Florence Nightingale: Third Time's A Charm

If you've been with me for any length of time - or if you know me personally, may know that I am friendly, compassionate, empathetic, and all those other good things that give you warm feelings inside. Well, at least while I'm out in public.

You may also know that, in spite of my wonderful qualities - including humility - I am simply not a good person to have around in any kind of emergency situation. 

I tend to think I'm tough. I grew up in the Upper Peninsula, survived harsh winters, worked on the farm, learned to drink some pretty hard-core koolaid, (remember the 190 post). I was a preschool teacher for 9 years. I did missionary work in the Philippines and ate some pretty unusual things. I used to work in the school office. I can handle blood. I can handle sneezes and pee. I can even tolerate vomit.

My daughter recently had a minor procedure done on her face. She had to get a small lump removed from her cheek. She was very nervous about the procedure since she wasn't going to have general anesthesia. (Freaking out is a little more like it, but I'll try not to embarrass her too much.) I decided that I wanted to watch the procedure because I knew it wouldn't be too invasive. If I can look at surgeries online and check out skin diseases on WebMD, I was sure I could handle such a minor procedure.

In fact, blood, in and of itself does NOT bother me. Some situations, however, take me completely by surprise. But, I figured that I would be prepared for the small incision on Hope's face. A little blood, a little lump removed, a few stitches. No biggie.

The day arrived and I went into the exam room with my daughter. Doc was positioned on one side of her, so I went to the other side and held her hand. Numbing shot, ketchup and mustard wash (my husband's name for the iodine bath before surgery), scalpel.

Um, OK, so I decided that maybe I wouldn't watch. I figured I should just keep my attention on Hope. I knelt down next to her so I couldn't accidentally sneak a peek.
 

First, the incision: scalpel. Gauze. Blood. Doing OK.

Hope had gotten past the first part – I figured the rest would be easy as pie.
 

Then she said, “I just heard a popping sound.”

“Yeah,” the doctor said, “I have to pull it out because it's kind of stuck in there. You'll probably hear a little more popping before I'm done.” Then he went on to describe the texture of the offending cyst – according to him, it was like cheese.

I started to feel a little hot.

He continued, describing how he was trying to squeeze the thing out like a giant zit.

I started to feel a little queasy. A little shaky.  I put my head down on my arm and prayed, “Oh, God, please don't let me pass out.”  I didn't think it would help Hope's nerves at all to have mom swooning.

At this point, Doc started chuckling and said, “Hey, your mom is doing really well.” Hope had her eyes closed, so I don't think she knew anything of the drama unfolding beside her.

I desperately tried to think of a way to change the subject. “Hey, Hope, we might get a kitten for Christmas.” At that point, Doc picked up on my attempt to keep my lunch down and started talking about when we were in college. 

You see, Doc and I went to college together. He was my husband's room-mate one year. He and many other friends actually visited my parents' home in the UP more than once. He really, really likes to talk. And I really, really like to talk. I'm sure he assumed that I was tougher than I really was when he started talking in great detail about removing the chunk of "cheese" wedged in my daughter's face.

Read about my previous episodes in these two posts:

Florence Nightingale I'll Never Be 

Florence Nightingale: Take 2 

I'm finally convinced that I'm not as tough as I think.

Black Friday Stupor

Yes, I know Black Friday was a week ago. An early Thanksgiving always makes everything seem earlier, and then I'm in denial about the whole holiday season. Well I guess that usually happens anyway – the whole being-in-denial-because-the-holidays-are-approaching-too-fast-and-I'm-not-even-remotely-ready.  I can't blame it on the early Thanksgiving.

So, the real truth:  I just did not get around to writing this post until a week after it happened.

Money has been especially tight this year due to it being the 2^nd year my husband has been on disability after his stroke. And I, myself cut my hours back to part-time in the spring because I have a certain disability that kicks in when I'm working 40 hours a week, trying to keep a house that is somewhat peaceful and doesn't look like the set for a horror movie, and trying to raise 4 kids with minimal help from my recovering husband.  My disability is called “Crazy Mom.”

Money aside, the girls started working on me a few weeks before Thanksgiving: “Mom, are we going to go Black Friday shopping this year?” Apparently, they have fond memories of getting up at 4 AM, huddling on the heated seats in our minivan, and walking into the stores with our butts steaming. Each time they asked about Black Friday shopping this year, I hemmed and hawed. I tried to be non-committal. But no matter what I said – or didn't say – the girls just couldn't believe that I would skip a family tradition. We went last year. I guess that was when the tradition started. You've got to be careful what you do with your kids around the holiday season, you know. If you make one false move, the children are going to say it's tradition and force you to do it every year at Christmas-time for the rest of your natural lives.

So, with the words “we have negative money” and “I'm not buying anything for you today no matter how much whining, conniving and cajoling you do” ringing in their ears, we did indeed go Black Friday shopping. We didn't get up at a ludicrous hour. Instead it was maybe a ridiculous hour. It was 6 AM when my 10-year-old came in to wake me up. “Tell your sister to make the coffee and I will get up in a few,” I said. I'm so glad my children are fellow coffee-drinkers.

Apparently, I hadn't consumed enough coffee to assist me with the simple tasks of walking and talking, so mid-morning, we headed toward the Barnes and Noble in the Lansing Mall because they have a Starbucks cafe inside the store. As we approached the sprawling store front, there was a very large sign assuring us that, yes indeed, Starbucks coffee was sold at a cafe right inside their store walls. So I took that to mean right inside their store walls. As soon as we entered, I found myself in front of a row of registers. And the smell of coffee was overpowering – I needed to have some, and I needed it NOW. I looked at the friendly cashiers. Then past the friendly cashiers. There were displays of books stacked behind them. “Huh,” I wondered, “Where do they make the coffee?” So I carefully scanned the entire section to see if I could find a menu or coffee makers or cups or anything that indicated that this cafe right inside of Barnes and Noble actually served coffee. Nothing. So I did what any rational human being would do in the situation. I just stood there. And waited for coffee to appear. I would occasionally search the faces of the friendly cashiers and wonder why they weren't offering to help me in their chipper, friendly cashier way, “What can I get for you?” or “May I help you?” Still nothing. Then I saw some laminated sheets next to each cash register. That must be the menu, I thought. I picked it up, asked, “Is this the menu?” and then realized that I was reading about payment and return options. Finally the heavens opened and it was revealed by divine intervention that this was not the cafe. So, I tried to cover my error and quickly said, “I mean, where is the cafe?” The friendly cashiers pointed and I turned around to see a giant Starbucks cafe a few aisles over. I quickly walked away with my kids to get some coffee.

Sometimes I can't believe they let me go out in public.

Black Friday Stupor

Yes, I know Black Friday was a week ago. An early Thanksgiving always makes everything seem earlier, and then I'm in denial about the whole holiday season. Well I guess that usually happens anyway – the whole being-in-denial-because-the-holidays-are-approaching-too-fast-and-I'm-not-even-remotely-ready.  I can't blame it on the early Thanksgiving.

So, the real truth:  I just did not get around to writing this post until a week after it happened.

Money has been especially tight this year due to it being the 2^nd year my husband has been on disability after his stroke. And I, myself cut my hours back to part-time in the spring because I have a certain disability that kicks in when I'm working 40 hours a week, trying to keep a house that is somewhat peaceful and doesn't look like the set for a horror movie, and trying to raise 4 kids with minimal help from my recovering husband.  My disability is called “Crazy Mom.”

Money aside, the girls started working on me a few weeks before Thanksgiving: “Mom, are we going to go Black Friday shopping this year?” Apparently, they have fond memories of getting up at 4 AM, huddling on the heated seats in our minivan, and walking into the stores with our butts steaming. Each time they asked about Black Friday shopping this year, I hemmed and hawed. I tried to be non-committal. But no matter what I said – or didn't say – the girls just couldn't believe that I would skip a family tradition. We went last year. I guess that was when the tradition started. You've got to be careful what you do with your kids around the holiday season, you know. If you make one false move, the children are going to say it's tradition and force you to do it every year at Christmas-time for the rest of your natural lives.

So, with the words “we have negative money” and “I'm not buying anything for you today no matter how much whining, conniving and cajoling you do” ringing in their ears, we did indeed go Black Friday shopping. We didn't get up at a ludicrous hour. Instead it was maybe a ridiculous hour. It was 6 AM when my 10-year-old came in to wake me up. “Tell your sister to make the coffee and I will get up in a few,” I said. I'm so glad my children are fellow coffee-drinkers.

Apparently, I hadn't consumed enough coffee to assist me with the simple tasks of walking and talking, so mid-morning, we headed toward the Barnes and Noble in the Lansing Mall because they have a Starbucks cafe inside the store. As we approached the sprawling store front, there was a very large sign assuring us that, yes indeed, Starbucks coffee was sold at a cafe right inside their store walls. So I took that to mean right inside their store walls. As soon as we entered, I found myself in front of a row of registers. And the smell of coffee was overpowering – I needed to have some, and I needed it NOW. I looked at the friendly cashiers. Then past the friendly cashiers. There were displays of books stacked behind them. “Huh,” I wondered, “Where do they make the coffee?” So I carefully scanned the entire section to see if I could find a menu or coffee makers or cups or anything that indicated that this cafe right inside of Barnes and Noble actually served coffee. Nothing. So I did what any rational human being would do in the situation. I just stood there. And waited for coffee to appear. I would occasionally search the faces of the friendly cashiers and wonder why they weren't offering to help me in their chipper, friendly cashier way, “What can I get for you?” or “May I help you?” Still nothing. Then I saw some laminated sheets next to each cash register. That must be the menu, I thought. I picked it up, asked, “Is this the menu?” and then realized that I was reading about payment and return options. Finally the heavens opened and it was revealed by divine intervention that this was not the cafe. So, I tried to cover my error and quickly said, “I mean, where is the cafe?” The friendly cashiers pointed and I turned around to see a giant Starbucks cafe a few aisles over. I quickly walked away with my kids to get some coffee.

Sometimes I can't believe they let me go out in public.

Bailout?

I dropped 3 of my kids off at school this morning, dug through the massive collection of wadded papers in my 3rd grader's cubby, and returned home, humming the Funeral March.

dum dum dum DUM da-dum da-dum da DUM!

The above-mentioned 3rd grader is my son, who stayed home from school today.  Oh no, he is not sick.  This is a first in our household:  I kept my son home today to do his homework.  Irresponsible parent, you say?  Enabling, you say?  Clearly you don't understand the parameters under which I kept him home.

Yesterday, his teacher sent home a reminder about missing work so that we could help him catch up before the trimester ends.  Tomorrow.  That may have been enough warning for your average 3rd grader.  Not so for my son.  He was missing approximately 48 pieces of homework (I am not even close to exaggerating). 

Let me explain a little bit here.  My son is quite intelligent.  Brilliant, even.  And his mother may be slightly biased.  Anyway, he is performing well above grade level in all subjects.  He writes very clever stories and builds incredible structures with his legos.  He regularly humors us with his creative stories and precocious vocabulary.

But he is a slob.  Disorganized.  Haphazard.  You get the picture.

I knew this was an issue.  I thought that I was doing well at regularly checking in with his teacher and making sure we were catching up on late assignments.   Obviously, my assumptions were erroneous.

So this morning, after dropping the other kids at school and humming the appropriate dirge for the situation, I made his favorite breakfast - egg, sausage and cheese burritos, accompanied by hot chocolate and orange juice. 

Are you thinking of words such as coddling?  spoiling?

Once again, clearly you misunderstand me.  Think of Ben Linus treating Kate to an exquisite breakfast by the ocean shortly after capturing her and her friends.  Ben tells Kate that he wants her to have something nice to remember because the next 2 weeks are going to be very unpleasant.  Yeah, it was like that with my son.  I made it clear that today would not be fun. 

It will be a whip-cracking, homework-cranking day.  No TV, no computer, no legos, no toys at all until every last crumpled paper is finished.

Oh, no.  It will not be a fun day at all.

And once that is done, the hubs and I will have to come with some very strict criteria under which he operates from now on.  Because I assure you I will not be bailing him out in college.

Shaming the Dishwasher

In general,  I am very thankful for electrical appliances.  I often feel a sense of gratification after loading up my washer, putting a cake in the oven, or turning on the vacuum cleaner.  I know that when I come back, I will have a clean load of clothing, a delicious cake, or a clean carpet.   


However, it's been a long time since I've felt that way about the dishwasher.  Now, when I load it up, I taunt it, "What are you going to leave caked on my dishes this time?"  I even spend extra time rinsing off all the little particles of food so it will just have to finish off the miniscule traces that I've left behind.  "There, you stupid, lazy, good-for-nothin', brackin' frackin' piece of worthless junk.  I washed the whole dang thing by hand!  Could you at least sanitize it for me???"  You might suggest that I talk nicer to it, but believe me, I've tried that.  And I've tried cleaning it on a regular basis - running vinegar through it, running bleach through it, running it empty so it can wash away any hidden grime - but to no avail.  It's still just a 90-lb. weakling.  I still have greasy dishes.  Sediment.  Baked on gunk.

I often end up washing many things by hand, and only putting the "sure" things into the dishwasher, like drinking cups. . . .that had only been used for water.

Here is a list of things that I believe that my dishwasher can no longer remove:

gravy
ketchup
mustard
mayonnaise
salad dressing
peanut butter
jelly
milk
eggs
oatmeal
applesauce 
frosting
chocolate
grease
oil
shortening   
butter
pudding
jello
soup
cream cheese
guacamole
refried beans
bananas
smoothies
yogurt
ice cream
potatoes
spaghetti sauce
custard
mousse
mashed potatoes

Here is a list of things that I know, for a fact, that my dishwasher can remove:

Cool Whip

In today's tough economy, we can't just go out and buy a new appliance, especially when the old one still "works" (and I hope you know that I use that term in the most sarcastic way possible).  So I've been left trying to finesse the piece of scrap (I wanted to leave the "s" off that word, but I didn't want to offend anyone) that is wasting space in my kitchen.  Still, nothing.

Finally, I've resorted to this.  Please don't think I'm being too harsh.  It's just that I've tried everything else. 

As I tried to take this picture this morning, my daughter walked right in front of the camera.  I snapped at her, "Can't you see I'm trying to take a picture here???"  My other daughter leaned over and whispered, "I think Mom has gone off the deep end."  

Obviously, they have no idea how maddening this situation is.

My Son, The Camaro Nut

I'm a little worried about my son. He is 7.

The other day, he said, “My favorite kind of car is a Camaro.”

“Really?” I asked. “Where did you see a Camaro?”

“Oh,” he replies, “I didn't see one. Matt just told me they're the coolest car ever.”

Fear strikes my heart as I jump to the only conclusion possible: My son will be a mulleted, heavy-metal-band-loving, Camaro-driving pothead.

Yes, I know this is a stereotype. But if you grew up in podunk-ville Michigan where every kid wanted a souped up muscle car, you would jump to the same conclusion. Some kids actually saved their meager earnings from working on the family farm or at the local fish processing place, and they were able to live their dream of squealing their tires in front of the high school before they went home to don their shit-kickers for the evening milking. Others were so desperate, they just painted flames on their AMC Gremlins and hoped no one would notice how slow they were going while they pushed their cars down the street.

Here's a question: do ALL boys EVERYWHERE end up craving cool cars? Is it inherent in the male gene, or is there an unspoken code among all males of our species that all little boys must desire cool cars when they grow up? I mean, have you ever met a little boy who wanted nothing more than to grow up and drive a 15-passenger van? Or a station wagon?

Anyway, my fears about my son began to grow, when days later, I found him sitting on the couch, remote in hand, completely absorbed in “Dream On” by Aerosmith, which he found on YouTube. I'm also fairly certain I've heard him humming “Stairway to Heaven” recently. Pink Floyd is next, I just know it.

I admit I will probably not have to deal the pothead part. (Or is “pothead” not politically correct any more? Maybe I should say  “cannabis connoisseur.”) We talk openly to our kids about smoking, drinking, and drugs and all the problems that could ensue. In addition, my super-sonic sense of smell can detect that stuff from a mile away. Yes, I may have encountered the smell of weed more than once in my life, but I have never tried it, I promise. And I never bought the story that the scent was a Renuzit air freshener.

In the end, I bought my son a folder with a picture of a Camaro on it, for him to use at school. He seemed thrilled with it, and it seems to have appeased his Camaro hunger. 

My fears have been allayed for the time being.

Band-Aids

The last time I bought band-aids, I got some cool kid-friendly ones.  I am pretty cheap, so that doesn't happen very often.  It's usually the hard plastic variety that don't bend or breathe, are not waterproof or clear, and just basically stop the bleeding long enough for the band-aid to fall off.  Besides, we all know that if we buy the fun band-aids, they're gone in, like, 17 hours because everyone has a life-threatening cut that can only be soothed by Curious George.  Even while I've been sitting here with the box of band-aids next to me (I need visual aids), my daughter came over and just took one for no reason.  Her reason?  "I had a pimple on my elbow."  Sounds kind of fishy to me.

Well, for some silly reason, I have been getting many more paper cuts and hangnails than usual, and I neglected to purchase any grown-up band-aids.  So guess what I've been wearing?  Yup, it's a toss up between Disney Princesses or Spiderman.

Yesterday, I went grocery shopping.  I don't usually get too gussied up just to buy toilet paper and mac & cheese, but I try to look like I at least care a little bit.  So, I showered, shaved, put on some deodorant and enough makeup to cover up my chin whiskers (I really can't wait until I can afford laser hair removal).  After bandaging up a small nick that I sustained while shaving, I was ready to go.

I went to many different stores in my quest to obtain vittles for the brood.  (Believe it or not, that word is really spelled "victuals", but who on earth would know what I was trying to say if I didn't spell it phonetically?)  (Also, can you tell by my lavish use of parenthetical sentences, that I have severe ADD?)


I even went to Kohls - my favorite store in the Universe, case you didn't know - with the pretense of returning a few items.  But for me to leave Kohls without an actual purchase is inconceivable.  That's what my Kohls credit card is for, right?  I managed to find 2 dresses and 3 pairs of shoes.  (Don't judge me - I haven't bought new shoes for myself since. . . well, never mind.  Just don't judge me.) Oh yeah, and I guess I picked up a few things for Father's Day, too.

Once the errands were completed, I loaded myself into my van with all my goodies.  I looked down at my leg and noticed a little white sticker, which happened to be only slightly whiter than my Michigan pallor.  It stared up at me in bold black letters, a band-aid shaped like a skateboard (which is really not that unusual, come to think of it) that read,

Skateboarding is not a Crime!

I am re-posting this particular story because an old friend just started a new blog called Rev. Dr. Garbage Man. And on his FB page, he posted this picture of one of his findings as a Garbage Man.

Although I didn't previously ask for permission to use this photo, you can go to Rev. Dr. Garbage Man's blog and give him the credit for it.

But here is MY story, from a few years back:

Aren't You Glad We Didn't Bury the Squirrel There?  October 17, 2010

A few days ago, my children were out in the driveway after Daddy had driven away to get us some Frosties from Wendy's. Low and behold a fat squirrel lay in the driveway. It wasn't squashed or anything. It was just. . . .there. My kids came rushing in: “Mom, there's an injured squirrel in the driveway!” While their little hearts were gushing with compassion, and undoubtedly their little brains were overflowing with ideas about how they would play nursemaid to the ailing squirrel, I was thinking, “Oh, great, it's not dead yet. That means we'll have to find some “humane” way to put it out of its misery.” My mind quickly recalled an unfortunate incident that happened when I was around 10 years old, where I witnessed an injured chipmunk being bashed over the head with a shovel. Not a pleasant memory.

Obviously, this was a man's job. So I herded the children inside and waited for my husband to return. I dragged the trash dumpster into the driveway so that he would stop before running over the squirrel, although in retrospect, that would have solved the problem of having to put the squirrel down.

He was not pleased to have to deal with an overgrown rodent before enjoying his Frosty. He and I stood there and pondered the squirrel for several minutes, trying to decide what to do, and debating about whether the squirrel was alive or dead.

“Look, his little chest is moving.”

“No, he's not moving.”

“Yes, Get a mirror and put it in front of his mouth.”

“No, if he was alive, he'd be struggling to get away.”

“He's alive! He's just stunned.”

My husband finally went and got the edger. The shovel was in the deep, dark back yard and my husband did not want to go that far for a dying squirrel. So he tried to pick it up with the edger and then he said, “Let's just bury it over there,” motioning to the neighboring yard, where there the house is being renovated by Habitat for Humanity, and it just so happened that they had started digging up the yard that very day. So, my hubby figured that they would never know the difference if we buried a rodent carcass in the yard. However, knowing a bit about landscaping myself, I pointed out that they may actually have to dig deeper to plant things like trees, or to pour cement for a sidewalk. My husband insisted that no one would notice.

Luckily, our friend Brad happened along just at that time. Brad was out walking his little dog, a shi tzu-yorkie mix, which by the way, is a little bit of a humorous scene. Brad is a Man's Man. Brad is meat-and-potatoes man who works hard at his job as an accountant a cowboy and comes home in his Suzuki Samurai Dodge Ram truck and quaffs several MGD's without batting an eyelash. (Also, Brad is not his real name. I told him I was going to write about him and he suggested that I call him Brad. I think he wanted me to draw some comparison between him and Brad Pitt, but I'm a humor writer, not a fantasy writer.) So, it's just slightly amusing to see Brad walking this little rhinestone-studded-collar-wearing fur ball.

Anyway, I breathed a sigh of relief when Brad walked over and offered to help. I figured I would leave the men to it and told my children not to watch because I didn't know what they would actually do. However it got taken care of, the squirrel was removed from our driveway and moved on to a better place – I simply did not ask for details.

A few days later, I noticed a lovely little evergreen shrub had been planted in the neighboring yard. Yup! You guessed it - in the exact place that my husband had suggested we bury the squirrel. So, I had to take the opportunity to tell him that I was right. And that I hope he didn't actually bury the squirrel there after I went into the house.

Because nothing says, “Welcome to the neighborhood” like a dead, rotting animal buried in the front yard.

"Reverend Doctor Garbage Man"

Hey there!  Check out my new blogger friend, who also happens to be an old IRL friend.  This man was solely responsible for my spending 15 months in the Philippines after graduating from college.  Ok, so maybe not "solely responsible", but he was the one who suggested I do some missionary work there, and he helped make arrangements for me to go.  I will be eternally grateful since he was so instrumental in orchestrating that life-changing experience.

Without further ado, here is Reverend Doctor Garbage Man.

Please check out his blog and let him know what you think!

What Disturbed Me Most About The Hunger Games

I saw the Hunger Games with my two oldest daughters (ages 13 and 11), and 3 of their 13-year-old friends.

ALL of whom had read all the Hunger Games books and “liked” every possible Hunger Games-related page on Facebook, and had named themselves – and their entire class – after Hunger Games characters. And, of course, they were wearing various Hunger Games paraphernalia, from t-shirts reading “District 12 Tribute” to gold eyeliner.

We saw the movie the day it opened, March 23, which also happened to be Hope's 13th birthday.  Nothing disturbing there, except that I actually have a 13-year-old. A teenager. I swear I'm not old enough to have a teenage daughter, but here is evidence to the contrary.

The basic story line of the Hunger Games is somewhat disturbing: 2 kids from each of 12 oppressed districts are forced by the tyrannical Capitol to compete in a fight-to-the-death competition, with only one winner at the end. Not exactly a light-hearted movie, but I was up for the challenge. I figured it had to have some redeeming points about it, or the kids wouldn't like it so much.

It turned out to be quite a gripping movie (when I wasn't closing my eyes to avoid spastic-camera-induced motion sickness.) So gripping, in fact, that I ordered the books online the very next day because I really wanted to know what happened next, and I just knew there had to be a rebellion looming. They couldn't just sit back and let the Capitol keep being so tyrannical, could they???

I read all 3 books in less than a week, while we were up north during spring break.  I'm usually a short story / anything Dave Barry kind of girl.  I normally do not read novels – the last novel I can remember reading was Where the Red Fern Grows when I was in 4^th grade, and I remember bawling my eyes out – but these completely captured my attention, so much in fact that I couldn't put them down!

So, even after I read the entire trilogy in less than a week, I went back and read little snippets of the books over and over again, to glean more details that I might have missed.

And then I looked on the web for discussions about the books.

I looked for information about the actors who played the characters in the Hunger Games.

I looked for any and all things Hunger Games.

I now have Hunger Games wallpaper on my laptop.

 

So, what is so disturbing, besides the fact that I'm totally obsessing over this movie? 

This:

I have a crush on Peeta.

And I “liked” Josh Hutcherson on Facebook.

That's just not right. I mean, I'm old enough to be his mother much older sister. To have a crush on a book character is one thing. But to be crushing on a character. . . in a movie. . . .who is played by an actor. . . .who is only 19 years old. That just ain't right.

Damn you, Hunger Games for making me such a fanatic!

Top 10 Reasons I Want to Lose Weight

10.  I weigh as much now as I did when I was 9 months pregnant with Child #2.  That just ain't right.  You may remember that from this post. Somehow I just can't let that go.

9.  Having to hold my belly fat out of the way while I shave my legs. . . .well, that is just getting old.

8.  I used to be photogenic when I was younger.  I ran in front of the camera every time someone was snapping photos.  I worked on the yearbook staff, and I used to make sure that a disproportionate number of pictures of myself got into the yearbook.  Now, when I see a camera, I run in the other direction.  Kind of the like the women that Mark Gungor describes in this hilarious video.

One day, I will probably die.  And when that day comes, my kids will want to look back at pictures of me.  But there won't be any.  And they will just wonder, "Where the heck was Mom while we were raising ourselves?"

7.  I'm tired of having ZERO energy.  I'm pretty sure that has something to do with the fact that I'm lugging a zillion extra pounds around all the time.


6.  I'm regularly offended by the clothing in the "Women's" (aka Fat, Portly, Chubby, Large, Obese, etc.) section.  Those clothes look like they were designed in the 1950's for women who were roughly 87 years old.  Frumpy.  I would like to wear more stylish clothes before I really am 87.

5.  They also say you can find clothing to "accentuate" your shape.  There's apple-shaped, pear-shaped, banana-shaped, and hourglass-shaped.  So far I haven't seen clothing for the Michelin Man-shaped woman.

4.  I don't like how everything jiggles when I walk.  And when stand still.   And when I sit.  And when I breathe.

3.  I want my kids to eat better and feel better about themselves than I do.  So, I want to change the tide and become a positive influence on my kids.  Also, I'm jealous of my 13-year-old who has a shape I would kill for.  Is that bad?

2. I love to swim.  But I've noticed a strange phenomenon in the past few summers.  When I try to swim underwater, I find it extremely difficult to stay underwater.  I thought maybe I was becoming a weak swimmer.  But then the truth gradually came to me. . . .I couldn't stay under water because fat is buoyant.  With my spare tire, (see Michelin Man), it's like trying to swim with an inner tube around my waist.

1.  When I complain about being a fat, old lady, my husband consoles me with, "You're not old."

Spider!

The very word elicits panic.

Creepy, crawly creatures with their eight lightning-fast legs.  Their multitudes of beady little eyes.  Their silent stalking.

I was driving my kids to school this windy morning.  The windshield was caked with leaves and pollen from last night's wind and rain.  I turned on the wipers and cleared most of it away, leaving an outline of crushed leaves outside the wipers' radius.

I began the drive, but this morning, I thought I'd pay attention to the little things I saw along the way.  The white and red striped awning hanging over Fabiano's candy store.  The jaywalkers in front of Sparrow Hospital. The girl running in the opposite direction of the approaching bus.  The train that stopped traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue, that first made us groan as we anticipated the long wait, and then made us laugh because it turned out to be one engine towing another engine backwards. That was it - two train cars and we were on our way again.

But I was completely unprepared for. . . .

The Spider.

As I slowed to a stop at the intersection of Penn & I496, I caught the quick motion near the top of the windshield. Surely it was some small leaf that finally broke away from the crud and was about to fly free. But I glanced up and a scream escaped my mouth. My children jumped in their seats.

A spider! Inside of my car. On the windshield. Right above me!

I slammed the car into PARK and started to get out and then realized. . . ."I'm still on Pennsylvania Ave.  I'm in the turn lane to get onto 496.  I can't abandon my vehicle, as much as I'd like to run away screaming.  I have to force myself to get back into the van."

My kids were shouting, "Mom, what's wrong???"  I managed to spit out the horrifying word, "sp...spii...spider!"  I quickly dug into my purse and grab a microfiber cloth and threw it at my daughter.  "If you see the spider, kill it!"  I didn't have any kleenex, so I would have to take my chances at having spider guts on the cloth usually reserved for cleaning my glasses.  Or the occasional nose blow.  (It's machine washable.)

I still had to drive, but I kept a very light touch on the steering wheel.  I fumbled for the mechanical switch and moved my seat back as far as it would go while still allowing me to reach the pedals.  I placed two fingers from my left hand at the bottom of the steering wheel and kept my right hand on the arm rest.  I had to minimize the opportunity for my fanged nemesis to drop down onto my body while I was driving.  If that happened, it would not be pretty.  I'm sure it would mean a fiery crash as I would undoubtedly lose complete control of myself and the vehicle.

I somehow made it to school while keeping my eyes glued to the top of the windshield.  I only used my peripheral vision to actually navigate traffic.  Not the method I would recommend, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

I came to a squealing halt in front of the school.  I jumped out and tried to locate FrankenSpider from the outside of the car.  Where was he hiding?  How could I flush him out and squash him before the drive home?  Unfortunately, it was dark and windy, so I couldn't detect his hiding place.

I quickly but carefully drove to Walgreens.  I went straight into the store and found the pest control section.  I found a product labeled Insect and Spider Barrier for $9.99.  I don't usually drop $10 on a moment's notice, but I would have paid any price to not have to re-enter my vehicle unarmed.

As I walked back to my van, I thought, "He could be anywhere."  I carefully opened the door, keeping vigilant watch for any falling arachnids.  Nothing.  I opened the bottle and started pumping the thick liquid along the top of the windshield where it meets the ceiling.  I was hoping Darth Spider would come out fighting so I could finish him off, but no such luck.  I felt confident that he was at least trapped in the ceiling upholstery, so I cautiously began the drive home.

Upon my arrival at home, I opened all the doors, sprayed more bug barrier goo into all the places where the ceiling meets the windows.  Still no spider.

I am hoping that today becomes hot enough that any creature trapped inside of a vehicle will perish.  And I hope I get to see his little dehydrated body when I get back into the van so I can be certain of his demise.

Otherwise, the showdown between my unworthy adversary and myself will have to wait for another day.  

I'll be ready, Spiderzilla.  I'll be ready.

Battle Scars

(Ok, I guess I need to explain this post, because I don't think many people "got it."  I used to work in the front office of my kids' school as the Office Administrator.  Recently, I moved to part-time position in the library.  This piece is NOT real - it is fiction, OK? It is satire.  I'm trying to exaggerate and be silly about it.  Ok, so stop wondering what drug I was on when I wrote it!)

Now that I am safe within the confines of the library, I feel that I can begin to divulge some of the challenges I faced on the frontlines of the front office.

Already, my security clearance has been downgraded.  I only have access to the library, the restroom, and the tiny kitchenette that serves as the staff lounge.  Fine by me, since some of the things that I witnessed inside of those other rooms will fuel my nightmares for the rest of my life.

Let me begin with one of the simpler tales.  As I sat at my post, I kept my eye warily on the door.  At any moment, I might be faced with questions that I was unprepared to answer, or even worse, questions that I did not want to answer.  But I kept my cool and continued on my mission to complete as much paperwork as possible within the 480 minutes that I was stationed at my post.

On this particular day, I was faced with the gargantuan task of placing too many confidential documents into a 3-ring-binder.  I reached into the compartment above my desk to retrieve said binder, and as my finger slid against the side of the binder in order to open it, I was stopped by the feeling of my skin splitting open.  This was no ordinary paper cut.  This was a binder cut.

I let out a small squeal and grabbed my finger.  I knew it was bad.  I frantically looked around for some kleenex to stop the bleeding.  (The bleeding that hadn't started yet, but I knew it would any minute.)  I didn't have the courage to look at the wound at first, but I was certain it had cut all the way to the bone.  I couldn't afford to pass out, so I kept the severity of the wound in the back of my head.  I started to realize that even the kleenex wasn't going to do the trick.

Then it dawned on me:  the bandaids!  I had a stash in my desk to hand out to children who occasionally need some comfort for their little scratches.  I yanked the drawer open, fumbled around until I secured a band-aid, and then tore it open so I could use it to pull my gaping pieces of flesh back together.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I managed to close the wound.  I was thankful that I still had my wits about me, and that it hadn't happened to one of my co-workers.  I doubt they would have been able to respond as quickly as I had.

I managed to return to work and finish my assignment, knowing that only a tiny piece of plastic was holding my damaged body together.

I faced that kind of peril every single day in that office.  Now you know why I had to get out.  I had to find a place that was more secure.  I am still in the building, but out of harm's way for the time being.

Pretending to be Someone I'm Not

Mama Kat's Losin' It


I love Mama Kat's blog.  It promises hilarity every time!

Today, I'm choosing one of Mama Kat's writing prompts:  Write about a time when you pretended to be someone you weren't.

OK, this should be easy.

I pretend that I'm someone I'm not all the time.  I might be labeled delusional by the psychiatric community, but I don't care.  They can't catch me.

What I mean is, to make everyday life more exciting, I often pretend to be someone famous.  While I'm stumbling into the kitchen to make my coffee in the morning, I imagine the cameras are rolling and some deep-voiced male is narrating my every move:  what is it like to be Jen Yarrington?  She drinks ordinary coffee like everyone else, but there is something so "unordinary" about her.  She's humble, yet beautiful and successful.  Never mind the fact that I am 40-something, over 40-something pounds overweight, cut my own hair, had a pedicure in, let's see, December, I believe.  Oh, yeah, I'm not famous.  And it depends on what you mean by successful.  I've led quite the auspicious career as a school secretary for the last year and a half.

Sometimes when I'm driving, I will crank up the music and pretend I'm in a music video. And then I'll strut into the grocery store, imagining that another deep-voiced fellow is singing about how beautiful I am. And then I'll flip my hair provocatively while thumping melons.

I imagine that some day, Dave Barry himself will stumble across my blog and be so in awe by my writing that he immediately sets me up with a publisher and a publishing contract for the rest of  my life.

And then I get to be on the Dr. Phil show.  Maybe to discuss how I "used" to imagine that I was rich and famous, and now that I am and how does it feel?

The Saleswoman from Hell

A few weeks ago, I had taken the day off from work to run some errands.  I had gone to lunch with a friend of mine, and when I returned, I was treated to this spectacle:  a woman I've never seen before was cleaning my carpet.  She had 6 or 8 black cloths lying on the floor, soiled with all the dust and filth she had successfully pulled out of our carpet.  My husband and his friend, who had joined him for lunch, were standing and watching helplessly as this woman barged into our house and proceeded to show them how much they needed a Kirby. 

I walked in, watched for about 2 minutes and then announced, "Well, you guys have fun.  I'm going to take a nap."  (Yes, it was a cheap attempt to extricate myself from the situation, but I wasn't the one who let her in the house.)   But Oh, no, Ms. Kirby was definitely of the sexist mindset that women do the majority of housecleaning, so she said, "Just wait, Jen, I'll be done in about 10 minutes.  I want you to see all the great things this Kirby does!"

Ten minutes became 45 minutes.  And she was still going.  She insisted on vacuuming my favorite chair, which really did not turn out much dirt.  I am happy to exist with that small amount of grime surrounding me - it's just enough to add a little cushion to favorite chair. I became increasingly frustrated at her audacity, especially when she demanded that I let her vacuum our mattress.  On our bed.  In our bedroom.  Disturbing.


On a side not, as Ms. Kirby was demonstrating her wares, she also managed to show us wares that we had no interest in buying, as her shirt was cut low and large and swooped down almost to the floor as she leaned over to change equipment.  We all diverted our eyes uncomfortably, especially my husband's lunch guest who happens to be a single, celibate man who has devoted his life to the Lord's service.

I have always been of the mindset that, if something works well, it is worth the money.   A Kirby makes sense because it not only pulls the dirt out of the carpet and the pad underneath, but it also preserves the life of your carpet.  (But, let's face it.  How many people want to keep the same carpet after 20 years?  If you chose that beautiful shade of chartreuse back in the 80's, you may just want a change by now.)  Even so, it makes sense to buy something that is worth the money, right?

However, we didn't happen to have $2300 lying around to purchase a Kirby that day.  Yes, you read that correctly - over 2 Grand for a Kirby.  So, of course, the nice lady offered us an affordable payment plan of $44/month.  Even so, I politely explained that since my husband is on disability and I am going to cut back on my work hours, we weren't able to make a financial commitment at that time, no matter how great the deal was.  So, she offered us the "6-month, no payments, no interest" plan.  This lady was just not getting it.  My husband is out of work.  Due to a stroke.  And we have 4 kids. She assured us - more than once - "well, the last thing I want to do is take food off the table", but she always followed that statement with a "but".  She also threw in a lame comment about earning so many points and she would be able to take a trip to Cancun.  Um, how exactly was that going to convince us to buy a Kirby?

Her last "but" was this phone call:  She wanted to call her manager so that we could talk to him and assure him that she did her job (i.e. so that he could give us a hard sell over the phone).  She hung up and said, "he's just going to come over."  Here is the truly creepy part:   About 3 minutes later, her manager showed up, which made me wonder where on earth he was hiding the entire time.  He was a large man, simple-looking man, well over 6 feet tall.  He ducked in through our doorway, and (I'm not usually a judgmental person), but my first thought was "serial killer."

So, tell me this.  Telemarketers are obnoxious enough.  Junk mail and spam are annoying.  But what gives someone the right to barge their way into your home and practically force you to buy something that you weren't really in the market for?

I may think highly of Kirby vacuum cleaners, but we finally convinced the sales team to leave without purchasing one.  In fact, I will probably never buy one, based on their horrible sales tactics.

Tales from the Girls' Bathroom

The other day, while visiting the luxurious girls' bathroom at school (which is equipped with high-sensitivity automatic hand dryers that freak me out by turning on every time I walk by them), my 3rd-grade daughter had this encounter. 

A tiny little kindergarten student approached my daughter and said, "Can you help me wash my hands?"  So, my sweet daughter hoisted up the little girl so she could wash her hands. 

Once her hands were washed and dried, she turned to my daughter and asked, "Can I have a quarter?"  I'm not sure why my daughter had a quarter in her pocket, but she is very generous, so she gave it to little Miss K, who proceeded to ask my daughter if she would help her get something from the mysterious machine in the bathroom. 

My daughter wasn't quite sure what was in the machine either, so the girls put the coin in the slot and turned the handle.  Little Miss K turned out to be a good reader, because when she pulled the box out of the machine, she said, "What the heck is this?  It's a napkin."  The little girl then tried to shove the box back into the machine, probably wondering why on earth there were napkins in the bathroom.  She asked my daughter if she had another quarter so she could try the other slot, but my daughter decided it was time to get back to class.

When my daughter told me this story, we were driving home from school, and could barely see the road through my tears of laughter.  I thought I may just need a similar product for bladder control.

I have other fond memories of children discovering the joys of femine products.  When another of my daughters was two, she went through a stage where she would climb out of bed after we said goodnight, and she would "explore" the upstairs.  One night, Al and I heard some rustling around in the upstairs bathroom.  I went up to investigate, told the quizzical two-year-old to go back to bed, and then subdued my immense laughter while I called for my husband to come upstairs.

Lying on the toilet were about 10 of those adhesive strip covers used for feminine napkins, in nice neat little lines.  When Al joined me in the bathroom, I asked him, "What do you think she did with the pads?"  I envisioned having to scoop soggy, saturated napkins out of the toilet. 

But I looked around the bathroom and slowly realized that my creative little daughter had "redecorated" the bathroom.  There was a pad wrapped neatly around each of the many handles of our cabinets, and an artistic array of pads arranged on the wall under the towel bar.  I could just imagine her fascination as she embellished the bathroom::  "Mom never told me we have STICKERS in the bathroom!"

By the time I finished surveying the bathroom, I was laughing so hard that I couldn't even catch my breath.  I tapped Al's shoulder - he was still staring at the toilet - and pointed to the dainty decorations placed around our bathroom.  We both burst into further rounds of gasping laughter.  Meanwhile the two-year-old was yelling from her room, "What's so funny???"

I wholeheartedly oppose the TV commercials showing femine products - it's always so embarrassing when in mixed company. (Besides that, we all know that women never wear white during that time, no matter how good your protection is.)  Everyone either stares at the TV in discomfort, starts picking bellybutton lint, or tells a ridiculous joke to try to draw attention away from the disturbing content coming from the TV.


But in this context, feminine products make for wonderful storytelling and maniacal laughter.

190

What do you think that number means?


"190 proof" means 95% alcohol.  Everclear is a brand of neutral grain spirit and is available in 151 and 190 proof.  In contrast, other hard liquors, such as rum and vodka, are typically 80 to 120 proof, which contain 40 to 60 percent alcohol.


Being a sweet and innocent Yooper, I have never tasted beer, wine, peach schnapps, Boone's Farm, Asti Spumante, MD 20/20, brandy, whiskey, rum, gin, Blue Curacao Everclear.  I'm not entirely sure it was ever intended to be a beverage.  According to Wikipedia, 190-proof Everclear is in regular use amongst fine woodworkers and luthiers (lute repair guys) as the shellac solvent in French furniture polishing.  Everclear can be used as an antiseptic, as a fuel in camping stoves, and as a cleaner for the restoration of smoking pipes.


Due to its high alcohol content, Everclear is illegal, unavailable, or difficult to find in many areas.  In the US, it is illegal to sell the 190 proof variety of Everclear in California, Florida, Hawaii, Iowa, Maine, Massachusetts, Michigan (shoot!), Minnesota, Nevada, New Hampshire, North Carolina, Ohio, Virginia, Washington, and West Virginia.

After that interesting vignette, I will tell you the real reason that I labeled this post "190" is because I have reached a new low; uh, I mean high.  I am embarrassed to admit this, but I hope it will force me to do what I've needed to do for a long, long time - lose a LOT of weight.  I discovered the horrible truth at my doctor's appointment today - I now weigh as much as I did when I was hugely pregnant with my second child.

Holy crap!

It is truly time to do something about this.  During the year before I turned 40, I set a goal for myself:  40 by 40.  I wanted to lose 40 lbs. by the time I turned 40.

I failed miserably.

Now I've got 60 lbs. to lose, and I'll be darned if I'm going to wait until I'm almost 60 to lose it!

Wish me luck, and please tell me where I can get some Everclear.

Batteries and Catnip

 I posted this yesterday, but it got lost in my birthday wishes (THANK YOU!)  So, here it is again.

 (Photo credit: not mine!  I found this Icanhascheezburger.com)

I got a wonderful birthday surprise yesterday morning:  I convinced my son to put his tongue on the end of a 9-volt battery.  Yes!  I never thought he would try it!  That's why I didn't tell him what would happen.  He thought it was funny, though, so no harm done.

Next, little Power Puss decided he would try to convince his sisters to do it.  "No way", I thought.  "There is no way that the girls will try it - they're too. . . .girlish".   However, he succeeded in convincing the 9-year-old first, then the 12-year-old.  It took the 11-year-old a little more time to work up the courage, but she finally did it.  We all had a good laugh at everyone's reactions, and especially the fact that they kept wanting to do it again and again.  It's kind of like touching the electric fence back on the farm.  You can't do it just once.  They started to get creative, sprinkling water on other areas of skin to see if they could get a zap, which they didn't.  Then someone suggested, "Try it on your uvula!", at which point I confiscated the battery.

Also of note is the fact that the kids made us breakfast in bed - pancakes, eggs, toast, orange juice and coffee (I ground the coffee the night before and left instructions on how to make it - you can't leave these things to chance.)  Ev brought me a sweet hand-painted picture of him and myself.  I wish I was that skinny in real life.  But I'm glad I don't have green skin.

But enough of the feel-good birthday bits:  Back to batteries.  I told the kids that their next experiment should be to try their tongue on one of those huge 4.5-volt square batteries.  However, does 4.5-volt mean it's less powerful than a puny 9-volt?  How is that possible?  Anyway, I do not concern myself with such things.  I just think it would be fun to watch.

Oooh, how about a car battery?  My husband, for some suspicious reason, contributed a very quick NO to that idea.  I guess it's because kids don't have long enough tongues to reach across both connections.  Ohh, but cows do.  Have you ever seen how long a cow's tongue is?  Get a cow's tongue across a car battery and you could have instant steak.

Then we came to the idea of cats.  Cats have very long tongues, and although they're not as stupid as cows, we could possibly get them to lick a battery.  "Get some catnip", I yelled.  As the kids raced off to find the cat treats, I thought better of it and decided that, no, we should not actually try to electrocute the cats.  Not sure what the outcome would be.

I assume that now everyone can relate to what Al has to deal with every single day when he straps on his electro-stim equipment and sends not-so-tiny electrical currents through several muscle groups to get his paralyzed limbs moving.  According to the words he's used - zap, fry, tingle, sizzle, sear, fricassee - it's not the most pleasant process.  And now we can all have some solidarity with him, at least for the brief moments that we see fit to stick 9-volt batteries on our tongues (which, by the way, I didn't try because 1. it IS my birthday, and 2. I've given birth to 4 children).

But I just don't think the cats would understand.

The Pimple Popper

Last week, I took one of my daughters to the doctor.  She had a rash on her face, which I thought was contact dermatitis, but we wanted to get it checked out anyway.  (By the way, I am right approximately  90% of the time on my "home diagnoses".  I wonder if I could be a doctor?  I mean, really, if I can get it right by checking symptoms on the internet, I could make some good money in a few years, at least before encountering a malpractice suit - don't you agree?)  It turns out, I was right about the dermatitis, too, so bring on the cortisone cream or whatever it is (so, I may not be very good with drugs. . . .that's what pharmacists are for). 

Doc also noticed a patch of acne in the middle of Dear Daughter's forehead, and I said, "yeah, that's been there for about 4 months and just won't clear up."  He said he had a tool to remove all the blackheads, and then he would prescribe an antibiotic/anti-acne cream to clear it up completely.  How cool is that?  Better than paying mucho bucks for expensive acne treatments, right?  But then he asked about our insurance coverage - whether we have a per person deductible at the beginning of the year or simply copays per visit - because popping her pimples would be billed as a "procedure". 

Shut up! 

Man, I could make so much money just popping pimples for people - I love doing that!  He brought out his little tool, a metal tool with tiny hole at the end.  He pressed down on each zit and OUT popped the blackhead.  I was so fascinated that I asked if they sold such things in drugstores or on Amazon, and how could I possibly have NOT known about these tools before now?  Yes, of course.  You can even get them at Meijer, he told me.

No kidding.  I went to Meijer to pick up DD's prescriptions and found my very own pimple popper, which was on clearance, oddly enough.  I can't believe more people aren't cashing in on this.  Now I regularly chase my pre-teens down with the tool in hand so I can pop their zits.  I look forward to getting up each morning so that I can see if I myself have a new blackhead. 

Now, please tell me that I'm not the only one here.  I can't possibly be the only one who enjoys popping pimples.  I actually know I'm not the only one because Doc admitted that his own mother had a fascination with popping zits, and his wife does as well.  He called her "Sally Scissorhands."  I just wonder if any of my readers will have the courage to own up to their own pimple popping pleasure.

And by the way, I'm offering a new service out of my home.  Only $10 per pimple.