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I Wish I Was Hard of Smelling

“My mattress smells.”

“I suppose your refrigerator is running, too?”

“Uh, no.  Who is this?”

“Who is this?”

“This isn’t The Hapless Mattress Discount Megastore, is it?”


“Guess you can’t help me with my smelly mattress, then, huh?”

Dial tone.

Next call…

“Uh, is this The Hapless Mattress Discount Megastore?”

“Yes, how can I help you?”

“Well, um, we got a mattress from you last week and it, uh, smells.  Like mildew or musty stuff or something.  What should we do?”

“Have you tried taking all of the bedding off and putting a bowl of vinegar on the bed?”

“Not really.”

“O.K.  Try that, and give it a few more days.”

“Hmm.  I never thought of that.  Thanks.”

Whatimeant2say was, “Give me a new mattress that doesn’t smell, Bub.  None of my friends got smelly mattresses when they bought new ones, and I’m pretty sure you gave me one that took a ride in Seinfeld’s armpit car.”

But I didn’t.  Now my bedroom smells like vinegar and stinky mattress.

“You don’t understand what I’m up against. This is a force more powerful than anything you can imagine. Even Superman would be helpless against this kind of stench.”
– Jerry, describing the B.O. smell in his car, in “The Smelly Car


IBS = I’m Being Snubbed

I was recently diagnosed with Irritable Bowel Syndrome.  As far as I’m concerned, this is not a diagnosis.  To me, IBS means “I Be Stumped”, meaning the doctor has no idea what is causing my intestinal discomforts and just wants to start throwing some pills at me to shut me up.

The fact that I have not actually talked to my doctor except for a brief introduction right before my colonoscopy may have something to do with my lack of faith in her advice.  When I was first referred to this doctor she had no available appointments for the next 20 years, so I settled for meeting with the Nurse Practitioner instead.

The Nurse Practitioner was very nice, and seemed very knowledgeable, but I was the one that recommended I get tested for Celiac Disease after X-rays showed nothing unusual.  Me recommending a test for myself seemed to me to be a reverse of the way these things are supposed to go.

She also recommended that I Google high fiber diets, which was further proof, as far as I was concerned, that the need to pay someone for professional medical advice is becoming obsolete.

Considering that I had to go somewhere else for all of my tests, and then was told that I should Google what I should be eating, I don’t really feel like my insurance company and I got our money’s worth for these office visits.

The nurse seemed surprised when I asked if it would actually be the doctor to whom I was referred that would be performing my colonoscopy.  Considering I had never met her, I thought that was a fair question.  For all I knew, the procedure was going to be done by a plumber.  “Of course!” she responded, apparently offended by the question.

After the colonoscopy, the doctor apparently told my husband that I should call the office to schedule a “follow-up” in 4 weeks.  I dutifully did this, suspecting the worthlessness in pursuing the matter any further.

“O.K., Mrs. Cap’n Firepants, you are all set for your follow-up.”

I was about to hang up when I had a thought.

“Uh, this appointment is with the doctor, right?”

“Well, uh, no.  It’s with the Nurse Practitioner.  The doctor is only available every other Friday and the fifth Thursday of the month during Leap Years.”

“I just called and said, ‘I need to schedule my follow up with the doctor,’ and you didn’t feel like it was worth telling me that I wouldn’t actually be WITH THE DOCTOR?” I said.

“Would you like to see the doctor?”

“I believe that’s what I meant when I asked to schedule an appointment with her, yes.”

Oh, great.  I realize that I have probably been a little too sarcastic, and now I picture the receptionist labeling my chart, like poor Elaine on Seinfeld.

Elaine: I was looking at my chart [at the doctor’s office], and it said that I was difficult. Why would they write that?

Jerry: They’ve gotten to know you.

She finds that every doctor in the city has her chart, and tries to get Kramer to steal it for her.

ELAINE: Where’s my chart? Did you get it? 


ELAINE: What? What happened?

KRAMER: I don’t know. But now they got a chart on me.

Thanks to for the image - which I am sure they created in their own studio with a stunt double.

The receptionist miraculously finds a date on which I can meet with the doctor and I enthusiastically put it on my calendar despite the 20 other things with which it conflicts.

“Thank you so much!” I say, hoping to erase both the memory of my earlier sarcasm from her memory and the black mark from my chart.

“You’re welcome,” she says, and hangs up.

I’m screwed.

I Have a Shrinkage Problem

Last week, I posted “Somebody Spiked my Blog.” Because my other blog, which I refer to as my Control Blog, had an unusual spike in site visits that had no reasonable explanation.  I was being a bit whiny because I put a lot more time into this blog, and had never gotten nearly that amount of hits in one day.

So, this week, my Control Blog started experiencing another mysterious climb, and I was about to throw up my hands in despair.  Fortunately, one of my friends explained that her husband had sent out an email recommending the blog to quite a few people that day.  Mystery solved.

I woke up the next morning and, as every normal person does, I raced to my computer to check my blog stats.  The day before, Control blog had gotten a grand total of 127 hits.  Good for Control Blog.  Let’s see how Blog on Which I Devote Every Waking Moment Writing and/or Thinking About is doing.  Wow!  WTF!

Blog on Which I Devote Every Waking… got 237 hits yesterday?!!!  How did that happen?

Wait a second, I noticed, that’s the stats for today.  At 6 a.m., Whatimeant2say Blog had over 200 hits!  Did I get Freshly Pressed?  Nope.  What’s going on here?

Apparently, I’d been Stumbled Upon*.  BIG TIME.  By the end of the day, I had 500 hits on my blog.  I know I tend to hyperbolize on this blog, but I swear I’m not making this number up.

I also swear that I am not bragging.  Believe it or not, I realized what was going to happen way before the number climbed past the 300 mark.

Post Dramatic Success Syndrome – the unfortunate aftermath that results from a ridiculous elevation of blog site stats only to be followed the next day by an astoundingly high speed crash to more realistic numbers.

My suspicion is that my most recent post, “Wonderbutt Weight Loss Program” triggered a bunch of stumbles for people who had a genuine interest in actually decreasing their personal poundage.  Imagine their surprise in being directed to a blog on a bulldog’s very ineffective food and exercise routine.  Who does not have a butt to which most people would aspire.

So, now I get to watch my stats shrink like George Costanza’s you know what when it’s exposed to cold water in a pool in the Hamptons as the Stumblers continue to fumble their way past my site, dismissing my trivial post in the hopes of discovering an easy way to achieve a Butt of Wonder.

Is This the Butt You Were Looking For?

*StumbleUpon is a site that basically recommends other sites to you based on your interests.

Dragging Bottom

Today’s topic is The Bra.  Don’t worry, guys.  I’ve got you covered too.

It all started when I told one of my friends that she just needed to Google “Wonderbutt” to find my blog.  Then it occurred to me that I had actually never done this and I really had no idea as to what results would come up with what, to some, might be a slightly dubious search term.  So, I checked.

I was happy to verify that some of my blog posts actually do show up under such a search.  But, of course, that’s not the only thing.

The first thing that caught my eye after noting the links to my posts was a site for the “Wonder Butt Bra”.  The image that came into my mind upon reading this was not the same as the graphic that accompanied it on Google.  Apparently, someone actually filed a patent for such a contraption.  Designed to raise up your butt, of course.  I’ve often thought I needed this very item.

After puzzling over why this invention had not become an immediate smashing success, I went back to my first image.  You see, I’ve been kind of noticing that, as Wonderbutt has gained weight, he has also developed that feature dreaded by all males – man boobs.  I am serious, People, his chest is dragging.  And he is apparently and understandably sensitive about it because he tries to bite my camera lens whenever I try to get proof.

This, of course, led me to thinking about the greatest lingerie for men ever invented – by Kramer – on Seinfeld.  The Bro.  This is what Wonderbutt will need if he does not get serious about losing weight.  If that’s not incentive, what is?

So, I’m thinking that surely Wonderbutt is not the only dog suffering from this affliction, and there should be a product developed to rectify it.  As always, when I feel a new invention idea coming on, I get really excited about all of the money I’m about to make.  Then, I Google it to make sure no one has beat me to it.  That is how I found the website for dogs with bras.  Yes, People, there is an actual website devoted to pictures of dogs wearing women’s upper undergarments.

And I am looking at it.

And, if the site is to be believed, the audiences of “Two and Half Men” and “The View” got an eyeful as well.

I think I have reached an official new low.

Are there bras to support sagging morals and lift up withering wits?

Oh, the Inanity!

I hate this. I had every intention of typing a typically inane blog full of sarcastic comments, and all that wants to come out on my keyboard are silly sentiments about courage and civil rights.

I just watched the movie, The Help, and now I’m watching Stephen Colbert (need to stop doing that while I’m actually trying to write) and he’s interviewing Gloria Steinem. I feel very small.

This internal conflict is putting me in a funk as I consider my non-heroic life, so I have switched to David Letterman, on which he is showing stupid human tricks, which makes me think about stupid pet tricks, leading me to wonder if my bulldog’s Stevie Wonder routine would qualify.

Before I could embark on this hopeful digression, though, my Help/Steinem inspired conscience kicks out the question of the political correctness of comparing my bulldog’s odd behavior to a blind, African-American singer.

I like to think I’m not racist or biased against people with special abilities, but what if I’m one of those people who has absolutely no self-awareness?

So I am watching my bulldog like a hawk, hoping that he will do something less fraught with controversy that I can post to prove that I am a very tolerant person. Being a bulldog, he is stubbornly refusing to perform a Lady Gaga routine, choosing instead to snore on the couch.

The golden retriever is no help either. She is much too mature to perform any stupid pet tricks, and barely tolerates the ones that the bulldog displays.

Apparently I am going about this whole blogging thing wrong, trying to watch T.V. as I write, and attempting to compose something meaningless right on the heels of watching something with meaning. I need to watch a Seinfeld episode and start over again.

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