The most foul post ever

I'm gonna quit my job as slave and become a doctor. I have discovered that I am less inept than 3/4 of the physicians and PAs I've ever been to, so why not? I should get paid for my awesomeness.

In case you haven't gotten the annoying day-to-day updates been following my medical drama, I have been having (brace yourself for horrific) blood coming out my ass for six days.

Now, I don't like to be a Debbie Downer (wah, waaaahhhhh) so I've kinda been downplaying this, but at what point do you go: Um, I think we have a serious problem that can't be solved with prayer and mystical herbs. Because you know I'm a prayin' fool!

Maybe at the point when you lose 17 pounds in four days? And can't eat? Or hold water down without curling over in pain? And no longer have anything except blood in the toilet twenty times a day?

Hmmm.... I don't know. That's a tough one.

I called the insurance company and found out when my coverage kicks back in: two to three weeks, minimum. I figured I could wait it out. After all, at the rate I was going, two weeks would get me past my goal weight of this:

and down to my 3rd grade weight. Because how many of you can shop in the kids' department? Not me. And I want to. They just don't make Hannah Montana merchandise for adults like they used to. Or ever did.

Unfortunately, enough people made me feel crazy for not going to the doctor. And I lost another pound in one hour, so I caved in.

I asked the receptionist Do I need to bring a sample in?

No. No, no nonono, don't worry about it, no.

(Of course I took the opportunity to harass my sister from the doctor's office. I texted her: I'm at the doctor's. Quick, what should I fake? SARS? West Nile, maybe? Let me know and hurry! She disappointed me with no response. Damn people with real jobs.)

You know who didn't disappoint me? The doctor. Guess, just guess what the doctor wanted before she would do anything for me.

If you guessed a lollipop, you'd be wrong. If you guessed a big ole bucket o' poo, you'd be right!

She asked what I'd eaten for the previous three days. One bagel and a piece of toast. Apparently that was one bagel too many. Regardless of how I was about to pass out from starvation and bleed to death out the ass, she put me on a diet of water and broth for 24 hours. That's gotta be safe, right?

And she gave me a handy dandy sheet with things to "watch out for."

Severe pain. High fever. Bloody stool. Dizziness. Dry mouth. Rapid Pulse.

Check, check, checkcheckcheckcheck... all things I told her I had.

She didn't take my temp even though I told her I'd been sweating profusely until I became so dehydrated I wasn't urinating for over a day. I told her I couldn't drink very much water because it made me sick. Her response? You don't have to drink water. Drink something else.

So I made my way to the clinic bathroom with my TWO collection containers and complimentary tongue depresser, which, whatever... I'm still not sure about that one. Only to have nothing happen. Apparently I have a shy colon.

I called my sister on the way home and bitched to her. What do they think I am? TasteeFreeze??? And I can whip out soft serve on demand? Which of course she thought was hysterical because hey, poop is funny.

And I can now add to the list of disgusting things I've been asked to do that I never want to do again.

This afternoon, we dropped of my precious cargo to patiently await the results. In the meantime, I've been eating whatever I want. Because I honestly don't give a shit anymore. Literally. Dill pickle chips. Pepsi. Asian chicken salad. It's all good. If I can eat without feeling the urge to vomit.

So that's my rant. Best part of all is that by being a tough little a-hole and continuing on with my daily duties, Mike thinks I'm not sick. Even though when I work around the house, I have to take I'm-gonna-vomit breaks. I must be faking!

Although I'd pay to see someone fake these symptoms.

(At which point I realized I'd get free healthcare in prison...)

Dear people who worry too much:

In an effort to get better, I'm taking the night off. Plus I can't sit in the fetal position very comfortably in this fake bamboo chair. I'll be back tomorrow to tell you all about my wonderful trip to the doctor and all it entailed. You don't wanna miss it. Later!

Musical mind

I picked the girls up from my parents' house tonight with a warning that Kristin is having some of the same "issues," still. Gah. And my dad added so delicately, She crapped her pants at Wal-Mart.

If you're gonna crap your pants somewhere, I guess that's the place to be.

We piled in the car and headed to Target for the shortest shopping trip ever. Not just because of the threat of turd retaliation, but because we arrived at 8:42 on a Sunday night. They close at nine.

You should have seen the efficiency. The girls could sense I would leave one of them behind if they didn't follow closely, so they carried my grocery bags and shuffled behind me nervously while I collected over seventy dollars-worth of groceries, checked out, and buckled the kids in the car... in eighteen minutes.

Tell me how amazing that is. I already know, but tell me anyway.

On the way home, I turned on some music, and when Green Day came on, the girls kept yelling Turn it up! Mommmm, Turn it UP!!! The music played all the way home without a peep from the kids, so I used the time to brainstorm a few plotlines.

Then I realized I can only think clearly when I'm listening to music.

So I started making a mental note of songs I've heard on the radio lately...

Three Days Grace - Never Too Late

Chevelle - The Red

Hurt - Wars

Pearl Jam - The Fixer

Incubus - Dig

10 Years - Picture Perfect

I'm creating a playlist for when I write. I need more ideas. Dark is okay, but no screaming, please. If I could brainstorm with screaming in the house, I wouldn't need music.

I'm talking music that gives you chills. Music that feels better than sex. Music that makes you want to curl up and cry. The good stuff.

I need ideas, people. If you send something good, it might secure you a spot in the Acknowledgment section of my superfantastic, amazing and wonderful book that is still just a glimmer in my eye.

Might.

Sending money couldn't hurt, either. Money to buy a new belt, which I'm going to need if this Salmonella diet keeps at this pace. I've lost over 15 pounds since Thursday. And I finally found a use for that giant paperclip I made in 9th grade shop class.

Those are my tight jeans.

Line up ladies, the tainted jar of JIF is going to the highest bidder.

Thus ends my weekend in paradise

Man, I am an angry blogger tonight! I just wrote and erased 20 minutes of material because it was just a tad too bitter. A tad.

Maybe it has to do with being on Day #328 of Death by Salmonella. I swear, I'm winning.

Or maybe it has to do with how my husband left tonight for work. Oh, I'm not mad at you for bleeding from the ass and being unable to eat for two days, curling up on the couch, waiting for Death to claim you, instead of cleaning the house while the kids are gone like you promised... Oh no, I'm mad at the situation. Now enjoy your slow death, and thanks for mowing the lawn yesterday even though it took you two hours.

Nah. It's probably because it's now 2:30 in the morning and I finally have energy to do stuff. At 2:30-in-the-morning. When I should be sleeping.

And now the guilt rolls in. I should clean the house. I just did the dishes and haven't shit my spleen out yet, so I could probably move on to laundry.

Even when the kids are gone, I don't get a sick day. This is such bullshit. I got "the nudge" to get out of bed at 11:45 today when I could have probably slept for another ten hours.

But I'm not angry. I'm gonna take a zen moment...

...

...

...

Okay I needed a few zen moments.

To top it off, this sickness has given me nothing but time. Time, time, time... when I can't do anything except sit. So I finished reading a book.

And watched The Mexican. Some of the best lines ever. (Brad Pitt is Jerry - dimwit working off a debt to the mob, James Gandolfini is Leroy - hired hitman sent to kidnap Sam and make sure Jerry does his job, and Julia Roberts is Sam - Jerry's high strung ex-girlfriend.)

Jerry: I swear I will crash this car.

Leroy: Jerry, don't do that.

Jerry: I will. One more word out of you. Another word, Sam. One more word... I swear to fucking God.

(pause)

Sam: Naugahyde.

Jerry: All right.

(swerves car off road toward a light pole)

---

(waving gun nervously toward the men gathered around him)

Jerry: You know? Not important. Give me a good reason why I shouldn't fight to not give you the gun. If it comes to that, someone will leave here... missing an ear or, or... not being able to fuck anymore. One reason, now that you let me know what you think I'm made of.

Margolese: Are you a fatalist, Jerry?

---

Sam: You're gay. I knew it! Oh I so knew it. I just knew it. What a relief.

Leroy: (laughing) Do you want a medal? A little trinket saying you identified a homosexual?

---

Leroy: A lot of people are under the impression that you get to choose who you love.

---

Leroy: Look, when two people love each other, totally, truthfully, all the way love each other, the answer to that question is simple, especially in your case. When do you get to that point where enough is enough? ... Never. Never.

Ah, great movie.

All that time also gave me a chance to contemplate my life. I highly suggest you avoid this situation if at all possible, and for godssakes, don't listen to anything that might make you cry while you're doing it. Especially if you're already dehydrated from Salmonella: The Best Diet Known to Man.

One thing I've decided, in all my thinking tonight: Life is really messy, and if there's a God or higher power, I'm gonna let Him/Her/It figure this shit out. Until then, I'm gonna do what makes me happy. Starting with going to bed. To hell with the laundry...

I'll leave you with the story of the pistol known as The Mexican.

Young man, recounting the story: The night before the nobleman's arrival, the assistant could not sleep... his heart in aching pain. The day was here when the gunsmith would present his gift to the nobleman. The nobleman's son was a notoriously vicious soldier, worldly and wicked. For him, his father demanded something more beautiful, more perfect than he'd ever laid eyes on before. But nothing, no words or description could have given justice to it or have prepared him for that gun's flawless grace. When the nobleman's son saw his intended bride-to-be, it was love at first sight. The nobleman's son took the mighty weapon into his hands. A perfect fit. - (Click)- lt did not work. The nobleman took it as a bad omen. The curse had rendered it useless in unworthy hands. The gunsmith urged him to try it one last time, and so he did. - (Click) - The nobleman was insulted by the ineptness, angry with the gunsmith. They argued. (The nobleman threw the gun down and saw his intended bride smiling at the gunsmith's assistant.) When he realised that her heart belonged to the simple assistant, a man far less than he, he was furious in anger. He could not have that. (The nobleman pointed his gun at the assistant, and the daughter picked up the inept pistol, pointing it at the nobleman.) The assistant, realising that even if the gun should work, she would certainly die next, begged his love to withdraw and accept their fate. (She lowered the pistol. The nobleman smiled and turned to shoot the assistant dead.) Some say you could actually hear her heart break. (She raised the gun once more but this time to her head, and to the surprise of everyone in the crowd, the pistol fired a single shot.) She fearlessly surrendered her bitter spirit unto purgatory. - (Church bell chimes) - The pistol contains her damned soul.

Take a picture... it lasts longer

There's nothing I like doing more than mowing the lawn after two days of having the screamers. At least that's what Mike thinks.

I made it, after one hour of hacking through the third of the lawn that actually grew because that's where the sump hose empties into the yard and a second hour nipping the tops off the dead grass on the other two thirds of the yard. Okay, that might be an exaggeration. It was only nearly dead.

At about 4 o'clock, I took a break because of dehydration and I was sick of all the neighbor kids staring at my sweat-drenched, gasoline-reeking mommy body. I'm not sure what those boys were staring at, exactly...

I wear the heels to give my calves a workout. (I wear the tutu to give the neighbor men a work out. Heh. Heh.)

So anyway, after finishing mowing, I went to start the weed whacker. It didn't go well.

I punched myself in the nipple twice, and now that they've got weapons of their own, they fight back.

Needless to say, I didn't get it started. I cursed. And cursed. And realized the 5-year-old neighbor girl was smiling at me. I smiled back. And waved. And put the weed whacker down and walked slowly into the house where I could do no more damage for the day.

I'm so glad my children are being taken care of for the weekend by someone other than ME.

Now I can take a shower, curl up in my tutu, and take a nap.

Espanolay out the buttholay

As you probably remember, I went to Catholic school as a kid. Not only did they indoctrinate us in the language of Catholic guilt and teach us that losing in every sport is character-building, we started Spanish classes in 2nd grade. In Northern Wisconsin. Where we had maybe a dozen Hispanics in the entire county.

(What we should have been learning was Russian, since they seem to be taking over the state, starting in the Wisconsin Dells. They're invading our highly skilled ticket-selling positions. Palin must be taking a lunch break from her guard duties.)

Back to my point...

So there I was, cocky because I could espeakay espanolay. I had taken courses from second grade through my second year of college, plus my Catechism teacher supplemented that education with every Spanish swear word she knew. You could say I was near fluent. I was so confident in my abilities I switched to German in college.

I learned my lesson... it's true that if you don't use it, you lose it. The only time I spoke the language was in my sleep, according to Mike. He used to think it was funny, trying to decipher what I was saying. But even that died away.

On a whim, I tried to talk dirty in Spanish the other day. It didn't go well.

Quisiera... Quisiera... Quisiera tener... wait that's not right. Screw it.

It made me realize just how badly I need a refresher course. If only for the role playing.

Like an answer to my hormone-driven question, I was presented with the opportunity to test out and rate two separate Spanish software packages. I keep the software for free after I use it and fill out a survey within a week of receiving them.

I had forgotten about the program until they arrived yesterday.

It was like Christmas all over again! Except this time I got presents.

I picked the Instant Immersion Spanish to try first. I stayed up until 2:30 relearning vocabulary and playing memory games. (I'm not sure what a craps table has to do with Spanish.) And I have a sneaking suspicion the program is geared more toward tourists. I couldn't tell you it's rainy outside today - I think that's Lleva or something - but I can ask where to rent a car. So there's that.

The program is so thorough, the girls and I woke up with a bonus case of Montezuma's Revenge.

I can't wait to finish the last level tonight. Maybe I can pick up some swine flu!

Next on the list: relearn German. Not sure what disease that'll give me.

Well, I'm off to my throne... how do you say bowel death in Spanish?

A weekend alone? Pinch me. Hard.

Emma loves frogs. She loves them so much she forcibly adopts anything that resembles a frog or happens to be any shade of green.

A few months ago, my dreams came true when my parents offered to take the girls for a weekend. They were heading back to the town where I grew up. (All three of my living grandparents are there, as well as a few aunts, uncles and cousins on my mom's side.) Of course, this is what grandparents do - they show off the kids like show ponies. I was fine with it because it meant freedom for an entire weekend!

They made their rounds, and when they visited my dad's mother, Emma rediscovered a tiny stuffed frog she was forced to leave behind the time before. (It had been given to my grandma by a friend, so I told her it was off limits.) I was told that when she saw the frog again, it was like she saw a long-lost friend. She carried that frog with her everywhere.

...Before I tell you the rest, let me explain my grandmother...

My grandma has been living alone for all of my life, almost exactly. My grandfather passed away a few months before I was born. He lived just long enough to know I was on my way before stomach cancer took him, and my grandma has lived in their house to this very day.

Despite her frail physique and self-conscious demeanor, grandma has always been one sharp whip. It's very subtle. She can also be maddeningly stubborn. Quick example: the 80-something-year-old osteoporatic woman still owns a snow plow. And uses it.

Over the years, grandma and I had spent a lot of time together - I was my dad's sidekick and he took me to grandma's whenever she had work to be done around her house, usually evicting a bat from the attic with a tennis racket. We were there several times a week throughout my childhood, and she always made sure to have a snack for me. Graham crackers. The woman never branched out into other snack arenas. Always graham crackers. I should ask her about that sometime...

I even lived with her for a very short while when my parents lived in Iowa, and though I was only 15 and she was just as quirky as ever, I have to admit it was fun. I liked being alone, and the boredom gave me a chance to giggle and flip through her vast assortment of romance novels. I swear just hearing the word "throb" makes me think of my grandma. Eesh.

And we played a ton of Yahtzee and Racko. (Google it.)

As grandma has gotten older, it's been lonelier for her. She jokes that it's dangerous to be friends with her because all her friends are dying. She and my great-aunt - a longtime divorcee - call each other once a day just to check if the other is alive. Stephie says that'll be me and her someday, plus a few cats.

Grandma used to be very particular about keeping her house tidy and keeping the peace. No shoes on the white carpeting. Lay the towel down when you shower and clean out the drain. Don't use the good hand towels in the bathroom. No running. Hold the railing up the stairs. No liquids after 7, no matter if you're nearly an adult. Did you touch something? I think someone moved this picture frame... doesn't it look like it's moved? I wonder if someone bumped it.

Seriously.

But with the age and loneliness has come some loosening of the rules. With the introduction of great-grandchildren, the rules have gone completely out the window.

My kids are spoiled rotten by her. She feeds them snacks like she used to do with me at the tiny kitchen table. She lets them run and tumble (as long as they don't play with the picture frames, they can do what they like).

She even gave Emma the best gift of her short life thus far. In a surprise move, she gave Emma that baby froggy.

This last visit, Grandma handed it to my parents and said she didn't know what she was waiting for. She knew Emma adored the frog and wanted to give things to people, things that mattered to her, while she was still alive to see their joy.

And Emma has cherished that frog. She sleeps with it every night and carries it around almost all day. She loves it so much, I'm afraid that she'll lose it at some point and I'll be up all night with a crying child, trying to hunt it down.

They miss grandma... that shriveled, old, ornery, saint of a woman.

That's why I'm so glad my parents offered to take the girls with them to visit her this weekend. I make jokes, but I would have loved to see the reunion. Lately, I've been overwhelmed, so this will give me a chance to drink heavily focus and be a responsible adult.

Of course I'm excited to have the house pretty much to myself all weekend, and the time will go way too fast (as always), but I am sad that I won't be going with.

Sad and happy, all at once.

That's the story of my life.

Going for broke

Budgets suck.

Mike hates them and, let's be honest here, I hate enforcing them on Mike.

We're coming to the end of a financially straining three weeks caused partly by the vacation, the cell phone ass raping bill, paying things off a month too soon, etc, etc... To sum it up: genius on my part.

So here we are on a budget. It's nothing even remotely dramatic. We're just on a budget.

Mike thinks it's the end of the world. He needs more groceries! Where are his cheese slices? You mean he'll have to use spray cleaner and paper towels instead of his precious Clorox wipes?!? (That kid would never survive in the real world on his own.)

It's ridiculous how insanely spoiled we've gotten. We have so much unused food that gets pushed aside over and over until it a) gets donated to the Boy Scouts, or 2) ends up in the dump.

We're really destitute.

We dug through our freezer and took an inventory for supper this week.

Yesterday we had (gasp) baked salmon and fried scallops with rice and green beans. Today we had beef stirfry with corn, broccoli, mushrooms, fettucine noodles, and a marinade made of mishmosh ingredients (honey, soy sauce, water, teriyaki sauce, dark sesame oil, brown sugar, garlic...) It was soooooo good. So much better than the sauce I usually make!

Tomorrow we'll suffer through spaghetti or cheese and veggie casserole. I know. Horrific. Then maybe I'll bite the bullet and make some tuna casserole. I won't eat it, of course because, well, canned tuna smells like a stinky crotch. Call me a snob...

Also effected are our hobbies. Fortunately, napping is still free.

As is going to the park. Watching movies. Going for walks. Reading.

With all this extra time, Mike's been cleaning. CLEANING. On his own. That's what boredom does to you, folks. He did the dishes twice today and folded the laundry. Which makes me wonder... when did I get drunk?

And because I had all this extra time since Mike was helping around the house, I painted a board, hung up our new blinds and realized I'd ordered them about a foot too short. Fuuuuuuck!!!! It'll be fine. We'll use those in another room and order new ones. Once we're off our budget...

My house is clean, my blinds are short but up and I'm checking more things off my to-do list every day.

In other words: these past weeks have been hell.

I sure hope we have to go on a budget again soon.

Sex love drama sugar magic cupcakes

I'm going through a Red Hot Chili Peppers stage right now. Please forgive me.

Today was my first official day of writing. Yes, writing. A real novel. (Not a book based on my blog. And immediately my mother is kicking herself for saying she'll read a book written by her daughter. She forgot to add a condition that it has to be about her grandchildren. Kick. Kick. Kick.)

People think it's an easy transition from blogging to real, actual novel-writing, but it's difficult to go from smartassed idiocy to fluid and comprehensible plotlines. We're in a whole other region of crazy now.

In blogs:

• you only have to captivate your audience for two minutes at a time
• you can use any style you want and change it every goddamned day
• you can swear more than in a book, unless your name is Denis Leary
• you can use the words "apparently" and "basically" in every post and (almost) no one will catch it
• you can write about injured kids one day, tent sex the next, and the effect of global warming on the third and people just think you're versatile
• sarcastic humor is funny every single post, as opposed to in reality where it's only funny in small doses

So there.

I have two pages written so far.

The characters have kissed twice and it already feels like porn. Speed bump #1. (And I'm guessing it'll be a speed bump we visit often considering how easily I gravitate toward sex in these conversations posts.)

Maybe I should try violence instead.

Or booze. I could drink booze. I completely understand why so many authors used opium.

And why their wives put their heads in ovens.

Dubble stuff my fist in your stoopid face

Have you ever looked at a business and wondered what cracked-out community-college-diploma-toting employee came up with its name?

When I moved from a small, innocent Wisconsin town to the bustling state of Iowa in 1996, I was astonished to see hoards of gas stations under the name of Kum & Go. Now, I was 15 at the time (yes, do the math) and even I - a lowly freshman - knew that it was a poor choice for a business name, unless they planned to sell adult videos next to their doughnut display cases and coffee machines.

I envision two guys hovering over their business plan going back and forth, "Sound it out. Come. I think it's a K." "Yeah, you're probably right. But how do you spell and?" "Ah, hell, just use that squiggly sign instead."

That's only the beginning.

Is it any wonder that no one can spell anymore? Have you been on Twitter or texted a 16-year-old lately??? U wood B lucky to no wut da fukkk there yakkin abowt. (With that one mangled sentence, my spell check is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.)

I am blaming businesses and advertisers with their "fun, quirky names" for the downfall of spelling and grammar in America. Within five minutes of flipping through a magazine, I came across words like:

Dri... Sound it out.

EZ... Is anything EZ-er?

Kwik... Look at how much time that extra letter shaves off! And no one likes Qs anyway, right?

Dubble, chek, infiniti, tru, ruff, kleen, wyld, krunchee, krazy... it goes on and on and on.

Oh, and don't even get me started with adding Z to pluralize. Beatz, kidz, tunez, toyz.

DUMB DUMB DUMB.

Time for my anal retentive ass to hyperventilate and pull my hair out in a corner. Or run off to become a pirate. I've definitely got the face down...

I know how my husband will die

I was cleaning last night and messing around online until about midnight.

It was at that time, I realized that Mike was still awake reading his new Dan Brown novel that I was so smart to buy him. (This might be sarcasm in case you have troubles recognizing it.) Now he thinks he can survive on literacy instead of food and sleep and Pepsi Crack like every other normal person.

He finally turned the light off at 12:30 AM.

His alarm was set for 3:30 AM.

He's most definitely going to die from sleep-deprivation.

It makes me nervous since he works around heavy machinery (and one man, Billy, has already been killed at that mill). Yay for anxiety.

Mike'll probably outlive me anyway, which would totally throw a kink in my plan to be a widow sitting in a rocking chair with my unwed sister on her front porch every day, along with her forty-three cats.

Mike, on the other hand, is descendent of some of the hardiest people I've met. Mike's mom has had a decade-long infatuation with vodka and has been diagnosed with Hep C. She looks like she's 182 years old. And yet... I joke that at the end of the world, the only people left will be Keith Richards, a family of cockroaches, and Mike's mom.

The only thing I'll inherit from my family is the genetic predisposition toward cancer and an insatiable need to race anyone - sister, mom, dad, Mike, that kid riding his bike on the sidewalk - in my car. (It all started with our little game of Guess the Time. Guess the time we'll pull up to the house. Price Is Right rules, whoever's closest wins. Except my dad would cheat since he was driving. Guess the Time turned into Now That the Kids Can Drive, Let's See Who Can Get Home First. Which turned into the more inclusive Racing Game. Which will probably end up as a wreckless driving or speeding ticket at some point, but I'll send it on to my dad with my thanks.)

Okay, so I'll change my theory.

Mike will most definitely die from sleep-deprivation. If I don't run him over in an effort to win the Racing Game first.

No one ever said I had to play fair.

Cash for clunkers: best euphemism ever

I was recently turned on to a site where people can create their own money. It's like our own indpenedently run treasury department.

As a responsible parent, the first thought to pop in my head was to use the cash for rewards for when my kids have good behavior.

The key here is that they'll have to have good behavior to earn the money.

Astounding to think that's possible, I know, especially since I was just informed this afternoon that my children are "those kids" who hear the whistle to line up after recess and continue to go down the slides, usually head first on their backs like unyielding torpedoes.

Needless to say, we've been practicing the whistle drill all evening.

I'm hoping this money will be my godsend.

It wasn't until I started talking to Mike about "Daddy dollars" that we got sidetracked and the perversion began.

I joked that I should be able to create and earn special dollars for all my hard work around the house and cash them in for special favors. Since I am sex deprived. Yes, I'll say it. Sex deprived. (My apologies, Mother.)

For fun, I printed up some money with Mike's smiling face on it.

Unfortunately for me and my hormone-raging libido, the Bank of Mike refuses to acknowledge my currency. I'm hoping he'll change his tune once he sees the fifties with my picture on them. *nudge, nudge*

I like to call it my own personal Cash for Clunkers program.

And I'm selling this product AS IS.

If Mike refuses to cooperate, I'll print up a bunch of naughty money and buy myself a Puerto Rican pool boy. I wonder what the exchange rate is down there...

Unrelated side note:

While writing this post, I realized that, since George Bush has been out of office, White House humor isn't as sadly amusing as it used to be. Oh, how I long for the days when "misunderestimated" and "nucular" were just a Fox News clip away. (Okay, I don't long for them. Maybe I'll buy a Bushisms Calendar to ease the pain. I realize they quit making them in 2008, but it's a sacrifice I'll have to make.)

Can I get that in singles?

I ended up taking the girls with me to the bank yesterday to cash in my bag-o-coins, as promised.

I saw the horrified look on the teller's face when I plopped my grocery bag filled with coin rolls at her station, so I offered to crack them all open. Because I'm a sucker and like to make lazy and rude people look like assclowns in front of their coworkers.

I moved two stations down the line and proceeded to smack those fuckers against the corner of the counter until I had dumped all the coins into the bag she so kindly offered me as a consolation prize.

It took over 10 minutes. Smack, cling clingclangclingcling... SMACK, clingclang cling... Her boss came over and offered me a desk to "work at," but I smiled and declined. SMACK! clingclangclang... He walked away laughing. That "boss" was a client of mine way back in the day before he was a boss of anyone, and I knew him from when I got my first car loan at 16. Smack, clingclangcling... He knew I was doing it to be a smartass.

The rolls were mostly pennies, and it still came to over $90. That's a lot o' coin. My thumb hurts from a few mis-hits on the countertop, but it was worth the effort. I used $30 of it to go out to dinner with a friend last night and gave $40 to Mike this morning. Then I invested another $10 in Pepsi Crack. Oh, how I love you Pepsi Crack... I want to drink your sweet nectar.

It's an investment simply because it keeps me functioning. And I've been Pepsi-free for nearly a week. Waaaa-haaa-aaaayyy too long.

I'm amazed we found that bag-o-coins stashed under Mike's socks in a fancy trunk. (It makes me feel like a pirate.) That trunk and bag had made the move twice and we never once found the stash. It makes me want to dig through the storage bins stacked in our garage right now.

So far I've found money, pictures of Mike and me from the dating years, and clothes from high school that could probably fit a ten-year-old. So at least I've found one thing worth keeping.

What other treasures will we find?

Randomness for your Tuesday

My brain has been so scattered, I feel like I've been taken over by Twitter. I thought I'd share some of the randomness as the chunks of nonsense fall out of my brain. Enjoy.

I seem to have lost a follower to this blog. Perhaps it is someone who doesn't like pictures of blood or my nonstop Jesus hilarity?

The new Frederick's of Hollywood catalogue is out and - oh my gawd - they advertise that their costumes can be worn to a party. What kind of party? A swinger party?

I'm so glad my kids have been transferred to the other preschool / elementary school. Now the churchy mommies from our previous preschool won't even say hi to me. Awesome. I'm shunned. (Or they found my site and found my Jesus references not nearly as funny as I do... hmm.)

We're having a paintball party on October 10. If you'd like to join us, tough nuggets. Kidding, you just have to prove you're not a stalker, and you'll be welcomed to show up. We've gotta fill 30 spots. I'll settle for emotionally stunted internet loners if it means I get to shave $5 off my admission.

Money's tight for the next week or so, and yet I'm thinking of buying Mike his long-awaited Dan Brown novel. He's even been counting down to the release date. (Dork.) Which means I am doomed to be the one to cash in our bag-o-coins we discovered recently. Try this for fun: take three 4-year-olds to the bank and keep them occupied while you wait for some pissed off teller to crack open all those stupid paper coin rolls you thought were "so cool" ten years ago, so you painstakingly counted coins and packed them. (Dork.)

Our new, gorgeous computer with the ginormous flat screen had a huge selling point - a digital TV tuner. Amazing! TV on the computer, you say? Why yes. And the screen is big enough to watch TV while browsing the web. One problem. When they switched to digital, we haven't been able to get anything except fuzz. I just spent the last two hours upgrading us from fuzz to black screen. Progress.

Speaking of fuzz, I went to Stephie's jewelry party a couple days/week ago (?) and, as always, body hair became the hot topic of conversation. People were amazed at the percentage of my body I'm willing to rip hair from. Eyebrows down. Which led to my mom yelling, She buys wax in bulk. To which I responded, I wish that were true. If I could find a vat big enough, I'd jump in and have someone rip a bed sheet off my body. Ah, good times. It seems as though it worked... my sister sold a ton of jewelry. Unfortunately, my mother drank most of that in beer margaritas.

We made it through a day without any injuries, no thanks to Mike who told the girls, It's okay to jump on daddies, but not sisters. Because they'll remember the first half of those instructions and flatten the nearest sibling as soon as daddy's at work.

I hate not getting my period. I've been having nightmares of peeing on sticks only to have them grow a huge plus sign and disintegrate in my hands. So not only would I be pregnant, but have piss made of battery acid. Awesome.

Speaking of nightmares, I do some pretty weird things in my sleep. Or more particularly, at the edge of sleep. Last night, while fully aware of what I was doing (but not why I was doing it) I pulled my pillow to the foot of the bed and slept backwards for half the night. Other favorites: sleepwalking, sleeptalking, sleepsexing, sleepredecorating. The list goes on and on. This is why I can't go to bed before I'm exhausted.

Looks like tonight is going to be fun. Rather than working out, as I said I'd like to, I'm going to go out for drinks. Hopefully that bag-o-coins is fruitful because I could use a few margaritas. Yum...

I think I pissed Jesus off... maybe he's a Favre fan after all?

Because we're starting some kind of really fucking disturbing trend, Emma got injured again tonight. By stepping on a metal toy tractor. That sucker sliced her foot right open.

Unfortunately, this is how she learned not to do hot laps through the livingroom, as I had suggested mere moments earlier.

I'm trying to figure out what we did to cause all of this misfortune. Whatever it was, I apologize. Well, unless it's for the pool boy. Or my shoe fetish. (Hey, a sinner's gotta hold her ground when The Man's out to get her.)

I don't even know what number injury we're on for the week... six? seven?

One moment please as I tally them up.

The two kids falling on the road, the one with the mosquito allergy, the same one with the mosquito allergy, the snow globe to the leg, the child who fell on her head and didn't bleed, the child who fell and did, Kristin nearly breaking her damned foot by getting it stuck in between the bed frame and her mattress - oh yeah, I think I forgot to mention that one - and now the tractor to the foot. So that makes NINE injuries in the last week-ish?

These kids never get hurt. Or if they do, it's something minor like getting pounced on a little too rough from a sister. Biological sister, not a penguin nun, of course. Because that would just be weird.

So I'm thinking we should start a pool to see how long we all survive.

I'd wager $20 of Mike's money there's a limb lost within the week.

Any takers?

My child is allergic to mosquitoes

That title should be Google-friendly enough.

Yesterday, we watched the ISU v. IA football game at a friend's house. Of course I was cheering for ISU, simply because we had just purchased a $40 ISU t-shirt for Mike. I wanted to make the investment worth our time. We got spanked.

Anyway... I forget that other people have actual trees and shade (gasp!) in their yards so they may have mosquitoes. The entire game, Alison was getting bit like crazy, but only on one arm. I'm new to this whole allergy thing and forgot to spray her down... damn me anyway.

I told her if she had a mosquito bite her on the face, she needed to tell me.

(For those of you new here, about a week ago, we found out that my four-year-old Alison has a horrific reaction to mosquitoes when bitten on the face, especially near the eyes.)

No more than ten minutes after I gave Alison her mosquito instructions, she pranced up to me, chatting away while a mosquito sucked the blood out of her left eye lid.

I brushed him away and waited for her eye to swell.

And waited.

I ran her back to my parents' house to put some itch relief on it, and nothing happened.

Until this morning.

Blinky was back.

This particular type of allergy can take over a day to develop. Her eye was swollen completely shut and one of the bites on her arm was swollen into a knot.

She's perfectly happy and showing no other symptoms. She only looks like she was on the losing end of a bar brawl. Or winning end. I guess we'd need to see the other guy....

The only thing we can do is give her Benadryl and if it makes her feel better - ice the eye. Last time it went away within three days, with only some redness under her eye from the swelling.

What a great allergy to have! I mean, it's not like we come into contact with mosquitoes on a regular basis...

(This is important: if your child has a bite on the face or swelling near the eye and Benadryl doesn't help and it doesn't start subsiding within a day, you need to make sure your child doesn't have cellulitis, which can spread and be lethal. The doctor can do a scratch test to find out if your child is allergic to mosquitoes, but they might prescribe antibiotics just in case, simply because cellulitis is such a nasty ailment. This Public Service Announcement has been brought to you by garlic. Garlic. Making breath smell like feet for over 300 years.)

Hush

Outside the category of keeping the kids alive - which, let's face it, after this last week we're only hanging on by a thread - I've pretty much been phoning this whole parenting thing in for a while.

I used to teach the girls fun things like useless words in German (die Karotte - because you never know when you might be in Deutschland and need a vegetable) and words that rhyme. Come to think of it, I still can't conjure something to rhyme with window. Besides bimbo, but even that's a stretch, and not entirely appropriate.

At some point, I slacked off. I've focused most of my energy on getting to silence.

Feed them so they can't talk.

Nap them even though they haven't napped since they were 2-1/2.

Put in a movie that'll captivate them.

Start bedtime proceedings an hour early.

Of course this was all leading to the most beautiful, brilliant, shining moment of my day:

SILENCE.

The noise in this house really has been deafening over the last four years. I remember my sister calling years ago and asking me if I lived in a bird sanctuary from all the constant squeaking and squawking.

(I should probably get my hearing checked since I've been starting to read lips and use CC on the TV. Wait, I'm in insurance limbo. I mean, my hearing's great. No pre-existing conditions here!)

This last week has been different. I've tried to be less worried about the mess / noise / hearing damage and more worried about doing the things with my kids that my mom did with my sister and I.

We've been reading books and building blanket forts over the livingroom furniture; mixing up peanut butter cookies and skipping the eggs so we can eat all the dough; picking clovers from the yard and displaying them in our kitchen window.

We've really been having a lot of fun. Well, as much fun as a person can have with a raging headache (hello, day 3 of no Pepsi crack) and a ton of chores mercilessly piling up.

Another first for us: I've been letting the girls play in the front yard "unsupervised." Technically they're being watched but they don't know it. I throw them out, tell them to stay where I can see them, and they play for about five minutes before coming in with fistfulls of clover and/or spiders and crickets. Just like I used to do.

Don't worry, I'm not turning over a new parenting leaf.

I'm just feeling sentimental with fall around the corner.

I'm not the only one feeling amorous lately. Mike asked me to keep Friday night free. He wouldn't tell me why but I have a strange feeling it might be to spend some quality time as a family... folding laundry while watching George Clooney movies.

Call me crazy.

Back to enjoying the silence that comes with bedtime...

Nothing a bottle of wine and butterfly bandages can't fix

Dear Mrs. M,

I'm writing to translate a conversation you will surely be having with Emma at some point today.

The conversation in question might go a little something like this:

I had red. Lotsa red on my leg. But it was an accident. Because I had snow on my foot. And I dropped my toodle. So we're gonna have a snowman birthday party!

Then Emma will most certainly point out a pink Hello Kitty bandaid on her lower leg.

You see, Emma and I were drawing with her Magna Doodle (toodle) tonight. At one point, she set the toodle halphazardly on the pile of bills in front of me so she could play with a snow globe.

The crisis began when Emma tried to balance the snow globe on her toodle.

The toy and ball of terror snow globe slid off the desk, shattering against the desk on the way down. Emma seemed a little frightened that she'd be in trouble for breaking the globe, and it wasn't until I asked her to step aside that I saw the blood gushing down her leg.

She didn't cry, but seemed nervous that the "red" blood was running down her leg and foot, over the "snow" from the globe. (This is all making sense now, right?)

I cleaned her up and deemed it a deep cut but unnecessary for an ER visit, thankfully so because we are still without insurance at least for one more day. Emma was content with her Spongebob bandaid and an elevated leg. (Seen here with bandaid. Not pictured: elevated leg.)

I texted Mike at work: Where is the First Aid creme? Please call me ASAP.

After the previous day's playground shenanigans, I'm sure that gave him a bit of a jolt. We ended up finding some First Aid wipes in the car, at which point I had to convince Emma to let me change the bandages.

My ammunition? Hello Kitty. Certainly an upgrade for a 4-year-old girl.

The entire time I cleaned the cut, Emma talked about how she was sad about the accident with the snow globe and we should give the snowman a birthday party to make up for it.

There you have it. The whole translated story.

If you still decide to call CPS on me, please include a copy of this letter. I don't have a lot of extra time to relay stories such as these.

After all, I'm a busy mom with blood stains to clean out of her carpeting.

Sincerely,

Loren

PS. For the record, this laid-back wound tending style isn't limited to my generation. I called my mother to tell her the story. My childhood became suddenly clear when, instead of telling me to take Emma to the ER, she advised me to stock up on butterfly bandages.

Grab your Snuggie* and a cup of coffee. Time to get caught up.

* That is a joke. If you seriously own a Snuggie, you may want to reevaluate if this site is for you.

Against all odds, we survived our camping trip to Devil's Lake State Park in Wisconsin. (Pictures are in the previous post for time's sake.)

PART I

Our week-long venture began with a five hour drive to Merrill, Wisconsin - my hometown - for my 10-year reunion.

I walked in, recognizing so many faces but not remembering any names. Mike and I parked ourselves in front of the keg, even though we both swore no booze for the evening. Screw that. We drank our fair share. I needed something to hold on to, and it was either a beer or a midget. (Unfortunately, no midgets were readily available.)

We left by 10:30. Yes, we are looooosers.

PART II

The drive from Merrill to Devil's Lake was pretty short, and we had our tent and gear set up on our site by 4 o'clock. We were next to the woods and had the area to ourselves. The only issue was a little slant to the ground. Other than that, it was perfect.

The only other campers seemed to be of the friendly elderly sort or the red-headed (homeschooling) type. (I say homeschooling because who else would have their whole family camping during a school week and have them up and cheerfully running around at 7 AM when everyone else is shivering in their tents? Besides people who are crazy. Oh and it seems like everyone I know who homeschools has red hair. I don't know why, don't ask me. If anyone can shed some light on this phenomenon, feel free.)

One of the older camping couples befriended us and let our girls visit their cat, Winston, on a pretty regular basis. We paid them with photo ops of our freakshow kids. That first night was kind of the meet-and-greet of our week.

We didn't realize until bedtime just how much difference a "little slant to the ground" could make in regards to gravity and sleeping. I spent most of the first night debating whether I should risk frostbite to my arms in the 30-something-degree weather in order to cling to the top of the air mattress, or if I should keep entirely inside the sleeping bag and let myself slide off the bed by morning.

I woke up the next morning thinking I had frozen a nipple clean off. It hurt so bad. About an hour later I discovered why. During my struggles to stay on the mattress, I had somehow popped the end of my barbell into my skin. (Camping is a dangerous sport.) I told Mike if the nights stayed that cold, we were packing up our crap and leaving. To which he responded, We already paid for the site. We're staying. At least he had the foresight to request a campsite change.

PART III

We hit the ground running. The first full day, we took the girls on a canoe trip across Devil's Lake. One thing I learned early in our parenting years was that there are very few activities that accommodate large families. We had one too many kids to fit in one canoe.

Yep, Mike and I each had to paddle a canoe. With a single canoe paddle. (Getting a good picture?) Why they didn't give us a double-ended kayak paddle or whatever they call paddles for kayaks is beyond me.

As consolation, Mike allowed me to take a single child, Kristin in my canoe. I spent the first length of the lake saying, Kristin, keep your hands in the boat! She was my involuntary rudder, pulling the boat always to the left.

Mike didn't believe me until I begged him to trade me kids.

On our return trip, we saw rock climbers and turtles and fisherman, to which the children yelled Hi!!! I'm on a boat!

After we parked our canoe, we - in our infinite parental wisdom - started off on a short 150-minute** hike through hell. They call it Devil's Lake after all...

**Edited from 90 minutes, which was incorrect. My math sucks.

Before we even started, somewhere around this point:

Alison said, I'm tired. Can I come up? Mike played bad cop and told her You didn't even do anything. You just sat in the canoe.

Why didn't I heed the signs?

The first mile was fairly flat and along the rocky shore of the lake. Things were going pretty well, so we headed for the more challenging return route: the trail on the bluffs. The second mile (and a half) wasn't nearly as flat.

In fact it was so NOT flat that I was either carrying a child or holding their hands and dragging them up the hill behind me as they asked to sit on the next rock. When we reach the top I told them. Then I'd turn a corner and turn back to mouth the words YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME to Mike as I stared up at another flight of rocky pathways.

Turns out you don't go down to the depths of hell. You hike up into them.

That evening the kids passed out early from exhaustion. I tried to follow suit, but Mike's bizarre attraction to me in long underwear while tent-sleeping kicked into high gear. I couldn't beat him away from me. (For the record, it was so cold I would have crawled inside a camel's ass to keep warm.) We started giggling and he loudly asked, What??? No applause?!? of our sleeping neighbors.

It was only funny after we awoke at 7:15 to see our red-headed friends had packed up and left.

PART IV

It was so cold every morning that Mike started to see my point-of-view. If it didn't warm up, he said, we would leave a day early.

We eventually got moving and did as the tourists do: we went to the Wisconsin Dells. First we went on the Original Wisconsin Ducks. Kids under five were free. Before we talk about how awesome that is, let me mention that adults were $23 each. At least she had some pretty good Favre jokes...

Mike found us seats in the back where we were sure to get splashed, and I spent most of the ride reminding Emma to keep her head inside the vehicle if she wanted to keep it. Thanks to my "backseat tour guides," everyone was informed when a duck, deer, tree, bird, rock, lake, rock that looked like a bird came into view. Kristin was the only one to spot a doe ten feet from our Duck, even though we were parked there for over a minute.

Also free for kids under five? Mini golf at Pirate's Cove. This time, adults were only $7.75 for 18 holes.

The girls had never played before, so their form was terrible. There's a reason kids under five are free. They absolutely stink at golf. Kristin was playing some version of miniaturized polo. I think I hit my own ball a total of five times before giving up and becoming a mini golf pro for mini people.

At the 18th hole, the balls disappeared down a tube - a fact that, if you're an adult, won't make you cry. Not so for four-year-olds. Mike had so much fun he wanted to do a different set of 18.

My response? I don't care if the second 18 is half price. You couldn't PAY me to do that again. Yes, party pooper. (Arrows pointing toward my head.)

We ate out only a few times, but we had to stop by the Goody Gum Drop for ice cream and the Moose Jaw Pizza Company and Brewery out of tradition. For the moose hats, of course.

We kept extremely busy all week, including a trip to a dumpy little laundromat. I felt like the fish-out-of-water character in an independent film. Why do the weird ones always end up at laundromats?

PART V

Every night we camped, we had a pretty good fire going, thanks to our five hundred bundles of firewood. One of the neighboring campers was quickly dubbed Paul Bunyan since he was constantly hacking away with his giant ax. I think he mistook the park policy of burning "downed wood" to include the wood that he has downed with his blade of death.

Mike, of course, had to partake in the fun, so nearly every day we ended up with two or three chunks of dead vegetation at our site which he hacked at with his own tiny hatchet.

Also impressive was our fire poker - Mike's old golf putter which lost its head in an unfortunate golfing incident. One night we heard coyotes in the distance, barking out that they had killed or found an animal. Before bed, Mike stored the fire putter next to the tent. I asked him what for, and he replied coyotes. Of course I asked him what he planned to do if one were to attack... poke him to death? So our fire putter is now our coyote poker. Long may you poke wild animals.

PART VI

As the temperature slowly progressed upward (one night was even in the high 40s!) we decided to stick it out that extra day.

We spent at least an hour every day at the tiny campground play area. The girls managed only two injuries, both from falling on the street. I gleefully pointed out that we had thus far avoided the ER, an important fact since we were temporarily without insurance on everyone but Mike for a full week. (It's being appealed... paperwork issue.)

Karma works quickly.

Thursday morning, Alison had what appeared to be a shiner under her left eye. She informed me it was a mosquito bite. I had heard of people being allergic to mosquitoes, so I kept an eye on her.

We went to a deer park that afternoon where Alison told me one doe in particular "prolly" liked her and she thought she could ride her. Emma agreed. Kristin asked, Where are the LIONS? I want to pet a lion.

By the end of the night, Alison's eye was even more swollen, and the next morning it was swollen completely shut with her eyelashes hanging on for their lives.

Benadryl. Benadryl. Call the doctor. Benadryl.

We rushed packing our belongings into the truck and started the 3-1/2 hour drive home. Just in case. Mike offered to ice her eye while watching a movie, which he laughed and admitted would probably end up as Alison "with a chunk of ice duct taped to her eye" while he played Kill Zone on PS3. Brutal honesty...

Thankfully she needed no duct tape and her eye looked like this by nightfall:

Good news for us. We came home and relaxed. The cat was more excited to see her tormentors than she was to see Mike and I, and I was happy to have a piece of furniture to sit on that contained stuffing of any sort.

EPILOGUE

We took the girls out yesterday to the park, since it was our last day before the girls went back to school (again). It was also what we hoped would be our last night without insurance. This is important.

We met Mike's dad there, and I sat on a bench to read while the boys entertained the children.

Yes, this ends ugly. Turn back now if you can't handle grossness.

You know that piece of playground equipment with the handle that you hold onto as you slide through the air? It's meant for older children, but it looked fun and safe enough, so grandpa did what a lot of people have done before: he lifted Kristin up to grasp the handle, then slid her back and forth. The third time, she slid a little too fast and couldn't hang on as it slammed to the end. She did a belly flop to the ground. She laughed at first, but as she walked away, she started to cry pretty hard. Hugs all around and she was okay.

This is when I should have walked over and suggested we moved on to another piece of equipment. It's what I normally would have done, but I try not to be a control freak. (It wasn't exactly the most dangerous grandparenting maneuver that we've lived through... Hell, we visited Mike's mom and the only toys she had to give the girls were rusted-out firetrucks. Tetanus, anyone?)

I had a bad feeling, though, as Mike stood there watching his dad hang Alison from the same slider which had just bucked Kristin. Good intentions, but it only took one quick slide to the end before her little legs swung out, pulling her fingers off the handle.

Alison's head bounced off the ground.

I felt sick, but I watched Mike and grandpa converge on her and pick her up. I was okay until Mike said in a panicked tone Oh my god... is she bleeding out her nose???

That girl had so much blood going out her nose and mouth and down her throat she was choking on it. I tried to stay composed, but I could feel the adrenaline pumping through me. She cried hysterically, gurgling on the blood and small hard chunks of what I can only assume were bits of wood. We cleaned her up and got her settled down so we could look at her pupils and assess the damage to her nose and mouth.

The whole episode lasted about five minutes, but my nerves were shot.

(She's okay now.)

I shook my head and looked at Mike wondering if we could make it one more day before ending up in the hospital. These same kids who haven't been to the doctor more than once in the last 18 months. (Turns out one of the other parents who arrived while we were cleaning Alison's face is a neonatologist at the hospital where we delivered.)

To make matters worse, we bought a movie for the girls to watch last night: Coraline.

That movie gets scarier than shit.

Kristin was crying by the midpoint and we had to shut it off. Mike pointed out what even the girls knew: This movie isn't meant for kids.

Vacation fail. Parenting fail. Insurance fail. Playground fail. Movie fail.

I hope it's a long, long time before we have another vacation. I don't know if we'd survive.

Just visuals... nonsensicals to come later