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.
Monday, March 3, 2008
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.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Status Report: Project Unpack All The Sheeeeit
Ok, so I completely BITE as a blogger lately. What can I say? Moving house is kicking my ASS.
The good news is that I have more than half of it all unpacked and put to rights and even pictures on some of the walls!
And my dad kindly brought over a twenty foot ladder to try and clear the bird nest from the dryer vent. My vent was entirely blocked to the point that three cycles would not dry a dish towel. And that meant trips to the laundromat, which was kind of a scary experience and NOT cheap, either. Good news! The dryer was not blocked by a nest.
Bad news! It was blocked by SEVEN nests. Seven bird nests. Every year that grackle would build a new nest, just shoving the old one further back. I cannot understand how the previous tenant didn't burn the house down.
And oh! Have we had entertainment at the many discoveries, such as all the broken glass around the house. This was confusing to me until I noticed the dents in the siding.... right above the piles of glass.
Oh. Apparently the household children amused themselves by throwing drinking glasses against the side of the house a la Callahan's Crosstime Saloon... only, you know... outside.
We're still waiting on the replacement oven, which had to be ordered.
Jacob thinks the new house is faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous and can now crawl at lightning speed and is mastering cruising.
I'm low on sleep, sore & zombie-like but nearly finished. Back soon, I promise.
The good news is that I have more than half of it all unpacked and put to rights and even pictures on some of the walls!
And my dad kindly brought over a twenty foot ladder to try and clear the bird nest from the dryer vent. My vent was entirely blocked to the point that three cycles would not dry a dish towel. And that meant trips to the laundromat, which was kind of a scary experience and NOT cheap, either. Good news! The dryer was not blocked by a nest.
Bad news! It was blocked by SEVEN nests. Seven bird nests. Every year that grackle would build a new nest, just shoving the old one further back. I cannot understand how the previous tenant didn't burn the house down.
And oh! Have we had entertainment at the many discoveries, such as all the broken glass around the house. This was confusing to me until I noticed the dents in the siding.... right above the piles of glass.
Oh. Apparently the household children amused themselves by throwing drinking glasses against the side of the house a la Callahan's Crosstime Saloon... only, you know... outside.
We're still waiting on the replacement oven, which had to be ordered.
Jacob thinks the new house is faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous and can now crawl at lightning speed and is mastering cruising.
I'm low on sleep, sore & zombie-like but nearly finished. Back soon, I promise.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Why Courteous Driving Can Be its Own Reward
So I'm driving to work yesterday morning... the route I take could still be considered semi-rural for a portion of it, and with all the construction in the area (that never changes), there are a good number of dump trucks. And where there's construction, there are also porta-potties. And porta-potties do not empty themselves, knowwhatImeanVern?
So. I'm cruising along in my now-running-like-its-supposed-to Camry and there's these two trucks, a dump truck and a sort-of-tanker-like truck with a hose on it. In some circles, this would be known as a "Honeydipper". The dump truck is following the other, and they are in the right lane. I'm getting to the point where I, too, want to be in the right lane since my exit is coming up soon.
Ah! Both trucks signal to move to the left lane. When they move over, I happily move into the right lane. Now there is a smallish grey car behind the dump truck and it isn't thrilled to be there, and it puts on the right turn signal, indicating a desire to join me in the right lane.
I am positioned in such a way that I need to either speed the heck up so he can fall in behind me, or slow down and make a space for him to get in front of me. I'm feeling courteous, so I slow, and indicate that he can get in front of me. And he does. And he starts to accelerate.
And the trucks hit a bump.
And the hose on the tanker flaps a bit...
And there was apparently some residual content from its last um... pick up... that remained in the hose.
And it splashed.
And because I was a courteous driver and allowed the grey car to enter the lane ahead of me, I was not the car that was basically shat upon.
Now, it wasn't much - maybe a gallon or so - but when you are on the way to work on a fine spring day, any amount of random shit hitting your windshield has got to be a bummer.
But oh! 'Twas not ME heading for the car wash that fine morning. Perhaps the 4 leafed clovers came through.
So your lesson today, folks, is to also extend courtesy to your fellow drivers because you never know what kind of shit you might avoid as a result.
So. I'm cruising along in my now-running-like-its-supposed-to Camry and there's these two trucks, a dump truck and a sort-of-tanker-like truck with a hose on it. In some circles, this would be known as a "Honeydipper". The dump truck is following the other, and they are in the right lane. I'm getting to the point where I, too, want to be in the right lane since my exit is coming up soon.
Ah! Both trucks signal to move to the left lane. When they move over, I happily move into the right lane. Now there is a smallish grey car behind the dump truck and it isn't thrilled to be there, and it puts on the right turn signal, indicating a desire to join me in the right lane.
I am positioned in such a way that I need to either speed the heck up so he can fall in behind me, or slow down and make a space for him to get in front of me. I'm feeling courteous, so I slow, and indicate that he can get in front of me. And he does. And he starts to accelerate.
And the trucks hit a bump.
And the hose on the tanker flaps a bit...
And there was apparently some residual content from its last um... pick up... that remained in the hose.
And it splashed.
And because I was a courteous driver and allowed the grey car to enter the lane ahead of me, I was not the car that was basically shat upon.
Now, it wasn't much - maybe a gallon or so - but when you are on the way to work on a fine spring day, any amount of random shit hitting your windshield has got to be a bummer.
But oh! 'Twas not ME heading for the car wash that fine morning. Perhaps the 4 leafed clovers came through.
So your lesson today, folks, is to also extend courtesy to your fellow drivers because you never know what kind of shit you might avoid as a result.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Some days are just a waste of makeup
Except that I hadn't bothered with makeup. And maybe that was the problem.
It all started on Monday afternoon when the teenager & I stopped at the new house to pick up some of his stuff to take back over to his dad's. We get back in the car, I turn the key and.... nothing. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh. We pop the hood and stare in dismay at the most corroded-looking car battery EVAH. I am telling you that my car battery looked like it had LEPROSY. And mind you, this is only a three-year-old car.
Conveniently enough, my husband pulled in about two minutes later and the guys commence with the car talk and the cleaning of batteries and the debate over the best way to jump start a car.
But then we find that my jumper cables are missing. So Husband heads out to buy new ones while the teenager & I cool our heels.
After a delay, we get the car started and I head across town to drop my son off. As we are pulling into the parking space, the car dies. My son looks at me in alarm.
"Did you just turn the car off??"
"Look, how many old cars have I driven in my life? You do NOT kill the engine if your battery's run down. That was not me."
"oh... crap!"
"No kidding."
So now I have to get a jump start from my ex-husband. Who was kind enough to actually do it and not give me too much flak.
At this point, I'm suspecting that it wasn't the battery but the alternator. Well, I don't even make it back home. I don't even make it a mile... the car chooses once again to die just as I enter an extremely busy intersection and my bladder and I have a brief struggle for supremacy as we remember that when one's engine cuts out, one also loses power to vital functions such as STEERING. I convince the bladder that if it, too, mutinies on me in the next thirty seconds, I will fail to remember that it is considered useful if not actually vital and tear it from my gut and fling it into traffic at the same time I attempt to overpower the steering through manual force and desperation.
Well, I got the car to the side of the road, with dry undies to boot. And I call my husband and then I call Geico and demand the roadside assistance I have been paying for and I have that sucker TOWED.
So. This brings us to Tuesday, when Enterprise picks me up to take me to their office to rent one of their snappy little cars so that I can actually go to work.
And we get to the office and the woman says to me "Ma'am, did you know that your driver's license is expired?"
And I blanch because I have been having some neurological issues since January and I forget things... sometimes important things.... and this is one of them.
So they offer to drive me to the DMV to renew my license and then I can call them back and I can rent a snappy little car and I can go to work.
It being rush hour in the DC area, it takes us a half hour to get to the DMV and there is - of course - a lengthy line. But I am pleased with myself because I have everything I need with me to renew the license... I have a shiny new utility bill with the new address on it, I have my proof of insurance with the new address on it, I have my secondary identification, I am ready to rock and roll.
I finally get to the front of the line to get my number to wait in line for actual service and the woman says to me "We need your birth certificate. We need PROOF OF LEGAL PRESENCE. We can't give you a license."
Never mind that I have had a driver's license in Virginia since 1982. If it expires, you cannot get it renewed without your birth certificate to prove that you do have legal presence and are not going to hijack a plane and fly it into the Pentagon.... (9/11 prompted this change as some of the Virginia hijackers managed to con their way into getting driver's licenses which allowed them to be able to enroll in the flight school)
Ok, I understand this requirement. But my birth certificate is lost... gone, poof. And getting a copy from NY is neither easy nor cheap. And forget about quick! It will take about two weeks, and that's the expedited way....
The clerk helpfully points out that if I GO to an office of public records, I can get a copy for 12 dollars and it will be much faster. I just looked at her. Because of course driving all the way to New York State is an option, especially with an expired license. This is the Virginia DMV, at your service.
Eventually I made it to work and back and $150 later my car is working just fine. As for the rest of it, well... don't ask, don't tell and its costing me $70 to get that stupid certificate sent to me. It better be printed on some fine handmade paper for this.
And the final touch? As I was standing outside the DMV, calling my mother for a ride, I happened to look down and see a patch of clover. In this patch of clover, I counted eight 4-leafed clovers. That's just rude.
It all started on Monday afternoon when the teenager & I stopped at the new house to pick up some of his stuff to take back over to his dad's. We get back in the car, I turn the key and.... nothing. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh. We pop the hood and stare in dismay at the most corroded-looking car battery EVAH. I am telling you that my car battery looked like it had LEPROSY. And mind you, this is only a three-year-old car.
Conveniently enough, my husband pulled in about two minutes later and the guys commence with the car talk and the cleaning of batteries and the debate over the best way to jump start a car.
But then we find that my jumper cables are missing. So Husband heads out to buy new ones while the teenager & I cool our heels.
After a delay, we get the car started and I head across town to drop my son off. As we are pulling into the parking space, the car dies. My son looks at me in alarm.
"Did you just turn the car off??"
"Look, how many old cars have I driven in my life? You do NOT kill the engine if your battery's run down. That was not me."
"oh... crap!"
"No kidding."
So now I have to get a jump start from my ex-husband. Who was kind enough to actually do it and not give me too much flak.
At this point, I'm suspecting that it wasn't the battery but the alternator. Well, I don't even make it back home. I don't even make it a mile... the car chooses once again to die just as I enter an extremely busy intersection and my bladder and I have a brief struggle for supremacy as we remember that when one's engine cuts out, one also loses power to vital functions such as STEERING. I convince the bladder that if it, too, mutinies on me in the next thirty seconds, I will fail to remember that it is considered useful if not actually vital and tear it from my gut and fling it into traffic at the same time I attempt to overpower the steering through manual force and desperation.
Well, I got the car to the side of the road, with dry undies to boot. And I call my husband and then I call Geico and demand the roadside assistance I have been paying for and I have that sucker TOWED.
So. This brings us to Tuesday, when Enterprise picks me up to take me to their office to rent one of their snappy little cars so that I can actually go to work.
And we get to the office and the woman says to me "Ma'am, did you know that your driver's license is expired?"
And I blanch because I have been having some neurological issues since January and I forget things... sometimes important things.... and this is one of them.
So they offer to drive me to the DMV to renew my license and then I can call them back and I can rent a snappy little car and I can go to work.
It being rush hour in the DC area, it takes us a half hour to get to the DMV and there is - of course - a lengthy line. But I am pleased with myself because I have everything I need with me to renew the license... I have a shiny new utility bill with the new address on it, I have my proof of insurance with the new address on it, I have my secondary identification, I am ready to rock and roll.
I finally get to the front of the line to get my number to wait in line for actual service and the woman says to me "We need your birth certificate. We need PROOF OF LEGAL PRESENCE. We can't give you a license."
Never mind that I have had a driver's license in Virginia since 1982. If it expires, you cannot get it renewed without your birth certificate to prove that you do have legal presence and are not going to hijack a plane and fly it into the Pentagon.... (9/11 prompted this change as some of the Virginia hijackers managed to con their way into getting driver's licenses which allowed them to be able to enroll in the flight school)
Ok, I understand this requirement. But my birth certificate is lost... gone, poof. And getting a copy from NY is neither easy nor cheap. And forget about quick! It will take about two weeks, and that's the expedited way....
The clerk helpfully points out that if I GO to an office of public records, I can get a copy for 12 dollars and it will be much faster. I just looked at her. Because of course driving all the way to New York State is an option, especially with an expired license. This is the Virginia DMV, at your service.
Eventually I made it to work and back and $150 later my car is working just fine. As for the rest of it, well... don't ask, don't tell and its costing me $70 to get that stupid certificate sent to me. It better be printed on some fine handmade paper for this.
And the final touch? As I was standing outside the DMV, calling my mother for a ride, I happened to look down and see a patch of clover. In this patch of clover, I counted eight 4-leafed clovers. That's just rude.
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