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.