The Core that Wouldn't Work

My core is broken.

Last summer I had an emergency abdominal surgery and even though I was mostly good (swearsies) about taking it easy, my body had other ideas. I developed complications that mean I'll have to have another surgery in a couple weeks. I guess I'm old enough to need a new timing belt.

I tried to start back into a regular exercise routine in October, determined to lose the weight of my last baby. Every time I tried to do more than a gentle walk my stomach felt like it had performed 12 straight hours of Pilates  And then it got worse.

I could barely walk around Costco (and I walk around Costco a lot) without the pain overwhelming me. I wasn't tired, I wasn't winded, I had energy, but my body just shut it down. The pain became debilitating. Not being able to do basic physical activity is the worst. I am a busy person. I have a life. I have kids. I don't have time for my body not working the way it's supposed to. Silly body. Without exercise, and with limited physical activity, I've put on more weight instead of losing; it's a chunk of pretty special.

I had my first CT scan last week to diagnose me (after the doctor couldn't find anything at our regular appointment.) However, since my symptoms only occur after being physically active, and usually at the end of the day when I've tried to move heaven and earth, I decided to bring on the pain while at the imaging place.

That's why, if you were hanging around Imaging last Friday, and you were paying attention, you would have seen me in a smart blouse, skinny jeans, heeled boots, and my headphones booking it around the halls. The other people in pain, dealing with cancer, and all manner of other legitimate ailments stared at me, and with good reason. I ran sprints, I did lunges, I ran up and down stairs, I ran around the building, and every ten minutes I'd make it back to the waiting room to drink another Dixie cup full of orange juice and contrast. Delicious. The imaging techs were laughing. And I didn't stop until I felt the now familiar ache and stab of a body out of order. Hold your breath for the CT.

The doctor explained my diagnosis late that Friday, and referred me to a surgeon. The doctor also told me to sit down until my surgery and officially to take it easy. Do not like. I'll have to wait another 3 months before exercising seriously, which, to be honest, is hard to take. I don't think I'll be allowed to pick up Lulu. Someone will have to explain that to HER, because I think it's going to be a problem. She will probably yell at me. Elder abuse.

This week was particularly hard since J came down with the bubonic death flu and we got a foot of snow. Our driveway and walk are still piled high, and dragging out the garbage cans was an exercise in awful. I walked around Costco today and only had to sit down once. Someday, in the wild and hazy future, I have a feeling I'll be able to walk the whole way 'round Costco, maybe even the parking lot, without my guts falling out. Cross your fingers and curl your toes, my core shall return.

HELP YOU GUYS

When we stayed last week at the crappy time share in Orlando I noticed a cockroach on the floor of our bedroom.

A COCKROACH.

I pulled all our luggage and everything up off the floor and into the wire shelving. I noticed that this particular time share "suite" didn't actually have a seal under the front door, so you could see the light from the outside shining into the "suite." Not so great for keeping small, or not so small, creatures out of the house.

Today, while back at my mother-in-law's immaculately clean home, I was sitting on the bed in the guest bedroom nursing Lulu when I saw A COCKROACH CRAWLING OUT OF MY LUGGAGE WHAT IN THE I CAN'T THIS IS SO GROSS THIS IS DISGUSTING FLORIDA.

I grabbed it and flushed it.

Tonight, I walked back to our bedroom where Lulu is sleeping AND THERE WAS ANOTHER FOUL DISGUSTING COCKROACH I CANNOT DEAL WITH THIS HOW DO I DEAL WITH THIS. GRABBED AND IT RAN AND FAKED ME OUT BUT I AM SMARTER THAN THE COCKROACH AND I FLUSHED ITS DISGUSTING SHINY BROWN CARCASS DOWN THE TOILET.

Then I called Joe and he said to put all the luggage in the garage tonight and then I will need to wash everything, inspect the luggage, and SHUT THIS MOFO DOWN ASAP. Which I am doing, believe me, and then he calmly and gently asked me where Lulu was sleeping AND YOU GUYS MY BABY MY BABY COCKROACHES IN THE ROOM WITH MY BABY. SHE'S IN A PACK AND PLAY THAT'S RAISED OFF THE FLOOR AND WILL SHE BE OK BECAUSE COCKROACHES AND I SWEAR I CAN FEEL THEM CRAWLING IN MY HAIR ALL THE TIME NOW. All of this made my bowl of ice cream EXTREMELY UNPALATABLE.

Joe said the GOOD NEWS is that they probably WILL NOT have had time to LAY A BUNCH OF EGGS SO IF I CAN GET EVERYTHING OUT OF THE SUITCASES AND WASH EVERYTHING WE SHOULD BE OK CRAP CRAP CRAP WHAT IF THEY INFEST MY HOME?

I CAN'T DEAL WITH THIS.

 YOU GUYS YOU GUYS

 COCKROACHES.

 FLORIDA.

It's a Pot Boiler!

I've jetted off to Seattle to see if I can make a pot boil just by watching it.

Not that it's not fun to walk around downtown Seattle with all the homeless people and women without makeup, but it's more fun when you're making your pregnant sister walk around with you. I like hearing her say, "Yesterday" when people ask her when she's due. I will not like it so much on Sunday when I have to fly home and she will not have had my first nephew. We also think it's funny when she's holding Baby Lulu and is awfully pregnant in public. A decent woman would be in her confinement! You can see people doing the baby math in their heads and trying to figure out this hyper-fertile lesbian couple taking the light rail.

The day before I left Proximo woke up with a sore throat and quickly developed a fever. I'm no over-reactor, so I just kept an eye on him. My eye does not possess magical healing powers, because he added vomiting to his symptoms by 7pm that night. He woke up every two hours after that complaining that his tummy hurt, but that he did NOT need to throw up, and then threw up. (See? Even if the baby sleeps through the night doesn't mean I get to sleep.) I was in more of a panic than usual, so after touching him, or wiping up his inaccurate aiming, I'd scrub my hands vigorously and then follow with anti-bacterial hand sanitizer. I was terrified of the baby getting sick.

Today, after three days of fever that wasn't abating, and me two states away, J took Proximo to the doctor where he was given scarlet fever. You pay a co-pay and you get a disease in return, right? Excellent.

Sometimes, after these doctors appointments where they award your child something scary, all I can think is, "100 years ago my child would have died from this."

The tooth abscess E.G. developed in July of his 6th year? Dead.
Proximo's scarlet fever? Dead.

If I'm feeling especially soft I'll cry over the dead child I do not have but would have had. Yes, I have that many spare tears.

Today my watched pot and I will head off for more bargain hunting and to meet Marie for a snack. At least that's the plan if my nefarious plot to send her into labor by schlepping all over the city followed by Internet-assisted foot reflexology didn't work.

Boil, pot, boil!

The Loss of Two Loved Ones

Thursday night EG casually mentioned over the dinner table that his new, week-old soccer ball was stuck in a hedgerow. The little bully had tried to kick it over our neighbor's 14 foot tall hedges and the ball had disappeared. J immediately left the table and took EG with him to retrieve the ball. They arrived back home 15 minutes later, J in a mood and EG crying. No ball. "How could you let him take the ball out?" J asked me. "I didn't know that he wasn't supposed to take it," I responded.

So in my guilt, I took EG, my belly, our long rake, and walked over to the hedges. I spent an hour and a half poking every square inch of that row. All along the top on both sides, in the middle, on the bottom, parting and looking, with no success. By the end, I was covered in dirt, old evergreen pieces, dust, and scratches. I found three balls, two drink containers, an old bird's egg, a shoe, and a frisbee, but no soccer ball.

I walked over to the bully's house to ask his parents to come search, but no one answered. Because of course not. My scratches began to well up into hives. EG looked 4 shades tanner from the dirt that coated him. I drew a bath and went to go find him a towel. When I went back into the bathroom, the tub was almost full and he was sitting between the tub and the toilet...
with my phone
on the edge of the tub
trying to unlock it.

I screamed.
He looked up, tried to grab the phone, and accidentally pushed it into the tub.
I screamed again.
I screamed some more.
I panicked.

J took over EG's bath. 

Phone insurance comes with a deductible, did you know that? And did you know that if your deductible is more than the phone is actually worth the insurance company doesn't care? It could be that the insurance company is even in the middle of a class action lawsuit for trying to make people pay more in a deductible than the phones are worth. But none of this will help you. So you call T-Mobile back and when the nice customer service girl answers, you might start crying. Which means they send you to Customer Care and give you a brand new, much nicer phone for almost the same price as the deductible.

The next day when EG asked me to text his friend's mom to ask if he could play, I got to say, "I can't."
"Why?"
"Remember when you drowned my phone?"
"Oh."
Proximo helpfully reminded me that I could just go get a new phone at the phone store.
"I hope they take pies," I thought to myself.

A couple months ago I had a funny feeling that did not turn out to be heartburn or my usual cocktail of guilt: time to start backing up my computer. My laptop stores all my work, my music, and years worth of my kids' pictures. I signed up for one of those automatic online backup deals.

So when my hard drive died on Friday and Saturday, I was frustrated, but not devastated, and there is a difference, I tell you what. Nick came over to my house Saturday night and gave me the diagnosis. He also offered to help me get it all up and running again, which is why he is going to win at life. Go buy his wife's album.


My phone and my laptop in 24 hours.

Oh man. It's like I'm a pioneer. A pioneer who has to use my husband's tower and barter for computer time. A pioneer who has to use her land line! (Only it's not really a land line, it's VOIP.) I'm trying to treat this constant downtime with some appreciation. Don't people preach all the time about unplugging and living in the moment? Well, I don't approve. Not being able to Google/tweet/calendar/text/call everything, all the time, and immediately, stinks. If I wanted to be in an old-timey re-enactment, I would have signed up for one.

How I Used to Be a Better Blogger

Searching my archive tonight for a specific post led to me reading a bunch of old posts. The internal reflective consensus is that I used to be a better/more interesting blogger. It's been a slow, inevitable, Romanesque decline. I expect the Visigoths to knock on my door sometime in the next week. Visigoths look like pest control salesmen these days.

I like to blame Twitter. If I had an observation or a joke I was trying to work out, I stored it and worked it into a blog later. Now I can just slide my phone open and throw it out there. Lazy. (Not lazy for those of you who follow me on the Twitters; all kinds of convenient for you.)

I suppose you could also blame my work. Since I started writing this blog, my work went from writing occasionally, to being the focus of my career. While it's still fun to try voices out on this here blog (Appalachian!?) I use most of my creative inclinations for paying clients.

I can't help but think over the past year's complete uncertainty and roiling personal waters as stealing some of my mojo. The personal reflective time I used to spend blogging is now often spent in my head, trying to make sense of all the miracles and disasters that surround me. My head feels so full I can hardly hold it up, but I can't find the words to empty it. The fear of developing a bitter bite encroaches. I like writing for you, but the posts can't all be good. Most of them are barely passable. Every once in a while I write something I really love.

The clock says it's fast rounding the corner of 1am, and I am fast losing my admiration for Ben Stein's recommendations. Maybe I can distract myself with a new project! Reorganize the laundry system! Do a closet purge! Perform a used car search to research buying a car we couldn't possibly afford! Learn how to change the oil and filter on a lawn mower! Worry! Excessively and without reason!

So, to tie it all up into a bow: nothing is like it used to be and that is scary.

Dispatches From the Bread Line

This is a hard post to write.

For the second time in a year I find myself without a regular work/job type thing. Sure, the “economy is bad” and “times are tough” but those are for other people, not me and mine, right? I shouldn’t be under that delusion anymore, but it’s still hard to accept. We’re trying to figure out ways to cover the bills and it’s getting tight. I know deep down that everything happens for a reason, and that things fall apart so others can fall together; it’s just a little heart-stopping in the mean time.

I think the last time this happened, back in March of this year, I was in a far worse place. Not only had I lost my job of three years, but my mother had been diagnosed with a virulent cancer (that happened on the same day, in the same hour, by the way.) I was a mess. I’m not a mess this time (at least not yet.) My mom is doing well. I’m grateful that I was able to find work relatively quickly and that I got to work for a great company for the past six months. I felt impressed when I considered taking the offer that I should take it, but that that job would be short term. Since most of my employment life has been measured in years, I was a little shocked when it turned into months, although I probably shouldn’t have been.

I’m definitely trying to fight the feeling of fear with the feeling of gratitude. I know we’ve been placed in our home for a reason, although it’s been a struggle to fit into our neighborhood. We have wonderful friends and family who buttress us. My husband does important work, work that really does change the world, I wish with all my heart it was enough to support us. I’ve heard that there are women out there that demand that their husbands change careers. I couldn’t do that. He loves what he does, and more importantly, he’s amazing at it: he has the highest student test scores in the district.

While we figure out what happens next, I could use a prayer, a candle, or a Budda-belly rub, whatever it is you do.

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A Sudden Onset of Panic

It was 5:20 pm on a Wednesday when I arrived at my sister’s place to pick up Proximo.

“Hey,” said my sister, “Have you noticed his eye?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look at his right eye, it’s lazy.”

“What? When did you notice it?”

“Oh, on Sunday.”

“And you just waited until NOW to tell me?” I asked her, my voice rising (mostly because I, as his mother, hadn't noticed this obvious vision emergency.)

I knelt in front of Proximo, “Hey, baby, look over there. Now look back at me.” I made him look a dozen different ways and every time the result was the same: while his left eye came right back, his right eye didn’t. I started panicking. It was already after 5:00--too late to call a doctor. By the strangest of flukes, J had taken El Guille camping with my dad for the only night that will ever happen, so I bore the brunt of this development alone.

And what an alone.

I was pretty sure that Proximo had a brain tumor pressing on his optic nerve. What else could such a sudden change in his eyesight be except cancer? I told Noelle. “No,” she answered, “That only happens to other people’s children, like your friend’s friend, that doesn’t happen to us.”

“I’m someone’s friend’s friend,” I replied, not feeling very convinced.

The absence of J’s force of logic propelled me into the Diagnosis Fear Cycle (DFC.) You know the one: type in the symptoms and start Googling. First comes WedMD, then major websites, and finally the fringe health boards. Before you know it you’ve got seventeen different diagnoses, have decided you aren’t going to let a doctor tell you what to do, and have written down the experimental treatment options with a vague curse at the FDA thrown in for good measure.

Narrow down the diagnoses to the most probable one.

Now, search your diagnosis.

I did. I found a support group on Facebook and I joined it. I nearly cried with relief at finding other moms whose children’s eyes had issues and would be patching with possible corrective surgery. I left an emotional response on the group’s page (best to handle the introductions, I’m going to be needing these ladies soon enough.) I sent out a bunch of emails to friends who I thought might help. And finally, after working through the DFC, I went to bed with Proximo in the next bedroom, clueless to his newly helpless state.

I woke up in the morning and called Bek. I told her the symptoms. She asked me far more detailed questions than any doctor would and gave me a course of action to expect. She’s good like that, her kids have had everything.

I called the doctor after Bek (of course) and they gave me an appointment a month away. A MONTH? A MONTH? We’re not supposed to have waiting lists until AFTER socialized medicine! I pushed back a little and asked if perhaps, considering his delicate three years and sudden onset, they might be able to squeeze him in earlier? Success! An appointment in a week.

That’s when we learned that Proximo has estropia with astigmatism and is farsighted. Glasses it is! Cancer it is not! Nor is it anything else really terrible, he just has to wear corrective lenses.

Turns out I had to unlike the support group. Not the right group.

Jumping the gun and all that.

But I’d already signed up (in my mind) to organize the 1K for Lazy Eye! The kids could just walk in a circle!

All photos by my sister, fotohok, who's a great kid-wrangling photog.

Alligators and Meatballs

The other day, faced with the prospect of a child whose reading abilities are rapidly declining due to our ridiculous agrarian-based summer break, I took the boys to the library.

As we pulled into the parking lot, Proximo starting asking about the alligator. The last time we were at the library was for a children’s party. I tried to remember if there had been some sort of alligator game or sculpture. “Honey, they don’t have an alligator this time; there’s no party today, just lots of books!”

“I want to get on the alligator,” Proximo insisted.

I nodded happily hoping to distract him, and ushered them into the children’s books. We picked out several early readers, a picture book, and made our way to checkout. Proximo kept talking about the alligator. I kept chalking it up to three-year-old imagination. On our way out Proximo screamed, “ALLIGATOR I WANT TO RIDE ALLIGATOR!”
“Honey, I don’t know where the alligator is.”

“THERE,” he said, pointing to the elevator.

Right.

So we rode the alligator, and we liked it.


What we did not like was dinner. I made the Pioneer Woman’s mini-meatball sandwiches with a green salad. Sure to please all?

Wrong.

El Guille doesn’t “like meatballs.” We should have his paternity tested. He had a roll, a salad, and then complained about being hungry. I suggested he eat the meatballs in the marinara. He countered with a suggestion that he eat dessert. I clarified that I am not, nor have I ever been, a short-order cook and referred him back to the meatballs.

Proximo had a meltdown when his cheese melted on his sandwich. He voluntarily left the room, closing the door behind him, and returned when he’d composed himself. I took apart the sandwich and put its various components on the plate, where Proximo could choose to assemble a new one according to his liking. He tried to put a new slice of cheese on and it broke. So did his will to live. He threw away the broke cheese and got a new slice. It broke as well. Our personal Hindenburg. That cheese also was thrown away. New slice. Now, the meatballs have too much sauce. Def Con 7. Will I lick the sauce off for him?

In twenty-five years, remind me to tell the story of how he asked me to lick the sauce off the meatballs so he’d eat them, at his wedding.

Oh, and I did it, too.


(Name a short-order cook who'll do that for you.)

I Lost My Job

OK, so I didn't actually lose my job, it wandered willfully from me to participate in some sort of contest called a "lay-off." I hope it wins whatever the prize is, maybe some sort of bowling trophy? This means that for the first time in years I don't have a daily job to go to and earn money from. The not going to something thing isn't so bad, but the not earning money thing is terrible.

See, I wasn't working for a boat. I was working for food and electricity. And to support the two times a year that I go golfing, because golfing is expensive, yo, and no longer one of my hobbies. I hereby renounce golf.

It's been exactly a week since the job went away and I took it pretty hard. I sobbed at my former office. I cried all the way home. I got out of my car and kept my sunglasses on and marched straight to my bed, where I tried to lie down but only succeeded in sitting up because of the huge pit of doom developing in my stomach. I calculated that we'd have $200 left over out of my husband's salary after paying tithing, the mortgage, and the car payment. "So I guess it's PB&Js?" Other Half said.
"PB&Js in the dark," I answered.
And then I cried some more. I didn't sleep. No, I slept even less than usual, which is driving on the edge of hallucinationville.

Some other stuff happened that day and I can't talk about it yet (Not Allowed,) just rest assured, it's just as bad, probably worse. So within 15 minutes I had a Terrible Bad Health Thing happen in the personal life and I lost my job. And I'd thought that the green french toast I made for my kids that morning would be the worst thing I'd have to endure that day.

I was supposed to go to dinner that night with my dear friends. I resolved not to say anything and just to enjoy the being together, but we started playing Whose Day was Worse? GUESS WHAT? I WON! Also, the number one killer of domestic cats is feline AIDS.

Thursday I hardly remember. Dear friends Phread and Lucky came over, fed me food, and tried to cheer me up. Noelle took me out to lunch where she narrowed her eyes, hunkered down, and helped me figure out my next move. You know, the move other than sitting on the couch in your sunglasses and crying until you hiccup while your youngest child is patting you on the arm. I think I slept that night? Not sure.

Mostly my heart was just broken.

I've been working for so many years that I don't even know how to deal with this whole thing, not to mention the anxiety of not being paid. You see, Other Half is a public school teacher. I don't have a choice about earning an income, I must to keep my babies clothed and fed. Yes, it's despicable how poorly teachers are paid. Wait, no, it's not simply despicable, it's infuriating. He loves his job, he loves the difference he makes, but loving your job and being paid a wage that can support a family are two different things. Here's where I swear at our state and its policy of paying teachers, you know, the people that educate the future people, an insultingly low wage: @#$%@#F$^$##!$. What can I say? Low teacher pay makes me stabby.

I am a writer by trade, and I know that there is freelance and contract work out there for someone with my wicked-sharp experience in web content and internet marketing. If you hear of anything, let me know, because my schedule is suddenly free. Well, it will be free just as soon as I'm done working my way through this box of Kleenex.

The Hissy

Almost precisely one year ago I had a breakdown. Some might've called it a hissy fit.

I was tired of ice and snow flying up through the hole in my car and hitting me. The novelty of driving children around in something with minimal safety features had long since worn off, along with the paint. I don't know what precisely had taken me to the edge, but I came home and just threw a hissy as hard as I could.
"I refuse to drive it anymore!" I nearly screamed, "How can I drive my children around in that thing? The seals are falling out, it's 20 years old, there's no L.A.T.C.H., there aren't any airbags, it's a TUNA CAN!" We both agreed, after I I hyperventilated into a paper bag*, calmed down and saw reason, that we would wait until we had a house. Guess what? Now the car is 21 years old, and I'm still driving it, but we do have a house.

Two months ago I ran over a hunk of ice. Immediately the temperature started rising and the car nearly overheated on the 5 minute drive home. When I dropped off the family and pulled out of the driveway I noticed a large green puddle. Antifreeze. That ice hunk punctured my radiator. For some reason, I thought I could make it back to work for a 3pm meeting even with my car rapidly expelling antifreeze. (I probably thought this because all last summer my car overheated with pin-point regularity. I knew that I'd have to turn the car off at all intersections and blow the heater during all of July. There was the panicked case of me having to pull off the side of the freeway while caught in a traffic jam until the vehicles moved and my car cooled down enough to drive. Misty water-colored memories.)

I made it to the intersection of Orem Center Street and 800 West, a lovely intersection on the crest of a hill. I sat, hazards flashing, smoke/steam pouring from under the hood, through two light cycles, and revised my plans. Clearly, I would not be making the remaining commute to work in my present state. Fortuitously, my regular mechanic was at the bottom of the hill: if I could just get the car started again, and coast through two lights and under the freeway overpass, I could make it to the mechanic half a mile away. And that, with the help of divine providence, is what happened. I called Other Half from the mechanic and said in a low and rage-filled voice, "If this is over $500, I. Want. A. New. Car." I think he was too scared to disagree.

The total came to $300.

I paid it and drove off with my fancy new radiator.

The check engine light came on 400 feet from the shop. I called Jenny and cried.


I picked up my friend Noelle so we could go to IKEA to price some things out for an OrangeSoda project. I made a joke about my car, and then mentioned that I saw one of the housekeepers in my new neighborhood driving the same car. All my neighbors probably think I'm the housekeeper. Sounds about right. "Honey," giggled Noelle, "I hate to break it to you, but my maid drives a nicer car than you."
"I know," I sighed.

Other Half drove my car today. "Does it...always sound like this?"
"Yes."
"Like it's all metal, and metal is being used to stop the car?"
"Yes."
"And like a cat or a small child got stuck in the wheel well?"
"Yes."


I'm just sayin....



I've been frugal enough, right?




*Just kidding. No paper bag. I've always wanted to become that hysterical, though. Do you think corsets are required?

Spinning

Based on a hastily conducted and incomplete survey, all creative people get spinning days. There are lots of days: bad days, good days, miserable days, I-just-can't-believe-it days, but the strangest of all are the spinning days.

The thoughts come so fast, spilling into one another, that you feel light-headed. Even though you try to get a grip on your brain, it doesn't work, and you keep spinning, spinning, spinning. You try to narrow your eyes to focus, but it doesn't work like that; your vision doesn't need to focus, it's your brain.

You can't pick a task, you certainly can't finish a task, as soon as you decide on one thing your thoughts move to the next, and the next, and the next. Holding a conversation becomes nearly impossible. A person is talking and you can't respond to the last thing they said because you've already moved 9 steps ahead. You say words and then stop in the middle of sentence, trying to retrace where you were when the thought went skipping beyond your grasp only to have it replaced by 18 more thoughts. The deluge is too much.

Do spinning days happen before creatively productive periods, or after? Are they the precursor to clever ideas, or the fall out from highly concentrated brainstorming? Can a pattern be found? A friend wrote once that there are idea people and execution people. Idea people divine brilliant ideas but won't see them to fruition. Execution people don't often have ideas, but they know a good one and can take an idea to unprecedented places. Do you know which you are? I love execution people because my rush of ideas can't go anywhere without their measured steps. Execution people don't have spinning days, do they? I doubt it, their mental organization is too regimented. Meanwhile, here I sit, moving faster than light.

Sometimes I can control the spinning with noise-canceling headphones and loud music aimed through my ears to the firing synapses; neural counter-pressure. Other days focus eludes me no matter what I do. I hopelessly blink while the whirl speeds images and ideas through my consciousness. Whiz-bang-flash.

Do you spin?

Are you?

Have you?

Take a Trip with Me

When they told me that I needed a root canal I got so excited--I love Venice!

I now know there are other kinds of canals, and that sometimes you have to have your roots canal-ed again.

"I wonder if I get to make up funny excuses for why my face is covered in bruises tomorrow, like domestic violence jokes. People get so testy when you joke about spouse abuse; it's not like they don't deserve it!" I thought while I was laying in the dentist's chair having him hold the side of my face with an iron hand and file away on the other side's molar nerves.

The amusing thing about having someone holding your jaw open by force is that you still feel like they're ripping your jaw open by force even hours later. It's like after playing Tetris where all you have to do is close your eyes and you see the blocks falling. Yes, just like that, only with excruciating agony and no Russian folk music. I was sitting down, trying to distract my brain from my mouth's evil carnival of lies, and watching some evening TV when I felt liquid on my neck and chest. Something was dripping on me. And then I realized it was my own drool.

I am the hotness.

A word about pain killers: I've never really used heavy-duty pain killers before, they always made me sick, dizzy, or loopy and I disliked those feelings. It turns out that I'd just never had enough pain to make the pills worth it. I sure hope I don't turn to a life of petty crime and thievery to support my four-day-old habit. Embarrassing!

Also embarrassing: this post took several hours to write because I had to concentrate so thoroughly through the pain halo. I think I have a new found respect for all those writers who can produce work while under the influence, hey, wouldn't it be funny if I applied every single label I have on file to this one post? That would be super funny.

True Blood and Vegetables

I was sitting on the couch watching True Blood when I inexplicably decided to go check to see if the garage door was closed.
It was an act of sheer willpower as I am a scaredy cat and once I settle into watching something even vaguely scary I don't want to move, not ever, not even for essential bodily functions, nor to check the security of my home.

But I just felt like it.

So up I went, switched on the garage light to check, and I SAW SOMETHING on the edge of the blackness;

it was small, white, running,

looked like a child with no clothes,

nearly made me drop dead from fear.

And then I recognized the urchin.

"EL GUILLE, " I yelled, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

He crept into the light, I noticed with relief that it was only his light yellow PJs and not a complete doffing of duds on his part. He went into excuse mode, "I was just..."

"You were just NOTHING, get inside the house!"

9:30 at night, people! 9:30 in the black night!

(With possible shape-shifters, vampires, maenads, telepaths, and unseen werewolfs just out of our peripheral vision! I am going to need to keep a defibrillator on hand to keep me alive!)

I now know why my friend has a "Name-of-Child" lock on her door that is bolted to the top of the door frame; I too, have a smart child that no four walls can contain. My child has become an expert at getting into and out of our house, it might as well be a sieve. He has the impunity to walk around at any hour of the day or night like he owns the place--which he does not, he is not on the title, and that's final.

He's refusing the healthy food we cook him, and then sneaking out of his room to filch food he'd rather eat: chips, ice cream, cookies, and Nutella. He hides them under his bed, under the pillow, under the couch, and behind the entertainment center. We've had to get rid of any snacks or sweets in the house. I'm OK with that, but when the child resorts to spoon fulls of blackberry jam and upturned jars of honey squeezed into his mouth like he's a linebacker with Gatorade? Guys, what do I do? Is it time for a padlock? Like on the whole house?

I want to chalk it all up to the move, and to starting kindergarten. Right? That's what it is and not a character flaw as a result of bad parenting (you know, the kind of parenting that insists you eat your vegetables?)

I can't listen to that much Wagner. I start getting the urge to conquer Poland.

I tried to register E.G. for Kindergarten. Even though I spoke with the lady at the desk it apparently wasn't the right lady and I have to go back again, you know, to talk to another lady.

Then I split a package of Zingers with E.G. that we bought at a gas station. I don't know what possessed me to buy Zingers, but they were right there, at the register, and I bought them.


Gang, Zingers are really not as good as you remember, leave them in your childhood.


I sported my brand new house warming purse (Dara knows me) to work and spilled apple juice inside. The cider spilled all over my moleskine, keys, iPod, headphones, phone, wallet, bills, oh, and, my BRAND NEW PURSE. That action (possibly) caused me to be unable to hear people I was talking to on the phone. The speakerphone still worked, but I couldn't put the phone up to my ear to have a conversation, you know, like we've been able to do with phones for the past 100 years. The ordeal yielded three conclusions:

1. I should totally sue the juice company for making a faulty lid

2. No, it's not user error, it's their fault.

3. WHY AREN'T PHONES WATERPROOF?

I don't understand. Phones should be at the very least liquid resistant if out right water proof-ness isn't on the table. I think all those scientists trying to turn animals into fluorescent animals should be working on waterproofing phones. This is clearly the item of greatest concern to our national security.

Sucking the apple juice out of the mesh speaker with lungs well-exercised by yelling at children didn't actually fix the problem. So, the remedy for juice phone =\= snakebite.

Then my friends told me the wrong restaurant for lunch so when I showed up they were leaving. Oh sure, kids, it was a mistake.

The afternoon brought more misery and anger but I can't talk about that, yet. Let's just say that sometimes Miley is right, there are more mountains to climb and crap. That's what she says, right? I hear that song on the radio for the first time today.

I heard Miley Cyrus on the radio.

There was the lecture about having a house that’s all painted white from E.G. as we watched an HGTV show.“I love watching painters. I’m good at painting walls, mom! We should paint this house colors. Not white. ”

“Technically, this isn’t white, it’s beige, but I’m gonna paint it white.”

“WHITE IS BORING.”

“We can paint your room blue if you want.”

“Ok. I’m also really good at painting rainbows. Do you want me to paint a rainbow on this wall?”

“Mama likes rainbows better outside.”

“BUT I’M GOOD AT PAINTING RAINBOWS. I'm going to paint one right HERE.”


Look, I love my children, but no rainbows. Not since I was old enough to discard my Carebear (or, in my case, because my mother was cheap and poor, the Carebear ripoff the Safetybear) have I allowed rainbows to be part of my decorating.

I'm pretty sure that coming home to a rainbow on my wall would be just as awesome as spilling apple juice in my purse. Or like the pint of cream I sort of spilled in my purple purse when I forgot that I had a pint of cream in it and laid the thing on its side. Or when the purse, which despite my actually washing the lining with soap, developed the WORST mildew smell ever on this planet or possibly the galaxy.  I didn't know where it was coming from so I walked around for a couple days thinking, "Where is that SMELL coming from?"

Yes. That kind of day. How was yours?

I Lose it and Then I REALLY Lose it

source

At the house closing last week our real estate agent made a crack about the president. I laughed and told him to watch it. That, apparently, cued our loan guy to also make cracks about the president. Then I forced a laugh and asked him if he wanted to lose a deal.
Normally I’m not really defensive, but living where I do, you get to hear a lot of knocks on our new president, and I can only take about ten a day before I start getting annoyed. Plus, my emotions were running high last week, like jilted Southern belle high. I’ve been uncharacteristically calm on the whole. I’ve been so calm that I didn’t sleep for most of the week. Selling and buying never go smoothly, and there was a roller coaster at the end that rode over our exposed synapses (see here.) Additionally, there are about 4,000 people who stick their hand into the transaction for their piece. I had a great agent and would recommend him to anyone, but almost everyone involved in the transaction seems to be superfluous; it all seems like such a racket.

Just to be clear:
Presidential cracks
High, yet repressed emotions
Lots of people with hands in the cookie jar

So by the time the title guy jumped in and made his oblique Obama crack, I just about lost it.

“Listen, if it weren’t for YOU PEOPLE we wouldn’t be in this economic mess in the first place and Obama wouldn’t be spending his first term cleaning up after your industry.”

And then there were some cleared throats.

And then the loan guy started in on me again.

And then I brought up that maybe the government should take over the entire real estate industry.

And there were shocked looks from the rest of the table.

And I had to take a bite of cookie to stop myself from talking.

And then the loan guy apologized.

Because really, you need to know your audience, and dude, I am not your audience.

So with my emotions on strong undertow bordering on riptide, I went back to work. A couple of friends asked me about Steve and Catheryn, who died on Strawberry Reservoir a few years ago. As soon as I finished telling them the story I started crying, and kids, I couldn’t stop. It all felt so raw and I missed them so badly. I sat at my desk trying to finish my work for the day and the tears just wouldn’t stop. I kept thinking of walking the shoreline trying to find them. I developed the awesome I’ve Been Crying puffy face with the sniffle sound effect to match. I could no longer concentrate on my pressing work with those stupid tears flowing and had to leave--because nothing says ‘I am fantastic and together’ like crying at work!

KABLAM! Wasn’t that an upper of a blog? Veiled threats, dueling political philosophies, and uncharacteristic emotional displays—the only thing this blog needs is some sort of Whedon/Twilight reference.

No, but seriously folks, you know what I need? You. You have great moving ideas, hints, and pitfalls. We’ve lived in this place for 10 years. We threw out 7 bags of garbage just from the kitchen yesterday. What do we need to know for our big move this week? If you had your last move to do over again, would you change anything?

But no crying on this blog, no one wants to see your puffy face.

Things I Did Today That Were Awesome

1. Forgot my wallet in my other purse. This is what happens when you are vain and switch around purses every day.

2. Didn’t know I forgot my wallet until I went to pay for my lunch.

3. I made Jenny pay for my lunch.

4. I couldn’t find a mint after lunch so I ate half of the emergency cough drop stashed in my desk.

5. I have an emergency cough drop.

6. I ate only half of the cough drop so I could save the other half FOR LATER.

7. Drank two Diet Pepsis and couldn’t stop fidgeting.

8. My foot tapped so fast that I’m pretty sure I contracted Dance Fever with its accompanying rash.

9. Got my kids to eat salad by not chopping the leaves and telling them that it was giant salad. It worked.

10. Gave up cleaning my house. I’m going to have to do a massive clean next week, why waste that time now?

11. Informed someone that the number one killer of domestic cats is feline AIDS.

12. Decided for no particular reason (except my kids were still awake two hours past bedtime) to change their sleeping arrangements by putting in Proximo into the same bed as El Guille.

13. I did not chase them when they abused the privilege by running around the place and hiding behind the toilet (see number 9.)

14. I did, however, totally laugh.

15. And gave up.

16. I may have started a trashy book club to read the books you should be embarrassed to be reading. First up: Nicole Richie's The Truth About Diamonds.

This is What I’m Doing Instead of Blogging: Reading Your Blog

Probably the most boring thing I could write about is how the sale of my condo and purchase of my house is going. The shortest thing I can say is that we’re currently engaged in NASA-level nail biting and professional finger crossing at the same time (which is killing my manicure, believe me.) We closed on the house today, but it’s not over yet, and we aren’t going to have news until Friday.

We had an hour this morning between 11am and 12pm that was one of the most stressful periods of my life, and that includes the time that we fought over whether or not our month-old family would be one of “those” families that had Christmas trees (His argument: Couldn’t we just drive around and look at lights? My argument: I WANT A DIVORCE.)

The next most boring thing I could write is how cute and awesome my kids are. But they just are, and you need to deal with that or stop reading this blog. Like how E.G. asked me tonight as we were walking up the stairs, “Do you hear the wind, mom?”
“Yes.”
“Those are just the words coming in from another state.”

DID YOU DIE? BECAUSE I TOTALLY DIED. And then I decided that he can also be a poet-philosopher along with an architect, physicist, engineer, neurosurgeon, and, if he has time, an ambassador.

I could also tell your bored self about how I made a fool of myself at Book Club 2 last night, including inappropriate references to an email forward I once received that had a picture of a fairy and a certain religious figure. Not Mohammad. And then how I tried to tell a story of something that happened at church the other week and instead of it coming out respectful, yet conscious of the inherent humor, it came out mean and nasty (which of course I am, but who wants to show that side to people?)

The last most boring thing I could write is how Other Half is watching Point Break, again.

It turns out that I’m flat-out boring.

You should probably just go find a chore chart instead of reading this.