Category Archives: the P-Dawg

We of Little Faith

by Rima Posted on December 9, 2012

I was minding my own beeswax at the end of the pew before Mass started today when a little old lady came up to me and asked if I was in her Birthday Book yet. She had long white hair and bright pink lipstick and for a minute I thought maybe I’d gone down the rabbit hole.

“Your Birthday Book?” I blinked. “I don’t know what that is.”

“I pray for people on their birthdays” said the mysterious stranger. “What’s your name? I’ll put you on my list!”

Now, I’m usually a suspicious person by nature, but I signed myself right up. I mean, here was someone offering to pray for me free of charge, and I need all the prayers I can get.

I spelled out my full name and gave her my birth date, which she scrawled into a flowery little journal she’d whipped out of her purse. Then she asked for the P-Dawg’s info, which I of course provided, and then the kids.’

I thought that would be the end of it, but before I knew it she was asking me for my parents’ names and birthdays, and also my mother-in-law’s. Now I was starting to get a little uncomfortable, but it seemed uncharitable to deny the rest of my family the opportunity to be prayed for, as well. What was I supposed to say to her? No thank you, I would rather you didn’t pray for the rest of them.

After she was done writing down my entire clan’s personal information in her little notebook, the little old lady gave me a meaningful look, squeezed my hand, and trotted off. I got a distinct sense like maybe she also wanted to hug me, (and ask for more names), but I cut her off at the pass. It’s one thing to give a stranger all of your personal information plus your mother’s maiden name, but quite another to physically touch.

“What were you talking to that woman about?” asked the P-Dawg, who’d been sitting out of earshot.

“She prays for people on their birthdays,” I told him. “So I gave her our stats.”

A small vein in my husband’s right temple began to throb.

“Did you give her our real names?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“And our real birthdays?”

” ”

“What other information did you give her?” the P-Dawg sounded alarmed.

“Just our social security numbers and online banking information,” I told him (even though I had not!)

Suddenly it seemed like not such a great idea, what I had done. I mean, if this lady was really praying for people on their birthdays, why didn’t she carry a calendar and write the names in for each day instead?

“Let us pray,” said the priest, and I sent up a silent petition that the Birthday Lady wouldn’t steal my identity.

“Do you think she’s going to steal our identities?” I asked the P-Dawg.

“Probably,” he said.

I couldn’t concentrate during Mass at all because I kept scanning the pews for the Birthday Lady. But I couldn’t see her anywhere and so naturally assumed that she was already back in her lair, hacking into our bank accounts.

Thankfully my daughter, who is a spy in training, had not let her out of her sight. She was ten pews up to our right. There was still a chance to get our names out of The Book!

After Mass I asked the P-Dawg if he would mind approaching the Prayer Lady and asking her to remove our names from her list.

“What?”

“Just say we reconsidered and we don’t want anyone praying for us.”

“I have a better idea,” the P-Dawg said.

“What are you going to do, take her down in the parking lot?”

“No, I’m going to trail her and get a picture of her license plate,” he explained to me. “But first, we’re going to have to split up.”

The children and I camped out in the car awaiting our fate and my husband hovered around the Birthday Lady while she chatted with people after church.

“Where’s Daddy?” asked my son after about ten minutes.

“Oh, he probably just ran into someone he knows,” I lied, even though I was starting to fret. What was the P-Dawg doing with the Prayer Lady? Had he been successful in confiscating our page? Had she pulled a switchblade on him? Had they come to blows?”

Finally my brave husband came back.

“Well?” I prodded. “How did it go down? Did you get our names removed from The Book?”

“No,” said the P-Dawg. ”She stayed after talking to a bunch of people who seemed to know and trust her, and then she went to the hall for coffee and donuts.”

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you ask if you could see her Prayer Book, then rip our page out?”

“Because I could get arrested for that.”

We continued to discuss the situation on the car ride home and the P-Dawg reluctantly conceded that the Prayer Lady had probably been legit. I want to believe there are still people in the world who just want to pray for me and everyone I know for the heck of it. And I think it’s a shame that my husband we automatically second guess someone who offers. In fact, I should have asked for her name and info. That way I would at least know how to look her up.

So what do you think? Is the Birthday Lady going to pray for me, or rob me blind instead?

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Posted in family, He's From Mars I'm From Venus, ignorima, married life, spirituality, the P-Dawg | 3 Comments

You Can’t Force a Man Into a Turtleneck Sweater

by Rima Posted on September 22, 2012

Back when the P-Dawg and I started dating, I would go to the mall on a Saturday afternoon (because I had absolutely nothing better to do) and buy him sweaters. The black turtleneck sweater was the very pinnacle of my fashion aspirations for the P-Dawg, but I was not totally inflexible, and sometimes I would also buy him a gray or green turtleneck sweater. The sweaters would go directly from my shopping bag to the P-Dawg’s closet, never to be seen again.

A day came when the turtlenecks became so numerous that they threatened to take over the P-Dawg’s apartment. On this day he said to me, “Rima. I can’t stand turtleneck sweaters.”

We got married, anyway. And every year at Christmas I would buy the P-Dawg a new sweater, but not a turtleneck. The P-Dawg, because he is a wonderful husband, would wear his new sweater on Christmas Day. One day it finally dawned on me that the love of my life was not a Sweater Guy. And neither, unfortunately, was he a Black Shoes with Silver Buckles Guy.

He was a flannel and hoodies guy, and I loved him.

The P-Dawg took a much deserved day off work yesterday and we spent it together. We went on a nice long hike, then out for sushi. Afterwards, we had an hour to kill before picking the kids up from school, so my husband ran into the hunting and fishing supply store for a couple of items. I stayed in the car because I would rather poke myself in the eye with burning embers than go inside Gander Mountain.

The P-Dawg seized this opportunity and ran with it. He bought himself a new wardrobe made up almost entirely of nylon and brown flannel. I can just see him now, running up and down the aisles with his cart, gleefully tossing plaid shirts and pants with velcro closures inside of it.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from twelve years of marriage, it’s that you can’t force a man into a turtleneck sweater.

Thank you so much for all your prayers and well wishes for Soo. She is still very sick, and can use all the good vibes she can get.

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Posted in He's From Mars I'm From Venus, the P-Dawg | 8 Comments

I Don’t Always Judge Womens’ Clothing at Church, But When I Do, I Like to Grill My Husband About It

by Rima Posted on September 10, 2012

Yesterday there was a christening during Mass and I was a little distracted by the mother’s outfit. She looked a lot better than I had three months after giving birth to my babies, plus she was wearing, like, a four-inch long mini-skirt and heels so high that I was afraid she’d pitch forward any second and fall down with the baby. I couldn’t get a good look at her décolletage, though, because it was obscured by the infant.

Anyway, after Mass I broached the subject with my husband, the P-Dawg, because there is nothing but nothing I love better than quizzing him on celebrity pop culture and other women’s outfits.

“That was a nice christening. Did you see the heels on the mother? I was amazed she was able to stay upright for an hour.”

The P-Dawg hadn’t. “Why would you notice anybody’s shoes?” he wondered.

“Are you serious?” I said, “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Rima, only women look at each other’s clothes.”

“So, are you saying that when you look at a person, your line of vision just kind of stops at the shins? Because I’m telling you, this lady was like a walking monster truck. You would have to be practically blind not to notice that.”

“I was praying.”

“I bet you noticed her skirt, though. Am I right?”

“I did notice her skirt,” said the P-Dawg.

“And what did you notice about it?”

“I was thinking I could really use a fishing jig in that same neon yellow color.”

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Posted in anniversaries, He's From Mars I'm From Venus, le beaute, married life, the P-Dawg | 6 Comments

I Should Have Bought a Lottery Ticket

by Rima Posted on August 10, 2012

During the few minutes when I worked as an auto insurance claims adjustor, my mentor, Jimmy, mentioned that most accidents happen close to home. Tall, thin and, balding, Jimmy was a company man through and through. His father was a hugely successful policy salesman, and it was Jimmy’s fervent hope that one day, if he played his cards right, he’d follow in the old man’s shoes.

As far as I could tell, Jimmy didn’t do much work. He spent a lot of time leaning back in his office chair and exploring his gum line with a toothpick. Once, during one of our “training sessions,” he excused himself to use the facilities and didn’t come back for an hour and thirty minutes.

“You’d be surprised how many accidents happen in the driveway,” Jimmy instructed me. “Most of the time, it’s the wife backs into the husband,” he drawled, and I took offense.

Not the whole fence, though, because I’d borne witness to this type of situation on a few occasions myself. In fact, just days before accepting the wretched insurance claims position, I’d ripped off the front of my grandfather’s garage while backing out of it. Even though I didn’t much like Jimmy, I never forgot what he said. I vowed never to be the wife who hit her husband’s car in the driveway, and I made good on this promise for over fifteen years.

It happened this afternoon. I was backing out of the garage on a perfectly straight trajectory when the P-Dawg’s car appeared out of nowhere and hit my car’s rear end. Apparently, it had been lying in wait for me all night. The damage was minimal and the P-Dawg was very gracious about it. He’s busted his car up a few times already, so we called it even and I went on my merry way to pick up milk and bread.

That’s where the second car accident happened. I was halfway out of my parking spot at Drug Mart when some dude backed out of his spot and our bumpers kissed. I mean, what are the odds of that happening? I should have bought a lottery ticket.

I can’t stop thinking about the deeper meaning in all of it. The universe is trying to tell me something. But what is it?

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Posted in Stayin' Alive, the P-Dawg | 4 Comments

How to Ask Your Husband on a Date

by Rima Posted on July 17, 2012

Recently, I realized that the P-Dawg and I hadn’t been on a date in a long time. The problem was that between the two of us, I was the only one who’d realized it.

I began turning it over in my mind. Some might say, “perseverating.” I really wanted to go on a date! Sure, I could have just asked him. But that would have defeated the whole purpose, which was for my husband to naturally arrive at the realization that what he wants, more than anything in the world, is to wine and dine his smart, beautiful, and not quite thirty-nine year old wife.

Reluctantly, I activated the handy, but not always reliable first tier persuasion mechanism: mind control. Whenever the two of us were together, I would close my eyes, furrow my brow, and direct pointed thoughts about going on a date toward my husband.

“Why are you making that face?” he asked me. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

Next, I dropped strategic hints, such as naming some couples I knew of who had gone on a date. “I heard it can be fun,” I told him.

Finally, there was no choice but to broach the subject directly.

Husband: “What’s wrong?”

Me: “Nothing.”

Husband: “Are you sure?”

Me: “I guess.”

Husband: “What?”

Me: “Forget it.”

Husband: “No, what?”

Me: “It’s just that . . . oh, nevermind!”

Husband: “Okay.”

Me (sulking): “Okay.”

(Time passes. Husband pays some bills, organizes his fishing gear, and putzes around on computer.)

Me: “Unbelievable.”

Husband: “What?”

Me: “It’s like you forgot we were even having a conversation.”

Husband: “I thought our conversation was over.”

Me: “That just goes to show you how out of synch our energy is. I don’t even remember the last time we went out together.”

Husband: “You know, you’re right. We should go on a date! Why didn’t you mention it earlier?”

Me: “I don’t see how I could have made myself any clearer.”

Sometimes, you just have to spell it out for them.

(By the way, we went on a date and it was really fun, just as I heard it could be from some couples! Also, I feel I must tell you that the P-Dawg is actually a fantastic husband. In fact, I really think he got the short end of the stick when he married me. There is really nothing for me to complain about in our relationship, except the fact that after almost twelve years of marriage, he has not yet mastered the subtle art of mind reading.)