Just another reason I'm glad my parents are internet-illiterate.

Scott and I are going to a concert tomorrow night with one of my cousins and his wife, in Tulsa, which means we're going to spend the weekend with my parents. Now, I love my parents, they are wonderful people and I enjoy spending time with them. But they are the most conservative people I know, which can put a damper on things.

You need to understand that when I say conservative, I mean that I think Jesus was more liberal than my parents. No cursing (you don't even say "butt" as in your ass, or "sucks" as in this sucks big fat hairy balls, around my parents), no drinking, no deviant behavior of any kind. I hid my belly button ring from them, until it was ripped out about 4 months after I got it (which hurt like hell, but I digress). I hid my tongue ring from them for a few months, then when I gave up on that, my mom was so disappointed that she called my Nana and asked her to tell me she didn't like it. Luckily that plan backfired because when Nana saw it she said she thought it was cute. They still don't know about my tattoo. And I will never forget this conversation, as I lliterally had my hand on the front door knob, about a month before my wedding, about to meet up with Scott for a three-day trip to find a place to live in northeast Missouri:

Dad (apparently all too aware that Scott and I would be spending two nights, unchaperoned, in the same hotel room): Now, don't you go up there and be having sex and getting yourself pregnant.

I froze, mortified, despite the fact that there was only my parents and myself in the house. I had no idea how to respond.

Mom: Oh, don't worry, that's why I made her that doctor's appointment for next week. She's going to have a female exam and get on birth control.

At this point I just wanted to get the f*ck out of there, but seeing as how I was unable to do much more than stutter, "I-I, uhh, i-it's, wu-well..." I was pretty much stuck until I figured a way to extricate myself from the most uncomfortable conversation anyone has ever had.

Dad: Well, that's good, just remember, you're not married yet.

I should mention here that Scott and I had been dating for over three years, while we each had our own apartments in Norman he pretty much lived with me and we had been having (safe, responsible, birth-controlled) sex for most of our relationship. However, my parents remained blissfully in the dark about most of that. Any time they came to town, we rushed to hide any trace of Scott in my apartment. When we visited my parents, not only did we (obviously) have to sleep in separate rooms, we had to be on separate floors. Seriously. I had to sleep downstairs with my mom in my parents' room and Scott and my dad would each take one of the upstairs bedrooms. But I was not about to call attention to my sexual history just to prove to them that I was a good, responsible, pregnancy-wary daughter.


Needless to say, I finally got away from the most horrible conversation anyone has ever had, we found a place to live, got married, and so on. Now, even though we are both pushing 30, any time my parents come to visit, instead of hiding any trace of Scott, I hide any trace of alcohol. I actually have cabinet space devoted to last-minute wine rack stashing.

But you're an adult, you can do what you want, you argue. You make a fine point, but with my parents I prefer to avoid the conflict that would no doubt ensue, fueled mostly by their disappointment in my lack of adherence to the singular direction of their moral compass. Also, I truly love my parents and have so much gratitude for everything they've done for me over the course of my life that what some people might consider a serious case of vaginitis when it comes to standing up to my parents, I prefer to look at as respect for our differences and a desire to help them maintain their peace of mind.

Back to the dilemma of the weekend. Scott has big plans to get wa-wa-wa-wasted Saturday, and I would very much like to be right there with him. My cousin's wife recently found out she's preggo, so we have a designated driver (safety first, kids), so the only thing limiting the level of my potential drunkenness is the fact that, post-concert festivities we'll be returning to the site of my childhood sheltering and repression. I pointed this out to Scott when he mentioned his plans to get (I shit you not, but I love him so don't judge) "crunk" Saturday night and he countered with, "Oh, come on, your parents go to bed so early there's no way they'll still be up when we get back." I will grant him that my mom will likely expire for the night no later than 9 or 10 p.m. But my dad still has a tendency to wait up, despite my 28 years on this earth and my five and a half years of marriage.

I have, over the years, gone out and enjoyed a few drinks with friends while staying with my parents' but I have always managed to reign it in before I reach the point of obvious intoxication, and I always make sure to have a mint or a gum handy, and I don't think I've ever greeted my dad reeking of alcohol. But while I certainly don't want to be Debbie Downer and cut Scott off tomorrow, because to be quite honest we could both really use a night of drunken debauchery right about now, I am concerned that we will be found out. And I have a valid reason for concern, and it honestly has nothing to do with being afraid of how he'll act: for some reason, after even just a few beers, I can always smell the alcohol on Scott.

Perhaps I'm just accustomed to his natural musk (sorry, I don't know what else to call it). Or perhaps I'm overly sensitive because of the vodka-church incident. In college my friend Miranda and I convinced Scott and her boyfriend at the time to accompany us to church. We had arranged to have the two of them share a place, seeing as how they both pretty much lived with each of us in our own apartments but needed a place of their own to avoid scnadalizing our parents. This particular weekend, we had a party at their place Saturday night and apparently they stayed up until the wee hours, sitting on the roof, killing a liter of vodka. I leaned over to Miranda during the service and whispered that Scott either forgot to shower or else he was seeping alcohol from his pores. She said Josh smelled like a brewery. We were both embarrassed beyond belief, especially since it was a full house and the guys definitely had people close enough on their other sides to catch a whiff anytime we stood up or sat down. And if you've ever been to a Baptist church, you know there's a lot of up and down before the sermon starts.

Over lunch they told us just how much they had drank and quite frankly we were impressed that they weren't stumbling around and slurring their words. But ever since I took Scott to church sweating vodka, I've been a little paranoid that whenever he decides to tie one on, everyone can smell it on him. Maybe I'll just make sure to leave his cologne in the car and spray him down when we pull in the drive. Did I mention we'll be going to church with my parents Sunday morning?

Tripping down memory lane.

This weekend Scott finally got around to unpacking/sorting through about 8 boxes of stuff that's been sitting in our "office" since we moved in (i.e., since July). While the boxes included mostly textbooks, binders full of class notes and old mail, rousing no real interest on my part, there were a few gems:

1. A newsletter from a hospital that he worked at a couple of different summers in college. He pulled it out of a file folder, looked at it a minute, turned to a certain page and showed me the picture of a guy, covering up the name.

Scott: Who do you think that is?

Me: I have no idea. Should I?

Scott: Come on, who does it look like?

Me: Well, it looks kinda like C-----, but I know it's not him.

Scott: (triumphantly, as I finish my last sentence) Yes! Doesn't it look just like him? (Starts to chuckle). That's why I saved this! That guy totally looks like C-----!

Me: (laughing hysterically) You really kept that - (almost falling off the couch from laughter) - because that guy kind of looks like C-----?

Scott: (somewhat proudly) Yup! This is from (checking date) July of 2000.

Guys, I knew my dear hubby has a sentimental streak (he has, in the past, saved various Valentine's/Easter/Christmas candy given to him by me, as well as a chocolate racecar Valentine from his little brother, despite my insistance that when people give you candy, they intend for you to eat it) but this momentarily surpassed even my comprehension capabilities (hence the hysterical laughter when I realized he was serious). He kept, for over a decade, a newsletter with a picture of a guy who kind of looked like a friend of his. Yet every time we move he complains about the amount of stuff I have...

2. You might see these tickets and wonder what concert or game we're going to soon. Well, friends, look more closely and you'll see that these tickets are from 2007. To be more specific, the January 1, 2007 Fiesta Bowl featuring Oklahoma and Boise State, which was a sad, sad day for Sooner fans, but that's beside the point. To fully appreciate this story, I have to take you all the way back to December of 2004. OU was going to the Big 12 Championship game, and it being our last year we wanted to go. Scott then suggested taking my parents with us since they'd only been to one other OU game. What a great, sweet, fun plan, right? And so he got the tickets. Only instead of the 4 tickets we needed, he got 10. His plan was to sell the other 6 on eBay, hopefully making enough to pay for all four of our tickets in the process. Only he didn't consider that the Big 12 Championship game is never a sellout. And our tickets were way at the top of Arrowhead Stadium. He did manage to sell 2, at face value, to a girl he worked with who wanted to take her dad to the game, but the other 4 sat there, never even listed on eBay, and equalled a loss of about $300. Between December of 2004 and December of 2006, he had often hinted at wanting to buy several tickets to games or concerts and make big money off them, but I had always managed to convince him that it wasn't the smartest thing he could do to try to make some money.

Then one cold December day in 2006 I came home from Wal-Mart and was greeted with, "I did something that might not have been a great idea." "How many tickets did you buy?" I asked, knowing what he had done without even having to ask. "Six. And some parking passes." "Well, at least you didn't get ten this time." "They were $135 each." Silent stare. "But I'm really gonna put them on eBay, and the Fiesta Bowl will definitely sell out, so I shouldn't have any trouble selling them. Even if I end up selling them at face value, we won't lose money. At worst we'll break even." Raised eyebrows. "I promise, I'll really sell them. I mean, it would be awesome if we could figure out a way to go, but if we can't, I'll definitely sell out of them." But we didn't go. And he obviously didn't sell them. So every once in a while, if he starts complaining about a particularly costly purchase, I can sweetly say, "Remember that time you bought those Fiesta Bowl tickets?" I have a feeling that's something we'll both always remember, mostly because I'll always remind him...

3. As I already mentioned, Scott's kinda a softy. He has a file case full of cards, notes, photos and invitations to weddings, graduations and parties. The final laugh we got out of the weekend's reminiscing came courtesy of a dear friend of ours. I was opening the cards and invitations and reading them to Scott as he sorted through other stuff. There was an inviation to OSU's graduation, and Scott first guessed it was his older brother's. Then this fell out, I started reading it and we both instantly knew whose invitation it was. (I will mention here that this friend is recently engaged to an adorable girl, but hopefully will always maintain his irreverent sense of humor and quick wit.) Click to enlarge and enjoy:

You know who you are, and we love you for it.

Friends don't let friends give a four-fingered shake.

A couple of weeks ago I spent the weekend with Scott at his residency program's callback weekend. Essentially, they invite med students they've interviewed and are considering offering residency spots to come and spend the weekend hanging out, meeting more residents and faculty than they could squeeze into the interview and try to get a better idea of who will be a good fit for the program. The first night I met a female applicant and her husband and both instantly moved to the bottom of my (admittedly completely irrelevant) list of desirables. Why the instant disappoval, you ask. They both had horrible handshakes. And yes, in a setting where you are surrounded by other professionals and you are trying to get a job, I'm judgy. (Also completely irrelevant here is my current lack of a job only because I am confident that if there is one part of an interview I can nail, it's the handshake.)

WTF?

A weak handshake is probably my longest-standing pet peeve. I remember judging little old ladies as a child in church during the weekly "let your neighbor know you're glad they're here" hymn when they gave me the four-fingered shake. I now realize that some of them may have had arthritis that made a real handshake painful, but others could get around just fine, so they really had no excuse. My hands are the same size as Scott's nine year old brother and yet I manage to fully grasp even the chubbiest, man-ring wearing and cigarette-stain bearing hands and give them a solid shake. (I hope you're imagining me shaking hands with a gold-chain-sporting, greasy-haired mafia boss from Jersey right now, because that is totally the mental image I was going for.) Anyway, both halves of this couple gave me the same four-fingered old-lady shake, and I was instantly annoyed by both of them for different reasons.

When I get a four-fingered handshake from a man, I'm a little insulted. The feminazi in me silently flares up and I think What, you think I can't handle a real handshake? Afraid of hurting a poor little girl? Would you shake a man's hand like that? Listen, pal, (I'd totally fit right in with the aforementioned mafia, btw) it's time you learn to respect women like you respect men. Now give me a real handshake or go ahead and pussyfoot it out of here.

But seriously, guys? You aren't going to break my hand if you actually grasp it to shake. This may come as a shock but most of you aren't gifted with freakish strength. If you are, (or just think you are as is more likely the case) don't be an asshole and try to crush my hand just to show off your masculinity, but also don't insult me with a half-assed handshake. It's 2011. Don't make me give you the anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-in-heels schpiel.

As much as the husband's finger-shake irritated me, the wife's irritated me more. I mean, come ooooon. You're a few months away from having M.D. after your name. You're obviously not a complete idiot and you have at least enough ambition to have survived medical school. You're a professional trying to make a solid, professional impression. I'll grant that this was a casual evening at an attending's home, but the weekend was still more or less a second interview. And I know I'm not one of the residents, but you also don't know what I do, and I could be someone you want to impress. (I'm not, but she didn't know that.)

Frankly, I'm always a little confused by women who give other women the four-fingered shake. It always ends up looking like you're giving me your hand to admire. Guess what? I'm not a 19th century suitor. You're not curtseying, I'm not bowing and I'm not going to kiss your hand. Unless you just got engaged you have no reason to show off a ring to me (I know, wrong hand) and manicures don't really do it for me. Look at the above picture. Ridiculous. If you're used to men just shaking your fingers it's one thing, but woman to woman, I just don't get it. Again, the feminazi in me silently seethes, Heard of the women's movement? Yeah, you're setting it back with that puny excuse of a handshake. Dramatic? Yes. Justified? Absolutely.

Whenever I encounter one of these sad excuses for a handshake I have to resist the urge to say, "Let's try that again. Now, don't be afraid to really grasp my hand and give it a shake this time." However, since that is never really a socially acceptable thing to do, I can only hope that at some point someone will tell the offender that they really need to work on their grasp.

Part of me fears that it's kind of like reading or riding a bike. You should have learned how to shake hands in your formative years, so if your handshake sucks at this point it's probably too late for you. I kind of hope some day I'll be one of those crotchety old ladies who won't give a damn and I'll give any young chippee with a limp grip a handshake tutorial. In the meantime, if you know someone with a less-than-impressive handshake, and you can work it into a friendly conversation, give them a few pointers. They'll thank you for it if they have to greet me with a handshake in about 40 years.

Loratadine + Dr. Pepper = The Keys to My Heart

That is, contrary to appearances, a key. "Penis to my heart"sounds painful.
Unless you're one of those women who can swallow a sword.

Today Scott went to get his haircut and came home with 2 surprises for me: a 60 count bottle of generic Claritin and a 24 pack of Dr. Pepper. I was so happy I teared up.

Lessons to be learned:

1. Guys, impressing a woman is really quite simple. Pay attention to the little things that make her happy. Take me for instance -- my day doesn't get off to a good start without a Dr. Pepper for breakfast and since I'm apparently allergic to life, I'm a snotty, red-eyed, carries-a-roll-of-toilet-paper-around-the-house mess if I run out of allergy meds. Of course, it's entirely possible that poor Scott was just tired of seeing a roll of toilet paper perched on the back of our couch as well as listening to reasons why Dr. Pepper from a 2 liter bottle is just not the same as the good stuff in a can and decided to end his suffering along with mine. But I'm choosing to believe that he just loves me and wanted to make my weekend better. Either way, mission accomplished, sir.

2. When a 24-pack of caffeinated, sugary deliciousness and a 2 month supply of antihistamines brings tears to your eyes because it's the best thing that's happened to you all week, you're officially a hot mess and should really find a hobby, or maybe volunteer somewhere. Or just watch Jersey Shore and feel pretty good about most of your life decisions.