The Legend of Danook of the North

When Dan and I got together 10 years ago, my boys quickly gave him the nickname "Danook of the North." He was never cold and had a tendency to loudly proclaim his lack of body chill. If he went anywhere, no matter what the weather, he was in shorts, a sweatshirt, and some sandals. It was like cruising Walmart with Arctic Jesus... he walked on water and never seemed to get cold or wet. (Maybe he was more like Arctic Loud-mouth Jesus.)

Meanwhile, on the same given day, I would be ice cold, numb, and unable to feel my feet. The argument usually began when I would crank up the heater to 70 (I know... who does that, right? Who wants their house to be 70 degrees?) and Dan would immediately turn it down to 62.

I would huddle on the couch covered in seven layers of blankets, shivering and chattering and he would throw the windows open and inhale the hurricane force winds blowing into our house, swirling the 34 degree wind chill factor around our heads while he used words like, "BRACING!" and "INVIGORATING!" At the same time he would be calling the boys and I, who would all be clinging together for warmth like refugees abandoned on an ice flow, "A buncha PUSSIES."

Oh yeah, he was tough, our Danook. Tough and 100 lbs heavier than any given one of us but that was entirely beside the point. My scrawny kids and I were one giant goosebump while Dan worked up a sweat telling us stories about shoveling snow in his bare feet whilst growing up in the Snow Belt.

I would turn the heater up to 67, he would turn it down to 60. If (when) I complained about it, he would say, incredulously, "Dani! It's hot in here! You can't possibly be that cold!"

Even after placing my numb, white, icicles on his warm, fuzzy, belly to prove that I was, indeed, that cold (which he proved by screaming like a girl the second I touched him... yes, Dan, it is possible for me to be that cold) he would offer some lame suggestion like "Put on some gloves." (Because everyone wants to relax in their livingroom wearing gloves, a scarf, and a parka, right?)

Inevitably, smugly, and patronizingly (and annoyingly... did I mention annoyingly?), Dan would ask me: "What would you do if it was REALLY cold outside? You wouldn't be able to handle it in New York! Imagine 40 below and having to stand outside and scrape ice off your windshield..."

To which I would reply, " I don't have to worry about that, now, do I? If it was 40 below I would send YOUR ass out to scrape ice off my windshield. After all, YOU ARE DANOOK OF THE NORTH!! Or else I just wouldn't go anywhere. Seriously, dude. Duh."

And he would say, "What if you had to get to work and I wasn't there? Then what would you do, hmmmmm? What would you do if you had to work in 40 below weather?"

Me: "Ummmm... Not go? Where am I working in this mythical place where I'm scraping ice off of my windshield? Am I suddenly a manual laborer? I'll work indoors and have a garage and a personal assistant who'll scrape my ice for me, since we're making shit up that isn't going to happen..."

As it turns out, he got the last laugh because now apparently it IS going to potentially happen, since he dragged my native California ass to the frozen tundra of the Great White East.

Bastardo.

Anyway, it's been hot as BALLS (to quote my son, Brennan... when he was in Afghanistan, every time I sent him an email asking him how he was doing he responded by saying, "It's hot as BALLS here..." So I'm guessing that means it's really, really, really freaking hot) here this summer, which I assume is the Universe's little way of mocking me. ("Soooo... the little California girl was cooooold when it was 65 degrees? And she wanted it to be warrrrrrmmmmm? How about 95 with 1,237,948,564 percent humidity, hmmm? Warm enough for you? Bwaaahahahahaaaa!") and basically, I've been whining relentlessly since May. I don't think any part of my body has been dry for the past 5 months and quite frankly, it's sucked. Hard. Dan,on the other hand, has spent 5 months saying, "It's not THAT hot..."

Liar.

So something amazing happened yesterday... FALL CAME. It went from 80 degrees to 45 degrees, seemingly overnight. (Okay, it wasn't "seemingly overnight"... it actually was overnight. True story.) I have been so stinking happy about it that I've had all the windows wide open and have been inhaling cold, fresh air for the past 48 hours. My nose may be icy cold, I'm wearing 7 layers of clothes and am swaddled in blankets and my teeth chatter when I try to talk, but dammit... I'M NOT SWEATING. And I love it.

Meanwhile, Dan has suddenly turned into a little old Southern lady with the vapors fighting off a head cold.

Honestly. I'm like, "What the fuck? Where the hell is Danook of the North?"

He has been following me around closing windows, cranking up the heat, complaining that he's cold, and lying in bed with the covers pulled up to his neck shivering like a chihuahua in an ice storm. (Trust me when I say it's very difficult for a 260 lb man with a huge shaved head and a goatee to look pathetic while clutching a blanket up to his neck and trying to look like he's freezing. Rather than feeling sympathy, I have to fight the urge to dump ice water on him.)

Me: "Dan, the house is steaming up! It's at least 80 degrees in here! Crack a damn window!"

Dan: *through chattering teeth* "I'mmmm ffffffffreeeeezzzzzzziiiinnnnnggggg!"

Really? Really??

So after 10 years of freezing me to death in California, he's brought me to New York so he can cook me?

I smell a very large rat with a New York accent.

Yambien and Baileys babyyyyyyyy!!!

So it turns out, Ambien Dani is a unrepentant drunk.

I had no idea.

Backstory: When you move from one state to another, at least if the state you move TO is New York, the refills on your prescriptions are meaningless. They don't care if you have 5 refills left over on your blood pressure medication; you'd better hop-to and find a local doctor if you have any intention of NOT DYING. When I moved to New York with a fistfull of medication required to keep me alive, my awesome doctor in CA had made sure that I had enough refills to keep me that way for at least 9 months, or until I found a compatible doctor(she loved me so much she gave me restylane as a going away present... top that, New York). What we didn't bank on was the fact that those refills would be rendered null and void the second I called them in to the local pharmacy.

Anyway.

I finally got in to see a doctor, which wasn't easy... I am now one of the billions (millions, whatever) of Americans without health care. Which not only makes me a statistic, but also makes me undesirable as a potential patient. I spent two months calling around to doctor's offices until I finally found one that was willing to see me. And then I had to wait two MORE months for an appointment.

(Sidebar: I could totally go off on a rant right now about health care, or the lack thereof, but I won't. I will save that for the people who actually know what they're talking about. You're welcome.)

Longggggggg story short, I finally got in to see the doctor. She was fabulous in that uptown New York kind of way... She told me how hard it was for her to "move Upstate" after living in "the City" her entire life (I was enthralled, by the way, with her "I summer in the Hampton's" upper-crust accent... she could have said, "And the cow jumped over the moon" and I would have been all, "Oh my god, like, you're sooo wiiiiiiise...") and was beyonddddd sympathetic about how miserable and lost I am in this hell-hole. She tossed me a few compliments on "how well put-together" I am (meaning, I assume, that I wasn't wearing a tank top and Mom-jeans like the 47 other women in the waiting room and had graduated from the Bimbo hair-style so popular among the northern New York set) and asked me, in so many words, what an intelligent person like myself (right? Tell me I'm smart and pretty and I'm allllll yoursssss) was doing in this neck of the woods (is it wrong that I love when people think I'm too good to live somewhere? Because I totally do). I kind of wanted her to be my new BFF, but couldn't figure out a way to work it into the conversation. Also? Very few of my BFFs have given me a breast exam, so I couldn't exactly find a good time to ask her over for girly drinks, gossip, and doing each other's make-up. Girlfriend has fondled my boobs and knows exactly how much I weigh. I'm not sure we could ever recover from that.

(Disappointing. Maybe I'll run in to her at the Price Chopper or the Big M and we could start over, with me fully clothed.)

Eventually we got down to the business of all the things that are wrong with me and she filled my important prescriptions. (Blood pressure, thyroid... you know, the ones I need so that I don't die, New York. Not that you care.)

Unfortunately, she didn't consider Ambien to be one of the medications necessary to keep me alive.

"I don't prescribe Ambien," said she, and that was that.

What kind of doctor doesn't prescribe Ambien??

No sleep for you! EVER!

Finally, after days of not sleeping, I called my doctor in California. I explained my lack of sleep, the bags under my eyes, the fact that it was aging me by the minute and that no one in New York cared... and bless her heart, she faxed my Ambien prescription to my local pharmacy and they filled it. And now I have valid refills.

I'm so happy.

Which brings me to...

Last night, I was home alone. Dan was out of town so I decided to watch Bridesmaids, take an Ambien, and go to bed early.

Which is what I thought I'd done.

I woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning and went about my business, feeling well-rested and alert, happy as a little piggy in a pile of shit that my sleepless nights are ovahhhh.

Until just now, when I decided to send a text to a friend I'd been texting yesterday

As I scrolled down to find her, I started seeing messages I didn't remember sending. And to what did my wondering eyes should appear but...

This:

To one friend:

Me: "Yambien and Baileys babyyyyyyyy!"

To another friend:

Me: "Haaaaaaaa Baileyzzzz on the rocks YO!" (This was not in response to any question, fyi. I just sent it. For no good goddamn reason. It just needed to be said, apparently.)

To yet another friend:

Me: "Say my name, BITCH!" (NO clue. Why are these people still friends with me??)

And so on. It only gets worse from there.

I have absolutely no recollection of drinking last night. I have never sat down and drank Bailey's, ever. I've put it IN stuff, like coffee or eggnog, but I can honestly say that I've never just had a glass of Bailey's.

In fact, the only Bailey's we had were these two little bottles that Dan had gotten as a Christmas gift last year from his boss. One was caramel, one was coffee, and they were wrapped together. Unopened.

At least... they were unopened.

I got up and looked in the cupboard...

And there was only one bottle.

Opened.

Hmmm.

I looked under the sink in the recycling, and there it was... a completely empty bottle of Bailey's caramel, licked clean.

*cue Twilight Zone music*

On the plus side, I'm a conscientious drunk, very aware of my carbon footprint, since I put the empty bottle in the recyling bin...

And I woke up without even the smidgen of a hangover...

Win-win, yes?

Maybe?

Damn you, Auto-correct!

My mother is a very intelligent, educated woman. Even though she is almost 70, she looks more like she's in her mid-50s (which may potentially become a problem in the not so distant future. The first time someone asks me if my mom is my sister, that's it. Over. Done. Dani out). Her youthful appearance, however, is a discreet cover for the fact that beneath it all, she's a ditsy old lady.

(Welcome to your future, Danielle.)

My mother recently took up texting in order to keep up with her grandchildren. My boys don't know how to make a phone call anymore... they just text. I can spend 45 minutes texting back and forth with them, and the whole time I'm thinking, "Just call me, dammit!" But apparently, that's just not "done" anymore. Calling is for the unhip, the 7 people in the world without an iPhone, and the elderly. Don't get me wrong, I like texting... it's convenient, no one is being interrupted, and ya know, sometimes I just don't want to talk to anybody. In fact, most days? I text my ass off. But kids these days (bite me) spend so much time texting that they never get around to the actual conversation.

Which brings me back to my mother.

She took up texting, like I said, because otherwise, she probably never would have heard from her grandchildren again. HUGE kudos to my normally anti-modern-technology mother for going there, right? Yay mom! However, when she got her phone upgrade and it added auto correct, it became really, really interesting. She doesn't seem to be aware that her phone is changing her text so everything comes shipped out as is. Which makes deciphering her messages exciting and occasionally challenging.

I started noticing it because all of her messages ended with "xbox" .

Two examples:

"Hi honest! It's early in the morning and your dad is still asleep. Will call soon. Xbox"

(Hi honey! It's early in the morning and your dad is still asleep. Will call soon. Xox)

"Had companionship all weekend. Your dad is exhumed. Glad to sleep in tomato. Xbox"

(This message was a trifle concerning because my dad is currently terminally ill and does not have much time left. Reading that he was "exhumed" and sleeping in a tomato did cause me to raise an eyebrow. I finally translated it as, "Had company all weekend. Your dad is exhausted. Glad to sleep in tomorrow. Xox")

Unfortunately, my mother has no sense of humor about this and doesn't get why "xbox" is funny. When I tried to explain, she got snooty and offended and would only send me one word text messages for a while.

She seems to be over it because after several weeks of silence I got this message from her today:

"Good morning! Automatic has finally arrived! Love the color weather. Are the leaves channeling over there yet? It must be beautiful! Your dad is getting weirder but is still trying to stay up for a few hours each day. Love you. Xbox."

My return text:

"What do you mean, my dad is getting weirder? Is his mind going?"

Her text back:

"What do you mean he's getting weirder?"

Me:

"That's what you said."

Her:

"Oh no I did not."

Me:

"Oh yes, yes you did."

Her:

"I said he's getting weaker."

Me:

"No you didn't. You said he's getting weirder."

Her:

"This is why I don't text you. Love, Mother."

(Translated: "This is why you don't have any friends. Love, Mother.")