A number years ago, while I was up late writing, I smelled smoke. I anxiously left the computer and began walking around the house, using my nose to lead me to the source. Before I could get all the way to the kitchen, the smoke detector went off upstairs. I ran to the stairs and looked up to the top to see my husband, sleepy-face and in his underpants, tossing water from a small bathroom Dixie cup onto a smoking wall by our bedroom.
When I got to the top of the stairs, hubby explained that the space heater we used to heat the upstairs had overloaded the outlet and started a fire. He held the now unplugged and melted plug up as evidence. The white wall was charred, but there was no more smoke. The wall no longer felt warm, but we were concerned that there might be fire inside the wall that we could not detect, so we called the fire department to be on the safe side.
All the noise woke Destiny (then all of 8 or so). She opened her bedroom door and zombie-walked out to see her dad in his boxers, the small cup still in his hand. We briefly explained the situation and that the firemen were on their way, just to be sure the fire was out. Her large blue eyes got even wider, but she didn't say a word and just went back to bed. Apparently, seeing dad on the job was all the reassurance she needed.
To this day, we discuss hubby's superhero costume as consisting of his underpants and a Dixie cup.
My superhero costume is very different; but that's another story for another day.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Saturday, March 01, 2014
Monday, October 08, 2012
Adopt Steve The Pit Bull Cross!
I cannot have another dog right now, but I really want this dog named Steve.
I know, I know; "Steve" isn't the name I go for in a dog. Or give a dog. My dogs are named Toodles Squirrel-Face Davidson III and Mr. Oliver T. Puddington. But read on, you'll see why I am so enamoured...
Steve's available at a a Fargo-Moorhead dog rescue right now. (I only looked because I saw a commercial on TV and wasn't sure if the group was local or not -- I swear!) Anyway, Steve is an awesome looking dog -- and his foster family writes the such entertaining things about him, he's won me over:
If you adopt Steve, let me know -- I'd love to visit him!
I know, I know; "Steve" isn't the name I go for in a dog. Or give a dog. My dogs are named Toodles Squirrel-Face Davidson III and Mr. Oliver T. Puddington. But read on, you'll see why I am so enamoured...
Steve's available at a a Fargo-Moorhead dog rescue right now. (I only looked because I saw a commercial on TV and wasn't sure if the group was local or not -- I swear!) Anyway, Steve is an awesome looking dog -- and his foster family writes the such entertaining things about him, he's won me over:
Steve thinks that he is too sexy for his collar but not TOO sexy for you! He wants to be your boy!For those that worry about a Pit Bull cross, don't. They are sweet dogs. It's people, as usual, who ruin them.
Steve is also highly intelligent, as his *enormous* head might suggest.
Do you ever watch a dog in motion and marvel at the perfect synchronization of muscle, agility and grace? Well, that's not Steve but what he lacks in coordination, he makes up in character and an unabashed joy for life.
If you adopt Steve, let me know -- I'd love to visit him!
Sunday, February 26, 2012
I Could Just Eat You Up, Nephew!
My nephew Nicholas is my cookie boy. Ever since he was an itty-bitty babe, I've been nibbling on him 'cuz he's so sweet. Thankfully, I have not made it into the newspapers as this poor aunt did!
From The Onion:
From The Onion:
Aunt Threatens To Devour Helpless Newborn's Toes
WALDEN, TN—While family members stood silently by and did nothing, visiting aunt Debbie Koeler proclaimed her desire to consume the "tiny little toesies" of her nephew Daniel, a powerless infant less than one-fifth her size, after the child's christening Sunday. "Who's my little sugar pie? I could just eat you right up," Koeler threatened as she held the vulnerable child above her cavernous mouth and simulated the impending act of cannibalism on his tiny, dangling legs. "I've gotcha! I've gotcha! Yes I do! Yes I do!" Koeler then returned the confused and speechless newborn to the bouncy seat, prodded his abdomen, and disappeared behind her own hands.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Parenting: Laying Down On The Job
I giggled so much at this list of 40 ways to entertain your baby while you lay down. Not sure I should admit it, but I've done a number of these -- and not just because of cold & flu season either. *wink*
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
Back To School: Win A Copy Of Surban Diva's Book!
There are many ways to enter...
To Enter:
* Follow me on Twitter: @DPopTart. (Please leave your Twitter username in your comment so I can check.)
and/or
* Tweet the following:
I entered @DPopTart's contest to win a FREE book by @Subdiva! http://t.co/BQyH9NP(Remember to come back here and leave a comment with your tweet for me to verify.)
You may tweet your entry once a day.
and/or
* Friend me on Face Book: Deanna Dahlsad. (When making the request, note that you are entering the contest.)
and/or
* Post about this contest at your blog or website -- if you do this you must include in your post to this contest post or Motherhood Metamorphosis in general.
(Please include the link to your blog post in the comments section so that I can find your post.)
and/or
* Post your entry as a comment -- if you do this, please make sure I've got your email address, because if you're the winner I'll need your email address to contact you regarding your shipping information.
Here's the giveaway fine print:
* Giveaway is open to US residents only
* Be sure that you leave your email so that I can contact you
* Contest ends September 15, 2011; entries must be made on or before midnight, central time, September 14, 2011. Winners will be announced/contacted on September 16, 2011. Winners have 48 hours to respond; otherwise, I'll draw another name.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Have You Heard? Go The F To Sleep
I doubt you missed the fabulous Go The F**k To Sleep book and video read by Samuel L. Jackson, but there's also an interview with the author, Adam Mansbach, here.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Tales From Seventh Grade
For those of you who wish to be drawn back into the memories of junior high...
She: I'm so pleased with myself today.
Me: What did you do?
She: In study hall, a couple of boys were being rude and mean. They were making fun of black people, handicapped people, fat people, and Nazis.
Me: Well, I might have allowed the making fun of Nazis, but the rest is bad. These boys must think pretty poorly of themselves to pick on other people, especially the handicapped. What did you do?
She: They drew something on a piece of paper and passed it to this boy who is larger -- and you could tell by his face he was hurt by it. But he just crumpled it up and tossed it in the garbage can. My friend went to get it.
Me: Silent (But instantly transported back in time and trying not to giggle over the days when garbage picking were 'normal'.)
She: And we were like, 'OMG. Somebody has to do something.' So I went up to the principal's office and told them what happened. And they're going to talk to those mean boys. So I feel pretty good that I did something about mean boys.
I'll admit I was pretty proud too.
For this story, my thoughts, withheld at the time, are now expressed in the parenthesis. Names have been omitted for privacy sake. (If Destiny reads this, she may kill me as it is!)
My friend was upset because she just found out that one of her best friends died a year ago.
(Not to make fun of the death of a child, but there are plenty of reasons to giggle over a person you call a BFF but don't even know they died. For an entire year. Ah, teenage girl drama!)
She was crying in the library, back by the history books, in a section where no one ever goes -- by the Hillary Clinton books.
(A thousand arrows swiftly entered my history-loving and feminist heart. But if I ever need a place to hide in the junior high...)
Me and a bunch of my friends tried to cheer her up by singing a song to her. We sounded horrible. And it was working, she was starting to smile. Then X (the boy Des likes) walked by.
(Far less embarrassing, I think, that the early parts of the story; but then I've survived this and worse. However, it turns out that this boy she likes is also the object of as-of-yet-unrequited from several of the "horribly singing" girls. So I imagine there will be future stories over that issue -- and I shall have to keep mum quite a bit then too.)
First, daughter number two tells me a story from study hall:
She: I'm so pleased with myself today.
Me: What did you do?
She: In study hall, a couple of boys were being rude and mean. They were making fun of black people, handicapped people, fat people, and Nazis.
Me: Well, I might have allowed the making fun of Nazis, but the rest is bad. These boys must think pretty poorly of themselves to pick on other people, especially the handicapped. What did you do?
She: They drew something on a piece of paper and passed it to this boy who is larger -- and you could tell by his face he was hurt by it. But he just crumpled it up and tossed it in the garbage can. My friend went to get it.
Me: Silent (But instantly transported back in time and trying not to giggle over the days when garbage picking were 'normal'.)
She: And we were like, 'OMG. Somebody has to do something.' So I went up to the principal's office and told them what happened. And they're going to talk to those mean boys. So I feel pretty good that I did something about mean boys.
I'll admit I was pretty proud too.
Next, Des tells me this story of how she was embarrassed.
For this story, my thoughts, withheld at the time, are now expressed in the parenthesis. Names have been omitted for privacy sake. (If Destiny reads this, she may kill me as it is!)
My friend was upset because she just found out that one of her best friends died a year ago.
(Not to make fun of the death of a child, but there are plenty of reasons to giggle over a person you call a BFF but don't even know they died. For an entire year. Ah, teenage girl drama!)
She was crying in the library, back by the history books, in a section where no one ever goes -- by the Hillary Clinton books.
(A thousand arrows swiftly entered my history-loving and feminist heart. But if I ever need a place to hide in the junior high...)
Me and a bunch of my friends tried to cheer her up by singing a song to her. We sounded horrible. And it was working, she was starting to smile. Then X (the boy Des likes) walked by.
(Far less embarrassing, I think, that the early parts of the story; but then I've survived this and worse. However, it turns out that this boy she likes is also the object of as-of-yet-unrequited from several of the "horribly singing" girls. So I imagine there will be future stories over that issue -- and I shall have to keep mum quite a bit then too.)
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Pause To Reflect, Paws To Count
We keep telling this story, and every time it makes me laugh.
When hubby was writing about mustaches, and dogs wearing them, he wrote:
What he intended to do was offer a photo of our stupid dog, but he selected the post in which she, Toodles "Squirrel Face" Davidson III, is next to a giant calculator. Which to me, seems to imply that the dog is so dumb, she needs to use a calculator as opposed to a dog being able to do math in its head. lol
Ween, on the other hand, is probably smart enough to use an abacus (yes, we own one); not that I'd ever be able to get a photo of that.
When hubby was writing about mustaches, and dogs wearing them, he wrote:
one of our dogs is horribly stupid, and would probably injure herself trying to use the toy improperly.
What he intended to do was offer a photo of our stupid dog, but he selected the post in which she, Toodles "Squirrel Face" Davidson III, is next to a giant calculator. Which to me, seems to imply that the dog is so dumb, she needs to use a calculator as opposed to a dog being able to do math in its head. lol
Ween, on the other hand, is probably smart enough to use an abacus (yes, we own one); not that I'd ever be able to get a photo of that.
Saturday, January 09, 2010
One Fortune Cookie Night
What with all our blended family & travel necessities, our immediate family opens their gifts during the week of holiday vacation the kids have. This year, before opening our gifts, we went out to dinner at the Chinese restaurant and gorged on the all-you-can-eat buffet. On the way out, we passed the box where you can help yourself to an after dinner fortune cookie.
"Just one," I reminded the kids.
"Awwww," whined Hunter, the nine year old.
"Awwww," I mimicked back.
Reaching in for just one, Hunter whimpered, "But one is the loneliest number."
Well played, boo; well played.
He still only got to take one cookie. But he delighted me with his comedic timing charmed me proving that he does remember and enjoy our musical adventures.
I'm guessing the fact that we all laughed and told him how funny he is was even more satisfying than those additional cookies would have been anyway.
"Just one," I reminded the kids.
"Awwww," whined Hunter, the nine year old.
"Awwww," I mimicked back.
Reaching in for just one, Hunter whimpered, "But one is the loneliest number."
Well played, boo; well played.
He still only got to take one cookie. But he delighted me with his comedic timing charmed me proving that he does remember and enjoy our musical adventures.
I'm guessing the fact that we all laughed and told him how funny he is was even more satisfying than those additional cookies would have been anyway.
Saturday, December 05, 2009
Why Tinsel Is As Beloved, By Me, As Easter Grass
As the holidays are here, and tree decoration is near, I would like to remind you not to use tinsel. This is not only true if you have cats (or other pets), but because tinsel, though no longer made of metal, remains an attractive magnetized material and with all that holiday visiting you or someone else is bound to bring tinsel into my home. I live in fear of such things.
For tinsel is like Easter grass.
Let me regale you with just how lovely that is with this previously published post (from a long defunct site); each time you read 'Easter Grass' substitute it with 'tinsel'. I clear my throat, and we begin...
One of my Easter pet peeves, one that actually involves pets, is the use of plastic Easter grass. More annoying than pine needles which do not seem to have been effectively removed until Easter, this pastel grass is coveted by cats & kittens everywhere. I've long banished the crap from my house, but this is the time of year when I must explain to well-intentioned grandparents and great grandparents why I have done so. And yet I must never ever tell the truth of it all. You, dear lucky blog reader, will now hear the unvarnished truth.
When a feline finds this plastic 'grass' it is compelled to not only carry it of to some corner of the house that is impossible to find, and therefore vacuum, but the creature must indulge in eating it. One strand at a time. Far worse than the weekly finding of yet another pastel fiber on the carpet (most embarrassing in June and November when the in-laws stop in unannounced), the consumption of this material does not involve actual digestion.
This means that cats poop the silly stuff in one long string of pastel plasticness.
This does not mean that it will be contained to the litter box.
Instead, what happens is that it sticks out of feline rectum, at least a good 4 inches, ensuring that you see it. It is at this point that you, as the human owned by the cat, must grab the bull by the horns, or the ass by its grass, and pull it out, thus removing it from the cat's digestive tract.
While it is clear to both you and the cat that you must pull it out, the cat is reluctant. One can only imagine what it feels like to have an additional 4-8 inches of 'string' (that does in fact progress past the rectum into bowels and perhaps intestines) pulled out of one's ass... It must feel an awful lot like the look on a cat's face: uncomfortable & surprising.
Given that the cat has hoarded 10-30 pieces of grass, this is a problem which presents itself on many occasions. Being that is it the problem of a cat, it's timing will be at the least convenient for you as a human, such as at dinner time, when company is over (whom I already eye suspiciously when they enter just in case a piece of the damn stuff is stuck to their clothing), when children are watching (and way more curious than seems natural), when you were in the mood for more erotic actions with a partner... It's such a mood killer that I am hard-pressed to think of a time when it would be convenient.
This whole Easter grass problem is reason number 3 on why my cats are not allowed outside. For if there's a single piece blowing in the wind -- and you know there is because you see them built into bird's nests, wound around brush, in your garden and blowing past you on the front porch -- my cats will find it and eat it. And I will have to 'rectify' the situation.
So let me speak to all of you and say this: Stop using the damn Easter grass. Let the free market dictate the collapse of this part of the holiday market, putting an end to its creation. Let me be finally free from this whole damn mess.
So, for gawd's sake, lay off the darn tinsel!
For tinsel is like Easter grass.
Let me regale you with just how lovely that is with this previously published post (from a long defunct site); each time you read 'Easter Grass' substitute it with 'tinsel'. I clear my throat, and we begin...
One of my Easter pet peeves, one that actually involves pets, is the use of plastic Easter grass. More annoying than pine needles which do not seem to have been effectively removed until Easter, this pastel grass is coveted by cats & kittens everywhere. I've long banished the crap from my house, but this is the time of year when I must explain to well-intentioned grandparents and great grandparents why I have done so. And yet I must never ever tell the truth of it all. You, dear lucky blog reader, will now hear the unvarnished truth.
When a feline finds this plastic 'grass' it is compelled to not only carry it of to some corner of the house that is impossible to find, and therefore vacuum, but the creature must indulge in eating it. One strand at a time. Far worse than the weekly finding of yet another pastel fiber on the carpet (most embarrassing in June and November when the in-laws stop in unannounced), the consumption of this material does not involve actual digestion.
This means that cats poop the silly stuff in one long string of pastel plasticness.
This does not mean that it will be contained to the litter box.
Instead, what happens is that it sticks out of feline rectum, at least a good 4 inches, ensuring that you see it. It is at this point that you, as the human owned by the cat, must grab the bull by the horns, or the ass by its grass, and pull it out, thus removing it from the cat's digestive tract.
While it is clear to both you and the cat that you must pull it out, the cat is reluctant. One can only imagine what it feels like to have an additional 4-8 inches of 'string' (that does in fact progress past the rectum into bowels and perhaps intestines) pulled out of one's ass... It must feel an awful lot like the look on a cat's face: uncomfortable & surprising.
Given that the cat has hoarded 10-30 pieces of grass, this is a problem which presents itself on many occasions. Being that is it the problem of a cat, it's timing will be at the least convenient for you as a human, such as at dinner time, when company is over (whom I already eye suspiciously when they enter just in case a piece of the damn stuff is stuck to their clothing), when children are watching (and way more curious than seems natural), when you were in the mood for more erotic actions with a partner... It's such a mood killer that I am hard-pressed to think of a time when it would be convenient.
This whole Easter grass problem is reason number 3 on why my cats are not allowed outside. For if there's a single piece blowing in the wind -- and you know there is because you see them built into bird's nests, wound around brush, in your garden and blowing past you on the front porch -- my cats will find it and eat it. And I will have to 'rectify' the situation.
So let me speak to all of you and say this: Stop using the damn Easter grass. Let the free market dictate the collapse of this part of the holiday market, putting an end to its creation. Let me be finally free from this whole damn mess.
So, for gawd's sake, lay off the darn tinsel!
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Bonding Over Cat Hair & The Adventures Of Raising Banana Girl
Out walking the mall I spotted several cute things at the local Hallmark shop, and when I took a picture of this mug, I thought I'd post it at Kitschy Kitschy Coo.
But then, in looking for a link to the mug maker's site (Our Name Is Mud), I discovered the blog (Our Name Is Blog) of Lorrie Veasey, the creative force behind the designs. And I got lost in her post Our Name Is Blog: OuR SCHooL iS CHooL, in which she tries to get her children, Complicated Boy and The Banana (aka The Spawn), into a private school. After Complicated Boy was rejected, they tried again:
I then thought I'd write this all up at Kitsch Slapped because of the pop culture craziness... And how I now feel the need to go back and buy the "Everything Tastes Better With Cat Hair In It!" mug simply because I now feel somehow bonded to its creator -- over parenting. (Somehow it makes sense to me... To enjoy my cat-hair infested beverage, sipping and remembering that time my friend Lorrie told me that story of trying to get her kids into private school.)
But then I realized that this here blog has been rather ranty lately and maybe you'd all enjoy a good grin (perhaps a hearty chuckle too).
Plus, I can then remind you all why this blog often gets ignored: I'm busy writing elsewhere. All. The. Time.
But I wasn't too busy to ignore Lorrie Veasey's request to sign the petition to help The Spawn of Veasey's school. You aren't either. So sign it.
But then, in looking for a link to the mug maker's site (Our Name Is Mud), I discovered the blog (Our Name Is Blog) of Lorrie Veasey, the creative force behind the designs. And I got lost in her post Our Name Is Blog: OuR SCHooL iS CHooL, in which she tries to get her children, Complicated Boy and The Banana (aka The Spawn), into a private school. After Complicated Boy was rejected, they tried again:
So we pinned our hopes on The Banana to pave the way into a fine institution of learning. Except the actress Molly Shannon was present in our group interview, and while we had all been told beforehand to dress our children in casual playclothes, her ginger haired daughter arrived in A Red Sequined Dress. RED SEQUINS. So nobody noticed when Banana created an exact replica of the Parthenon in the block area. Everybody was looking at Molly Shannon to see if she would smell her armpits, and when they weren't looking there they were looking at THE RED SEQUIN DRESS. We didn't get in there either.Smitten I am; Veasy isn't a one-mug-wonder of amusement.
I then thought I'd write this all up at Kitsch Slapped because of the pop culture craziness... And how I now feel the need to go back and buy the "Everything Tastes Better With Cat Hair In It!" mug simply because I now feel somehow bonded to its creator -- over parenting. (Somehow it makes sense to me... To enjoy my cat-hair infested beverage, sipping and remembering that time my friend Lorrie told me that story of trying to get her kids into private school.)
But then I realized that this here blog has been rather ranty lately and maybe you'd all enjoy a good grin (perhaps a hearty chuckle too).
Plus, I can then remind you all why this blog often gets ignored: I'm busy writing elsewhere. All. The. Time.
But I wasn't too busy to ignore Lorrie Veasey's request to sign the petition to help The Spawn of Veasey's school. You aren't either. So sign it.
Monday, September 07, 2009
'Round Here, We Call Days Like This "Saturday" (Part One)
Seven minutes after I wake up on Saturday, I go out on the front porch for a smoke (no lectures; that's another story/post/time/place); hubby and middle child join me (they would have to speak to their own reasons & neuroses).
Neighbor from across the streets exits the door of the cute little 1920's apartment building. He is wearing a too-bright, too-cheery yellow & orange Hawaiian shirt & khaki shorts. "He's blinding me with shirtness," I wince. Hubby begins to work the word "shirtness" into Dolby's Blinded Me With Science while the neighbor heads out of sight to the parking behind the apartment building.
Moments later, the neighbor cruises up the drive -- on foot. I know he's heading towards us. Before he's reached the street, I've already tossed out the anxiety-ridden possibility that he'd heard my comment about his shirt and was coming to confront me and got the psychic vibe that he's going to ask for a ride. Sure enough.
"Can I get a ride to 19th Avenue North?" he smiles, "I thought I drove my car home last night, but once I got to my empty parking spot, I remembered I was too drunk to drive..."
This would be too much even for those with an irony deficiency, let alone me. Unable to control myself, I start laughing -- which sets off hubby. "You have bad luck, dude," I chuckle, "Of all the houses on the street... We have two vans, but neither is running."
It's the truth. Days after repairing Ookla, he busts a hose & is non-movable until hubby finishes the repair, and Star has plunged a bolt (with washer, so that it sealed the hole long enough to get home) deep into one of her tires and we were minutes from taking in her in for a new tire. ...Then again, at our house, at any given time we have car problems.
But anyway, the neighbor is undaunted. I'm pretty sure he was still under the influence. And not just because of the too-bright-for-anytime-let-alone-with-a-hangover shirt.
Looking at his watch he says, "Yeah, I'm supposed to meet my friends at a restaurant at 11:40 and it's 12:23 now..."
I don't have the heart to tell him that even if we could give him a ride, we wouldn't be able to deliver him back in time to join his friends.
Instead I joke, "You're name must be Murphy, huh?"
"No, my name's Chris," he happily responds.
"Uh, I meant Murphy, as in Murphy's Law."
"Oh the irony of the universe!" he happily acknowledges. And then tacks on an awkward, "I love you guys!" before he leaves.
But this is my life and I've only been up, what, like 15 minutes now? So the awkward is only just beginning.
Neighbor from across the streets exits the door of the cute little 1920's apartment building. He is wearing a too-bright, too-cheery yellow & orange Hawaiian shirt & khaki shorts. "He's blinding me with shirtness," I wince. Hubby begins to work the word "shirtness" into Dolby's Blinded Me With Science while the neighbor heads out of sight to the parking behind the apartment building.
Moments later, the neighbor cruises up the drive -- on foot. I know he's heading towards us. Before he's reached the street, I've already tossed out the anxiety-ridden possibility that he'd heard my comment about his shirt and was coming to confront me and got the psychic vibe that he's going to ask for a ride. Sure enough.
"Can I get a ride to 19th Avenue North?" he smiles, "I thought I drove my car home last night, but once I got to my empty parking spot, I remembered I was too drunk to drive..."
This would be too much even for those with an irony deficiency, let alone me. Unable to control myself, I start laughing -- which sets off hubby. "You have bad luck, dude," I chuckle, "Of all the houses on the street... We have two vans, but neither is running."
It's the truth. Days after repairing Ookla, he busts a hose & is non-movable until hubby finishes the repair, and Star has plunged a bolt (with washer, so that it sealed the hole long enough to get home) deep into one of her tires and we were minutes from taking in her in for a new tire. ...Then again, at our house, at any given time we have car problems.
But anyway, the neighbor is undaunted. I'm pretty sure he was still under the influence. And not just because of the too-bright-for-anytime-let-alone-with-a-hangover shirt.
Looking at his watch he says, "Yeah, I'm supposed to meet my friends at a restaurant at 11:40 and it's 12:23 now..."
I don't have the heart to tell him that even if we could give him a ride, we wouldn't be able to deliver him back in time to join his friends.
Instead I joke, "You're name must be Murphy, huh?"
"No, my name's Chris," he happily responds.
"Uh, I meant Murphy, as in Murphy's Law."
"Oh the irony of the universe!" he happily acknowledges. And then tacks on an awkward, "I love you guys!" before he leaves.
But this is my life and I've only been up, what, like 15 minutes now? So the awkward is only just beginning.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Funniest Five Momfinitions
Inspired by Momfinitions at ParentsConnect.com, my 5 Momfinitions -- I don't think I need to tell you that all of these are actual and true words in our household, but I just did *wink*
This first one comes from my mom & has been handed down lovingly to both myself and my sister. It surprisingly sees a lot of use.
Beepleberry
noun: Any round-ish object (bead, button, game piece, decorated ponytail holder) for which you, in your addled & busy parental state of existence, can no longer remember the name. As in, "Jackie, hand me that beepleberry over there on the dresser."
(No, it doesn't really help anyone looking for the object; but just knowing that I share the same frustrations -- and memory loss -- as my mother and sister is somehow oddly comforting.)
C'mere Sneer
noun: The look on a child's face when they are going to show you something they know you will find unpleasant & they will not be found guilty of of responsible for. As in, "C'mere and see what Johnny did."
C'mere Fear
noun: The apprehension & fear a parent feels when asked to come see something a child has discovered or created.
C'mere Smear
noun: The residue left on your person after a child has tugged on you &/or your clothing in order to get you to follow them.
(I can only count myself lucky that Destiny did not touch this or hubby or I when she came to get someone to see the dead bird!)
Rearitis
noun: 1) The condition which afflicts your child so that he or she is the last one out the door, last one in line, etc.; to "bring up the rear" consistently & chronically.
2) The condition which afflicts your child (or spouse) in such a way that they fail or are unable to shut doors behind them; to have such a long tail, that, though invisible, it prevents the closing of doors.
This first one comes from my mom & has been handed down lovingly to both myself and my sister. It surprisingly sees a lot of use.
Beepleberry
noun: Any round-ish object (bead, button, game piece, decorated ponytail holder) for which you, in your addled & busy parental state of existence, can no longer remember the name. As in, "Jackie, hand me that beepleberry over there on the dresser."
(No, it doesn't really help anyone looking for the object; but just knowing that I share the same frustrations -- and memory loss -- as my mother and sister is somehow oddly comforting.)
C'mere Sneer
noun: The look on a child's face when they are going to show you something they know you will find unpleasant & they will not be found guilty of of responsible for. As in, "C'mere and see what Johnny did."
C'mere Fear
noun: The apprehension & fear a parent feels when asked to come see something a child has discovered or created.
A recent example:OK, back to the remaining momfinitions.
Destiny: "Dad, c'mere... There's something weird on the fence."
Dad follows (while I, not addressed directly, remained in the house full of c'mere fear).
Dad returns, child is in her room, reading.
Me: "Well?"
Dad: "A bird must have had a heart attack or something while perched on the fence by the basketball hoop, & now it's stuck there. I checked to see if it can be knocked off -- with a poke of a stick -- but it's really stuck there."
Me: "What?!"
He repeats what he just said.
I head out to look.
Freaked & disgusted, I return to the house.
Me: "Did you take a picture of it?"
Dad: "No."
Me: "Really? You take photos of everything..."
Then I headed out to take photos for you, dear blog reader.
(Sorry if they are hard to see; the sun was behind the black bird body.)
I'm not in agreement over the cause of death; it looks more like a tornado blasted the poor bird into our fence. But we've had no tornado or gale force winds... Nor am I going to perform a bird autopsy to prove it. Draw your own conclusions.
C'mere Smear
noun: The residue left on your person after a child has tugged on you &/or your clothing in order to get you to follow them.
(I can only count myself lucky that Destiny did not touch this or hubby or I when she came to get someone to see the dead bird!)
Rearitis
noun: 1) The condition which afflicts your child so that he or she is the last one out the door, last one in line, etc.; to "bring up the rear" consistently & chronically.
2) The condition which afflicts your child (or spouse) in such a way that they fail or are unable to shut doors behind them; to have such a long tail, that, though invisible, it prevents the closing of doors.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Hunter Hughes Or Mortgage Blues? It's Tough To Choose
My son turned 9 today.
Not being able to see him for his birthday I am reminded why... And that just makes me sad & ill.
To cheer myself up, I am writing a little conversation we had just about two months ago.
After talking about the girls' plans for "the future," careers & whatnot, I turned to Hunter and asked, "So, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
Without skipping a beat, he replied, "A hobo."
"Why is that?" I managed to ask rather nonchalantly.
"Because I'm not going to put all my money into a house."
My son, the future hobo. Is this a result of the current influx of media coverage of bad home loans, or is he just planning on being the next Howard Hughes?
Not being able to see him for his birthday I am reminded why... And that just makes me sad & ill.
To cheer myself up, I am writing a little conversation we had just about two months ago.
After talking about the girls' plans for "the future," careers & whatnot, I turned to Hunter and asked, "So, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
Without skipping a beat, he replied, "A hobo."
"Why is that?" I managed to ask rather nonchalantly.
"Because I'm not going to put all my money into a house."
My son, the future hobo. Is this a result of the current influx of media coverage of bad home loans, or is he just planning on being the next Howard Hughes?
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Life Lessions In Lesions (Or, The Gross But Necessary Breast Post)
On Easter Sunday I had to take myself to the emergency room. It took me an hour & a half to convince myself it was necessary, even if I wasn't bleeding or otherwise looking like my life was in peril... Bad things had gone on long enough.
A few weeks ago, I was charmed (not!) to discover that I had a zit on the underside of my left breast. I know; what a complete "Eeeiiiwww!" But ladies, especially those ladies with large breasts, know that break-out on the bosom happens -- especially on the underside of the breast because, between bra cups & underwires, and, when you dare to go braless, the underside rests against your chest. The skin cannot breathe, and is often moist, perfect for bacteria etc.
Typically I slap a bit of Wayne's Whoop-Ass Healing Balm on the offending zit. (Seriously, that stuff is awesome!) Every now and then, when the zit is behaving stubbornly (and is twice as ugly), I apply the old hot water compress. Even in the worst case scenario, things come to a head and heal within a few days.
But not this sucker.
This zit was not your usual zit.
After sticking around over a week -- despite all my TLC -- it was only becoming more angry. After two weeks, on the Saturday before Easter, it was not only a zit with no head, but there was a hot, angry, red patch of skin surrounding it, working it's way towards my nipple...
I did just have my mammogram around the new year, and all was fine; surely if there was anything that was gonna burst out of my breast they would have seen it coming. But naturally such rational thinking did little when faced with such ugliness. So I probed, gently (which still pissed-off the zit and made 1/4 of my size E breast ache), lifting the skin to grab it to see if it was attached to my breast tissue. It felt like it was all "in my skin" only... There was a lumpier pocket where the zit was... But the red area wasn't just hot and sore -- the skin was thicker... Like a stale pancake or the hard top layer of Jello; bendable, but thick and sorta rigid too.
I gently washed it, applied a hot compress, then dried it and put on some of the healing balm before heading to bed.
The next morning I awoke to discover that nearly 1/2 of my breast was now red-hot angry. It hurt just awful. It was so bad, I refused sex with my husband.
"Let me see it," he says.
"No, you'll never want to have sex with me again -- at least not in the missionary position," I say.
But he does look at it; pronounces it an infection, as if that was "all" it was, and gave me the "let's continue" look. Uh, no, thanks.
Before dressing for Easter Sunday with family I applied more balm, popped some aspirin, and hoped it would just heal already.
When I returned home that evening, I was sore and tired. More washing & balm (was it bigger or was I imagining that?), more aspirin -- and a nap. I woke up feeling a bit better, but by the time dinner was over, I began thinking...
What if overnight it again doubled itself? Clearly this was no ordinary zit... What was it? The heat told me it was an infection, but what was that thing that, originally anyway, looked like a zit? With no other terminology, I called it a boil. Wasn't the treatment for a boil rather like a zit? But then it wasn't working and there was clearly an infection... But does one really go to the hospital for an emergency room boil lancing procedure? Not that I really wanted one. But it hurt. And it was ugly. Oh, gawd, if I went, not only would I be "the woman with the boil on her breast," but I'd have to say it out loud. In public. Oh ick. But after my son was hospitalized for three days because of an infection from a dog bite, I don't like to underestimate infections. In just a few hours, you couldn't find the nose on Hunter's face... What could this infection do, engulf my boob? Sounds funny, but it wasn't. Round & round I went with myself for 90 minutes until I decided that pride be damned, infections could be serious, and if it was worth an hour & a half of thinking, I should shut up and drive to the hospital.
There was the humiliating experience of announcing my problem to the registration staff person. There was the added humiliation of having to repeat it two more times -- to the intake nurse and then the doctor.
I used humor to diffuse my embarrassment. I was cracking jokes my whole time there. See, I have an anxiety condition (PTSD from domestic violence) and the whole thing made me nervous as hell. Which not only means I'm seconds away from crying, but my blood pressure goes up and then I have to explain that it's just nervousness & have them take it again... Which reminds me that the new-fangled automatic computerized blood pressure cuffs hurt -- actually leaves me bruised. And so I hate having to have them take it again -- nearly as much as I hate to tell people I'm an emotional mess. So it's make jokes and have a (possible) reason to cackle, or risk having them consider admitting me to the psych ward for emitting too much maniacal laughter -- while tears stream down my face.
But I digress.
There was the nearly comical reaction of the doctor's assistant who had to touch my breast and the affected area -- twice. Each time with a sourpuss look on her face followed by a dash to the wall dispenser of hand sanitizer and a furious scrubbing of her hands.
I know it's gross, lady, but I bet at some point in your career you've been wrist-deep in a cadaver and experienced human excrement; how's a breast boil so much worse?
(Note: The doctor wasn't so reactionary, but I guess that's 'cuz he doesn't have a breast to imagine that on.)
Anyway, after a brief Q & A (how long have you had it, me describing my treatment of it, assurance that I just had a mammogram, etc.) and several words ending in "itis" etc., the determination was "an infection." Antibiotics would be the remedy. (Initial relief at no lancing; but then, "Oh, joy, a yeast infection will be here soon!") But because the doc couldn't feel a "puss sack" he wanted an ultrasound just to be sure...
Sure of what? My nervous brain wanted to know. Looking for a "puss sack" was the answer. Oh, so if chapter one was "The Breast Boil Lady", chapter two was "Looking For A Puss Sack". What an utterly charming story this was becoming.
While awaiting escort to the ultrasound, a very cool nurse tried to get an iv with an antibiotic started. I politely warned her that I'm a hard stick & that my veins blow too; she shouldn't take it personally. Of good cheer, she proceeded, confident in her ability -- greatly underestimating my non-cooperative blood vessels. Bless her, she both tried and was kind.
While she waited, gently slapping my arms to get a vessel to sit up & take notice, I regaled her with amusing stories of other iv experiences. Like when I was giving birth to my son, how the young nurse couldn't stick me either. And I told her that it was because I was royalty; that's where the expression "blue bloods" came from, our delicate thin, blue veins. It was a joke -- but she didn't get it. She was amazed -- on her way out she repeated it to another nurse, in all seriousness. *eyeball roll*
(Whenever I tell that story, I have to include the part about how during very painful labor I rhythmically chanted, "I would not, could not, in a boat..." To which the amazed & impressionable young nurse cooed in reply, "Oh, how beautiful, I've never had a laboring mom quote poetry before!" Dr. Seuss is poetry? I mean come on. That's when I ordered my mom to get that girl away from me.)
But I digress. Again.
While I babbled on the emergency room nurse laughed -- which probably helped her mood as she grappled with my non-compliant arm veins. But even she of positive attitude had to give up on my arms. I suggested my wrists; the veins are very visible there. "Oh no, that's really really painful," she warned. She gave my hand a try -- very painfully in, & then the damn disrespectful vein blew.
I asked what would happen next... Since I was going to get a script for antibiotics, couldn't they just increase them & skip the iv antibiotic? She looked at me and seriously shook her head and then quickly said, "Oh don't worry, I've only got two tries and then I pass you onto another nurse." To which I blurted, "But what if she can't either?" She continued on, "There are only 9 of us working tonight," oblivious to my horror. "So I'm looking at 18 stab-sticks before we move onto option B?!"
She went to get another nurse. A not so nice nurse. A gruff by comparison nurse. Ah, but the ultrasound tech is here and I have to go!
A momentary reprieve before I remember we're looking for a "puss sack" and start to sweat away at least the bottom half of the magic marker dotted lines Nurse Sourpuss-Wash-My-Hands-Too-Vigorously had made to monitor the size of the infection area.
Embarrassed & literally sweating out what was to happen next, I ask her -- to ease my tension, you know -- if my boil was a boy or a girl. Ba-dum-dum!
"'Cuz maybe after all this fuss, I should name it..." I babble on.
Inside to myself I'm screaming, "Shut up already!" but it's babble jokingly or cry, so I say, "I suppose I shouldn't say that; you'll admit me to a different floor..."
"No, we don't do that here. We'd kick you to the curb," she says. Images of homeless mentally ill people flood my mind. It's a sobering thought & mercifully I shut up for a bit.
Then I ask, "What are we looking for here..." I don't expect her to reply with anything other than, "The doctor will tell you that," but the tech shows me the infected area, the skin line, that the infection was not in my breast tissue, and that there was no abscess to drain (back to that lancing option, were we?).
Just as I started to relax she told me she had been called from home to come in and do my ultrasound. I didn't have any jokes for that. I apologized and just thought to myself... Umm, what didn't I know about me, my boob, andmy boil sorry, my infection that required a person to get out of bed at night on a holiday? I've seen that on ER, and that's not ever good.
Oh, but the gruff nurse was waiting for me; I had more attacks at sticking me to distract me for the time being.
She tied that rubber thing on my arm so tight that all but the tails of the knot disappeared in the flesh of my arm. I complained and got the gruff tough love explanation of how a tourniquet works. Uh, yeah, I know that; but sheesh when I came in here tonight my pain was a 2 or a 3 and now it was at a 5... Could we be a little nicer?
Oh, and can't we just give me a larger script for oral antibiotics and skip this iv mess?
"Oh, no then you'd need the shot."
"Fine, the shot can't be any worse than all this painful sticking."
"No, this shot hurts."
I don't think she understood the pain I was experiencing.
Anyway, this nurse fares no better -- in fact, she doesn't even try to stab me but instead, after minutes of none-to-gently slapping my arms, she says she's going to go get this lady EMT who "can stick anyone in a vehicle bouncing down the road." Awesome, I'll go anywhere to get this stabbing over with -- take me to the bouncing rescue vehicle!
But I didn't have to leave; she came to me.
She assess my multiple stab wounds & frowns; suggests my wrist.
"That's what I said, but the first nurse said it hurts a lot."
"I think it hurts worse on the hand than the wrist," she says matter-of-factly.
What the hell, let's try it.
It worked. It hurt a lot (about the same as the hand, I'd say), but it was done.
Now for the iv antibiotic. Twenty minutes of sitting and reading from the book I'd brought for the waiting area. But then, in calling hubby (so he doesn't worry about how long this is all taking), it occurs to me that I've never had this much fuss ever. Forget about the problems sticking me (I'm trying to), emergency room ultrasounds from staff that had to be called from home? Intravenous antibiotics? In addition to multiple scripts for simultaneous antibiotics? And I have to return to the urgent care center tomorrow to have it looked at again? Just what the hell did I have?
Well, as it turns out, the check-out slip says I have cellulitis. So it was a good thing I went in. Even if it was all so bizarre.
I went home and have followed all instructions -- except the "keep the area raised on pillows" because the whole area is a pillow. The directive to "rest until healed" is easy to do because cellulitis knocks you on your ass.
Days later, I've still got an ugly breast. See?
I'd apologize for this photo's grossness, but felt it was important to show women what it looks like -- so that those who recognize something like this on their own breast know to get medical attention. Got this thing or one like it? Get thee to a doctor.
I apologize for the photo's blurriness. I had to take it myself because hubby now doesn't want to see my icky boob. When I hinted at sex he was looking at my (fully covered) breast with that "Eeeiwww" expression.
"What, now that it's getting better, you don't want to see it?"
"I didn't know how gross it was; now that I do, no thank you."
Nice.
But I can wait him out. *wink*
Oh, and should you ever need to know, I was told by the doctor who gave me my follow-up exam the next day, that increased redness at the infection site for the 36 hours following antibiotics is normal. It seems contrary, but give it a few days and it will start to clear up.
And that concludes today's life lessons in lesions.
Adieu.
A few weeks ago, I was charmed (not!) to discover that I had a zit on the underside of my left breast. I know; what a complete "Eeeiiiwww!" But ladies, especially those ladies with large breasts, know that break-out on the bosom happens -- especially on the underside of the breast because, between bra cups & underwires, and, when you dare to go braless, the underside rests against your chest. The skin cannot breathe, and is often moist, perfect for bacteria etc.
Typically I slap a bit of Wayne's Whoop-Ass Healing Balm on the offending zit. (Seriously, that stuff is awesome!) Every now and then, when the zit is behaving stubbornly (and is twice as ugly), I apply the old hot water compress. Even in the worst case scenario, things come to a head and heal within a few days.
But not this sucker.
This zit was not your usual zit.
After sticking around over a week -- despite all my TLC -- it was only becoming more angry. After two weeks, on the Saturday before Easter, it was not only a zit with no head, but there was a hot, angry, red patch of skin surrounding it, working it's way towards my nipple...
I did just have my mammogram around the new year, and all was fine; surely if there was anything that was gonna burst out of my breast they would have seen it coming. But naturally such rational thinking did little when faced with such ugliness. So I probed, gently (which still pissed-off the zit and made 1/4 of my size E breast ache), lifting the skin to grab it to see if it was attached to my breast tissue. It felt like it was all "in my skin" only... There was a lumpier pocket where the zit was... But the red area wasn't just hot and sore -- the skin was thicker... Like a stale pancake or the hard top layer of Jello; bendable, but thick and sorta rigid too.
I gently washed it, applied a hot compress, then dried it and put on some of the healing balm before heading to bed.
The next morning I awoke to discover that nearly 1/2 of my breast was now red-hot angry. It hurt just awful. It was so bad, I refused sex with my husband.
"Let me see it," he says.
"No, you'll never want to have sex with me again -- at least not in the missionary position," I say.
But he does look at it; pronounces it an infection, as if that was "all" it was, and gave me the "let's continue" look. Uh, no, thanks.
Before dressing for Easter Sunday with family I applied more balm, popped some aspirin, and hoped it would just heal already.
When I returned home that evening, I was sore and tired. More washing & balm (was it bigger or was I imagining that?), more aspirin -- and a nap. I woke up feeling a bit better, but by the time dinner was over, I began thinking...
What if overnight it again doubled itself? Clearly this was no ordinary zit... What was it? The heat told me it was an infection, but what was that thing that, originally anyway, looked like a zit? With no other terminology, I called it a boil. Wasn't the treatment for a boil rather like a zit? But then it wasn't working and there was clearly an infection... But does one really go to the hospital for an emergency room boil lancing procedure? Not that I really wanted one. But it hurt. And it was ugly. Oh, gawd, if I went, not only would I be "the woman with the boil on her breast," but I'd have to say it out loud. In public. Oh ick. But after my son was hospitalized for three days because of an infection from a dog bite, I don't like to underestimate infections. In just a few hours, you couldn't find the nose on Hunter's face... What could this infection do, engulf my boob? Sounds funny, but it wasn't. Round & round I went with myself for 90 minutes until I decided that pride be damned, infections could be serious, and if it was worth an hour & a half of thinking, I should shut up and drive to the hospital.
There was the humiliating experience of announcing my problem to the registration staff person. There was the added humiliation of having to repeat it two more times -- to the intake nurse and then the doctor.
I used humor to diffuse my embarrassment. I was cracking jokes my whole time there. See, I have an anxiety condition (PTSD from domestic violence) and the whole thing made me nervous as hell. Which not only means I'm seconds away from crying, but my blood pressure goes up and then I have to explain that it's just nervousness & have them take it again... Which reminds me that the new-fangled automatic computerized blood pressure cuffs hurt -- actually leaves me bruised. And so I hate having to have them take it again -- nearly as much as I hate to tell people I'm an emotional mess. So it's make jokes and have a (possible) reason to cackle, or risk having them consider admitting me to the psych ward for emitting too much maniacal laughter -- while tears stream down my face.
But I digress.
There was the nearly comical reaction of the doctor's assistant who had to touch my breast and the affected area -- twice. Each time with a sourpuss look on her face followed by a dash to the wall dispenser of hand sanitizer and a furious scrubbing of her hands.
I know it's gross, lady, but I bet at some point in your career you've been wrist-deep in a cadaver and experienced human excrement; how's a breast boil so much worse?
(Note: The doctor wasn't so reactionary, but I guess that's 'cuz he doesn't have a breast to imagine that on.)
Anyway, after a brief Q & A (how long have you had it, me describing my treatment of it, assurance that I just had a mammogram, etc.) and several words ending in "itis" etc., the determination was "an infection." Antibiotics would be the remedy. (Initial relief at no lancing; but then, "Oh, joy, a yeast infection will be here soon!") But because the doc couldn't feel a "puss sack" he wanted an ultrasound just to be sure...
Sure of what? My nervous brain wanted to know. Looking for a "puss sack" was the answer. Oh, so if chapter one was "The Breast Boil Lady", chapter two was "Looking For A Puss Sack". What an utterly charming story this was becoming.
While awaiting escort to the ultrasound, a very cool nurse tried to get an iv with an antibiotic started. I politely warned her that I'm a hard stick & that my veins blow too; she shouldn't take it personally. Of good cheer, she proceeded, confident in her ability -- greatly underestimating my non-cooperative blood vessels. Bless her, she both tried and was kind.
While she waited, gently slapping my arms to get a vessel to sit up & take notice, I regaled her with amusing stories of other iv experiences. Like when I was giving birth to my son, how the young nurse couldn't stick me either. And I told her that it was because I was royalty; that's where the expression "blue bloods" came from, our delicate thin, blue veins. It was a joke -- but she didn't get it. She was amazed -- on her way out she repeated it to another nurse, in all seriousness. *eyeball roll*
(Whenever I tell that story, I have to include the part about how during very painful labor I rhythmically chanted, "I would not, could not, in a boat..." To which the amazed & impressionable young nurse cooed in reply, "Oh, how beautiful, I've never had a laboring mom quote poetry before!" Dr. Seuss is poetry? I mean come on. That's when I ordered my mom to get that girl away from me.)
But I digress. Again.
While I babbled on the emergency room nurse laughed -- which probably helped her mood as she grappled with my non-compliant arm veins. But even she of positive attitude had to give up on my arms. I suggested my wrists; the veins are very visible there. "Oh no, that's really really painful," she warned. She gave my hand a try -- very painfully in, & then the damn disrespectful vein blew.
I asked what would happen next... Since I was going to get a script for antibiotics, couldn't they just increase them & skip the iv antibiotic? She looked at me and seriously shook her head and then quickly said, "Oh don't worry, I've only got two tries and then I pass you onto another nurse." To which I blurted, "But what if she can't either?" She continued on, "There are only 9 of us working tonight," oblivious to my horror. "So I'm looking at 18 stab-sticks before we move onto option B?!"
She went to get another nurse. A not so nice nurse. A gruff by comparison nurse. Ah, but the ultrasound tech is here and I have to go!
A momentary reprieve before I remember we're looking for a "puss sack" and start to sweat away at least the bottom half of the magic marker dotted lines Nurse Sourpuss-Wash-My-Hands-Too-Vigorously had made to monitor the size of the infection area.
Embarrassed & literally sweating out what was to happen next, I ask her -- to ease my tension, you know -- if my boil was a boy or a girl. Ba-dum-dum!
"'Cuz maybe after all this fuss, I should name it..." I babble on.
Inside to myself I'm screaming, "Shut up already!" but it's babble jokingly or cry, so I say, "I suppose I shouldn't say that; you'll admit me to a different floor..."
"No, we don't do that here. We'd kick you to the curb," she says. Images of homeless mentally ill people flood my mind. It's a sobering thought & mercifully I shut up for a bit.
Then I ask, "What are we looking for here..." I don't expect her to reply with anything other than, "The doctor will tell you that," but the tech shows me the infected area, the skin line, that the infection was not in my breast tissue, and that there was no abscess to drain (back to that lancing option, were we?).
Just as I started to relax she told me she had been called from home to come in and do my ultrasound. I didn't have any jokes for that. I apologized and just thought to myself... Umm, what didn't I know about me, my boob, and
Oh, but the gruff nurse was waiting for me; I had more attacks at sticking me to distract me for the time being.
She tied that rubber thing on my arm so tight that all but the tails of the knot disappeared in the flesh of my arm. I complained and got the gruff tough love explanation of how a tourniquet works. Uh, yeah, I know that; but sheesh when I came in here tonight my pain was a 2 or a 3 and now it was at a 5... Could we be a little nicer?
Oh, and can't we just give me a larger script for oral antibiotics and skip this iv mess?
"Oh, no then you'd need the shot."
"Fine, the shot can't be any worse than all this painful sticking."
"No, this shot hurts."
I don't think she understood the pain I was experiencing.
Anyway, this nurse fares no better -- in fact, she doesn't even try to stab me but instead, after minutes of none-to-gently slapping my arms, she says she's going to go get this lady EMT who "can stick anyone in a vehicle bouncing down the road." Awesome, I'll go anywhere to get this stabbing over with -- take me to the bouncing rescue vehicle!
But I didn't have to leave; she came to me.
She assess my multiple stab wounds & frowns; suggests my wrist.
"That's what I said, but the first nurse said it hurts a lot."
"I think it hurts worse on the hand than the wrist," she says matter-of-factly.
What the hell, let's try it.
It worked. It hurt a lot (about the same as the hand, I'd say), but it was done.
Now for the iv antibiotic. Twenty minutes of sitting and reading from the book I'd brought for the waiting area. But then, in calling hubby (so he doesn't worry about how long this is all taking), it occurs to me that I've never had this much fuss ever. Forget about the problems sticking me (I'm trying to), emergency room ultrasounds from staff that had to be called from home? Intravenous antibiotics? In addition to multiple scripts for simultaneous antibiotics? And I have to return to the urgent care center tomorrow to have it looked at again? Just what the hell did I have?
Well, as it turns out, the check-out slip says I have cellulitis. So it was a good thing I went in. Even if it was all so bizarre.
I went home and have followed all instructions -- except the "keep the area raised on pillows" because the whole area is a pillow. The directive to "rest until healed" is easy to do because cellulitis knocks you on your ass.
Days later, I've still got an ugly breast. See?
I'd apologize for this photo's grossness, but felt it was important to show women what it looks like -- so that those who recognize something like this on their own breast know to get medical attention. Got this thing or one like it? Get thee to a doctor.
I apologize for the photo's blurriness. I had to take it myself because hubby now doesn't want to see my icky boob. When I hinted at sex he was looking at my (fully covered) breast with that "Eeeiwww" expression.
"What, now that it's getting better, you don't want to see it?"
"I didn't know how gross it was; now that I do, no thank you."
Nice.
But I can wait him out. *wink*
Oh, and should you ever need to know, I was told by the doctor who gave me my follow-up exam the next day, that increased redness at the infection site for the 36 hours following antibiotics is normal. It seems contrary, but give it a few days and it will start to clear up.
And that concludes today's life lessons in lesions.
Adieu.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
He's Growing Up
Last fall I took my youngest, Hunter, then 7, to the art museum. He was quite prudish and giggly about seeing men nude; he said nothing about the nude women, but had a flushed, awkward look to him...
Flash forward about 9 months. Hunter is now 8 years old.
We spent a Saturday afternoon teaching the kids to make altered art books. Since we left the junk on the dinning room table, the kids (and myself) have been puttering around with creating more pages every now and then.
Just a few days ago, both the kids and myself were cuttin' & pastin' away to our hearts' content while Derek was at work. Des is quite prudish too, and so when she asked for me to hand her a magazine from the pile, I jokingly asked if she wanted the Victoria's Secret catalog.
She turned pink and gave a laughing but emphatic, "No!"
Hunter, seeing her discomfort, asked what it was. When I told him it was a ladies underwear catalog he asked for it.
I gave it to him knowing that A) he was likely only trying to get his sister's goat (or, more likely, to get her to groan), and that B) he's rather prudish himself and would likely blanch at it and put it down in a minute.
But he didn't.
Just seconds before he had been all squirrelly over a "sexy woman" on the front of Interview Magazine, but now, he was completely entranced.
He sat there cutting with what can only be described as "dedicated frenzy".
He made a few comments about how "hot" this one or that one was. After a few of such comments, I simply asked him how he would feel if Des & I were to make those comments about men in their underwear? (I thought Des would puke she turned so green at the idea.) He got the point quickly and said little else.
Well, OK, I did have to have a few such discussions; but they were short and he did seem to absorb them as important and modified his behavior.
He was then pretty quiet -- until he made a mistake.
Suddenly he turned to Des, trying to get her to look at one of his paper ladies. She refused, saying she didn't want to look at them. "But, I accidentally tore part of the page, and now I had to cut her leg off -- does she look OK?" he asked, really worried.
I reassured him it was OK. And that he could cut her off at the waist; she'd fit better on the page that way and no one would know.
"But I like her legs!" he wailed.
So he pasted in his one-legged beauty & continued to work in silent earnest.
Until --
"Oh no! Wh-What? Why would they--?"
I turned to look at him frantically paging through the catalog until he sighed and said, "OK, good."
Feeling my question, he said, "They had started to put them in clothes."
Ugh.
"There's nothing wrong with a lady in clothes," I reminded him, "Just as there is nothing wrong with the human body, there is nothing wrong with the body clothed."
"Yeah, but I like their boobs and legs," he said.
"Well, it's natural to notice them and find them pretty," I replied, knowing Des was crimson -- but listening too. "But remember, these ladies have mothers, brothers, maybe even kids; and they laugh & cry and want to do things, just like everyone else. They are not pieces of paper or toys you can just think of as parts. They are people."
"I know," he said thoughtfully. "I just like to look at them."
We each continued to work in silence for a bit. I had to admit, he was far more interested in the altered arts book project than ever before. I mean he liked it before, but usually his max time working on it was 30 minutes at a time; it was at least an hour this time, with no signs of leaving anytime soon.
"Hunter," I said, "You sure seem to like those ladies..."
"What. They are pretty."
"Yeah, but you were just all grossed-out over that other lady on the cover of that magazine," I gestured, "And now...?"
"Mom, you have to face it; I'm growing up."
"Yes, but that was only ten minutes ago," I said.
"Some of us mature faster," he said.
How true.
He returned to his cutting and pasting.
I then began to wonder if this was a problem... Should I have let him have the magazine?
But let's face it, the ladies in VS aren't nude and he can see all that and more on the beach or TV.
And I figured at least he was there, with me, having his questions answered & his enthusiasm properly channeled -- without the freak-out to send him into sexual guilt and repression.
I figure that this is far better than discovering the catalog on his own or with a peer (very likely, given how they litter most homes) and having no proper context for understanding. This time with him was a gift.
Flash forward about 9 months. Hunter is now 8 years old.
We spent a Saturday afternoon teaching the kids to make altered art books. Since we left the junk on the dinning room table, the kids (and myself) have been puttering around with creating more pages every now and then.
Just a few days ago, both the kids and myself were cuttin' & pastin' away to our hearts' content while Derek was at work. Des is quite prudish too, and so when she asked for me to hand her a magazine from the pile, I jokingly asked if she wanted the Victoria's Secret catalog.
She turned pink and gave a laughing but emphatic, "No!"
Hunter, seeing her discomfort, asked what it was. When I told him it was a ladies underwear catalog he asked for it.
I gave it to him knowing that A) he was likely only trying to get his sister's goat (or, more likely, to get her to groan), and that B) he's rather prudish himself and would likely blanch at it and put it down in a minute.
But he didn't.
Just seconds before he had been all squirrelly over a "sexy woman" on the front of Interview Magazine, but now, he was completely entranced.
He sat there cutting with what can only be described as "dedicated frenzy".
He made a few comments about how "hot" this one or that one was. After a few of such comments, I simply asked him how he would feel if Des & I were to make those comments about men in their underwear? (I thought Des would puke she turned so green at the idea.) He got the point quickly and said little else.
Well, OK, I did have to have a few such discussions; but they were short and he did seem to absorb them as important and modified his behavior.
He was then pretty quiet -- until he made a mistake.
Suddenly he turned to Des, trying to get her to look at one of his paper ladies. She refused, saying she didn't want to look at them. "But, I accidentally tore part of the page, and now I had to cut her leg off -- does she look OK?" he asked, really worried.
I reassured him it was OK. And that he could cut her off at the waist; she'd fit better on the page that way and no one would know.
"But I like her legs!" he wailed.
So he pasted in his one-legged beauty & continued to work in silent earnest.
Until --
"Oh no! Wh-What? Why would they--?"
I turned to look at him frantically paging through the catalog until he sighed and said, "OK, good."
Feeling my question, he said, "They had started to put them in clothes."
Ugh.
"There's nothing wrong with a lady in clothes," I reminded him, "Just as there is nothing wrong with the human body, there is nothing wrong with the body clothed."
"Yeah, but I like their boobs and legs," he said.
"Well, it's natural to notice them and find them pretty," I replied, knowing Des was crimson -- but listening too. "But remember, these ladies have mothers, brothers, maybe even kids; and they laugh & cry and want to do things, just like everyone else. They are not pieces of paper or toys you can just think of as parts. They are people."
"I know," he said thoughtfully. "I just like to look at them."
We each continued to work in silence for a bit. I had to admit, he was far more interested in the altered arts book project than ever before. I mean he liked it before, but usually his max time working on it was 30 minutes at a time; it was at least an hour this time, with no signs of leaving anytime soon.
"Hunter," I said, "You sure seem to like those ladies..."
"What. They are pretty."
"Yeah, but you were just all grossed-out over that other lady on the cover of that magazine," I gestured, "And now...?"
"Mom, you have to face it; I'm growing up."
"Yes, but that was only ten minutes ago," I said.
"Some of us mature faster," he said.
How true.
He returned to his cutting and pasting.
I then began to wonder if this was a problem... Should I have let him have the magazine?
But let's face it, the ladies in VS aren't nude and he can see all that and more on the beach or TV.
And I figured at least he was there, with me, having his questions answered & his enthusiasm properly channeled -- without the freak-out to send him into sexual guilt and repression.
I figure that this is far better than discovering the catalog on his own or with a peer (very likely, given how they litter most homes) and having no proper context for understanding. This time with him was a gift.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Sex Ed - From The Kid
My eldest, the Auspie, was always a hoot at the museum. From 3 on, when I was in college and had the discounted student pass, she'd stomp around the library-quiet museum with me during weekdays in this pair of brightly colored cowboy boots that she had to wear, no matter the weather or season.
My favorite Allie In An Art Museum Story took place during her first visit to the MAM.
We were looking through the "classic masters" section of paintings, when I heard her grunt and stomp out of the room. I did my own classic mommy bit then, trying to quietly catch up with her. When I did, I asked her why she left so quickly.
Hands on her hips, she turned to me and said, "I just don't understand why they have to put the fur there."
I stood stupefied for a moment -- and then remembered the partial female nude. "Fur" meant public hair.
"It's just the human body," I said. As 'mommy' -- and a single parent then too -- she'd never minded barging in on me in the bath (as you'll see in a bit) or getting dressed and so had seen me nude enough to know that pubic hair was, is, normal.
But apparently 'normal' had no place in art.
"They just shouldn't show that. They should paint a dress on them or something," was her reply.
As if nude models were understandable, but painting them thus was the problem.
Speaking of Allie and pubic hair...
Once when she was little she pushed her way into the bathroom while I was on the potty myself. She took one look at my pubic hair, pointed her little chubby toddler finger at it, and said, "Chipmunks live in there."
I knew if I laughed, I'd hear that forever; so I bit my tongue and replied, "No, they do not. When ladies and men grow-up, part of maturing is growing hair on their private parts."
She stood and stared at me.
Then she raised her finger along with her voice and shouted, "No! Chipmunks live in there!" Then she stormed out of the bathroom.
Leaving me a very puzzled mother on the toilet -- still too afraid to laugh.
My favorite Allie In An Art Museum Story took place during her first visit to the MAM.
We were looking through the "classic masters" section of paintings, when I heard her grunt and stomp out of the room. I did my own classic mommy bit then, trying to quietly catch up with her. When I did, I asked her why she left so quickly.
Hands on her hips, she turned to me and said, "I just don't understand why they have to put the fur there."
I stood stupefied for a moment -- and then remembered the partial female nude. "Fur" meant public hair.
"It's just the human body," I said. As 'mommy' -- and a single parent then too -- she'd never minded barging in on me in the bath (as you'll see in a bit) or getting dressed and so had seen me nude enough to know that pubic hair was, is, normal.
But apparently 'normal' had no place in art.
"They just shouldn't show that. They should paint a dress on them or something," was her reply.
As if nude models were understandable, but painting them thus was the problem.
Speaking of Allie and pubic hair...
Once when she was little she pushed her way into the bathroom while I was on the potty myself. She took one look at my pubic hair, pointed her little chubby toddler finger at it, and said, "Chipmunks live in there."
I knew if I laughed, I'd hear that forever; so I bit my tongue and replied, "No, they do not. When ladies and men grow-up, part of maturing is growing hair on their private parts."
She stood and stared at me.
Then she raised her finger along with her voice and shouted, "No! Chipmunks live in there!" Then she stormed out of the bathroom.
Leaving me a very puzzled mother on the toilet -- still too afraid to laugh.
Visting The Art Museum
Like most moms, I am forever behind in placing photos in the album; so why should digital pics posted in the old blog be any different? Here are some photos from when Hunter and I went to the Milwaukee Art Museum last fall, when he was seven.
I like to take kids alone to art museums. You get to take time having the child lead you around, stopping where & when they wish to, and have them respond to art without interference or opinion from anyone else. All I say is, "Show me what you like." And when they do, I ask them what it is they like about it. It's a very natural way to get at artistic response without bogging them down in stuff they don't understand -- or overwhelming them with stuff they don't care to know and won't remember anyway.
Plus, it just makes for a more relaxed, fun, trip; which means they will continue to want to go to museums.
And of course now I can snap pics with my cell (and take 9 months to post them), to add to the interactive experience.
Hunter, being raised by a rather negative father, often stops to say what he doesn't like. But my reaction is the same: "What don't you like about it?"
Eventually, either breaking out of 'daddy mode' and relaxing with me -- or just feeling more comfortable about looking at art -- eventually moved into telling me what pieces he did like.
Then it's off to the gift shop to buy a few postcards of their favorite pieces. Something to take home and look at later, I believe, reinforces not only the 'good times of the trip', but provides actual art in their room.
Things you should also know: He didn't like the nudes -- especially the males.
The best thing to do was to let him joke a bit about it. Little boys like butt jokes, so...
I like to take kids alone to art museums. You get to take time having the child lead you around, stopping where & when they wish to, and have them respond to art without interference or opinion from anyone else. All I say is, "Show me what you like." And when they do, I ask them what it is they like about it. It's a very natural way to get at artistic response without bogging them down in stuff they don't understand -- or overwhelming them with stuff they don't care to know and won't remember anyway.
Plus, it just makes for a more relaxed, fun, trip; which means they will continue to want to go to museums.
And of course now I can snap pics with my cell (and take 9 months to post them), to add to the interactive experience.
Hunter, being raised by a rather negative father, often stops to say what he doesn't like. But my reaction is the same: "What don't you like about it?"
Eventually, either breaking out of 'daddy mode' and relaxing with me -- or just feeling more comfortable about looking at art -- eventually moved into telling me what pieces he did like.
Then it's off to the gift shop to buy a few postcards of their favorite pieces. Something to take home and look at later, I believe, reinforces not only the 'good times of the trip', but provides actual art in their room.
Things you should also know: He didn't like the nudes -- especially the males.
The best thing to do was to let him joke a bit about it. Little boys like butt jokes, so...
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