I was going to write about the strange things you do when you become a parent... like scrubbing your kid's toes with a toothbrush... as I found myself doing yesterday morning before we left the house for our daily excursion. Ethan loves Crocs, and he wears them often... but his feet get really dirty when he does. Apparently, he wears them so often that the dirt has started to permanently adhere to his feet. I was giving him a bath and realized that his toes were still almost black.
I kind of freaked out, thinking gangrene or some form of foot rot had set in... until I realized it was just dirt.... that wouldn't come off. So, I resorted to scrubbing his toes with a baby toothbrush. FYI: Works very well. No toe dirt left.
Anyway, I was going to write about that... until my friend Christi of The Ville (and Canada fame) commented on my mean people post about the vomit girl from Jimmy Buffett.
This is a story that must be told.
In April, after much searching and laboring, I finally got to attend my very 1st Jimmy Buffet concert. I L.O.V.E. Jimmy Buffet, even though I cannot ever remember if his name is spelled with one "T" or two... Buffet?...Buffett? I don't know.
Anyway, Robby -- my cousin Jennifer's hubby -- started all of this last year. He loves Buffet/Buffett (more than me), and we decided we had to go to a concert... but tickets were nowhere to be found.
This year, we decided to get a head start and sign up for the emails that alert you automatically to concert postings...except this one didn't... so we had to buy tickets off of one of the lovely websites that sell concert tickets for 500 times their face values.... (Isn't that called "scalping"?) Anyway, desperate and foolish, we paid 502 times the face value of 6 tickets, and we took off for Hot-Lanta one April afternoon.
Now, the concert entourage included me, K., Robby, Jennifer, Julie (sister of Jennifer, cousin of me, and fun person in general with which to engage in mischief), and Christi (may as well be family... traveling partner, fellow mischief engager-inner, and we'll leave it at that..).
Suffice it to say that we don't get out much.
Kids, jobs, obligations of various and sundry sorts.... so the concert was to be a treat for all.
Well... turns out we got lost (don't even ask how... but never ask Channon for directions to Phillips Arena)... so our tailgate smorgasboard became a mini-van smorgasboard... because we took the MV, of course.... what else would we take to a concert?!?!... and we skipped in just in time for the show.
Well, we ended up not skipping so much as we had nosebleed (one row from the top, thanks) seats.. but really, we were in no frame of mind to care. We hiked up the vast mountain... I mean stairs... before us, pumped because we were about to experience Jimmy.
The first bit of the concert was great... the seats, although high altitude, allowed a pretty good view, and the two 'neck women a few rows in front of us provided pretty good entertainment...
Enter 986 members of your favorite local fraternity and their numerous (and multiplying) girlfriends. Ok, not so great, but really... we were all there to see Jimmy, so it should have been fine.
Turns out that when you stuff 986 people + girlfriends into 20 seats, it gets a bit crowded. I got gently edged out of my seat by a really obnoxious (and vain -- but obviously insecure) young whippersnapper. K. had to intervene (like a good husband) and ask him to move. (I later found out that K. was really concerned that if he didn't step in, my 'neck roots were going to come out...)
All seems to be going well again... and then she shows up.
Vomit Girl.
Now, let me take this moment to remind you that we are 1 row from the very top.... and most people would not climb that far (willingly) for any reason other than if their tickets were there... like us.
And, apparently, Vomit Girl.
I didn't notice her at first, but after a while, I became aware that there is a life form behind me. I turned around to see a young woman... probably in her 20s... laid across two seats behind me. I asked her if she was ok; K. asked if she needed help. She waved us off. I turn back around and forget her...
Until I hear this odd noise... I've heard the noise before, but I can't place it....OH MY GREAT AUNT BERTHA!!! SHE IS YAKKING IN THE SEAT!!!
By this time, the rest of the group has figured out what is happening and turned around. We stared at her in horror/disgust as she finishes her vile business... and then watch in disbelief as she GETS UP AND LEAVES.
That's right, ladies and gentlemen! This drunk skank climbed 1,000 steps to the last row of the arena to pueke. She hadn't been sitting there the whole time, turns out. She appeared sometime after the intermission for the sole purpose of ralphing.
Did I mention that there was a bathroom right next to the entrance of the portal where we were sitting?
I could not believe it.
We, of course, became enraged as we realized she was actually leaving us with her vomit. I believe I said something to the effect of "I hope your drunk, vomiting carcass falls down the stairs, you nasty skank."
Grown up and mature, I know, but she did throw up in the seat directly behind me.
After she stumbled down the stairs and we/I recovered our dignity, we began to converse about the complete ridiculousness of the incident. K., always much more pleasant and well-mannered than I will ever be, said, "Well, at least it doesn't stink..." and we agreed.
This is, indeed, a good point. If someone has to yak behind your chair, it's definitely a plus if it doesn't smell bad.
We decided to go back to enjoying the concert... only to be overwhelmed by the enticing smell of vomitous drunkus about 30 minutes later.
I believe that, if we could have found her, we might have dismembered her.
Vomit Girl, wherever you are, I just want you to know that you have officially been hexed by The Ville, and your life from now until eternity will be miserable because you didn't have the stinkin' sense to deposit your smelly vomit into a proper receptacle. May some other drunk heifer yak in the seat directly behind you at every concert that you attend for the rest of your life.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Mean People Suck
I don't know if it's the mini-van or what... but I have encountered more than my fair share of mean people -- mostly drivers -- here lately, and I'm about done being pleasant.
Mean people of the world, you've been fairly warned.
Example 1:
While on my way to the bank -- driving the MV, of course --, I pull out into the highway after looking carefully both ways. After the MV pulls clear out into the appropriate lane, this service truck comes flying around the curve. I speed up so as not to cause a traffic hazard, but this bleepity-bleep -- instead of doing the normal thing (applying brakes and cursing me under his breath even though it was clear when I pulled out and he was going way too fast) -- pulls up right on my bumper.
Whatever.
I hate to be tailgated, but I'll slow down to a minimal crawl and make you suffer while laughing as your face turns unnatural shades of red.
Example #2: (a continuation of sorts of Example #1)
Up ahead, a car stops to turn left across traffic. The bleepity-bleep behind it (not the same bleepity-bleep who is still, at present, tailgating the MV) swerves around it, using the shoulder of the road as a traffic lane.
Now, this ticks me off. No sense in it, I'm telling you. That's not a lane, and it's not going to kill you to stop and wait for the car to turn.
Of course, this one car's ridiculous behavior encourages the ridiculous behavior of others (much like what happens in the classroom, except these morons are in cars and not in desks), so five other cars whiz around this car, which is still waiting to turn. (This all takes place in the span of, like 1 minute.)
I don't swerve; I stop. My kids are in the car, and I'm not taking the chance of some silly person pulling out of the gas station up ahead, thinking traffic is stopped behind this car and ramming the MV, causing it to go out of commission as the fastest van in the world.
Example #3: (a continuation, still of Examples #1 and #2)
Ok, so here I am stopping, and what does the bleepity-bleep tailgater behind me do? He swerves and HONKS at me.
Sweet justice is served, however, when just as he swerves around me, spraying gravel everywhere, the car in front of me turns, and he's really only succeeded in passing me... only to get behind a really slow car.
Nah-nah-nee-BOO-BOO.
Unfortunately for me, he does not work for a company who is concerned about how their drivers are driving (shocker there...), and there is no 1-800 number bumper sticker for me to call to complain about his silliness.
Example #4:
Upon reaching the bank (finally), I pull up to the ATM to make a deposit. I pull the envelope out of the little envelope thingy and proceed to fill it out. About halfway through, I become aware of this sound. (Again, this has all taken about 1 minute.)
What the heck?
I look in my rearview mirror, and it's this mean man in a big honkin' Expedition behind me, laying on his horn.
Excuse me, Mr. Rudeness 2007, but what gives you the right to honk at me? I was here first, dadnabbit.
Of course, the realization that he is indeed cursing me with his horn freaks me out, and I pull forward, only to realize that I haven't made my deposit.
I whip the MV around quickly and pull in behind him.
If I hadn't been fuming about the fact that he dare honk at me, I would've laid on my horn.
THAT would've been funny.
Instead, I answer Ethan's 574 rapid-fire questions about why we're going back through the line by saying, "The mean man in front of us is impatient, so Mommy let him go first."
So there, Mean Man. You may have gotten to make your transaction first, but my 4 year old thinks you're right up there with the bad guys from Power Rangers Mystic Force.
I, on the other hand, am a good guy because I played nice. I get to be the Pink Ranger.
Ethan doesn't have to know that I sent out a telepathic curse that the impatient man would get behind a fleet of cars going 20 mph or less in a no passing zone. That might be cause to revoke my Pink Ranger status.
My point is that all of this happened within a 20 minute span. That's a lot of meanness to encounter in such short period of time -- and all of it was pretty thoughtless and easily avoided. Not to get on a soap box -- I know I'm guilty of being impatient and rude, too -- but I think crap like this is a significant part of what's wrong with our world today.
I see it with my students a lot; they get so wrapped up in what's going on with them that they forget to be concerned or even polite to others around them. K. says he deals with it in the Big Boy World, too, but nobody really seems to do anything about it... and I'm not really sure what can be done.
Maybe I just notice because I don't want my kids to grow up to be mean people, and I consciously try to be a little nicer, hoping they'll notice my example. Now, I'm not saying I'm some sort of Mother Theresa nor am I campaigning for Mom of the Year. I'm just saying that hearing a 3-year old yell, "Watch where you're freakin' going, Moron!" as he's driving his tricycle will put things in perspective for you.
It wouldn't hurt any of us to be a little nicer or a little more patient. You never know whose day you might make... or who's having a really crappy day and wouldn't mind putting a cap in somebody's A and just needs an excuse... or what 4-year old (with a crazy mommy that will stalk your mean carcass and teach you a lesson or two about being nice) is watching and learning from your example.
Mean people of the world, you've been fairly warned.
Example 1:
While on my way to the bank -- driving the MV, of course --, I pull out into the highway after looking carefully both ways. After the MV pulls clear out into the appropriate lane, this service truck comes flying around the curve. I speed up so as not to cause a traffic hazard, but this bleepity-bleep -- instead of doing the normal thing (applying brakes and cursing me under his breath even though it was clear when I pulled out and he was going way too fast) -- pulls up right on my bumper.
Whatever.
I hate to be tailgated, but I'll slow down to a minimal crawl and make you suffer while laughing as your face turns unnatural shades of red.
Example #2: (a continuation of sorts of Example #1)
Up ahead, a car stops to turn left across traffic. The bleepity-bleep behind it (not the same bleepity-bleep who is still, at present, tailgating the MV) swerves around it, using the shoulder of the road as a traffic lane.
Now, this ticks me off. No sense in it, I'm telling you. That's not a lane, and it's not going to kill you to stop and wait for the car to turn.
Of course, this one car's ridiculous behavior encourages the ridiculous behavior of others (much like what happens in the classroom, except these morons are in cars and not in desks), so five other cars whiz around this car, which is still waiting to turn. (This all takes place in the span of, like 1 minute.)
I don't swerve; I stop. My kids are in the car, and I'm not taking the chance of some silly person pulling out of the gas station up ahead, thinking traffic is stopped behind this car and ramming the MV, causing it to go out of commission as the fastest van in the world.
Example #3: (a continuation, still of Examples #1 and #2)
Ok, so here I am stopping, and what does the bleepity-bleep tailgater behind me do? He swerves and HONKS at me.
Sweet justice is served, however, when just as he swerves around me, spraying gravel everywhere, the car in front of me turns, and he's really only succeeded in passing me... only to get behind a really slow car.
Nah-nah-nee-BOO-BOO.
Unfortunately for me, he does not work for a company who is concerned about how their drivers are driving (shocker there...), and there is no 1-800 number bumper sticker for me to call to complain about his silliness.
Example #4:
Upon reaching the bank (finally), I pull up to the ATM to make a deposit. I pull the envelope out of the little envelope thingy and proceed to fill it out. About halfway through, I become aware of this sound. (Again, this has all taken about 1 minute.)
What the heck?
I look in my rearview mirror, and it's this mean man in a big honkin' Expedition behind me, laying on his horn.
Excuse me, Mr. Rudeness 2007, but what gives you the right to honk at me? I was here first, dadnabbit.
Of course, the realization that he is indeed cursing me with his horn freaks me out, and I pull forward, only to realize that I haven't made my deposit.
I whip the MV around quickly and pull in behind him.
If I hadn't been fuming about the fact that he dare honk at me, I would've laid on my horn.
THAT would've been funny.
Instead, I answer Ethan's 574 rapid-fire questions about why we're going back through the line by saying, "The mean man in front of us is impatient, so Mommy let him go first."
So there, Mean Man. You may have gotten to make your transaction first, but my 4 year old thinks you're right up there with the bad guys from Power Rangers Mystic Force.
I, on the other hand, am a good guy because I played nice. I get to be the Pink Ranger.
Ethan doesn't have to know that I sent out a telepathic curse that the impatient man would get behind a fleet of cars going 20 mph or less in a no passing zone. That might be cause to revoke my Pink Ranger status.
My point is that all of this happened within a 20 minute span. That's a lot of meanness to encounter in such short period of time -- and all of it was pretty thoughtless and easily avoided. Not to get on a soap box -- I know I'm guilty of being impatient and rude, too -- but I think crap like this is a significant part of what's wrong with our world today.
I see it with my students a lot; they get so wrapped up in what's going on with them that they forget to be concerned or even polite to others around them. K. says he deals with it in the Big Boy World, too, but nobody really seems to do anything about it... and I'm not really sure what can be done.
Maybe I just notice because I don't want my kids to grow up to be mean people, and I consciously try to be a little nicer, hoping they'll notice my example. Now, I'm not saying I'm some sort of Mother Theresa nor am I campaigning for Mom of the Year. I'm just saying that hearing a 3-year old yell, "Watch where you're freakin' going, Moron!" as he's driving his tricycle will put things in perspective for you.
It wouldn't hurt any of us to be a little nicer or a little more patient. You never know whose day you might make... or who's having a really crappy day and wouldn't mind putting a cap in somebody's A and just needs an excuse... or what 4-year old (with a crazy mommy that will stalk your mean carcass and teach you a lesson or two about being nice) is watching and learning from your example.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
2 Days in a Row
This may be some sort of record... but I don't want to jinx myself, so I'll stop at that.
Let's ponder this instead: why can I suddenly not sleep through the night?
Really, my whole routine has been off for a few years now. I used to be a night owl, working or whatever, until the wee hours. When I got pregnant with Ethan, that changed, but I chalked it up to pregnancy... only I've never gone back (completely) to the way I used to be. If I go with the whole theory of really sleepy at really early hours = pregnant/just gave birth/screaming baby, then I'm completely and totally up the creek because I'm done birthing babies.
These days, I'm doing good to be conscious at 10 PM. I fall asleep on the couch, in my spot (wedged between K and the cushions) and sleep soundly until he wakes me up to go to bed. I crawl under the covers, blissfully fall back asleep immediately after he kisses me good night... and wake up abou 2 or 3 am. Wide awake. No possibility of going back to sleep for at least an hour.
This is my dilemma. If I get up, I may wake up the slumbering beast that shares my bed. For whatever reason, he doesn't like to wake up and find me not in my spot.
So... I lay in bed and think about everything under the sun... what I have to do the next day, world peace, solutions to every possible international problem, the grocery list, what I want for Christmas....and then I REALLY can't go back to sleep because I've just planned out the perfect dinner party for 72 of our closest friends, and if I go to sleep, I'll forget it all.
(Have I mentioned that I planned Laney's nursery decor during one of my late night spells? After months of searching, it just came to me in the middle of the night.)
Sometimes, I just have to get up. Take our beach trip last week, for example. I woke up, dutifully, around 2 am. K was sound asleep (like he ever has any problem sleeping), so I lay in bed for about an hour, thinking. Finally, the need to pack the suitcases was so great that I just had to get up.
It's 3 am on Tybee Island, and I'm packing suitcases. Folding. Arranging. Organizing.
What is wrong with this picture????
Now, I'm not quiet. It's dark. I'm stumbling over furniture, tossing clothes around, freaking out when I find that my tennis shoes (which haven't moved all week) are WEBBED to the floor... like with lots of spider web...Have I mentioned that I H.A.T.E spiders?..., but K. slumbers on, unaware.
I'm telling you, he could make sleeping an Olympic sport.
Anyway, he said he didn't wake up because he could sense my presence. (Whatever.)
I need to know where he thinks I'd be at 3 am. He has no answer for this. I think he may be a closet Scared-of-Being-Alone-in-the-Dark candidate... but I have no proof.
Back to the point.
Most nights, I just lay there, thinking, until I think myself into a comatose state and sort of fall back asleep... but by then, I've lost prime sleep time...which does not translate into a Happy Morning Amy.
I'm not on medicine. I don't exercise before bed (or ever, really). I drink caffeine all the time (love my D.C.), so I don't think that's it.
Is this a part of getting older? I mean, I've come to terms with the fact that I like things now, like greens and English peas, that I wouldn't have touched with a mile-long pole growing up. Must I come to terms with sleeping issues, too?
Good grief. I turn 3-0 in a few months. Is this what I have to look forward to?
Let's ponder this instead: why can I suddenly not sleep through the night?
Really, my whole routine has been off for a few years now. I used to be a night owl, working or whatever, until the wee hours. When I got pregnant with Ethan, that changed, but I chalked it up to pregnancy... only I've never gone back (completely) to the way I used to be. If I go with the whole theory of really sleepy at really early hours = pregnant/just gave birth/screaming baby, then I'm completely and totally up the creek because I'm done birthing babies.
These days, I'm doing good to be conscious at 10 PM. I fall asleep on the couch, in my spot (wedged between K and the cushions) and sleep soundly until he wakes me up to go to bed. I crawl under the covers, blissfully fall back asleep immediately after he kisses me good night... and wake up abou 2 or 3 am. Wide awake. No possibility of going back to sleep for at least an hour.
This is my dilemma. If I get up, I may wake up the slumbering beast that shares my bed. For whatever reason, he doesn't like to wake up and find me not in my spot.
So... I lay in bed and think about everything under the sun... what I have to do the next day, world peace, solutions to every possible international problem, the grocery list, what I want for Christmas....and then I REALLY can't go back to sleep because I've just planned out the perfect dinner party for 72 of our closest friends, and if I go to sleep, I'll forget it all.
(Have I mentioned that I planned Laney's nursery decor during one of my late night spells? After months of searching, it just came to me in the middle of the night.)
Sometimes, I just have to get up. Take our beach trip last week, for example. I woke up, dutifully, around 2 am. K was sound asleep (like he ever has any problem sleeping), so I lay in bed for about an hour, thinking. Finally, the need to pack the suitcases was so great that I just had to get up.
It's 3 am on Tybee Island, and I'm packing suitcases. Folding. Arranging. Organizing.
What is wrong with this picture????
Now, I'm not quiet. It's dark. I'm stumbling over furniture, tossing clothes around, freaking out when I find that my tennis shoes (which haven't moved all week) are WEBBED to the floor... like with lots of spider web...Have I mentioned that I H.A.T.E spiders?..., but K. slumbers on, unaware.
I'm telling you, he could make sleeping an Olympic sport.
Anyway, he said he didn't wake up because he could sense my presence. (Whatever.)
I need to know where he thinks I'd be at 3 am. He has no answer for this. I think he may be a closet Scared-of-Being-Alone-in-the-Dark candidate... but I have no proof.
Back to the point.
Most nights, I just lay there, thinking, until I think myself into a comatose state and sort of fall back asleep... but by then, I've lost prime sleep time...which does not translate into a Happy Morning Amy.
I'm not on medicine. I don't exercise before bed (or ever, really). I drink caffeine all the time (love my D.C.), so I don't think that's it.
Is this a part of getting older? I mean, I've come to terms with the fact that I like things now, like greens and English peas, that I wouldn't have touched with a mile-long pole growing up. Must I come to terms with sleeping issues, too?
Good grief. I turn 3-0 in a few months. Is this what I have to look forward to?
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Summer-Summer-Summertime...
I'm out and home (finally) for the summer. We just got back from the 1st ever Lindsey Family Extravaganza (or 1st family vacation as adults). There will definitely be more on that soon. It was fun, and eventually, kind of relaxing.
Right now, I'm battling my 3RD case of poison oak this season. If you've never had it -- and even if you aren't highly allergic -- I'm not sure you can appreciate the position I'm in.
I itch. A lot.
The first case started in April, and it was nasty. Huge welps (meaning all the lovely little blisters had run together), lots of seepage, lots of itching. I started by trying to cure it myself with Toad's favorite home remedy: Clorox.
If you've ever watched "My Big Fat Greek Wedding," Clorox is to Toad like Windex is to Tula's dad. It's a cure all for everything.
It also, apparently, burns your skin off.
And the poison oak didn't go away.
My cousin Julie had the end of a steroid pack that she didn't finish, so I took the rest of it, and the grossness started to fade. Now, I know you're not supposed to take someone else's prescription, but by this time, I wouldn't have cared if I'd been arrested. At least in the big house, they could probably help me get rid of the crud.
A week later, it returned with a vengeance.... and the old stuff wasn't even completely gone.
I tried Ban roll-on, a remedy given by a fellow allergic friend.
I didn't sweat from any covered pores... but I didn't get rid of my poison oak, either.
I tried these little poison ivy pills that are some sort of homeopathic remedy... (I could be using the wrong word there, but that's what I think they were)... and because I can't remember to take my birth control on a regular basis, I'm not usually good at taking any other kind of medicine that requires multiple doses in a day.
So I went to the doctor. My doctor of a zillion years recently left his regular practice to work strictly with elderly patients, so I went to see the new guy... who made me come into the office and wait for 2 hours so he could tell me I have poison oak.
Thanks, Einstein. It's on my chart. I deal with some sort of poison ivy/oak/whatever every year. You could've just called in a prescription.
Anyway, after much discussion of how I got it (the juice from the blisters, interestingly enough is not contagious -- it has to be resin from the plant -- and considering I had it all over my legs and upper hip, he seems to think I've been rolling around in the woods until I tell him that we have dogs in the house... "Ahh," he says. "If the dogs get on the furniture, they could be spreading the resin that way." Thanks. Glad you don't think I'm a freak. I'm just laying in poison oak resin on my own couch.), he puts me on a steroid pack. The grossness again starts to fade...and again, it comes back with a vengeance.
You've got to be kidding me.
This time, he gives me a shot and a stronger steroid pack. Now, I got rid of it completely, and the scarring has even faded away... but I've gained 15 pounds and have been a completely hateful biotch.
I can't win either way.
I finished the medicine at the beach last week and enjoyed a completely poison-oak free vacation. We toodled back into town this weekend.
Sunday night, I discovered a new patch of blisters on my leg.
Boudreaux -- who lays in my spot on the couch while I'm not there and whose smooth coat is prime for transporting the vileness-- is going outside. I'm getting ready to clean the couch; K. is going to hunt down vines/plants/whatever in the yard.
And I'm probably going back on steroids, gain another 80 lbs., and live out the rest of my summer in hateful spirit.
Anyone want to come for a visit? :)
Right now, I'm battling my 3RD case of poison oak this season. If you've never had it -- and even if you aren't highly allergic -- I'm not sure you can appreciate the position I'm in.
I itch. A lot.
The first case started in April, and it was nasty. Huge welps (meaning all the lovely little blisters had run together), lots of seepage, lots of itching. I started by trying to cure it myself with Toad's favorite home remedy: Clorox.
If you've ever watched "My Big Fat Greek Wedding," Clorox is to Toad like Windex is to Tula's dad. It's a cure all for everything.
It also, apparently, burns your skin off.
And the poison oak didn't go away.
My cousin Julie had the end of a steroid pack that she didn't finish, so I took the rest of it, and the grossness started to fade. Now, I know you're not supposed to take someone else's prescription, but by this time, I wouldn't have cared if I'd been arrested. At least in the big house, they could probably help me get rid of the crud.
A week later, it returned with a vengeance.... and the old stuff wasn't even completely gone.
I tried Ban roll-on, a remedy given by a fellow allergic friend.
I didn't sweat from any covered pores... but I didn't get rid of my poison oak, either.
I tried these little poison ivy pills that are some sort of homeopathic remedy... (I could be using the wrong word there, but that's what I think they were)... and because I can't remember to take my birth control on a regular basis, I'm not usually good at taking any other kind of medicine that requires multiple doses in a day.
So I went to the doctor. My doctor of a zillion years recently left his regular practice to work strictly with elderly patients, so I went to see the new guy... who made me come into the office and wait for 2 hours so he could tell me I have poison oak.
Thanks, Einstein. It's on my chart. I deal with some sort of poison ivy/oak/whatever every year. You could've just called in a prescription.
Anyway, after much discussion of how I got it (the juice from the blisters, interestingly enough is not contagious -- it has to be resin from the plant -- and considering I had it all over my legs and upper hip, he seems to think I've been rolling around in the woods until I tell him that we have dogs in the house... "Ahh," he says. "If the dogs get on the furniture, they could be spreading the resin that way." Thanks. Glad you don't think I'm a freak. I'm just laying in poison oak resin on my own couch.), he puts me on a steroid pack. The grossness again starts to fade...and again, it comes back with a vengeance.
You've got to be kidding me.
This time, he gives me a shot and a stronger steroid pack. Now, I got rid of it completely, and the scarring has even faded away... but I've gained 15 pounds and have been a completely hateful biotch.
I can't win either way.
I finished the medicine at the beach last week and enjoyed a completely poison-oak free vacation. We toodled back into town this weekend.
Sunday night, I discovered a new patch of blisters on my leg.
Boudreaux -- who lays in my spot on the couch while I'm not there and whose smooth coat is prime for transporting the vileness-- is going outside. I'm getting ready to clean the couch; K. is going to hunt down vines/plants/whatever in the yard.
And I'm probably going back on steroids, gain another 80 lbs., and live out the rest of my summer in hateful spirit.
Anyone want to come for a visit? :)
Friday, June 01, 2007
Ahhh...
Finally! Summer is here! An entire 2 1/2 months of quality time with the kids, my house, my closets, and a ridiculous list of projects that I will more than likely not even start.
I just wanted y'all to know that I am officially lazy. The in-laws left this morning after a week's visit to honor Princess Laney's 1st birthday (pictures to follow at some point), and so far today, I haven't gotten much accomplished.
Call it Adult ADD... call it worn out from transitioning into full-time Momminess... call it my husband left to go play golf on an optional "work" outing while his family was in town... whatever.
I'm not doing anything for the next month, at least.
I just wanted y'all to know that I am officially lazy. The in-laws left this morning after a week's visit to honor Princess Laney's 1st birthday (pictures to follow at some point), and so far today, I haven't gotten much accomplished.
Call it Adult ADD... call it worn out from transitioning into full-time Momminess... call it my husband left to go play golf on an optional "work" outing while his family was in town... whatever.
I'm not doing anything for the next month, at least.
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