And stumbled across "Keeping Up with the Kardashians."
What a freaking train wreck. Really. And yet, I kept watching it, even through the commercial breaks, trying to understand just what the hell was supposed to be the appeal of this bunch of nutcases. Have you seen it? Apparently one of the daughters was a Paris Hilton friend, had a sex tape released by an exboyfriend aaaaand... spends a lot of time and money on herself. That's all I could divine.
BUT... After about the third commercial break, a pattern dawned on me.
All the commercials were for:
Pregnancy Tests
Various versions of The Pill
Tampons
some ridiculous thing called Re-phresh or something like that, which as near as I could tell, is sort of like Febreze for one's hoo-hah.
And so on and so on. Just when I thought the show's demographic was teenaged boys, the commercials suggest otherwise. The show was horrendous but at least I got a pretty good laugh.
No wonder I hate tv.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
My brain is a blank... i wore it out today. So I give you a story instead.
And its even a true story, although a few of you have heard it before.
THE GHOST COW OF DAYBROOK
(cue eerie music)
My mom's parents lived on a farm in this small town area. Very small town. I'm probably related to half the county. And the farm was sort of out there... it was a good 45 minutes into the nearest big town if you wanted to shop for something other than canned Del Monte peas, green beans and a bag of corn meal that may very well have seen the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
My grandparents were born here and although they went on (and out of state) to become IBM engineers, they retired back to my grandfather's family farm.
Note. This is not the farm of The Deer Stalker. Not the Leg Pile. This is the farm from the twilight zone. Just trust me on this.
Anyway, we'd been out for the morning and were coming back over the winding, twisting roads, when a local man flagged us down.
"D'you lose a cow out here?" The word Cow was stretched into additional syllables. That was one helluva drawl.
"Nope," my grandfather answered. "She's right here!" And my grandmother smacked him one in the arm.
"Somebody done hit a COW! On this road," the man insisted, "and they kilt it! Kilt it dead! But when we came back with the truck," he paused, I couldn't tell where it was for intentional dramatic effect or he was simply overcome by the gravity of the whole cow thing. "it.. it was GONE!"
My grandfather gave him a measuring look, thanked him for alerting us, and we continued on our way. From the rear window, my sister and I could see the man standing in the middle of the road, watching us. There was some joking about Zombie Ghost Cows and all, but we were fairly smug in the knowledge that obviously the cow hadn't been kilt dead at all, but probably just stunned senseless and it wandered away after it recovered a bit. I mean, come ON.
Fast forward a couple of hours. There was no cable television out here, and after dark, there just wasn't a hell of a lot to do. My grandfather was having his regular evening nap and my grandmother, sister and I were playing card games at the kitchen table and drinking really asserific coffee. All of a sudden, we heard this really odd noise. I mean REALLY odd. I'd never heard anything like it before and it was really creepy.
We all kind of looked at each other sideways and didn't say anything. You know, that sort of "if I pretend I never heard that, then it couldn't have really happened" kind of thing. We silently continued the card game for a few more minutes and then we heard it again. It was a kind of low, guttural sobbing that cranked into this long "OOOOOOOOOOOO", capped off by a rising wail.
It was definitely the sort of thing that would freak a body out.
Calmly, I got up from the table and went to wake my grandfather. And then of course, the noise didn't happen again and he got cranky and went back to sleep. Clearly, we were on our own. The third time it happened, I grabbed a flashlight and my grandmother grabbed my left arm and my sister grabbed the right, and we went out to investigate, all Lions and Tigers and Bears, OH SHIT!
We circled the house. Nothing. Out by the spring house. Nothing. chicken house? All quiet. Feed shed. Nothing there. Nothing anywhere. And as we were heading back to the house, feeling a little silly, we heard it AGAIN. Oh dear lord, it was coming from up the hill.
FROM THE OLD FAMILY CEMETERY.
We didn't say a word, but all three of us scrambled for the house and got jammed in the doorway like the pack of idiots we were, clawing and flailing to get back into the house. Finally the bottleneck broke free and all three of us thundered through the living room, up the stairs, into the big bedroom and all three of us jumped into the big iron bed and under the quilts. And we STAYED there, too.
Did I mention that my sister and I were adults at this point? Not that it mattered because we were all handling it like 5 year olds and there was nothing on this earth or the next that could have gotten us out from under those covers until daybreak.
So. The next morning we all pretended like nothing had happened, but I was out with my grandfather, counting the cattle as they came in for feed, and trying to describe what we'd heard. 12... 13... 14... 15. Hey. wait a minute, we only have 14 cattle. Count again. No we come up with 15. And then at that moment, the last animal in line lifts its head and.... you got it. That gawdawful noise from last night.
It was the McCoy's bull. It had broken out of its pasture last night and gotten stuck in the cemetery. And we got teased quite a bit about that Ghost Cow of Daybrook.
THE GHOST COW OF DAYBROOK
(cue eerie music)
My mom's parents lived on a farm in this small town area. Very small town. I'm probably related to half the county. And the farm was sort of out there... it was a good 45 minutes into the nearest big town if you wanted to shop for something other than canned Del Monte peas, green beans and a bag of corn meal that may very well have seen the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
My grandparents were born here and although they went on (and out of state) to become IBM engineers, they retired back to my grandfather's family farm.
Note. This is not the farm of The Deer Stalker. Not the Leg Pile. This is the farm from the twilight zone. Just trust me on this.
Anyway, we'd been out for the morning and were coming back over the winding, twisting roads, when a local man flagged us down.
"D'you lose a cow out here?" The word Cow was stretched into additional syllables. That was one helluva drawl.
"Nope," my grandfather answered. "She's right here!" And my grandmother smacked him one in the arm.
"Somebody done hit a COW! On this road," the man insisted, "and they kilt it! Kilt it dead! But when we came back with the truck," he paused, I couldn't tell where it was for intentional dramatic effect or he was simply overcome by the gravity of the whole cow thing. "it.. it was GONE!"
My grandfather gave him a measuring look, thanked him for alerting us, and we continued on our way. From the rear window, my sister and I could see the man standing in the middle of the road, watching us. There was some joking about Zombie Ghost Cows and all, but we were fairly smug in the knowledge that obviously the cow hadn't been kilt dead at all, but probably just stunned senseless and it wandered away after it recovered a bit. I mean, come ON.
Fast forward a couple of hours. There was no cable television out here, and after dark, there just wasn't a hell of a lot to do. My grandfather was having his regular evening nap and my grandmother, sister and I were playing card games at the kitchen table and drinking really asserific coffee. All of a sudden, we heard this really odd noise. I mean REALLY odd. I'd never heard anything like it before and it was really creepy.
We all kind of looked at each other sideways and didn't say anything. You know, that sort of "if I pretend I never heard that, then it couldn't have really happened" kind of thing. We silently continued the card game for a few more minutes and then we heard it again. It was a kind of low, guttural sobbing that cranked into this long "OOOOOOOOOOOO", capped off by a rising wail.
It was definitely the sort of thing that would freak a body out.
Calmly, I got up from the table and went to wake my grandfather. And then of course, the noise didn't happen again and he got cranky and went back to sleep. Clearly, we were on our own. The third time it happened, I grabbed a flashlight and my grandmother grabbed my left arm and my sister grabbed the right, and we went out to investigate, all Lions and Tigers and Bears, OH SHIT!
We circled the house. Nothing. Out by the spring house. Nothing. chicken house? All quiet. Feed shed. Nothing there. Nothing anywhere. And as we were heading back to the house, feeling a little silly, we heard it AGAIN. Oh dear lord, it was coming from up the hill.
FROM THE OLD FAMILY CEMETERY.
We didn't say a word, but all three of us scrambled for the house and got jammed in the doorway like the pack of idiots we were, clawing and flailing to get back into the house. Finally the bottleneck broke free and all three of us thundered through the living room, up the stairs, into the big bedroom and all three of us jumped into the big iron bed and under the quilts. And we STAYED there, too.
Did I mention that my sister and I were adults at this point? Not that it mattered because we were all handling it like 5 year olds and there was nothing on this earth or the next that could have gotten us out from under those covers until daybreak.
So. The next morning we all pretended like nothing had happened, but I was out with my grandfather, counting the cattle as they came in for feed, and trying to describe what we'd heard. 12... 13... 14... 15. Hey. wait a minute, we only have 14 cattle. Count again. No we come up with 15. And then at that moment, the last animal in line lifts its head and.... you got it. That gawdawful noise from last night.
It was the McCoy's bull. It had broken out of its pasture last night and gotten stuck in the cemetery. And we got teased quite a bit about that Ghost Cow of Daybrook.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Out of the mouths and all that
This past Friday was Dr. Suess Day and some of us went to a local elementary school to read books to kids. Part of the suggested curriculum was to discuss the book after it was read. This is what I got from the kindergartners:
Me: "And does anyone have any questions?"
a wee, tiny solemn-faced little girl raises her hand.
me: "Yes dear?"
tot: "Miss Gerbil, are you wearing... stockings??"
me: "Why... yes, I am."
tot (nodding) "I thought so. Thank you."
me: "You're welcome."
Also? I'm feeling tres Put Together this morning. Pinned my hair up in a chignon, hose with NO snags in them yet, my dark brown knit only-designer-top-that-I-own and my chunky fabulous smoky topaz pendant that I TOTALLY got for dirt freaking cheap but nobody knows that except well... everyone NOW but anyway.
I strutted just a bit as I exited my room. Shoulders back, chin up, feelin' GOOD.
And I went out and got coffee and all and completely failed to notice the big ol' splotch of toothpaste directly over my right nipple.
Because I'm just Klassy like that.
Me: "And does anyone have any questions?"
a wee, tiny solemn-faced little girl raises her hand.
me: "Yes dear?"
tot: "Miss Gerbil, are you wearing... stockings??"
me: "Why... yes, I am."
tot (nodding) "I thought so. Thank you."
me: "You're welcome."
Also? I'm feeling tres Put Together this morning. Pinned my hair up in a chignon, hose with NO snags in them yet, my dark brown knit only-designer-top-that-I-own and my chunky fabulous smoky topaz pendant that I TOTALLY got for dirt freaking cheap but nobody knows that except well... everyone NOW but anyway.
I strutted just a bit as I exited my room. Shoulders back, chin up, feelin' GOOD.
And I went out and got coffee and all and completely failed to notice the big ol' splotch of toothpaste directly over my right nipple.
Because I'm just Klassy like that.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Not Feeling the Target Love
Nearly everyone I know loves the Land of the Big Red Dot known as Target. And ye cats and little fishes, you find nearly as many of them dotting the landscape as Starbucks. But I have to admit, I don't understand the fuss. Sure, I occasionally shop there because its convenient, being barely a mile from the house. My husband, on the other hand, loooooovvvves Target and delights in spending a couple of hours wandering through every nook and cranny of the store.
I just don't get it. Maybe its because the Target nearest us just plain bites. Truly, it does. Its staffed by what has to be the culls from every other Target. The Minor Leagues of Target, right here. I have yet to experience anyone on the sale floor who is not engaged in earnest (and often hand-wavingly energetic) conversation with a coworker about their social activities in the last week and who dissed who, to the exclusion of absolutely everything else, including I don't know... their actual jobs? They see absolutely nothing wrong with blocking entire aisles (and those are fairly wide aisles) with multiple carts piled high with cardboard and other retail detritus and then walking away, abandoning their crap to become some sort of consumer obstacle course. We needn't discuss the general attitude should I, a lowly shopper, need to intrude upon their space for any reason. Dude. I have news for you. This is a Target, NOT Tavern on the Green. Get the hell over yourself, all I need is some help reaching that item on the top shelf so I can support the economy just a little bit, mmmkay?
It frustrates the hell out of me. Plus, our Target seems to be poorly stocked, often failing to carry the same items that the Target across town does. Even the presence of Starbucks there doesn't sweeten my sullen view of The Target That Sucks because its staffed by the same Targetistas. (Besides, Starbucks might be padding their bottom line but the caramel macchiato goodness also pads MY bottom line. If you know what I mean.)
The best answer, of course, is to simply not give them my money. Alas, I have my moments when convenience overtakes my sense of consumer justice and I find myself doing the walk of shame through the red doors (which, by the way Target, you really ought to fix those. Its really aggravating to have them get stuck as they're trying to open. Don't make me kick you.) I justify myself by murmuring that really, with the price of gas these days, I'm really saving money by not driving across town, really truly. And some part of me knows that really? I'm just freaking lazy.
I feel cheated. I read all these stories of True Target Love and the fabulousness of the big red dot but... i got nothin, man.
I just don't get it. Maybe its because the Target nearest us just plain bites. Truly, it does. Its staffed by what has to be the culls from every other Target. The Minor Leagues of Target, right here. I have yet to experience anyone on the sale floor who is not engaged in earnest (and often hand-wavingly energetic) conversation with a coworker about their social activities in the last week and who dissed who, to the exclusion of absolutely everything else, including I don't know... their actual jobs? They see absolutely nothing wrong with blocking entire aisles (and those are fairly wide aisles) with multiple carts piled high with cardboard and other retail detritus and then walking away, abandoning their crap to become some sort of consumer obstacle course. We needn't discuss the general attitude should I, a lowly shopper, need to intrude upon their space for any reason. Dude. I have news for you. This is a Target, NOT Tavern on the Green. Get the hell over yourself, all I need is some help reaching that item on the top shelf so I can support the economy just a little bit, mmmkay?
It frustrates the hell out of me. Plus, our Target seems to be poorly stocked, often failing to carry the same items that the Target across town does. Even the presence of Starbucks there doesn't sweeten my sullen view of The Target That Sucks because its staffed by the same Targetistas. (Besides, Starbucks might be padding their bottom line but the caramel macchiato goodness also pads MY bottom line. If you know what I mean.)
The best answer, of course, is to simply not give them my money. Alas, I have my moments when convenience overtakes my sense of consumer justice and I find myself doing the walk of shame through the red doors (which, by the way Target, you really ought to fix those. Its really aggravating to have them get stuck as they're trying to open. Don't make me kick you.) I justify myself by murmuring that really, with the price of gas these days, I'm really saving money by not driving across town, really truly. And some part of me knows that really? I'm just freaking lazy.
I feel cheated. I read all these stories of True Target Love and the fabulousness of the big red dot but... i got nothin, man.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Speaking of Thermoses...
Speaking of thermoses....
In my family, we have phrase that indicates the the conversation is about to take a sharp turn off track in a manner which might make no sense, but there's no way to logically segue into the next topic, so.... "Speaking of thermoses" is that phrase.
This can be traced back to my great-aunt L, who I have mentioned before. We were all sitting around the kitchen table in a great gathering (probably after a funeral) when she abruptly slapped her palm onto the table and announces "Well, SPEAKING of thermoses..."
which we weren't.
And she launched into some completely different discussion and the phrase took on a life of its own. Its kind of where my brain is today. Big shock, I know.
* * *
I have two new gerbil pups in the house... Indiana Scones finally passed on to that great toilet paper roll beyond, at the advanced gerbil age of 4 1/2. I now have a black and an argente (golden) pup and we have named them Raisincranz and Guldens (like the mustard)-stern. And given their colors, this horrid pun works on two levels. Bonus.
* * *
I got a worried call from my mom recently... my sisters and I jointly own my grandfather's property in New York. We've had our ups and downs with the property after my grandfather's death, notably the renter who trashed the place and turned the basement into a veritable abbatoir. (surely you don't think I'm kidding. )
He was, among other unsavory things, a very very busy poacher and he did his dirty work in the basement of my grandfather's house. Trust me, you do NOT want the photographic proof, although there are bloggers who can back me up on this one.
Anyway, the current renters are very nice people and knew my grandfather. However, they've approached my sisters a couple of times and mentioned that there appears to be some paranormal activity going on and its beginning to freak them right out. Supposedly, they emailed a list of the incidents to my sister, but she has yet to forward this on. I am not certain what to think of this but am dying to know what's got everyone worked up.
We've got quite the history in that house anyway. My great-great grandfather deeded the land to my grandfather when he married, and my grandfather dug the foundation and built the house himself, brick by brick. My grandfather actually died of an accident in the house on Halloween, a few years back. It was pretty grim. For many years, he'd told all of us that he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered there on the farm. But when we had the funeral, the director of the OTHER funeral home called the one handling Grandpa's arrangements and said " I have MRS Lastname here!"
Uh... what?????
My grandmother had died nearly 10 winters prior and Grandpa had told us he'd scattered her ashes in her beloved garden. So uh... what the heck???Sure enough. Grandpa had apparently forgotten to ever pick up my grandmother's ashes and they'd sat in the basement of the other funeral home for like TEN YEARS. Oh man. You know when he got to the pearly gates, my grandmother had a few things to say to him.
So, we retrieved Grandma. And scattered her ashes over her prized rhubarb patch. Grandpa? well, Grandpa's in his blueberry bushes, a good distance from the rhubarb because you KNOW she wasn't speaking to him. My family is wondering if any activity might be Grandma, still pissed off at being forgotten in the basement.
* * *
We had to replace the washing machine recently. All I can say is... when you do laundry 24 hours prior, and you come back and it looks like the segment of Creepshow where the asteroid lands on Stephen King's backwoods farm and he touches it and starts growing green, fuzzy fungus???? Yeah. That is bad.
I actually spent two hours trying to eradicate the slimy crap that had taken over my washing machine, not because I thought I could restore what was an old and dying machine ANYWAY, but because I was too grossed out to even have this crud in my house. Like it was going to ooze out and get us all in our sleep or something. So we bit the bullet and got a front loader and it does a wonderful job... except, did I mention the 2nd floor laundry hookup? Right. The washer is now preparing us in case we ever move to California or something because everytime the spin cycle begins, everyone in the house thinks we're having an earthquake. In my mind, its a small price to pay to for mold-free laundry.
* * *
Irony I Have Known
Not so long ago, I witnessed a fairly bad rear-end collision on my way to work. The guy in the van pretty much obliterated the back of the little Nissan, which had inexplicably stopped dead in front of him.
He was on the phone, shrieking at someone and I saw the girl who'd been driving the Nissan staggering by the side of the road, nearly stepping into traffic. I went to assist and had her sit back down while I called emergency. She was 6 months pregnant and luckily, the fire station was literally just up the road. Emergency asked me to remain on the scene until they got there.
As a police officer hurried over to where we were waiting, the girl looked up at me and said shakily, "I really need my cigarettes." And my heart? it sank a little. (I'm not making judgements about smoking, i know exactly what a nightmare it is to quit... but while pregnant? Oh man.)
I look into the front seat and sure enough, there's a carton in there. Apparently, that's what caused the accident. She dropped her cigarette on the floor and without thinking, slammed on her brakes as she reached for it.
The brand?
Wait for it.
KOOL.
Some things have to be seen to be believed.
In my family, we have phrase that indicates the the conversation is about to take a sharp turn off track in a manner which might make no sense, but there's no way to logically segue into the next topic, so.... "Speaking of thermoses" is that phrase.
This can be traced back to my great-aunt L, who I have mentioned before. We were all sitting around the kitchen table in a great gathering (probably after a funeral) when she abruptly slapped her palm onto the table and announces "Well, SPEAKING of thermoses..."
which we weren't.
And she launched into some completely different discussion and the phrase took on a life of its own. Its kind of where my brain is today. Big shock, I know.
* * *
I have two new gerbil pups in the house... Indiana Scones finally passed on to that great toilet paper roll beyond, at the advanced gerbil age of 4 1/2. I now have a black and an argente (golden) pup and we have named them Raisincranz and Guldens (like the mustard)-stern. And given their colors, this horrid pun works on two levels. Bonus.
* * *
I got a worried call from my mom recently... my sisters and I jointly own my grandfather's property in New York. We've had our ups and downs with the property after my grandfather's death, notably the renter who trashed the place and turned the basement into a veritable abbatoir. (surely you don't think I'm kidding. )
He was, among other unsavory things, a very very busy poacher and he did his dirty work in the basement of my grandfather's house. Trust me, you do NOT want the photographic proof, although there are bloggers who can back me up on this one.
Anyway, the current renters are very nice people and knew my grandfather. However, they've approached my sisters a couple of times and mentioned that there appears to be some paranormal activity going on and its beginning to freak them right out. Supposedly, they emailed a list of the incidents to my sister, but she has yet to forward this on. I am not certain what to think of this but am dying to know what's got everyone worked up.
We've got quite the history in that house anyway. My great-great grandfather deeded the land to my grandfather when he married, and my grandfather dug the foundation and built the house himself, brick by brick. My grandfather actually died of an accident in the house on Halloween, a few years back. It was pretty grim. For many years, he'd told all of us that he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered there on the farm. But when we had the funeral, the director of the OTHER funeral home called the one handling Grandpa's arrangements and said " I have MRS Lastname here!"
Uh... what?????
My grandmother had died nearly 10 winters prior and Grandpa had told us he'd scattered her ashes in her beloved garden. So uh... what the heck???Sure enough. Grandpa had apparently forgotten to ever pick up my grandmother's ashes and they'd sat in the basement of the other funeral home for like TEN YEARS. Oh man. You know when he got to the pearly gates, my grandmother had a few things to say to him.
So, we retrieved Grandma. And scattered her ashes over her prized rhubarb patch. Grandpa? well, Grandpa's in his blueberry bushes, a good distance from the rhubarb because you KNOW she wasn't speaking to him. My family is wondering if any activity might be Grandma, still pissed off at being forgotten in the basement.
* * *
We had to replace the washing machine recently. All I can say is... when you do laundry 24 hours prior, and you come back and it looks like the segment of Creepshow where the asteroid lands on Stephen King's backwoods farm and he touches it and starts growing green, fuzzy fungus???? Yeah. That is bad.
I actually spent two hours trying to eradicate the slimy crap that had taken over my washing machine, not because I thought I could restore what was an old and dying machine ANYWAY, but because I was too grossed out to even have this crud in my house. Like it was going to ooze out and get us all in our sleep or something. So we bit the bullet and got a front loader and it does a wonderful job... except, did I mention the 2nd floor laundry hookup? Right. The washer is now preparing us in case we ever move to California or something because everytime the spin cycle begins, everyone in the house thinks we're having an earthquake. In my mind, its a small price to pay to for mold-free laundry.
* * *
Irony I Have Known
Not so long ago, I witnessed a fairly bad rear-end collision on my way to work. The guy in the van pretty much obliterated the back of the little Nissan, which had inexplicably stopped dead in front of him.
He was on the phone, shrieking at someone and I saw the girl who'd been driving the Nissan staggering by the side of the road, nearly stepping into traffic. I went to assist and had her sit back down while I called emergency. She was 6 months pregnant and luckily, the fire station was literally just up the road. Emergency asked me to remain on the scene until they got there.
As a police officer hurried over to where we were waiting, the girl looked up at me and said shakily, "I really need my cigarettes." And my heart? it sank a little. (I'm not making judgements about smoking, i know exactly what a nightmare it is to quit... but while pregnant? Oh man.)
I look into the front seat and sure enough, there's a carton in there. Apparently, that's what caused the accident. She dropped her cigarette on the floor and without thinking, slammed on her brakes as she reached for it.
The brand?
Wait for it.
KOOL.
Some things have to be seen to be believed.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Return to Pooh Corner
...or something like that. My mother always said "Life is what happens when you have something else planned." And the last months were no exception around here. Nothing particularly earth-shaking, just life. And lots of it, to the extent that I had very little spare time for much of anything else.
That and I STILL haven't gotten the computer fixed (the adage of the shoemaker's children going bare comes to mind).
Ah well.
Jacob's doing fabulously - 20 months now (how is that possible??? Time seems to have sped up.)and beginning to show a mild interest in potty training. We're not pushing it but if he has a successful episode we make much of it.
However, pride can go before a rather unpleasant fall...
(Warning: the following post contains brief nudity and bathroom humor. Literally. Parents will nod sagely, all others may experience nausea and disgust.)
Sooooo. There we were on Wednesday night... Jacob's happily splashing around in his bath - his favorite activity of the evening. He looks up suddenly, and looks very concerned. "Oh," says he, "Ohhhhhhhh. Ooh." And small bubbles began issuing forth, prompting some squirming and worried wrinkles across his brow.
Being an experienced mother (like that means diddly), I said "Jacob, would you like to sit on your potty??"
"Yes! mm. YES!"
And I scooped him out of the bath and set him on his Winnie the Pooh potty and noted the clenching of tummy muscles and more squirming and then he held veeerrrrrry still and got that faraway look. And I congratulated myself for recognizing the signs of impending poopdom.
And yes, Jacob pooped his first Potty Poop, a great grand stinker right there in the Pooh Potty. And daddy was called to witness this, The First Poop. And daddy ran off to call the grandmother and tell HER. (And I thought to myself "good lord, only parents celebrate CRAP, no wonder everyone thinks we're insane). Jacob was terribly pleased with himself and after getting cleaned up a bit, went back into his bath so I could clean the Pooh Potty.
Except he'd no sooner sat down then he sits bolt upright and looked freaked out. And I grabbed him up and sat him back on the pot and he proceeds to go again. Hmmm. I was sure he'd been done. And that one was um.... not so er... well.... firm.
But finally he's done and gets cleaned and back into the tub. And as I am cleaning the little potty, KA-BLAMMO.
Assplosion.
In the bathtub.
Yeah, they all do it at least once, but this? This was especially bad. I learned later that he'd been fed apple juice and lots of it - a sure fire recipe for tush-related disaster.
Ack. Ack. I grab the child and stand him on the rug while I try and grab bathtoys before they're... awwwwwwww noooo, Jacob sat down on the rug, making a big brown assprint and... no! oh hell no... he stands back up, grabbing my pants legs as he does and now I have handprints of... augh!!!! the wall! not the wall! Ohhhhh the guest towels. Ladies and gentlemen, a veritable shitstorm is taking place in my bathroom. I'd rate it about an F3 on the Fujita scale.
finally, the bathwater finishes draining, I grab all the toys and plunk them into the sink for a good cleaning & I start scrubbing down the boy. I get a diaper on him, send him in to daddy and proceed to disinfect the bathroom. Ten minutes later, the child is back in the tub and incredibly pleased with himself.
1 - he was highly praised for pooping on the potty. 2 - his tummy feels SO much better and 3 - he got TWO baths.
Mommy? After the boy went happily to bed, mommy got BEER. and an awful lot of laundry.
That and I STILL haven't gotten the computer fixed (the adage of the shoemaker's children going bare comes to mind).
Ah well.
Jacob's doing fabulously - 20 months now (how is that possible??? Time seems to have sped up.)and beginning to show a mild interest in potty training. We're not pushing it but if he has a successful episode we make much of it.
However, pride can go before a rather unpleasant fall...
(Warning: the following post contains brief nudity and bathroom humor. Literally. Parents will nod sagely, all others may experience nausea and disgust.)
Sooooo. There we were on Wednesday night... Jacob's happily splashing around in his bath - his favorite activity of the evening. He looks up suddenly, and looks very concerned. "Oh," says he, "Ohhhhhhhh. Ooh." And small bubbles began issuing forth, prompting some squirming and worried wrinkles across his brow.
Being an experienced mother (like that means diddly), I said "Jacob, would you like to sit on your potty??"
"Yes! mm. YES!"
And I scooped him out of the bath and set him on his Winnie the Pooh potty and noted the clenching of tummy muscles and more squirming and then he held veeerrrrrry still and got that faraway look. And I congratulated myself for recognizing the signs of impending poopdom.
And yes, Jacob pooped his first Potty Poop, a great grand stinker right there in the Pooh Potty. And daddy was called to witness this, The First Poop. And daddy ran off to call the grandmother and tell HER. (And I thought to myself "good lord, only parents celebrate CRAP, no wonder everyone thinks we're insane). Jacob was terribly pleased with himself and after getting cleaned up a bit, went back into his bath so I could clean the Pooh Potty.
Except he'd no sooner sat down then he sits bolt upright and looked freaked out. And I grabbed him up and sat him back on the pot and he proceeds to go again. Hmmm. I was sure he'd been done. And that one was um.... not so er... well.... firm.
But finally he's done and gets cleaned and back into the tub. And as I am cleaning the little potty, KA-BLAMMO.
Assplosion.
In the bathtub.
Yeah, they all do it at least once, but this? This was especially bad. I learned later that he'd been fed apple juice and lots of it - a sure fire recipe for tush-related disaster.
Ack. Ack. I grab the child and stand him on the rug while I try and grab bathtoys before they're... awwwwwwww noooo, Jacob sat down on the rug, making a big brown assprint and... no! oh hell no... he stands back up, grabbing my pants legs as he does and now I have handprints of... augh!!!! the wall! not the wall! Ohhhhh the guest towels. Ladies and gentlemen, a veritable shitstorm is taking place in my bathroom. I'd rate it about an F3 on the Fujita scale.
finally, the bathwater finishes draining, I grab all the toys and plunk them into the sink for a good cleaning & I start scrubbing down the boy. I get a diaper on him, send him in to daddy and proceed to disinfect the bathroom. Ten minutes later, the child is back in the tub and incredibly pleased with himself.
1 - he was highly praised for pooping on the potty. 2 - his tummy feels SO much better and 3 - he got TWO baths.
Mommy? After the boy went happily to bed, mommy got BEER. and an awful lot of laundry.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Grrr. Arrrrrgh.
So I mentioned that I tore out the poison ivy last week, hmm? I expected a problems, so I attempted to dress for the occasion, including gloves and plastic bags over my arms. Sadly, I still managed to get 4 very small spots of ivy rash on my right arm.
I've been dutifully applying some special ivy gel on it (calamine does nothing for me) as directed all week, and covering the spots loosely with bandaids to keep me from bumping them on stuff.
Sooooo. Guess who is apparently allergic to the adhesive they use in bandaids? And has bright red bandaid-shaped welts on her arms for three days after they get removed?? And who pretty much looks like an extra for Resident Evil? (from the right elbow on down, anyway)
And the ivy's trying to resprout. This is war.
Nothing much in the way of hilarity for the rest of the week, I'm afraid. Jacob was sick with a virus and has not been sleeping or eating well, plus he's teething again. Unfortunately, he's tried teething on me and I have a tiny bite on my shoulder that looks like the world's smallest vampire had a nosh.
We're all ready for the weekend.
I've been dutifully applying some special ivy gel on it (calamine does nothing for me) as directed all week, and covering the spots loosely with bandaids to keep me from bumping them on stuff.
Sooooo. Guess who is apparently allergic to the adhesive they use in bandaids? And has bright red bandaid-shaped welts on her arms for three days after they get removed?? And who pretty much looks like an extra for Resident Evil? (from the right elbow on down, anyway)
And the ivy's trying to resprout. This is war.
Nothing much in the way of hilarity for the rest of the week, I'm afraid. Jacob was sick with a virus and has not been sleeping or eating well, plus he's teething again. Unfortunately, he's tried teething on me and I have a tiny bite on my shoulder that looks like the world's smallest vampire had a nosh.
We're all ready for the weekend.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Scenes From a Day
Calling in to the pediatrician's office about the baby's fever of 102:
appointment nurse: and is he complaining of stiffness in his neck?
me: He's 11 months old... he doesn't act like its stiff.
AN: but is he complaining?
me: he's 11 months old, he's not that verbal yet.
AN: So he's not complaining of a stiff neck?
me: Ma'am. He's 11 months old. He can say DUCK. What the hell???
AN: So.... that's no?
appointment nurse: and is he complaining of stiffness in his neck?
me: He's 11 months old... he doesn't act like its stiff.
AN: but is he complaining?
me: he's 11 months old, he's not that verbal yet.
AN: So he's not complaining of a stiff neck?
me: Ma'am. He's 11 months old. He can say DUCK. What the hell???
AN: So.... that's no?
Monday, June 11, 2007
So about that BRAIN problem there...
The OTHER reason I've been slow to return to blogging...
I think I mentioned some time ago that I'd been having some neurological problems? Right. They started appearing not too long after my pancreas declared itself a Sovereign Nation and began its saber-rattling (stoooopid organ.)...
Anyway. The whole pancreas thing gets a little annoying but I can tolerate it just about all of the time. But the brain issues... that was worrisome.
Liiiiike calling my husband by the wrong name, which I have never, ever, EVER done. Worse? Calling him by my exhusband's name and we've been split for 17 years.
Or moments of utter and complete disorientation. Absolutely, positively not knowing where I was. Falling down stairs, tripping over nothing, walking into walls, slurring my speech, stuttering, losing words, insane memory problems, dropping things because I couldn't feel them in my hand... etc etc & lather, rinse, repeat.
Now certainly all of this is symptomatic of Momnesia (what Pregmentia turns into) Or a drunken stupor. In fact, someone at work finally came out and asked me if I was drinking, and I most definitely was NOT. (but at that point, I was about ready to start!)
I asked my doctors a few times if they thought it could be related to the pancreas problems, since it started about the same time that the pancreatic revolt became a noticeable problem.
Apparently the idea that I might have the audacity to start wondering about coincidences was laughable. They didn't think it could be the issue, thereby launching me on a 6 month campaign of blood tests, CT scans, MRIs, you name it, it got tested. We determined that I don't have cancer, I have a perfectly functional thyroid, I don't have hydrocephalus, I don't have lupus, I don't have a vitamin B deficiency, I DO have a lesion on my brain but its absolutely inconsequential and almost definitely from any one of a dozen good knocks I've taken on the ol' coconut in my days....
then they referred me to a neurologist.
And it was about that time that I decided I was going to have to give up the pumping for my son... I was sick all the time, the supply was dropping and he was perfectly happy with the formula we were supplementing with. I'd really wanted to make it a year but it just wasn't working that way... and so, three weeks before my appointment with the neurologist, I stopped.
And butter my butt and call me a biscuit.
What do you think happened??
I started to get better.
I kept my appointment and what a freaking waste of my time THAT was. That man? Was an ass. A HUGE ass. An entirely insulting, patronizing, undescended testicle of a man. He accused me, pretty much, of making the entire thing up. And the only thing that hauled him up short was the discovery that my gastroenterologist happened to be someone he knew.
I'll spare you the ugly details. I'm still pissed as hell weeks later and am drafting an official complaint, which he will certainly receive a copy of, certified mail.
And then after three weeks of noticeable improvement, I asked my gastroenterologist if he thought that the breastfeeding, combined with the malabsorption issue I have from the pancreatic insufficiency, meant that I just wasn't getting what **I** needed to function?
"Absolutely!" he told me, "I think you hit it right on the head."
And I was all agog. I've heard that phrase before and wondered how it felt... well now I know. Because how freaking ironic, really. My determined effort to feed my son with my own body was actually kicking my own ass. And all those tests, all this time...
* please note that I take no particular position on the formula/breast-feeding debate - its a PERSONAL choice. I wanted to breast feed. That was MY choice. And then I couldn't nurse anyway and had to pump. Still my choice. And now that we've had to switch over? He's healthy, he's happy, he's well-fed. That's all I need. The odds of anyone else having the exact same set of circumstances and timing as to cause this to repeat? Right. About the same odds as my life getting less weird.
I think I mentioned some time ago that I'd been having some neurological problems? Right. They started appearing not too long after my pancreas declared itself a Sovereign Nation and began its saber-rattling (stoooopid organ.)...
Anyway. The whole pancreas thing gets a little annoying but I can tolerate it just about all of the time. But the brain issues... that was worrisome.
Liiiiike calling my husband by the wrong name, which I have never, ever, EVER done. Worse? Calling him by my exhusband's name and we've been split for 17 years.
Or moments of utter and complete disorientation. Absolutely, positively not knowing where I was. Falling down stairs, tripping over nothing, walking into walls, slurring my speech, stuttering, losing words, insane memory problems, dropping things because I couldn't feel them in my hand... etc etc & lather, rinse, repeat.
Now certainly all of this is symptomatic of Momnesia (what Pregmentia turns into) Or a drunken stupor. In fact, someone at work finally came out and asked me if I was drinking, and I most definitely was NOT. (but at that point, I was about ready to start!)
I asked my doctors a few times if they thought it could be related to the pancreas problems, since it started about the same time that the pancreatic revolt became a noticeable problem.
Apparently the idea that I might have the audacity to start wondering about coincidences was laughable. They didn't think it could be the issue, thereby launching me on a 6 month campaign of blood tests, CT scans, MRIs, you name it, it got tested. We determined that I don't have cancer, I have a perfectly functional thyroid, I don't have hydrocephalus, I don't have lupus, I don't have a vitamin B deficiency, I DO have a lesion on my brain but its absolutely inconsequential and almost definitely from any one of a dozen good knocks I've taken on the ol' coconut in my days....
then they referred me to a neurologist.
And it was about that time that I decided I was going to have to give up the pumping for my son... I was sick all the time, the supply was dropping and he was perfectly happy with the formula we were supplementing with. I'd really wanted to make it a year but it just wasn't working that way... and so, three weeks before my appointment with the neurologist, I stopped.
And butter my butt and call me a biscuit.
What do you think happened??
I started to get better.
I kept my appointment and what a freaking waste of my time THAT was. That man? Was an ass. A HUGE ass. An entirely insulting, patronizing, undescended testicle of a man. He accused me, pretty much, of making the entire thing up. And the only thing that hauled him up short was the discovery that my gastroenterologist happened to be someone he knew.
I'll spare you the ugly details. I'm still pissed as hell weeks later and am drafting an official complaint, which he will certainly receive a copy of, certified mail.
And then after three weeks of noticeable improvement, I asked my gastroenterologist if he thought that the breastfeeding, combined with the malabsorption issue I have from the pancreatic insufficiency, meant that I just wasn't getting what **I** needed to function?
"Absolutely!" he told me, "I think you hit it right on the head."
And I was all agog. I've heard that phrase before and wondered how it felt... well now I know. Because how freaking ironic, really. My determined effort to feed my son with my own body was actually kicking my own ass. And all those tests, all this time...
and the solution was as simple as a can of Isomil.*
But the silver lining? I got my first grilled cheese sammich in a long long time. And it was awwwwwesome.
* please note that I take no particular position on the formula/breast-feeding debate - its a PERSONAL choice. I wanted to breast feed. That was MY choice. And then I couldn't nurse anyway and had to pump. Still my choice. And now that we've had to switch over? He's healthy, he's happy, he's well-fed. That's all I need. The odds of anyone else having the exact same set of circumstances and timing as to cause this to repeat? Right. About the same odds as my life getting less weird.
Gardening... like putting out Timed-Release Neighbor Bait
Or something.
I've now met a good number of our neighbors... weeks after we actually moved in. At first, I was far too busy unpacking to notice that no one was really speaking to us (except to tell us they were putting in a fence).
But eventually I noticed that the neighborhood wasn't exactly brimming with welcome. Oh, they weren't lobbing molotov cocktails at the door or anything, don't get me wrong. But it was definitely a bit more distant than I'd expected.
Or at least... it was until I'd sunk some cash and considerable effort into reclaiming the side garden from the wilds. I love gardening and I'd been horrified at the significant neglect. There were saplings growing out of the azaleas that were clearly 5 years old or more. One of the rhododendrons was brown and crunchy, and I had a poison ivy TREE overwhelming the other one. Plus, the weeds came to my nose. I live in a suburb - a busy one at that - and I saw no reason to let that garden continue to well.... FESTER. Armed with shovels, rakes and various sharp implements, I tore into it. (literally)
I've now met a good number of our neighbors... weeks after we actually moved in. At first, I was far too busy unpacking to notice that no one was really speaking to us (except to tell us they were putting in a fence).
But eventually I noticed that the neighborhood wasn't exactly brimming with welcome. Oh, they weren't lobbing molotov cocktails at the door or anything, don't get me wrong. But it was definitely a bit more distant than I'd expected.
Or at least... it was until I'd sunk some cash and considerable effort into reclaiming the side garden from the wilds. I love gardening and I'd been horrified at the significant neglect. There were saplings growing out of the azaleas that were clearly 5 years old or more. One of the rhododendrons was brown and crunchy, and I had a poison ivy TREE overwhelming the other one. Plus, the weeds came to my nose. I live in a suburb - a busy one at that - and I saw no reason to let that garden continue to well.... FESTER. Armed with shovels, rakes and various sharp implements, I tore into it. (literally)
Ok... see the light green bushy stuff there at the top right? sort of below the tree leaves... yeah. That. That's part of the poison ivy.
On my third weekend of Operation Weedkiller, I reached a point where I could lay some garden cloth in one section and put in some astilbe, hosta and impatiens. A thin layer of mulch on the new plants gave the illusion that I'd gotten much more accomplished than I really had. Let's face it, sometimes we need that illusion. It was starting to get a little overwhelming and I was desperate for results.
And whaddya know. As cars were pulling up to the stop sign (I'm on a corner lot), people were calling out to me:
"Hey looks great!"
"Oh, that's so wonderful!"
"Looking good!"
"Thank you SO MUCH!"
Thank you? Huh??? That one threw me for a loop. And then, people on walks began to stop and engage me in conversation and I began to piece things together.
They knew we were renters. (the horror) Ah but wait... it seems that since the owner began renting this house out, its been getting trashed. And when they move out, the owner has to fix it back up... and this last time, the property got to be an eyesore. And since this is a busy street, it seems EVERYone knew about the blue house on the corner.... I believe it. I've found all kinds of messed up nonsense in and around the property that bespeaks "not my house so I don't care". Now I don't know these people, but I know what they've managed to do to this house and it ain't pretty. Call me bitchy, but if you go through life breaking everything you touch and refusing to do anything about it? That's just trashy.
So when the neighbors saw the For Rent sign go down, they all figured they were getting another renter who wouldn't care what the place looked like. So they didn't bother coming to meet us.... until they saw me busting my ass. Later that night, I called my husband, who was visiting his mom and told him I'd apparently bought us significant neighborhood goodwill through sweat equity. Every week I do a little more, and every week, more people come to talk to me. It's hysterical. (and a little gratifying).
I figure I've got about another month's worth of work on the main garden... maybe by then I'll have figured out what to do about the sad state of the hedges in the front. I've put some flower boxes on the deck... two of kitchen herbs, one of lavendar and two of red geraniums. Plus, I've got two huge pots of tomatoes started and am anticipating fried green tomatoes...
This weekend saw the removal of the poison ivy. It took me THREE HOURS and it filled up four black lawn trash bags. Good gravy. Then I dug out more weeks, cut down the rest of the saplings that weren't in plain sight and set out some purple echinacea, some black-eyed susans and some asiatic lilies. I want to get more of the echinacea & black-eyed susans... plus some red-hot pokers if I can find them and maybe some spirea. Also more impatiens. I'd LOVE to put in some peonies but am not sure how well they'd do.
My rhododrendon appears to have shrunk! Actually, the ivy had extended a good 18 inches above the poor shrub.
One of the nice things about this garden is that part is full sun and part is shade, so I can have both a sun and a shade garden.
In other news, Jacob has decided the new house is faaaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous. He crawls lightning-fast now and figured out stairs this weekend. (whimper) He also now greets random strangers with a hand flung wide and "HI!". And he has learned the word "Duck".
I've got most of the house pulled together, artwork hung on the walls and the new oven was installed this weekend. They had to special order it because of the size (sigh) so I was ovenless for all this time. I promptly got up on sunday and made buttermilk biscuits and a blackberry cobbler and I think my husband thought he'd died and gone to heaven. I was mildly annoyed... I often cook a Sunday breakfast. It shouldn't have been some kind of shock.
One of the nice things about this garden is that part is full sun and part is shade, so I can have both a sun and a shade garden.
In other news, Jacob has decided the new house is faaaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous. He crawls lightning-fast now and figured out stairs this weekend. (whimper) He also now greets random strangers with a hand flung wide and "HI!". And he has learned the word "Duck".
I've got most of the house pulled together, artwork hung on the walls and the new oven was installed this weekend. They had to special order it because of the size (sigh) so I was ovenless for all this time. I promptly got up on sunday and made buttermilk biscuits and a blackberry cobbler and I think my husband thought he'd died and gone to heaven. I was mildly annoyed... I often cook a Sunday breakfast. It shouldn't have been some kind of shock.
Oh, and we have a patch of four-leafed clovers just off the deck. It does nothing for my brand of luck, however, because I have been finding the darned things where ever I go, all my life.
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