Monday, January 30, 2006
TMI, Inc.
Sometimes, I sit back and think, "Wow, my kids are just weird." Then Chris triggers a memory from my childhood and I realize that they're not so strange, after all.
As a for instance...
Chris and I are having an in-depth conversation about his left nipple which somehow segued into breast feeding and because this is a perfectly normal Friday night for us, I'll just let you read what happened while I go put staples in my forehead:
"Did you seriously think when you were little that you could breast feed, Chris?"
"No, you dork. I was kidding."
"Oh. Well, I wasn't sure. Because -"
Now, I pause here to let you know that this is the part where I share waaaaaay too much information with him, my son who happened to be eavesdropping in the background, you guys and quite possibly even God.
" - I tried to breast feed a kitten when I was five."
The silence that permeated the room was so utterly complete you could have heard a flea fart.
Now begins the explaining, because, once again, I have opened my big fucking mouth without really thinking about what I was saying.
"I didn't know." Ignorance excuse.
"It's mother had abandoned it and I thought it would starve to death." Altruism excuse.
"I was just kidding." This never works.
Here's where I decide that since I pulled my rip cord and a bunch of forks and knives flew out of the rig, I might as well wave bye-bye and seal my fate.
"I decided it wasn't such a good idea when it bit down and I realized the little fucker had some seriously sharp teeth."
While they were falling all over each other and plotting new and evil ways to NEVER LET ME LIVE THAT DOWN EVER, EVER, EVER, I pondered what had happened that day.
Let's just say that nothing my kids have done could have possibly compared to me shrieking through the kitchen, naked from the waist up with a very determined kitten attached to my left nipple, trying to get out the front door by running head first into it while thinking that if I could just get outside, I could roll around on the ground and try to detach him - all while my mother stood calmly at the sink watching me, and then turned around and finished washing the dishes.
As a for instance...
Chris and I are having an in-depth conversation about his left nipple which somehow segued into breast feeding and because this is a perfectly normal Friday night for us, I'll just let you read what happened while I go put staples in my forehead:
"Did you seriously think when you were little that you could breast feed, Chris?"
"No, you dork. I was kidding."
"Oh. Well, I wasn't sure. Because -"
Now, I pause here to let you know that this is the part where I share waaaaaay too much information with him, my son who happened to be eavesdropping in the background, you guys and quite possibly even God.
" - I tried to breast feed a kitten when I was five."
The silence that permeated the room was so utterly complete you could have heard a flea fart.
Now begins the explaining, because, once again, I have opened my big fucking mouth without really thinking about what I was saying.
"I didn't know." Ignorance excuse.
"It's mother had abandoned it and I thought it would starve to death." Altruism excuse.
"I was just kidding." This never works.
Here's where I decide that since I pulled my rip cord and a bunch of forks and knives flew out of the rig, I might as well wave bye-bye and seal my fate.
"I decided it wasn't such a good idea when it bit down and I realized the little fucker had some seriously sharp teeth."
While they were falling all over each other and plotting new and evil ways to NEVER LET ME LIVE THAT DOWN EVER, EVER, EVER, I pondered what had happened that day.
Let's just say that nothing my kids have done could have possibly compared to me shrieking through the kitchen, naked from the waist up with a very determined kitten attached to my left nipple, trying to get out the front door by running head first into it while thinking that if I could just get outside, I could roll around on the ground and try to detach him - all while my mother stood calmly at the sink watching me, and then turned around and finished washing the dishes.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Yes, Virginia, There Is A Head Trauma
At night when I get home, I can no more stop the car and put it into park before Virginia is wailing for me to let Dusty off his run and bring him inside the house. The two of them wiggle and dance from foot to foot in nervous excitement and when I turn him loose inside the house, they're off like Chariots of fucking Fire. They run and play tug-of-war and bounce and frolic and bark and howl and wear me the hell out for the next 3 hours. Then they collapse in a pile of panting and drooling until Dusty makes a bowl of popcorn and they fall asleep together while watching Cartoon Network.
We do this every single night. I could drop Dusty off in the middle of the Anarctic and he would find his way home, determined to return to the only other creature on the planet with as much energy and enthusiasm for repetitive games as he has.
Last night, while they were tearing the house apart, I heard a brief silence, then an exclamation of surprise followed by a loud THUNK and then crying.
Now, when you have children (especially one as graceful as mine), you initially lose your mind over every boo-boo and scrape they have to offer. You eventually get so numb to the various accidents that your thought process becomes this: If you can't see the bone, anything can be fixed with some PowerPuff Band-Aids and a cup of Kool-Aid.
Additionally, if the injury happens while you're not in the room, the severity of it can accurately be judged by the type of crying/screaming/howling that you hear.
For instance:
1. Brief cry of outrage or pain followed by normal crying: their sibling punched them in the arm and they'll be fine. Moreover, they probably deserved it.
2. Crying interlaced with snuffly, snotty sobs: They didn't get their way about something. Ignore it or spank them until they really start crying. It's the only way to help them.
3. Hopeless, gut-wrenching sobs: She just found out that her hamster tried to eat the "My Little Pony" she put in the cage to keep him company and choked to death on it's pink, spotted hoof. The only way to alleviate this type of crying is to assure her that the hamster just needs an operation, take him to Petco, match him as closely as possible and lie through your teeth when she asks you why his tail isn't quite as pink. Lying will save your ass.
4. Thin, reedy gasps followed by screaming: This is the worst kind. You can almost guarantee that at some point in the near future you will hear the word, "re-attachment".
So, after the THUNK, I hear crying number four. I ran into the living room and found Virginia on the floor, on her back, shrieking. Dusty was running around her in circles, pausing every few feet to cock his head and assess the situation and then trying to help by coating her face in dog spit. After I moved him away, I got her to sit up and explain to me what happened.
She had been chasing him because he was trying to eat her toy ferrett. Dusty was having a jolly good time thinking this was the best game ever when he had the totally radical idea to just stop dead in his tracks. Virginia didn't throw on the brakes fast enough and tripped over him, thereby using her head as a battering ram against the front door.
There's still a dent there, incidentally.
After taking her in my bedroom and gingerly feeling her head, I could tell that she had a pretty large knot appearing, but no real damage was done. I gave her a bath, she put on her pajamas and I sent her to the couch with a blanket and some milk. I was a little nervous at first because she was acting confused, making up gibberish words and crossing her eyes every now and then, but, nope, that's just Virginia.
Today, after work, I'm going to introduce her and Dusty to the joys of origami, decaf and helmets.
We do this every single night. I could drop Dusty off in the middle of the Anarctic and he would find his way home, determined to return to the only other creature on the planet with as much energy and enthusiasm for repetitive games as he has.
Last night, while they were tearing the house apart, I heard a brief silence, then an exclamation of surprise followed by a loud THUNK and then crying.
Now, when you have children (especially one as graceful as mine), you initially lose your mind over every boo-boo and scrape they have to offer. You eventually get so numb to the various accidents that your thought process becomes this: If you can't see the bone, anything can be fixed with some PowerPuff Band-Aids and a cup of Kool-Aid.
Additionally, if the injury happens while you're not in the room, the severity of it can accurately be judged by the type of crying/screaming/howling that you hear.
For instance:
1. Brief cry of outrage or pain followed by normal crying: their sibling punched them in the arm and they'll be fine. Moreover, they probably deserved it.
2. Crying interlaced with snuffly, snotty sobs: They didn't get their way about something. Ignore it or spank them until they really start crying. It's the only way to help them.
3. Hopeless, gut-wrenching sobs: She just found out that her hamster tried to eat the "My Little Pony" she put in the cage to keep him company and choked to death on it's pink, spotted hoof. The only way to alleviate this type of crying is to assure her that the hamster just needs an operation, take him to Petco, match him as closely as possible and lie through your teeth when she asks you why his tail isn't quite as pink. Lying will save your ass.
4. Thin, reedy gasps followed by screaming: This is the worst kind. You can almost guarantee that at some point in the near future you will hear the word, "re-attachment".
So, after the THUNK, I hear crying number four. I ran into the living room and found Virginia on the floor, on her back, shrieking. Dusty was running around her in circles, pausing every few feet to cock his head and assess the situation and then trying to help by coating her face in dog spit. After I moved him away, I got her to sit up and explain to me what happened.
She had been chasing him because he was trying to eat her toy ferrett. Dusty was having a jolly good time thinking this was the best game ever when he had the totally radical idea to just stop dead in his tracks. Virginia didn't throw on the brakes fast enough and tripped over him, thereby using her head as a battering ram against the front door.
There's still a dent there, incidentally.
After taking her in my bedroom and gingerly feeling her head, I could tell that she had a pretty large knot appearing, but no real damage was done. I gave her a bath, she put on her pajamas and I sent her to the couch with a blanket and some milk. I was a little nervous at first because she was acting confused, making up gibberish words and crossing her eyes every now and then, but, nope, that's just Virginia.
Today, after work, I'm going to introduce her and Dusty to the joys of origami, decaf and helmets.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Wedding Details
Holy shit.
I'm hiring four photographers so there's one for each and every angle.
- Backyard wedding, alcohol craftily disguised as a harmless punch bowl, karaoke and a dog that lives to hump people.
- The Ross's -that would be my side. A bunch of Nascar supporting, beer swilling heathens who liberally pepper all conversations with "fucks" and "shits"
- The McKnob's - they go to Church twelve times a week, eat Sunday dinner together and shit, and nary a drop of liqour has soiled any of their bloodstreams
- Me & Chris joining those families forever and ever, amen.
I'm hiring four photographers so there's one for each and every angle.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Everybody Hurts
Note: I began my previous post with the intention of merely mentioning Virginia's plight and then moving on to this, something a little more humorous. I guess I didn't realize how much I had been affected by my daughter being sick, but I'm so thankful for the outlet because I feel so much better after putting it out there. Even my radiator exploding this morning isn't bothering me.
Much.
_____________________________________
Dusty was neutered on Friday. For the entire week preceding the operation, Chris & Devon were especially gentle and sweet with him. They would shower him with treats and then stand and look at him, all sad and sympathetic. Dusty just thought he'd won some kind of doggy lottery.
Because of a scheduling conflict, Chris had the choice of taking him to the shelter for the surgery or dropping the kids off at school. He chose to take Dusty. I think he felt that someone who actually has a set of nuts should take him. Some weird kinship thing.
So, Chris took him in and dropped him off and Dusty was happy and wiggly, as usual, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen to him. He trotted from kennel to kennel, catching up with his homies and marking everything that didn't run from him.
As for us, after I left the doctor's office, I went to pick Devon up. It was an hour before school let out and I needed to pick Dusty up as quickly as possible before the shelter closed, so I went inside and checked Devon out.
When we got back to the car, some over-zealous soccer mom's had already blocked my car in with their SUV's as they waited for their very normal children to exit the school. I sighed, got in the car, started my engine and put on my blinker. Now, keep in mind, when putting my children in the car (and making it very obvious that I had claimed my child. I'm done. I don't need to sit here and read the latest edition of Oprah, thank you very much), I had made eye contact with two of the women. Upon starting up my car, I made eye contact with the third in her side mirror. Apparently, there is some sort of secret handshake or gang sign I'm not aware of because they all went back to reading or masturbating or whatever the fuck they were doing and completely ignored me.
Now I was mildly aggravated. I got out of my car and approached the woman on my left and the woman in front of me. Their windows were almost directly across from each other and I figured if I could get them to move out of the way a little, I could sneak out. The woman in front of me saw me coming and locked her car door. Last time I checked, I didn't look like a crazed psychopath or a deranged purse snatcher, but the bitch locks her door. I kind of chuckled and leaned over to speak to both of them.
"Excuse me. I have a minor emergency and I really can't sit here for another 45 minutes, so can you please move forward a little so I can get out?" They both just looked at me like stunned cattle, so I accepted that as acquiescence and turned around to go back to my car.
Then, as if shit isn't weird enough, from behind me, I hear the door-locker roll her window down and ask, "What kind of emergency?"
It was my turn to do my best impression of a stunned cow. I turned and just stared at her. She visibly bristled and said, "Well, it's one thing if you just don't want to sit here, but to ask us to move..."
I'm sorry, is there some sort of car parking hierarchy that I'm not aware of? Does it really fucking matter if you're parked five feet forward from where you were? Are your children so lacking in survival skills that you moving would throw their whole world off it's axis? Would they be unable to find you and end up wandering the earth for all eternity, eventually hanging themselves with their Docker's to be free from the misery of life without soy milk? I mean, honestly.
I had just about reached my threshold. I walked back over to her car.
"My dog just had his balls removed and I'd like to pick him up before he thinks that we abandoned him and drowns himself in his water bowl. Now can you move, please?"
When we picked Dusty up, he was groggy and disoriented. I put him on the pillow I had brought for him and he sat in the back with Virginia. He kept turning in circles, trying to get comfortable and flopping all over the place because he was so high. Virginia would giggle and pat his head. Cute doggy.
After we got home, I stuffed his kennel with pillowy softness and coaxed him in. He wasn't having it. He had been gone for hours and he wanted to sniff everyone and make sure we hadn't been cheating on him. The problem was that his back legs wouldn't cooperate. He would wobble two feet, collapse on his ass and then look at us as if to say, "You're gonna have to come to me, cos I am fuuuuuuuuucked up." He finally stumbled back to his kennel, went in and passed out.
Later that night, I went outside to move the garbage cans into the carport from the curb. Virginia was standing at the door watching me and she accidentally pushed the door open a few inches. The next thing I know, Dusty is streaking through the yard, dodging me as I dart from side to side trying to block him. He flies across the street and goes to visit his girlfriend, a Siberian husky that lives behind the chainlink fence. This was becoming a normal ritual - he would be rooted to the spot while she sashayed her ass in front of his nose, so I wasn't in any hurry. I started across the street and then stopped and watched, eyes widening.
The female dog, the husky, had delicately sniffed at Dusty through the fence, literally turned up her nose and walked away from him. He looked after her for a minute, confused, and then turned and slowly began walking back across the street. When he passed, he looked up at me with heartbreak and misery in his big brown eyes and then he slowly made his way to the front door and sat there until I let him in. His depression was so deep that he bypassed Virginia, who was wagging his favorite toy in front of his nose, and went to lie down on the living room floor. I sat down on the couch and watched him, genuinely concerned and guilty. What the hell had I done, having him emasculated?
A few minutes later, he sat up and went to lick his nuts. He stopped and stared at the empty, raisin-looking thing that was now hanging between his legs. He sat there for a minute as if a drunken night of debauchery was all coming back to him and then, I shit you not, favored me with a very human expression of shock and accusation.
He's been growling at me and peeing on my shoes all weekend. Is neutering reversible like vasectomies? Can they just pop them back in?
Much.
_____________________________________
Dusty was neutered on Friday. For the entire week preceding the operation, Chris & Devon were especially gentle and sweet with him. They would shower him with treats and then stand and look at him, all sad and sympathetic. Dusty just thought he'd won some kind of doggy lottery.
Because of a scheduling conflict, Chris had the choice of taking him to the shelter for the surgery or dropping the kids off at school. He chose to take Dusty. I think he felt that someone who actually has a set of nuts should take him. Some weird kinship thing.
So, Chris took him in and dropped him off and Dusty was happy and wiggly, as usual, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen to him. He trotted from kennel to kennel, catching up with his homies and marking everything that didn't run from him.
As for us, after I left the doctor's office, I went to pick Devon up. It was an hour before school let out and I needed to pick Dusty up as quickly as possible before the shelter closed, so I went inside and checked Devon out.
When we got back to the car, some over-zealous soccer mom's had already blocked my car in with their SUV's as they waited for their very normal children to exit the school. I sighed, got in the car, started my engine and put on my blinker. Now, keep in mind, when putting my children in the car (and making it very obvious that I had claimed my child. I'm done. I don't need to sit here and read the latest edition of Oprah, thank you very much), I had made eye contact with two of the women. Upon starting up my car, I made eye contact with the third in her side mirror. Apparently, there is some sort of secret handshake or gang sign I'm not aware of because they all went back to reading or masturbating or whatever the fuck they were doing and completely ignored me.
Now I was mildly aggravated. I got out of my car and approached the woman on my left and the woman in front of me. Their windows were almost directly across from each other and I figured if I could get them to move out of the way a little, I could sneak out. The woman in front of me saw me coming and locked her car door. Last time I checked, I didn't look like a crazed psychopath or a deranged purse snatcher, but the bitch locks her door. I kind of chuckled and leaned over to speak to both of them.
"Excuse me. I have a minor emergency and I really can't sit here for another 45 minutes, so can you please move forward a little so I can get out?" They both just looked at me like stunned cattle, so I accepted that as acquiescence and turned around to go back to my car.
Then, as if shit isn't weird enough, from behind me, I hear the door-locker roll her window down and ask, "What kind of emergency?"
It was my turn to do my best impression of a stunned cow. I turned and just stared at her. She visibly bristled and said, "Well, it's one thing if you just don't want to sit here, but to ask us to move..."
I'm sorry, is there some sort of car parking hierarchy that I'm not aware of? Does it really fucking matter if you're parked five feet forward from where you were? Are your children so lacking in survival skills that you moving would throw their whole world off it's axis? Would they be unable to find you and end up wandering the earth for all eternity, eventually hanging themselves with their Docker's to be free from the misery of life without soy milk? I mean, honestly.
I had just about reached my threshold. I walked back over to her car.
"My dog just had his balls removed and I'd like to pick him up before he thinks that we abandoned him and drowns himself in his water bowl. Now can you move, please?"
When we picked Dusty up, he was groggy and disoriented. I put him on the pillow I had brought for him and he sat in the back with Virginia. He kept turning in circles, trying to get comfortable and flopping all over the place because he was so high. Virginia would giggle and pat his head. Cute doggy.
After we got home, I stuffed his kennel with pillowy softness and coaxed him in. He wasn't having it. He had been gone for hours and he wanted to sniff everyone and make sure we hadn't been cheating on him. The problem was that his back legs wouldn't cooperate. He would wobble two feet, collapse on his ass and then look at us as if to say, "You're gonna have to come to me, cos I am fuuuuuuuuucked up." He finally stumbled back to his kennel, went in and passed out.
Later that night, I went outside to move the garbage cans into the carport from the curb. Virginia was standing at the door watching me and she accidentally pushed the door open a few inches. The next thing I know, Dusty is streaking through the yard, dodging me as I dart from side to side trying to block him. He flies across the street and goes to visit his girlfriend, a Siberian husky that lives behind the chainlink fence. This was becoming a normal ritual - he would be rooted to the spot while she sashayed her ass in front of his nose, so I wasn't in any hurry. I started across the street and then stopped and watched, eyes widening.
The female dog, the husky, had delicately sniffed at Dusty through the fence, literally turned up her nose and walked away from him. He looked after her for a minute, confused, and then turned and slowly began walking back across the street. When he passed, he looked up at me with heartbreak and misery in his big brown eyes and then he slowly made his way to the front door and sat there until I let him in. His depression was so deep that he bypassed Virginia, who was wagging his favorite toy in front of his nose, and went to lie down on the living room floor. I sat down on the couch and watched him, genuinely concerned and guilty. What the hell had I done, having him emasculated?
A few minutes later, he sat up and went to lick his nuts. He stopped and stared at the empty, raisin-looking thing that was now hanging between his legs. He sat there for a minute as if a drunken night of debauchery was all coming back to him and then, I shit you not, favored me with a very human expression of shock and accusation.
He's been growling at me and peeing on my shoes all weekend. Is neutering reversible like vasectomies? Can they just pop them back in?
Catching Up
I've been missing from HNT the last two times because my daughter has been sick and I haven't felt very jovial.
She began throwing up for no reason a couple of weeks ago and it has continued sporadically since then. She couldn't go more than 24 hours without vomiting. Naturally, I was horrified. I did extensive research and found her symptoms to match everything from diabetes to Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome.
Her father dropped her health insurance, so I had to wait until I got paid on Friday to take her to see a doctor. I can't tell you how helpless and inadequate I felt watching her retch and try so hard to be a big girl about it. Her little pants were just hanging on her by the time I took her in and she would literally gag just looking at Pedialyte.
Through the whole ordeal, she was very good-natured. I, on the other hand, was a ball of nerves. There were dark circles under her eyes, she had severe diarrhea and would act very confused and lethargic every morning. This was a drastic change from the non-stop chattering Devon and I usually endured on the morning commute. The drive became less of an event and more of a tense, depressing silence. It was fucking horrible and I just wanted my baby girl to feel better and be herself.
Friday morning, I took her in. As we waited, she asked questions.
"Mommy, will they have to stick me with a needle like they did when I got my school shots?"
"I don't know, sweety. I just don't know."
She colored and looked at magazines and I sat and imagined my life without her. She played with the paper on the examining table and I envisioned caskets that were never meant to be that small and how I would quietly let my life slip away after I went mad with grief. I was determined that all this wondrous happiness, all this peace and quiet in my life, for the first time in my life, was not meant to happen. It was a joke and this was where it all came to a screeching halt. God was going to take her from me because my life is not supposed to without pain and loss. I got Devon back after 10 years and the price was going to be my sweet, gentle little girl.
When the doctor came in, he joked with her about finding the person who knocked out her teeth and getting me to tape her belly-button shut so the air wouldn't escape. I wanted to hug him and punch him in his face simultaneously. Why was he joking? Didn't he realize what was happening? He directed his questions to her until I stepped in.
"She's never been sick, not so much as an ear infection." I quietly explained her symptoms to him and I felt my insides turning to jelly as I watched his face become grave.
"We need blood. I'll get the lab to come here."
He left and I explained to Virginia that, yes, there was going to be a needle. She began to cry and I held her and murmured reassurances in her ear that I would be right by her side and we would go see a movie and get a toy afterward and it was just one little stick and then it would be over.
The nurse that took the first sample had to withdraw the needle to avoid a hematoma. Virginia had tensed up and started crying again and her vein began to swell. Two more nurses appeared and tried to distract her while the other needle was inserted in her left arm. She was very upset with me for this betrayal as I had promised her it would just be one stick. When she saw how distraught I was, she tried to comfort me and I felt even worse.
When they had finally taken what seemed like an exorbitant sample of blood, they all left and it was just the two of us again. She was verbally listing all the people we had to call to tell them what a big girl she had been and how big the needles were and I was sitting on my hands and trying not to let my imagination sabotage me.
When the door opened and the doctor returned, I held my breath.
"Well, there's good new and there's bad news."
He paused, expectantly, and I vowed to set his car on fire. With him inside it.
"It's not diabetes. That was my major concern because all her symptoms pointed straight to it. The bad news is that we don't know what it is."
He went on to list all the possibilities and what needed to be done. Feed her nothing but rice, toast and bananas for the weekend and if she showed no improvement by Monday, they would test the remaining blood for a myriad of other diseases.
Super.
I paid the eleventy-trillion dollar bill and we left. Virginia was ecstatic about her trip to buy a new toy and going to see a movie. I was just as confused and had mixed feelings about the diagnosis, or lack thereof. I was grateful that nothing life-threatening had been found, but even diabetes would have been a relief when compared to the other diseases that had been mentioned. At least juvenile diabetes is treatable.
She was fine all weekend. No vomiting, no diarrhea, no lethargy or confusion. I tried to put my finger on what had been different about this weekend and just when it would tickle my subconscious and I would be close to the realization, it would vanish and leave me frustrated and upset.
This morning, as we readied ourselves for school, I gave Virginia her Flintstone vitamin. She ate her first bowl of cereal in days and chattered gaily about the fact that it is the 100th day of school. As we rushed to leave the house, she stopped me.
"Mommy, you forgot my vitamin seed."
I stopped dead in my tracks and an article I had read years before ran through my head. It was about a child who had displayed various baffling symptoms and doctors who were unable to figure out what was wrong. The child had been vomiting, had diarrhea and had to be hospitalized for dehydration as it continued. Thankfully, the cause was finally determined: too much vitamin C.
I had been giving Virginia vitamin C drops in addition to her multi-vitamin (more vitamin C in there) in the hopes of warding off colds at school. In my effort to keep my child well, I think I might have inadvertently made her very, very sick.
I called the doctor this morning after I read numerous articles on the side effects of too much vitamin C. It is the only thing that fits and I'm hoping to God that I'm right. I'd really appreciate it if you'd all hope with me.
She began throwing up for no reason a couple of weeks ago and it has continued sporadically since then. She couldn't go more than 24 hours without vomiting. Naturally, I was horrified. I did extensive research and found her symptoms to match everything from diabetes to Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome.
Her father dropped her health insurance, so I had to wait until I got paid on Friday to take her to see a doctor. I can't tell you how helpless and inadequate I felt watching her retch and try so hard to be a big girl about it. Her little pants were just hanging on her by the time I took her in and she would literally gag just looking at Pedialyte.
Through the whole ordeal, she was very good-natured. I, on the other hand, was a ball of nerves. There were dark circles under her eyes, she had severe diarrhea and would act very confused and lethargic every morning. This was a drastic change from the non-stop chattering Devon and I usually endured on the morning commute. The drive became less of an event and more of a tense, depressing silence. It was fucking horrible and I just wanted my baby girl to feel better and be herself.
Friday morning, I took her in. As we waited, she asked questions.
"Mommy, will they have to stick me with a needle like they did when I got my school shots?"
"I don't know, sweety. I just don't know."
She colored and looked at magazines and I sat and imagined my life without her. She played with the paper on the examining table and I envisioned caskets that were never meant to be that small and how I would quietly let my life slip away after I went mad with grief. I was determined that all this wondrous happiness, all this peace and quiet in my life, for the first time in my life, was not meant to happen. It was a joke and this was where it all came to a screeching halt. God was going to take her from me because my life is not supposed to without pain and loss. I got Devon back after 10 years and the price was going to be my sweet, gentle little girl.
When the doctor came in, he joked with her about finding the person who knocked out her teeth and getting me to tape her belly-button shut so the air wouldn't escape. I wanted to hug him and punch him in his face simultaneously. Why was he joking? Didn't he realize what was happening? He directed his questions to her until I stepped in.
"She's never been sick, not so much as an ear infection." I quietly explained her symptoms to him and I felt my insides turning to jelly as I watched his face become grave.
"We need blood. I'll get the lab to come here."
He left and I explained to Virginia that, yes, there was going to be a needle. She began to cry and I held her and murmured reassurances in her ear that I would be right by her side and we would go see a movie and get a toy afterward and it was just one little stick and then it would be over.
The nurse that took the first sample had to withdraw the needle to avoid a hematoma. Virginia had tensed up and started crying again and her vein began to swell. Two more nurses appeared and tried to distract her while the other needle was inserted in her left arm. She was very upset with me for this betrayal as I had promised her it would just be one stick. When she saw how distraught I was, she tried to comfort me and I felt even worse.
When they had finally taken what seemed like an exorbitant sample of blood, they all left and it was just the two of us again. She was verbally listing all the people we had to call to tell them what a big girl she had been and how big the needles were and I was sitting on my hands and trying not to let my imagination sabotage me.
When the door opened and the doctor returned, I held my breath.
"Well, there's good new and there's bad news."
He paused, expectantly, and I vowed to set his car on fire. With him inside it.
"It's not diabetes. That was my major concern because all her symptoms pointed straight to it. The bad news is that we don't know what it is."
He went on to list all the possibilities and what needed to be done. Feed her nothing but rice, toast and bananas for the weekend and if she showed no improvement by Monday, they would test the remaining blood for a myriad of other diseases.
Super.
I paid the eleventy-trillion dollar bill and we left. Virginia was ecstatic about her trip to buy a new toy and going to see a movie. I was just as confused and had mixed feelings about the diagnosis, or lack thereof. I was grateful that nothing life-threatening had been found, but even diabetes would have been a relief when compared to the other diseases that had been mentioned. At least juvenile diabetes is treatable.
She was fine all weekend. No vomiting, no diarrhea, no lethargy or confusion. I tried to put my finger on what had been different about this weekend and just when it would tickle my subconscious and I would be close to the realization, it would vanish and leave me frustrated and upset.
This morning, as we readied ourselves for school, I gave Virginia her Flintstone vitamin. She ate her first bowl of cereal in days and chattered gaily about the fact that it is the 100th day of school. As we rushed to leave the house, she stopped me.
"Mommy, you forgot my vitamin seed."
I stopped dead in my tracks and an article I had read years before ran through my head. It was about a child who had displayed various baffling symptoms and doctors who were unable to figure out what was wrong. The child had been vomiting, had diarrhea and had to be hospitalized for dehydration as it continued. Thankfully, the cause was finally determined: too much vitamin C.
I had been giving Virginia vitamin C drops in addition to her multi-vitamin (more vitamin C in there) in the hopes of warding off colds at school. In my effort to keep my child well, I think I might have inadvertently made her very, very sick.
I called the doctor this morning after I read numerous articles on the side effects of too much vitamin C. It is the only thing that fits and I'm hoping to God that I'm right. I'd really appreciate it if you'd all hope with me.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Defiant
I'm sorry I've been scarce. My arthritis has been agony in my right hand the last few days and I've been walking around with a claw.
Yesterday was an interesting day, and I feel guilty when I don't talk to you guys, so, here I sit, typing one-handed and making it that much harder on myself by filling you in on all these unnecessary details and using words like 'unnecessary'.
The day started out just like any other. I taunted my co-worker and we issued death threats to one another, loudly, and with as much profanity as possible. I prank called my mother twenty or so times, telling her I was Abu from the Mapco down the street and that I was suing her because she had plugged up the toilet in our establishment. After bringing her to a near nervous breakdown, I ate lunch and began my work day.
Near the end of the day, my boss came to me and offered me a trip to Aruba for my honeymoon. I gleefully accepted, offered to lick his eyebrows (which he declined. Silly man.) and drove to pick up the kids, dizzy with my happiness.
When I stopped at my parents, I began randomly knocking on doors in the complex. When the tenants would open up and warily peer out at me, I would say through my huge grin, "I'm going to Aruba", and then walk away. My mom finally caught me and dragged me inside. I was that happy.
I got my kids in the car and we began our nightly ritual.
"Mom, Devon looked at me."
"Devon, stop looking at her."
"Mom, he looked at me again."
"Shut up, you little brat!" Devon hissed.
"Mom, Devon called me a brat."
"Well, if the shoe fits...", I muttered.
"Mommy, my shoes fit. Sometimes the socks are too tight, but my shoes fit."
"I know, baby. That's good."
"Mommy, today at school, that boy, Eddie Murphy, the brown boy, he called me ugly and said that my teeth won't grow back in and I told him that he's wrong and I said that thing you told me about sticks and stones and my bones being really breaky but names not hurting me and he laughed, but that's okay, because..."
It's usually at this point that I mentally drown most of it out and nod occasionally, throwing in a "yes" or a "no" when it seems appropriate. I love my children more than anything else on this earth, but you can only take so much.
"Mommy, Devon touched me."
"You are such a snot!"
I dragged myself back to reality from the beaches of Aruba.
And then it happened.
I said it.
I threw it right into the universe's face and laughed, haughtily. Oh, terrible, terrible decision.
"You know what, Virginia? Mommy's going to Aruba in a few months and nothing that happens tonight will ruin my mood."
Well, I could just stop there. I'm sure you can all imagine the train wreck that was the rest of the night, but I guess I'll elaborate.
We arrived home and, although I was gritting my teeth a little, both children were in the car and still had a head full of hair. It was a personal victory.
Dusty greeted us from the back yard much like he usually does. He howls and rolls around on the ground like the agony of waiting just 30 more seconds for belly-scratches and face-licking is just more than a poor, floppy-eared dog should have to endure.
"Devon, it's been snowing, so go get a towel and dry him off before you let him inside."
Devon immediately ignores me and goes to let him off his run. Virginia and I go inside and she heads back to her room to make sure Oscar hasn't eaten his own head.
10 seconds later, I am pounced on by fifteen pounds of cold, wet fur.
"Devon! I told you to get a towel and..."
It was then that the smell hit me.
"Devon Cameron! Your dog has poo on him somewhere! Get a towel, quickly!"
He ran out of his bedroom and into the bathroom to get a towel. When he came back, we began cleaning Dusty's paws. The smell was still strong, so I leaned over and began sniffing him.
My daughter walked in, beaming, and then stopped to watch.
Devon is on his knees with a towel wrapped around Dusty like a toga and he's holding him so that Dusty is basically standing up. I'm leaning over, sniffing his paws, his belly, his neck.
"Mommy, ummm...I know you're .. busy .. but I think you need to come see this."
Nothing good ever happens after hearing those words. Nothing. People get maimed, simple murders become bizarre or Nick Stokes ends up buried in a box with ants eating him alive.
"Virginia, can it wait, the dog is trying to destroy my sanity and-"
"Oscar laid eggs, Mommy."
Now, it's not bad enough that my children refuse to eat anything red or properly wash behind their ears, but I'll be damned if members of this family start rebelling against their genetic coding.
"Devon. Fix this." I stood up and went to investigate.
When I reached Oscar's cage, I stood rooted to the spot, horrified. It did, indeed, look like the little fucker had laid eggs all over his 2nd floor balcony. Virginia was standing next to me with a smug look on her face that said, "See? I was wrong about the dog having puppies, Devon says those are his nuts and I still don't know what those are, but the rat really did lay eggs."
"Oh, my God. Virginia. Get Mommy her phone." She ran off and I opened the cage. As I got closer, I saw silky, green strands in between the eggs. I was already mentally spending the money that I'm getting from suing Petco for selling me some fucked up, mutant rat-reptile-spider creature, when Devon walks in and looks over my shoulder.
"Oh. He ate your frog." And off he goes.
Behind the cage, hanging on Virginia's dresser, is a frog-puppet that my mother bought me. He is gorgeous and is now missing his left foot which was dangling just close enough to Oscar's cage for him to have a mid-day snack. The frog was, apparently, filled with medium-sized white beads.
Virginia came flying back into the room. "Here, Mommy! Here's the phone! When will we have babies?"
"If you're going to wait for those to hatch, you'll be here awhile, sweet pea."
I carried Oscar's cage into the kitchen to clean out the beads and I still smelled dog poo.
"Devon. It still smells like ass in here."
"Mom, I cleaned him off. I swear."
This is where the lightbulb goes on over my head.
"Son, lift up your feet."
Once we had ascertained that he had stepped in a pile of dogshit roughly the size of a Buick, I began to assess the damage.
"Holy hell, child. It looks like you performed 'Riverdance with Doody' all over the house."
Devon and I cleaned up dog shit. Virginia cried because she wasn't going to have little Oscar's and we wouldn't let her help clean up the shit. Dinner needed to be made and kids needed to be bathed and homework needed to be done and it was already 8 p.m.
There was only one thing that saved my state of mind last night and it was a thing of sheer beauty. It is pure genius.
American Idol auditions. Good God, ya'll.
Yesterday was an interesting day, and I feel guilty when I don't talk to you guys, so, here I sit, typing one-handed and making it that much harder on myself by filling you in on all these unnecessary details and using words like 'unnecessary'.
The day started out just like any other. I taunted my co-worker and we issued death threats to one another, loudly, and with as much profanity as possible. I prank called my mother twenty or so times, telling her I was Abu from the Mapco down the street and that I was suing her because she had plugged up the toilet in our establishment. After bringing her to a near nervous breakdown, I ate lunch and began my work day.
Near the end of the day, my boss came to me and offered me a trip to Aruba for my honeymoon. I gleefully accepted, offered to lick his eyebrows (which he declined. Silly man.) and drove to pick up the kids, dizzy with my happiness.
When I stopped at my parents, I began randomly knocking on doors in the complex. When the tenants would open up and warily peer out at me, I would say through my huge grin, "I'm going to Aruba", and then walk away. My mom finally caught me and dragged me inside. I was that happy.
I got my kids in the car and we began our nightly ritual.
"Mom, Devon looked at me."
"Devon, stop looking at her."
"Mom, he looked at me again."
"Shut up, you little brat!" Devon hissed.
"Mom, Devon called me a brat."
"Well, if the shoe fits...", I muttered.
"Mommy, my shoes fit. Sometimes the socks are too tight, but my shoes fit."
"I know, baby. That's good."
"Mommy, today at school, that boy, Eddie Murphy, the brown boy, he called me ugly and said that my teeth won't grow back in and I told him that he's wrong and I said that thing you told me about sticks and stones and my bones being really breaky but names not hurting me and he laughed, but that's okay, because..."
It's usually at this point that I mentally drown most of it out and nod occasionally, throwing in a "yes" or a "no" when it seems appropriate. I love my children more than anything else on this earth, but you can only take so much.
"Mommy, Devon touched me."
"You are such a snot!"
I dragged myself back to reality from the beaches of Aruba.
And then it happened.
I said it.
I threw it right into the universe's face and laughed, haughtily. Oh, terrible, terrible decision.
"You know what, Virginia? Mommy's going to Aruba in a few months and nothing that happens tonight will ruin my mood."
Well, I could just stop there. I'm sure you can all imagine the train wreck that was the rest of the night, but I guess I'll elaborate.
We arrived home and, although I was gritting my teeth a little, both children were in the car and still had a head full of hair. It was a personal victory.
Dusty greeted us from the back yard much like he usually does. He howls and rolls around on the ground like the agony of waiting just 30 more seconds for belly-scratches and face-licking is just more than a poor, floppy-eared dog should have to endure.
"Devon, it's been snowing, so go get a towel and dry him off before you let him inside."
Devon immediately ignores me and goes to let him off his run. Virginia and I go inside and she heads back to her room to make sure Oscar hasn't eaten his own head.
10 seconds later, I am pounced on by fifteen pounds of cold, wet fur.
"Devon! I told you to get a towel and..."
It was then that the smell hit me.
"Devon Cameron! Your dog has poo on him somewhere! Get a towel, quickly!"
He ran out of his bedroom and into the bathroom to get a towel. When he came back, we began cleaning Dusty's paws. The smell was still strong, so I leaned over and began sniffing him.
My daughter walked in, beaming, and then stopped to watch.
Devon is on his knees with a towel wrapped around Dusty like a toga and he's holding him so that Dusty is basically standing up. I'm leaning over, sniffing his paws, his belly, his neck.
"Mommy, ummm...I know you're .. busy .. but I think you need to come see this."
Nothing good ever happens after hearing those words. Nothing. People get maimed, simple murders become bizarre or Nick Stokes ends up buried in a box with ants eating him alive.
"Virginia, can it wait, the dog is trying to destroy my sanity and-"
"Oscar laid eggs, Mommy."
Now, it's not bad enough that my children refuse to eat anything red or properly wash behind their ears, but I'll be damned if members of this family start rebelling against their genetic coding.
"Devon. Fix this." I stood up and went to investigate.
When I reached Oscar's cage, I stood rooted to the spot, horrified. It did, indeed, look like the little fucker had laid eggs all over his 2nd floor balcony. Virginia was standing next to me with a smug look on her face that said, "See? I was wrong about the dog having puppies, Devon says those are his nuts and I still don't know what those are, but the rat really did lay eggs."
"Oh, my God. Virginia. Get Mommy her phone." She ran off and I opened the cage. As I got closer, I saw silky, green strands in between the eggs. I was already mentally spending the money that I'm getting from suing Petco for selling me some fucked up, mutant rat-reptile-spider creature, when Devon walks in and looks over my shoulder.
"Oh. He ate your frog." And off he goes.
Behind the cage, hanging on Virginia's dresser, is a frog-puppet that my mother bought me. He is gorgeous and is now missing his left foot which was dangling just close enough to Oscar's cage for him to have a mid-day snack. The frog was, apparently, filled with medium-sized white beads.
Virginia came flying back into the room. "Here, Mommy! Here's the phone! When will we have babies?"
"If you're going to wait for those to hatch, you'll be here awhile, sweet pea."
I carried Oscar's cage into the kitchen to clean out the beads and I still smelled dog poo.
"Devon. It still smells like ass in here."
"Mom, I cleaned him off. I swear."
This is where the lightbulb goes on over my head.
"Son, lift up your feet."
Once we had ascertained that he had stepped in a pile of dogshit roughly the size of a Buick, I began to assess the damage.
"Holy hell, child. It looks like you performed 'Riverdance with Doody' all over the house."
Devon and I cleaned up dog shit. Virginia cried because she wasn't going to have little Oscar's and we wouldn't let her help clean up the shit. Dinner needed to be made and kids needed to be bathed and homework needed to be done and it was already 8 p.m.
There was only one thing that saved my state of mind last night and it was a thing of sheer beauty. It is pure genius.
American Idol auditions. Good God, ya'll.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Oscar
Virginia's pet rat, Oscar Fitzgerald McKnob, is a relatively low maintenance member of the family. He is, however, neurotic.
I picked the cutest little guy the pet store had. Unfortunately, there is a law within the universe: if you pick the hottest person in the room, they will inevitably be completely fucking crazy. Oscar is no exception.
I've had domesticated rats before and they honestly make great pets. They're very laid back, they rarely ever bite and they're fastidiously clean.
Oscar is a lunatic.
He throws his food. He talks to himself all night. He sits in the tube that leads from the bottom of his cage to the top for hours on end, until Virginia comes to get me and tearfully explains, again, that "he must be dead, Mommy. Or he's stuck." He taunts her by walking onto her hand (inside his cage), turning his back, peeing on her and then running. All while twittering away in a manner that leaves no doubt that crushing her hopes of petting him and peeing on her was the most fun a rat could have on a Friday night.
He flings his poop, people. Like a damned monkey.
Whenever we attempt to clean the cage out, I have to snatch him and try to get him to his exercise ball before he pees on me. Every single time I do it, he somehow manages to aim his ass in my direction and shoot poop-pellet torpedoes at me like the world's most digusting Pez dispenser. I have walked out of the room before, hair disheveled, eyes wild, only to have Chris look at me in horror and say, "Babe. You have rat doody on your boobs."
I once joked around and said, "Virginia. Santa might need to come back and get this rat because he's not right in his little head." She got extremely upset when I said this. I forgot that I had told her Santa listens all year and she was very afraid that he might take me seriously and bring her a parakeet or something unable to hit an unsuspecting boob with it's own poop from five feet away. So, I never said it again. But, if you are a parent, you know: children remember every single thing you have ever said since they could speak. Every freaking word.
So, this morning around 4 a.m., a thunderstorm hit. I heard the first rumble and sat up because I knew Virginia would be clinging to my head in a few seconds. She rocketed into the room, jumped on my head and I grabbed my pillow and headed for her room. After I finally calmed her and got her to sleep, I lay there listening to Oscar recite Shakespeare or sing karaoke or whatever the fuck he does at 4 a.m. After 10 minutes of his chattering and throwing corn kernels at his bars, I had had enough. I took his cage, put him on the kitchen counter and went back to Virginia's room to sleep.
At 6 a.m when Virginia woke up and saw the empty spot on the dresser where Oscar normally lives, the wail of anguish could be heard in Texas.
Sometimes, I don't think so good.
I picked the cutest little guy the pet store had. Unfortunately, there is a law within the universe: if you pick the hottest person in the room, they will inevitably be completely fucking crazy. Oscar is no exception.
I've had domesticated rats before and they honestly make great pets. They're very laid back, they rarely ever bite and they're fastidiously clean.
Oscar is a lunatic.
He throws his food. He talks to himself all night. He sits in the tube that leads from the bottom of his cage to the top for hours on end, until Virginia comes to get me and tearfully explains, again, that "he must be dead, Mommy. Or he's stuck." He taunts her by walking onto her hand (inside his cage), turning his back, peeing on her and then running. All while twittering away in a manner that leaves no doubt that crushing her hopes of petting him and peeing on her was the most fun a rat could have on a Friday night.
He flings his poop, people. Like a damned monkey.
Whenever we attempt to clean the cage out, I have to snatch him and try to get him to his exercise ball before he pees on me. Every single time I do it, he somehow manages to aim his ass in my direction and shoot poop-pellet torpedoes at me like the world's most digusting Pez dispenser. I have walked out of the room before, hair disheveled, eyes wild, only to have Chris look at me in horror and say, "Babe. You have rat doody on your boobs."
I once joked around and said, "Virginia. Santa might need to come back and get this rat because he's not right in his little head." She got extremely upset when I said this. I forgot that I had told her Santa listens all year and she was very afraid that he might take me seriously and bring her a parakeet or something unable to hit an unsuspecting boob with it's own poop from five feet away. So, I never said it again. But, if you are a parent, you know: children remember every single thing you have ever said since they could speak. Every freaking word.
So, this morning around 4 a.m., a thunderstorm hit. I heard the first rumble and sat up because I knew Virginia would be clinging to my head in a few seconds. She rocketed into the room, jumped on my head and I grabbed my pillow and headed for her room. After I finally calmed her and got her to sleep, I lay there listening to Oscar recite Shakespeare or sing karaoke or whatever the fuck he does at 4 a.m. After 10 minutes of his chattering and throwing corn kernels at his bars, I had had enough. I took his cage, put him on the kitchen counter and went back to Virginia's room to sleep.
At 6 a.m when Virginia woke up and saw the empty spot on the dresser where Oscar normally lives, the wail of anguish could be heard in Texas.
Sometimes, I don't think so good.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Answering the Question, "What the hell was I thinking when I got pregnant?"
Virginia's prayer tonight:
"Dear God,
Thank you for this wonderful day and thank you for my mom, I love her so very much, I love her this much, two-hundred thousand eleventy-million six-hundred twelve thirty-thousand and eight and thank you for our dog. Amen."
And, yes, she does that all in one breath. It's really quite amazing.
"Dear God,
Thank you for this wonderful day and thank you for my mom, I love her so very much, I love her this much, two-hundred thousand eleventy-million six-hundred twelve thirty-thousand and eight and thank you for our dog. Amen."
And, yes, she does that all in one breath. It's really quite amazing.
Morning Conversations
In the interest of keeping my children on the same curriculum and within the circle of relationships they have developed this school year, I am driving them to our old school every morning. The commute makes for some very interesting conversations.
"So, anyway, when I file my tax return for the year, I should have enough to pay for some new carpet and new flooring."
Virginia piped up from the back seat.
"Mommy, are we gonna have to give Dusty back to the pet store?"
"If he poops on the carpet again, yes."
I have made this threat all twelve times he's had an accident. I will be living in the backyard because our house smells so bad and still be making this threat. Fucking asshole dog.
"So, Mom, what else are you doing with the tax return?" Devon asks.
Now, I know what he's thinking. Microsoft and Sony are competing against one another in an attempt to have Devon selling crack to kindergarten kids so that he can have both the X-Box 360 and the new PS3. He is a teenager driven.
"Oh, I was thinking a boob job."
Silence.
"More titty, please!" Virginia squeaks.
(Thanks, Chris. You uttered that phrase one time when she was three houses down and she heard you. Now she says it all the time because you laughed hard enough to turn purple the first time she did and so she thinks it's funny. The first note I get from her teacher, I'm sending you in to explain)
"Hush, baby."
"Boob job? Boob job, Mom? You mean to make them smaller, right?" Devon's looking at me with an expression that says he sees his X-Box and Playstation dreams slipping right through my cleavage.
"No, I figured I would just go bigger. Hell, why not? A couple of cups wouldn't make much difference."
"More titty, pl-"
"Shut your hole, Virginia, " we chime in unison.
Devon turns back to me.
"Mom. Please tell me you're kidding."
"Not so much. I'm still young. I should enjoy my money."
"Mom. You need a new car. You need...you need...socks! You need that Asics surgery or whatever, you need-"
"Asics are shoes, honey. You mean 'Lasik'."
"That's not my point! My point is-"
"Devon, take a deep breath. I'm kidding."
"Oh."
2 minutes later...
"But I do need some butt implants."
"Gross, Mom."
"So, anyway, when I file my tax return for the year, I should have enough to pay for some new carpet and new flooring."
Virginia piped up from the back seat.
"Mommy, are we gonna have to give Dusty back to the pet store?"
"If he poops on the carpet again, yes."
I have made this threat all twelve times he's had an accident. I will be living in the backyard because our house smells so bad and still be making this threat. Fucking asshole dog.
"So, Mom, what else are you doing with the tax return?" Devon asks.
Now, I know what he's thinking. Microsoft and Sony are competing against one another in an attempt to have Devon selling crack to kindergarten kids so that he can have both the X-Box 360 and the new PS3. He is a teenager driven.
"Oh, I was thinking a boob job."
Silence.
"More titty, please!" Virginia squeaks.
(Thanks, Chris. You uttered that phrase one time when she was three houses down and she heard you. Now she says it all the time because you laughed hard enough to turn purple the first time she did and so she thinks it's funny. The first note I get from her teacher, I'm sending you in to explain)
"Hush, baby."
"Boob job? Boob job, Mom? You mean to make them smaller, right?" Devon's looking at me with an expression that says he sees his X-Box and Playstation dreams slipping right through my cleavage.
"No, I figured I would just go bigger. Hell, why not? A couple of cups wouldn't make much difference."
"More titty, pl-"
"Shut your hole, Virginia, " we chime in unison.
Devon turns back to me.
"Mom. Please tell me you're kidding."
"Not so much. I'm still young. I should enjoy my money."
"Mom. You need a new car. You need...you need...socks! You need that Asics surgery or whatever, you need-"
"Asics are shoes, honey. You mean 'Lasik'."
"That's not my point! My point is-"
"Devon, take a deep breath. I'm kidding."
"Oh."
2 minutes later...
"But I do need some butt implants."
"Gross, Mom."
Monday, January 09, 2006
Random
There is rarely a weekend that goes by when Chris isn't wedged under one of our vehicles, covered in oil and cursing.
He drives an antique 1961 Chevy truck. I drive a 1994 MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF GARBAGE GOOD FOR NOTHING IMPORTED SHITBAG GOD HOW I HATE YOU YOU COMPLETE ASSHOLE.
He gave me a new desk calendar to bring to work. I glanced at it just now, and on January 3rd he wrote, "I cried during an episode of Overhaulin'. Sad, I know."
I cry every morning when I come out and see that my car hasn't caught fire and died.
______________________________
Dusty Frederick McKnob had a good weekend. I've been counseling him about his impending operation and I'm honestly very concerned about obvious changes in his personality. If he stops humping Chris's leg, biting Virginia's toes when she's completely engrossed in That's So Raven, and farting every single time my son enters the room, I will be devastated. I get so little entertainment at other's expense.
______________________________
Devon turned thirteen on Friday. Chris took him and 2 other boys to play laser tag, miniature golf and violent arcade games. They came in at 10 p.m. on Saturday night, grinning, tired and all of them sporting little testosterone boners. Boys.
______________________________
I tried to do a little surprise thing for Devon on Friday night. We were actually having his party on Saturday, but I didn't want his birthday to go by without any sort of celebration.
So, Dusty and I are at home and I'm trying to blow up balloons, throw streamers around the kitchen and put out confetti. I would turn my back for 2 seconds and when I turned back around, there was Dusty, screaming down the hallway with streamers hanging out of his mouth. After chasing him around while he ate them all, I chastised him and put his little party hat on his head. 12 seconds later, only the tip of it was visible hanging out of his mouth and he's looking at me all, "I love the treats you give me, woman."
He was farting party confetti for 2 days.
_______________________________
Phone call to the town hall just a minute ago:
"Hi, my name is Crystal and I'm trying to find out about renting the gazebo in the town square for my wedding in April."
"Ok. What day in April?"
"I think the 22nd. It would have to be since there's some damned Nascar thing the next weekend and all you'll hear is crickets chirping on my side of the family."
"Uh huh. But that's not a firm date?"
"Well, I think it is. I hope. I think it is."
"And how many guests are you expecting?"
"Oh. I don't know. Between 25 and 75?"
"That's a pretty vague estimate."
"Yeah. I have a tendency to piss people off."
"Why don't you call me back when things are more solidified?"
"So, how much notice do you need? Is 24 hours okay?"
*click*
He drives an antique 1961 Chevy truck. I drive a 1994 MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF GARBAGE GOOD FOR NOTHING IMPORTED SHITBAG GOD HOW I HATE YOU YOU COMPLETE ASSHOLE.
He gave me a new desk calendar to bring to work. I glanced at it just now, and on January 3rd he wrote, "I cried during an episode of Overhaulin'. Sad, I know."
I cry every morning when I come out and see that my car hasn't caught fire and died.
______________________________
Dusty Frederick McKnob had a good weekend. I've been counseling him about his impending operation and I'm honestly very concerned about obvious changes in his personality. If he stops humping Chris's leg, biting Virginia's toes when she's completely engrossed in That's So Raven, and farting every single time my son enters the room, I will be devastated. I get so little entertainment at other's expense.
______________________________
Devon turned thirteen on Friday. Chris took him and 2 other boys to play laser tag, miniature golf and violent arcade games. They came in at 10 p.m. on Saturday night, grinning, tired and all of them sporting little testosterone boners. Boys.
______________________________
I tried to do a little surprise thing for Devon on Friday night. We were actually having his party on Saturday, but I didn't want his birthday to go by without any sort of celebration.
So, Dusty and I are at home and I'm trying to blow up balloons, throw streamers around the kitchen and put out confetti. I would turn my back for 2 seconds and when I turned back around, there was Dusty, screaming down the hallway with streamers hanging out of his mouth. After chasing him around while he ate them all, I chastised him and put his little party hat on his head. 12 seconds later, only the tip of it was visible hanging out of his mouth and he's looking at me all, "I love the treats you give me, woman."
He was farting party confetti for 2 days.
_______________________________
Phone call to the town hall just a minute ago:
"Hi, my name is Crystal and I'm trying to find out about renting the gazebo in the town square for my wedding in April."
"Ok. What day in April?"
"I think the 22nd. It would have to be since there's some damned Nascar thing the next weekend and all you'll hear is crickets chirping on my side of the family."
"Uh huh. But that's not a firm date?"
"Well, I think it is. I hope. I think it is."
"And how many guests are you expecting?"
"Oh. I don't know. Between 25 and 75?"
"That's a pretty vague estimate."
"Yeah. I have a tendency to piss people off."
"Why don't you call me back when things are more solidified?"
"So, how much notice do you need? Is 24 hours okay?"
*click*
Friday, January 06, 2006
BEST. FORWARD. EVER.
Mr. McKnob just sent this to me (and Gene, there's a funny story there if you go back and read this post) and it is simply AWESOME.
And, yes, I know that at the rate emails get passed around you will all have received this within 12 seconds, but just in case..
_________________________________________________
This will warm your heart, especially if you have lost faith in human
kindness.
This letter was sent to the principals' office after an elementary school had sponsored a luncheon for the elderly. An old lady had received a new radio at the lunch as a door prize, and was writing to say thank you. This story is a credit to all human kind. Forward to anyone you know who might need a lift today!
__________________________________
Dear Faculty and Students,
God bless you for the beautiful radio I won at your recent senior
citizens' luncheon. I am 84 years old and live at an Assisted Home for the Aged.
All of my family has passed away. I am all alone now and it's nice to know someone is thinking of me. God bless you for your kindness to an old forgotten lady.
My roommate is 95 and always had her own radio. Before I received this one, she would never let me listen to hers, even when she was napping.
The other day, her radio fell off the night stand and broke into a lot of little pieces. It was awful and she was in tears. She asked if she could listen to mine, and I said fuck you.
Thank you for that opportunity.
Sincerely,
Agnes
And, yes, I know that at the rate emails get passed around you will all have received this within 12 seconds, but just in case..
_________________________________________________
This will warm your heart, especially if you have lost faith in human
kindness.
This letter was sent to the principals' office after an elementary school had sponsored a luncheon for the elderly. An old lady had received a new radio at the lunch as a door prize, and was writing to say thank you. This story is a credit to all human kind. Forward to anyone you know who might need a lift today!
__________________________________
Dear Faculty and Students,
God bless you for the beautiful radio I won at your recent senior
citizens' luncheon. I am 84 years old and live at an Assisted Home for the Aged.
All of my family has passed away. I am all alone now and it's nice to know someone is thinking of me. God bless you for your kindness to an old forgotten lady.
My roommate is 95 and always had her own radio. Before I received this one, she would never let me listen to hers, even when she was napping.
The other day, her radio fell off the night stand and broke into a lot of little pieces. It was awful and she was in tears. She asked if she could listen to mine, and I said fuck you.
Thank you for that opportunity.
Sincerely,
Agnes
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
New Years Resolutions
1. To stop blaming my farts on the dog.
2. To actually punish my son instead of threatening him and then getting all mushy and thinking about how cute he was when he was a baby and how much I missed him all those years. He super-glues Virginia to the toilet seat and I end up buying him a pony.
3. To plan my wedding. I've done exactly nothing. Nada.
4. To stop telling Virginia she was hatched from a purple, spotted egg and that I haven't figured out what she is, yet.
5. To quit freaking my mother out and telling her I'm going lesbian every time Chris and I disagree on something.
6. To also quit fussing at her for saying "Warshington". She's 60 and if she still does it, I'm wasting my breath.
7. To blog at home instead of at work.
8. To quit lying to myself (see number 7)
9. To let go of all the stored up material I still have left that I've been using against my brother for years. I could continue tattling on him for various things till we're both in Depends but I need to take the high road.
10. See number 8 and read number 9 again.
11. To buy one article of clothing for myself with every paycheck and quit coming to work looking like a bag lady. A bag lady circa 1985, at that.
12. I MUST START SKYDIVING AGAIN, CHRIS. IT'S IN MY BLOOD. YOU CAN'T STOP ME.
13. To perfect my blowjob technique so I can start skydiving again without Chris having a coronary.
14. To keep in touch with my family and friends the normal way and not be tempted to give them this blog address and tell them to keep up with me like everyone else does.
15. To shave my legs more than once a week. I caught the sheets on fire three times last year and spent $21,652 on Liquid Plumber.
16. To finish the book.
17. To start the book. Again.
18. To get a mammogram and not be embarrassed when the Doctor opens the door and calls, "We're gonna need the Bertha 2000 for this set!"
19. To continue fighting the urge to go next door and pour sugar in Kirsten's gas tank. She got me fired from my job 4 years ago by lying and saying I was downloading porn on the work computer. She did this so she could get her slut of a friend hired because the nasty twit couldn't get a job at any of the upscale titty bars in town.
20. I know it's not a resolution, but I had to point out that I just used the words "upscale" and "titty bar" in one sentence.
21. To quit melting into a heap of dead brain cells every time someone calls and says their insurance has "collapsed".
22. To try a new haircut and never again sport the Tommy Chong look.
I'll let you know how it goes.
2. To actually punish my son instead of threatening him and then getting all mushy and thinking about how cute he was when he was a baby and how much I missed him all those years. He super-glues Virginia to the toilet seat and I end up buying him a pony.
3. To plan my wedding. I've done exactly nothing. Nada.
4. To stop telling Virginia she was hatched from a purple, spotted egg and that I haven't figured out what she is, yet.
5. To quit freaking my mother out and telling her I'm going lesbian every time Chris and I disagree on something.
6. To also quit fussing at her for saying "Warshington". She's 60 and if she still does it, I'm wasting my breath.
7. To blog at home instead of at work.
8. To quit lying to myself (see number 7)
9. To let go of all the stored up material I still have left that I've been using against my brother for years. I could continue tattling on him for various things till we're both in Depends but I need to take the high road.
10. See number 8 and read number 9 again.
11. To buy one article of clothing for myself with every paycheck and quit coming to work looking like a bag lady. A bag lady circa 1985, at that.
12. I MUST START SKYDIVING AGAIN, CHRIS. IT'S IN MY BLOOD. YOU CAN'T STOP ME.
13. To perfect my blowjob technique so I can start skydiving again without Chris having a coronary.
14. To keep in touch with my family and friends the normal way and not be tempted to give them this blog address and tell them to keep up with me like everyone else does.
15. To shave my legs more than once a week. I caught the sheets on fire three times last year and spent $21,652 on Liquid Plumber.
16. To finish the book.
17. To start the book. Again.
18. To get a mammogram and not be embarrassed when the Doctor opens the door and calls, "We're gonna need the Bertha 2000 for this set!"
19. To continue fighting the urge to go next door and pour sugar in Kirsten's gas tank. She got me fired from my job 4 years ago by lying and saying I was downloading porn on the work computer. She did this so she could get her slut of a friend hired because the nasty twit couldn't get a job at any of the upscale titty bars in town.
20. I know it's not a resolution, but I had to point out that I just used the words "upscale" and "titty bar" in one sentence.
21. To quit melting into a heap of dead brain cells every time someone calls and says their insurance has "collapsed".
22. To try a new haircut and never again sport the Tommy Chong look.
I'll let you know how it goes.
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