Lucie’s “Atypical Problem”!

Can anything ever be “normal” for me?


I sometimes feel that my life is just one blog short of a trip to St. Jude’s Laughing Academy!

I go to specialist #1 last week to deal with some “weird health issues” that have me “rocking and hopping in my bed at night” and he tells me that I’m a “special patient with some rather interesting health problems”.


“Hm…,” mutters the “special patient”, credulously eye-balling the young Dr.Kildare lookalike from the 60’s NBC medical TV show of the same name.

“What do you think I’ve got, Doctor?” I skeptically ask, with a cocked left eye brow.

“Am not really sure,” says the young, highly educated, very costly Dr. Kildare. “But it may be something called ‘atypical migraines’,” he informs me, as he patiently tries to explain the reasoning behind his diagnosis.

“You present with some unusual symptoms for Lou Gehrig’s and MS, so I’m pretty sure you don’t have them. Let’s start with some blood tests and go from there,” he confidently continues.


“OK,” I’m thinking to myself, “It’s not the first ‘atypical’ diagnosis that the medical profession has used with me before, so this shouldn’t be anything that gets my knickers into a knot, right?”


The problem is – I’ve NEVER, I repeat, NEVER had a problem with head-aches.

I have a myriad of health issues, People, but I assure you, head-aches have never been one of them.

According to the Princess, I have been known to give them, but she’s not aware of me having any.


“OK, I’m not a medical diagnostician. I’m game. I’ve had ‘weirder diagnoses’ in the past. I’ll check it out with my GP on Thursday,” I skeptically say to myself, as I’m leaving the office.

“Sounds like the reasonable plan of action to take,” I quietly assure myself.


So, on Thursday morning, I get into my car and start driving to my GP’s office and decide to throw caution to the wind and open my rarely used sun roof and enjoy the trip there. It wasn’t hot that day and I thought I could use a little fresh air.


I eagerly push the button to open up my roof-top and suddenly hear this low, lion-like moan emitting from the heavens and I think, “Lord, I’m no mechanic, but that doesn’t sound too friendly to me this morning.”


I get to the doctor’s office, pull into the parking lot, and push the sun roof’s button to close the roof.


Nothing….zippo… movement….no low moaning growl…nada.

The sun roof ain’t budging – not one little iota.


I just dished out $1600.00 last week on this Model T. I’ll be damned if I spring for a sun roof to be repaired!

No-siree, Bob!

I’ll drive around with the damn thing open before I pay-out any more money on this jalopy this month.

Yeah, right.

Like I can afford not to have it fixed?!

I have a serious case of vitiligo (a skin condition that gives me that ever-popular brown and white cow look)  with salt and pepper, curly hair, and am not exactly what you’d call a “convertible kind of person”.

“Cazzo,” I anxiously say to myself, “You need to force this damn roof close and get to your appointment.”


So, I grab ahold of the roof, pull on it and give it the old college try.

Nothing. No movement.

“OK, I’m an intelligent woman,” I reassure myself. “I can deal with this situation, right?”


The next thing I know, I’m precariously kneeling on my driver’s seat, Buddha belly awkwardly sandwiched between my steering wheel and the back of my car seat, with my cotton top head sticking through the car roof, like an attentive ostrich intently looking for potential predators.

I’m wrestling with the glass portion of the sun roof, when I suddenly hear a vaguely familiar lion’s moan emerging from my now working sun roof.

“Cazzo,” I’m sarcastically thinking to myself. “If this situation gets any worse, I’m going to end up imitating a decapitation scene straight out of HBO’s now defunct, ‘Six Feet Under’ with me as the head-less  guest star!”


I miraculously get my Buddha belly and I out of harm’s way, of my now demonized sunroof, quickly compose myself and hightail it to my scheduled Dr.’s appointment.

Mei Xing, my doctor’s demure, kindly assistant, efficiently takes my vitals and nonchalantly says, “Lucie, your blood pressure’s through the roof today. I think you’d better talk to the doctor about increasing your Lisinopril, and maybe look into a different exercise program.”


I’m thinking maybe a visit from the men in the white coats from the infamous “St Jude’s Laughing Academy” is in order.

But what the hell do I know?

I’m an “atypical patient,” in need of a “different exercise program”, don’t ‘cha know?

Have a great week, People, and be kind to one another. You never know what life is like living in someone else’s shoes.


Momma Benedetti Goes to the Hospital!

So, last week we get a call from my cousin, Angie, who lets us know that she’s not supposed to be telling us this, but Ma Benedetti’s in the hospital.

She’s not quite sure what’s ailing the little 86-year-old rompicoglioni (pain in the butt), but she’s not feeling her “feisty self” and the doctor thought it’d be best if she’d check-in to the local hospital to undergo some medical tests.


So, my older brother, Anthony, “takes one for the team”, makes the long distance call to my Mom’s hospital room and connects with the vertically challenged Smurf, in her hospital room.

Yeah, I know, he’s a brave soul. (Either that or totally desensitized after years of Momma Benedetti’s truisms and motherly lies).

“How ya doin’?,” he gingerly asks, aware of the fact that he’s not supposed to know that she’s in the hospital.

“I’m great today,” she coyly replies. “How are you and Lucy (his wife) doing?” she continues.

“Oh swell,” he slowly answers.

Mindful that Ma is not going to be sharing too much of her medical issues with one of her off-springs, but sincerely concerned with her physical well-being and welfare, he bravely pushes on.

“So, Ma, what’s got ya feeling kinda sick these days?”

Cazzo,” she starts out. “So who’s the stoonod (idiot) that blabbed that I’m sick?”

“And just for the record,” she animatedly counters, “I’m not sick, got it?! So, don’t go telling your sisters and brother that I am, ok?”

“No, of course not, Mom,” he dutifully answers, totally aware of the fact that all of us know she’s in the hospital.

“Why would I do that? You’re in the hospital because you like the food and the ambiance. We all know how much you like the Jell-O and sleeping accommodations,” he continues teasing her and hoping that he gets her laughing and relaxed enough to spill the beans.

“Yeah,” she says, “the Jell-O is good, but the juice is nasty,” she continues.

“Your Grandfather’s old, home-made wine was sweeter tasting than this pee water they call cranberry juice,” she responds.

“How do you kids drink this sh-t?,” she inquires.

Madonna,” she continues. “This juice could put hair on a hair-less cat. It’s making me sick, just sipping it.”

“Well, Ma,” Anthony carefully interjects, “Maybe you should just ask for another kind of juice – one that isn’t so nasty for you, eh?”

Cazzo,” Ma sarcastically responds. “I’m so glad you went all those years to college, Anthony. My 86-year-old mind would have never thought of that on my own!”

Grazie a Dio per i miei figli (thank God for my kids),” she caustically continues. “I don’t know how I’d survive without you stoonods (idiots)!”


“Ok,” my brother lovingly responds.

“I’ll let you get back to your Jell-O and nasty cranberry juice.”

“Call one of us, if you need us,” he continues, fully aware of the fact that she’ll die before she does that.

“Bye-bye,” she responds.

Ti amo (love you),” she quietly adds on and hangs up.


Don’t always understand my Mom and her crazy ways, but of this I am 100 percent certain – she’d lay down her life for any one of her four children and loves us with all of her heart.

She frustrates me, drives me absolutely crazy, at times, and I wanna strangle her at other times, but I love her with all of my heart and pray that whatever time she has left on this earth, that she’s able to live it in her way, under her rules, and with her passion for life.

Have a blessed week, People, and remember – we can’t change anyone, but ourselves.

So unless you want to be totally frustrated, work on yourself, and change from the other guy will come soon enough.

Catch ya next adventure, looking at life from my shoes!



Pneumonia be damned – It’s Cheetos and Salami all the Way!

Life in my shoes has sure been an adventure, lately.


I’m as sick as a dog and a pork pie short of a picnic, as my Uncle Tony likes to say.


But other than that, I‘m doing just peachy, People – just peachy.


Went from having the galloping consumption (as the Princess fondly calls it) to full-blown pneumonia all in a period of 3 weeks and am sitting here munching away on some cheese puffs and Italian salami and thinking I damn well need to get better real soon, ‘cuz the Princess is not exactly the Heloise of Homemakers, and if recent grocery purchases are any indication of my fate, I’d best be looking into my cremation arrangements, soon….REAL SOON.


On Sunday morning, I woke up feelin’ kinda light headed and queasy and told her that I needed some chicken soup and maybe some protein in my diet to help me keep up my strength.


All the coughing that I’ve been doing lately is totally exhausting me, and I really think my diet of prunes and Coke are not exactly what the Dr. was referring to when he suggested nutritional supplements be added to my diet.


So, unless the Princess wanted me strolling (and hacking) amongst the unsuspecting public, she’d best put on her big girl pants and venture out into one of these here buildings that most of us know as grocery stores to purchase some sustenance for us (and the wacky cats) or she’s gonna be hearing me howling, soon!


“No, problemo,” she obligingly retorts, “Make me a grocery list and I’ll have you swimming in chicken soup and groceries faster than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking competition, Chica.”


So out the door she ventures with the courage of a lion (and the memory of a goldfish) and no list.


I go back to bed and begin a deep, feverish sleep with the (innocent) hopes of waking up to smells of homemade chicken soup and a refrigerator full of healthy foods and good eats.


Two and a half hours later, I’m rudely awakened by a howling (very hungry) cat with a major attitude, no smells of simmering chicken soup wafting through the air, no Princess in sight and (unless I’m a tad delusional), no additional groceries added to our depleted cupboards.


About the time I’m rustling-up some food for Molly and Boo, the Princess (beaming proud as a peacock and looking none the worse for wear) comes rambling through the front door with a big-ass grin on her face and 4 bags of groceries.


“Got your groceries, Hun!”


“And boy what a mad house it is out there on the weekend,” she energetically continues.


“Do people have nothing better to do than grocery shop on Sunday mornings?” she queries.


“You’d think this city of sinners would be at church on Sunday mornings,” she humorously adds while starting to unpack her proud purchases.


Being feverish and all and just woken up with Boo’s howling, I’m not totally with it, so I ignore her comment and dismiss the fact that it’s after 2 p.m. and that most church goin’ folks would be out of church by now.


I then begin eyeballin’ the groceries that she’s unpacking, while simultaneously starting to worry that I’m not seeing too many nutritional items among her proud purchases, when she magically whips out a bunch of asparagus and proudly announces, “Picked up some fresh asparagus for us for $1.99/lb.! Looks good, doesn’t it, Hun?”


By this point, I’m silently numb looking at the purchases that she’s deftly placing on the counter and decide to ask her if she purchased anything to make homemade chicken soup, when she proudly shows me the box of (Kosher) Lipton’s Chicken Soup that she bought for me.




As I’m eye-ballin’ the ingredients listed on the box of Kosher chicken soup, I’m thinking, “this is either gonna be a very slow, excruciatingly painful death (via malnutrition) or a very quick, miraculous recovery (via the Kosher Lipton Soup),” she starts looking at me with those child-like, innocent eyes of hers and quietly says, “What’s wrong, Hun?”


“I bought you KOSHER chicken soup,” she continues before I can respond.


“It’s better than the REGULAR kind. Right, Hun”? She continues with the innocence of a 5 year old.


“Yes, Princess,” I teasingly respond with a wise-ass grin on my face.


“It’s made with Jewish love, so I’m sure the MSG, disodium guanylate, palm oil and host of other ingreedimunts that this Kosher soup has, also contains a shit-load of curative and nutritional properties, as well.”


I continue eyeballing her treasure trove of delectables as it’s lovingly placed on the kitchen counter and sarcastically say to her,


“Hun, I’m sure the Italian salami, sardines, KOSHER chicken soup, Cheetos, chocolate chip cookies and a side of prunes is just what the doctor ordered. Thank you sooo much.”




Thank God I love this woman. She keeps me laughing (and coughing) every day!


Be good to one another, People.


And remember: God/the UNIVERSE doesn’t always give us WHAT we want, WHEN we want it, but WHAT we need, WHEN we need it!


Thank you, Lord, for giving me the Princess. She’s just what the doctor (and YOU) ordered.


Catch ya next time for another adventure, looking at life from my shoes.