So That’s Where the Socks Go!

The garbage disposal was making a funny sound yesterday and I couldn’t figure out why. As the mother of two children this wasn’t, of course, the first funny sound that the disposal ever made. There was the time when the kids emptied the fish tank (blue rocks and all) into the sink. That was not such a funny sound. It was more of a grinding, screeching, startling sound which lasted only a few seconds before it came to a sudden halt.

This was a softer though different sort of sound. Kind of a muffled, muted but definitely wrong sound. It almost sounded like it does when someone jams an orange into the disposal. But this was no orange. I reached into the bowels of the disposal and pulled out….a sock. WTF? How did a sock end up in there? Whose sock was it? Was it one of the “good” socks? Was anybody going to confess to putting it there? Not bloody likely.

Crash Course in Character Building

Joe and Max are at 7^th grade camp this week.  Isn’t that just the sweetest thing?  You might think that, when presented with the opportunity to chaperone, Joe jumped at the chance to bond with his boy.  Not so much.  I made him go.

Either way, he’s there now and the reports are slowly filtering in….

Day 1:

I spoke with Joe this morning but we were suddenly interrupted.

Joe: “What the #@*^%? Where in the #@*%^$? Hold on. I’m going to have to call you back.”

Me: “What’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

Joe: “Not really. I’m in the middle of the #@*^%  woods and I don’t see a cabin anywhere. I have trekked out here about 40 minutes from the  #@*^% dining hall to find the cabin and now I’m lost. Son of a  #@*^% (insert assorted muttering and cursing here).”

Me: Trying hard not to laugh out loud. “Ok, call me when you can”

The next call came in last night around 9:30.

Me: “How’s it going?”

Joe: “Good grief. They’re running everywhere! I don’t even know where half of my kids are. I think I just saw a girl headed for the boys shower and someone just ran by with a… HEY!! Max, is that you? Crap. That’s not Max. No idea who that kid is.”

Me: “How are the cabins?”

Joe: “Cabins? Well, that’s a bit of a stretch. We are out here in the middle of nowhere. The cabins are basically a room with a bunch of bunk beds and a weird smell.”

Me: “Is there a bathroom in the cabin?”

Joe: “Uh no. You have to hike to the bathroom and the showers. Dang it! Who is THAT kid? Gabe? Is that you? Not Gabe. Anybody seen Gabe? Where is he?”

Me: “So what time do you have to have everyone in bed?”

Joe: “They said 10 but I have no idea how I’m going to do that. Remember the cute slap bracelets that you thought would be fun?

Me: “Sure! They loved them, didn’t they?”

Joe: “You bet! LOVED them. The sound of them constantly slapping each other with them is deafening. I’m going to have to take them away.”

Me: “Did you pass out the glow sticks yet?”

Joe: “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?”

Me: “Oh, right. Maybe tomorrow night would be better for that anyway. How’re the rest of the counselors holding up?"

Joe: “The girls are fine. They have air conditioning and bathrooms in their cabins. I’m just happy I didn’t end up in of the A frames.”

Me: “Why’s that?”

Joe: “Bats”

Good Lord.

Even though he was specifically instructed not to, Joe has been telling the boys scary stories all evening about the Chupakabra.  He figures that if he scares them enough they won't try to sneak out tonight.  At this point, I am SOOOO not judging......

Along Came a Spider

Last night I arrived home late after a dinner out with friends. My garage door is currently broken (it's always something) so I had to get into the house in a kind of circuitous way. Not through a window or anything just not as easy as walking in a door. (I would go through the front door but the key doesn't work anymore after Max snapped the OLD key off in the lock some years ago.) Yes, this is my life.

Suffice it to say, I was breaking my routine which, for me, is always a recipe for disaster. I grabbed my things out of the car and walked toward the garage door. What I neglected to notice was the ENORMOUS, almost PREHISTORIC sized spider web that ran from the basketball hoop to the ground beside my car.

I walked right into it. OMG. This web was HUGE. Not your average silky soft, dew-kissed web. This sucker was meant for catching small rodents, birds and low flying planes. And it was sticky. Oh to have been my neighbors at that exact moment.

It hit me full on in the face. My reaction was immediate and somewhat athletic (full cardio work out trying to get the damn thing off me).

"What the...EWWWWW...get it off! get it off!...sptht...sptht...Holy...Mary...Mother of....Spider! Where's the spider! Is it on me??? Is it on me????...OH MY GOD."

This was accompanied by LOTS of flailing, spinning, looking over my shoulder and frantically wiping off my arms. I dropped all of the stuff that I was carrying in my frenzy and I damn near knocked myself unconscious on the basketball hoop.

When I finally decided that the spider was not actually on me I calmed slightly. But only a little. Want to see a picture of this beast?? It's not for the faint of heart...

Proud Kitty

My insanely good hunting cat, "Mr. Bitters" (i.e. "Bitty" "Bit Bit"), just spent the last 10 minutes trying to give me a gift but it was not a gift that I wanted.  It was a (maybe) dead mouse.  Eeewwww.

Mr. Bitters was SO proud.  He followed me around with it, meowing and dropping it at my feet.  I ran from him yelling "Good Kitty" "Good Kitty" over my shoulder.  While I am pleased with him for catching the various critters that scurry around our place I'm all good with showing my approval from a (safe) distance.

Joe told me that Bitty presented him with a flying squirrel the other day (I'm trying not to be jealous that he only wanted to give me a half dead mouse). A flying squirrel!! First of all, I didn't even know we HAD those (totally gross - flying rodents) and second, how in the world did he actually catch one?? 

For as much as this cat spends his days laying around doing less than nothing, it's amazing to me that he can "turn it on" when needed and actually do something productive.

Now if I could just get him to stop stalking the chickens...

Break it Down Now

I seriously think I might be having a nervous breakdown.  Or at least some sort of breakdown.  I can only speak of it now because it happened the day before yesterday and the fog is just starting to lift.  The problem is that I’ve been spending waaaaay too much “quality time” with my kids lately and it’s apparently driven me to the brink of madness.  Kind of should have seen that coming, I guess, knowing my kids as I do.  It’s not that I don’t love them (I DO) it’s just that I love them more when I limit my contact with them.

Kids are just a different animal altogether.  Adults like to sit and talk and drink alcohol.  Kids like to run and yell and ride bikes.  I have often explained to the kids that they can do their thing while I do my thing (making the concession that I’d be sitting on the front porch watching them do their thing) but it never really works out.  I swear to you that if I hear “Watch me!! Are you watching me? You’re not even watching me!” one more time I might actually completely lose it.

I was talking with some friends last night about an upcoming couples’ trip that we’ll be taking. I was really excited to talk about the plans and all the fun that we would have when suddenly I looked at my daughter. She was crying. Oh! “Sweetie, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“All you want to do is get away from us!” she sobbed. “Why did you even HAVE kids if you just want to get away from them.”

Let me clarify before you get all “Oh, the poor little baby, she’s not feeling loved”.  She’s plenty loved, both the kids are. I live, sleep, eat and breathe those kids. We just got back from a FOUR DAY family camping trip (minus the husband so it was ALL ME). Prior to that I spent the entire week at the 4-H fair, meeting their every need. Getting away from them after that seemed like a pretty good idea.

While the husband and I are off on this trip, the kids will be with their grandparents at their favorite place on earth, Drummond Island. So it’s not like I’m leaving them with some mean, burly, troll-like babysitter who will do nothing fun at all. They LOVE being up North with Grandma and Grandpa. But even when I reminded her of this, she continued to cry.

I tried to explain the bit about how I need to put my oxygen mask on first so that I can save everyone else but the analogy was lost on her. But it is not lost on me. 

A Mom's gotta do what a Mom's gotta do.

Poison Ivy

"One man's poison ivy is another man's spinach."  

 

This is the sort of quote you land upon when you Google "quotes about poison ivy."

 

I spent the other day tending my roses – which are looking lovely, by the way – and sitting in the cool shade with my hands in the dirt.  The kids buzzed around me, the chickens begged for worms and cats lazed all around.  Kids came and distracted me from work, begging for snacks and for help resolving all manner of petty arguments.  Time passed, I took a break for lunch, came back to it and finally finished the job.  I was so proud and it did/does look great!  I went inside, tired and happy and jumped into the shower.  Apparently it was already too late.

The next morning I was surprised to see just a little poison ivy on my leg.  Of course I had expected this but just a little, mind you.  I knew there was poison ivy around but I thought I was being careful. I was wearing gloves and being careful not to touch anything with the gloves on.  No scratching the face or running your fingers through your hair (learned the first one the hard way).  Still, I won’t deny that I knew I was near it.

Tuesday brought a few more patches and along with that, the incredible urge to scratch my skin right off my body.  I was going CRAZY with the itching.  Completely uncontrollable, couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.  Benedryl was my new BFF.  Still, nodding off all day long just to keep from scratching wasn’t feasible.  So I dropped my buddy “B” and headed off to begin my day.  Oh my WOW did I want to scratch.  Everyone that saw me told me to “knock it off”.  I vowed that I would but I secretly scratched anyway.  Don’t even think about judging me.  As if you haven’t done something equally sneaky. Please.

Tuesday night I went to bed with the “one two punch” of my favorite bedtime buddy - a couple of Benadryls.  Woke up Wednesday and I was more than a little taken aback at the lastest happening with my leg.  Huh.  That’s kind of a LOT of poison ivy on there, isn’t it? And that one section there looks a little strange. I’ll keep an eye open.

Thursday morning I was becoming concerned.  The leg was feeling pretty painful and throbbing.  The skin on my calf had become quite hardened and shiny.  I asked a co-worker (who also happens to be a nurse) what she thought about it. 

“Cellulitis,” she said.  “Let me draw a circle around it with a Sharpie marker so they can see how big it is.  You need to go see the doctor. Today.”

“OK,” I said and called my Doctor.

They couldn’t get me in until the next day.  But they might have an appointment open today, this afternoon.  “How quickly can you be here?”

Sigh. I was right in the middle of my lab reports, kind of had my groove and was knocking them out.  Didn’t really want to put off today what I could do tomorrow.  In hindsight, silly.

My other co-worker, also an RN, continued to suggest that I take the earlier appointment. Geesh, it’s what you get when you work with nurses.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Anyway, I went to the afternoon appointment.  The MD didn’t seem very concerned, “maybe just some cellulitis”, she said.  “I’m going to put you on Bactrim.  Take these as directed and that should take care of it.”

Friday was insane and I can’t even remember a single thing I did.  Dementia setting in?  That you can judge.

Saturday. Running around, doing chores, chasing kids, folding laundry, paying bills, acting like a maniac.  Lesia stopped over to hang out for a bit.  She saw my leg, or more likely, I asked her to look at it and it stopped her dead in her tracks.  I’ll admit it was kind of gross.  (Which did not in the least stop me from taking pictures of it.  I also have pictures of my shingles incident and my eyelash grow kit which, by the way, didn't work.

Now here’s where we weave the web, so to speak.  I agreed that it was time to contact my doctor’s office again.  I knew they were closing in like 15 minutes and I could never get there so I just asked for advice on what to do.  Turns out they have an after hours clinic.  I was going to be open until 5:00 and I should try to get there.  So I did.  The MD I saw was very nice.  He really took the time to listen to my story and try to figure out the next steps.  But you could tell he was more than a little nervous.  Dead gal walking here?

“I’m a little concerned about this,“ he said with a alight Indian accent.  “It looks like it’s starting to involve your knee (which had just started to hurt a little while ago) and that could mean that it has gone septic.  We could take a chance and give you an antibiotic shot to try and cover it but I would really suggest that you go to the Emergency Department.”  Sidebar: My sisters go crazy when I refer to the Emergency Department at the UM Hospital as the ED.  “It’s the ER,” they shout in unison, with a special emphasis on the R.  “Not in the UM world, it’s not.  It’s the ED, Emergency DEPARTMENT. Look it up.  Just because someone makes a TV SHOW called ER doesn’t mean it’s real.” This might suggest that I’m not the kind of person who should be so quickly put on steroids, hmmm?

So, with a little trepidation, I headed for the ED (It’s my blog afterall) to see what they had to say about the matter.  I showed them my leg at the front desk and they got me right in.  Must’ve been a slow night.  Nurse checked me in and said, “We’ve got a room ready for you right now.” This NEVER happens for me.  I’m the one who ends up going there on the same night as everyone else within a 50 mile radius.  I’ve waited HOURS in that lobby.  I’ve paid my dues.

And so it began.  I laid on the gurney and showed everyone my leg.  Anyone that walked through the door, I asked if they wanted to see it.  It was kind of weird, me doing that, but I just liked seeing the reactions.  Most were able to hold it together but a few of the opened with “Wow. Can I touch it?” I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting to hear but it wasn’t that.

After much looking and touching, they decided that they wanted to put me on an antibiotic protocol.  They were going to treat it like cellulitis, hit it hard with antibiotics and watch it fade.  So off I went to the step down unit in the ER (you happy?).  It was a little more private and a little more quiet.  They stuck me with an IV and placed a port.  Yikes. Gonna be a long night, I guess.  They hit me with the first bag of antibiotics.  It burned a little bit when it went in but it wasn’t unbearable, just uncomfortable.  Then they said they’d be back for the next dose and they were.  It went like that through the night.  I’d wake up to fine someone hooking me up to an IV and waiting for the burn.

By the following morning when the MD came to check on me, I wasn’t looking any better.  As he so sweetly put it, “You failed the protocol”.  Oh.

“It’s not too big a deal actually,” he said. “We’ll just move you to a  more comfortable space, kind of an observation area and we’ll give it another day.”  ANOTHER DAY? Oh this is not good.  I’ve never been kept longer than a day unless it was a scheduled thing.  Never.  I actually PROMISED Zoe that I would be home the next day.  Way. To. Go.

So they wheeled me over to the other section, which was definitely nicer and got me all situated.  They started another bag of antibiotics and I asked again about some Benedryl.  I swear I don’t have a problem I was just ITCHING like mad!  She came back with a vial instead of a pill.  “What’s this?” I asked.

“Oh, the MD wanted to get it to you more quickly and this allows us to do that.  It’s the same medication just a different route.” Ok. Sounds good.

Wowza.  She slipped that needle in there and I was transported.  Away from my itchy twitchy body and off to someplace beautiful.  And then I fell fast asleep – narcolepsy style.

From there the “every six hour” dance began.  Vital signs every 4 hours, medication every 6 hours.  But they were so kind about it.  The nurses, the techs, the doctors and everyone were so kind to me.  

Then they decided to hit me with steroids as well so we added that to the mix.  Being in the hospital is never quite as restful as you hope it will be.  At all. Really thought I'd knock out some reading, catch up on my Facebook stuff and rest.  Not so much.

The combination of the steroids and the massive amounts of antibiotics in my system seemed to be just the ticket. The leg started to look better! To me anyway. Everyone else still deemed it fairly disgusting, but whatever.

I was ready to go home! Yay!! I went to reach into my bag for my clothes and realized that I had SENT MY PANTS HOME WITH MY MOM. That just seems to be how things roll for me sometimes. 

Anyway, I'm back home again and nursing my leg back to health. The steroids have me completely whacked out and Joe is sleeping with one eye open. 

Also, I went on a semi-maniacal poison ivy kill mission with the Round-Up today.  Imagine me maliciously aiming the sprayer at the poison ivy that got me and making all kinds of crazy statements about "you'll never get me again" and "straight to hell with you". That sort of thing. It felt pretty good. I may do it again tomorrow.

Just Say No

Earlier I was talking with my friend, let’s call her Amy.  She lives just up the road from me. Awesome gal – really doing things right and teaching her children how to live.  She brings joy to everyone she meets – I’ve never seen anything quite like it.  She surrounds herself with beautiful things – antiques, flowers, animals and children and you can’t help but be uplifted when you spend any amount of time with her.  But enough of the mush…

She and her family farm as well.  Big time.  I’m talking hundreds of acres big time.  And it’s been a tradition in her bones for many lifetimes before, I’m sure.  She’s one of those people that are born to farm.  She naturally takes to coaxing things out of the earth and making them useful.  She makes her own soap, her own candles, her own teas and tinctures.  You can understand why I feel slightly less than my best around her.

I’m the gal that stands in the garden asking everyone the following questions:

“Are you feeling hot or is it just me?”

“What time to you think we should head in?” (After five minutes of being outside…)

“HOLY CRAP!! Did you see the size of that bee?? ”

“What level SPF do you think is best under a sun as hot as this one…?”

“It’s just so dirty out here.”

 “Seriously.  Are you hot because I am BURNING UP?”

I just don’t get farming you know? I mean I get it in theory, but I tend to fall apart when it comes to the actual “doing it” part. I actually really enjoy growing flowers and herbs but not the rest of the stuff. Not the really tough stuff. It truly makes me feel like a bad person to not enjoy farming.  Shouldn’t I have feelings of elation digging in the dirt? Shouldn’t I rejoice when I get the chance to dig in fresh compost? Yeah? No.  It’s not for me. 

Which stinks because, well, it’s what Joe wants to do.  So I do my best to cheer (and sometimes jeer) from the sidelines.  I try to take him the mandatory lemonade and sandwich in the middle of the day (though I regularly forget or just go get it from Subway).  I try to help when I can, if I happen to be the only one standing there.  I mean really, the only person for miles around.

I guess I’ve always been more of a bookworm.  Totally content to snuggle up with a good book and a cup of tea.  A contemplative person really, not so much into all that “hard work” business I suppose.  I far prefer the winter months when you are FORCED to be inside.  You must stay in due to the weather and that’s precisely what I want to do.  Fill up the woodstove, pick a good book, heat up some tea and relax.

ANYWAY, back to my conversation with Amy…

I mentioned to her that we needed some hay for our goats.  She leaned in, just a little, and said, “We’ve got some really good stuff right now.”

“Really good,” I ask?

“Really good,” she assures me.

We’re inching closer together just a bit when she looks to the side and then back to me and says in a hush, “He won’t even tell me which barn it’s in.”

My eyes grow wide and I look around then whisper back, “I have to call him.”

Then my eyes fill with concern.  “What about your goats? Do they need some?”

She looks down, “He says they’ve been spoiled and they can’t have anymore.”

“Listen,” I say, “Let me help you out.”

“How?” she asks, looking at me with her eyes wide.

I begin to weave my plan. “I’ll tell him I need a certain amount – like 20 when I really only need 15.  I’ll put the extra aside for you to come and get whenever you’re ready.  I’m all in if this is a “dark of night” mission – dressed in black, crawling through the mud to make the delivery.  Whatever it is.  I’m in.  Unless, I guess, it’s really late.  I kind of start to lose steam around 9:00ish so anytime before that would be great.  Really all in!!”

Sex is like a hot fundge sundae

Well it's happened again. I was caught unaware and unprepared and went ahead with it all anyway. Sometimes you just have to go with your gut and hope it all turns out.

Now that my son is in 6^th grade, he is learning about reproductive health.  The teaching is a little more advanced than I remember.  He comes home every night with a sheet of paper that has some questions on it and he is supposed to talk to a parent or trusted adult about these questions. Of course I didn't notice my dear husband stepping to the front of the line to answer any questions so I took it upon myself to be the one to handle it.

The first night the questions were pretty benign:  “What did you like to do when you were my age?” “Do you remember your body going through changes in puberty?”  No trouble at all.

The questions last night got a LOT more detailed: “How did you learn about sex?”   “What are your beliefs about sex?” and “How old were you when you first had sex and why didn't you wait until you were married?”  (Ok, that last question wasn’t really on there but it sure sounded like it.) I started to sweat.

I tried to be direct in my answers and open and honest as well.  We talked about abstinence and that it is the only sure way to prevent an unexpected pregnancy.  I told him stories about kids I knew who had gotten pregnant way before they should have and how it ruined their lives. Most of them, to this day, I assured him emphatically, work in gas stations.  Not that there's anything wrong with working at a gas station, there isn't, it's just that these particular, albeit fictional kids had full ride scholarships to Ivy League schools prior to the pregnancies.

Then the wheels kind of came off the bus.  I'm not going to go into all of the gory details - you'll thank me later - because it's all too bizarre. Suffice it to say that I told him that he couldn't have sex until he was 18, that it was illegal to have sex without a condom and that sex is like a hot fudge sundae.

I also invoked the use of a visual aid in the course of this discussion - a condom - but thankfully decided against demonstrating the use on a banana. That decision is going to save me some BIG bucks later when he's in therapy.

His only comment upon opening and unrolling the condom was "Wow. That's kind of big." Which is precisely why you can't have sex until you're 18 because, prior to that,  the condom won't fit.

Folks, there's no training for this sort of thing, ok? I'm out here winging it and trying to do the best that I can. I felt a desperate need to give him all of the information I could because I was pretty sure he'd never want to talk about this again. I'll take every shot I have to make it clear to him what a big deal it all is.

Ok, back to the hot fudge sundae... He made the comment that all of his buddies were all jazzed up about sex. Thinking about it, talking about it, wondering when they're going to have it. So I said:

"Sex is like a hot fudge sundae. It looks so good, so yummy, so pretty! All that hot fudge and whipped cream. All you want to do is eat it!! Finally, you do and it's wonderful. But the next day, you have another hot fudge sundae and then another and then another. After awhile, they all start to taste the same and they aren't all that exciting. After an even longer time - say 20 years - you start wondering why you didn't order a strawberry sundae instead."  

Totally kidding about that last part - I didn't really say that. Still, I think I made my point in a strange, convoluted and bizarre way. I'm hopeful that our discussion will give him a healthy understanding of sex and what it means. I'm hoping that he'll feel safe talking to me about all of this in the future. But seriously, right now I just have a craving for a hot fudge sundae and not the metahorical kind. I really want a damn sundae. Why is the Dairy Queen not open 24 hours??

For the Love of Craigs List

I am a HUGE fan of Craigs list.  I check it constantly and have bought and sold numerous items.  You’ll never even guess what I picked up on Sunday….20 pounds of baking soda!  Unopened! For FREE!!

Why, you might ask, would I need that much baking soda?  Well for the goats of course.  Goats eat baking soda to help settle their stomachs.  When I came home with my treasure (which, incidentally, Joe mocked me for) I took some directly out to the goats and they were THRILLED.  That's why the goats like me best....

Drunk Blogging - Is It A Crime Or Just Bad Judgement?

In my defense, I had to have a few (ok, a LOT) of drinks to go see "War Horse" (the movie). Lisa, Lesia and I just about cleared the theater with our sobbing and weeping.   I guess it was a bit much that I kept shouting out "REALLY?" and "FOR REAL?"   But seriously, how much more could one horse go through????

You throw three animal loving girls into a movie like that (with a TON of alcohol beforehand) and you're just bound to have trouble. At one point (SPOILER ALERT: barbed wire scene) I stumbled out and bought God only knows how much popcorn just to get a breather. I can't begin to imagine what the concession stand girl thought about me at that point.  Must have had eye make up down to my cheekbones and I wasn't actually speaking in full sentences. I think I choked out something that sounded like "War Horse" as some sort of explanation but she still looked pretty stunned.  She asked what kind of drinks I wanted and I just stared at her. Luckily, Lesia was there to save me and we didn't get ejected from the theater, but come ON.

Either way, I'm home safely now and I vow that I will NEVER WATCH THAT MOVIE AGAIN. It was really good though so you should probably go see it. Just plan on lots of popcorn....