I like to think I'm the queen of multitasking. Well, maybe not the queen, but one of her ladies-in-waiting. Ok, her cleaning lady.
Anyway.
I eat in the car. A lot. Like every day on my way to work, and on my way home, or to run errands or whatever because I am never at home to sit and eat a meal until dinner time. So, I pack both my breakfast and lunch and just eat throughout the day. And it's a hazard.
I always, always, always, drop crumbs down my shirt between my boobs. I mean, I should wear a turtleneck. I don't even care anymore who sees me plunge my hand down my shirt to retrieve the crumbs. Because those suckers are annoying.
I also have a bad habit of dripping things on my shirt. At home, nary a meal goes by that I don't drop a blob of something on my "shelf" and my kids delight in making fun of me. My husband has even been known to tuck a napkin into my shirt when we eat out. Smart ass. I avoid this during my "commuter meals" by not packing messy stuff. Do you know how hard it is to eat yogurt in the car? Oatmeal? I've done it. It wasn't pretty.
Today while driving I attempted to drink my water while driving. I don't know why I have not remedied this situation yet, but I have a stainless-steel water bottle that I pack with me every day with a wide-open mouth, not a nice convenient straw. Needless to say, this makes it difficult to drink while driving. For one thing, you tip that sucker back and go over a bump and suddenly you're drowning while driving. Or, like today, you pour a little too fast and your mouth fills up to capacity in 1.2 seconds and you dribble all that water right down your chest in in between your boobs (you know, where the crumbs are!). And, really, there is no solution to that. Or any way to explain the wet shirt. I'm demanding one of those $900 titanium straws that Beyonce drinks out of. It's a safety issue.
A few weeks ago I was eating carrots dipped in peanut butter (I know, shut up) whilst driving and I somehow managed to choke on my carrot. I mean, for real, Heimlich-maneuver-necessary choking. I almost pulled over when I suddenly recovered, but I had that shaky, adrenaline, oh-my-God-I-almost-just-died feeling for hours.
Clearly I should not eat and drive. I mean, texting and driving is bad - so distracting! But no one ever says anything about eating and driving. Where are the billboards? The public service announcements?
Besides, imagine there being nothing in my bra but boobs. No more crumbs, water, or other foreign objects.
Or maybe I'll just get a really stylish bib.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Crossroads........
As I sit and watch a little girl - blonde-haired and wearing a pink coat, probably less than two years old - run in the sunshine and laugh while her parents gently guide her with outstretched, cautionary hands, I can't help but think "She is going to grow up and break their hearts."
I never claimed to be a perfect mother. I made - and continue to make - mistakes. I've called my kids "stupid." I didn't always want to sit on the floor and play Barbies or cars. I did love reading to them and doing art projects. I love watching them perform - singing, acting, dancing, sports. They make my heart swell with pride almost daily.........and they break it.
I remember when my own little girl was that toddler laughing and running through the grass; I, the mom who ran just behind with my hands out in front of me to catch her should she fall. My little girl - so smart, so cute, so sweet - so many compliments on her strawberry-blonde hair and her precocious nature. She was my sidekick, my constant companion. When she was sixteen months old and I lost the sibling I was carrying for her, she somehow knew and was extra-sweet to me that awful day, patting my cheek and cuddling up to me.
Now all she has for me is contempt. At nearly 20, living back at home after a year at a university, she is caught between child and woman; too young to see how her choices and actions now will affect her future and too old for the restrictions, rules and chores of her childhood home. If I ask her to clean her room, she accuses me of wanting a magazine-perfect house, or challenges me by asking "What does it matter? It's MY room, how does it affect you?" She cannot respect that it's my house, my rules. If I ask her to do dishes, she says "They aren't mine!" or sighs heavily. If I comment that she should embrace the full-time job she's been offered for the summer, she shoots back that she hates the job and "deserves" a summer break.
She spends most of her time on the internet, scrolling through Tumblr or Skyping with friends. When I tell her she needs to focus more on face-to-face relationships, she becomes angry and defensive, saying I am insulting her friends or that she "hates people." She's a cynic, a self-proclaimed atheist who can't stand anything remotely conservative; a staunch Democrat with a basic distrust for people. She is angry and bitter and prefers to be alone. She is anxious and depressed, on meds and in therapy.
And she blames me.
"It's not a coincidence," she states, "that all four of your kids, one of them not even biological, are all in therapy. You're the common denominator - because you're so condescending and mean."
I rack my brain and try to figure out how a request to clean her room leads to this - words that slice and dice my heart into little pieces. I can't un-hear those words.
There is a saying, "People might forget what you did for them, but they will never forget how you made them feel." Did I make her feel unloved? Not good enough? Not smart enough or pretty enough or accomplished enough or nice enough? Can she not un-hear my words when I called her a slob for having a messy room or an ungrateful bitch because she says living in my house is like living in a "hell hole?"
I've given her permission to leave. Told her she could go live with her dad. Welcomed her to grow up instantly, get a place of her own, pay her own bills. But she is not motivated to be on her own. It's too easy - this free life where there is always a good wifi connection and food.
Is it really too much to expect her to do her part? To not eat in the family room and leave dishes all over? To rinse out and toss the tuna can after she makes a tuna fish sandwich instead of leaving it on the counter overnight to dry out and attract flies? To run a load of dishes without being asked or wash a load of towels so we don't run out? To keep her room picked up, take care of her own laundry, not throw clothes on her floor? To pick up after she's used the common bathroom, not leave her contact wrappers on the counter right next to the garbage can?
When I was her age, I lived on my own. Paid my own bills. Worked, and went to college. She says not to compare; she is not me. But I did those things because I was motivated by wanting independence, by what I felt was society's expectation of someone my age, to please my parents. It was a struggle at times, not always fun, but I would have felt foolish being my parents' child when I was an adult and could take care of myself. She wants independence with no responsibility.
And yet.....she accuses me of only hearing the negative. I accuse her right back. I know in my heart that she, my firstborn, is the reason I stayed home to raise my babies. It was such a privilege to be a mother, to be given that gift by my first child. It's the only job I've ever loved and felt I was really good at. Until now. Now, I question my wisdom - did putting my kids first send the wrong message? She seems angry me all the time if I am not singing her praises. But who gets sunshine blown up their ass all the time? No one. Every day we are beaten down by the world and it's our own self-worth that keeps us getting back up. The little voice that says, "I'm ok. I'm a good person. I am worthy." No one has their own personal cheerleader. We take the good with the bad and keep on going.
My parents didn't sing my praises all the time. Sure, they celebrated my accomplishments but they also yelled at me, spanked me, screamed at me when my room was messy (which was all the time). I knew to listen to them, to do what I was told. But I also grew up knowing that they busted their asses to raise four kids in sometimes trying times. They had my back and supported me in whatever I wanted to do. They encouraged me and helped me reach my goals, and, yes, we had some big fights along the way. I don't blame them for my shortcomings or bad decisions I've made. It's not their fault I got divorced, have had financial difficulties, lost friends, or made bad decisions. Those are all on me.
So, is my daughter's hatred of me a result of being raised in the "me first!" generation? Where everyone "wins," and everything is equitable and praise is handed out so often it becomes meaningless? So that any ounce of criticism is seen as an insult or a means to beat her down and make her feel terrible about herself? Eleanor Roosevelt said no one can make you feel inferior without your permission. And while I know words can sting - and I'm still reeling from hers - can she make me feel inferior about my role as a mother? I never promised to do a perfect job. I knew I would do a good job and make some mistakes. Are we destined, as parents, do be hated by our young eventually? Is it a necessary rite of passage to fully enter the world of being an adult?
And do I even have a fighting chance of defending myself in her one-sided therapy sessions where she can create a fictional world that no therapist could ever see through? It certainly seems like a lost cause. Is it fair that I should fee like I'm fighting a battle in my own house - that asking her to contribute in the most basic human ways - to pick up after herrself, put things back, keep her own space clean - is often so much emotional strain that I find myself not saying anything at all? But when I do, I ask nicely, only to be met with the eye roll, "I'm busy," "I'm relaxing," or "It's not my job!" Is it any wonder with that reception I might get the least bit angry or lose my fucking mind? Especially since I'm almost always overwhelmed with a job, four often difficult kids, a big house to take care of and clean, all of the errands, grocery shopping, calendar-keeping and juggling.
What if I had pursued a career, hired a nanny to raise the kids, a housekeeper to clean the house, and fed my kids fast food every night before I spent a couple of hours with them until bedtime? Would I be happier? Have more "me time?" Feel more fulfilled as an individual? I'll never know. I like to think I made the right decision, because I never imagined any other life for myself. But sometimes parenting seems so futile. Like, no matter what you do, you're bound to fuck up and give your kids a million reasons to trash you in therapy, in public, or in a tell-all book.
I feel like things will come full circle. Like one day, she will come back to me and realize that we're a lot more alike than we are different. Maybe when she has her own daughter on the cusp of adulthood. Maybe when she goes through a divorce of her own. Or maybe the first time the novelty of being alone in her apartment wears off and it's too quiet, and she longs for the noise and laughter and chaos that was once her home.
But what if it doesn't? I've been around long enough to know that sometimes the mother-daughter relationship doesn't work out. What then? What if she doesn't want me to be a part of her life when she lives separate from me? Can it really come to that over an argument that started with "I want you to clean your room" and ended with "You're the reason I'm in therapy!"
As I sit in the car, alone at the beach, hearing the rumble of passing trains and watching the people around me, I see moms and kids, dads and kids, grandparents and kids, and I wonder how many other broken hearts are all around me and if this is just the beginning.
I never claimed to be a perfect mother. I made - and continue to make - mistakes. I've called my kids "stupid." I didn't always want to sit on the floor and play Barbies or cars. I did love reading to them and doing art projects. I love watching them perform - singing, acting, dancing, sports. They make my heart swell with pride almost daily.........and they break it.
I remember when my own little girl was that toddler laughing and running through the grass; I, the mom who ran just behind with my hands out in front of me to catch her should she fall. My little girl - so smart, so cute, so sweet - so many compliments on her strawberry-blonde hair and her precocious nature. She was my sidekick, my constant companion. When she was sixteen months old and I lost the sibling I was carrying for her, she somehow knew and was extra-sweet to me that awful day, patting my cheek and cuddling up to me.
Now all she has for me is contempt. At nearly 20, living back at home after a year at a university, she is caught between child and woman; too young to see how her choices and actions now will affect her future and too old for the restrictions, rules and chores of her childhood home. If I ask her to clean her room, she accuses me of wanting a magazine-perfect house, or challenges me by asking "What does it matter? It's MY room, how does it affect you?" She cannot respect that it's my house, my rules. If I ask her to do dishes, she says "They aren't mine!" or sighs heavily. If I comment that she should embrace the full-time job she's been offered for the summer, she shoots back that she hates the job and "deserves" a summer break.
She spends most of her time on the internet, scrolling through Tumblr or Skyping with friends. When I tell her she needs to focus more on face-to-face relationships, she becomes angry and defensive, saying I am insulting her friends or that she "hates people." She's a cynic, a self-proclaimed atheist who can't stand anything remotely conservative; a staunch Democrat with a basic distrust for people. She is angry and bitter and prefers to be alone. She is anxious and depressed, on meds and in therapy.
And she blames me.
"It's not a coincidence," she states, "that all four of your kids, one of them not even biological, are all in therapy. You're the common denominator - because you're so condescending and mean."
I rack my brain and try to figure out how a request to clean her room leads to this - words that slice and dice my heart into little pieces. I can't un-hear those words.
There is a saying, "People might forget what you did for them, but they will never forget how you made them feel." Did I make her feel unloved? Not good enough? Not smart enough or pretty enough or accomplished enough or nice enough? Can she not un-hear my words when I called her a slob for having a messy room or an ungrateful bitch because she says living in my house is like living in a "hell hole?"
I've given her permission to leave. Told her she could go live with her dad. Welcomed her to grow up instantly, get a place of her own, pay her own bills. But she is not motivated to be on her own. It's too easy - this free life where there is always a good wifi connection and food.
Is it really too much to expect her to do her part? To not eat in the family room and leave dishes all over? To rinse out and toss the tuna can after she makes a tuna fish sandwich instead of leaving it on the counter overnight to dry out and attract flies? To run a load of dishes without being asked or wash a load of towels so we don't run out? To keep her room picked up, take care of her own laundry, not throw clothes on her floor? To pick up after she's used the common bathroom, not leave her contact wrappers on the counter right next to the garbage can?
When I was her age, I lived on my own. Paid my own bills. Worked, and went to college. She says not to compare; she is not me. But I did those things because I was motivated by wanting independence, by what I felt was society's expectation of someone my age, to please my parents. It was a struggle at times, not always fun, but I would have felt foolish being my parents' child when I was an adult and could take care of myself. She wants independence with no responsibility.
And yet.....she accuses me of only hearing the negative. I accuse her right back. I know in my heart that she, my firstborn, is the reason I stayed home to raise my babies. It was such a privilege to be a mother, to be given that gift by my first child. It's the only job I've ever loved and felt I was really good at. Until now. Now, I question my wisdom - did putting my kids first send the wrong message? She seems angry me all the time if I am not singing her praises. But who gets sunshine blown up their ass all the time? No one. Every day we are beaten down by the world and it's our own self-worth that keeps us getting back up. The little voice that says, "I'm ok. I'm a good person. I am worthy." No one has their own personal cheerleader. We take the good with the bad and keep on going.
My parents didn't sing my praises all the time. Sure, they celebrated my accomplishments but they also yelled at me, spanked me, screamed at me when my room was messy (which was all the time). I knew to listen to them, to do what I was told. But I also grew up knowing that they busted their asses to raise four kids in sometimes trying times. They had my back and supported me in whatever I wanted to do. They encouraged me and helped me reach my goals, and, yes, we had some big fights along the way. I don't blame them for my shortcomings or bad decisions I've made. It's not their fault I got divorced, have had financial difficulties, lost friends, or made bad decisions. Those are all on me.
So, is my daughter's hatred of me a result of being raised in the "me first!" generation? Where everyone "wins," and everything is equitable and praise is handed out so often it becomes meaningless? So that any ounce of criticism is seen as an insult or a means to beat her down and make her feel terrible about herself? Eleanor Roosevelt said no one can make you feel inferior without your permission. And while I know words can sting - and I'm still reeling from hers - can she make me feel inferior about my role as a mother? I never promised to do a perfect job. I knew I would do a good job and make some mistakes. Are we destined, as parents, do be hated by our young eventually? Is it a necessary rite of passage to fully enter the world of being an adult?
And do I even have a fighting chance of defending myself in her one-sided therapy sessions where she can create a fictional world that no therapist could ever see through? It certainly seems like a lost cause. Is it fair that I should fee like I'm fighting a battle in my own house - that asking her to contribute in the most basic human ways - to pick up after herrself, put things back, keep her own space clean - is often so much emotional strain that I find myself not saying anything at all? But when I do, I ask nicely, only to be met with the eye roll, "I'm busy," "I'm relaxing," or "It's not my job!" Is it any wonder with that reception I might get the least bit angry or lose my fucking mind? Especially since I'm almost always overwhelmed with a job, four often difficult kids, a big house to take care of and clean, all of the errands, grocery shopping, calendar-keeping and juggling.
What if I had pursued a career, hired a nanny to raise the kids, a housekeeper to clean the house, and fed my kids fast food every night before I spent a couple of hours with them until bedtime? Would I be happier? Have more "me time?" Feel more fulfilled as an individual? I'll never know. I like to think I made the right decision, because I never imagined any other life for myself. But sometimes parenting seems so futile. Like, no matter what you do, you're bound to fuck up and give your kids a million reasons to trash you in therapy, in public, or in a tell-all book.
I feel like things will come full circle. Like one day, she will come back to me and realize that we're a lot more alike than we are different. Maybe when she has her own daughter on the cusp of adulthood. Maybe when she goes through a divorce of her own. Or maybe the first time the novelty of being alone in her apartment wears off and it's too quiet, and she longs for the noise and laughter and chaos that was once her home.
But what if it doesn't? I've been around long enough to know that sometimes the mother-daughter relationship doesn't work out. What then? What if she doesn't want me to be a part of her life when she lives separate from me? Can it really come to that over an argument that started with "I want you to clean your room" and ended with "You're the reason I'm in therapy!"
As I sit in the car, alone at the beach, hearing the rumble of passing trains and watching the people around me, I see moms and kids, dads and kids, grandparents and kids, and I wonder how many other broken hearts are all around me and if this is just the beginning.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Abercrombie THIS, bitch!
Certainly by now, you've heard of the Abercrombie and Fitch debacle? The one in which CEO Mike Jeffries unabashedly admits that A&F clothes are for the cool kids and the fat chicks need not apply? If you need a refresher, you can read this:
http://www.heraldsun.com.au/technology/news/abercrombie-fitch-ceo-mike-jeffries-slammed-over-comments/story-fni0bzod-1226644223630
There has been a huge backlash over thisdouchebag's CEO's comments, including this nicely-written letter by Amy Taylor:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/amy-taylor/open-letter-fat-chick-mike-jeffries-ceo-abercombie-fitch_b_3249798.html?utm_hp_ref=mostpopular
So, here's my Abercrombie story:
I never paid much attention to A&F. But once my kids hit a certain age, I noticed their friends wearing this brand and I thought I might like to buy my kids a ticket to the "cool kid" club so I went to the store - once, and only once - and perused the racks.
Let's just say that my style of shopping is to head immediately to the sales/clearance racks. At A&F they were hard to find. I did finally find some "sale" and "clearance" signs, which amounted to a t-shirt for a little girl on sale for $20.
For $20 at Target, I was able to buy my little girl four t-shirts! Cute ones, too, albeit not with an A&F logo. Now, I've never been a fan of name brands. When my kids were growing up, I made fun of the neighbor ladies who bought their child's wardrobe at Gymboree, citing the "quality" and that the clothes would "last forever." Um, yeah, but your KID won't last forever. In fact, they grow so fast, that one year my daughter's feet jumped four shoe sizes in two months, and another year my son grew out of his jeans every two months as he got taller and taller. So am I glad I bought them bargain (but still cute) clothes? You bet!
I've also never been a huge fan of clothing with writing on it. When my daughter was ten and playing softball somestupid well-meaning parent decided to order sweats for all the girls with the team name across the butt. Now, I don't know about you, but I didn't want anyone looking at my ten-year-old's butt anyway, so I didn't see any need to emblazon it with words. Thankfully, the team name was a lot less inappropriate than the 11-year-old I saw wearing similar pants with the word "hottie" on the butt.
I like a smart-ass t-shirt with a sarcastic saying as much as the next person, but when my kids were younger, I avoided "writing" on clothes as a general rule, which immediately nixed Gap, Old Navy, and stores like A&F from our closets. But at some point they asked for specific things - like the Gap sweatshirt my daughter requested in 3rd grade. It was $40 and I had never spent that much on a single item of clothing for a kid before. But she had never asked for anything brand-name before so I decided to indulge her. Of course I bought it two sizes too big and she wore it for three years. Old Navy won me over with their cheap-o prices, but I still tried to avoid the logo stuff.
The thing is, I love clothes. I love having cute clothes for myself and my kids. But I am NOT willing to spend $40 on a t-shirt. And I'm certainly not willing to wear clothes from a store that discriminates against real people. There are enough bullies in the world - now we have to have CEOs of companies tell us we're not cool enough to wear their clothes? And if we don't fit into a size large we're too fat? Ouch. I'll keep my money, thanks.
I don't care where I get my clothes. I buy what I like, what fits well, is comfortable and stylish. I just dropped a whole $24 on six new-to-me shirts at a thrift store. I wore a dress to work the other day that I paid almost nothing for, and got many compliments. I frequently get nice comments about my style. No one knows or cares where I got my clothes or how much I paid for them. And yes, I do have some brand-name clothes, but only because I bought them second-hand. I have NEVER paid retail for a designer brand.
I did acquire an Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirt eventually. It was on sale for $2 at my local thrift store and I bought it for my son. He wore it for a while and I re-donated it. No one ever told him he was cooler because of it.
Today I came across this little gem:
http://www.upworthy.com/how-does-the-worst-human-being-of-retail-sleep-at-night-after-he-sees-this-he-wont
I love the idea that this guy suggests - gather up all your A&F clothing, buy it from the thrift shops, and donate it to the homeless. Will they be cooler or skinnier wearing clothing from adiscriminatory store upscale retailer? Not a chance. Will they have clothes to keep them warm and dry? Yep. Will Mike Jeffries cringe every time he sees a homeless person wearing his iconic brand? I hope so. Oh, wait, clearly he won't ever see a homeless person. I doubt he very often gets out of his pristine world where the beautiful people reside.
But that doesn't mean we can't make sure he suffers for his callous comments. #FitchtheHomeless. And don't shop at Abercrombie. You'll just look like an asshole wearing the brand. Or maybe you already do.
http://www.heraldsun.com.au/technology/news/abercrombie-fitch-ceo-mike-jeffries-slammed-over-comments/story-fni0bzod-1226644223630
There has been a huge backlash over this
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/amy-taylor/open-letter-fat-chick-mike-jeffries-ceo-abercombie-fitch_b_3249798.html?utm_hp_ref=mostpopular
So, here's my Abercrombie story:
I never paid much attention to A&F. But once my kids hit a certain age, I noticed their friends wearing this brand and I thought I might like to buy my kids a ticket to the "cool kid" club so I went to the store - once, and only once - and perused the racks.
Let's just say that my style of shopping is to head immediately to the sales/clearance racks. At A&F they were hard to find. I did finally find some "sale" and "clearance" signs, which amounted to a t-shirt for a little girl on sale for $20.
For $20 at Target, I was able to buy my little girl four t-shirts! Cute ones, too, albeit not with an A&F logo. Now, I've never been a fan of name brands. When my kids were growing up, I made fun of the neighbor ladies who bought their child's wardrobe at Gymboree, citing the "quality" and that the clothes would "last forever." Um, yeah, but your KID won't last forever. In fact, they grow so fast, that one year my daughter's feet jumped four shoe sizes in two months, and another year my son grew out of his jeans every two months as he got taller and taller. So am I glad I bought them bargain (but still cute) clothes? You bet!
I've also never been a huge fan of clothing with writing on it. When my daughter was ten and playing softball some
I like a smart-ass t-shirt with a sarcastic saying as much as the next person, but when my kids were younger, I avoided "writing" on clothes as a general rule, which immediately nixed Gap, Old Navy, and stores like A&F from our closets. But at some point they asked for specific things - like the Gap sweatshirt my daughter requested in 3rd grade. It was $40 and I had never spent that much on a single item of clothing for a kid before. But she had never asked for anything brand-name before so I decided to indulge her. Of course I bought it two sizes too big and she wore it for three years. Old Navy won me over with their cheap-o prices, but I still tried to avoid the logo stuff.
The thing is, I love clothes. I love having cute clothes for myself and my kids. But I am NOT willing to spend $40 on a t-shirt. And I'm certainly not willing to wear clothes from a store that discriminates against real people. There are enough bullies in the world - now we have to have CEOs of companies tell us we're not cool enough to wear their clothes? And if we don't fit into a size large we're too fat? Ouch. I'll keep my money, thanks.
I don't care where I get my clothes. I buy what I like, what fits well, is comfortable and stylish. I just dropped a whole $24 on six new-to-me shirts at a thrift store. I wore a dress to work the other day that I paid almost nothing for, and got many compliments. I frequently get nice comments about my style. No one knows or cares where I got my clothes or how much I paid for them. And yes, I do have some brand-name clothes, but only because I bought them second-hand. I have NEVER paid retail for a designer brand.
I did acquire an Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirt eventually. It was on sale for $2 at my local thrift store and I bought it for my son. He wore it for a while and I re-donated it. No one ever told him he was cooler because of it.
Today I came across this little gem:
http://www.upworthy.com/how-does-the-worst-human-being-of-retail-sleep-at-night-after-he-sees-this-he-wont
I love the idea that this guy suggests - gather up all your A&F clothing, buy it from the thrift shops, and donate it to the homeless. Will they be cooler or skinnier wearing clothing from a
But that doesn't mean we can't make sure he suffers for his callous comments. #FitchtheHomeless. And don't shop at Abercrombie. You'll just look like an asshole wearing the brand. Or maybe you already do.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Bully...
Bullying is on everyone's mind these days, as the news stories pour in, from kids mercilessly teasing each other to tragic stories of suicide. Kids are mean to each other; that hasn't changed for decades, and I applaud programs that teach tolerance and acceptance to reduce bullying.
But what if the bully is a teacher? Three of my kids have had the same science teacher in junior high. When my oldest child had this teacher, she once told my daughter that she "just didn't like" her, as justification for giving her a low grade. Another time she asked her to repeat the instructions, and when my daughter couldn't do it, she walked away, muttering under her breath "f**king idiot!" She also told a student to "f**k off" and leave her room.
When my middle daughter had this teacher, she told the class they were "retards" and remarked to one boy that he would spend his adult life "living in a box."
This year, my younger daughter has the same teacher. From the beginning of the school year, my daughter has been anxious about the class - it's very difficult for her and she's struggled with the content. As a result, the teacher has called her out on several occasions, embarrassing her in front of the class and ridiculing her when she doesn't answer something correctly. Earlier in the school year, we had two meetings with several teachers and school personnel to see if we could get our daughter some extra help in the areas she was struggling in - math and science. She didn't qualify for any interventions or specialist help, but all of her teachers were aware of her struggles - math and science.
She dreaded going to class. She was up at 3 in the morning one night making science notes, worried about the test the next day. Still, she maintained good grades. But her interactions with the teacher - at times seemingly normal, even "nice" - other times stressful, continued to keep her anxious and on edge. Her number one stress was that teacher and that class.
Today, that teacher crossed the line. When she singled out the group my daughter was in, and asked her to answer a question with a mathematical answer, my daughter got it wrong. The teacher, exasperated, asked her again and when she got it wrong a second time she said "You DO know how to add, subtract, multiply and divide don't you?" When my daughter answered "yes" the teacher said "Well, then, are you just mathematically challenged or what?"
Ouch.
I probably don't have to go into how awful that made my daughter feel, how out of line it was, what a blow to my child's self-esteem, or any of the other obvious things those words did.
I'm a big proponent of letting kids learn to deal with adversity and one of the ways they learn that is by dealing with the not-so-favorite teacher. But I'm also a big proponent of being a good advocate for your children, and I believe in my job to support and protect my children. As such, I emailed the teacher right away, copying the principal and several other key players in the school administration.
I asked the teacher - would you call an obese child fat? Would you call a Down Syndrome child retarded? My husband was livid - we exchanged a phone call and he was most angry about this teacher instilling a hate of science into our daughter. He studied science; he has degrees in chemistry and biology and science is a love of his. Not long ago, our daughter loved science; now, she loathes it.
Why is it acceptable for a teacher to bully a child like this? It's not ok with me. I asked for (and was granted) a meeting with the teacher and principal. I asked that my child be removed from the class (also granted). I do not know what kind of discipline this teacher might face, but I do know that many, many students and a great number of other parents have their own similar stories and I can't help but wonder why she is still teaching. I intend to ask her that when we meet face-to-face.
The teacher did call me right away after I sent the email. She said she was "humiliated, embarrassed" and could not provide an explanation for her "very bad behavior." She also said she would "not defend" herself when questioned by the principal because what she did was wrong and she was very sorry. When I brought up the history - the repeated bullying, with more than one of my kids - she became tongue-tied and didn't have much of a response. We left the conversation agreeing to discuss it further with the principal.
My daughter never wants to speak to her again. And she won't have to. But that won't take away the inexcusable harshness of her words. We all have bad days. But there's a line, as teaching professionals, that we have to stay behind - these students are just that - our students. We must keep our criticism to ourselves and put their learning first. Even on our worst days.
Tomorrow we meet with the principal and counselor to figure out how to complete my daughter's science class through independent study. There are 31 days of school left and then my daughter will be free of that teacher, that class and that school forever as she moves on to high school.
Bullies.........they come in all sizes. How very sad.
But what if the bully is a teacher? Three of my kids have had the same science teacher in junior high. When my oldest child had this teacher, she once told my daughter that she "just didn't like" her, as justification for giving her a low grade. Another time she asked her to repeat the instructions, and when my daughter couldn't do it, she walked away, muttering under her breath "f**king idiot!" She also told a student to "f**k off" and leave her room.
When my middle daughter had this teacher, she told the class they were "retards" and remarked to one boy that he would spend his adult life "living in a box."
This year, my younger daughter has the same teacher. From the beginning of the school year, my daughter has been anxious about the class - it's very difficult for her and she's struggled with the content. As a result, the teacher has called her out on several occasions, embarrassing her in front of the class and ridiculing her when she doesn't answer something correctly. Earlier in the school year, we had two meetings with several teachers and school personnel to see if we could get our daughter some extra help in the areas she was struggling in - math and science. She didn't qualify for any interventions or specialist help, but all of her teachers were aware of her struggles - math and science.
She dreaded going to class. She was up at 3 in the morning one night making science notes, worried about the test the next day. Still, she maintained good grades. But her interactions with the teacher - at times seemingly normal, even "nice" - other times stressful, continued to keep her anxious and on edge. Her number one stress was that teacher and that class.
Today, that teacher crossed the line. When she singled out the group my daughter was in, and asked her to answer a question with a mathematical answer, my daughter got it wrong. The teacher, exasperated, asked her again and when she got it wrong a second time she said "You DO know how to add, subtract, multiply and divide don't you?" When my daughter answered "yes" the teacher said "Well, then, are you just mathematically challenged or what?"
Ouch.
I probably don't have to go into how awful that made my daughter feel, how out of line it was, what a blow to my child's self-esteem, or any of the other obvious things those words did.
I'm a big proponent of letting kids learn to deal with adversity and one of the ways they learn that is by dealing with the not-so-favorite teacher. But I'm also a big proponent of being a good advocate for your children, and I believe in my job to support and protect my children. As such, I emailed the teacher right away, copying the principal and several other key players in the school administration.
I asked the teacher - would you call an obese child fat? Would you call a Down Syndrome child retarded? My husband was livid - we exchanged a phone call and he was most angry about this teacher instilling a hate of science into our daughter. He studied science; he has degrees in chemistry and biology and science is a love of his. Not long ago, our daughter loved science; now, she loathes it.
Why is it acceptable for a teacher to bully a child like this? It's not ok with me. I asked for (and was granted) a meeting with the teacher and principal. I asked that my child be removed from the class (also granted). I do not know what kind of discipline this teacher might face, but I do know that many, many students and a great number of other parents have their own similar stories and I can't help but wonder why she is still teaching. I intend to ask her that when we meet face-to-face.
The teacher did call me right away after I sent the email. She said she was "humiliated, embarrassed" and could not provide an explanation for her "very bad behavior." She also said she would "not defend" herself when questioned by the principal because what she did was wrong and she was very sorry. When I brought up the history - the repeated bullying, with more than one of my kids - she became tongue-tied and didn't have much of a response. We left the conversation agreeing to discuss it further with the principal.
My daughter never wants to speak to her again. And she won't have to. But that won't take away the inexcusable harshness of her words. We all have bad days. But there's a line, as teaching professionals, that we have to stay behind - these students are just that - our students. We must keep our criticism to ourselves and put their learning first. Even on our worst days.
Tomorrow we meet with the principal and counselor to figure out how to complete my daughter's science class through independent study. There are 31 days of school left and then my daughter will be free of that teacher, that class and that school forever as she moves on to high school.
Bullies.........they come in all sizes. How very sad.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
You're fat, now starve!
Today Hannah and I went to her follow-up for the sleep study she did a few weeks ago. I had to take a day off work because the only time they could get us in was a morning appointment. We were anxious to see if the study revealed the reason she might not be sleeping well at night, and was tired all day long.
The doctor informed us that there were no "significant" findings, certainly not enough obstructive sleep apnea to warrant a CPAP machine, and only a "slight sleep obstruction" occasionally, that could "probably be fixed if you lost 20 lbs."
Fair enough. Hannah wants to lose some weight (what girl doesn't?) so this didn't come as a huge surprise to either of us. However, that's where the discussion of her sleep study ended. Dr. Sleep rambled on about how she could "join our ACG program for weight loss" to which I asked "What is the ACG program?"
Apparently I didn't hear him quite well. What he said was "our HCG program." As in human chorionic gonadotropin, or for those of you who have been pregnant, the hormone that rapidly builds up in the early days of baby-growing. The "program" he described involved injections of HCG (which, by the way, is derived from the urine of pregnant women - yuck!), under the guidance of their on-staff naturopathic doctor. Apparently this pumped-up pee suppresses hunger (if the mere thought didn't already make you lose your appetite), and trigger your body's use of fat for fuel. As the doctor described "they're energy molecules - you won't be hungry and you'll be able to do cardio for hours, although you might have some trouble with resistance training."
As a side note, he mentioned that she would also be required to follow a 500 calorie a day diet, consisting of small pieces of lean meat, leafy greens and, if she was REALLY hungry, some cottage cheese. YUMMO! I guess that explained the difficulty with resistance training. Because, you know, all that muscle loss from starvation.
Who wouldn't lose weight on 500 calories a day? Why even inject the HCG - you'll already be starving your body. Not to mention putting yourself at risk of gallstones, irregular heartbeat, and electrolyte imbalance.
I sat there in disbelief: minutes before I just wanted the results of my daughter's sleep study and suddenly this doctor was spewing forth a diatribe about how we, as humans, are meant to starve occasionally, but thanks to Red Robin and Cheesecake Factory's ginormous portions, we are surrounded by food and eat all the time, and, basically, we don't need to slay the antelope anymore because the antelope is all around us. So, obviously, if one needs to lose weight, we should inject ourselves with this hormone and nibble on lettuce and a sliver of chicken breast and join in our forefathers' starvation brotherhood. (P.S. they also only lived to age 20 or so.....)
While he was preaching from his swiveling leather chair pulpit, both my daughter and I could hear his stomach growling audibly, louder and louder as he spoke. Irony is a bitch, and I'm guessing that Dr. Sleep hadn't had his tablespoon of cottage cheese that morning. I wanted to jump up and shout "Have a fucking pop-tart!" and run out of there.
Now, I'm all for nutrition - good choices, reasonable portions, cutting back. I need to lose plenty of weight myself. I buy healthy food for my family. I'm aware of the benefits of losing weight, eating healthy, and exercising regularly. And we try. Like every family, we put forth some effort, and we realize when we might need a little extra help (like Weight Watchers and an amped-up exercise program). But alarm bells were ringing in my head as he spoke and suddenly, the nearly 24 hours we spent doing the sleep study seemed like a ploy to get us to sign up for what sounded like pure torture.
Feeling pressured, we made an appointment with thepsycho doctor who runs the HCG program. Dr. Sleep also mentioned that if our insurance didn't cover the naturopathic doctor, we could just make sure to come in when he was in the office and he'd just sneak the charges under his care. Wow, superb diet advice and insurance fraud rolled into one! Bonus! I'm cancelling the appointment tomorrow.
Because, here's the thing. I brought my 17-year-old, beautiful, curvy, perfectly fine daughter into that office and that nut-job told her she was too fat and should starve herself. This same girl who, just a few months ago, spent time in a hospital because of severe anxiety and was surrounded by girls who were also there because they starved themselves to the point of not being able to walk and needing feeding tubes. What the actual FUCK? Who in their right mind, especially a medical professional, would recommend this "diet" to a teenage girl, especially without exploring other, more reasonable approaches. He didn't even say she HAD to lose weight, that her health was in jeopardy - he just said her "slight sleep obstruction" might be improved if she lost 20 lbs. Might be. Or, he might be opening the door to the eating disorder gingerbread house and enticing her in with tantalizing promises.
The more I thought about it today, the more appalled I became. What message does this send? All my daughter heard was "I can lose 20 lbs in six weeks - yay!" Nothing about keeping it off, lifestyle changes, regular exercise. When I asked him to show me the data about how successful this program was, and how long the participants had kept the weight off, he said it was "not compiled yet" but that he was hearing "great anecdotal evidence" about it. Well, I've heard "great anecdotal evidence" about fat-flush water (it was on Pinterest so it must be true!). No scientific evidence? No dice.
I did my own research online and found everything from "don't do it" to the FDA recommendation to "steer clear." Red flags everywhere. I still cannot figure out why Dr. Sleep recommended such a drastic, unproven program to a young, impressionable girl who just wants a good night's sleep.
Maybe because he's a raving lunatic of an ass-hat who was so calorie-starved he began hallucinating. Because he sure as hell didn't make any sense to me.
I spent the drive home talking to my daughter about safe and sane ways to lose weight that involve eating real food and exercising. We discussed joining Weight Watchers together and going to meetings for the accountability. We talked about the reasons why we wanted to lose weight (for both of us, being healthy and strong was number one, looking good in a swimsuit wasn't on top of the list!). My daughter will lose 20 lbs - probably more - by eating right and exercising. What she WON'T be doing is injecting the urine of a pregnant women into her thigh on a daily basis and starving. Or thinking she needs to go to such extremes to "fix" herself. Because the last thing I want for my daughter is to end up with an eating disorder because some "professional" told her she was too fat. Did we go to a sleep clinic or a front for a gimmicky weight-loss clinic? I'm really not sure. But we won't go back.
The doctor informed us that there were no "significant" findings, certainly not enough obstructive sleep apnea to warrant a CPAP machine, and only a "slight sleep obstruction" occasionally, that could "probably be fixed if you lost 20 lbs."
Fair enough. Hannah wants to lose some weight (what girl doesn't?) so this didn't come as a huge surprise to either of us. However, that's where the discussion of her sleep study ended. Dr. Sleep rambled on about how she could "join our ACG program for weight loss" to which I asked "What is the ACG program?"
Apparently I didn't hear him quite well. What he said was "our HCG program." As in human chorionic gonadotropin, or for those of you who have been pregnant, the hormone that rapidly builds up in the early days of baby-growing. The "program" he described involved injections of HCG (which, by the way, is derived from the urine of pregnant women - yuck!), under the guidance of their on-staff naturopathic doctor. Apparently this pumped-up pee suppresses hunger (if the mere thought didn't already make you lose your appetite), and trigger your body's use of fat for fuel. As the doctor described "they're energy molecules - you won't be hungry and you'll be able to do cardio for hours, although you might have some trouble with resistance training."
As a side note, he mentioned that she would also be required to follow a 500 calorie a day diet, consisting of small pieces of lean meat, leafy greens and, if she was REALLY hungry, some cottage cheese. YUMMO! I guess that explained the difficulty with resistance training. Because, you know, all that muscle loss from starvation.
Who wouldn't lose weight on 500 calories a day? Why even inject the HCG - you'll already be starving your body. Not to mention putting yourself at risk of gallstones, irregular heartbeat, and electrolyte imbalance.
I sat there in disbelief: minutes before I just wanted the results of my daughter's sleep study and suddenly this doctor was spewing forth a diatribe about how we, as humans, are meant to starve occasionally, but thanks to Red Robin and Cheesecake Factory's ginormous portions, we are surrounded by food and eat all the time, and, basically, we don't need to slay the antelope anymore because the antelope is all around us. So, obviously, if one needs to lose weight, we should inject ourselves with this hormone and nibble on lettuce and a sliver of chicken breast and join in our forefathers' starvation brotherhood. (P.S. they also only lived to age 20 or so.....)
While he was preaching from his swiveling leather chair pulpit, both my daughter and I could hear his stomach growling audibly, louder and louder as he spoke. Irony is a bitch, and I'm guessing that Dr. Sleep hadn't had his tablespoon of cottage cheese that morning. I wanted to jump up and shout "Have a fucking pop-tart!" and run out of there.
Now, I'm all for nutrition - good choices, reasonable portions, cutting back. I need to lose plenty of weight myself. I buy healthy food for my family. I'm aware of the benefits of losing weight, eating healthy, and exercising regularly. And we try. Like every family, we put forth some effort, and we realize when we might need a little extra help (like Weight Watchers and an amped-up exercise program). But alarm bells were ringing in my head as he spoke and suddenly, the nearly 24 hours we spent doing the sleep study seemed like a ploy to get us to sign up for what sounded like pure torture.
Feeling pressured, we made an appointment with the
Because, here's the thing. I brought my 17-year-old, beautiful, curvy, perfectly fine daughter into that office and that nut-job told her she was too fat and should starve herself. This same girl who, just a few months ago, spent time in a hospital because of severe anxiety and was surrounded by girls who were also there because they starved themselves to the point of not being able to walk and needing feeding tubes. What the actual FUCK? Who in their right mind, especially a medical professional, would recommend this "diet" to a teenage girl, especially without exploring other, more reasonable approaches. He didn't even say she HAD to lose weight, that her health was in jeopardy - he just said her "slight sleep obstruction" might be improved if she lost 20 lbs. Might be. Or, he might be opening the door to the eating disorder gingerbread house and enticing her in with tantalizing promises.
The more I thought about it today, the more appalled I became. What message does this send? All my daughter heard was "I can lose 20 lbs in six weeks - yay!" Nothing about keeping it off, lifestyle changes, regular exercise. When I asked him to show me the data about how successful this program was, and how long the participants had kept the weight off, he said it was "not compiled yet" but that he was hearing "great anecdotal evidence" about it. Well, I've heard "great anecdotal evidence" about fat-flush water (it was on Pinterest so it must be true!). No scientific evidence? No dice.
I did my own research online and found everything from "don't do it" to the FDA recommendation to "steer clear." Red flags everywhere. I still cannot figure out why Dr. Sleep recommended such a drastic, unproven program to a young, impressionable girl who just wants a good night's sleep.
Maybe because he's a raving lunatic of an ass-hat who was so calorie-starved he began hallucinating. Because he sure as hell didn't make any sense to me.
I spent the drive home talking to my daughter about safe and sane ways to lose weight that involve eating real food and exercising. We discussed joining Weight Watchers together and going to meetings for the accountability. We talked about the reasons why we wanted to lose weight (for both of us, being healthy and strong was number one, looking good in a swimsuit wasn't on top of the list!). My daughter will lose 20 lbs - probably more - by eating right and exercising. What she WON'T be doing is injecting the urine of a pregnant women into her thigh on a daily basis and starving. Or thinking she needs to go to such extremes to "fix" herself. Because the last thing I want for my daughter is to end up with an eating disorder because some "professional" told her she was too fat. Did we go to a sleep clinic or a front for a gimmicky weight-loss clinic? I'm really not sure. But we won't go back.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
The love note.............
Last night, after staying up until almost midnight paying bills and doing otherwise responsible things, I finally headed to bed to find this on my side of the bed:
I thought, how sweet! A love note! This morning, I waved it in Jeff's direction and said "By the way, this was sweet!" He smiled and said "I want you to know, that took a lot of effort!" Effort? To write "I love you" on a piece of paper? But then he told me this story:
"I knew you weren't coming to bed for a while and I was getting really tired so I just thought I'd write you a sweet note. But then I couldn't find any paper so I had to rummage through my drawer to find something to write on. I was too tired to get up and get paper off the desk, so I finally found this and when I ripped the paper out, all my stuff went flying, and I had to clean it up. And then, when I was doing that, the paper sailed out of my hand and landed over there (gestures towards desk in room) and I had to get out of bed anyway and pick it up! And all I wanted to do was write you a note!"
See? It's the thought (and effort) that counts! :)
Sunday, May 5, 2013
The long way home...........
Me and my ideas. I woke up at 8 a.m. to sunshine and blue skies! So excited that I slept in until the ridiculous hour of 8 a.m., I promptly fell asleep again until 9. Then lolled about in bed till 10. What a luxurious morning! I lazily asked Jeff what was on our agenda today and he said "Nothing, and it makes me nervous!"
You have to understand my husband. He makes the Energizer Bunny look like a sloth. If he is not working on one of the approximately 4,962 things on his "to do" list (neatly typed and categorized), he really does not know what to do with himself. He even schedules naps. Busy is how he likes to be, and unstructured time is often met with restlessness and feeling scattered.
He mentioned working out so I suggested we take a nice, long walk down to the shopping area near us. Last weekend we walked down to the Starbucks and back and it was a lovely, long walk and a great workout. This time, though, we also knew we needed groceries for a Cinco de Mayo feast we decided to have for dinner, so I suggested that if we wore backpacks, we could cart the groceries back (uphill!) to the house. THEN I got all crazy and shit and suggested we make the kids go, too.
Surprisingly, that went pretty well. I mean, there was a bit of complaining (Hannah) about having to turn off "Criminal Minds" and a bit of primping (Harrison) when it was decided that a shower was needed if we were going to appear in public. Mind you, I put my hair into pigtails, threw on some workout clothes and skipped the makeup. I was looking just perfect for "public." Coupled with sweat and a bright red face, I'm quite the looker when I work out.
Once the kids were all dolled up and we procured one backpacking backpack and two school backpacks, we headed down the road. First stop, Walgreen's to pick up prescriptions. Once I stopped walking and went indoors, my body responded as only a 45-year-old menopausal woman's can, and I started sweating, which I'm sure was a nice compliment to my beet-red face. As I wiped drips out of my eyes, I instructed Harrison to go get me one of those cool little fan/spray bottle combos, which I dropped $9.99 on without even thinking and didn't even blink at the $5.99 batteries I needed to purchase to make it work. It was Heaven!
Next, we took a break at Starbucks and enjoyed some cold drinks. Of course, we walked in the door at exactly the same time as three girls who exclaimed "Harrison!" so I guess he was right about needing to be presentable for his fan club.
Then we did our shopping at Fred Meyer, trying to stick to the list and not buy any extras (but of course we did!). We checked out and distributed the food and drinks among the three packs. We had two 2-liter bottles of Sprite, a bottle of tequila, a six-pack of beer, about 10 lbs of produce, meat, bagels, lunchmeat (might as well stock up for the week!), frozen orange juice........all in all about 55 lbs of groceries!
We started the trek back, me secretly hoping a neighbor with a minivan and no extra passengers would happen by and take my sherpa family home. But it was not to be. Under a cloudless blue sky, and 75 degrees (shut up, we live in Seattle, that's HOT!) we trekked up the hill towards home. I felt the warm sun on my skin and the slight breezes, all the while feeling my muscles work packing the groceries home, thinking "wow, I am really getting in shape!"
About halfway up the hill, my skin suddenly caught fire (ok, not literally, but I sort of understand what spontaneous combustion might feel like now), and I was breathing heavily. My heart was beating in my ears, cheeks and the back of my head. My breath was a cadence of "put one foot in front of the other...." and I felt my shoulders being ripped from their sockets from the weight of the backpack.. I stopped for a breather while the kids trudged ahead. Jeff, in his infinite wisdom, stopped to wait for me, and then used my new spray bottle/fan to cool me off, but the water just evaporated the minute it hit my skin, and those slight breezes were not enough to offer my overheated skin any relief.
I wanted to lay down. In the shade. Jeff jokingly said "you can rest here in the shade and I'll run up and get the car" and for half a second I considered it. But I just kept going. I pulled my already ample frame, plus another 16 lbs in a Winnie-the-Pooh backpack up the hill toward home.
Sweet Jesus, we finally turned the corner into our neighborhood and Jeff said "I'm really hungry" and then it hit me - that wonderful overly-hungry, shaking, sweating hypoglycemic reaction that reminded me I needed some calories, stat! I made it into the house, dropped my backpack, toasted a bagel, slathered it with cream cheese and INHALED it, while resting my feet on ice packs, with another pack around my neck.
And I realized these things:
1. Urban hiking is hard work (we walked six miles).
2. I really, really, really love my minivan.
3. I can't believe I actually got my kids out, in the sunshine, exercising.
4. I'm not sure I'll be able to stand up once I try to leave this chair.
Have a great Sunday. Get out there and DO something! :)
You have to understand my husband. He makes the Energizer Bunny look like a sloth. If he is not working on one of the approximately 4,962 things on his "to do" list (neatly typed and categorized), he really does not know what to do with himself. He even schedules naps. Busy is how he likes to be, and unstructured time is often met with restlessness and feeling scattered.
He mentioned working out so I suggested we take a nice, long walk down to the shopping area near us. Last weekend we walked down to the Starbucks and back and it was a lovely, long walk and a great workout. This time, though, we also knew we needed groceries for a Cinco de Mayo feast we decided to have for dinner, so I suggested that if we wore backpacks, we could cart the groceries back (uphill!) to the house. THEN I got all crazy and shit and suggested we make the kids go, too.
Surprisingly, that went pretty well. I mean, there was a bit of complaining (Hannah) about having to turn off "Criminal Minds" and a bit of primping (Harrison) when it was decided that a shower was needed if we were going to appear in public. Mind you, I put my hair into pigtails, threw on some workout clothes and skipped the makeup. I was looking just perfect for "public." Coupled with sweat and a bright red face, I'm quite the looker when I work out.
Once the kids were all dolled up and we procured one backpacking backpack and two school backpacks, we headed down the road. First stop, Walgreen's to pick up prescriptions. Once I stopped walking and went indoors, my body responded as only a 45-year-old menopausal woman's can, and I started sweating, which I'm sure was a nice compliment to my beet-red face. As I wiped drips out of my eyes, I instructed Harrison to go get me one of those cool little fan/spray bottle combos, which I dropped $9.99 on without even thinking and didn't even blink at the $5.99 batteries I needed to purchase to make it work. It was Heaven!
Next, we took a break at Starbucks and enjoyed some cold drinks. Of course, we walked in the door at exactly the same time as three girls who exclaimed "Harrison!" so I guess he was right about needing to be presentable for his fan club.
Then we did our shopping at Fred Meyer, trying to stick to the list and not buy any extras (but of course we did!). We checked out and distributed the food and drinks among the three packs. We had two 2-liter bottles of Sprite, a bottle of tequila, a six-pack of beer, about 10 lbs of produce, meat, bagels, lunchmeat (might as well stock up for the week!), frozen orange juice........all in all about 55 lbs of groceries!
We started the trek back, me secretly hoping a neighbor with a minivan and no extra passengers would happen by and take my sherpa family home. But it was not to be. Under a cloudless blue sky, and 75 degrees (shut up, we live in Seattle, that's HOT!) we trekked up the hill towards home. I felt the warm sun on my skin and the slight breezes, all the while feeling my muscles work packing the groceries home, thinking "wow, I am really getting in shape!"
About halfway up the hill, my skin suddenly caught fire (ok, not literally, but I sort of understand what spontaneous combustion might feel like now), and I was breathing heavily. My heart was beating in my ears, cheeks and the back of my head. My breath was a cadence of "put one foot in front of the other...." and I felt my shoulders being ripped from their sockets from the weight of the backpack.. I stopped for a breather while the kids trudged ahead. Jeff, in his infinite wisdom, stopped to wait for me, and then used my new spray bottle/fan to cool me off, but the water just evaporated the minute it hit my skin, and those slight breezes were not enough to offer my overheated skin any relief.
I wanted to lay down. In the shade. Jeff jokingly said "you can rest here in the shade and I'll run up and get the car" and for half a second I considered it. But I just kept going. I pulled my already ample frame, plus another 16 lbs in a Winnie-the-Pooh backpack up the hill toward home.
Sweet Jesus, we finally turned the corner into our neighborhood and Jeff said "I'm really hungry" and then it hit me - that wonderful overly-hungry, shaking, sweating hypoglycemic reaction that reminded me I needed some calories, stat! I made it into the house, dropped my backpack, toasted a bagel, slathered it with cream cheese and INHALED it, while resting my feet on ice packs, with another pack around my neck.
And I realized these things:
1. Urban hiking is hard work (we walked six miles).
2. I really, really, really love my minivan.
3. I can't believe I actually got my kids out, in the sunshine, exercising.
4. I'm not sure I'll be able to stand up once I try to leave this chair.
Have a great Sunday. Get out there and DO something! :)
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Whiner..........
I was in a really bad mood yesterday. And I woke up in a bad mood this morning. Mostly it was because it appears that everyone around me is full of fabulous news, exciting new opportunities, and big plans. And I feel like I'm spinning my wheels waiting for something to happen, knowing it will not unless I take action, and being pissed off that I'm too busy to do anything about it.
It doesn't help that this week has been particularly busy, and by that I mean there have been evening obligations which mean getting home much later. Which means no time to cook dinner. Which means eating crap food. Which means no time to work out. Which means feeling even worse about eating crap food. And so the cycle goes.
Also, I work part time but I almost never come home after work. In fact, I cannot remember the last time I came home and actually had half a day to do what I wanted/needed to do. Most days I am picking someone up right after work for an appointment or other obligation, then often repeating that cycle until at least dinner time, usually arriving home with starving offspring and no plan for dinner. By the time I get everyone fed, everything cleaned up, make lunches for the next day, and try to squeeze in a few extracurriculars like laundry or paying bills, it's 10 p.m. and time for bed again. Not that I ever go to sleep around 10 p.m. No, it's a good night if I am in the vicinity of my bedroom by 10 p.m. Sleep happens around 11:30 p.m.. And ends at 6:30 a.m. Blarg.
So, yesterday, I was feeling particularly sorry for myself because a couple of friends, and several bloggers I follow are experiencing success with their writing (i.e. book deals, paid gigs, etc.) and my writing is currently confined to this blog, and nothing else. What I really WANT is to write for pay, write a book, have time to write, write every day. But I have this job. And this family. And blah, blah, blah. If I knew it wouldn't strap us financially, I'd quit my job in a New York minute and write full-time. Because being a writer, you have to write. A lot. And often. And yesterday, my day went like this:
6:30 a.m. Alarm goes off. Lay in bed till 6:45 ish. Pick up phone and scroll through email, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.
7:05 a.m. Get ass out of bed and into shower.
7:15 a.m. Get dressed. Change clothes five times, even though I had a basic idea of what I'd wear the night before (capris since it was going to be warm out).
7:45 a.m. Finally go downstairs, and lament, once again, that I never have time for breakfast and should be leaving for work right now, or five minutes ago.
8:00 a.m. Actually make it out the door even though I'm technically supposed to be at work right now. Know I can be a half hour late at most because I stay a half hour extra once a week for planning. Still get to work ten minutes after "grace period."
1:15 p.m. Leave work late to make up for late arrival this morning.
1:35 p.m. Arrive at school to pick up Hannah, sit in car finishing lunch for ten minutes.
1:45 p.m. Meet with Hannah and her teacher.
2:00 p.m. Leave school, go home, make phone calls, check email, clean up dishes, make snacks, fill water bottles, gather stuff for rehearsal, etc. Arlie arrives home.
3:00 p.m. Leave to pick up Harrison.
3:15 p.m. Pick up Harrison, drive to high school for musical rehearsal.
3:30 p.m. Drop all three kids off at rehearsal. Make a beeline out of there before someone asks me to volunteer.
3:40 p.m. Drive to consignment shop. Enjoy some browsing/shopping while kids are at rehearsal. (Note: I thought about bringing my laptop with me and going to Starbucks to write, but by the time I got the wifi working, it would be nearly time to go back to get them and chances are I'd be in the middle of writing something truly sensational. Ha!). Buy two dresses and three shirts, and a sensational evening gown/prom dress that was on the clearance rack (and by that I mean I paid TWO DOLLARS FOR IT, even though it had never been work and still had the original tags attached). With store credit for consigning, pay $2.80 for everything. Feel smug.
4:30 p.m. Drive back to the high school and wait for kids to finish rehearsal. Check email, FB and Twitter on phone. Make lists. Eat veggies from my lunch because I'm supposed to be eating more veggies. Realize that eating a bunch of cherry tomatoes leaves tomato skin in your teeth and spit that out for the next ten minutes.
5:15 p.m. Finally leave high school after kids socialize too long.
5:25 p.m. Pick up teriyaki for dinner.
6:05 p.m. Arrive home, rip open containers, eat teriyaki standing up at counter, while trying to catch up with Jeff.
6:15 p.m. Grab keys, head out with Harrison for band practice, while Jeff prepares to head out with Arlie for driver's ed final drive.
6:30 p.m. Drop Harrison off, head to Target to buy sports bras and cat litter.
7:00 p.m. Really only buy sports bras and cat litter, don't even browse at Target, leave with minimum purchase (gasp!).
7:05 p.m. Go to Starbucks inside Barnes and Noble. Order iced mocha and toffee crunch bar. Remember when I was addicted to toffee crunch bars when they used to be in every Starbucks. Wonder why they stopped carrying them. Wish I hadn't discovered these. Hello, new pastry I don't need!
7:30 p.m. Back to band practice, waiting for Harrison. Check email and FB on phone.
8:00 p.m. Harrison comes out to car, head home stopping by neighborhood with good sunset views to snap a few pictures of the sunset.
8:30 p.m. Home. Clean up. Make lunches. Realize how exhausted I am. Pack up laptop, portable office, purse and reading material and head upstairs - if I have to do work, still, might as well do it from the comfort of my bed.
9:10 p.m. In bed surrounded by bills. Do paperwork and bills for over an hour.
10:30 p.m. See low bank balance, become depressed, decide I've paid enough bills and push everything off bed to settle in for the night.
11:30 p.m. Turn off light after "winding down" playing Solitaire on my Kindle for an hour (!)
6:30 a.m. Start all over again.
So, see? When am I supposed to write? And how am I supposed to write with all that chaos going on? Or without sitting in a chair, with a cup of tea and a beautiful view outside my window? Gah! Not to mention, I did not have time to eat healthy, work out, or do any type of housework (badly needed) in that whole day. So, I went to bed feeling defeated, unfulfilled, and fat.
Plus, when I took my capris off, the zipper broke! Seriously, I just unzipped them and saw something fly across the room. Turns out it was two teeth off my zipper. The zipper on one of the FEW pairs of capris that actually fit me. Great. And who really can fix a zipper? Not me! I'm certainly not going to pay anyone to fix the zipper on a 10.99 pair of capris I got at Ross. But am I pissed off that a pair of pants that actually fits my ass are now junk? Of course I am!
Also, when I tried to talk to Jeff about how I was feeling, he just made some stupid "man" comment like "well, you have to MAKE time" which is about my least favorite phrase in the world.
So, I woke up in the same bad mood I went to bed in. I repeated yesterday, right down to changing my clothes five times (again, after I already knew which pants I was going to wear!). I did NOT want to go to work, and moved quite slowly (although not as slowly as yesterday - I made it to work a little less late than the day before - still not on time - ugh!).
And when I got there, I saw this through the sunlight in the door's window:
Mrs. Moo. As in cow. As in fat. Great. Even my classroom door is mocking me! But the sun was shining. And it was (finally!) warm outside. And Thursdays are pretty straightforward, easy days in the classroom.
And the day actually did turn out o.k. My class was fairly well-behaved, work went fast, I still had to pick up a kid after school, but I had time to stop and get coffees for us first (ok, yes, I went back to the B&N Starbucks just so I could have another toffee-crunch bar!). The doctor appointment didn't take very long, and I had time to go home for a half hour and check my email and print out some stuff before heading back out for my evening obligation.
Which was getting my hair done. Which is like therapy and "me" time rolled into one. Thank you, Marie, my wonderful hairdresser!
And when I left, I had new hair, the sun was just starting to set, and on the drive home, as I crested a hill, I saw the Olympic mountains in full glory bathed in the early evening sun and I actually said out loud "God, those are beautiful mountains!"
And then I got Taco Time for dinner and stopped at Dairy Queen at the request of Arlie and Hannah for Blizzards and a Dilly Bar for me.
So, there's still the fat thing. But I'm working on that.
It doesn't help that this week has been particularly busy, and by that I mean there have been evening obligations which mean getting home much later. Which means no time to cook dinner. Which means eating crap food. Which means no time to work out. Which means feeling even worse about eating crap food. And so the cycle goes.
Also, I work part time but I almost never come home after work. In fact, I cannot remember the last time I came home and actually had half a day to do what I wanted/needed to do. Most days I am picking someone up right after work for an appointment or other obligation, then often repeating that cycle until at least dinner time, usually arriving home with starving offspring and no plan for dinner. By the time I get everyone fed, everything cleaned up, make lunches for the next day, and try to squeeze in a few extracurriculars like laundry or paying bills, it's 10 p.m. and time for bed again. Not that I ever go to sleep around 10 p.m. No, it's a good night if I am in the vicinity of my bedroom by 10 p.m. Sleep happens around 11:30 p.m.. And ends at 6:30 a.m. Blarg.
So, yesterday, I was feeling particularly sorry for myself because a couple of friends, and several bloggers I follow are experiencing success with their writing (i.e. book deals, paid gigs, etc.) and my writing is currently confined to this blog, and nothing else. What I really WANT is to write for pay, write a book, have time to write, write every day. But I have this job. And this family. And blah, blah, blah. If I knew it wouldn't strap us financially, I'd quit my job in a New York minute and write full-time. Because being a writer, you have to write. A lot. And often. And yesterday, my day went like this:
6:30 a.m. Alarm goes off. Lay in bed till 6:45 ish. Pick up phone and scroll through email, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.
7:05 a.m. Get ass out of bed and into shower.
7:15 a.m. Get dressed. Change clothes five times, even though I had a basic idea of what I'd wear the night before (capris since it was going to be warm out).
7:45 a.m. Finally go downstairs, and lament, once again, that I never have time for breakfast and should be leaving for work right now, or five minutes ago.
8:00 a.m. Actually make it out the door even though I'm technically supposed to be at work right now. Know I can be a half hour late at most because I stay a half hour extra once a week for planning. Still get to work ten minutes after "grace period."
1:15 p.m. Leave work late to make up for late arrival this morning.
1:35 p.m. Arrive at school to pick up Hannah, sit in car finishing lunch for ten minutes.
1:45 p.m. Meet with Hannah and her teacher.
2:00 p.m. Leave school, go home, make phone calls, check email, clean up dishes, make snacks, fill water bottles, gather stuff for rehearsal, etc. Arlie arrives home.
3:00 p.m. Leave to pick up Harrison.
3:15 p.m. Pick up Harrison, drive to high school for musical rehearsal.
3:30 p.m. Drop all three kids off at rehearsal. Make a beeline out of there before someone asks me to volunteer.
3:40 p.m. Drive to consignment shop. Enjoy some browsing/shopping while kids are at rehearsal. (Note: I thought about bringing my laptop with me and going to Starbucks to write, but by the time I got the wifi working, it would be nearly time to go back to get them and chances are I'd be in the middle of writing something truly sensational. Ha!). Buy two dresses and three shirts, and a sensational evening gown/prom dress that was on the clearance rack (and by that I mean I paid TWO DOLLARS FOR IT, even though it had never been work and still had the original tags attached). With store credit for consigning, pay $2.80 for everything. Feel smug.
4:30 p.m. Drive back to the high school and wait for kids to finish rehearsal. Check email, FB and Twitter on phone. Make lists. Eat veggies from my lunch because I'm supposed to be eating more veggies. Realize that eating a bunch of cherry tomatoes leaves tomato skin in your teeth and spit that out for the next ten minutes.
5:15 p.m. Finally leave high school after kids socialize too long.
5:25 p.m. Pick up teriyaki for dinner.
6:05 p.m. Arrive home, rip open containers, eat teriyaki standing up at counter, while trying to catch up with Jeff.
6:15 p.m. Grab keys, head out with Harrison for band practice, while Jeff prepares to head out with Arlie for driver's ed final drive.
6:30 p.m. Drop Harrison off, head to Target to buy sports bras and cat litter.
7:00 p.m. Really only buy sports bras and cat litter, don't even browse at Target, leave with minimum purchase (gasp!).
7:05 p.m. Go to Starbucks inside Barnes and Noble. Order iced mocha and toffee crunch bar. Remember when I was addicted to toffee crunch bars when they used to be in every Starbucks. Wonder why they stopped carrying them. Wish I hadn't discovered these. Hello, new pastry I don't need!
7:30 p.m. Back to band practice, waiting for Harrison. Check email and FB on phone.
8:00 p.m. Harrison comes out to car, head home stopping by neighborhood with good sunset views to snap a few pictures of the sunset.
8:30 p.m. Home. Clean up. Make lunches. Realize how exhausted I am. Pack up laptop, portable office, purse and reading material and head upstairs - if I have to do work, still, might as well do it from the comfort of my bed.
9:10 p.m. In bed surrounded by bills. Do paperwork and bills for over an hour.
10:30 p.m. See low bank balance, become depressed, decide I've paid enough bills and push everything off bed to settle in for the night.
11:30 p.m. Turn off light after "winding down" playing Solitaire on my Kindle for an hour (!)
6:30 a.m. Start all over again.
So, see? When am I supposed to write? And how am I supposed to write with all that chaos going on? Or without sitting in a chair, with a cup of tea and a beautiful view outside my window? Gah! Not to mention, I did not have time to eat healthy, work out, or do any type of housework (badly needed) in that whole day. So, I went to bed feeling defeated, unfulfilled, and fat.
Plus, when I took my capris off, the zipper broke! Seriously, I just unzipped them and saw something fly across the room. Turns out it was two teeth off my zipper. The zipper on one of the FEW pairs of capris that actually fit me. Great. And who really can fix a zipper? Not me! I'm certainly not going to pay anyone to fix the zipper on a 10.99 pair of capris I got at Ross. But am I pissed off that a pair of pants that actually fits my ass are now junk? Of course I am!
Also, when I tried to talk to Jeff about how I was feeling, he just made some stupid "man" comment like "well, you have to MAKE time" which is about my least favorite phrase in the world.
So, I woke up in the same bad mood I went to bed in. I repeated yesterday, right down to changing my clothes five times (again, after I already knew which pants I was going to wear!). I did NOT want to go to work, and moved quite slowly (although not as slowly as yesterday - I made it to work a little less late than the day before - still not on time - ugh!).
And when I got there, I saw this through the sunlight in the door's window:
And the day actually did turn out o.k. My class was fairly well-behaved, work went fast, I still had to pick up a kid after school, but I had time to stop and get coffees for us first (ok, yes, I went back to the B&N Starbucks just so I could have another toffee-crunch bar!). The doctor appointment didn't take very long, and I had time to go home for a half hour and check my email and print out some stuff before heading back out for my evening obligation.
Which was getting my hair done. Which is like therapy and "me" time rolled into one. Thank you, Marie, my wonderful hairdresser!
And when I left, I had new hair, the sun was just starting to set, and on the drive home, as I crested a hill, I saw the Olympic mountains in full glory bathed in the early evening sun and I actually said out loud "God, those are beautiful mountains!"
And then I got Taco Time for dinner and stopped at Dairy Queen at the request of Arlie and Hannah for Blizzards and a Dilly Bar for me.
So, there's still the fat thing. But I'm working on that.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
ER punch card - pay for six visits, get the seventh free! Not.
Surprisingly, although I have four kids, when they were little we made surprisingly few trips to the ER. No one even got stitches until a couple of years ago when Harrison tried out a new Cutco knife on his finger (it worked!). When Hannah had a ruptured appendix it still took us a couple days before we decided she needed to go to the ER (duh!). Arlie fell off the bleachers after soccer practice once and we took her to the ER only to spend over three hours on a school night waiting while they repeated the x-rays they lost the first time. Most of their medical emergencies happened during office hours (Hayley's broken wrist, Hannah's broken elbow) so going to the ER wasn't a frequent occurrence.
But......in the last six months we've been to the ER five times! If they had a punch card, we'd be on our way to a free visit! Alas, they don't. I've spent some long days (and nights) in the ER with different members of my family, and I've declared that if I spend the night in the ER, I get to take a sick day the next day. I'm too old to pull an all-nighter, especially one that doesn't involve alcohol.
Last night I got to make another speedy trip to the ER, this time with Jeff, who woke up with a horrible "niacin flush." For those of you who don't know, a niacin flush is a reaction to niacin, which Jeff has been taking for his cholesterol. Typically, this "flush" causes a feeling of being overheated along with some itchiness that lasts just a few minutes. It can be countered by taking the pills just before sleep (so you sleep through it) and sometimes taking aspirin or ibuprofen.
But.....sometimes it's worse. A LOT worse. As in, you wake up a couple hours after sleeping to your whole body being red like a sunburn and itching worse than you can ever imagine. And it doesn't stop after a few minutes. In fact, last night, Jeff woke at 12:30 in agony. At 1:30 I gave him two Benadryl. At 2 he took three aspirin and another Benadryl. At 2:30 we went to the ER. What transpired in between that time was both awful and hilarious.
While Jeff suffered and tried to get something, anything to stop the itching, he was alternately in and out of the shower, going outside (once with no shoes - "FUCK SHOES!" he shouted as he flung out the door), and falling on the floor because his legs were so twitchy. We tried a fan, cold air, cold water, lotion, the meds.....and nothing was helping. He mentioned how forcing someone to take niacin and have this result would be an excellent torture, and asked me if I would please "just cut off my legs!" Several times I suggested we go to the ER, but he kept saying "no" until all of a sudden he said "I'll just drive myself" at which time I jumped up and threw on some yoga pants. Jeff was happy to go in his underwear but did have the presence of mind to throw on a sweatshirt, shorts, and flip flops.
While we drove there, he kept saying "You are taking the longest possible route to get there!" I drove the shortest possible route and went 85 mph. We approached the ER and he said "Go in that way!" which took me in the wrong way, and I pulled up next to the wrong door. He shouted "It's up there, whatever, I'll just get out here!" and he barrelled out of the car while it was still moving. I parked quickly as he staggered like a drunk into the ER and right into the intake room (no waiting, I guess - lol!).
While he was being questioned, he mentioned that his discomfort was an 11 on a scale of 1-10 and that it was "worse than death." He also commented that he was never, ever, ever taking niacin again, and that he would rather have a heart attack.
After examining him the doctor said he was having a severe reaction, they didn't know why, and that there was nothing to do but wait it out since he had already maxed out on the Benadryl, but he did give him a nice aspirin and some lorazepam. It wouldn't take the itching away, but it would help him not care as much. Except it didn't work - he still cared. Because he still itched. At one point, his feet were cold and he asked me for some of "those fucking booties" to keep them warm. I rummaged around in the room for a pair of those lovely gray socks with rubbery tread painted on both sides. Jeff liked that they helped "scratch" his legs. When I pulled out my phone to videotape his misery, he said "let's play a game of go fuck yourself, you go first!" That only made me laugh harder at his expense. I'm horrible. I know.
It wasn't as funny as time went on and it wasn't getting any better. I finally asked the nurse for something else - more Benadryl and/or lorazepam and she gave him both. At long last, he stopped twitching miserably, stopped scratching, and began to droop as the drugs took effect. As soon as he was almost comatose they declared him fit to go home. He stumbled to the car and said all he wanted was a McDonald's frappe. We stopped at the first McD's we saw but they weren't open at the early hour of 5 a.m. so we went to a 24 hour one. And guess what? Their frappe machine was broken! By this time we were both hungry so we ate bacon, egg and cheese biscuits on our way home. Jeff sort of oozed out of the car and said in a slurred voice, "Man, that stuff is a good combination, I'm really feeling out of it" and then proceeded to try and walk up the stairs, saying "My feet have cement blocks on them, I can't walk!" He fell heavily into bed and hasn't moved since.
I slept for seven hours. Jeff hasn't been up all day. I did talk to him, so I know he's alive, but I'm guessing he'll be sleeping off the drugs for a few more hours. And that he'll never take niacin again. Scratch, scratch.
But......in the last six months we've been to the ER five times! If they had a punch card, we'd be on our way to a free visit! Alas, they don't. I've spent some long days (and nights) in the ER with different members of my family, and I've declared that if I spend the night in the ER, I get to take a sick day the next day. I'm too old to pull an all-nighter, especially one that doesn't involve alcohol.
Last night I got to make another speedy trip to the ER, this time with Jeff, who woke up with a horrible "niacin flush." For those of you who don't know, a niacin flush is a reaction to niacin, which Jeff has been taking for his cholesterol. Typically, this "flush" causes a feeling of being overheated along with some itchiness that lasts just a few minutes. It can be countered by taking the pills just before sleep (so you sleep through it) and sometimes taking aspirin or ibuprofen.
But.....sometimes it's worse. A LOT worse. As in, you wake up a couple hours after sleeping to your whole body being red like a sunburn and itching worse than you can ever imagine. And it doesn't stop after a few minutes. In fact, last night, Jeff woke at 12:30 in agony. At 1:30 I gave him two Benadryl. At 2 he took three aspirin and another Benadryl. At 2:30 we went to the ER. What transpired in between that time was both awful and hilarious.
While Jeff suffered and tried to get something, anything to stop the itching, he was alternately in and out of the shower, going outside (once with no shoes - "FUCK SHOES!" he shouted as he flung out the door), and falling on the floor because his legs were so twitchy. We tried a fan, cold air, cold water, lotion, the meds.....and nothing was helping. He mentioned how forcing someone to take niacin and have this result would be an excellent torture, and asked me if I would please "just cut off my legs!" Several times I suggested we go to the ER, but he kept saying "no" until all of a sudden he said "I'll just drive myself" at which time I jumped up and threw on some yoga pants. Jeff was happy to go in his underwear but did have the presence of mind to throw on a sweatshirt, shorts, and flip flops.
While we drove there, he kept saying "You are taking the longest possible route to get there!" I drove the shortest possible route and went 85 mph. We approached the ER and he said "Go in that way!" which took me in the wrong way, and I pulled up next to the wrong door. He shouted "It's up there, whatever, I'll just get out here!" and he barrelled out of the car while it was still moving. I parked quickly as he staggered like a drunk into the ER and right into the intake room (no waiting, I guess - lol!).
While he was being questioned, he mentioned that his discomfort was an 11 on a scale of 1-10 and that it was "worse than death." He also commented that he was never, ever, ever taking niacin again, and that he would rather have a heart attack.
After examining him the doctor said he was having a severe reaction, they didn't know why, and that there was nothing to do but wait it out since he had already maxed out on the Benadryl, but he did give him a nice aspirin and some lorazepam. It wouldn't take the itching away, but it would help him not care as much. Except it didn't work - he still cared. Because he still itched. At one point, his feet were cold and he asked me for some of "those fucking booties" to keep them warm. I rummaged around in the room for a pair of those lovely gray socks with rubbery tread painted on both sides. Jeff liked that they helped "scratch" his legs. When I pulled out my phone to videotape his misery, he said "let's play a game of go fuck yourself, you go first!" That only made me laugh harder at his expense. I'm horrible. I know.
It wasn't as funny as time went on and it wasn't getting any better. I finally asked the nurse for something else - more Benadryl and/or lorazepam and she gave him both. At long last, he stopped twitching miserably, stopped scratching, and began to droop as the drugs took effect. As soon as he was almost comatose they declared him fit to go home. He stumbled to the car and said all he wanted was a McDonald's frappe. We stopped at the first McD's we saw but they weren't open at the early hour of 5 a.m. so we went to a 24 hour one. And guess what? Their frappe machine was broken! By this time we were both hungry so we ate bacon, egg and cheese biscuits on our way home. Jeff sort of oozed out of the car and said in a slurred voice, "Man, that stuff is a good combination, I'm really feeling out of it" and then proceeded to try and walk up the stairs, saying "My feet have cement blocks on them, I can't walk!" He fell heavily into bed and hasn't moved since.
I slept for seven hours. Jeff hasn't been up all day. I did talk to him, so I know he's alive, but I'm guessing he'll be sleeping off the drugs for a few more hours. And that he'll never take niacin again. Scratch, scratch.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Mountain man..........
Jeff took some time this morning to head out to a "mountain man" club and their shooting range where he was able to shoot his muzzle loader. I'm not sure if that's supposed to be hyphenated, and I'm not sure why it's called that because he certainly does not load it with muzzles. Unless that's what you call those metal ball thingys but I'm pretty sure those are called "musket balls." Or something.
Anyway, Jeff became acquainted with this particular group ofnut jobs men when he dragged me to a mountain man show at the fairgrounds a few weeks ago. He talked at length about this muzzle loader gun thing of his and the need for a powder horn and used words like "flint" and "primer" and other things that made no sense to me.
This mountain man show had tables full of handicrafts, knives, skulls, and other oddities. Let me paint a picture:
Anyway, Jeff became acquainted with this particular group of
This mountain man show had tables full of handicrafts, knives, skulls, and other oddities. Let me paint a picture:
This ain't no teddy bear!
I was fascinated by this old guy's headdress which he told me was his grandfather's from long ago. I suggested a picture and he said "If I had a pretty lady like you, I'd hold her and squeeze her real tight" and then he did! Dirty old man.
Because everyone needs to shoot GOLF BALLS.
A comfortable abode. Not.
There was a lot of emphasis on "period dress" and a lot of people there dressed like they lived a long, long time ago. I guess it was like comic-con for mountain men.
But what really got me was that Jeff struck up a conversation with a man who told him there was a special event for "the ladies" - a whole week of primitive camping in the woods, where "the ladies" wore pre-1860's attire (required) and learned things like candle and soap making (and, the only cool thing I saw on the list, archery). Jeff thought I would LOVE doing it and he even picked up a brochure for Hayley, our oldest daughter, and suggested we do it together as a mother-daughter bonding time. Hayley, the child who spends 99.9% of her day "plugged in" to her cell phone and computer. Who doesn't like to be cold. Or dirty. Or to do hard labor. Or use a primitive toilet.
Now, I'm not saying it was my cup of tea, either. The idea of spending a sweltering summer day in layers of wool or muslin or whatever the hell they used to make clothes back in the day sounds like pure torture to me. I mean, I watched "Little House on the Prairie" as religiously as any other young girl my age, but that doesn't mean I WANT to use a pit toilet. Or cook over an open campfire, while smoke gets in my eyes. Or sleep on the GROUND. Wtf? I have a camper, for cryin' out loud. I retired my ground sleeping camping days long ago, and even then I used an air mattress. I suppose I'd be required to make a "ticking" out of hay and some scratchy fabric to sleep on. And snuggle under an itchy wool blanket. No freakin' way. I just bought a blanket at Costco that is softer than anything I've ever touched and I love every fake fiber of it's being.
I took the brochures on the sexist camp from hell ladies only camp and kept them on my desk for the requisite ten days or so before depositing them in the recycle bin. Because the thing is, I like electricity. And plumbing. And Starbucks.
But Jeff pursued the mountain man idea further when he went to the range today to shoot his muzzle loader. He came home with a bit of fabric tied to his shirt button. I inquired as to what the fabric was and was treated to a long story about how he had the wrong ball thingys and how they didn't like his smokeless powder; they were black powder guys (grunt) and how he had to wrap his ball thingys in this fabric, but FIRST he had to put it in his mouth and chew it and wet it and THEN he had to wrap his ball thingys in it so they would fire out the gun, and so on.
And I was thinking, by the time you do all that crap, the bear, or moose, or wolf, or whatever delicacy you were trying to shoot for your dinner has already trampled you and is now ripping your guts out with it's shiny white dagger teeth.
Plus, he came home smelling like sulphur, to which Hayley said "You smell like poop and nature."
Did I mention how much I enjoy indoor plumbing?
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