I am not sure exactly what it all means quite yet, but it seems that Jeanne decided to quell a nervous stomach by sucking down a liter of generic Coke that wreaked such havoc on her system that she had blood in her stool and had to go to the ER.

I hysterically ran out to see her….only to discover that she is having a grand old time in the hospital. She’s downright chatty with the nurses (like the wonderful Brenna, seen here).

Jeanne's New Bestie

A volunteer handed Jeanne a little beauty package comprised of a comb that I am quite sure used to belong to Willy Loman, toothpaste, toothbrush, and some body lotion. She kvelled over this stuff like it was La Mer and took off with her “pole” in tow to the ladies’ so she could freshen up before her endoscopy.

Here’s how she looked, giddy with excitement before they dropped a camera down her throat:

She's gonna kill me for posting this, but do you notice that she posed for this photo?

Meanwhile, Bob is at home pretty much refusing to eat until his Princess Bride returns. But honestly, I don’t think Jeanne is in that much of a rush. She heard there’s a Tequila Night this Thursday that she’s fixin’ to attend. Stay tuned.

Jeanne paused and said, “Yeah. How can you not love Goldie Hawn?”

There was a moment of silence while Sassy collapsed in laughter. Seriously, I thought she was going to pee in her pants.

“Mah, you mean Overboard?” I queried.

Goldie, you are fabulous but you were not in Cast Away!

“What, what?” Jeanne asked, after slurping her water noisily. “What are you girls laughing at? Why are you two always laughing?”

My latest pair in my favorite color: pukey green.

I feel so sorry for my husband, The Lord & Master, who’s only elastic waists are on his “at home” leisure duds. Watching him straightjacket himself into the zipper/button/belt/belted suspenders monstrosity that is his regular slacks makes me wince. That male corset system is but a bygone relic of the era of suits, hats, and gloves for all.

Why, Miss Hot Pants, do you shudder at the thought of my wardrobe favorite, the supremely comfortable, forgiving, soft, dare I say gentle, elastic waist pants? Sure, when I was a 107 pound weakling Pretty Young Thing, I, too, happily zipped up into all sorts of lovely tailored ensembles.

But this is fast advancing Old Age, Babycakes, and attention must be paid. To easy pants. To weightless shoes. To life. Or, what’s left of it.

I'll have you know, H.P., someone said these are dead ringers for a Prada pair. HA!

Look at the shoes I just bought:

Yep, I bought these Shoes. And I LOVE THEM.

They’re Easy Spirits. I had to have something more comfortable to wear on my walk to and from my job. Look at them! They’re bulky, they’re dorky…they’re NOT ATTRACTIVE.

But they are like slippers! I can slide right into them and they have a lovely zipper! So I don’t have to fuss with laces!

Even the girls at the Easy Spirit store had to search for something appropriate to say when I tried them on. “They’re nerdy, aren’t they?” I asked.

“Well, they’re no fashion statement,” one of them admitted.

But they rang up as $10 less than the already-listed sales price. So to me, it was proof from God that I had made the right decision.

The only thing that bothers me is that they belong the same shoe-tree, shall we say, as most of Wiggles’ triple-wide, style-free, slab-like footwear.  Go ahead, Wiggles, sputter in indignation. You know it’s true.

What’s next? Elastic waist pants?

What color shall I paint my digits this week? So many choices.

I’m ashamed to admit that the array of nail polishes crowded onto that dish represents the winners I kept after getting rid of at least as many other colors. Am I out of control? Yes, but it’s a pretty cheap thrill, considering I favor Sally Hansen, Revlon, and Essie. Strictly bargain brands for my hands.

Like our mother Jeanne, I spend one day a week indulging in an old-fashioned beauty regimen. First, I bop into Sisters Salon & Spa for my weekly shampoo and blow dry. As I’ve told my stylist, “You know that soft, touchable hair? Don’t give me that. I want a ‘do that even a tornado cannot move.” The Lord & Master is well trained not to attempt running his hands through my hair, lest he get the equivalent of a paper cut.

Spray that hair 'til it's hard, hard, hard.

Stop number two is She-She Nails. When I think back to the old days when I painted my own nails, I shudder. Thank goodness my neighborhood is chockablock with nail salons.

Could you resist that face? Not I.

Now, normally Theo Fannybrice does not accompany me on my Day of Beauty. But this week, the power of his pleading face overcame my good senses and he came along. The hairdressers often have their own little rascal at the shop, plus, they know Theo, so he’s treated like a long-lost canine prince. I do believe he was stuffed with treats for the entire length of our visit.

The nail salon, well, that’s another story. In a vain attempt to keep Mr. Fannybrice occupied, I scooped up one cow’s trachea at the local pet store. This rigid white skeletal monstrosity was easily double the length of my doggie. Still, he seemed enchanted. Unfortunately, cow’s trachea make disturbingly loud sounds when knocked against ceramic tile floors. Wouldn’t you know it, some other patron complained to me that Theo’s noisemaking was ruining the Zen experience of watching her nail paint dry. The gaggle of Vietnamese employees scooted a towel under my boy and his toy. Which worked, as long as he stayed on the towel.

By the time my turn came around, my Zen experience was kaput. I skipped the massage, the lotion – everything but the basics. We beat a fast retreat out of there, with Theo still dragging his beloved trachea along.

I love you, my pet, but Never Again. Beauty may know no pain, but it does know when my dog should keep out.

Va, Va, & Voom.

Oh, Monsieur!

I was paying a shiva call with two friends today. We got into the elevator of a very fancy 5th Avenue building. There was an elevator operator to bring us up to the apartment.

My friend Lorraine looked at his name tag.

“Your name is Napoleon?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Dynamite,” Lorraine said, poker-faced.

There was silence.

Then she added, “You look taller in person.”

I hope they have this modified straight jacket in my size. I knew I should have strengthened my core when I had the chance.

Hot Pants & I love to do things together, even though we live at opposite ends of the USA. However, I may have taken our closeness too far by throwing out my back in solidarity with HP’s own spinal troubles.

Uncensored yelps of pain have been shooting out of my mouth.

In retrospect, my pride at hauling in all five bags of groceries (and my pocketbook) in one mighty dash from car to house may not have been my smartest move after all. Since that Olympic-quality lifting episode, I’ve been lurching around like Frankenstein and barking out “Ouch”  - along with a roster of handy curses – at every step. Even lying down – quite possibly my favorite position in life – offers treacherous moments in my futile search for a neutral pose.

Adding mental anguish to my physical pain, I’ve learned that as a Shop Girl, my paid sick time expired at the end of the calendar year. Little did I realize that we worker bees must time our getting ill to the latter months when we can get paid for our suffering. Silly me, injuring myself in January.

"May I help you?" never sounded more ridiculous as I gasp for breath and clutch the counter. The customers want to help me instead.

The Lord & Master has been most solicitous, though lurking behind his concern is the fear that it may be eons before I’m physically able to engage in acrobatic sexual hijinks with him. (And given our mutual lack of fitness in general, we’re forced to invent ever more original poses to achieve the desired, ahem, …results.)

My husband wants his wanton wild wifey back.

Even sitting here at my desk hurts like hell. So, Dear Readers, I shall jolt my way back to bed with an ice pack, if you don’t mind.

Pancake Gives Delia a run for her Money

Pancake just went to the dog run and played like mad with a pooch named Delia. They went at it for a good 15 minutes with several breaks in between for me to sling a small towel around Cakey’s shoulders and give her a quick massage. I felt like Burgess Meredith in Rocky. All I needed was the razor blade. “C’mon Champ,” I whispered in her ear. “You can take her!”

"I'll show you who's boss!" Miss Cake said.

And she did. When she and Delia were finished, Pancake looked at me as if to say, “My name might be Pancake, but don’t f— with me.”

Well done!!

Jeanne thought it was the 5 clementines I ate (they are so cute and tasty, you can’t eat just one!) but I knew little citrus sweeties couldn’t do to me what was happening to my insides.

Once 6am rolled around (really it didn’t “roll around.” I was looking at the clock to time the pain like it was a labor contraction. Every two minutes, between 2 and 6AM).  I needed help, and fast. The doorman saw me stagger out and asked what was wrong.

“I’m going to the ER,” I croaked.

He just nodded pleasantly and held the door open. God forbid he should help me FLAG A CAB, for god’s sake.

Believe it or not, there was NO line at the ER of New York Presbyterian Hospital, now known to me as THE GREATEST HOSPITAL IN NY.

I told the Intake Nurse I might throw up. She handed me a pink bucket and continued her line of questioning. Then she threw me onto a stretcher next to the Nurse’s Station. Another nurse took my blood pressure (with the arm that wasn’t clutching the bucket, that is) and popped an IV into my veins. Then she asked me if I wanted anti-nausea meds. “YES” I gasped. “Yes, please, for the love of God!”

That’s the last thing I remember until I saw this face over my stretcher, aka Heaven:

Dreamy Dr. Stern, who made the Pain Go Away

Dr. Stern asked me what happened, and I told him I suspected food poisoning. “My mother thinks it’s from the clementines I ate.”

“Really?” he said, stifling his laughter. “Let’s see what the blood tests say. I’m also going to give you morphine to help your stomach relax.”

Morphine? I immediately perked up, partially in fear, partially in excitement. I’d never had morphine!

They started the drip and it was, of course, at that moment that the insurance coordinator came over to check my Blue Cross Card and ask if I wanted to handle the co-pay now or later. Then he held up a clipboard with about 8 different forms to sign. By the end of it, I think what he got out of me resembled an X more than an actual signature. What did I care? I was in a morphine dreamland, which had me snoozing while people were coming in with strokes and heart attacks.

When the tests came back I was diagnosed with viral gastroenteritis, aka the stomach flu. Since then I have been on a steady diet of bananas and chicken soup, with the occasional ginger ale when I’m feeling wild. It wasn’t the clementines after all! One of Dr. Jeanne’s rare medical missteps. All I can say is, many, many thanks to the ER staff at NY Presbyterian. It’s my new go-to place whenever I’m in need of some good ER attention!

Here's how I started my week.

You know what really annoys me about going to the dentist? You sit there helplessly while they abrade your gums, scrape your tooth enamel, and render you pretty much immobile with air suctioning devices, cotton, laser probes and the like. They practically reduce patients to tears during regular cleanings, but they think they make everything okay when they cheerfully ask you before “polishing” (after you’ve spit out all the blood and popcorn kernels they’ve dislodged) “Strawberry? Mint? Or Pina Colada?” as if some fake flavoring is supposed to make the previous painful 45 minutes – for which you’re paying them – worth it.

That being said, I really do like my dentist and hygienist. Especially when they tell me my teeth look great! It makes the cleaning process (sort of) worth it.

Don’t you agree, Wigs?