To be nobody-but-yourself -- in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else -- means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.
~ e. e. cummings
Yes, I know it isn't even 9:00 in the morning yet, but this has been one craptastic Monday so far. Therefore, I was utterly delighted to come upon this:
over on a new blog I just discovered this past weekend. Heck YES, I want to play along this morning!
You see, my morning actually started at 2:14, when into my dream of auditioning for The Amazing Race with my sister came a shrill and persistent, sustained beeping noise. Eventually, my dream self realized that no, in fact my sister and I weren't going to be meeting Phil Keoghan and his raised eyebrow after all, because that noise wasn't coming from my dream. I halfway woke up and pondered. It was hard to tell if the noise was real or just some sort of freaky, tinnitis-like sound I was only hearing in my head. I lifted my head off the pillow to listen with both ears. Hmmmmm, now it not only seemed to be a real noise, but it was sounding an awful lot like an alarm going off somewhere in the house. Smoke detector? Carbon monoxide detector? Crap.
I hopped out of bed tout de suite, fumbling for my glasses in the dark, and made my way downstairs where the cat greeted me in a state of mild but clear distress. Okay, at least that means there were two of us hearing this ungodly sound. I looked at the CO detector - nope, that wasn't it. I flung open the basement door and instantly the shrieking beep dramatically increased in volume. Not seeing any smoke, I quickly determined that the sound was coming from the sump pump alarm and that the sump pump had stopped running. (For the record, we've had the basement flood three times since the beginning of January due to sump pump failure. I should also mention we have a brand-new sump pump now, as well.) Crappity crap. I dashed back upstairs and woke Hubby up. Hubby, who has always been the much lighter sleeper of the two of us, who wakes up with a start if a fly lands on the ceiling or a dust bunny moves on the floor, was sleeping soundly away, totally oblivious. As soon as I whispered "Dude. That's the sump pump alarm going off!" he was out of bed and racing for the basement in a flash. I followed him back downstairs to see what level of an emergency this was going to be.
Turns out there was a small piece of plastic that looked like the cap off a container of caulk that had found its way into the well and jammed itself into the machinery in such a way as to prevent the pump from starting when it should've. Given that it had been raining pretty steadily for the past several hours, the well was on the verge of spilling over, hence the alarm. (I'm not sure exactly how long the alarm had been sounding before I became conscious of it.) Hubby extracted the piece of plastic, the pump started up, the water level began draining and the alarm shut off with a very horrific, dying SQUEEEEEEAAAWWWWWWWL sound. Crisis averted. We headed back upstairs to bed, leaving the still a bit freaked out crazy cat in the family room. (Okay, I get that the noise was probably extremely upsetting to her - it was upsetting to me and my hearing is nowhere near that of a cat's. However, this is the same creature that hears secret messages from the Cat Home Planet whenever we use the DVD player, so, you know, her reaction to any noise is automatically suspect.)
By 2:19, I was back in bed. Wide awake.
I checked the clock again. Yeeha, it was 2:31.
2:48.
3:12.
3:43.
4:07. Dagnabit, why am I still awake? SHUT THE HECK OFF ALREADY, BRAIN!
Of course, I know darn well why I couldn't fall back asleep. Besides the fright factor and subsequent adrenaline rush of "AN ALARM IS GOING OFF SOMEWHERE IN THE HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT EEEEEEEK!" that had rendered me fully awake, I had lots of things to think about. Things like Kiddo's upcoming CSE annual review, for which we have a team pre-meeting today. You know, those things that like to keep one up in the wee, small hours of the morning. Bleargh.
4:36 and I thought about giving up and getting up, but eventually, finally I drifted back off to sleep. It was a brutal awakening when Kiddo's alarm went off two hours later. I rolled over and felt the pounding behind my eyes. Splendid.
I had just made my way to the kitchen, where the Excedrin Migraine lives in the cabinet above the sink, when I heard the dulcet tones of my beloved daughter freaking the heck out. For reasons unknown to anyone but her, she'd decided to wander down into the family room without turning on any lights. The family room which was pretty much still pitch black, as the sun wasn't up yet and the shades were drawn anyhow. As she made her way through the darkened room, she stepped in something cold, wet and slimy.
Yep, you guessed it. Cat hairball, with a chaser of what once was dry cat food, now mostly digested, for good measure.
Now, you would think that as long as it wasn't you who had trod upon cat barf in naught but a pair of fuzzy slipper socks, life would be good. However, when it is your child who steps in the cat barf and then promptly flips out and begins screaming and hopping around, managing to grind said cat barf further into the carpet and spread it around in the process? Actually, that's much, much worse.
So there I was at ten to seven this morning, skull feeling two sizes too small and eyes feeling like they were about to burst right out of their sockets, kid shrieking and ewwwwwwing and hovering over my shoulder to witness the scene as I used the last, few paper towels on the roll from the laundry room to clean up cold, wet, ground-in cat barf. (Apparently the cat was more upset by the alarm than I'd realized...)
And speaking of the last, few paper towels on the roll, it turns out that every kind of paper product that comes in roll form had decided to run out simultaneously this morning. I kid you not: when I got up to pee at 3:12am, voila, two measly squares of TP left on the roll in the master bathroom. When I went into Kiddo's bathroom to grab some Advil at 3:43, I discovered another empty roll. After using the last of the paper towels in the laundry room for Operation Barf Removal, I went up to the kitchen to wash my hands......... and discovered the paper towel dispenser next to the kitchen sink was devoid of Select-a-Size Bounty as well.
Cheese on toast, man! This Monday is definitely a contender for King of the Craptastic.
And it's cold. And it's raining. And it's freaking MONDAY. And I have to go grocery shopping in the cold and rain this morning. And we have that IEP meeting I was up stressing out about this afternoon. And Kiddo has her swimming lesson after school today. And it's freaking MONDAY.
Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
I totally want to run away to the Seychelles after watching last night's episode of The Amazing Race. I'm fairly certain those ginormous tortoises that live there do not barf up hairballs... of course with my craptastic luck, I'd probably arrive just in time for a monsoon.
'cause I am done. As I mentioned in my previous post, Kiddo appeared to be starting with a head cold yesterday morning. Well, yesterday afternoon she returned home from school white as a sheet with a low grade fever (99.2) and generally looked pitiful, so we skipped her swimming lesson and I put her to bed early with a dose of Children's Mucinex Cold for good measure.
Now, since it isn't possible for my kid to ever catch anything besides strep throat (to which I seem *knock wood* to be mostly immune) without me catching it too, of course I started with the cold symptoms myself. I can actually tell you the exact moment they began. I was pushing my shopping cart out of Walmart to my car through the chilly, damp air yesterday afternoon (temperatures were back down into the 30s and I was forced to reluctantly pull my winter coat back out of the closet where I'd optimistically stashed it the previous week) and I breathed in. With that inhalation (around 2:20pm), my throat began to hurt. At first I chalked it up to the air, to being thirsty, to *anything* other than germs. I hopped in the car and chugged a bottle of water. Throat still hurt. Dang. I chose to ignore it and went on with my day, because really, it's not like I actually had a choice. The world does not stop because Mommy is suddenly feeling unwell, after all. I drove myself home, unpacked the groceries, herded Kiddo into the house when the school bus arrived, tended to her, etc. By the time she was tucked into bed - 6:50pm despite DST, so I knew she wasn't feeling well - I was listless and sneezy. I still tried to convince myself that it was nothing more than PMS. Because PMS gives you a runny nose and sore throat, right? Hubby got home around 8:30 and we had cold cereal and toast for dinner, then went to bed at 10, and as soon as I rolled onto my side and shut my eyes, I felt it. That inside-the-skull sloshing of all the snot that seemingly spontaneously generated and ran down into my left side sinuses and nostril as they snuggled into the pillow. Ugh. I rolled to the other side and felt the sensation repeat as the tide shifted to my right. Not. Good. As the night progressed, I tossed and turned and woke up to alternatively jam Puffs Pluses into my nostrils or to remove and replace them. (What? You've never done that? I do it all. the. time. when I have a head cold. I'm doing it right now, as a matter of fact.) Around 2am, Hubby abandoned ship and moved himself into the guest room to try to get some sleep that wasn't interrupted by my congested breathing, snorting or snoring. I took advantage of his defection by rolling onto my back so that at least the congestion could reach a state of equilibrium between my sinuses. As generally happens when I'm not feeling well, my subconscious went all Twilight Zone on me and kept parading odd and unsettling dreams through my increasingly congested noggin for the periods I was actually asleep.
This morning, Kiddo didn't wake up until 8:35. I would gladly have slept in even longer if I could've, myself. Instead, I got up, swapped my normal morning attire of ratty sweatshirt-over-jammies for my ratty-fleece-with-pockets-over-jammies so that I can carry a stash of tissues and hand sanitizer with me wherever I go and shuffled downstairs. Kiddo is home from school today (obviously) and we're both pretty pathetic. My sinus headache is throbbing to the beat of the opening chords of Eye of the Tiger thanks to her iPod. I'm presently debating whether to turn on the Wii for her and let her play Littlest Pet Shop so I can go back to bed. (We have a rule: Kiddo is only allowed to play Wii on the weekends.) Oh, who am I kidding? I'm totally turning it on for her as soon as she finishes her breakfast and comes back downstairs.
The end-of-winter cold is unfortunately a bit of a tradition around our house, and one I would gladly skip. It's supposed to be gorgeous out today, Hubby told me this morning as he was getting ready for work. Sunshine and temps in the 50s. I'd planned to do some yardwork (there are enough sticks in our yard for me to build a bonfire) and I was supposed to be volunteering at school this afternoon on a big art project the first graders are finishing up, but instead I'm going to pull down the shades and retreat to my Mentholated Rainforest Cave. And did I mention on top of this cold, I also have *every* possible PMS symptom right now, too?
Today is my last day of being 37, or being in my "mid-thirties" as I've been saying for the past 364 days. Let me just say that if today is indicative of how 38 is going to go down, I'm in trouble.
The day started out well enough. We've been checking out different churches in our new town, trying to find one that feels right for us. We weren't overly enamored of the United Methodist church we attended last week, so we'd decided to try the Presbyterian church right in the middle of town. We all were fed, showered and dressed appropriately with plenty of time to make the five minute drive over to the church. Hubby and Kiddo were waiting in the minivan, which Hubby had already backed out into the driveway, when I headed out the door.
And here is where things started going south in a hurry. I was putting the bag with our shoes in it (as we were wearing our sensible winter boots due to the weather) in the back next to Kiddo when Hubby, noting the freezing rain pelting down, suggested I grab the large umbrella out of the back seat of his car so we'd have enough coverage for the walk to church (Kiddo is a bit of an umbrella hog). We'd read about the parking situation at this particular church - that being that they don't really have any - and knew we were in for a bit of a walk. I turned around and started back into the garage to grab that umbrella.
The next thing I knew, I was sprawled on the icy, icy driveway. Did I mention it was icy? It wasn't actually the "next thing" I knew, for as always seems to happen when I fall, time freezes into super-slow-motion and it feels like it is taking an eternity for my body to meet the ground. (Hubby disputed this over lunch, saying that no, one second I was standing by the front of the van and the next I wasn't. He swears it was a "blink of an eye" sort of thing.)
Now, traditionally I have One Big Fall each winter season. (The length of said season depends on where we're living - sometimes it is just January-March, nowadays it's more November-April.) It is an accepted fact among those who know me that I will fall, spectacularly, once each year. I generally breathe a sigh of relief once the One Big Fall has happened, as I know I'll be safe from there on out, and I dread those years when the OBF doesn't occur until March or April. Now, there has been the occasional season when I do fall more than once, and there is even the rare year that I don't fall at all. But generally speaking, there's One Big Fall each winter.
So, it was today. I landed rather heavily on my left hand/arm. Not in any conscious "I shall stop myself from falling by breaking said fall with my left hand" sort of way, because my Spectacular Falling Method does not employ any such choreography. It's much more pratfall than graceful sinking to the ground. My best OBF ever occurred back in 1997, when I was working at Dartmouth College in Hanover, NH - aka The Land of Neverending Winter (followed by the Inexplicable yet Quite Accurately Named "Mud Season"). One February morning that year, as I was heading in from the parking lot to the building that housed my office along a very slippery sidewalk, I did one of those both-feet-out-from-under-me moves typified by the expression "ass over teakettle" (though Dame Helen Mirren used a more colorful, British variant of the same euphemism quite famously at the Emmy Awards a few years back). My bagged lunch and bag of shoes, which I had in my right hand, and my purse, which I had on my left shoulder, went sailing off into the bushes and snow all around me and I even managed to lose one of my gloves (which I'd been, you know, wearing) in what Dane Cook would call a fit of joy. Of course there were several witnesses of the Snooty Ivy League Graduate Student variety, which meant far more in the way of pointing and snickering in my general direction than any offers of help or inquiries as to the state of my extremely prone body. That added note of humiliation, coupled with the incredible amount of hangtime my suddenly horizontal body had whilst in midair, definitely qualified that as the Best. OBF. Ever.
But I digress. Back to this year's edition of my OBF. There I was, sprawled upon the icy, icy driveway. I managed to get up without falling again and limped into the house for a wound check. Hubby and Kiddo were quite concerned, but I determined I was all right once I'd washed the grit and stones out of my palm and wrist. (Kiddo did pipe up with the helpful tip that if I'd been wearing my gloves when I fell, my hand would've been protected. Thanks.) I grabbed an icepack for the road and away we headed to church.
It turns out that more than our driveway was really, really icy. Our neighborhood is in a very hilly area, and the main road into the village is in and of itself a large, large hill. The road out of our subdivision empties out about 2/3 of the way up one side of this hill, and the most direct way to the church means turning onto and going up the rest of the way and then down again. Well, the minivan wasn't so sure about the whole "going up" bit, and when we'd gotten to the top, we came upon an accident involving at least two cars and a street sign, along with a fireman who was waving us off to turn around. So, we did, opting to carefully make our way down the hill the other way and take the other route into the village. (Kiddo: "Is this a shortcut?" Hubby: "No, this is actually a longcut.")
So now we're pushing it in terms of getting to church on time. (Oooh, brief musical interlude here.....) We carefully make our way to the church without further incident and Hubby lets Kiddo and me out right in front before driving off to find parking. By the time he finds a spot and makes his way back to the church, the service is well underway. I think we were about 12 minutes late by the time we walked into the sanctuary, though we were not, I'd like to note, the latest people to arrive.
No, we weren't the latest but still, turning up late at a new church doesn't make a very good impression. In my haste to get Kiddo to pipe down as we entered the sanctuary, I completely missed the usher who was attempting to hand me a bulletin, so that plus the distraction of being late, keeping Kiddo in line (she's had serious ants in the pants going on all day) and the relatively searing pain that occurred every time I tried to straighten out my left arm, it didn't make for a peaceful and satisfying worship experience. Add to that the fact that this was a Presbyterian church so there were bits of it that differed from the UM service we are used to, and bleargh. (Case in point: The Lord's Prayer found Hubby and I saying, as we are accustomed, "forgive us our TRESPASSES as we forgive those who TRESPASS against us" while the rest of the congregation all was saying "Forgive us our DEBTS as we forgive our DEBTORS" and let me tell you, of all the things to be saying fervently yet incorrectly aloud, something chock full of sibilance is really going to stand out.)
So, the service concluded and we went off to collect Kiddo from Sunday School, to which she'd happily gone off with a girl she knew from school who'd also gone up front for the Children's Moment. We arrived at the classroom to find Kiddo wearing an angel's costume, having secured herself a part in their upcoming Christmas pageant. We were introduced to and spoke at length with the Director of Christian Education, who assured us Kiddo was most welcome to be in their pageant and that they'd be rehearsing from 11 until 12:30 today so we could come back and pick her up then. We talked it over with Kiddo and she assured us she really, really wanted to be in the pageant and off she skipped with nary a backward glance to the sanctuary to rehearse with the rest of the children.
We wandered about the very crowded Fellowship Hall for coffee hour for a bit, then headed past the sanctuary and went home to change and for me to strap an ice wrap on my now throbbing and swollen left elbow. I took a few Advil for good measure, since I'm certainly not getting any younger so I don't bounce back as quickly as I might've from my OBFs of years past. When we returned to the church around 12:20, one of the Sunday School teachers was sitting with a de-costumed Kiddo in the front pew. Uh-oh. She then explained to us that Kiddo had changed her mind about being in the pageant as the rehearsal got underway and had proceeded instead to sit in the front pew, crying. Not crying about the pageant, mind you, but because she'd eaten a doughnut with the other Sunday School children right before the practice started and, having eaten a doughnut at home for breakfast, was suddenly stricken with remorse that Mommy might not have wanted her to eat a second doughnut and that she might get in trouble for eating too much sugar. (Which: did I mention the ants in the pants? Sigh.) She had explained all of this at length to the Sunday School teacher, about how Mommy would be so, so mad about her eating that doughnut and how that was why she was crying, because she knew that Mommy would be so, so mad.
Ugh. To sum up the first impression this church has of us: We arrive late, foist our child upon them and then leave (though, as Hubby rightly pointed out, the other parents all left as well) so that our child could whip herself up into a hissy fit about having eaten a doughnut (um, guilty conscience there much, Kiddo? Getting that general sense of "knowing better" and the subsequent guilt that comes with doing it anyway? Fanfreakingtastic, but next time, let's try to keep the histrionics display for family only, mmmkay?), turn on the waterworks and quit the pageant, while also demonstrating what appeared to be a significant amount of fear at the pending Wrath of her Wacko Mother over the minor transgression of eating a doughnut. I mean, Kiddo turned it on as she is wont to do, being a junior Meryl Streep and all. I'm sure they were expecting me to whip out a switch and flay her alive right there in the sanctuary or something. Yeesh.
On that note, we made our way back out into the sleety rain and headed off to my birthday lunch, with a now sulky and petulant Kiddo in the back seat. Happy, happy, joy, joy. We arrive at the restaurant, Macaroni Grill, where we've gone to eat for my birthday for the last several years (um, okay, over a decade). I do adore their food and they make a "dessert ravioli" that is to die for.
Well, they *used* to make a dessert ravioli that is to die for, anyhow. Turns out they changed the menu since last December and the dessert ravioli is gone. Bummer. The rest of our lunch was fairly delightful and the chocolate cake covered with chocolate ganache and crumbled pecans, surrounded by dollops of fresh whipped cream was almost an acceptable substitute for the dessert ravioli. It would've been better if Kiddo, aka Ants in the Pants Annie, hadn't decided to end her two year aversion to all things chocolate (which yes, I never fully understood, or even partially understood. I mean, to suddenly go from loving to refusing CHOCOLATE? What the heck?!) and grabbed a fork to join in on the piece Hubby and I were sharing. In doing so, she managed to scoop up all the dollops of fresh whipped cream, which took the delightfulness factor down a notch or two.
On that note, we headed home again, home again, jiggety jig. I went upstairs to change out of Clothes That Require Things Like Zippers and Brassieres and into Comfy Clothes, aka my jammies. In the bathroom, I was taking out my earrings when my left arm - you know, the one I landed on mere hours ago? - decided to suddenly send a searing pain up to my left hand and kerplink, kerplank, kerplunk, I dropped the earring I was holding. The toilet lid was down and I wasn't right over the sink (which, granted, pretty much anywhere in our master bath is basically "right over the sink" unless you're in the Pepto-Bismol stall shower), so I didn't fret about it too much. However, I couldn't find it anywhere, which befuddled me and led me to believe that it must've fallen into the mostly full garbage can that sits between the toilet and sink (because the dang bathroom's too small to put it anywhere else, including under the ridonkulously small vanity). Now, this wasn't an expensive earring, just a $5 faux-diamond stud, so I decided that I was not about to go dumpster diving in my own bathroom just to retrieve it. With my luck, it didn't fall in there anyhow and I'll find it by stepping on it in the middle of the night when I get up for a drink of water without putting my glasses on...........
So, there you have me today. Bruised, swollen, probably banned from the new church, unstuffed by dessert ravioli and missing an earring. The cat is presently perched in the windowsill just behind my computer monitor, and I'm fully expecting her little, kitty head to whip around a la Linda Blair in The Exorcist and spew forth furballs upon me and/or my computer. (No, I'm not linking to that particular film clip. You're welcome.) Ants in her Pants Annie is whinging away in the next room wanting me to play with her, and at my refusals (because, ahem, I'm working on the Christmas presents for the grandparents right now...) is whinily asking the Magic 8 Ball "Oh Magic 8 Ball, tell me true, will Mommy finish doing her boring work and play with her kid?" And I do have to finish the project, which I can't get into as certain of the grandparents have been known to read my blog and I can't spill the beans, but let's just say there is a lot of creative input and uploading type work involved as well as completion deadlines for shipping in time for Christmas and if my kid is Ants in her Pants Annie, well I might as well confess that my own mother has called me Last Minute Annie for the past 37 years and 364 days... so I'd better get to it.
At least tomorrow I have this to look forward to...
Maybe hitting my late thirties won't be so bad after all...
Wow, I've totally deserted my blog of late, sorry 'bout that. I have many excuses, truly I do. It appears I last posted on a Wordless Wednesday a week ago, and now here we are with a Phriday Photo Phun Phiesta. I would have phantabulous photos to share, if I hadn't had my excuse-laden week happen. (By the way, I'm totally about to plagarise myself from a comment I left over on the fantabulous Andy's blog. Oh, and she is having a giveaway right now so you might want to pop over there, but then again, *I* want to win the giveaway, so maybe never mind, not to mention then you'd see this next bit in its orginal context....) Anyhow, I’ve been hit with a double whammy this week, part one consisting of a massive allergy attack following my lawnmowing escapades of Monday afternoon, which resulted in two subsequent days of red, watery eyes, red, stuffed up, Rudolph-would-be-jealous nose and a permanent fog from massive doses of antihistamines that would only clear for a few brief seconds during “damn, I think I actually just sneezed my nose off” sneezing spells. Whammy Part Deux came the day before yesterday, when, coming off the heels of my allergy attack, I was at the gym and pulled something in my lower back. Well, okay, fine, I actually began to pull the something in the shower before going to the gym, when I dropped my little scrubby bath puff thingy and had to BEND ALL THE WAY OVER to retrieve it from the shower floor and my back said “BEND ALL THE WAY OVER? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? SOMEONE YOUNG AND LIMBER? HAHAHAHAHAHA!” and twanged ominously. But, since hurting oneself at the gym at least sounds like one isn’t utterly pathetic and my back did twang ominously again while stepping down off the elliptical machine, I’m going with that. Annnnnnyhow, however it began, I pulled something in quite a painful way two days ago, and it got progressively worse as yesterday wore on, so I’ve been hobbling around slowly and heavily, all hunched over, for the past 24 hours, cursing myself for choosing to put the ibuprofen (along with all the other medicine-type things) waaaaaaay up on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet so Kiddo can’t get to them because, as I’m presently about 2/3 of my height, I can’t reach them either. Kiddo has proved useful in other ways, though, such as fetching me icepacks from the freezer…
"Wow!" you're no doubt thinking to yourself, "this blog post claimed to be full of Photo Phun and so far all I've read is Heather whinging on about her hunchbackedy sneeziness!" (Oh, and by the by, have you ever had a massive sneezing fit while suffering from extreme lower back pain? Ouch to the nth degree, let me tell you!) "Hmmm," you further are thinking, "When and where are these phun photos going to appear?"
Well, fear not, dear reader, because Kiddo has stepped up to the plate, pinch-hitting for her Rudolph-Hunchback mama. You see, Kiddo is a shutterbug in her own right, albeit one with a fairly lame, low-quality digital camera. Kiddo has been snapping pictures like mad all week, and since *she* took 286 photos this week to my 0 photos, she is going to be featured here today.
On with the show!
Here's proof that I am, in fact, Quasimodo:
Working hard on my computer, if by "hard" one means "playing Farm Town and Farkle on Facebook" .....
Sitting at the table, trying to read, eat breakfast and remain upright all at the same time:
(You'll note the abundance of wadded up tissues next to me in each shot above; sorry her camera isn't high-quality enough to capture the Rudolphian/W.C. Fields nose itself.)
As I was turning out to be quite a boring subject, Kiddo turned her camera to more exotic species of wildlife in the form of Chompy, one of the rabbits that frequents our yard. These were from Chompy's daily visit as taken out one of the office windows:
Once Chompy had ventured on to yards beyond our own, Kiddo found herself another model. This is Buster, a member of her Stuffed Animal Entourage...
Posing on top of a TV tray,
on top of my rapidly dwindling supply of Puffs Plus in my office,
on a placemat on the dining room table,
and in EXTREME CLOSE-UP!
Kiddo also took many self portraits.... This one's my favorite.
So, there you have it. Photo Phun courtesy of the Next Generation Shutterbug in my house! Hoping you are all having a much more upright kinda Phriday, and for more Photo Phun, pop on over to Candid Carrie's!
12:36am - wake up to Kiddo calling "Mommy! I was just coughing so hard I threw up on the floor!" Even less exciting than the call about middle of the night barfing was the knowledge that (a) we'd had pasta with red sauce for dinner and (b) we had two showings scheduled for today.
Got her and the floor all cleaned up, couldn't fall back asleep for the longest time. Woke up this morning (Hubby let me sleep in) still groggy and grouchy, spent the morning getting everything all tidied up for our two showings and vacated the premises. Hubby went to run some errands and Kiddo and I went over to visit some friends who had been kind enough to invite us over for lunch. After spending a delightful afternoon catching up with our friends, Kiddo decided to throw a class A temper tantrum when I gave her the two minute warning about it being time to leave. This devolved into a 35 minute long temper tantrum in the car for the entire ride home. Walked in the door and sent Kiddo immediately up to her room for a time out until it is time to head out for the next showing at 5:00.
At least Hubby and I had been heartened to know that Hubby had driven by our house about 20 minutes after the designated showing time and saw the agent and the prospective buyers standing in the driveway talking. They were there, talking in the driveway, for another 15 minutes before they left. That sure seemed like a good sign, right?
Nope. Our agent's assistant just called to tell us that the showing agent couldn't get into the house because the front storm door was locked. As in, the door that is outside the front door with the lockbox on it. So, they never saw the house (but apparently didn't call our agent or Hubby certainly could've been home within 5 minutes to let them in!) and now, our agent isn't sure that they want to reschedule and come back.
Now, that door was locked by one of two people - either me, because if the inside door is open, I tend to flip the bolt on the storm door, or Kiddo, because she likes to play with the lock on the storm door. So, Hubby can very clearly claim self righteous anger over this latest development. I certainly am blaming myself entirely anyhow for not thinking to check the damn storm door before we headed out this morning. So, I'm pissed at myself, Hubby is pissed at me, I'm pissed at Kiddo who is persisting with the obnoxious, argumentative behavior. Outside, it is pissing down rain on top of everything else. Just need the cat to piss on the bed for the cherry on the sundae of my day! Yeesh!!!
Oh, and by the way, I hate the word "piss" and never use it, ever, but right now, it just fits my mood. I'm in a pissy, pissy mood. Grrrr.
I was so hopeful about the two showings today, and now I blew it for one of them. Damn. Well, I'm off to build myself a doghouse in the back yard and go crawl into it until our next showing.
So, I've been sick. I think it may be the flu. It's miserable, whatever it is - a fever topping out in the 102 range, killer headache, body aches and nausea. Oh, the vomiting. So very, very NOT fun. Yesterday, I was a total disaster and collapsed in bed as soon as Hubby walked through the door at 5:30, leaving him to finish all the Kiddo nightly routine - bath, dinner and bedtime - and then to tackle our joint to-do list all on his own. Have I mentioned Hubby is totally my hero? But I digress......
Anyhow, earlier on, as I seemed to be recovering, Kiddo wrote me the following sweet and heartwarming note:
(Translation: Mom, I hope your cold feels better soon. I love you so much. I don't want you to get sick again please.) Awwwwww.
Alas, however, this level of sympathy did not last long. After days of ingesting nothing more than ginger ale and the occasional Tylenol (with varying levels of "remaining in the system long enough to work"), I went a little crazy today and ate a handful of saltines around noon. I quickly paid the price for such folly, spending the rest of the afternoon alternating between painting the primer coat on the walls of various closets, cleaning windows and racing to the upstairs bathroom to throw up. What was the next note I was handed?
(Translation: DO NOT throw up again PLEASE!)
Like I'm throwing up because I enjoy it so much. Sheesh. To make matters worse, as I'm in the bathroom retching, Kiddo is alternately trying to peer into the bowl over my shoulder and see what there is to see (which: Ew.) and then loudly proclaiming "THAT'S DISGUSTING! EW Mommy's BARFING and it is SO DISGUSTING!!" to me and the world at large.
Not fair. Let me tell you, I have wiped off/up and/or removed seriously nasty secretions from my beloved child, and never, in the throes of her moment of need, did I either proclaim DISGUSTING! or write her a chastising note. (Okay, maybe I said something to Hubby or my mom or sisters on the phone later, or even took to my blog to decry the foulness, but NEVER have I said anything remotely of that level of truth in the moment, while Kiddo was sick.)
No sympathy at all. Humph.
In other news, we're presently on schedule to have Paintathon '09 finished up (with the exception of a bit of trim work) by Monday night, despite my present condition and lack of stamina to wield a paint roller for any significant duration. This, again, is mainly due to Hubby the hero and his crazy late nights/early mornings of house-related work around his regular, full-time job, which is in a tough industry that makes his days a far cry from a picnic on the beach of late. We've got carpet dudes coming in this week so all our wall-to-wall will be spiffy and sparkly and fluffy, and we're meeting with the realtor again at the end of the week with a target date of March 2nd for listing the house. To which I say HOORAY! I may even celebrate by attempting to drink some chicken broth, now that I haven't barfed in almost six hours..........................
Hello, everyone. I know, I know, I haven't been around the blogosphere much this week. There's even been speculation that I whacked my head on something at the gym and passed out or fell into a snowbank or skidded off into a ditch somewhere...
Well, I'm not Dead (yet). Though that does fit with the overall theme of this week: the letter D. Because of all my D stuff, I haven't been feeling much like posting. For example,
I've been stuck in the Doldrums. (Is it just me, former Child Bookworm turned Adult Bookworm, who cannot read/see/hear the word "doldrums" without instantly thinking of The Phantom Tollbooth? That was one of my favorite books as a kid...) I've just been feeling generally blah. It's a combination of not sleeping well, Aunt Flo, and our weather of late, which has been rather
Dreary. More like Downright cold, actually. Ridiculous windchills and Arctic weather fronts which all combine to make every last centimeter of my skin most horrifically
Dry and really, really itchy. There aren't enough lotions or moisturizers in the world to combat this adequately. Especially my face - I have the worst time finding a moisturizer that works but doesn't leave my skin feeling slimy or make me break out. (If anyone has any suggestions for a cheap - read: available at Target or Walmart, not Sephora or a department store brand type thing - and effective moisturizer, I'd love to hear them...)
Also, I've been Dealing with a good bit of Drama of the five-and-a-half year old variety. As in sass, attitude and Disrespect. Always very Draining to have to deal with that Day in and Day out. Fortunately, Kiddo seems to have pulled her shizzle together as of today (we had a Long and Serious talk while waiting for the bus this morning about improving the attitude) and today went well both at school and afterwards. Well enough that I consented to host a birthday party for her beloved pet tiger, Roary. Complete with birthday cake (actually, a Doughnut that Kiddo picked out after school), candle, singing and party games. A certain group of Kiddo's stuffed animal menagerie attended; I'm not sure if the rest weren't invited or simply declined to come all the way downstairs from the warmth of her flannel sheets where they've been huddling.
I also have been a bit Depressed. General worry about Life and All That Entails, including concern about the Future and various family members and the State of the Country and World, etc. In more self-centered concerns, I've also been bummed (pun intended) about the wide, wide expanse of my Derriere. Yes, I've been faithfully going to the gym per my New Year's Resolution, and I know it is too soon to expect to see major results, but would it be wrong to just hope for a little miracle? Couldn't I hop on the locker room scale and have to slide the big weight Down to the 150 notch? How about one muscle showing some Definition? Humph.
So, anyhow, there you have it. Blah Heather in the Doldrums. Certainly nothing that anyone wants to read about, eh? I have other stuff I've thought about posting about, like some recent Discussions that have taken place with Kiddo and a positively Disgusting exchange I overheard at the grocery store yesterday, but I am getting grumpy all over again from my whining thus far. I can't stand myself when I'm Down and Dismal, so I must shake off the funk and quit my kvetching.
Instead, I shall give a belated but heartfelt shout-out to the always Delightful Eudea-Mamia, who bestowed upon me this lovely blog bling:
I don't know that I Deserve it, but it is very, very much appreciated. Thank you!
Thus concludes my big, fat, D list. At least the week should be ending better than it began, albeit with moreof D same....We are going out to Dine (a Delayed anniversary celebration), also to see Disney on Ice *and* we have a Day off on Monday. That makes for a much better weekenD than the week so far! Stay tuned for further Developments once I'm no longer Down in the Dumps! Now it is time to start thinking about Dinner, after which I plan to watch Grissom's Departure from CSI *sniff sniff* while eating some Dessert. (Yes, I know that ice cream is counterproductive when I'm trying to shrink and tone and turn my Jabba the Huttness into Heather the Hotness, but sometimes, a girl's just gotta have her bowl of ice cream, y'know?)
And now, I will leave you with a Doldrums-Defying Ditty, courtesy of my good pal Ernie (with an able assist from the fantabulous Cookie Monster):
So, apparently when we were down in NJ visiting my family (along with that day trip into NYC using many forms of public transportation and bumping through crowds of tens upon thousands of people), we all picked up a germ or three. First it was me sneezing and sneezing and aching and aching and having *no* energy pretty much from Sunday on until this morning. Kiddo started earlier this week with some impressive but not terribly frequent nasal emissions. Yesterday, Hubby started with the sneezing and the runny nose and overnight, added a headache to the mix, while Kiddo started running a low grade fever and added a cough to the repertoire. Not to be outdone, my germs opted to zero in on the throat region, setting my entire throat from tonsils back on fire and making swallowing uncomfortable at best, fairly agonizing at worst. This morning, Kiddo further upped the ante by having her cough evolve from a dry, occasional thing into a horribly tubercular, wet, breath-stealing, nonstop hacking fiesta. Given our combined state of utter patheticalness (yes I just made that word up), we felt it wisest to cancel our plans for yesterday and lay low. Given our worsening state of utter pathetictude (yep, another one) this morning, I canceled our plans for today and just called the pediatrician's office.
Now, our pediatrician's office opens at 8:30am. I began dialing my way through the automated menu system at 8:29 so that I could be one of the first calls answered by a real, live person. (This works better some days than others - I have been stuck in the auto-hold chain for over 10 minutes in the past.) This morning, I was talking to a real, live person by 8:31. That was the good news. The not-quite-so-good news is that the first appointment Kiddo's doc had available isn't until 11:45 this morning. Guess we aren't the only germy folks in town (even if our germs are of a more exotic, imported, New Jerseyan/New York Cityean variety).
Kiddo is now tucked into my bed, where she is hacking and coughing germs all over my pillows and linens. (Note to self: change bedding before climbing back into bed tonight.) She's running a fever so she is pretty low energy, which she appears to be trying to conserve for the aforementioned coughing bouts. Hubby sniffled and sneezed his way off to work today, returning who knows how late tonight as it is his first day back in the office since before Christmas. (He worked from home over the holidays, including while we were in NJ, but that doesn't help with all the mail etc that accumulates when one isn't physically in the office...) I hopped in the shower as soon as I pulled the thermometer out of Kiddo's mouth in anticipation of being asked "Can you bring her in right now?" which actually only ever happens if I *haven't* anticipated that. Hmmm, maybe I should've just stayed in my jammies in order to ensure a first-thing-come-right-away opening. My bad.
To sum up, we are a generally pathetic bunch here in my family today. I just hope that Kiddo doesn't have anything serious (various relatives with whom we broke bread and shared air over the holidays are now on various antibiotics for their various ills, any combo of which we may be brewing up here right now) and that whatever she has is sufficiently in hand before school starts on Monday. Because (guilty, bad Mommy confession coming up here) I was rather looking forward to Monday, with normal life resuming and Kiddo going back to school and such. Not that I don't love playing Sorry, Trouble or Connect 4 for hours, really. Nor do I mind letting Kiddo pretend she is a dog and feeding her as she sits under the table, barking and pawing at my leg. I enjoy having everyone home and together, really. I truly do. I just was looking forward, just the tiniest little bit, to getting back to Life As Usual. In the meantime, I just hope that, along with Kiddo - and Hubby! - getting better quickly, that I don't get worse myself, because we all know, mommies can't get sick....
In other virus-related-esque news, after reading blog post after blog post about folks having horrendous computer crashes and losing all their files, I am very relieved that Hubby just signed us up for an online back-up service, which will automatically back up everything for us, including my (literally tens of thousands of) pictures and videos and everything - even my iTunes collection. Whew. It's doing the initial back up now, which is slowing both of our computers down, but once the initial back up is done, it should be an invisible and painless process.
Time to brew myself a cup of tea and make something for Kiddo for breakfast. Hoping everyone else is less germy and blah than our patheticocity here! (Woo, the made up word trifecta!)
RANDOM AND WEIRD UPDATE: Okay, just as I was spellchecking (go made up words!) and getting ready to hit publish on this, the phone rang. Twas the doctors' office calling, so as I answered, I was totally thinking "Woo-hoo, they had a cancellation and can see us earlier!" as this has happened in the past. Nope. Totally, completely NOPE. Instead of getting to go in earlier, the receptionist said "I need to cancel Kiddo's appointment. We've been told we need to close the office and leave the building immediately." Whaaaa?!?!?! I asked her why that was and she didn't know. All she knew was that they were closing immediately for an unknown period of time. She said my options were either to wait and see if they are able to open tomorrow morning or take Kiddo to an Urgent Care center instead. So, so weird. I wonder what the heck is going on that they have to close the building.....? The doctors' office is in a complex of medical buildings, so it seems like it could be any number of things. Hubby guessed it was some sort of landlord-tenant issue to which I said "Huh?" because that seemed like a much more farfetched guess than my immediate thoughts about some sort of plague outbreak (Ebola, anyone? I mean, who's to say that someone didn't visit some much more exotic location than NJ over the holidays, bringing back much more exotic germs than ours?) or more likely, a water main break or heating issue or something that requires power to be shut off to the building...
At any rate, I now have to wait until 11 and call the UC clinic to see if I can get Kiddo in there instead. Whee.
For your spouse to cook up a batch of spicy jambalaya (a smell you aren't particularly fond of at any time), complete with Cajun sausage so the smell wafts through the house and up to the bathroom floor upon which you are curled in a ball, moaning between bouts of norovirus-induced exploding, or for him to come upstairs a while later, under the pretense of "checking on you" and instead cheerfully announce that you, his miserable, wretched, sick wife, are "the LOUDEST barfer in the world" as though *that* is supposed to bring comfort to you in your time of need?
Yeah, let's just keep the pithy comments to ourselves and only bring me ginger ale and saltines, mmmkay? Or actually, hold the saltines, 'cause they aren't my friends yet either.
Oh, and other "fun" things I'd prefer to avoid include having company in the bathroom, especially of the Five Year Old Mini-Howard Cosell, Play-by-Play variety, during times like this. Just sayin'.
I wonder if this norovirus will help undo what all that Halloween candy did, at least..... that can be my silver lining!
Good news: Kiddo hasn't thrown up since covering me with the vomit sweater (tm Hot Tub Lizzy) at the doctor's yesterday.
Bad news: She was still running a decently high fever throughout the night (hovering near the 104 range).
Good news: Her fever was down to 100 when she woke up this morning, after sleeping for FIFTEEN HOURS straight. (She fell asleep on the couch while Hubby was making her some toast last night and he put her in bed and that was all she wrote. Well, besides the waking her up for sips of Gatorade, temp checks and Motrin dosing. And once for a potty run and once because the cool, damp washcloth we'd given her was no longer cool or damp.)
Bad news: Hubby and I were up and down with her all night long, so we're both wiped while she's feeling much more energetic this morning.
Good news: Kiddo does NOT appear to have the norovirus that is going around; we're keeping her on the BRAT diet for now but there's been no further stomach upset or exploding from either end.
Bad news: A couple of hours after we got home from the doctor, *I* began throwing up. Yep, it appears that Kiddo may've escaped, but that I have the norovirus that is going around. I've spent a bit of time on the bathroom floor, wishing I could just pass out already. Add that to the Kiddo middle-of-the-night needs, and I'm doubly zombie-ish. I even tried blogsurfing in my haze last night and started leaving nonsensical comments in various places. I've been trying to make the rounds this morning to undo my blatherings.
Good news: Um, I haven't needed proximity to the toilet in almost 45 minutes.
Bad news: I just attempted some saltines with ginger ale and I think I may be needing that proximity again shortly.
Good news: There was a BH90210 marathon on Soapnet that I watched intermittently for a few hours earlier today, and now Ocean's Thirteen is on. That's a lot of eye candy, that Ocean's Thirteen, which is about the closest thing to food my system can take right now.
Anyhow, I'm a miserable, pathetic, disgusting, exploding mass of humanity at the moment, and I'm taking myself back to bed. Hoping that no one else is suffering from the same evil norovirus that I've been tangoing with for the past 20 hours..............
He and I have been spending significant amounts of quality time together recently. I've spent much more time with him than I have my daughter or husband in the past few days, to tell the truth. Somehow, he's just been irresistible, so smooth and cool and quiet, willing to take anything I give him.
Yes, in other words, boy, have I had a baaaaad GI bug. Caught, as usual, from my kiddo, who loves to share her germies with mommy. She started a few nights ago with a bad headache - "Mommy, the water in the shower is TOO LOUD and it is HURTING MY HEAD" and a few hours after that, the barforama began. One more time to thank our lucky stars and the kiddo's hours of OT for the fact that she now knows she's going to vomit in time to get it into the barf bucket or the toilet, because the barfing? It happened every thirty minutes starting at 10 Monday night and continued, around the clock, for the next 36 hours. So, that's how I became acquainted with my boyfriend at first - the kiddo introduced us as I held her hair back during her time with him. Apparently, he's more of a cougar type than a jailbait type though, because within 24 hours of the kiddo's stomach upheaval, he was all mine. First, the headache, which I tried to blame merely on the lack of sleep the night before. When it got to the point that the kiddo's Hungry Hungry Hippo marbles seemed like jackhammers pounding directly into my skull, I knew it was a bit more than that. Only for me, my new boyfriend wanted everything. To put it somewhat more delicately, there were a few dicey moments when my addled brain had to quickly decide which end had priority dibs on the bowl. My boyfriend's siren call was strong; I didn't want to leave his side. It was just easier to curl up on the bathmat next to him and moan alluringly...
The good news is, 36 hours later I'm feeling fine. Well enough, in fact, to give my boyfriend the brush off. (Literally, and with a good amount of Clorox too.) So, virulent as this particular bug was, it didn't linger. It came, it kicked ass, it went. And, as Emily Blunt's character said in The Devil Wears Prada, "I'm just one stomach flu away from my goal weight." ..... Well, not exactly, but I did seem to lose some serious (water?) weight over the past 2 days. Doubtless it will be rejoining me in short order now that the bug has passed and my appetite has returned, but hey, I'll take any silver lining I can find out of the past 36 hours of horror!
First the kiddo was up barfing all night. By "all night" I mean every half an hour from 10pm until 3:30am, then a brief pause for exhausted parents to get a couple of hours of sleep and instill firmly in us the hope that the throwing up was over, and then the barfing resumed around 7 this morning, along with a new symptom - low grade fever!
As the harsh light of what appears to be a perfectly gorgeous summer's day seared my eyes, I called the kiddo in sick to farm school, cancelled our afternoon plans and settled the kiddo into my bed with a little Pinky Dinky Doo, fresh barf bucket and a cup of liquid (because yes, I am now officially freaked about dehydration with the all night barfing bonanza). Then I collapsed, blearily eyed and with a pounding headache (that predates the barforama but definitely was exacerbated by the lack of decent sleep), in front of my computer to catch up on my Scrabulous games on Facebook... and Scrabulous is no more (at least for North American users)! *wails of anguish* So, Julie, Sarah and all my other international Scrabulous buddies - I miss you already and hope that we will be able to play again either on Scrabulous or the official Scrabble...
So, to sum up my day so far:
Oh NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!
In other news, this is my 99th post. I've been working on a 100 Things for my 100th post, but right now I'm a wee bit too braindead to finish it up, so it'll turn up later when the vomitorium has closed up shop and sleep or caffeine or both have cleared the cobwebs from the corners of my mind....
There's this song I made up a while ago to sing to the kiddo when I'm trying to nudge her out of a bad mood or away from the border of Meltdownia. I start by singing "Taroo, taroo, ta-rump, is Kiddo a grouchy grump?" and the goal is for her to sing back "Taroo, taroo, ta-rid, Kiddo's a happy kid." Most of the time, if I've gauged her mood properly, this can help her shake it off and cheer up. Sometimes she just wants to sing the "Taroo Song" making up lots of different lines. She'll bust out with a "Taroo, taroo, ta-rungry, I am really hungry" or her #1 favorite "Taroo, taroo, ta-rilly, Mommy is really silly!" Whatever floats her boat. Like I said, I started this one day to fend off the glowering eyebrows I was catching glimpses of in my rearview mirror, and over time, it's taken on a life of its own.
At any rate, today? Taroo, taroo, ta-rump, I am a ridiculously grouchy grump. I've been trying to shake my bad mood since I woke up. (Woke up, mind you, courtesy of the cat, who I thought I could hear gacking up a hairball someplace in the house. At not-quite-four this morning. I went on a hairball hunt to no avail, until just now when I shut off the central air and went to open the windows to let in some fresh air. Jackpot - hairball on the window ledge. Oy.) I don't like to be in a bad mood. I really prefer being a positive and upbeat kinda gal. I have different fixes for Heather's Crotchety McGrump alter ego... I dress in bright colors, I indulge in a piece of chocolate or other caffeine-infusing item, I listen to peppy music, I read the comics, I pet the cat, I goof around with the kiddo, play some Scrabulous, do the daily crossword, read some funny blogs, whatever I can do to shake it.
Today, alas, not so much. The grumps have taken over. Ploo. I know it is partially due to hormones (hello, PMS - sorry if that's TMI to my three (?) male readers...) and partially due to sleeping poorly and then the hairball too-early awakening, and my allergies are also going nuts - my eyes are itching despite being on prescription eyedrops, my nose is running and I'm sneezing my fool head off. I think the best I'm going to be able to shoot for is to be mindful of the fact that I know I'm ill-tempered and crotchety today and try not to take it out on Hubby or the kiddo, and then get to bed as early as I can tonight to sleep it off. I'm definitely scrapping my plan to go on another round of Quest for a Swimsuit '08 this morning, because that is just asking for a major dressing room meltdown. I think I'll just mow the lawn (allowing me to stomp about) and viciously pull some of the weeds that are thriving in every nook and cranny of my planting beds, all while listening to something inspiring on my iPod. Let's see if that does the trick.
*sigh* I do not like days like this. Anyone have a good trick to rid oneself of the mega-blahs?
I just got back from a grocery store run to pick up the ingredients I need for the raspberry pie that I don't have on hand. Namely, Nilla Wafers as there's NO WAY a box of those can remain in my house unfinished. I only ever buy them when I'm about to use them for this pie, otherwise I'd look even more like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man* than I already do. (Hey, I just noticed, Stay Puft kinda has cankles. I don't have cankles, so woot for me - I'm in better shape than I thought!)
Anyhow, Hubby asked me to pick him up some beer when I went on my Nilla run. Now, I am not a regular purchaser or consumer of alcoholic beverages (neither is Hubby for that matter), but on those infrequent occasions when I do buy something alcoholic, I get depressed. You see, I'm now past the age where anyone but the youngest teen (who therefore can't judge age well) cashier will ask me for ID, and when that happens (even though they call me "ma'am") it doesn't count. I mean, we all know teenagers can't tell how old grown-ups are. My proof of this is that one summer back in college, Hubby's roommate cashiered at one of the local grocery stores. Every day, he'd come home from his shift and announce the age of the oldest person he'd carded because he honestly couldn't tell how old that customer was. (I believe his record was 54 - he said it was a woman wearing a lot of make-up and who dressed "young" so that was his defense.) I suppose I should face the fact that I don't look remotely close to 21, what with my minivan key fob and young child typically in tow, not to mention the Mom Haircut (which I am, of course, trying to grow out now). I'd like to think I don't look 36 (and a half, if I'm being honest), though the last time I recall being seriously proofed - by an adult who should be able to judge age somewhat accurately - for an alcoholic beverage purchase was when Hubby and I were on vacay in New Orleans, in January of 2000, when I was still in my twenties. Sigh.
I'm going to digress here for a moment now, if I may. You see, not only do I apparently clearly scream "Definitely at least mid-to-late-30s" with every fiber of my being from the top of my mom hair to the soles of my Birks, but Hubby is a regular Dorian Gray. He has that Michael J. Fox/Matthew Broderick/Ralph Macchio thing going on, where he looks eternally youthful despite being a mere 11 months younger than me. I'm sadly not exaggerating about this - once, when he was 25, he got proofed one afternoon when buying tickets for an R-rated movie that we were going to see later that evening. Then, to make matters worse, the ticket seller lady looked past him to where I was sitting in our car right out front (this was in a speck of a town in the wilds of New Hampshire) and said to him "You can run out and have your mom come in to get the tickets if you'd like" as Hubby furiously hunted around in his wallet for his license. His mom?!? Humph!!! Thank goodness Donnie Brasco was worth the angst. If that hadn't been the only movie theater within an hour's drive, I don't think we ever would've gone back there!
Anyhow, back to my original tale now. I pull into a lane with an older (as in mid-fifties, easily) cashier and unload the cart. (Oh, Nilla Wafers, I hear you calling to me.........) The cashier does the generic chit-chat with me as she starts ringing me up - has it stopped raining yet, etc. I'm looking through the gazillion keytags on my keychain for my shopper's club card when it happens.
She asks me for ID. Seriously. She wanted proof of my age before she'd sell me that six pack of Miller Chill. (Which, by the way, ew! Hubby says it is "refreshing" but just the concept makes me want to retch. Then again, I don't really like any beer, so maybe it's just my natural, beer-tastes-icky tendencies coloring my opinion.)
I could've kissed her! Instead, I settled for an "Oh my, you're so sweet!" as I happily dug out my license. It was made all the better by the fact that she looked old enough to be able to judge another adult's age.
Now, maybe you think it's a bit vain or silly of me to be so thrilled at getting carded. The thing is, our local grocery store's ID policy is "under 40" so it has kind of stung to never get carded over the past ten or so years. Especially when I'm married to Ferris Bueller... So, thank you, grocery store cashier lady. You made this heading-into-my-later-30s chick's day.
I am not going to moan about my sinuses and germies any longer, because I'm feeling mostly better and because I don't want to dwell on it - the pity party is over and I'm sweeping up the leftover confetti and loading the dishwasher now. I say mostly better because I appear to be losing my voice as the rest of everything improves. At the moment, I'm in between "phone sex operator" and "Barry White" which means that by day's end, I will likely be somewhere between "Darth Vader" and "no voice at all" if history is any guide. I'm trying to combat this in two ways. The first way is by not talking as much as possible. (Everyone who knows me, join in: HA HA HA HA HARDY HAR HA HA HEE HEE HOO HOO HAAAAA!!!) I know, I know, it is a Herculean task for Heather to not talk. BUT, it hurts like heck when I do, so I am trying to rest my voice until it heals. I haven't spoken since 9:08 this morning when I left preschool, and I don't intend to speak again until I'm back picking her up at 11:30. See? That will be over two whole hours without me uttering a peep! (Not a record, but surely close...) I've even written out my order for the butcher shop so I don't have to talk (um, as much) when we go in there.
The second thing I'm doing is drinking lots of tea, with honey and lemon. Salada white tea, to be exact. No, I'm not just saying that because my dad is their VP of Marketing, either - it's seriously good stuff!
*brief pause*..... and I've just gotten off the phone with my sister. Yep, that means I didn't make it the full two hours without speaking, but she had to take my year-old niece to the ER last night for jumping out of her crib (one big lump on the noggin, no concussion, she's fine) so I kinda had to take that call. Well, I went over one hour without talking and am now back to my vow o' silence, at least 'til I arrive back at preschool in a bit.
One other thing. My dear friend Coco recently honored me with this lovely "blog bling" -
It was a very sweet thing for her to do, and I am humbled by Coco's gracious and kind comments about me. All I can say is, it is a mutual admiration society because Coco is one of my favorite people, ever, too. So, thanks and *mwah* Coco! I look forward to our eventual trip to Vegas mostly because it will mean getting to hang out with you, and not even so much because it would mean I'd be on a kid-free vacay for the first time ever since she was born (which was the last time I was in Vegas, too)! Not that any trip is imminent or even in the vaguest of planning, but someday.......
Just got back from the doctor. Well, the pharmacy after the doctor. Turns out I have a sinus infection and also, possibly, the flu. That's the bad news. The worse news? The doc thinks that what I have is viral, not bacterial, in origin, so no antibiotics for me. I did get a prescription for a nasal/sinus steroid, which should be fun, based on the administering instructions the NP gave me when she brought in the scrip. I'm supposed to use that, Muccinex, alternating ibuprofen and Tylenol, nasal saline spray (no neti pots in this face, thankyouverymuch), liquids and rest. Pity party commencing now - it is a gorgeous day out and supposed to be even nicer tomorrow. Waaaaah!!
