by Judy Gruen
Newlywed wives get ready for a nugget because I am going to teach you a lesson: when men get sick, even the manliest among them morph into sissies. A husband could be a four-star general who has led brave men into battle with guns blazing, but infect that man with a 24-hour virus and he can barely muster the courage to stick out his tongue for the doctor and say “Ah!” He has been known to faint when surrendering a vein for a blood test, even when the syringe is teeny tiny.
My husband, Jeff, is also a bad patient. A very bad patient. He may not be conscious of wanting to be pampered, nor does he fear the sight of a tongue depressor. No, Jeff is a bad patient because he lives in denial that there is anything wrong with him, even when he is white as a freshly bleached sheet. My biceps are strong because I have to practically tie him down to keep him from going to work when he is feverish. But when I block the door and demand that he stay home, he gets his revenge by getting “busy” with various household tasks.
As you have now guessed, he is an unrepentant Type A. He wants to be useful, no matter the cost to his health or my sanity. This is why taking care of him is exhausting – he needs a maximum security environment to prevent him from attempting to wash dishes, check the filter in the heater, and other random acts of productivity. This sense of responsibility is part of what makes Jewish men so desirable as husbands. But when he is an impatient patient, he drives me insane.
More often than not, when he is home sick I am the one who will need a new prescription – for blood pressure or anxiety. Recently, for example, Jeff’s back “went out,” leaving no forwarding address. This forced him into a “stay-cation” of a most painful variety. Part of the problem is that Jeff has enjoyed such good health for so long he doesn’t “do” illness very well. Unlike my husband, though, when I am unwell I have no trouble slipping under the blankets and moaning softly, wondering how long it will be before anyone other than the dog notices my pathetic state and offers me tea and toast.
I wanted to take Jeff to the chiropractor for his wayward back. I have gone to this doctor so often and for so many years that he should have ordered a vanity plate for his BMW that reads, “Thx, Judy.” Naturally, my suggestion was rebuffed.
“No need to go out,” Jeff said. “I’ll be fine in no time. Can you reach that glass of water? Who put it six inches away from me?” Mind you, this was said as he was lying down on a heating pad, working with his iPad held aloft, his face a study in grimaces.
“Let’s go. Look how much pain you’re in!”
“It’s not so bad if I lay totally still,” he said. “When do I get another Ibuprofen?”
I made the mistake of leaving him unattended for about twenty minutes and then caught him in the act of trying to be industrious. He had marshaled all his manly stubbornness and was hobbling down the hall, his posture like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, clutching a box of light bulbs.
“Just where do you think you’re going with those?” I demanded.
“Front porch light went out. Didn’t you notice? Can you just bring me the ladder?”
“Hand over the light bulbs and no one gets hurt,” I said. “Now, I’ll help you to the front porch, and from there to the car. We’re going to the doctor. If you cooperate, I’ll let you get on a ladder by the end of the week, and you can even hang some pictures if you want.”
He grumbled, grimaced and griped, but he had ventured too far from the heating pad to get anywhere without my help. Over the next few days, I was worn out from trying to keep my good man out of mischief. At the first hint of mobility, he would attempt stealth missions involving the hauling of trash, watering the yard, and examining the cause of a slow-draining sink. Thankfully, even he knew better than to try to lift my mega-sized roasting pan filled with enough chicken and rice to feed the lost Ten Tribes and bring it to the table. This is a feat suitable only for professional athletes and Jewish mothers with strong biceps (like me).
I am happy to report that Jeff’s back has mostly returned, and he has gone back to work where he belongs. I have removed the ankle tracking device from his leg, and am enjoying my freedom from my stint as a nurse-warden. Now I can get back to my own work and to running this joint the way I see fit, without any meddling from my well-meaning, but sometimes maddening man.
This column originally appeared in slightly different form on Aish.com.
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‘Tis the season for adding books to your wish list. Here are ten of my absolute favorite modern fiction works. While none of these are very new, all are worth reading and savoring. I hope to follow up with other lists over time with other top 10 lists in other genres as well, including classic literature, non-fiction, and humor. 
We who live in sunny, star-studded Los Angeles are often envied by people who live in less glamorous, climactically inhospitable places, such as Embarrass, Minnesota. But to those who live in Embarrass, Minnesota I say: Don’t envy us till you’ve walked a mile for parking in our Birkenstocks. We have plenty of problems of our own. 
“Who bought all this stuff?” my son asked in astonishment the other night. The question was not a brazen act of chutzpah. Half the living room was piled with heavy white bags, emblazoned with the logo of Google Shopping Express. Now my guilt was compounded. Not only had I buckled under the lure of another e-tailing enterprise, but during my maiden online shopping expedition, I accidentally ordered duplicates of lots of bulky things. At least I won’t run out of paper plates, facial tissue or laundry detergent till 2017.
One of the dumbest things I ever did was to satirize a friend’s political point of view on Facebook. Yeah, I really did that. I hadn’t identified her by name of course —I’m that that dumb—but she knew I was talking about her and let me know how upset she was. I felt lower than a slug. I was shaken and apologized. Thankfully she ultimately forgave me. You betcha I haven’t made the same blunder again.
Writing for laughs is seriously hard work, but the payoffs are priceless. If you can make someone laugh with your words (because you intended to, not because your writing is so God-awful they can’t help but spurt coffee out their noses), you’ve done a great thing. You’ve brightened someone’s day, and improved their health, unlike those miserable wretches who make their living by writing traffic citations or delivering subpoenas. Why not try your hand at the humor game? You’ll have fun, and if you don’t have fun, at least you’ll have more appreciation for those who do make you laugh. Here are my twelve tips to make your readers laugh out loud.
I’m always on the lookout for clichés. When I find them slipping into my own writing, I excise them out. Spotting them in my clients’ writing, I suggest alternatives. Too many cliches make for unimaginative writing, but some cliches are so wise and pithy we just cannot do without them. One of them, “Today is a new day,” recently saved my friend Anna from getting dragged back into an old dispute.