I found something I can eat.
It needed to be not chewy, not crunchy, not frozen, not spicy... It could have been applesauce or cottage cheese, but I don't have that as I haven't been to the store since before Christmas; it could have been Jell-O, but ewww; it could have been soup, but I'm all souped-out, thankyouverymuch, so I foraged around behind the venison and under the venison and obscured by the venison, I found a Trader Joe's Pumpkin Cheesecake. I bought it for Christmas, but when Christmas finally got here, we had enough food to sustain an entire pack of teenagers and I left it off the menu as I was not feeding an entire pack of teenagers (I have a round of brie aging in the fridge, too).
But today, it came in handy. Do you know you can eat an entire piece of cheesecake without using your teeth? You can mush it up with your tongue and swallow it right down (FYI - if you put some Redi-Whip on it, it slides down even easier). And I'm assuming that fat calories aside, a cheesecake has more nutritional value than Jell-O. It has "cheese" right in the title, duh.
Unfortunately, I can't really taste it with the cold and all.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Monday, January 09, 2006
In the Company of Misery
I went to the dentist today intensifying yesterday's misery to pure wretchedness. I hate going to the dentist. When I was 9 years old, we were in West Virginia with my dad at a golf tournament and while taking an after-dinner dip in the pool, I dove into the shallow end. When I came up for a breath, I was missing my two front teeth. Since then, I've been in and out of the dentist office getting them replaced, tweaked and renewed. It's traumatic. Dentists smother me with a dental dam. I choke, drown, and gag, only to be released with a lop-sided and tingly face. But that's not the end of the mortification. When the Novocaine wears off, my face hurts. My entire face. I can't eat, I can't smile, I can't think straight. For a couple days.
And today he was finally fixing a broken tooth (remember this fiasco?). I'm finally getting the permanent crown on it which, A) is really, really expensive, and 2) hurts like a motherfucker. Today, he ground down what was left of my tooth to little nubs (the choking), made 2 molds (the gagging), and fitted them with a temporary crown until the porcelain one can be made (and thus, the drowning). I ate soup before I left (because remember, I'm coming down with a cold too) and tried to eat a piece of bread and butter for dinner. No dice. I can't put my teeth together at all without a firebolt of agony making it's way out the top of my head. And I have a very high tolerance for pain. (Really, I have Proof - 2 babies, no drugs, no epidural. All the proof I need.) But today, my face hurts from my eyesocket all the way down to the middle of my chin. And it's turning me into a quivering puddle of woe.
So while I'm lying there, I'm trying to analyze why I hate going to the dentist even more than going to the gynecologist, and I think I figured it out: It's too intimate. On the surface, what could be more intimate than having your legs up in stirrups, talking to a man-stranger, while only his eyes and forehead are showing above the sheet separating your exposed hoo-ha from the rest of the world? But laying back in the chair for two hours, with my head basically in his lap, while his face is only about 6 inches away from mine, while I try to see the reflection of my teeth in his glasses, not having to make senseless small talk, is a much more personal encounter for me. And it makes me uncomfortable.
And then he hurts me. And I don't like that.
And today he was finally fixing a broken tooth (remember this fiasco?). I'm finally getting the permanent crown on it which, A) is really, really expensive, and 2) hurts like a motherfucker. Today, he ground down what was left of my tooth to little nubs (the choking), made 2 molds (the gagging), and fitted them with a temporary crown until the porcelain one can be made (and thus, the drowning). I ate soup before I left (because remember, I'm coming down with a cold too) and tried to eat a piece of bread and butter for dinner. No dice. I can't put my teeth together at all without a firebolt of agony making it's way out the top of my head. And I have a very high tolerance for pain. (Really, I have Proof - 2 babies, no drugs, no epidural. All the proof I need.) But today, my face hurts from my eyesocket all the way down to the middle of my chin. And it's turning me into a quivering puddle of woe.
So while I'm lying there, I'm trying to analyze why I hate going to the dentist even more than going to the gynecologist, and I think I figured it out: It's too intimate. On the surface, what could be more intimate than having your legs up in stirrups, talking to a man-stranger, while only his eyes and forehead are showing above the sheet separating your exposed hoo-ha from the rest of the world? But laying back in the chair for two hours, with my head basically in his lap, while his face is only about 6 inches away from mine, while I try to see the reflection of my teeth in his glasses, not having to make senseless small talk, is a much more personal encounter for me. And it makes me uncomfortable.
And then he hurts me. And I don't like that.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
And On Top Of That...
GOD! It's Sunday night already? That is SO not fair! This weekend sucked. Not only was I cheated out of Friday Night Happy Hour by that old buzz-kill Responsibility, but then, after sleeping in (that was nice) on Saturday, I spent 8 (YES, EIGHT) hours cleaning up my Christmas Accoutrements. In my defense, I have more ornaments than several Normal households put together (and then there's my village...) but I kept getting distracted and found myself cleaning out the closet, vacuuming the stairs, watching a Lifetime movie, and twice, I came-to to find myself sitting in my computer chair checking out my favorite blogs. But FINALLY, finally, it is over and done with and all put to rest for yet another 11 months.
I did finally get to tip a bottle too, but just some old Pinot Grigio, and just because I couldn't sleep last night circa midnight. Drinking as Medication. Nope...no problems here!
On top of that, my hamstrings are KILLING me today. All that squatting and bending yesterday while cleaning Christmas. Really. I realize how pathetic that is and it renews my determination to get back to the gym. Really....
And on top of all that (!) I think I'm catching a cold. My sinuses are tickley and my head is floaty and there's gunk draining down my throat. Gross.
Also, Dillon is sad because Girlfriend broke up with him. Her reason? "He deserved better than her." Ugh. Teenage girls and drama. But we'll see. I'm not so sure it's over yet.
Furthermore, Tater just started his first day of a 6-day swing shift (10pm-6am), and this is the hardest shift for us all to handle.
So my shoulders are heavy and tomorrow is Monday and I have a full In-Box awaiting me in the office.
I am Shlumpy tonight and I don't like it. Shlumpy on me feels like an itchy wool sweater, too tight in the neck, that I can't take off. It makes me fidgety and headachy and sad.
I did finally get to tip a bottle too, but just some old Pinot Grigio, and just because I couldn't sleep last night circa midnight. Drinking as Medication. Nope...no problems here!
On top of that, my hamstrings are KILLING me today. All that squatting and bending yesterday while cleaning Christmas. Really. I realize how pathetic that is and it renews my determination to get back to the gym. Really....
And on top of all that (!) I think I'm catching a cold. My sinuses are tickley and my head is floaty and there's gunk draining down my throat. Gross.
Also, Dillon is sad because Girlfriend broke up with him. Her reason? "He deserved better than her." Ugh. Teenage girls and drama. But we'll see. I'm not so sure it's over yet.
Furthermore, Tater just started his first day of a 6-day swing shift (10pm-6am), and this is the hardest shift for us all to handle.
So my shoulders are heavy and tomorrow is Monday and I have a full In-Box awaiting me in the office.
I am Shlumpy tonight and I don't like it. Shlumpy on me feels like an itchy wool sweater, too tight in the neck, that I can't take off. It makes me fidgety and headachy and sad.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Brandi On Hiatus
Having a kid that drives is cool. You can send him to the grocery when you need ice for the margaritas... You can have him drop his sister off at a friend's house when you want a night of hedonism and debauchery... You can send him out for pizza when it's too cold for you to go out yourself... And he can run his own errands to buy crickets and jock straps and whatnot.
Finally, Tater and I have our very own designated driver. And THAT is cool*.
Except on Friday nights.
On Friday nights, a girl likes to indulge in a little Happy-Hour Happiness. Especially if she's had a hard week dealing with health-challenged pubescents and respect-challenged old witches. That girl needs a martini. Or some Crown & ginger ale. Wine. A margarita ... even Listerine. But with a teenager out on the streets, the responsible parent abstains until said teen is safely home. It would be totally uncool to have him call me after being in an accident and have me be completely useless due to a good buzz. What would I do in that situation? Call the elderly neighbors to give me a ride? "Hey Maude, put your wig on! I need a ride!"... Call the police station, "Uh, sir, I'm sorry, but I'm toasted and I need a ride to the site of my son's accident. Could you hook me up?" If that's not a crime then it should be. So now, my only recourse is to start drinking when he's home. Like on Sunday mornings. "Honey, would you like a beer with that Bear Claw?"
No one told me that as the kids got older, I'd have to be sensible again. When they're babies, you run on hyper-nurturing-mode. But as they get older, you're able to relax and let them find their own way for a time. I didn't realize that at the end, in those crucial few years before they leave my reach, I would need to return to being super-vigilant. Super-aware, super-protective, super-there.
I can wait another 18 months. I'll pour myself a drink at his graduation. Until then, keep a Coke in the fridge for me, will ya?
*Now we don't have to depend on pregnant friends, which is a good thing, considering we're not getting any younger and pregnant friends are growing more and more scarce every year...
Finally, Tater and I have our very own designated driver. And THAT is cool*.
Except on Friday nights.
On Friday nights, a girl likes to indulge in a little Happy-Hour Happiness. Especially if she's had a hard week dealing with health-challenged pubescents and respect-challenged old witches. That girl needs a martini. Or some Crown & ginger ale. Wine. A margarita ... even Listerine. But with a teenager out on the streets, the responsible parent abstains until said teen is safely home. It would be totally uncool to have him call me after being in an accident and have me be completely useless due to a good buzz. What would I do in that situation? Call the elderly neighbors to give me a ride? "Hey Maude, put your wig on! I need a ride!"... Call the police station, "Uh, sir, I'm sorry, but I'm toasted and I need a ride to the site of my son's accident. Could you hook me up?" If that's not a crime then it should be. So now, my only recourse is to start drinking when he's home. Like on Sunday mornings. "Honey, would you like a beer with that Bear Claw?"
No one told me that as the kids got older, I'd have to be sensible again. When they're babies, you run on hyper-nurturing-mode. But as they get older, you're able to relax and let them find their own way for a time. I didn't realize that at the end, in those crucial few years before they leave my reach, I would need to return to being super-vigilant. Super-aware, super-protective, super-there.
I can wait another 18 months. I'll pour myself a drink at his graduation. Until then, keep a Coke in the fridge for me, will ya?
*Now we don't have to depend on pregnant friends, which is a good thing, considering we're not getting any younger and pregnant friends are growing more and more scarce every year...
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Rant for the Aged
Sometimes I'm embarrassed to be an adult. Tonight was one of those nights.
I was sitting in the bleachers at Dillon's wrestling meet, minding my own business... actually, I was reading. Is that rude? It's just that I don't have the faintest glimmer of interest in the sport unless it's Dillon out there on the mat. Before November I had never been to a wrestling meet in my life and I don't have the slightest idea how it all works - the scoring and the pinning and the timing. For example, tonight I thought D was kicking some serious ass out there. He was on top most of the time, was throwing that guy around like a Raggedy Ann, and even made him bleed - yet he lost. I just can't make heads or tails of it and quickly get the glazed-over eyes and then can't stop thinking about how badly my butt is killing me. So I figure if I have to be sitting there for 3 1/2 hours, only 5 minutes of which he is wrestling, then I might as well be amusing myself. I mean really, it could be worse than a book, eh?
So.......... There I am, minding my own business when my peace is assaulted by the Dad sitting behind me suffering from an inexcusable case of Assholeyness. When there wasn't a new pair of wrestlers out on the mat quickly enough, he hollered, "Come on! Let's get someone out there!" "What are you waiting for?" "Hey! Why isn't everyone ready?" and then, when the kids were wrestling, "What are you doing?" "Who taught them that?" and my personal favorite, "Come on! Do something!"
Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. Who died and made him Oh Exalted Ruler of the Wrestling Meet? So after the last particularly obnoxious opinion-spewage, I gathered up my book and my camera and my coat and my water, and as I stepped down off the bleachers, I looked behind me to see how the Supreme Being of the Meet appears to mere mortals, and it was a Grandpa. A Grandpa. Not a Dad. Can you imagine the sheer volume of excrement that has gushed out of his mouth since the mid 70's? He's probably irritated a lenghy trail of spectators and participants during the past 30-ish years. And I'm guessing that was his son, the Wrestling-Dad, sitting right next to him, who gave me a sheepish look as I gave them the Stink-Eye.
I am torn between disgust at the Dad for letting the Grandpa be so socially inappropriate and pity for what must have been a horribly humiliating childhood.
But mostly, I'm indignant over his behavior. It's adults like that who make teenagers look at us and think that we all suck. I guarantee there was not ONE kid in that gym tonight that would have thought, "Gee, Grandpa, thanks for pointing out all those shortcomings to us. It will help us grow to be successful and happy!" Whenever I see adults being such assholes I just think, "WHY?" Don't they remember being a kid with zero rights and having some bastard adult be completely unreasonable or mean and just by virtue of their being an "adult", there was Nothing you could do or say?
I don't know how you could forget that. I remember clearly the teachers I loved, but I remember just as clearly those I hated for being so inexcusably mean... Mrs. Brown, 4th grade. Mrs. Stout, 7th grade science. The old biddies made their mark on me, but not the one I'm sure they intended when they chose teaching as a profession.
Adults need to check themselves when interacting with kids, whether 8 months or 18 years. They make more of an impression than they realize and children have a very, very long memory.
I was sitting in the bleachers at Dillon's wrestling meet, minding my own business... actually, I was reading. Is that rude? It's just that I don't have the faintest glimmer of interest in the sport unless it's Dillon out there on the mat. Before November I had never been to a wrestling meet in my life and I don't have the slightest idea how it all works - the scoring and the pinning and the timing. For example, tonight I thought D was kicking some serious ass out there. He was on top most of the time, was throwing that guy around like a Raggedy Ann, and even made him bleed - yet he lost. I just can't make heads or tails of it and quickly get the glazed-over eyes and then can't stop thinking about how badly my butt is killing me. So I figure if I have to be sitting there for 3 1/2 hours, only 5 minutes of which he is wrestling, then I might as well be amusing myself. I mean really, it could be worse than a book, eh?
So.......... There I am, minding my own business when my peace is assaulted by the Dad sitting behind me suffering from an inexcusable case of Assholeyness. When there wasn't a new pair of wrestlers out on the mat quickly enough, he hollered, "Come on! Let's get someone out there!" "What are you waiting for?" "Hey! Why isn't everyone ready?" and then, when the kids were wrestling, "What are you doing?" "Who taught them that?" and my personal favorite, "Come on! Do something!"
Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. Who died and made him Oh Exalted Ruler of the Wrestling Meet? So after the last particularly obnoxious opinion-spewage, I gathered up my book and my camera and my coat and my water, and as I stepped down off the bleachers, I looked behind me to see how the Supreme Being of the Meet appears to mere mortals, and it was a Grandpa. A Grandpa. Not a Dad. Can you imagine the sheer volume of excrement that has gushed out of his mouth since the mid 70's? He's probably irritated a lenghy trail of spectators and participants during the past 30-ish years. And I'm guessing that was his son, the Wrestling-Dad, sitting right next to him, who gave me a sheepish look as I gave them the Stink-Eye.
I am torn between disgust at the Dad for letting the Grandpa be so socially inappropriate and pity for what must have been a horribly humiliating childhood.
But mostly, I'm indignant over his behavior. It's adults like that who make teenagers look at us and think that we all suck. I guarantee there was not ONE kid in that gym tonight that would have thought, "Gee, Grandpa, thanks for pointing out all those shortcomings to us. It will help us grow to be successful and happy!" Whenever I see adults being such assholes I just think, "WHY?" Don't they remember being a kid with zero rights and having some bastard adult be completely unreasonable or mean and just by virtue of their being an "adult", there was Nothing you could do or say?
I don't know how you could forget that. I remember clearly the teachers I loved, but I remember just as clearly those I hated for being so inexcusably mean... Mrs. Brown, 4th grade. Mrs. Stout, 7th grade science. The old biddies made their mark on me, but not the one I'm sure they intended when they chose teaching as a profession.
Adults need to check themselves when interacting with kids, whether 8 months or 18 years. They make more of an impression than they realize and children have a very, very long memory.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Out-Out, Damn Tree!
So. I'm home with Mackenzie who has the flu, the spousal unit is off on a hunting trip (bears...WHY?), Dillon's at wrestling practice, and my Christmas tree is still up and mocking me with all it's Sparkly Hominess:
In the dining room, my Tippecanoe County Christmas Village looks like a Lilliputian ghost town:
There is still a garland wrapped around my staircase and 2 of the 4 stockings hanging forlornly on the banister:
And for the past couple of days I've been randomly collecting Christmas Crap from bathrooms and side tables and bells off doors and piling it all on the dining room table for streamlined packing-away whenever it chances to happen.
But I am suffering a serious lack of oomph. I WANT my tree down and all my decorations safely tucked up in the attic awaiting yet another Season of Joy and Stress, but I don't want to DO it. My goal is always January 4th at the LATEST to get all this Christmas paraphanalia out of my hair. Today is the 4th. It's not done and it's not going to be done. But I'm tired of looking at it all and the thought of packing it all away is overwhelming me to the point of denial. "TREE? What tree? That's a new.... light in the corner. Pottery Barn says they're all the rage."
I have cleaned bathrooms, washed sheets, balanced checkbooks, vacuumed, written and read all to avoid The Tree.
But soon, it's going to turn into kindling and be a safety issue. And then I'll HAVE to do something. What I'd LIKE to do is pay someone $100 to take it down. Now THERE's a business idea. Forget the cleaning lady. I don't like strangers cleaning my stuff. But I have no problem paying a stranger to pack away my ornaments, wind up the lights....
Who am I kidding? That would kill me. My OCD would kick into high gear and I'd end up getting them a Coke and sitting them on the couch while I took it down because God knows that no one can do it The Right Way like I can.
Except my Mom.
Now THERE'S an Idea...
Hey, Mom?
In the dining room, my Tippecanoe County Christmas Village looks like a Lilliputian ghost town:
There is still a garland wrapped around my staircase and 2 of the 4 stockings hanging forlornly on the banister:
And for the past couple of days I've been randomly collecting Christmas Crap from bathrooms and side tables and bells off doors and piling it all on the dining room table for streamlined packing-away whenever it chances to happen.
But I am suffering a serious lack of oomph. I WANT my tree down and all my decorations safely tucked up in the attic awaiting yet another Season of Joy and Stress, but I don't want to DO it. My goal is always January 4th at the LATEST to get all this Christmas paraphanalia out of my hair. Today is the 4th. It's not done and it's not going to be done. But I'm tired of looking at it all and the thought of packing it all away is overwhelming me to the point of denial. "TREE? What tree? That's a new.... light in the corner. Pottery Barn says they're all the rage."
I have cleaned bathrooms, washed sheets, balanced checkbooks, vacuumed, written and read all to avoid The Tree.
But soon, it's going to turn into kindling and be a safety issue. And then I'll HAVE to do something. What I'd LIKE to do is pay someone $100 to take it down. Now THERE's a business idea. Forget the cleaning lady. I don't like strangers cleaning my stuff. But I have no problem paying a stranger to pack away my ornaments, wind up the lights....
Who am I kidding? That would kill me. My OCD would kick into high gear and I'd end up getting them a Coke and sitting them on the couch while I took it down because God knows that no one can do it The Right Way like I can.
Except my Mom.
Now THERE'S an Idea...
Hey, Mom?
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
It's In the Shoes
I don't really like DC (or, more accurately, Northern Virginia).
It's ok for now, but I don't see this as a place where I could live forever and ever until the end of time. There is a vibe here that rubs me the wrong way. People here are impatient. They dress in black and scurry around with their heads down. They speak harshly and don't smile. I don't know why they are in such a hurry. Where are they all going that is so important? They don't all work at the White House (now there are some guys with a serious lack of humor), or for Homeland Security or somewhere else that holds an equally inflated status.
They claim that they are Southerners, but I have lived in the Deep South. Twice. They don't hold a candle to what is really, truly Southern. They lack the Charm and Simplicity and Ease with which Southerners glide through life. These Mid-Atlantic-ers have efficiently eradicated the appearance of Joy from their tough veneers.
My heart feels constricted here. Like I'm afraid to say the wrong thing to the wrong person. I am loathe to even make eye-contact, lest I come, literally, face-to-face with their vacancy.
Though raised in Indiana, I'm a West Coast girl at heart. I loved the atmosphere in Southern California. We were there for 6 years, but I could happily spend another 60 there. People in Southern California are Happy and Relaxed. They realize there is more to life than The Job. They walk down the street with a Smile even Downtown. They wear colors and don't rush everywhere. They spend their weekends outside - biking, beaching, hiking, antiquing...
I do have a theory:
The women in DC are wearing pointy-toed, high heeled pumps.
The women in SoCal are wearing sandals and clogs.
You do the math.
It's ok for now, but I don't see this as a place where I could live forever and ever until the end of time. There is a vibe here that rubs me the wrong way. People here are impatient. They dress in black and scurry around with their heads down. They speak harshly and don't smile. I don't know why they are in such a hurry. Where are they all going that is so important? They don't all work at the White House (now there are some guys with a serious lack of humor), or for Homeland Security or somewhere else that holds an equally inflated status.
They claim that they are Southerners, but I have lived in the Deep South. Twice. They don't hold a candle to what is really, truly Southern. They lack the Charm and Simplicity and Ease with which Southerners glide through life. These Mid-Atlantic-ers have efficiently eradicated the appearance of Joy from their tough veneers.
My heart feels constricted here. Like I'm afraid to say the wrong thing to the wrong person. I am loathe to even make eye-contact, lest I come, literally, face-to-face with their vacancy.
Though raised in Indiana, I'm a West Coast girl at heart. I loved the atmosphere in Southern California. We were there for 6 years, but I could happily spend another 60 there. People in Southern California are Happy and Relaxed. They realize there is more to life than The Job. They walk down the street with a Smile even Downtown. They wear colors and don't rush everywhere. They spend their weekends outside - biking, beaching, hiking, antiquing...
I do have a theory:
The women in DC are wearing pointy-toed, high heeled pumps.
The women in SoCal are wearing sandals and clogs.
You do the math.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Scientist-Lisa
yesterday when we drove up for a visit. We picked up an antique bed I bought for Mac a couple of weeks ago and stayed for some Hoppin' John and greens for Good Luck in the New Year. It was nice.
Answer: Alternative Parenting 101
Question: What do you call this?...
When you're drinking coffee and eating a doughnut and you reach over to touch your daughter (who's been complaining of a stomachache for the last 2 days) on the leg and it's burning up like fire. So you touch her forehead. And as you focus your attention back to the stand-up comic on TV, just before you tip your blue coffee cup to your lips, you say, "Hmm. You've got a fever."
In my defense, after I finished my coffee and doughnut, and during the next commercial, I got up and took her temp. It was 104.1.
Shut up. She's still alive.
When you're drinking coffee and eating a doughnut and you reach over to touch your daughter (who's been complaining of a stomachache for the last 2 days) on the leg and it's burning up like fire. So you touch her forehead. And as you focus your attention back to the stand-up comic on TV, just before you tip your blue coffee cup to your lips, you say, "Hmm. You've got a fever."
In my defense, after I finished my coffee and doughnut, and during the next commercial, I got up and took her temp. It was 104.1.
Shut up. She's still alive.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Reading List 2006
- The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
- Pictures of Hollis Woods by Patricia Reilly Giff
- The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle by Avi
- Vanishing Acts by Jodi Picoult
- The Last Girls by Lee Smith
- A Mango-Shaped Space by Wendy Mass
- How to Be Lost by Amanda Eyre Ward
- The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters by Elisabeth Robinson
- The Dress Lodger by Sherri Holman
- The Probable Future by Alice Hoffman
- The Doctor's Wife By Elizabeth Brundage
- The Witch of Blackbird Pond by Elizabeth George Speare
- So B. It by Sarah Weeks
- The Sex Lives of Cannibals: Adrift in the Equatorial Pacific by J. Maarten Troost
- Luna by Julie Ann Peters
- The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards
- Predator by Patricia Cornwell
- The Book of Bright Ideas by Sandra Kring
- Eats, Shoots & Leaves by Lynne Truss
- The Ice Queen by Alice Hoffman
- An Ocean In Iowa by Peter Hedges
...and due to inner turmoil and personal stress, I became incapable of concentrating on a book circa August and didn't read again until February 2007.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Dillon
He is the child that most people only ever dream about. As a baby, he rarely cried. He happily sat, wherever I put him, smiling and gazing about the room. He chewed on the cat's ear, he played with his toys, he just laid down and slept whenever he got tired. He didn't fight with other kids. If someone else wanted the Lego he was playing with, he just gave it to them. He never bit or pinched or hit. He was a diplomat in school and always got excellent grades. He adores his little sister and treats her like a princess. He comes home at curfew, calls whenever he heads somewhere unexpected, and admits to his mistakes. He likes Classic Rock and animals, his long hair and retro fashions. He is an artist and a scholar. He has an incredible sense of humor and is handsome to boot. For seventeen years he has been the light of my life. I am so, so grateful for the mistakes and choices that led me to become his mother and the strength and support to remain so.
He and "Elaine" at his Birthday Dinner.
With his Frank Sinatra t-shirt...
Drama, Defined.
This will have to be a Double-Entry night. I have something Very Important to say later, but first, an update on the Drama: (and proof that nothing is ever as Simple as it seems....)
If you prefer not to read an update, that is ok with me, just click on that "Next Blog" button in the top right corner and hope you don't land on porn...
(Or hope that you DO! Whatever.)
So. On Christmas Afternoon, Jeff, Singing-Lisa, Torrey, Rachelle & Scott were here at the house and we were drinking, eating, and checking out our new presents when we noticed flashing emergency lights through my grandma-sheers in the front window. I was immediately concerned that Joe, our 70-year-old neighbor had had another heart attack and ran to the front door to check on him. He was ok. He and his wife, Phyllis, were actually sitting in their car, in front of our house after returning from lunch and on their way over here for a visit. Turns out that the paramedics were aimed at the townhouse on the corner, 3 down from mine, where Laura (who had cataract surgery on the 6th) and Al live. Phyllis went and checked out the situation and found that Laura had found Al unconscious on the kitchen floor. She refused to go to the hospital and they took him on in. Unfortunate, but not really a surprise, as Al is 88-years-old. And not exactly spry.
That evening, Phyllis and Joe went over to take Laura to the hospital but she couldn't function well enough to even put her pants on and stand up straight. When she fell back on the bed, Phyllis called 911. They came, took Laura off in her own ambulance, and we were worried, but glad they were both in the care of Trained Medical Professionals. Around 11:30 that night, I noticed a taxi out front and figured, correctly, that the hospital had released her.
The next night, Monday night, Mac noticed the emergency lights again through the Grandma-Curtains. I just couldn't stand it. I had to know that she was ok. So I wandered on out. (This is what Candi calls "Knocking on Drama's door".) The paramedic-lady said that Laura had called 911 but they couldn't get in, did we know anyone who had a key? (No.) They had to break in the back door. Literally. They also didn't know that the paramedics had been there twice the day before or that she had fallen last Wednesday and Al had knocked on my door asking me to pick her up. She told the 911 operator that she had fallen and hurt her back, but when the paramedics checked her out, they decided she was ok and left her home*.
I went to work Tuesday morning and hoped she was ok. But by Wednesday, when I noticed that her car hadn't appeared to move and it didn't seem as though anyone was visiting her, I knocked on her door. She called from upstairs to come in, so I did.
I don't know Laura well, just enough to say, "Hi" and "What a lovely afternoon it is" in passing, but she was clearly not taking care of herself and I wasn't even sure that she was capable. She was crying and her eyes wouldn't stay open and there was a hole in her back door. I told her I would bring Tater back to fix her door and bring her some chicken and rice for dinner. I did and he did and she threw up. Apparently, not eating for 4 days and then eating my chicken, rice and peas is not good for the stomach. While I was there I also noticed an open bottle of Brut on her nightstand. Whatever. I might need a drink or so after the week she had too! Phyllis came over and we got her next of kin (none) and Al's (2 ancient sisters and a niece in Massachusetts), and a set of keys for each of us. I called the hospital and talked to Nurse Hazel who gave me Al's bedside number so Laura could call him.
But then, things got complicated. Phyllis took her vomit-y clothes home to wash them and found a receipt from the supermarket dated that day at 2:30pm, for $12 worth of champagne. No food, just liquor. That little shit! She told us she hadn't left the house. When I went back to her house later that night, the bottle was gone and I found 4 caps in her trash.
Apparently she's an alcoholic to boot. It explains a few things.
So today it's Friday. Al's niece has called me several times each day since Wednesday (she's concerned about Al, and Laura, and Laura's ability to care for him when he leaves the Rehabilitation Hospital, and Laura's "sobriety". Hmmm. She's called Social Services to evaluate the situation.) , checked on Laura several times a day, and took her to the hospital today. For the last 2 days she has been lucid and bright eyed and more steady on her feet.
I feel good about her being alone now, but I'm not convinced that she shouldn't be in an Assisted Living center. I even asked her about it. She doesn't want to do it. She and Al aren't married and they won't be allowed to live together in a home.
I've done what I can. I'll continue to check on her and keep an eye out for flashing red lights, but I'm glad the week is over and hope that things are returning to what we call "Normal".
*I now believe that she was actually drunk, as she doesn't remember either of the last 2 ambulances coming.
If you prefer not to read an update, that is ok with me, just click on that "Next Blog" button in the top right corner and hope you don't land on porn...
(Or hope that you DO! Whatever.)
So. On Christmas Afternoon, Jeff, Singing-Lisa, Torrey, Rachelle & Scott were here at the house and we were drinking, eating, and checking out our new presents when we noticed flashing emergency lights through my grandma-sheers in the front window. I was immediately concerned that Joe, our 70-year-old neighbor had had another heart attack and ran to the front door to check on him. He was ok. He and his wife, Phyllis, were actually sitting in their car, in front of our house after returning from lunch and on their way over here for a visit. Turns out that the paramedics were aimed at the townhouse on the corner, 3 down from mine, where Laura (who had cataract surgery on the 6th) and Al live. Phyllis went and checked out the situation and found that Laura had found Al unconscious on the kitchen floor. She refused to go to the hospital and they took him on in. Unfortunate, but not really a surprise, as Al is 88-years-old. And not exactly spry.
That evening, Phyllis and Joe went over to take Laura to the hospital but she couldn't function well enough to even put her pants on and stand up straight. When she fell back on the bed, Phyllis called 911. They came, took Laura off in her own ambulance, and we were worried, but glad they were both in the care of Trained Medical Professionals. Around 11:30 that night, I noticed a taxi out front and figured, correctly, that the hospital had released her.
The next night, Monday night, Mac noticed the emergency lights again through the Grandma-Curtains. I just couldn't stand it. I had to know that she was ok. So I wandered on out. (This is what Candi calls "Knocking on Drama's door".) The paramedic-lady said that Laura had called 911 but they couldn't get in, did we know anyone who had a key? (No.) They had to break in the back door. Literally. They also didn't know that the paramedics had been there twice the day before or that she had fallen last Wednesday and Al had knocked on my door asking me to pick her up. She told the 911 operator that she had fallen and hurt her back, but when the paramedics checked her out, they decided she was ok and left her home*.
I went to work Tuesday morning and hoped she was ok. But by Wednesday, when I noticed that her car hadn't appeared to move and it didn't seem as though anyone was visiting her, I knocked on her door. She called from upstairs to come in, so I did.
I don't know Laura well, just enough to say, "Hi" and "What a lovely afternoon it is" in passing, but she was clearly not taking care of herself and I wasn't even sure that she was capable. She was crying and her eyes wouldn't stay open and there was a hole in her back door. I told her I would bring Tater back to fix her door and bring her some chicken and rice for dinner. I did and he did and she threw up. Apparently, not eating for 4 days and then eating my chicken, rice and peas is not good for the stomach. While I was there I also noticed an open bottle of Brut on her nightstand. Whatever. I might need a drink or so after the week she had too! Phyllis came over and we got her next of kin (none) and Al's (2 ancient sisters and a niece in Massachusetts), and a set of keys for each of us. I called the hospital and talked to Nurse Hazel who gave me Al's bedside number so Laura could call him.
But then, things got complicated. Phyllis took her vomit-y clothes home to wash them and found a receipt from the supermarket dated that day at 2:30pm, for $12 worth of champagne. No food, just liquor. That little shit! She told us she hadn't left the house. When I went back to her house later that night, the bottle was gone and I found 4 caps in her trash.
Apparently she's an alcoholic to boot. It explains a few things.
So today it's Friday. Al's niece has called me several times each day since Wednesday (she's concerned about Al, and Laura, and Laura's ability to care for him when he leaves the Rehabilitation Hospital, and Laura's "sobriety". Hmmm. She's called Social Services to evaluate the situation.) , checked on Laura several times a day, and took her to the hospital today. For the last 2 days she has been lucid and bright eyed and more steady on her feet.
I feel good about her being alone now, but I'm not convinced that she shouldn't be in an Assisted Living center. I even asked her about it. She doesn't want to do it. She and Al aren't married and they won't be allowed to live together in a home.
I've done what I can. I'll continue to check on her and keep an eye out for flashing red lights, but I'm glad the week is over and hope that things are returning to what we call "Normal".
*I now believe that she was actually drunk, as she doesn't remember either of the last 2 ambulances coming.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
And We're Back To the Drama...
There's been Drama here on Geriatric Court and I'm smack dab in the middle of it. Only because I was the only one brave...(stupid?)...enough on Monday to go find out why elderly Mrs. M had yet a third ambulance in front of her house in two days. Thank God I did, because she needed help. I can't explain now - I have to go to bed and tomorrow after work I have to take her to the hospital to visit her 88 year-old boyfriend who has had a stroke. She hasn't seen him since she found him lying on the kitchen floor on Christmas Day. :(
Do I find the Drama.......Or does the Drama find me?
I'll try to update this weekend.
P
Do I find the Drama.......Or does the Drama find me?
I'll try to update this weekend.
P
Monday, December 26, 2005
Christmas Wrap Up
What an Excellent Holiday!
Christmas Eve, Scientist-Lisa, Dr. Tim, Kirsten and Emma came for the afternoon. They stayed for dinner and met Scott, Rachelle, and Torrey and we had a really great time eating lasagna, having some Christmas Cheer, and connecting with long-lost "family". Scott, Rachelle and Torrey woke up with us on Christmas morning and we had the best time laughing and opening presents... Later in the day, Singing-Lisa and Jeff came over for some Christmas Gumbo and then our neighbors, Joe and Phyllis, stopped by with some Drunken Carrot Cake to share.
Clearly, The Girls had a happy, happy Christmas Day. This is Me, Rachelle & Singing-Lisa enjoying a very spirited Apple-tini. We had Cosmo's too. Get it? Green & Red?
Dillon got a new tie to go with his new suit.
And they both got new Nano's. Black for D, White for Mac. Thank you, Wago!
I also got a new Canon Rebel camera, which I adore! So we have our Christmas photos spread out among 3 different cameras this year. It will take me a while to round them all up.
Christmas Eve, Scientist-Lisa, Dr. Tim, Kirsten and Emma came for the afternoon. They stayed for dinner and met Scott, Rachelle, and Torrey and we had a really great time eating lasagna, having some Christmas Cheer, and connecting with long-lost "family". Scott, Rachelle and Torrey woke up with us on Christmas morning and we had the best time laughing and opening presents... Later in the day, Singing-Lisa and Jeff came over for some Christmas Gumbo and then our neighbors, Joe and Phyllis, stopped by with some Drunken Carrot Cake to share.
Clearly, The Girls had a happy, happy Christmas Day. This is Me, Rachelle & Singing-Lisa enjoying a very spirited Apple-tini. We had Cosmo's too. Get it? Green & Red?
Dillon got a new tie to go with his new suit.
And they both got new Nano's. Black for D, White for Mac. Thank you, Wago!
I also got a new Canon Rebel camera, which I adore! So we have our Christmas photos spread out among 3 different cameras this year. It will take me a while to round them all up.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
A Doubly Merry Christmas
Dude. I realize that I said yesterday that I thought Rachelle was the best present a girl could get, but that was before this:
Yup, that's a Flamingo Cookie Jar.
A cookie jar that's shaped like a Flamingo. How awesome is that?!?! I got it from Beth. This is Beth and I atmy office Christmas Party (and that's my bra you can see on my right boob):
She's my boss. But not really a boss because bosses are horrible and not your friend and I really, really like her and she covered my back twice this week when I got busted for not being a very good secretary (key word: "secretary"). She's a lot of fun and we get along great and I like to hang out with her even after work.
And she knows I love flamingos. So she ordered me that flamingo for Christmas. And it made me laugh really, really hard. And Dillon and Mackenzie cracked up and then told me I need to make cookies. But now I'm a Working Mom so I think I'll buy some.
I got her socks. Because she needed them. They are stripey and fun (though still muted so as not to scare her off too quickly). She always wears very boring, pedestrian (huh! that was like a pun!) socks and not fun, polka-dotty, stripey, match your sweater socks. I didn't buy her the orange or red or pink ones I wanted to, but stuck with the brown and black and gray that will ease her into the super-fun world of exciting socks verrrry slowly. And then she will see how much her spirit is improved by the super-fun socks and want to wear them all the time. And she will thank me.
A cookie jar that's shaped like a Flamingo. How awesome is that?!?! I got it from Beth. This is Beth and I at
She's my boss. But not really a boss because bosses are horrible and not your friend and I really, really like her and she covered my back twice this week when I got busted for not being a very good secretary (key word: "secretary"). She's a lot of fun and we get along great and I like to hang out with her even after work.
And she knows I love flamingos. So she ordered me that flamingo for Christmas. And it made me laugh really, really hard. And Dillon and Mackenzie cracked up and then told me I need to make cookies. But now I'm a Working Mom so I think I'll buy some.
I got her socks. Because she needed them. They are stripey and fun (though still muted so as not to scare her off too quickly). She always wears very boring, pedestrian (huh! that was like a pun!) socks and not fun, polka-dotty, stripey, match your sweater socks. I didn't buy her the orange or red or pink ones I wanted to, but stuck with the brown and black and gray that will ease her into the super-fun world of exciting socks verrrry slowly. And then she will see how much her spirit is improved by the super-fun socks and want to wear them all the time. And she will thank me.
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