Intestinal Fortitude

"Did I ever tell you about my dad and his eating habits?" Dr Aquarius looks at me with reckless abandon, his curly black hair slightly moving above his shoulders.

Turning down the speakers on my work computer, I smile broadly and say,"Um, no, not that I remember."

"Yeah, he's really interesting. Like he'll fly in from New Mexico and he'll say 'lets go eat', and I'll ask, 'where', and he'll say 'oh, anywhere is fine.' So I'll suggest something fun like Thai, and he'll go, 'WHAT?! What's Thai? No, that won't do!!' My dad is a very meat an potatoes kind of guy, you know, a lot like those people from the 1950's with June Cleaver, where boy's are boys, girls are girls, and the only meat you eat is steak."

"Hmmm. I see. He's even more meat and potatoes than Dr H?" (Dr H is our resident Midwesterner, hailing from the corn fields and cheese factories of Minnesota. If you get anything containing more than 1/2 a teaspoon of non-starchy vegetables near him, he hisses and jumps on the wall in a vampiric manner.)

"Yes, very much so." Dr Aquarius's eyes grow a little. He plays with the pens in his pocket protector and continues, "Like one time when I was a young boy, I was talking to this one girl at my school. She looks at me and says, 'my mom is a vegetarian'. I had no idea what a vegetarian was, so I asked. The girl told me, 'oh, it's someone who doesn't eat any meat.'"

I grab a handful of organic popcorn and tell Dr Aquarius to go on.

Provokingly throwing both of his hands up in the air, Aquarius continues, "and so I was mystified with this whole vegetarian thing, and I asked the girl why her mom doesn't eat vegetables. The girl said, 'well, my mom was jogging one day and she saw a dead cow on the side of the road, and it scared her. She swore off meat from then on.'"

I finish the popcorn and take a sip of bottled water.

"So I went home," Dr Aquarius huffs about the front of my desk, switching his medical coat from one side to the other, "and I told my dad all about this fascinating new way of eating. You know what he said to me?"

"I have no idea. What did your dad say?"

"My dad snorts and says to me, ' Well, lord forbid the woman come across a rotten potato - she'd starve to death!'"

Road Conditions

Phoenix is unique among the large cities of America. It's relatively easy to navigate where you are in the 515 square miles of concrete grid lines. Many times, my friends from the east coast do not believe me when I tell them our street hierarchy grid (super block) is a mile (5,280 feet) on each side. By comparison, Manhattan is only 24 square miles in size, and city blocks there are 264 ft x 900 ft. In other words, about 117 city blocks from New York City can fit into one Phoenix city block.

There is constant construction taking place wherever you drive in Phoenix. Many times, they will close off a freeway in the middle of the day with a sign saying, "Thank you for your patience" or whatnot. After being closed for a week, they open it up, but you're still not sure exactly what kind of work was done until the next sign saying, "You're great, Phoenix! We just finished resurfacing the 5 storm drains on this 50 mile stretch of highway. Stay tuned for more exciting closures."

So I'm driving to work the other morning two months ago, and traffic is backed up from downtown to the state border 150 miles away. Aggravation trickles in. Inching along the freeway asphalt, I wonder what kind of construction they're doing. Slowly, I get up to the bottleneck, and I discover half naked people from southern California had pulled haphazardly to the side. They were running around on the freeway chasing after a black dog that kept running away from them. No amount of bacon would get that dog off the road. Perhaps the dog was a vegan. I swear, crazy people from SoCal in bathing suits running after a homeless dog on the freeway. I would have just sped up...

Yesterday, I was driving back from another hospital when I noticed everyone swerving out of the way. Naturally, I'm a fantastic driver, so I get into the lane everyone is swerving into. As I pass the swerve spot, I look over and notice a guy in a wheelchair racing traffic in the middle of the road. Amazed that there were no Californians around trying to help him, I mentally transport myself back to a story I read a few months earlier about another traffic incident involving a guy in a wheelchair. I fondly remember the tag line from the article, "Why did the 21 year old cross the road?" Passing by and heading back to work, I secretly think to myself two things. First, 'I wonder what homeless race he's training for', and second, 'is there going to be an uprising of wheelchairs in the near future?'

In the beginning

Ah, the corporate card. I love that little silver sliver of plastic. It fits so snugly into my hand and on the wings of angels, gracefully flies out of my fingertips when I approach any slitted machine with a magnetic eye. And the cash register blinks, "Let there be purchases", and there was purchasing. And I saw the products, that they were good, and divided the perishable from the non-perishable. And I called the perishable edible, and the non-perishable storeable, and the plastic and paper were the first bags that day.

Really though, when I use the card, it's not that prolific, and I only use it sparingly. *wink* Today tho, the Directator offered the plastic bank so that I may buy New Girl and myself lunch. I wonder if he's Greek... However, I threw the book down and rejected the piece of plastic since lunch today is going to be comped by B-Boo's Chef.

Even tho I've never met this mysterious man of the burning stove, Chef loves me because I love delicious food. I love sumptuous food so much, that one day during brunch, I picked a slice of ham up off my plate, closed my eyes, and used it to caress my cheeks as I whispered sweet nothings to my fried potatoes while inhaling the nearby sweet baguettetty aroma. Totally kidding. What actually happened was I had a lemon pastry that I stabbed at. Escaping my clutches, it flew across the table only to land in the nape of M's elbow. I immediately pulled on her hand to pop her buttery joint toward the ceiling and choreographed an Oscar-worthy chewing of the tart in mid flight.

But really, If I were to have to choose between giving up good food or sex, hands down I'd give up sex. After all, you can have good food in public (even in groups in public) without getting into legal trouble.

So, without the Directator's corporate card, New Girl and myself pile into one of the fifteen cars people trust me with while they're flying around the country. We arrive a du Jour and order drinks, soup, bread, an entree, and dessert. New Girl had never experienced a four course lunch; I had never heard New Girl give murmurs of pleasure over what she ate. In other words, she subsists off of Styrofoam Mexican peppers, deep fried cardboard chicken nuggets, waxed covered Chinese MSG, and plastic encased cubes of sugar encrusted hamburgers. Not the tastiest of food choices.

The soup comes. "Mmmmm. Oh, mmmmm. Wow," New Girl lets out a gasp of excitement. I ask,"Is it good?" "Yes. Oh my god. I mean, you said it was going to be good, but I didn't think it would be this good." I smile as she continues, "I don't even like asparagus, but I'd pay $18 just for that bowl of asparagus soup!" She pats her mouth dry of saliva.

"Well, I'm glad that you enjoy it. Interesting sounds you're making there, by the way." She looks up, soup drops on her uniform, which she says, "Oh, see here? I love it so much, I'm already taking some home with me." I hand her a slab of ham to wipe off her cheeks after she finishes sponging the soup off her shirt. She continues to let out little puffs of sheer joy in the form of high pitched squeaks as the meal goes on. It's begun - I've ruined New Girl for life on all other food.

Greatest Common Animal Crackter

Dr. G is training to run a marathon; she runs about 10 miles a day. Measured in metric time, that's 8 million miles a month. I'm lucky if I can cover 30 feet of office floor with my desk chair in a year. According to one of the Laws of Fractions I learned in 8th grade, 1/2 of you don't understand what you just read, the other 3/4 of you just don't care.

Now, because of her long distance training, Dr. G is constantly eating. For example, she'll be in a face to face meeting, when all of a sudden, this blank stare will curtain down her face; her nose will start twitching in anticipation of her next meal - kind of like a mouse looking for a block of cheese. Her head will follow her darting eyes looking for any morsel that she might pick up with her heightened olfactory sense. Below her name on her gold office plate, and etched out of teeth indentations, is the phrase, "Are you going to eat that?" Her assistant should have informed Dr. G that it wasn't a golden wrapped chocolate bar before she so gracefully bit into it.

So, here we are at dinner, Dr. G, Dr. L, Mr. Detective, and myself. We had just finished a meeting regarding medical education and how we'll train students successfully while giving them a run for their money. Dr. G surveys the whole table, remarking on our fish dishes, "Oh my! This is good fish. You know, I wish my cat ate more kinds of fish. She only likes one type. My cat weighs about 18 pounds. Poor thing."

I finish chewing a piece of spinach, swallow, and turn to Dr. G. "Wow, that's a big fur ball. That cat weighs as much as... a 9 month old child! What kind of fish do you feed your cat? I mean, is the only kind of fish your cat eats deep fried and beer battered fish sticks or something?"

Mulling over her poached sole, Dr. G continues, "Oh, heavens no! haha. I guess she takes after me, I'm constantly eating since I'm training for a marathon."

Dr. L looks at Dr. G. "Oh, that's interesting." Dr. L asks for a to-go box, and puts 1/2 of an appetiser, 1/3 of his chicken, 1/4 of Mr. Detective's dinner, and an ice cube in the box. He looks up at us, and remarks, "Oh, this is for my dog. My dog is very particular with his food. He's a Chihuahua Doberman mix. Here's a picture of him." He asks Mr. Detective for his phone, and an electronic picture of a bat looking household pet appears before our eyes. "Oh, that's wonderful! It's a little bat dog," I exclaim. "Yes, yes it is," Mr. Detective chuckles, "A hungry bat dog."

Dr. G laughs at the picture, and continues about her cat, "Well, yes, just like your bat dog, my cat is picky about what she eats. I'll offer her vittles of salmon, shark, mahi mahi, and other exotic fish. She snubs me. But I open a can of tuna, and SHOOM! my cat is right there at my ankle."

I look down at my lap, lamenting about the fact I don't have a pet, but start in, "Listening to your animal stories makes me kind of sad for the dog at my house. Poor thing is allergic to everything - no soy, no fowl, no lamb, no rice, no wheat, no dairy, no fruits or veggies. He basically has to eat puffed air. What's even more tragic is that he's allergic to most things in air too, like smoke, general allergens, and smog."

Dr G's head sympathetically turns toward me, "Oh! Poor thing, he must be miserable!"

Getting a bite of food from my plate, I respond, "You know, I forgot to ask him how he's been feeling recently, but thank you for reminding me." Mr. Detective's eyes light up, and he bowls over from laughter, noticing that my comment went over both doctor's heads. I smile politely and look at the dessert case.

Houston, We have a Problem

I always thought that your gag reflex is less reactive in the morning. Ok, maybe I didn't always think that, but at least for the last few years.

Perhaps I just haven't had enough practice swallowing chokeable size objects... Maybe I just haven't really had the desire to teach my body to dull the explosive lunges when something too large and foreign gets mixed in the milieu of what enters my pie hole. I mean... c'mon, there's a reason why we have such a reflex - it's to save our life in times of crises and such. Besides, it's not like I'm some kind of daily carnival sword swallower or fire eater - although some of my friends may disagree from time to time - just in very different circumstances. (Watch your dirty little minds there! That's not what I meant!) I've also determined that I don't have GERD, anorexia nervosa, or anxiety issues.

So, on the same note, I also love brushing my teeth. Don't mix up the previous paragraph with this one - I don't enjoy swallowing vibrating power toothbrushes either.

Now this morning, while cleaning my pearly whites a second time, I learned something new. Apparently, heavy caffeine ingestion decreases gag reactionary time, while increasing the intensity of your forward lurch. These are two things you should never mix, especially when you're in a small doorway, going down stairs, in front of a wall, or a mix of all three.

I had gotten a little carried away 1/2 an hour earlier while stirring my cup of artificially sweetened motor oil, and accidentally splashed some coffee onto my shirt. I go home to change, and brush my teeth the second time this morning. *bbbbbuuuuuuuzzzzzzzz* the electric toothbrush sings as I walk around the house looking for a new shirt. The vibrating head touches the side of my tongue, and BAM! Gag reflex!

Silly me, I forgot there were things like walls at home.

I careen forward and smack my forehead on the painted surface, then, ambulance lights quickly flashing in front of me, I stumble backward from the 3rd Newtonian Prophecy out the doorway. Right next to the doorway and bruised wall, there's a staircase. Losing balance, I practically tumble down the staircase, but grab the hand rail in the nick-of-time to prevent a brutal six o'clock news story.

Learning from a previous experience, I quickly apply toothpaste to my forehead to prevent any bruising. Time to head back to work... just remember to wipe the toothpaste off before going through the front door, and preferably before I step out of my car. Although... I might be able to pull the look off if I had cinnamon toothpaste.

Racers, Start Your Engines

My name's BP. My favorite smell is air, favorite taste is water, and my blood type is coffee. In a state of emergency, or out of medical necessity, this information will come in handy. Thank you for choosing heebe-jeebie emergency transport today.

I never used to drink that much coffee. Nowadays the oil colored liquid just happens across my plate out of boredom - translation: only at work. Apparently, the jittery concentration, required to calm the microcosmic body rumbles, keeps me awake. Today I ordered something called a "Red Eye" with heavy cream and four sugars. Lord, take pity on us all. Take mercy on the overactive kidneys and excited colon that I will surely experience in about 30 minutes.

Now, don't get me wrong - I have a glorious history with the smile inducing stimulant known as caffeine. In high school, I had an involved love affair with energy drinks and sexy little white friends known as caffeine tablets. Modern science is a true wonder when you can consume the caffeine equivalent of six cups of coffee in something smaller than a grape. Even better than said grape, is that you don't have chew the energy eliciting pellets, and you can wash it down with caffeine infused liquid sugar. Isn't that fantastic - all the spunk, without the funk!?

Because of the caffeine IV I had permanently attached to my forearm back then, had I been a young wholesale scarlet woman, I'd have had miscarriages left and right, up and down, in and out. Good thing I wasn't, and the only Miss Carriage I know is no more than a racy drag queen I met on the street one snowy night in Montreal.

Besides getting more done in two weeks than I have the rest of my beautiful life, I remember one thing from high school. In class one day, I noticed the teacher stopped lecturing and the class had turned around to eye me. I asked what their problem was, then noticed that bolts were coming unscrewed and falling off of my desk from nervous shaking. I stopped using my little over-the-counter friends and their liquid gang bangers a few days later.

It's different now. Today's quadruple shot infused drip coffee is more of a hobby - an exploration in the limits of other people's psyche and taste buds. Mousy asks what I want. I say, "Get me a Red Eye with heavy whipping cream." Bewildered, Mousy searches through her mental Rolodex of drip and espresso drinks, only to come up blank faced. "Ok, I'll see if they know what that is." She returns a few minutes later, handing me a brown, heat insulated cup. Mousy says, "I asked for one, and they just started buzzing around the machines turning knobs and letting steam go every which way." I gleefully eye it and add my sugar packets. New Girl stands at the front of my desk complaining about how tired she is, even tho she went to sleep at 10. I went to sleep at 2.

While looking for a cup, I smirk and respond, "Well here, have some of this. You'll wake up in a few seconds." Not finding a cup, I get a Styrofoam bowl and pour her two ounces. She looks at me and scoffs, "Ok, I'll just lick it out of the bowl like a dog." Noticing her tongue isn't long enough, I find a colorful espresso cup on my desk and transfer the warm liquid. "Drink it!" I order. She takes a sip and makes a face like a cat's ass. I guess she didn't like it. But, she finishes it and immediately starts puttering around. I greedily throw the last 10 ounces down my gullet. Wait five minutes, and we have liftoff!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go work, and then visit the lou every five minutes. While working at godspeed, I'll remind myself that I'm glad I'm not a cafe-fiend anymore - it's all in the namesake of keeping awake and entertained... during the workday.

Work Ethic

"I'm so sad, angry, and pissed off right now," perky Coffee Girl says to me. Coffee Girl, with her pony tail brown hair and rosy cheeks, is a constant dish of unrelenting sprightliness and zip... even when she's in a bad mood. Standing near the dark wood coffee kiosk in the hospital lobby, my eyes widen and ears pull back, as I ask, "Why?" I notice this is the first time I've ever seen her face express anything other than conviviality. I observe a piece of foundation chip off and plummet to the ground as she attempts to grimace.

Pointing her creamy, ring less hand toward the ceiling, Coffee Girl begins,"Well, see, I have to pick up my son at noon. The girl who has the shift from noon to seven called and said she can't make it. This means that I have to stay here and keep the bar open," she talks while miscounting money. I hope she doesn't notice she hasn't charged me yet for the cup.

"Mmm-hmm," I say, understandably nodding and pressing the lever for some Colombian roast.

"So, since I had to stay here, while not getting paid overtime, mind you, I called my boyfriend and asked him to pick up our kid." (FYI, I relish juicy stories about children born out of wedlock. However, now is not the time to ask about a fruity shotgun wedding.) I add three artifical sugar packets to my coffee and stir, trying to shadow my escalating interest in her colorful life.

Hair flying about, she continues, "Yeah, so he asks his boss if he can get off, and then he calls me back to let me know that he can. JUST THEN, like an hour later, the girl who called in this morning says that she is back in town and can make it for the 12 o'clock shift. So, I call my boyfriend back and tell him that I don't have to stay, and he gets all mad at me and starts berating me over the telephone."

Grabbing a coffee lid, I say, "That doesn't make sense. You're off and he's off, plus tomorrow is a holiday - double trouble. Why not go do something fun, like a park or Arizona Falls?"

Her forehead surging crown-ward, she hollers out, "I KNOW! He just got all mad at me. His manager asked why I couldn't pick our son up or call in sick. Obviously I can't, because I"m already here, and I'd show up for work even if I was sick. He's called in sick three times this month. I guess I made him look bad in front of his boss. But, that's not my fault that my work ethic is better than his, EVEN THO I make less than he does, AND he gets overtime. Besides, it's not like he can't change it, you know?"

I reach out with my words, trying to smooth her ruffled feathers, "Well, look at it this way, you can't take what he said personally. I mean, you don't know what else happened in his day that he might be projecting onto you. He's probably not mad at you, he's angry at his own lack of character and laziness. And besides, if he doesn't want to hang out with you, then you just call up one of your friends and say, 'hey, let's go do such and such'." Buttering her up even more, I continue, "After all, look at you, you're so wonderful, you're a mix of fantastic and fabulous - you're fantabulous! Go have fun without him on your mini weekend."

She smiles and thanks me for the suggestions, then looks at my cup and asks for my money. I guess advice is free; coffee isn't.

Phone Call

*ring ring ring* "XYZ, this is BP," I answer, while typing on my computer screen.

"Hi, I need to make an appointment with Dr. A," the woman replies in a Spanish influenced accent.
"Ok. You would need to contact Dr A's clinic to do that, would you like the number?"
"Wait, wait, wait. I need to make an appointment with Dr. A."
"Ok. You will still have to contact her clinic. I don't make patient appointments," I reply.
"Well, I need an appointment. What's your clinic?" The woman asks, taking a laborious breath.

"I'm not a clinic, I'm administration. We don't take patients in administration. Would you like Dr A's clinic, or a different one?"
"Oh, ok. I need the clinic on Bethany Home Road."
"Ok, Bethany Home and what other cross street, so I can give you the closest one?"
"I need the one on Bethany Home."
"We don't have a clinic on Bethany Home. What part of Phoenix do you live in - what are your major cross streets?"
"I need the clinic on Bethany Home."

Lips pushed together, I mimic banging the phone on my desk.

I'm starting to get a little frazzled now. But, remembering that some people just process information a littler slower than I do, I take a hesitant deep breath and say, "Ma'am, I need to know where you are located in Phoenix to give you the closest clinic to contact for an appointment."
"Well, there's only one clinic listed, and this is it," she defiantly tries to prove me wrong.
"There's actually 13 different clinics you can go to, but you can't come here. This is not a clinic, it's a business office. What part of Phoenix would you like a clinic in?"
"I need the clinic on Bethany Home."

I stop typing to try and get her to understand."There's not a clinic on Bethany Home."

Finally, she says, "Oh, ok. Well, let me figure this out, and I will call you back."

Not sure what she has to figure out... maybe that there really isn't a clinic on Bethany Home, I say, "Ok, wonderful. Have a good-"

I get cut off by her squawk: "But are you going to answer when I call back in a minute? I always call YOU, and I just tried calling, and no one ever, ever answers."
Noting that I haven't received a phone call in three hours, I reply, "Well, I answered this time, didn't I," discounting her stubborn claim.
"Well..." her voice trails off, and she hangs up.

What just happened?

The Hospital

"Hello, I'm here for my appointment at 3:30," the short foreign woman says. She is dressed in a black frock, printed with faded yellow flowers.

"Ok, you will need to fill out these papers," the brown eyed receptionist says, handing the short woman a clipboard. Going on, the receptionist asks, "What is your name?"

The woman, rocking on her heels, says, "Ivanna Anus - spelled Enos," and produces a picture id. The astonished receptionist glances at the plastic card, and slightly chuckles to herself as Ivanna turns away, pen in hand.

You, dear reader, might ask, "This couldn't have happened really! Is it true?!" To which, I respond, "Undoubtedly true."

A lot of funny stuff goes on in hospitals that people never notice. Instead, most people choose to be bothered with their momentary life-threatening paper cuts, commonly exacerbated by a stack of medical forms, and quickly relieved with an unprescribed Vallium from their friendly pocket pharmacy.

My friend O has a friend who works at a hospital here in the Southwest. For some unknown reason, O's friend was named Peekaboo.

Perhaps Peekaboo's parents were incredibly talented infant psychologists, and simply got caught up on the work of Jean Piaget. Perhaps it was a number of all natural mind-altering substances her parents ingested during the 60's that influenced her naming. It wouldn't even be that far off to speculate that Peekaboo's parents were part of the group that changed Arnold (Gerry) Dorcy's name to Engelbert Humperdinck. Whatever the reason, I wonder if Peekaboo has ever stopped to question her job in the Intensive Care Unit at her hospital. I'd imagine it would go something like this:

*phone rings* Peekaboo answers it and says, "Peekaboo, ICU."

Now, everything being equal, I wonder how many people actually notice the double entendre that just happened over the phone, or how many simply blurt out, "Hi, I'm a new patient, and I need an appointment with Doctor Z." More than that, I wonder how many people realize they shouldn't make an appointment as an ICU patient... It's like making an appointment in the ER - it just invites bad juju.

Now in a department different than the ICU, we have J, who's completing rounds. One of his patients is an elderly man, about 65 years old. J walks into the room, going over Old Man's chart. "I noticed that you broke your leg, but you look to be doing well otherwise. So, how did you break your leg," J asks.

The old man, eyes slightly cloudy from age responds, "I was driving my car, and couldn't figure out how to stop it. So, I opened up my car door, and tried to stop the car with my foot. That didn't work, and I ran into my neighbor's backyard wall. My car stopped then."

One of J's eyes gets bigger as that brow rises, and the other one squints slightly, indicating unsure disbelief. "Huh? You tried to stop your car with your leg... like Fred Flintstone?" The old man's eyes glitter, as he smiles at J and responds, "Yabba-dabba-doo."

And last but not least, dear reader, besides listening well to medical things going on in your vicinity, you should read closely as well. You might end up with a notation by a doctor in your chart saying, "Rectal exam revealed a normal size thyroid." If you know only two things about human anatomy, they should be: you sit on your rectum, and your thyroid is located in your neck - usually a few feet away. I guess this patients doctor just had VERY long fingers to examine with. Oh boy... and could you get me the number to that doctor?

New Girl

It's amazing what goes on in the office when no one is around... or at least when you think no one is around.

It happens a lot around here. I'll get all my work for the week done before Tuesday, and the rest of the time I"ll be looking for something to do. *sigh* And to think it used to take two people to do the work I do, and they couldn't finish it in five days, let alone two days with TWO PEOPLE.

It's not as quiet now that we have New Girl. I'm in the front room. She likes the back room. I wonder sometimes if she jumps up and down in the back, swiveling madly in circles on her armless chair, bouncing around to her telephonic ringtones. She has two kids, and a husband that is too shiesty. One day, I said, "Tell me about you. Tell me about your life." Boy, I wasn't prepared for the three hour epic that composed the last nine months of New Girl's life. That's OK, I had some Cheetos to entertain me and add to the story with it's cheesy, crunchy sensations.

New Girl stands in front of my desk, leaning in to tell me about how her husband went to the Big House, and she had to bail him out - only to find out that he was shacking up w/ Another Woman. Another Woman kept trying to stir up a tussle with New Girl over the phone. Another Woman is too trashy.

So, New Girl shows up at Another Woman's house with her two kids and says to them, "Here's my phone, stay in the car and lock the doors. If I don't come back, call 911."

Crazyness ensues.

New Girl bangs on Another Woman's front door and asks for her husband for 15 minutes to which no one responds. New Girl yells to her kids, "Get my shovel from the trunk!"

Now, at this point, I'm thinking, "OMG, New Girl killed both Another Woman and her husband and buried them both in Another Woman's front yard! That's juicy!" More Cheetos, and a few Doritos enter my mouth.

She grabs her shovel and starts taking out her aggression. Poor truck didn't have a chance to look twice. Oh, the Automanity!!!

CLANG CLANG CLANG went the shovel,
SCRAPE SCRAPE SCRAPE went the paint,
OH MY GOD! went her husband,
At that moment he fell from being a saint.

...
...
...

That really didn't happen, you know. I have an overactive imagination, sometimes to the melody of old showtunes.

I don't remember what happened exactly; that's what the cheesy sodium overload caused me to believe what happened.

Apparently, New Girl's husband came running out to save his truck from marital armageddon and New Girl laid it down - "Get your S**t out of my house if you're going to be here, or come home NOW!"

More cheesy poofs.

Now New Girl's husband is at home. Guess who wears the pants in the relationship? New Girl comes home and says, "Are you going to start dinner?"
"Why don't we just get something to eat?"
"I don't think you heard me. Are you going to start Dinner?"
New Girl's husband's tail goes between his legs and he sulks toward the kitchen.

Remind me to never get New Girl angry...