I’m in Love with My Plastic Surgeon

I’m in love with my plastic surgeon. Well, maybe not in love, but something verging on wanting to eat dinner with him every night, and if that’s not love, what is?

Sure he’s older than me … by a lot. How old? If we must get technical, he’s old enough to be my father. That is, if he knocked my mom up in college. (Not pre-med college. Pre-med would have gotten me out of the, “weird, he’s too old zone.” But if I were a medical school knock-up baby.)

I picture dating him. We’re in his car, and it’s no doubt fancy and made in Europe. This is when the age difference becomes a problem. (Even in my fantasies I allow reality to sneak in.) I point out he’s driving too slow, or that he can cut in front of that car ahead. I ask him for medical advice. He tells me to make an appointment to see a doctor. I remind him he is a doctor.

Why do I love him? Could it be his Spanish accent? Perhaps the way he oozes class? Is it how he examines my body so intensely that I can practically see the artistic wheels of his brain turning? His eyebrows dart up, and an expression that he just witnessed something extraordinary flashes across his face.

It’s none of those things that make me love him, though they do help make the visits more bearable. You see, he is giving me back something that was taken away. Four days after my 40th birthday I was told I had invasive cancer in my right breast. The angry tumor had infiltrated blood vessels, all the while encouraging other cells to start multiplying in different areas.

Mastectomies are amputations of sorts, and how very fortunate we are that (if a candidate) our breasts can be reconstructed right away.  Before we even wake from the anesthesia initially given to use for the breast removal, plastic surgeons slip into the operating room and take over.

This does not make the process any less traumatic, though. The day before my mastectomy, I said farewell to my right breast. I apologized for wanting it larger in junior high and high school. I thanked it for nursing my two children when they were infants. It did its job and served me well. It was a fine little breast, and now it was sick and needed to be removed before it made the rest of me sicker.

The first time I met with my plastic surgeon, I wept gulping messy sobs. All of the biopsies, tests, and other doctor visits I could detach from, but not this. As he showed me where my breast would be removed and what he would do, panic set in.

“But I like my breast,” I said weakly (as if that would change the course of events, as if that would make him say, “Never mind then! Let’s call this whole cancer thing off!”).

“I understand,” he said. “But it has cancer.”

We sat in silence as I digested this, until I was ready to gather myself and listen.

Then he started measuring my shoulders, chest, and my other breast. His eyes lit up. He got that look he gets. He told me how he would take skin from one part of my body and use it. He was confident, and his confidence made me feel confident. I went from despair to hope.

It has been three weeks since my mastectomy. Seeing my body for the first time after was unsettling. I looked lopsided and unfamiliar. I felt less feminine. I still feel less feminine. But my plastic surgeon understands this, and he quickly fills the uncomfortable contraption inserted under my muscle and skin with saline. I watch in fascination as a new breast is formed right before my eyes. I look at him and we smile.

Cancer tries to steal dreams. It tries to infest our healthy body parts with its angry, jealous cells. But we can fight back just as viciously. And we can fight back beautifully and artistically, something cancer cannot do.

My plastic surgeon’s work is pristine and I am overwhelmed. I tell him he is a magician and he agrees (he does not lack pride in his artisanship). It was then I realized I loved him. Not that kind of love, but a love of gratefulness and appreciation.

But I’d still have dinner with him every night, too.

 

 

 

Fight Like A Butterfly, Sting Like A Bee?

According to the article Can This Marriage Be Saved? sixty-nine percent of marital conflicts are never resolved. Sixty-nine percent! This is an alarmingly high number, and it sheds some light on why forty to fifty percent of marriages end in divorce. But the question still remains: why are all of these marital conflicts not being resolved?

Dr. John Gottman, a psychologist quoted in Can This Marriage Be Saved?, attributed unresolved conflicts to communication, or lack thereof. Dr. Gottman states that couples who resolve arguments tend to communicate nicely. They deliver their complaints with less of a blow (think flyweight boxing verses heavyweight). Meanwhile, couples who don’t communicate never resolve their discrepancies, thus leading to the eventual demise of the relationship.

While Dr. Gottman clearly pinpoints the main ingredient (communication) for relationship longevity, I felt it needed to be expanded. Why, exactly, are these couples not communicating? How are they fighting so that nothing is being resolved?

I took to the streets, pen in hand (and depending on the neighborhood, mace can in my other hand) and began surveying married couples. The question posed: when you and your spouse fight, how does he (or she) act?

A surprising discovery was not simply the lack of communication. Most did indeed communicate. However, they all had unique fighting styles. The categories are listed below.

The Convincers – also known as Verbal Gymnasts, the Convincers have the innate ability to convince you that you’re the one who is wrong. They stop at nothing to convince you, so arguments generally last for hours. Whether it is pure exhaustion – or they are finally persuaded – spouses of Convincers usually throw in the towel and eventually declare they were wrong.

The Clammer Uppers – these spouses stop talking because they are so overwhelmed with emotions they simply shut down. (Or they fear saying something they will really regret.) Some people call this  “the silent treatment.” Did she hear you apologize? Your guess is as good as mine, because if she did hear you, you would never know. Convincers love Clammer Uppers because they can continue to convince with no interruptions.

Taker Offers – similar to the Clammer Uppers but with more energy. The Taker Offers will physically leave the premises of the fight. This may mean storming out of the house or restaurant. If enclosed in a car, Taker Offers have been known to shove the offending person out of the car and drive off, leaving the spouse stranded.

Reactors – you’re mad because she’s mad.

“Now I’m in a bad mood too. Here I was, just watching the game and enjoying my beer, but now it’s ruined because you’re mad at me again.”

The mood of Reactors seems to be contingent upon the mood of the spouse.

Directors – tell their spouse what she or he needs to do to end the fight. Apology insincere? Who cares! Fight is over! Let’s go out for dinner already! Convincers and Directors could NEVER be married to one another. The Convincer would be too busy trying to convince the Director, while the Director would be too busy telling the Convincer what he needs to do in order to conclude the argument.

Moper – a personification of Eeyore, the Moper will throw the biggest pity party of the century. The Moper has a fighting style similar to that of the Convincer, but much more pathetic.

 “I know I forgot your birthday again. I’m so dumb. I’m the worst husband ever. You should never have married me. Other husbands would have remembered your birthday. You can go marry them. I deserve it.”

Mopers and Directors make great couples. A Director would simply tell the Moper what needs to be done to soothe things over.

“You’re right! I should go out and marry someone else. Now, let’s go shoe shopping because you’re buying me five pairs of shoes and you’re going to love every second of it. Got it?”

Conversely, Mopers and Reactors would never make it. Once the Moper turned all mopey, so would the Reactor.

“You’re right. You are so dumb for forgetting my birthday again. And I’m dumb for marrying you. We’re both two dumb people. And now I’m too depressed to go find another husband.”

The last fighting style identified was the Rehasher. During an argument, a Rehasher will suddenly bring up issues (issues you thought were resolved) from the past. Similar to Mohammad Ali’s famous phantom punch that abruptly ended the boxing match with Sonny Liston by knock out, the Rehasher will verbally strike their unknowing spouse, leaving them stunned. Bewildered. Speechless.

“I forgot to take out the garbage? Well! At least I didn’t back the car into a telephone pole.”

“That was five years ago!”

“Maybe it was, but my not taking out the garbage didn’t cost us a $500 deductible, now did it?”

To take Dr. Gottman’s expertise a smidgen further, it appears couples may not be communicating because of their fighting styles. How can a Moper talk things out with a Reactor when both turn sullen? Or a Director communicate with a Convincer with they are talking over each other?  As Leo Tolstoy said, “what counts in making a happy marriage, is not so much how compatible you are, but how you deal with incompatibility.”

References: Can This Marriage Be Saved?

Really Bad Romantic Ideas

Really Bad Romantic Ideas

Romantic getaway. What comes to mind? Is it snuggling by a crackling fire in a cozy bed and breakfast? Perhaps it’s strolling, hand in hand, down a beach that has sand as fine and soft as baby powder. Or, if you’re my father, it’s taking your wife to a tractor museum in upstate New York, or to a rustic lodge in the Adirondacks that serves such fine delicacies as locally caught possum and squirrel.

While tractor museums and lodges that serve animals typically scraped off the interstate as road kill would be at the bottom of most Romantic Getaway lists (or, for that matter, at the top of the Worst Romantic Getaway lists), there are several places that challenge my father’s idea for inciting romance. So, without further ado:

The Underground Writer’s Worst Romantic Outings

1. The Museum of Bad Art – Never mind strolling the majestic halls of the Museum of Modern Art in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. To un-romance your gal, bring her to The Museum of Bad Art in Boston, Massachusetts. The MOBA (and I quote) “is the world’s only museum dedicated to the collection, preservation, exhibition and celebration of bad art in all it’s form.” Most of the art is found in thrift stores and garage sales. Some is even donated by the artist themselves. (I suppose bad publicity is sometimes better than no publicity?) Nothing will kill the mood faster then gazing at a floating head in a tornado vortex (at least, that’s what they think is going on in the painting – they’re not quite sure since the painting was rescued from someone’s garbage) or musing over the demon-possessed mother-daughter self portrait. (www.museumofbadart.org

bad art

Aliens? Or a hypoxic mother with severely (and I mean SEVERELY) sunburned, green haired daughter?

2. The Kansas Barbed Wire Museum – For those who have an insatiable curiosity for barbed wire, take your lady to La Crosse, Kansas where there is a building devoted solely to the history and varieties (over two thousand!) of the “Devil’s rope.” Couples can mosey past displays of … well … barbed wire, and see various historical tools used for … barbed wire. If still awake, visitors can peruse the Barbed Wire Hall of Fame, and perhaps pick up a trinket at the gift shop. From their website (www.barbedwiremuseum.com) it appears all of the wire is behind glass. This is for a reason. Wives are prevented from attacking their husbands with the very barbed wire used in the museum’s exhibits.

3. Bible Themed Mini Golf Course – Putt your way through the Old Testament, New Testament and miracles in Lexington, Kentucky. Just don’t slice your ball into the “water to blood” river, or stymie your sweetheart’s ball on the green of Calvary. Hopefully a lover’s quarrel won’t erupt by the time you reach Jesus’ Tomb hole. Nothing sours a date quicker than an out-of-bounds shot into Jonah and the Whale hole … or bringing your date to this place. (www.bibleminigolfcourse.com)

IMG_2877

“Jesus feeds 5,000?! Maybe we can get a free meal too!”

4. Idaho Potato Museum – Don’t spuds deserve a museum to call their own? Probably not. But nonetheless, Blackfoot, Idaho thinks so. Have your picture taken alongside the World’s Largest Styrofoam Potato (take THAT Eiffel Tower!), before stroking the burlap tuxedo worn by the very first Potato Commissioner (be careful not to swoon). If you and your date haven’t passed out from excitement by this point, you can view the World’s Largest Potato Chip before purchasing novelty foods that contain (you guessed it) potatoes as their main ingredient in the museum’s gift shop. (www.idahopotatomuseum.com)

5.  Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix Plant – Want to really depress (and not impress) your date? Bring her to Chelsea, Michigan to visit the Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix Plant. Schedule (yes, reservations are required, believe it or not) a tour of their factory. You and your partner will watch an informative video, receive a product sample, and visit the packaging plant. After this, your relationship will be over in a jiffy. (www.jiffytours.com)

jiffy mix

“This is riveting. I can only imagine where we’re staying tonight.”

The Underground Writer’s Strange/Terrible Places to Stay

1. Dog Bark Park – Un-romance your lady in the stomach of a 30 foot wooden beagle. Cottonwood, Idaho is home to Dog Bark Park, the first and only (for a reason) motel room in a building shaped like a dog. When weary of relaxing in the gut of the hound, couples can scurry up the ladder to the beagle’s snout and enjoy the Idaho views. (www.dogparkinn.com)

Dog_Bark_Park_Inn

“Is it me? Or does this place smell like a wet dog?”

2. Budget Inn – Booking a night in a motel with the word “budget” in the name is never, ever a good thing. Take a break from frugality for a moment, please. Budget Inn, located in Parsippany, New Jersey, should really be called Disaster Inn. Reviews on Tripadvisor.com included such comments as, “musty odor”, “stay away” and “straight out of a horror film.”  You know those seedy looking motels you drive by and wonder, “who would ever stay there?” The Budget Inn in Parsippany, NJ is one of those places. (www.budgetinnparsippany.com)

3. Wigwam Motel – Sleep in a Wigwam? Cool, right? Think again. While the outside of these wigwams (located in Holbrook, AZ) may seem kitschy, the inside? Not so much. The novelty of spending the night in a mock wigwam ends once you unlock your wigwam door. Per online reviews, wigwam rooms are said to be in need of a good scrub, one guest was concerned about her safety (wigwam doors are not the strongest, and the wigwams are located near a main highway), and being approached by local riffraff  is not uncommon. However, (and that is a big however), the Wigwam Motel offers beds, and a bathroom, and shelter from the elements that only a wigwam can offer. Want to severely disappoint your date? Bring them here. (www.wigwammotelAZ.com)

Her: How adorable! Him (thinking): SCORE!

Her: How adorable!
Him (thinking): SCORE!

Her: Oh. Him: It's a Wigwam, for crying out loud. What did you expect? Her: I get the bed on the right.  Him: Oh.

Her: Oh.
Him: It’s a Wigwam, for crying out loud. What did you expect?
Her: I get the bed on the right.
Him: Oh.

4. The Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast – I have previously written about this rather strange place (click HERE for my review). For those who love a good scare, or for the gruesome, you can sleep in the very room where Lizzie Borden is said to have hacked her mother to death with a hatchet. Forget chocolate dipped strawberries, a bottle of bubbly, or Barry White’s music to set the mood. Try an annual re-enactment of the slaughterings (if your date happened to book your stay during the anniversary of Mr. and Mrs. Borden’s bludgeoning), a tour of the house (“… and on your right is the room where Mr. Borden was napping when Lizzie whacked him to death”), and a gift shop that offers ax shaped cookie cutters, t-shirts, and mugs with photographs depicting the scene of the murder. Perhaps after a sleepless night (many guests absolutely swear Lizzie’s ghost still roams the house with her hatchet) you can visit the Museum Of Bad Art and look at terrible paintings through bleary eyes.

*All photographs are property of Google Images*

Jerks – Just To Make It Interesting

One of my favorite Far Sides is the one where God is creating the earth.  He’s in a heavenly kitchen, and the world is sitting on the counter. God is brandishing a salt shaker with the word “JERKS” written across it.  As he is about to shake the jerks onto earth, God is thinking, “Just to make it interesting.”

We can all relate to this. I often wonder if the cap to the Jerk salt shaker fell off and instead of a sprinkling, there was a dumping.  They’re on the roads, standing in line at the grocery store, at the DMV, and (oddly enough) employed in the curtain department of JC Penny.  Jerks are simply everywhere.  As Jerry Seinfeld so eloquently stated: “People. They’re the worst.”

Sometimes we have to deal with a certain jerk on a regular basis. This may be a co-worker or relative.  Or a friend of a friend, or someone who happens to stop at the same coffee shop – at the same exact time every morning – as you do.  While we may try our darnedest to evade these people, the fact is, often they are unavoidable.

There was a time in my life when I had to deal with a jerk on a fairly frequent basis.  My tolerance was wearing thin, and I sought advice from a friend who has a knack for dealing with difficult people.

One of her suggestions (I admit, I was never brave enough to do this) was to keep a notebook and pen with me at all times.  Then, when The Jerk said something irritating, I would simply open the notebook and start writing. After I was done, I was to snap the notebook closed and set it aside; until The Jerk said something maddening again, in which case I was to open the notebook back up and start jotting something down.

Let’s imagine this situation:  You’re talking to someone and suddenly they whip out a notebook and start writing, only to close the notebook and look back up at you as though nothing happened.  A few minutes later, out comes the notebook again.  When you ask what they’re writing, they answer all blase, “Oh, nothing.”

Wouldn’t that make you feel a little … unsettled?  Which is something all jerks need every now and then.

My friend also suggested that every time I come in contact with The Jerk, I should have a mental theme song. My friend found that the Wicked Witch’s these song from the Wizard of Oz worked well with the jerk in her life.  I chose circus music, and indeed it added a comical element to The Jerk. (Note: you don’t have to limit it to music per se. When I shared this advice with someone else, that person chose the mental sound of the Gestapo’s sirens whenever her mother-in-law’s car pulled up in front of her house.)

The last suggestion was the one my friend wanted me to use – and rightly so.  She reminded me that people are jerks for a reason. Perhaps the jerk was raised by fellow jerks.  Or perhaps the jerk used to be a great person but became soured by something devastating.  Maybe the jerk isn’t normally a jerk, but is simply having a really bad day and has run out of tolerance for others. (We’ve all been there.)  And maybe, just maybe, we’re the one who is being a bit jerky.

Basically, my friend was suggesting that we need to have patience, and we should try to practice grace with others.  Does this excuse jerky behavior? Absolutely not.  But it does serve as a good reminder that we don’t know what is going on in the life of the jerk.  And maybe if we did know, we wouldn’t consider that person a jerk.

Now.  If only I could use that frame of mind with the lady who just waltzed through the door and didn’t thank me for holding it open for her.