Thursday, December 9, 2010

A Conversation in Text

Last night I received a text from my older, wiser sister. But only older by 16 months. And only wiser by 16 points on the ACT. (Lies. I don't really know the ACT difference. At this point in my life I'm not even sure I've ever taken the ACT.) (I am, however, certain I took some military test that told me I'd be perfect as some sort of small weapons mechanic-y person. I took that to mean the test was bogus and the Army just needed someone to fill some slots.) (I went into a position where I did administrative work.) (But I digress.)

Here is our texted conversation:

Sister:  It's the 'damn, I washed another kleenex time of year'. Third load of laundry I've had to pick pieces off while I fold. And no one to blame but me.

Me:  That's exactly why I'm a staunch proponent of using sleeves.

Sister: I don't know why I put them in my pocket anyway. I grab a new one almost every time and end up emptying my pockets because they get too full.

Me:  Shove them up the cuff of your sleeve. When you take the shirt off it'll rain tissue. Use enough and they'll work their way up to your chest.

Sister: lol

Me:  Make sure you stuff kleenexes equally between both sleeves... you could end up half 36DD and half 36A.

Sister:  Of course, at first I'll just look like Hans and Franz from Saturday Night Live.

Me:  Then we could record video of you and post it to YouTube. We'd totally be considered cool.

Sister:  Did you run that by the girls (aka "cool police") because I'm thinking you might be wrong about that.

Me:  Have you seen some of those videos that go ridiculously viral? Uneven boobs would totally take the pubescent market.

***

... and this is why everyone should have a sister to talk to...

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

'Tis the Season

If I were President of the United States, I would make it mandatory that all cell phone alarms have a minimum 9-minute snooze because this four minute thing my new phone is doing is just not fair. I've started setting five separate alarms to go off at 9-minute intervals so I can just turn the alarms off and not depend on their stingy snooze.

My plan was foiled this morning when the babysitter called saying something about massive vomiting, digestive parasites and  possible cholera, so guess who had to wake up that very second to track down a child sitter pinch hitter? No snoozing for me. Luckily, our Martha Stewart/Betty Crocker back-up was available which made me think (1) Thank God for this gracious woman, and (2) I totally could've slept for seven more minutes.

All was not well when I went to wake the baby, who looked at me with one eye open ala pirate style due to the fact his other eyeball was crusted over with a gunky puss. Then he smiled this cute little adorable smile and all I could think of was dear god, he looks like a mangy barn cat.

"Come, Dotter," I called to the 9-year old. "Come grab your brother from out of his crib."

"But you're right there," the ungrateful child answered.

"There's no way I'm touching him. He's got mange. Now, take him out before Santa sees what a poorly behaved child you are and all he brings is coal."

Who says the Christmas Spirit is dead?

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Up My Dose of Cipro, Please

I was putting a file away at work when I got a paper cut. I immediately contacted the proper personnel to file a workman's comp claim but they wouldn't do it. Instead I was offered some antibacterial wash and a band-aid. I made them pinky swear that if this gets infected and my finger needs to be amputated they'll backdate a claim. I'm not messing around here, people. Infections are serious.

By they way, when I was writing this I couldn't remember the word "amputated" (probably because the infection is already rapidly attacking my brain cells) so I googled remove finger and was somewhat traumatized by the first site suggestion which provided the following detail:

Ever wondered what two colliding
high-strength magnets would do to a lime?
What about a finger?

There is no way I'm clicking on that video. As if I don't have enough things in this world to worry about, now I have to make sure to teach my children to stay away from high-strength magnets because they could smash your finger and it'll get all infected and then you'll die. Which is exactly what is going to happen to me if this paper cut gets infected.

Which reminds me, I need to clean the house and get all my affairs in order because I don't want my family digging around my house after I'm gone.

Sister: What the hell are these? Are these underwear?

Mom: I don't know, isn't there supposed to be elastic somewhere?

Me, From The Beyond: I bought them after my c-section when I had that horrible infection and was super bloated -- I only kept them in case I had another baby and another bad c-section reaction!

Roma Downey: They can't hear you. You've died and I'm here to take your soul to Heaven. But before I do, I'm forcing you to watch uncomfortably while your loved ones look through all the things you thought would always be private.

Mom: What do you suppose this is?

Sister: PUT THAT DOWN! It's unsanitary!

Monday, December 6, 2010

Oh, Just Wear a Patch, Kid

Apparently someone (or something) has been socking my 9-year old in the eyeball causing an inflammation and bruising situation that requires medicated eye drops and multiple visits to the eye doctor. Which wouldn't be too bad if I suddenly hadn't gone all anti-hoarding and held on to the medicated eye drops as opposed to tossing them in the trash last week. I have cough medicine that expired 3-1/2 years ago yet I toss the drops. I know I make no sense.

Eye appointment looming I toss a bottle at the toddler and attempt to find his shoes. The kid owns exactly one pair of shoes. Do you want to know why my kid owns only one pair of shoes? Because he's not my first born. The first born had thirty-eight pairs of shoes to choose from at any given time. The third born child is lucky he gets shoes at all. But because the clock is ticking and the I-need-to-arrive-twenty-minutes-before-my-scheduled-appointment-or-I'll-implode 9-year is twitching I cannot locate the shoes. It's two degrees outside and I have no shoes for the baby. Whatever. He's got socks. Toss him in the car seat and let's get going.

So I drive the twenty minute route with precise countdown commentary:

"It's eleven forty-three. My appointment is at noon. That's in seventeen minutes."

Turn left. Slip through a snow drift.

"It's eleven forty-five. My appointment is at noon. That's in fifteen minutes."

Darn it. A red light.

"Is the baby asleep?" I ask, thinking maybe, just maybe, we can talk about something other than what time it is.

"No. He's drinking his bottle. It's eleven forty-seven. My appointment is at noon. That's in thirteen minutes."

For the love. Who taught this child how to tell time?

The eye clinic is busy. Crowded. There are hundreds of people. Okay, maybe six. But it felt like hundreds because there are only four chairs in the waiting room and I am not in one. Instead I am standing against the wall with a wriggly baby and a time conscious tween.

"It's past noon. My appointment is at noon."

It's a thousand degrees in here. Perhaps only 68, but when you're wearing winter gear indoors you cook quickly. We cannot get in the exam room quick enough.

Yep. It's inflamed. Yep. It's red. Yep. Let's get a new prescription for the drops you threw out. "You could probably keep these for a while," the doctor tells me. "Just in case."  Right. Great idea.

And then, the words that would change the course of our day: "I just want to dilate her eye and take a look; make sure nothing's going on in there."

Did you know they make you wait twenty minutes for your eye to dilate?

This is what will happen in twenty minutes:

The toddler can no longer sit still. He will demand to get out of your arms and walk into every slushy snow puddle left by the entry door. Which means his socks will get wet because you are the mother who doesn't have shoes for your kid. And then he will become uncomfortable because his socks are gross and wet and he will take them off because who wants to walk around in goopy socks?

The toddler will then explode. Literally. He will experience a bowel movement unlike any you have ever seen. And it will smell. Very, very bad. So you will throw the toddler in the lap of your 9-yr and tell her to hang on while you run out into the parking lot to grab the diaper bag out of the car. And your 9-yr old will begin to panic and cry because she doesn't want to be left alone (too many strange people) and you will not be one of those patient mommies who comfort and reassure your scared child; no, instead you will become one of those seething, talking through your clenched teeth kind of mommies: Just hold on to him for twenty seconds while I get the damn bag.

And you will race out to the car. And search it. And look in the front seat. And the back seat. And in the trunk for good measure. But, guess what? You won't find the diaper bag because, guess what? It's sitting on the floor of the garage where you put it when you had to wrestle the toddler into the car seat.

So you will go back inside the waiting room where the 9-yr old is fighting back tears while she fights the squirming toddler who is turning various shades of red and purple because he is not happy he has been restrained for the past thirty-eight seconds, and you will take hold of the toddler and look at the 9-yr old and shamefully admit there are no diapers to be had and the 9-yr old will look at you in horror and disbelief at the exact same moment the toddler decides to vomit the full volume of the bottle he consumed not too long ago. And now, in addition to the baby manure stench, there is a rancid spoiled milk odor filling the air.
Thank God the doctor beckons as you're wiping up curdled milk from her carpet with the festive box of Puffs Plus and avoiding the disgusted stares of those around you. Nothing in the eyeball. (I waited in the hall with the stink kid.) Got my prescription and hightailed it out of there.

But do not fret. All was not in vain!
I got this super cool picture to remember the day: