I forgot where I was going with this….

Son #2: Mom, why do they call costumes costumes?
Me: Because the UMES have lots of COSTS.
Son #2: (like I revealed where a buried treasure is) OOOoooohhhhh.
Son #1: SHE’S LYING!

It’s the next Dr. Suess book. When I took son #2 for his test yesterday they made him swallow this white chalky stuff that lit up on X-ray so they could see what his stomach was doing. When we were leaving the nurse says “Oh, one more thing. As that liquid goes through the body, it doesn’t change colors, so don’t be alarmed when he poops white.” This nurse clearly does not have children. If she did, she would have whispered that in my ear instead of saying it out loud in front of a six year old. Because said six year old immediately became obssessed with white poo. What boy wouldn’t?

As soon as we walked in the door he ran to the bathroom. “I wanna see my white poo!” he announced. I said “Son, it won’t be white yet, give it some time.” “No! I gotta check!” he insisted. About a half hour later he comes out the bathroom and disappointedly announces “There was only a spot of white.” He ate his lunch and we ran an errand and as soon as we got home he headed straight for the bathroom. Another half hour later he runs out and excitedly announces “MOM! IT’S STRIPED WHITE POO!” I curse this nurse. Truly nurse, I curse you and all your dependants. I could really live without the minute by minute poo reports.

This morning, I was apparently showering when the great white poo finally appeared. But as a loving gift to me, and so I could see just what white poo looks like, son #2 left it for me to find just now. Sigh. I hate that nurse.

My cousin calls my mom and one of my aunts Gloom and Doom. They thrive on adversity. They like to revel in the misery, the negatives, the bad chi. When my mom told me of my grandmother’s breast cancer, she left out some pretty important details. Like the fact that the doctor said “THIS IS TOTALLY CURABLE.” Argg! I was freaking out and she fails to mention that it’s the slowest growing kind and the tumor is small and unless some freak thing occurs she’s going to be completely fine. And it’s not that my mom is ignorant. She’s a dietician that has worked on a breast cancer study for the last eight years. SHE KNOWS all the statistics and the information like a freakin’ encyclopedia.

I called my grandmother last night and talked to her and one of my aunts for two hours. It turns out that yet another aunt has been doing a little financial hanky panky and has drained my grandmother’s bank accounts. She only has enough money left to pay 2.5 more house payments. My aunt charges her to drive her anywhere, cook her dinner or whatever task she performs for her. She’s gone through more money in a month than my grandmother usually spends in a year. There’s also about $8,000 that is missing and unaccounted for. My aunt “borrowed” $14,000. Yikes, huh?

My grandmother has spent her entire 88 years in small Louisiana towns. Since I’ve moved here I’ve tried to talk her into coming out here for a visit. Every time she says something along the lines of: it’s too far away from Louisiana and kinda scary for her. Last night when I called her I not only offered to come get her for a visit but I said she could move in with me and I would take care of her FREE OF CHARGE. I didn’t realize that my grandmother was extremely worried about her future and I would be providing her, at the very least, with the knowledge that she would be taken of, no matter what was in her bank account. And instead of her usual ideas about why she couldn’t come out here, she started asking me about the weather and what it was like here. My heart soared. Although I doubt the rest of the family would let her come live with me, she sounded open to the idea. And I almost cried when she told me that she would be able to sleep tonight because she knew someone could and would take care of her. She tried to say that I wouldn’t be able to take care of her with trying to raise the boys, but after I explained that we had been preparing for Pop to come before he died, she realized that I had thought it through and knew what I was getting into. Again, I doubt that her children, probably especially my mother, would let her come live with me, but at least I know now that Grandma can stop worrying about financial stuff and start focusing her energy on getting better. I’m so relieved and I think she it too. And I was worried how I was going to get to Louisiana in the next few weeks with the kids, since they’ve missed so much school already. I think I can wait until summer and then go spend a couple of weeks with her.

So big sigh of relief. Steve has forbidden me to speak to Doom again about this subject. He also says I should go back to screening my calls. lol.

You know what? I’m pissed off. That’s right, I’m really ticked. I ask the universe and I ask God “Haven’t I had ENOUGH lately?” And the answer is a resounding no. That’s right, NO, people.

I’ve mentioned before that my youngest son has reflux. He’s had it since birth. The whole reflux thing was God’s sense of humor because before son #2 came along, I couldn’t do vomit. So for 6 years, I’ve had trial by vomit. 2, 3, 4 am, in a completely RANDOM pattern, my son will wake up and vomit. I go from sleeping to vomit. And after 6 years, I take it in stride. Like at 4 am a few days ago. Son #2 just vomits while he’s sleeping. I get up, I change sheets, I go back to bed. This is my life.

Our pediatrician in California was always very laid back about the reflux. Son #2 has been on medication for it since he was 2 weeks old and that’s just the way life is. But when we moved here when he was 4, the new pediatrician wasn’t so comfortable with the reflux. Right away he sent me to a gastroenterologist for son #2 to be evaluated. Of course the first thing that the gastroenterologist wants to do is a whole bunch of tests, including one where they put him under anesthesia. This was on the heels of a seizure son #2 had just had. He had spent 3 days in the hospital and thought everyone in medicine was put on this planet to hurt him. He would start to cry before we even walked into a doctor’s office. So I refused the testing. The gastroenterologist said “You’ll be back.”

My pediatrician kept asking me to get the upper GI series (test without anesthesia) done and I kept putting it off. Finally in December, when we were back in California, and son #2 had an ear infection and I had the opportunity to ask my old pediatrician about it. He said “It’s time, Helen.” So today I took son #2 for the upper GI series so they could rule out the possiblity of a hiatal hernia. They found no hernia. But the test showed he was refluxing (duhhhh). So they said that they needed to find the cause and my doctor would probably order the endoscopy (the test with anesthesia that I’ve been fighting against.) So I’m upset. There’s a genetic condition that runs in my family that is hereditary that is a fatal reaction to anethesia. Two of my first cousins have it. It’s called malignant hypothermia. The body’s temperature shoots up to 107 or 108 degrees and even with the patient packed in ice, they often die. This can be avoided if the right drugs are used, but it’s a risk I haven’t been willing to take. I’m pissed.

I called my mom to tell her and a big silence stretches out and she says “I’ve got more bad news.” And I already know what it is before she says it, but I wish for that instant to stretch out into eternity. That time before I know and life seems less scary. But she only lets another heartbeat pass before she says it anyway. “Grandma has breast cancer.” And the only thing I want to do is rage and scream at the entire universe for this injustice.

My grandmother is my rock. She is the only grandparent I have left. She is the one “safe” relative I’ve had my whole life. The one person related to me that I know I can trust, that I know loves me unconditionally, and the good memories I have of childhood and even adulthood, center around her. Her faith in God is what keeps me from losing mine. Because even if I lose my way with God, she’s there to put me back on the path. She is my connection to religion. She is my lifeline. And I can’t lose her. I’m not ready to lose her. Alzheimers may be robbing her of memories, but she still knows my voice and remembers she loves me. When I say “Pray for me, Grandma” I know it will go from my lips to God’s ears.

So I am angry today. Why me? What did I ever do to deserve all this? Why has Karma painted some big ass, giant bullseye on MY back? I must have been a serial killer in a former life. It’s the only explanation. And I’m pissed. Because if I don’t stay angry, this might break me……

You’ll never guess what happened. Never. Try. Go ahead. Try. No that wasn’t it but I like the way you think. Ok, here it is: I either broke another rib or rebroke the same one in a different spot. Soooo anyhoo, me and the doc are getting to know each other REALLY WELL. Now before you go accusing me of sneaking off the gym and working out, I was actually choking to death when this happened.

Stop laughing. See, I was drinking some water and somehow I inhaled while drinking which caused the water to go down the wrong pipe. And then I exploded into a coughing fit shooting water out my mouth and all over the floor. Thank God I wasn’t in public. Then son #2 helpfully said “Mom, you shouldn’t throw up all over the floor. You should lean over the sink. That’s what I do.” Each cough put incredible pressure on my ribs while I was desperately trying to stop it. And then I felt a tug and a pop. And each cough after that was even more excrutiating. Sigh.

So now I’m walking all hunched over again like a 92 year old lady. And I’m breathing like Roseanne Barr trying to climb a flight of stairs or tie her shoe. Either way, it’s no good. Because. Each. Breath. Hurts.

Doc gave me new and different drugs. I passed on the narcotics again. Narcotics are just SO 1980’s. I mean, what’s the point of getting high? I got kids. They’re the ultimate buzz kill. I’d be all in the zone, listening to Pink Floyd, watching shadows chase each other all over the wall when the school would call. You know they would. And it would be something like “Yeah, um, we’ve got son #1 here and uh, well there was an incident (it’s always an ‘incident’.) And well, his leg bone is sticking through the skin. I can see where they put those screws in, by the way, awesome job they did. But uh, can you come get him and take him to the hospital?” And I’d be like “Well, um, I’m really high right now and I’ve been watching this fly stuck in a spider web for like the last two hours and it looks like he might try to get away, and I want to see what happens, so like, do you think you could call an ambulance? And I’ll meet ya’ll there when this shit wears off in about 6 hours. MmmKay?” Yeah. It’d SO go like that.

Today I told the doc “Look, I haven’t been able to work out in a MONTH. You don’t understand how that is for me. Some people have gotta have chocolate, some people have gotta have drugs, I GOTTA HAVE MY WORKOUTS.” He tried not to snort when he laughed.

The new plan is that I go back next week. They inject me with a whole bunch of radioactive crap. I walk around for like three hours and glow or something and come back and they watch my bones glow on a TV set. Or some of you may know that as a bone scan.

I’ve got TWO lidocaine patches slapped on me now. Except, I keep having evil thoughts of all the really funny things I could do with it. Like walk by Steve and slap one on his ass and wait until he notices he no longer has feeling in his left buttock. Or smack one on his chest while he’s sleeping, wait for it to kick in and then wax his chest. He’s particularly picky about the nipple area. I could cut some into round shapes. Maybe when I ripped them off, all the hair would come with it. Ok, I gotta stop laughing. It hurts like hell to laugh. Laughing. Must. Stop. Where are those fighting kids when you need them?!

I’m going to go sit and watch some TV. Nothing funny, mind you, because that would hurt. No funny comments either. Just looking for more buzz kill here.

With a lustful moan, I will show you what my dreams are made of:

Yep. That’s it. That’s all of it. Yowza….

AP- Seattle, Washington, April 22, 2007- Breaking news: Computers aren’t the only thing Steve Teixeira can do. He’s an expert electrician and contractor but prefers the less strenous job of writing code. Steve Teixeira, of Seattle, is a group program manager for Microsoft and explains just how his job saved his life. ” When you’re pressing keys all day, you develop curiously strong fingers.” says Teixeira “It really helps in all aspects of your life though. There’s nothing these fingers can’t do.”

This proved true this weekend when those curiously strong fingers came in handy. Steve’s wife, Helen, asked him to climb onto the roof and clean off the skylights and remove some branches laying on their two story home in Seattle. Steve is 6′5″ tall and weighs about 240 pounds. Steve adds “People think just because you’re tall you like to get up on ladders. But the taller you are, the further you have to fall. My wife says I don’t walk, I lumber, but that’s not really true. I walk just like everyone else. I didn’t want to walk on the roof because it’s likely I’ll just go through it, so I used a ladder and was leaning to get to the skylights.” That’s when Steve’s wife, Helen, had the scare of her life.

She was planting in the front yard when their youngest son, son #2, opened the front door and said “Daddy needs your help holding the ladder. Chop Chop. Quick like a bunny, no time for dawdling.” “Quick like a bunny” is not in son #2’s vocabulary so immediately Helen became alarmed. She came around the side of the house to find Steve hanging off the roof holding onto the skylight telling the couple’s oldest son, son #1, “DID SOMEONE GO GET MOMMY?!?!” Apparently he had spent several minutes trying to impress some urgency into the kids who were just sitting there looking out the window at him. A quick thinking Helen put the ladder back underneath him. After the ordeal, the couple held a press conference** where Steve remarked “It’s a good thing I program, it saved my life.” Helen added “His disturbingly strong fingers seemed to have saved him from a big fall. And people say computer geeks can’t do anything but program. Being 6′5″ and hanging from a skylight for several minutes is a pretty impressive feat even for a computer geek I’d say.”

 **Any similarity to actual press conferences may or may not be EXACTLY true. Some quotes may merely be a represention of thoughts attributed to speaker.

Yesterday afternoon my children were abducted by aliens and replaced with Satan and Lucifer. I had to take Satan to physical therapy and since his regular therapist wasn’t there, I knew we were doomed from the start. See, pretty much since the day son #1 was born, he’s had this uncanny ability to size people up in a heartbeat and determine if he’s going to be able to take advantage of them. And for people he knows he can’t take advantage of, if you let your attention wane for even a second, he’ll be taking full advantage. When the new therapist was introduced to him, she was sweet and pretty and soft spoken and my first thought was “Oh boy, he’s going to have her for lunch.” And within 30 seconds, he was having a nice phsyical therapist lunch and spitting out the bones. He immediately started telling her what he does (making it up) and how he doesn’t do any of the things he doesn’t like to do. As his Lunch just sat there nodding and smiling, I piped in “Uh, son, she has your chart right there in front of her. Your other physical therpist left a list of all the things you do AND THE ORDER IN WHICH YOU DO THEM.” Lunch nods and smiles. ” Oh.” he said in a VERY disappointed tone. So he tried to skip repetitions with counting that went something like “1,2, 10 DONE!” And Lunch only put up a weak objection. I sighed. “Son, if you don’t stop skipping over these, *I’M* going to make you do them all over.” I went back to reading my magazine and looked up to notice that they had left Lucifer and Satan alone at the weighted ball rack and my children were throwing weighted balls at each other. I almost had a stroke. It was really hard not to start yelling a whole lot of profanities. Seriously, who is raising these monsters? I marched over to the physical therapist’s aide and said “He CAN NOT be left alone, for even a second. He’s a danger to himself and others.” She smiled a tight smile at the mother of Satan and Lucifer somehow implying that it was MY fault. I’ve never seen these kids before in my life.

In case you are wondering, I say that in public a lot when I’m with Steve and they start acting like monsters. I pretend to be an innocent bystander. When someone stops to observe the ensuing horror, I usually casually say “Wow those kids are really ill behaved.” Usually the bystander looks at me with a mixture of skepticism and surprise. Sometimes the kids yell “MOM!” in my direction and I pretend to look over my shoulder to see who they’re talking to.  By this time the stranger is now staring at me with unbridled horror at which time I always say “I’ve never seen those kids before in my life. Certainly *MY* children would never act like that.” That’s when the strangers usually laugh at me and walk away.

By the time physical therapy was over, I was in a FOUL mood. I wondered where I had left the cages for these two animals. Steve was supposed to meet us for dinner but was stuck in a meeting. To kill some time, I went into Lowe’s to look for a couple of things I needed for the garden. And that it where Satan and Lucifer started running through the greenhouse screaming at each other and dismantling the shelves. Son #2 started playing in a water fountain. I didn’t know whether to scream or just start crying. My phone rings and I answered with “I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU FOR AN HOUR WHILE THESE TWO-” and then I was drowned out by the screaming and fighting of my two tasmanian devils. “THAT’S IT!” I yelled. “We are going HOME! No restaurant for anyone!” Steve knew better than to say a word.

Earlier in the day I had bought some Boboli mini pizzas for the kids to make a pizza for lunch over the weekend. I was so angry on the way home I forbid them from even talking so I could hear myself think. I wasn’t cooking for anyone. I announced when we got home that I was NOT cooking and everyone was making their own dinner as punishment. This was scary for son #2 until he realized he got to make his own pizza. As I was putting the pizzas in the oven, son #1 says “Uh Mom, that wasn’t much of a punishment.” Son #2 pipes up with “Yeah, that was FUN! Can we do this EVERY Friday?!” Steve comes over and says in a low voice ”Uh what kind of punishment was that supposed to be anyway?” I just scowled at everyone and stomped out the room to hide my smile.

Sniff. I am so honored. Alfred nominated me for the blogger’s choice awards. I can’t stop crying. Ok. I’m lying, I’m grinning ear to ear. Thank you Alfred! You can vote for me by clicking on the links below and voting. Unlike SOME OTHER BLOGGERS, who will remain nameless, I am not offering money, sexual favors or a few other dirty things I’ve been reading about. I’m running a clean campaign here. ;D Ok, only semi-clean. I might have to post cleavage to win the hottest mommy blogger in a last ditch effort when you’re not laughing at me being maimed by a jog bra anymore. So go ahead, VOTE! You know you want to!

Wow! I’m having my best traffic day ever and I didn’t even show any cleavage. Was it the bra, people? Did you just come for the bra?!

So when we bought this house I inherited this green japanese maple looking tree that had been pruned wrong over many years. I don’t know what it’s called. It’s a nightmare of a tree. Two years ago the gardener tried her best to make the tree look good and it has grown into this massive eye sore. It was so huge, our bedroom and living room haven’t seen sunshine in at least a year. This morning when the gardener showed up, I told her to cut the tree down to about six feet tall. This meant that she would be cutting off all the parts that actually had leaves. She objected strenously but I insisted. “Fine.” she said “But I will never admit that *I* did it.” About halfway through the cutting, my neighbor across the street comes out and starts laughing and ridiculing the tree. She and the gardener stood there calling the tree a Charlie Brown tree and laughing at it. After the tree was done, I was estatic. The tree was so hideous that it was the first thing you saw when you drove up. Now that it was less than half it’s original size, my garden and house were getting light and you noticed the yard instead of the hideous tree. Even the gardener had to admit it was much better. My neighbor came out of her house a few hours later and I could hear her door shut and I heard her start laughing. She yelled “Nice tree!” Without looking up or turning around the gardener said “You flipped her off, didn’t you?” “Yep!” I said “It’s good to have neighbors you can flip off.”

To husbands everywhere,

How to stay safe while you sleep:

1. When returning from a long business trip, it is best not keep exclaiming “Everything goes to hell in a handbasket while I’m gone!” You should first check to make sure your family is intact and unharmed when you return. If everyone is in one piece, and your wife doesn’t walk up and kick you in the nuts for leaving in the first place, you should smile and say “Wow, looks like everything went smoothly while I was gone!” Because perhaps you have a wife that does not wish to collect the mail while you are gone, because it makes a mess and clutters the house. And if the wife put some cups in front of your coffee grinder, that does not constitute “hell in a handbasket.” And if the housekeepers dumped a bunch of laundry on top of the carefully sorted-by-color laundry, that also does not count as “hell in a handbasket.” AND if the housekeepers knocked over a bunch of cups in the lazy susan and the lazy susan does not turn and your wife is too short to reach the cups that fell in the back, that also does not constitute “hell in a handbasket.” In fact, if you say “hell in a handbasket” one more time, your wife will assure you that you indeed will arrive in hell in said handbasket.

2. If you loudly proclaim “Who was the BOZO who loaded the dishwasher?” with the emphasis on BOZO, when the only person in the house who could have possibly loaded the dishwasher would be the wife you left for 10 days to take of two screaming, fighting children while your wife has a broken rib and your child a broken hip, then you are just BEGGING to not see the sun rise the following morning. Accidents do happen. And they frequently happen to husbands who DARE to cop an attitude after a very trying 10 days. 

This public safety message has been brought to you by your friendly neighborhood wife. Who is a bit pissed off. Back away slowly.

When I was a kid and my teeth were loose, I would wait until they were hanging by a thread and would fall out without even having to tug. I once had a tooth stuck in a PB&J. You should know that I’m not squeamish about blood. I can do broken bones. I can do barf. I can do stitches. If my children are hurt, I don’t hesitate to take action. However, I have just discovered I am an utter failure about teeth. Loose teeth make my skin crawl. My youngest has a loose tooth and wanted me to pull it out because it was driving him crazy. I tried, it started to bleed, he started to whimper and I almost passed out. Literally I was so sick I had to sit down. I am not cut out for this teeth thing. Poor child has not been able to eat for three days because I can not get the tooth out. But Steve comes home today. He has NO qualms about yanking out teeth. He yanked out a few of son #1’s. I am so relieved. I still feel queasy when I think about that tooth. Thank God someone else is going to deal with it.

I have a love-hate relationship with boob mashers jog bras. When you’re born with an ample bosom, breast crushers jog bras are a Godsend. My sister and I both double up and wear two when we run. Of course, I discovered about a year ago that if you find a really tight good one, you can go with just one. The difference when you wear a tight good one, is about 2 cup sizes. Consequently, the first time my trainer saw me in normal clothing without the dreaded jog bra, he asked me if I had had a boob job. I slapped him of course, but I can understand how it might look different.

Being the stubborn fool that I am, I decided that since I did not die from riding the bike on Saturday, I would go back for more punishment cardio today. In an extremely overly optimistic moment, I decided to put on the jog bra in case I decided to do the eliptical. Cuz Lord knows, without one, that eliptical can hurt. My thinking was that the band on the jog bra would fall below the broken rib and besides, they used to bind people with broken ribs up so it would be a GOOD thing. About a minute after I got the bra on, I was walking largely doubled over. Within two minutes I was on my hands and knees, gasping for breath trying not to scream at the crushing chest pain. I crawled back to my bedroom whereby I carefully pulled the torture device jog bra from my body and laid on the floor and whimpered. That’s right folks, I was severely maimed by a jog bra today. It still hurts. That is all.

I took myself out tonight. I got a babysitter and decided to escape for a little while. It’s always hard when Steve is gone and this week has been particularly hard because son #1 has been uncontrollably hyperactive with ZERO impulse control. I just want to start screaming and not stop. My brain feels claustrophobic inside my head when he’s like this. So anyway, I went out. I shopped a little. Had a little dinner. Then that nagging voice in my head reminded me that I haven’t been to the gym in three weeks. The other nag in my head pointed out that I LIKE breathing and any workout could jeopardize that. Crushing chest pain ALWAYS ruins my day. So the nags negotiated a deal whereby I would try riding the bike for a bit and see how that went. I lasted 15 minutes before the sharp searing hot poker through my chest and back let me know I should quit while I’m behind. I went and sat in the hot tub and that relieved some of the pain. I was feeling pretty relaxed and had found my inner chi again. I had coffee, listened to Jimmy Buffett, started reading a novel and all was right with the world.

I should preface the next part by saying that when Steve is out of town, the house stays SPOTLESS. I can not stand to have any mess. Mess makes me feel disorganized and out of control so I keep it really clean. I don’t even let a single dish hit the sink. So imagine my blood pressure when I get home and there is a sink FULL of dishes. I almost went postal. The kids had used SEVENTEEN CUPS in 3 hours. I was FURIOUS. All my good chi was immediately destroyed. I’ve been walking around with my teeth clenched and my head pounding trying to calm down. Then I went upstairs and son #1 was IN MY BED with clothes he had been wearing while playing in the sand and mud. There is a whole bunch of sand and mud all over my clean, white sheets. Seriously. I am trying so desperately not to go COMPLETELY POSTAL.

There are so many days with this kid that I truly wish I was a drinker. I could be three sheets to the wind right now and not care that my bed is sandy, the kids’ rooms are a mess and I had to ruin my chi by doing dishes. No, I couldn’t just leave the dishes until morning. I would have thought about them all night. And dreamed I was doing them over and over. Better to just do them and get it over with. So I’m just hanging out here waiting for the meds to kick in. I told the babysitter to come again tomorrow. And tomorrow night I’m not coming home until AFTER they are in bed. Even if I have to sit in the driveway with my book and Jimmy Buffett.

First game of the season and my t-ballers turned a double play. WOO HOOO! My son played first base and made his first out! We rock!

It involves melted chocolate chips and raisins. Repeatedly. Let’s keep this to ourselves, shall we?

I’d mainline it, but all my veins are blown.

Update: I just looked in the mirror and am wearing a chocolate soul patch. It’s not a proud moment for me.

I’ve been feeling steadily better. I was so excited I was feeling better that I even ran errands this morning for the first time in a few weeks. But then I got cocky. I lifted a planter that was cracking to put it in the garden because I was afraid it was going to crack all over the driveway. And then…..I went straight back to square one. I could just cry. My back went into spasm almost immediately and the crushing chest pain is back with a vengeance. Grrrr. I am so annoyed with myself. I couldn’t just wait a little while longer, could I? I had been telling myself all morning that there was no reason I couldn’t go back to the gym, because I was feeling pretty good. Literally, I want to cry. This is so frustrating. I just took some valium because it seems to have a much shorter acting time than the non-narcotic stuff the doctor prescribed. I take the stuff he gave me and 12 hours later I am still groggy. The half dose of valium I took will be in and out of my system before I have to drive later this afternoon. Sigh.

And I think I pissed Sean off by saying publicly he broke my rib. So for the record, I do want to say, that Sean is an excellent trainer and did not do anything wrong that would have caused this. I am quite certain that my ribs were quite stressed from lifting son #1 and the wheelchair and any workout I might have done with him did not suddenly snap my rib. I meant for it to be teasing, just because it’s unbelievable that I could have cracked a rib without knowing how or when it happened. I hope that’s clear and I did not mean to besmirch your good name, Sean or excellent training record.

So if you were wondering, the valium isss starting toooo kiiiccckkkk innnn. Can’t breathe yet, but feeeelllliiinnnggg aaa littllllleee sleeppppyyy. There’s a very strong sensation that I am melting. All over the kepboard. Typooosss irreevvveeeellllaaannnttt.

Tendrils did a post on ten high school memories. She got it from someone else who did a post on ten high school memories. As I read them, I thought, damn…..when I think about high school, my memories were not so wholesome. I remember swimming and drinking and not living at home. I don’t have wholesome memories like theirs.

I did some seriously hard partying. And when I wasn’t partying, I was swimming. And if I wasn’t doing that, I was working because I left home at 15. I worried about things that other high school kids weren’t worrying about, like where I was going to sleep that night and where my next meal would come from. I can remember wandering the streets sometimes after dark, still not knowing if I was going to have to sleep outside on the ground or if I would find a warm place to sleep that night. I couldn’t ever stay with my close friends. My mother, in her complete and utter insanity, had called the parents of all my close friends and told them if they let me stay at their houses, she would sue them. For what, I don’t know, but they certainly didn’t want to be involved with legal issues.

I remember one night I was with a friend of a friend, Holly. We were drinking at the house of one of her friends. Her friend, Richie, was in his early twenties. He still lived at home, but unlike us, was legal drinking age and had a lot of flexibility as far as home life. Holly asked Richie if I could sleep at his house. He said his mom wasn’t ok with girls sleeping over, but I could sleep outside on his trampoline. It was a fairly warm night, so that seemed ok with me, it’s not like I had other options. I remember so vividly staring up at the sky that night and wondering how I was going to keep living the way I was living. Staying in school and swimming were severely limiting my ability to support myself. I had almost dozed off when Richie climbed out of his bedroom window and climbed on the trampoline and laid down next to me. “I can’t sleep knowing you’re out here.” he said. “It’s not right. Climb through the window and come sleep in my room.” “I can’t!” I protested “You’ll get in trouble!” He said “Either come sleep in my room or I’m sleeping out here on the trampoline with you to make sure you’re safe.” Protection from bugs won out over my fear of getting him in trouble, and eventually I relented and climbed through his window and slept on his floor. He tried to give me his bed, but I refused. I tell you this story, because I can’t count the number of times throughout my junior and senior years that I had to depend on the kindness and generosity of total strangers. Many of the high school memories I have are like this one. I remember people risking their own necks to help me out, and many of them I barely knew.

Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of happy memories from high school, but most of them either involved parties and drinking, or swimming and swim meets. My sophomore year, our swim team had a swim meet in Hawaii. We earned money to pay for the trip by teaching swimming for the club. We went to Oahu for the meet, then spent a few days of R&R on Kauai afterwards. I have very fond memories of that trip.

During my senior year, when it was obvious that I would not move home again, I lived with two different families long-term. I lived with my sister’s best friend, Jen, for half of the year. Jen’s mom was the principal’s secretary and did a great deal to help facilitate school issues that arose from me not having a “guardian.” She also wasn’t afraid of my mother. When my mom found out I was living with them and called Sandy to make her usual threats, Sandy told her that if she did anything else to interfere with my well-being, made any more phone calls or did ANYTHING to me, Sandy would have me emancipated as a minor and would have the police and CPS involved. I am forever grateful to her for stepping in and standing up for me. It was the first time in my life that I saw how a functional family operates. Every now and then I run into Sandy and she retains a soft spot in my heart.

The other family I lived with, Margaret and Bob, I still consider to be my parents. I keep in touch with them and they have always welcomed me into their family as their own child. I met Margaret when she was teaching my confirmation class at church my Junior year and she and Bob remain very dear to me. They taught me about unconditional love. I think I might have slightly corrupted their youngest daughter, but no one’s holding it against me. Elisa says I gave her the first cigarette and drink she ever had.

I was on the Grad Night committee my senoir year. A handful of us were on the committee to select the location for Grad Night. I very clearly remember driving in my friend Lora’s convertible VW Cabriolet through the Santa Cruz mountains with the top down and the sun on our faces. We were 18. We were invincible. We were so close to being adults, to being truly free. We felt very grown-up as we passed a mayonaise jar around filled with orange juice and vodka. By the time we got to the first location, we were all disgracefully drunk. I’d say they kicked us out, but really, I was so drunk I can’t remember. By the time we got to the last place on our list, Lora had sobered up enough to actually talk to the people showing us around, and the rest of us just pretended to be nonchalant and sober. We rented that place. Probably because they didn’t throw us out.

Swimming was so much a part of my life. I remember odd flashes of meets, practices and functions. Every year, the night before Central Coast Section Championships, it was a tradition to TP the houses of the swimmers going. So in the fall, the girl’s houses got TP’d and in the winter, the boy’s houses. I can remember the third house on our list was my oldest friend in the world, Andrew’s. Andrew and I had always had a relationship like siblings and still do to this day. I would fill his locker with shaving cream, he would tie me to the fence by the hood strings on my sweatshirt. I’d push him in the pool, he’d pick me up and dump me in the sprinklers fully clothed. We rolled like that. So we’re quietly going about our business TPing Andrew’s house, when I hear him come around the side of the house with a hose which he turned on us in the dead of winter. My friend, Lisa, was closest to him and was getting drenched while I screamed and was off like a bat out of hell. Andrew has the reflexes of a ninja. And I say that with complete seriousness. Two blocks later, Andrew caught me, threw me over his shoulder, kicking and screaming, and jogged all the way back to his house with me upside down punching him in the back. He proceeded to unceremoniously dump me on the lawn, hold me down and drench me. That was until his mother came out, saw what he was doing and yelled at him to stop. Bless her heart, she brought me warm towels while glaring at him and scolding him.

One of the more poignant memories I have from high school was a party where everyone was pretty drunk by the time I even showed up with my friends. There was this guy who was Mr. Popular, Mr, Athlete. The honest truth was that, as a person, I thought he was a total ass. He was one of those people who are truly ugly on the inside, so much so, that I never found him attractive. He began to come on to me. When I began to politely reject his advances, he became angry and belligerent. He demanded to know why I had never dated anyone from our class. All the guys I had dated were either younger or from our rival high school. He was REALLY pissed. No one apparently had EVER rejected him. I didn’t say a word. He got more and more belligerent and insulting, until one of my friends noticed and stepped in and pulled me away. He was mean every single time he encountered me after that. I will never forget that encounter. Mostly because I never had the courage to say why I wouldn’t date anyone that wasn’t younger than me. The truth was that I was raped when I was 16. I was afraid to date anyone older than I was or even the same age. Yes, that’s one of my high school memories too.

I had been taking classes at the local junior college, because even the advanced placement classes at our school hadn’t been enough for me. I was bored. Attending classes there got me a college indentification. At the time, Stanford University and the other local colleges were IDing students to try to keep the high school kids out of the parties. With my ID, I got in. I was 16 and hanging around with college boys. I was with a girl whom I worked with that attended one of the local colleges. We were at a party for the college’s football team. She knew the QB and some of the other players so after the party, we went back to the QB’s apartment. There were probably ten people there. Someone wanted to go on a beer run. Everyone left except for me (no ID) and the QB. At which time, he decided that statuatory rape would be a great idea. I never went to the police. For years I wondered what I had done to cause that. My life was changed forever. I never felt safe again with any male older than I was. I didn’t feel in control even with men my age. At 38 years old, I am still wary. I’ve told very few people in my life. My family never knew. Most of my friends do not know. It’s not something that comes up in conversation, ya know? But unfortunately, that’s probably my most vivid high school memory.

The sweetest high school memory I have is of my first kiss. I’d had boyfriends since junior high, but holding hands was as far as we ever got. When we moved to California, the first people I met were on my swim team, as school didn’t even start for 3 more months. I quickly developed a crush on one of the boys I swam with. It took him almost two damn years to finally kiss me, but I like that my first kiss was with someone I was crazy about. I still smile when I think of him. We never became boyfriend and girlfriend, he just kissed me that one time. There were plenty of other boys around to keep my attention focused on, but I treasure that memory.

With my 20 year high school reunion coming up this year, I’ve been trying to remember high school. What sticks with me most is how different my life was than my peers’. And very few people knew that I didn’t live at home. Most people saw me as an athlete, the wild party girl or a huge flirt. I would say that was probably an accurate assessment. However, all of it was a cover for how deep the turmoil was in my life. I’m never quite sure how I found the straight and narrow and stayed on it. I have to think it was those really special people I encountered throughout that turmoil that taught me about friendship and trust and love and what a family is supposed to be like. And friends like Andrew, who would still turn a hose on me in the dead of winter, but makes sure that no one else would do such a thing to me. And people like Bob and Margaret who still check in on me, even though I’m all grown up now. Those years and those people very much shaped the person I am now.

So tell me, what are YOUR high school memories about?

I was so giddy last night about getting medication for myself, I forgot to give Simba his prozac. This morning, I woke up to an absolutely over-the-top insane, crazy-eyed, drooling, barking idiot. He charged out of the kennel without even waiting for me to open the door and his fur was sticking out all over his body like a vagrant on a week -long bender. I thought dog hair only laid one way? He then ran over to my garden and started digging like he was trying to escape Alcatraz. He looked confused when I yelled at him to stop. Not sorry, but confused. He didn’t seem phased when I called him names. Names I can’t even print here. Ok, I’ll give you a hint: YGDSFSOB DOG GET THE HELL OUT OF MY GARDEN! He may not have understood the words, but he certainly understood the intent. Except for stupid. He understands that. He knows it’s his name. Like all AKC pure breds, he has an official name: Sir Simba of Stupidity. He also responds to “Dumb Dumb.” You even get a wag when you call him that. He thinks that’s a term of endearment. It is, if you’re a stupid, crazy, idiot dog.  Tonight, he will be dining on a lovely 3 course meal of dog food, prozac and benedryl for sedation.

I had a really bad day on Sunday. I felt absolutely awful. I was beginning to think there would be no end to my misery. I asked Steve to rub my back with the hope that it would somehow sooth the raging fire in my chest and back. Then, we made a discovery. There is a rib, a single rib, that when you press on it, causes me to scream and burst into tears. Pressing on it reproduces the chest pain, shortness of breath, pain down my right arm and up into my jaw and the pain in my back. This is absolutely delightful news. Because it means I knew what to do. Being an athlete, muscular-skeletal issues are something I can relate to and know how to treat. Been down that road enough times, my friends! So I rooted through a huge pile of expired medications in the medicine cabinet. I searched for muscle relaxants and powerful anti-inflammatories. I discovered I’ve been hoarding narcotics since 1996. Sadly, those are so expired I’m too afraid to take them. I discovered some anti-inflammatories and some valium that weren’t too far gone. (My cut-off was three years past expiration.)

As SOON as the valium kicked in, for the first time in more than two weeks, I could take a deep breath in. I almost started sobbing with relief. I called the urgent care clinic and asked if they could pull my x-rays and see if there was a fracture in my ribs. I found out that even though I had many x-rays and ct scans of my chest, they were not looking at my ribs and therefore would not be able to tell if they had been broken. I called and left a message for my internal medicine doctor and continued to self-medicate but he never called back. By this morning, I was feeling a bit better. Unfortunately, when the muscle relaxant wears off, the chest pain starts up again. However, I was hopeful. I was also pissed that the doctor never called back. I had a visit scheduled with my rheumatologist this morning to follow up on my knee. He started asking questions about the problems I’d been having. To my utter delight, I found out that he practices internal medicine too. Holy God, I could have saved myself 2.5 weeks of pain and torture if I had known that. I’m not particularly fond of the internal medicine doctor I had been seeing who practices across the hall. His bedside manner leaves something to be desired and he’s always in a rush to get to the next patient. But sweet Jesus, I LOVE the rheumatologist. And he thinks that I indeed might have cracked my rib. He wrote me some prescriptions for muscle relaxants and anti-inflammatories and a patch that has lidocaine in it to put on top the skin. I love this man. I told him he was my hero. FINALLY SOMEONE IS ACTUALLY TREATING ME. He told me to come back in two weeks. If my rib is still angry he wants to run some tests, like a bone scan. But for the first time since this nightmare started, I have hope that I am going to get better.

I’m sure this is leaving you all with many unanswered questions. Like, why the doctors never even looked at this possibility when it seems fairly obvious. Every single doctor I saw, it came up in conversation that I had a son in a wheelchair that I was lifting, and my heavy workout regimin. And yet, no doctor even suspected since there was no “trauma.” (I failed to mention how Steve beats me every day, but I didn’t think that was relevant. Kidding. Totally Kidding.) It makes perfect sense. I had a BRUTAL workout the Friday afternoon before this started with my trainer and by Sunday morning when I woke up, I was in severe pain. MY TRAINER DID THIS TO ME!!!!! I will NEVER let him live this down. EVER. You hear that Sean? You will go to your grave feeling bad for breaking my rib during a workout. I suspect it was actually a combination of lifting my son, lifting the wheelchair and the workouts. But we’ll blame Sean. We’ll make him feel bad FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE. ;D So anyway, I’m about to go pick up my bag of meds and I’m giddy with the anticipation of getting better. Just writing about how bad I’m going to make Sean feel made me laugh. Which hurts my ribs. See how it all leads back to him? Yeah. I thought you would. So the moral of this entire saga is this:

1. Never go to the ER
2. Ambulances should be left to the unconscious
3. Don’t bother with doctors
4. Self diagnose and self medicate. You’re better off.

It’s happened. Steve’s left town again. Go ahead. Just shoot me now. It’d be easier. Then I wouldn’t have to live in fear of the coming catastrophes. You’ve all seen it. You know it’s going to happen. I’d say bring it on, but I’m not that brave. And the plumber was just here last week. He tore open the dining room ceiling even, trying to get at my shower that was leaking through the ceiling. Steve’s reasoning is that no plumbing could possibly break because the plumber was just here and fixed all plumbing in the house. It’s the first time in two years that ALL the plumbing in the house is working at the same time. And yet it will break. You know it will. You know this because you’ve been here before with me. You’ve laughed at me before. You know that the clock starts ticking the instant Steve gets on that plane and hell breaks loose shortly thereafter. We all know it’s coming. Bice said he’s never seen a human devolve so quickly the last time Steve left town. So let the devolving begin….

The comments feature of WordPress is broken. I can not answer your comments and I don’t think you can leave me comments. Also, I think I may have finally managed to permanently fix the timestamp, but that caused some of your comments to appear out of order and appear as if I did not answer. Trying to sort this out with WordPress. Do not feel rejected. I am not ignoring you.

So I’ve been having a little problem with a rabbit. Now don’t laugh. This is a serious problem. A rabbit is eating my flowers and strawberry plants. And he’s become so bold, he doesn’t even run when he sees me anymore. I’ve put up a scarerabbit. Which works for the crows, but apparently, rabbits are smarter than crows. So I guess it was just a scarecrow after all.

I’ve tried chasing the rabbit and growling and yelling at it. I’ve even sent the dogs after it. But that was embarassing. Because the rabbit was WAY smarter than Simba. I specifically told Simba to get the kitty, and he charged out of the backyard only to stop and stare blankly STRAIGHT AT THE RABBIT while the rabbit pretended he was a statue and then made a quick getaway while Simba got distracted by a blade of grass and a bee.

I am furious that the rabbit is destroying my garden. He’s very wily. But he’s cute so it makes it hard for me to want to throw rocks at it. I mean, it’s not like it’s the raccoon that I tried to have killed. And yet, the rabbit mocks me. It wants to incur my wrath. I wonder if it’s illegal to serve rabbit on Easter?

Well who woulda thought there’s a reason that the egg dying kits come with egg dippers?

Step 1 for the ignorant, dip egg in dye:

Step 2 for the ignorant, remove egg from dye and realize that fingers are dyed as well:

Step 3, realize that the dye is indeed permanent, giving “green thumb” a whole new meaning.