money management” universe is foreign and supremely intimidating. I have friends and a brother who work in this world and I cannot imagine the stress of it. Heading to the office on a Monday in charge of managing someone’s retirement or life savings or couch change would fill me with the type of anxiety that necessitates a 3rd martini on a Sunday night (NEVER a good idea).

What do their voicemails sound like? “Hey Jimmy, Mr. Perrywinkle here, I saw a report on the news that the market is taking a dive. Is that the same market you just passionately convinced me to put my life savings into? Just checking, let me know!” There have to be calls like that, right? And then you’d have to call back to remind the person whose bank account you just decimated that the market is, ultimately, unpredictable. I’m sure they understand…

(I always feel impossibly ignorant when talking about money stuff….BUT LETS KEEP GOING!) When I see reports about the stock market doing well or not doing well or doing the same, I think to myself “that should probably interest me more than it does.” In reality, I’m just annoyed that the news put the ‘Market Report’ ahead of the story about ‘Chicago’s Best Mozzarella Stick.’ (The answer is “Roots Pizza” FYI. You’re welcome.) The money guys, though, probably feel their phones seizing during any report about THE MARKET. I can imagine a money guy or gal taking their dog for a walk on a nice day when, out of nowhere, their phone begins vibrating so much that it starts a mini friction-fire in their pants pocket. “Uh oh, THE MARKET!”

Aside from having to be the face of market fluctuations, Money people have to make a lot of spreadsheets and graphs and presentations to really smart people in suits about spreadsheets and graphs. Decimals and percentages and JESUS H. CHRIST it’s hard to breathe while wearing a tie in the summer. If I were a money guy, all of my presentations would just be titled “We Should Invest in ______ Because My Rich Grandpa Said We Should.” That would be the entire presentation, actually.

Rich Person’s Assistant

Most of us work in jobs where we’re surrounded by co-workers who earn about the same amount. Today, when you’re having a mild panic attack re: the $74 you spent on brunch yesterday, you can look to either side and see co-workers also nervously typing in their online banking passwords. The Monday money check is a trying time, but we’re all in it together. That is, of course, unless you work as a personal assistant for a super rich person. While you’re scrolling through the 14 separate charges from “Louie’s Pub” on your Chase Mobile App, your boss is tasking you with picking out a new Monday watch for him. “Something that’s not too flashy, but enough to where people will know that I use the word ‘summer’ as a verb.” That means the assistant gets to go into the jewelry store with a security guard!

Who do these assistants relate to at their job? Who is the friend they can pull aside for the “you know, I hate to complain, but…”-chats? The housekeeper’s are not on your side because they know that you get to ride in the fancy cars. You can’t whine to the spouse because YOU KNOW they’re just going to tattle on you the next time they feel like having a “you can trust me”-convo with your boss. The kids just think of you as the person who gets them the things they want. So you’re left to text your friends who are too busy pretending to not look at their phones on Monday morning. YOU ARE ALONE AND POOR IN A BIG, EXPENSIVE HOUSE! If I was a rich person’s assistant, I would have a designated time every Monday morning where I would just stare at a mirror while crying. I’d also probably steal little things like toilet paper and the little dog poop bags.

MY WORLD:

I’m a one-pair-of-jeans-for-6-to-8-months kind of guy, and it appears I am nearing the end of the road for my current pair of jeans. This always happens and it’s never not sad. The crotchal region of my jeans, having been stretched for months on end, begins to wear…and then a hole appears. This hole gets large quickly and I am forced to retire the jeans. My current jeans are hanging on by mere threads. Upon close inspection this morning, we’re looking at another 3.6 days tops. This means that for the next two weeks I have to wear pants that I don’t really want to be wearing. It also means that I will be a little depressed because as hard as I try, there’s no way around thinking that the jeans died because my thighs got fatter. If you happen to catch me staring down at my thighs over the next two weeks, do me a favor and feel free to mention that my legs don’t look chubbier than they did 6 months ago. A simple “it’s gonna be okay” would suffice too.

And you think you’re having a tough Monday.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’m seeing Dave Matthews Band this weekend and I am so excited I’m going to talk about it to strangers this week!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you get up at 4 A.M. on Monday morning and think “is it even worth it to try to go back to sleep?” Next time this happens to me, I may just buy a ticket to Yugoslavia and start a new life.

GAMBLING WENT HORRIBLY THIS WEEKEND, THANKS FOR ASKING! TURNS OUT, BLINDLY BETTING ON A SPORT YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT (SOCCER) IS NOT A RECIPE FOR SUCCESS. LIVE AND LEARN.

K bye.

Something We’ve Been Wanting To Get Off Our Chest…(5/30/18)

WHERE HAS THE CHAIR BEEN?!?!

A relatively young man, boy perhaps, scared of an actual battlefield, was presented with an opportunity to prove that courage was not among one of his seemingly countless allergies. The roach scaled the wall the way a veteran climber would during a storm; deliberately. Each step was carefully placed, making sure footing was stable before pushing off onto the next. The older couple’s ignorance remained intact while squint-scanning a pasta menu. Little did they know that their favorite restaurant was just like every other establishment they turned their noses up at; food, servers, and roaches. There wasn’t time to react. There was only time for courage in the form of a bare hand. Without hesitation, the server opened his closed fist, as if he was high-fiving the wall in slow-motion, and nonchalantly pressed his splayed palm into the bug; smashing it between the wall and his naked hand. He held the pose for 11 seconds, tricking the couple into thinking that he just needed a casual lean at the end of a long shift. After answering the final menu questions they had for him, he pushed himself off the wall, making sure to scrape all the roach gut remnants from the wall with his murderous hand. There could be no evidence of this. The couple went back to bickering about what they should order. The server calmly walked to the kitchen sink in back, roach entrails lining the inside of his now-closed hand. As he washed the evidence from his hands, he caught himself in the mirror. Things were different now.

Once, when I was a server, I smashed a roach with my bare hand. (Would’ve been nice if you saved us all the hassle of reading the above paragraph…) It was probably the bravest thing I’ve ever done. That’s not much of an exaggeration, either (no one was doubting that, Jimmy, but thx!) Squealing like the scared baby that I am was not an option in a crowded restaurant, so killing this roach without hesitation was the only way to avoid making a real scene. I still can’t believe I actually did it when what I really wanted to do was make a cry-face, say something like “oh my god EW!” and run over to a bigger, stronger ANYBODY while screaming “HELP!!!!!” Nobody knew it happened! If it sounds like I’m SUPER proud about this moment, it’s because I am…GLAD THAT’S COMING THROUGH!

I’m sorry I didn’t write last week, but I was busy being taught what actual bravery looks like.

About three years ago, I found a lump in The VPs boobie. Boobs are supposed to be fun and that WAS NOT FUN! We went and got it looked at and the docs told her to just come back every 6 months so they could keep an eye on it. Didn’t seem like they were overly concerned, so that was nice. The VP would go back every 6 months a few times and they’d basically tell her the same thing. But then life got like supes distracting, y’all! We got married, she got promoted, I got really incredibly good-looking after I rededicated myself to the gym and…The VP and I kinda’ forgot that she had a lump in her BOOBIE (my hope is that by capitalizing the word “Boobie” it makes this subject matter a little lighter…IS IT WORKING GUYS?!?!)

Then, one day, I thought my tooth exploded while eating a burrito. Thinking I was due for a root canal and major scary teeth stuff, I forced myself to go to the dentist…for the first time in like 5 years. Is that gross? Yeah, probably, but dentists are terrifying and everyone knows you don’t have to go until something hurts. RIGHT?!?! I’M A BABY, REMEMBER?!?! Something hurt, so I went. And, guess what? It wasn’t THAT scary. One cavity filling later, bravery street cred at an all-time high, I reminded The VP to get that lumperooski checked out again.

Hospitals are stupid scary and it’s not the smell or the art or the tile floors. If all hospitals had your favorite band playing live, for free while giving away beers and backrubs, you’d still hate going to the hospital. That’s why we should all be allowed to hit the person who says “I just hate hospitals.” NO SHIT! EVERYONE HATES HOSPITALS! And, spoiler alert, there are some parts within these hospitals that are scarier than others. The VP’s appointment was in one of these scarier areas. But, I got a cavity filled so I could talk to her about being brave. (Ever look back at something you did and are so embarrassed that you think about legally changing your name so you can just start from scratch? That’s me looking back at this.)

In early May, The VP and I went to the Breast Cancer Screening wing at the hospital to get her lump checked out again. The car ride there was the kind of quiet you get when trying to act casual in a stressful situation. Funny thing about not acknowledging stress is that it doesn’t go away. And when I say “funny thing,” you know I mean “a thing that’s not funny at all and just weighs you down,” right? Good, glad we’re on the same page. The VP was so cool, guys. She made a few jokes about my stupid sunglasses and kept asking if it was okay that I was missing a couple hours of work that morning to go with her. She talked about where we should get breakfast when it was done and what shows we should start watching that night. I believe The VPs itinerary that day read: wake up, have a coffee, get boob lump checked at the scary wing in the downtown hospital, take a pee, join the military, stop a carjacking in process, dance on the ledge of a tall building, have some eggs. At least something along those lines. She was fine: a fucking badass with a southern accent and a ponytail. They called her name and she was off into the back.

I got to watch an episode of “The Price is Right” in the waiting room. The jumping and screaming of strangers on the television didn’t settle my nerves. So I scanned Twitter and tried to watch funny Instagram videos without the volume because I didn’t have my headphones and you’re a psycho if you have the volume up on your phone in public. (I’M NOT A PSYCHO!)

It didn’t really work, though. The other horrible thing about hospitals is that your mind goes to the darkest places way too easily. And when you have the internet at your fingertips, those darkest places seem inevitable after a simple Google search. My mom has been through cancer twice, really rough both times, and I learned the lesson of not going to the internet…and, yet, I still went to the internet. If you don’t think internet addiction is a real thing, then do me a favor and get the hell away from me because YOU DENY THE WORLD! So with The VP in the back, my brain and heart volleyed between forceful optimism and paralyzing fear of the unknown. Drew Carey’s annoying voice and stupid fucking glasses played the soundtrack.

The VP walked out of the exam shrugging her shoulders and walking kinda’ fast. When I asked how it went, she gave me a “it’s fine. It’s fine.” When I pressed for details, however, she told me that we had to wait to talk until we were outside. This is also known as the “oh, fuck”-moment. She was repressed manic at this point. I hope I’m not saying that to normalize how I was feeling, but I think it’s accurate. As we got away from other people waiting on other results, she told me that the doctors wanted her to come back for a biopsy: the lump had shown “substantial growth” and may be breast cancer.

The next available appointment for a biopsy was 22 days later.

Which meant that the next three weeks were for worrying, pretending everything is fine while at work and in front of friends, and then distracting ourselves with television and alcohol. I would do check-ins and ask how she was feeling about stuff every few days and she would almost always respond that she was “okay.” There was not a truly enjoyable day in those 22. It was about managing fears and staying positive in the face of the unknown and the goddamn, unrelenting internet.

My job, which consists of a lot of alone time behind the wheel (wait, is Jimmy a tire fixer?!?!), wasn’t great for these few weeks. For me, alone time means imagination time and, normally, that equates to daydreams centered around “what if I had REALLY dedicated myself to golf when I was younger? Could I have been pro by now?” Imagination time, alone in the car, is when I get to picture my life being WAY better than it is now: cooler car, better hair, bigger bank account…maybe less insecurities? But for these weeks, “imagination time” morphed into me thinking about how lucky I am to have the life I do with The VP of Ops and how scary and SUCKY any other life would be for me.

“Game of Thrones” helped. Remember when I wrote about how we had gotten into that show? THIS IS WHY! I knew we needed a HIGHLY engrossing show to distract the both of us from the upcoming biopsy, so it was time to dive into the world of dragons and war and….like, a lot of nudity. (Quick aside: anyone else get a little uncomfortable watching all the sex scenes in “Game of Thrones” with your significant other? We’re not prudes, but I feel like I’m back in high school watching these scenes next to The VP. Sometimes, during the middle of one of these RACY scenes, I’ll catch her looking at me out of the corner of my eye and I’ll just blurt out “NOTHING! I JUST CARRY THIS TEXTBOOK WITH ME BECAUSE I LIKE READING IT SOMETIMES! NOTHING!”) Between Khalisi and Drago and Ned Stark and Joffrey (WHAT A DICK!) and allowing ourselves that extra glass of wine or scotch; we were somewhat able to distract ourselves.

When the day of the biopsy finally arrived, we had settled into a new normalcy of drinking a little too much and staying up a little too late watching “GOT”. Not knowing what was going on with The VPs lumperoni was normal, and somehow after 3 weeks, the not knowing had become somewhat comforting. If you don’t know something bad is going on, then maybe nothing bad is going on? I went into coach-mode throughout, giving her pep talks that I believed 1000%…and then I would call my Mom for a similar pep talk directed at me. The power of positive thinking was always something I sneered at as a sarcastic college kid. Then my mom got sick and all she asked was that we surround her with positivity. It fucking works, guys.

On the way to the hospital on biopsy day, The VP was nervous. There were tears the night before. She blamed the tears on a fear of needles. Belle and I did our best to give her hugs and calm her down. It wasn’t panic on her part; it was more of a plea to any higher power that may be listening her desire to go back to living a normal, underpaid but well-loved life. I take it back, not knowing was never normal; it was awful. How the hell was The VP having to stare cancer in the face when she has never had a cigarette or chewing tobacco or…worked in a coal mine? It should be me: the guy who smoked through college, but justified it by “only doing it when I drink”…only to move on to chewing tobacco, but justifying by “only doing it when I golf…or am with friends…or am away from The VP.” ‘God Damn It’ is a term I thought of a lot in these few weeks and then immediately apologized for because we needed all the help we could get. Religion and believing in things that are bigger than you are easy targets for humor, I get it; I’ve done it. But when the chips are down, you’re fuckin’ right I’m talking to someone that I pray has more say than I do. I talked to God and my dead Grandma every single one of those 22 days; never more than I did while in the waiting room later that morning.

They came to take The VP into the back right when we got there. Let’s rip this band-aid off. I told her that she wouldn’t feel a thing and reminded her that all of the awful things she had been through up until now prove that she is tougher than she gives herself credit for. There was the time she broke her leg and the time she got mugged and the time she split her ankle open and the time she moved to a completely new city without a job and made an entire life for herself. She could handle a big, dumb needle to the boob. Then she went in back and I started talking to people in my head.

I made deals in my head about things I would never do again and other things I would stop putting off. If these were true negotiations; I wouldn’t have said no to anything if it meant this biopsy didn’t hurt the way The VP feared it might. (Thankfully, God didn’t ask for my flat screen television…) “The Price is Right” wasn’t on this time; instead, I was treated to “The Today Show” on the waiting room TV. Granted, I wasn’t in the best of mindspace at this point, but that Hoda lady is insufferable. Can’t we just put videos of animals doing cute things on waiting room televisions? I went back to the scary world wide web in hopes of finding stories where biopsies felt good and always came back showing no signs of cancer. (Thanks for nothing, internet.)

The VP of Ops bopped out from the back about 45 minutes later with big eyes and a bigger smile. The biopsy didn’t hurt! They didn’t have immediate results, though. We’d have to wait another “1 to 2 days” for them to call her with the results. More waiting was okay because you celebrate small steps when dealing with health issues. She had gotten through a big, hollow needle in the boob with a smile on her face. Time to go celebrate with pancakes (she actually got quinoa cakes for breakfast, but “celebrating with pancakes” sounded better than “celebrating with quinoa cakes.”)

She chilled at home for the rest of the day and I went back to work. Neither of us had told anyone what was going on this entire month aside from our parents. I definitely wanted to, but “I’m scared my wife may have breast cancer” is a tough conversation starter. We had another 1 to 2 days of keeping this secret before it would either go away or become another scarier thing entirely. We stayed up REAL late that night watching “GOT”.

We both went to work the next day not knowing when “the call” would come. I was in charge of training a new employee and The VP was to manage an admin staff and book flights for bosses because booking your own flight is too fucking stressful for some people apparently. I imagined her listening to higher-ups complain about how stressful their travel schedules had been that day and got angry at my desk just thinking about it. I may have planned exactly what I’d say to these people the next time I got to see them. You could say I was handling this stress AGGRESSIVELY.

At exactly 1:25 PM, The VP called to say that her doctor had just given her “good news.” No cancer.

So we got to go back to breathing again. I let out the most heartfelt “FUCK YEAH!” I’ve ever said and my eyes welled up. She giggled a little because I guess you can’t yell “Fuck Yeah” when you work in a tall office building. I told her how proud of her I was, and am, and we talked about the power of positive thinking and the AMAZING PEOPLE THAT WORK IN HOSPITALS. Holy crap, those people are a higher breed than human. The VP will have surgery to get the lumperooski removed and that won’t be the most fun time ever, but she’ll be fine. And we’re thrilled to go back to living our normal, boring, well-loved lives.

I’m sorry I didn’t write last week; this was why. And I meant to post this yesterday, but it ran long and I wanted to make sure I wrote it the way I wanted to.

I wanted to write this because when we were in the midst of waiting and being scared and getting trapped in the panic room of “imagination time,” I would search the internet looking for an uplifting story. Maybe this can be that for some people. The whole thing sucked because stress stinks and hospitals are scary. But, I got to see my wife act like a brave, grown woman in the face of an adversity that would bring me to secret tears in public bathrooms. She bit her lip, nodded and carried on. I got to see this with my Mom during her two bouts with cancer, and it’s the absolute most inspiring thing you can ever see. As much as it sucks to be going through, getting to see understated, everyday courage in those closest to you is amazing. It deepened my love and appreciation for my Mom and it has done the same now for my wife.

Someday, this big scary world wide web will allow our kids to read about how their Dad wanted to cry when he saw a roach and how their Mom laughed after a biopsy. And I couldn’t look more forward to being outed as the wimp in our boring, too-small, but well-loved home.

I love you Erin.