I am looking at the photos on my digital camera, and I wish I could show them to you. I can’t, for several reasons. The most obvious is that my blog is not the place for pictures of my daughters, except for those pictures I create with words, as I will have to attempt to do right now. They have also not given their consent for me to share them, and given the nature of these photos, they really shouldn’t. The biggest reason, however, is that I am sure if I were to upload these pictures and post them, store them in my computer memory, or in any way, shape, or form, retain the proof of the existence of these photographs, I am pretty sure the authorities would be busting down my door with that guy from Dateline NBC right behind them, wanting knowing what kind of a monster am I. But oh, if I could share them with you. I have never laughed like I have looking at them. No words that I know how to use can thoroughly describe the humor found in these images. Now to back up and explain.
My daughters are fans of “America’s Next Top Model” in an innocent way. They don’t watch it like I do, to see that narcissistic train wreck, Tyra Banks, get a bunch of stick figures to worship her and do her stupid bidding. They love it like I used to love paper dolls. They like to look at the makeup and the clothes and the final photos and the judging. They try to understand that the two main men on the show are men even though they look and act like women. And when it’s over, they like to play model. Luckily, neither of them wants to be Tyra Banks, and they both love ice cream too much to make me worry about any lasting influences. Playing model to them means one of them snaps pictures while the other one poses all over the house making serious faces at the camera and twisting their arms in odd ways. S seems to be a natural at it, with her eye contact, like she is making love to the camera. E looks more like a victim in a crime scene, all unnatural angles and dead eyes.
They have used my camera before, taking pictures of each other on a Sunday morning, still wearing their little nightgowns. Pictures of them draped over the couch and standing precariously on the stairs seemed innocent enough, if not more than a little amusing, so when they asked me this past Sunday morning, while I was trying to calculate how many vanilla vodka and ginger ales I had had the night before, I handed over my camera, pleased that they found something quiet to do. Later, after everyone was dressed and lunch had been consumed, I sat down next to my husband, who said, “Have you seen the modeling pictures?” “Nope, not yet,” I answered. “You really should,” he said noncommittally.
I turned on the camera and stared at an image of my 7 year old draped over her blue horsey ride-on like she had been shot in the head. The next one was her sitting upright, her head thrown back, the horse’s rounded blue nose poking between her legs. “Oh my,” I said to him. “Keep looking,” he said, while still reading the newspaper, never giving away what else was on the camera. S lying suggestively on the rug in the bonus room. S on the couch, the blanket covering her just so, making you wonder what was under it. Then it was E’s turn, her face serious, as if she had been captured by the camera doing something so wrong, even the lighting looked guilty. Her head lying on the blue horsey’s back. Her twisting unnaturally on the love seat as if she fell there from a great height.
And then, they moved to the laundry room. Now, I have no idea what made them think that posing suggestively in the laundry room was modeling, but holy shit. S looking over her shoulder directly at the camera, holding a blanket over the washing machine. I call that one Dirty Laundry. I was crying, I laughed so hard. Her chin pointed down, arm tucked inside the laundry basket. Lying belly down and butt cheeks up on the top of the folding counter, her back arched. It was E’s turn again. She had one leg hiked up on the washing machine like she was going to shave her legs with the water in it. Her head back so far it was in the laundry basket. Another on leaning across both the washer and dryer. I sure hoped they weren’t agitating while my children posed against them.
From there, they moved to the bathroom. I don’t know wish of them suggested it, but removal of clothing occurred, like in an after school special. (It all starts innocently enough, with the offer of seeing a new puppy or a giant dish of ice cream.) The next thing you know, little S is wrapped in a towel, the toilet still open behind her. And leaning against the shower wall. And sitting on the counter, her face solemn, as if she needs another hit of acid. On the monkey rug in the center of the bathroom floor. I would have been horrified if I couldn’t stop laughing, but I couldn’t. Each one was more inappropriate and therefore more hilarious than the next. I couldn’t get enough. E poking her head out from behind the shower curtain coquettishly. Draping herself in her pink kitty towel. Her head wrapped like a genie.
I could see how it all went down. “Hey,” one said to the next, “let’s go to Mommy’s room.” And it started again. S lying in the center of my bed, cocked up on one elbow, beckoning the viewer to join her. Her hair draped over her shoulders. Lying on her side. And then E’s turn, which actually involved a full frontal panty shot. I put the camera down and wiped my eyes, making wheezing sounds. “I didn’t find them that funny,” my husband said.
That afternoon, my friend MJ came over. She had orchestrated my birthday party the night before, I and wracked my brain trying to think of the perfect thank you gift. My husband had stepped out to run an errand, and the girls were (this time) playing innocently upstairs. “I want to show you something,” I told MJ while she picked at leftover party food. “Consider this your thank you present. You may look at each of these, but you may not laugh out loud or scream or do anything which would indicate that you are amused for any reason whatsoever, because of those two upstairs know we are looking at this, they will kill me.” MJ agreed to my conditions, and I handed over the camera, after setting up the modeling scenario for her. We looked at them together, pausing for the crying and inevitable wetting of panties. When it was over, MJ handed me back the camera and said, “You’re right. That was the best thank you gift ever.”
I'm sure it could have been worse. But thankfully, we don’t have a tripod. All I know is, if I see pictures like this in five years, I won’t be laughing at all.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Sometimes Target Won't Do
My daughters’ camp has a special theme each week, something to enrich the little monkeys’ lives, a break from the daily routine. Some weeks it is a field trip to some local kid friendly destination, like the bowling alley or the zoo, but others, they stay at camp and have some unique activity, like “DJ Dance Party” or “Carnival’, complete with pony rides. A few weeks ago, it was “Halloween in July,” which was hands down the best idea of what to do in the summer. What kid doesn’t love Halloween? They could wear costumes to camp and have games and haunted houses and creepy snacks and little crappy toys from Oriental Trading Company.
But back to the costumes for a minute. I love Halloween, and have been making costumes for my daughters for most of their trick or treating experiences. And not the usual hobo or ghost either. These are elaborate and grand and jimmy rigged, because I can’t sew for shit. They are held together by massive amounts of hot glue and hidden paper clips and rubber bands and will fall apart if you look at them funny. These costumes are not practical; once a friend of mine joked that she has never seen my kids in a costume that allowed them to sit. Last Halloween, my youngest daughter, S, was a piece of bacon. E, my oldest daughter, was a walking encyclopedia. I assumed we would just take those precarious creations out and wear them again, and lucky for me, S was more than happy to don her crispy costume, complete with fried egg headband, once more. But E had other ideas.
E’s friend A (it sounds like Sesame Street, I am aware, thank you) had a dilemma. She was staying with her father the night before the costume party, but all her costume stuff was at her mother’s house. A came home from camp with us that afternoon, and was pretty bummed that she didn’t have anything to wear for the next day. I told her I was pretty sure we could come up with something, since we have so much dress up clothes and other crap at home. E chimed in and said she didn’t want to be an encyclopedia again, she really wanted to be something with A. I asked if she had anything in mind, and of course, she did. Conjoined twins. E loves conjoined twins, even more than she loves learning about the Holocaust or volcanoes or other natural anomalies and disasters. A loved it. S didn’t know what it meant. We were driving right next to a Wal-Mart, so I made them swear they would wear whatever we bought for the costume if I stopped, which they promised to do, in unison, before I swerved into the parking lot.
We walked into Wal-Mart with a purpose, to find the biggest and cheapest clothes we could. I knew we were in the right place, and in less than a minute, I found the women’s section. Let me just say, I had no idea that one could obtain a garment in size 4X. But there they were, 1X through 4X t-shirts and skirts, elastic waist khakis and jeans. I don’t like to think of myself as cheap, but I didn’t want to buy this stuff if it wasn’t going to fit. So I made the girls stand together while I slipped a really big shirt over their heads. They were both able to fit in the 4X together, so it was onto the next challenge, finding a bottom. I had no interest in one child per leg, since I wanted them to be able to actually walk. Luckily, I found a gigantic pink flowing skirt with a forgiving elastic waist. I made them try that on too, so we could see how they looked and moved. It is no small feat to keep three girls quiet under such circumstances. E and A practiced walking together awkwardly, and then I took their shirt and skirt off them, careful to not knock either of them over, before run-walking to the self check out.
Of all the odd things I have ever done in the name of motherhood, having my child and her friend try on fat clothes in public to make sure they fit was near the top of the list. I don’t even think a conjoined twin costume is politically correct, but at least they weren’t in black face, and I was pretty confident no pro conjoined twin fans would protest it. Fortunately, I was able to outfit the two of them for around twenty bucks, so at least it was affordable, even as a joke. E and A kept their promise and wore it the next day, and only fell over once or twice. And no, they were not able to sit down.
But back to the costumes for a minute. I love Halloween, and have been making costumes for my daughters for most of their trick or treating experiences. And not the usual hobo or ghost either. These are elaborate and grand and jimmy rigged, because I can’t sew for shit. They are held together by massive amounts of hot glue and hidden paper clips and rubber bands and will fall apart if you look at them funny. These costumes are not practical; once a friend of mine joked that she has never seen my kids in a costume that allowed them to sit. Last Halloween, my youngest daughter, S, was a piece of bacon. E, my oldest daughter, was a walking encyclopedia. I assumed we would just take those precarious creations out and wear them again, and lucky for me, S was more than happy to don her crispy costume, complete with fried egg headband, once more. But E had other ideas.
E’s friend A (it sounds like Sesame Street, I am aware, thank you) had a dilemma. She was staying with her father the night before the costume party, but all her costume stuff was at her mother’s house. A came home from camp with us that afternoon, and was pretty bummed that she didn’t have anything to wear for the next day. I told her I was pretty sure we could come up with something, since we have so much dress up clothes and other crap at home. E chimed in and said she didn’t want to be an encyclopedia again, she really wanted to be something with A. I asked if she had anything in mind, and of course, she did. Conjoined twins. E loves conjoined twins, even more than she loves learning about the Holocaust or volcanoes or other natural anomalies and disasters. A loved it. S didn’t know what it meant. We were driving right next to a Wal-Mart, so I made them swear they would wear whatever we bought for the costume if I stopped, which they promised to do, in unison, before I swerved into the parking lot.
We walked into Wal-Mart with a purpose, to find the biggest and cheapest clothes we could. I knew we were in the right place, and in less than a minute, I found the women’s section. Let me just say, I had no idea that one could obtain a garment in size 4X. But there they were, 1X through 4X t-shirts and skirts, elastic waist khakis and jeans. I don’t like to think of myself as cheap, but I didn’t want to buy this stuff if it wasn’t going to fit. So I made the girls stand together while I slipped a really big shirt over their heads. They were both able to fit in the 4X together, so it was onto the next challenge, finding a bottom. I had no interest in one child per leg, since I wanted them to be able to actually walk. Luckily, I found a gigantic pink flowing skirt with a forgiving elastic waist. I made them try that on too, so we could see how they looked and moved. It is no small feat to keep three girls quiet under such circumstances. E and A practiced walking together awkwardly, and then I took their shirt and skirt off them, careful to not knock either of them over, before run-walking to the self check out.
Of all the odd things I have ever done in the name of motherhood, having my child and her friend try on fat clothes in public to make sure they fit was near the top of the list. I don’t even think a conjoined twin costume is politically correct, but at least they weren’t in black face, and I was pretty confident no pro conjoined twin fans would protest it. Fortunately, I was able to outfit the two of them for around twenty bucks, so at least it was affordable, even as a joke. E and A kept their promise and wore it the next day, and only fell over once or twice. And no, they were not able to sit down.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Hold the Relish
“Simply relish the moist towel, and I will remove it from your body when I return in a minute.” No funnier words were ever spoken, certainly not during a massage. It’s kind of hard to reach that aaahhh moment when stifling laughter. Not that I wasn’t relaxed. I was. As relaxed as I get. Even in yoga, during savasana, or corpse pose, I am making to do lists and thinking/worrying about a slew of things even while transcending my current plane. “Simply relish the moist towel.” Ha ha.
I went for a massage at a place I have gone to for about two years, even though my favorite massage therapist left this past spring. I have a few gift certificates to use up, so I have yet to venture out on my own for a new massage therapist, which you would think would be imperative. After all, I am naked on a narrow table while a stranger rubs all over my body, so being comfortable with that person should be pretty high up on the list. It’s not that she is a bad massage therapist, she is actually quite good. It’s that she’s odd. She is first and foremost a top-notch salesperson. The salon where she works sells Aveda products, and she uses them by the vat, making sure I know the name of each one.
She began my massage with a cleansing foot bath, not just some salts, but with rosemary mint body wash comingling with deep cleanse purifying salt crystals. I sat with my feet in a giant stainless steel mixing bowl and swished my toes until she returned to pat my feet dry for me. I didn’t know if I should lift my feet for her or leave them down in the bowl, so I ended up marching awkwardly while almost kicking her in the face while she bent over from the waist, holding a towel across her forearms, trying to avoid my flailing legs while capturing my wet feet.
Then she left the room again while I disrobed and arranged myself on the table like a mail order bride on her wedding night. She came back in, and while I waited, she rearranged lots of glass bottles and vials, tinkering around in the dark, before she finally heaved herself on her little stool behind my head. She opened three vials, one at a time, and held each to my nose, gently closing my left nostril, the good one, while I breathed in deeply through my right one, the perpetually clogged one. I could not discern the difference with my defective nostril, thinking all three fragrances smelled of mowed lawn, and settled on number two. I asked her what fragrance it was, hoping for lavender or chamomile, but she answered with another product name, “Aveda Earth. It’s very grounding.” Huh?
She rubbed the Earth between her palms to simulate global warming and then hovered her hands above my face, instructing me to breathe deeply, then breathing deeply herself to demonstrate. I thought such relaxing thoughts as Don’t smother me! And Enough song dance, commence to rubbing. As if reading my mind, she did, but it was less about the massage and more about the spirituality and salesmanship. Penetrating intensive salve for my hands. Peppermint repair cream for my feet. Invigorating balm for my chronically tight IT band. Lots of deep breathing, her, not me. I flipped over. More of the same. Moist hot towels applied to my outer thighs. Another one for my feet. And finally, the one for my back, which I was to “simply relish.”
She left the room for the third time, and I lay there, under my now cold damp towel, almost positive that she never rubbed my right calf or left upper arm. With all the coming and going and breathing and product placement, limbs had been neglected. But there are only so many minutes in an hour, since a massage hour is really more of a suggestion than a guarantee, and sometimes arms and legs are sacrificed for the sales pitch.
As she escorted me out, she handed me a paper cone of water and asked me if I had my gallbladder removed, which I had, over a year ago. She told me my gallbladder acupressure points were “backed up.” It was like she had guessed my card was the queen of hearts. Damn, she’s good. I didn’t really know what to do about my gallbladder acupressure point back up, but I was tempted to buy the purifying salt crystals because she could read my body. And I don’t mind paying for a good show. I do love a good massage, but a bizarrely mediocre massage is pretty good too, only in a very different way.
I went for a massage at a place I have gone to for about two years, even though my favorite massage therapist left this past spring. I have a few gift certificates to use up, so I have yet to venture out on my own for a new massage therapist, which you would think would be imperative. After all, I am naked on a narrow table while a stranger rubs all over my body, so being comfortable with that person should be pretty high up on the list. It’s not that she is a bad massage therapist, she is actually quite good. It’s that she’s odd. She is first and foremost a top-notch salesperson. The salon where she works sells Aveda products, and she uses them by the vat, making sure I know the name of each one.
She began my massage with a cleansing foot bath, not just some salts, but with rosemary mint body wash comingling with deep cleanse purifying salt crystals. I sat with my feet in a giant stainless steel mixing bowl and swished my toes until she returned to pat my feet dry for me. I didn’t know if I should lift my feet for her or leave them down in the bowl, so I ended up marching awkwardly while almost kicking her in the face while she bent over from the waist, holding a towel across her forearms, trying to avoid my flailing legs while capturing my wet feet.
Then she left the room again while I disrobed and arranged myself on the table like a mail order bride on her wedding night. She came back in, and while I waited, she rearranged lots of glass bottles and vials, tinkering around in the dark, before she finally heaved herself on her little stool behind my head. She opened three vials, one at a time, and held each to my nose, gently closing my left nostril, the good one, while I breathed in deeply through my right one, the perpetually clogged one. I could not discern the difference with my defective nostril, thinking all three fragrances smelled of mowed lawn, and settled on number two. I asked her what fragrance it was, hoping for lavender or chamomile, but she answered with another product name, “Aveda Earth. It’s very grounding.” Huh?
She rubbed the Earth between her palms to simulate global warming and then hovered her hands above my face, instructing me to breathe deeply, then breathing deeply herself to demonstrate. I thought such relaxing thoughts as Don’t smother me! And Enough song dance, commence to rubbing. As if reading my mind, she did, but it was less about the massage and more about the spirituality and salesmanship. Penetrating intensive salve for my hands. Peppermint repair cream for my feet. Invigorating balm for my chronically tight IT band. Lots of deep breathing, her, not me. I flipped over. More of the same. Moist hot towels applied to my outer thighs. Another one for my feet. And finally, the one for my back, which I was to “simply relish.”
She left the room for the third time, and I lay there, under my now cold damp towel, almost positive that she never rubbed my right calf or left upper arm. With all the coming and going and breathing and product placement, limbs had been neglected. But there are only so many minutes in an hour, since a massage hour is really more of a suggestion than a guarantee, and sometimes arms and legs are sacrificed for the sales pitch.
As she escorted me out, she handed me a paper cone of water and asked me if I had my gallbladder removed, which I had, over a year ago. She told me my gallbladder acupressure points were “backed up.” It was like she had guessed my card was the queen of hearts. Damn, she’s good. I didn’t really know what to do about my gallbladder acupressure point back up, but I was tempted to buy the purifying salt crystals because she could read my body. And I don’t mind paying for a good show. I do love a good massage, but a bizarrely mediocre massage is pretty good too, only in a very different way.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Reason #362 Why I Miss the Baby Days
Picture this, if you will: my daughter "Alison" getting ready for her shower. She takes off her clothes and puts them in her hamper. I am sitting on the toilet, peeing. (Yes, it is germane to the story!)
Alison: Mom, I need to use the stain stick.
(I love Stain Stick. I use it all the time. I have one for the laundry room and one in my bathroom near the hamper. I even pack it when I travel. It even gets out Frosty stains!)
Me: Why? Did you get something on your shirt at dinner?
Alison: No. I have a stain in my panties.
(Let me stop here and remind you that "Alison" is seven. A stain in her panties pretty much means one thing. Typically I throw those tainted ones away, unless they are one of her faves, in which case I scrub them so much they could be crotchless when I am through with them.)
Me: Have a little trouble wiping, did we?
Alison: No, Mom. It's not that.
Me (getting concerned): Well, what is it?
Alison: It's a pee stain, like a stripe. A stripe of pee.
(I know what is on her panties. And it isn't pee.)
Me: Oh, don't worry about that. It's not pee. We don't need to put Stain stick on that.
Alison: If it's not pee, than what is it?
(I have no idea how to answer this one. I don't think things through very well, as evidenced by the following.)
Me: That? Oh, that. That's just vaginal discharge.
Alison: Discharge? What's discharge.
(I am still sitting on the toilet. Alison is standing naked on the other side of the bathroom, and she is desperately trying to look at my panties to see if I too have a stain. I quickly pull them up and stand up.)
Me: Hmmm, how do I explain this?
(Self cleaning oven? Lubrication? Snail trail?)
Me (again): Okay, let's see. You know how your nose makes snot? To trap germs and dirt and kind of keep things moist and happy? Well, vaginal discharge is kinda like that.
Alison (eyes real big): Vagina snot?!?!
Me: Yep. Sort of. Yep.
Alison looks at me again, then falls on the floor laughing. She stumbles out of my bathroom, giggling all the way to her room.
I doubt this is the last I will hear of what is in her panties.
Alison: Mom, I need to use the stain stick.
(I love Stain Stick. I use it all the time. I have one for the laundry room and one in my bathroom near the hamper. I even pack it when I travel. It even gets out Frosty stains!)
Me: Why? Did you get something on your shirt at dinner?
Alison: No. I have a stain in my panties.
(Let me stop here and remind you that "Alison" is seven. A stain in her panties pretty much means one thing. Typically I throw those tainted ones away, unless they are one of her faves, in which case I scrub them so much they could be crotchless when I am through with them.)
Me: Have a little trouble wiping, did we?
Alison: No, Mom. It's not that.
Me (getting concerned): Well, what is it?
Alison: It's a pee stain, like a stripe. A stripe of pee.
(I know what is on her panties. And it isn't pee.)
Me: Oh, don't worry about that. It's not pee. We don't need to put Stain stick on that.
Alison: If it's not pee, than what is it?
(I have no idea how to answer this one. I don't think things through very well, as evidenced by the following.)
Me: That? Oh, that. That's just vaginal discharge.
Alison: Discharge? What's discharge.
(I am still sitting on the toilet. Alison is standing naked on the other side of the bathroom, and she is desperately trying to look at my panties to see if I too have a stain. I quickly pull them up and stand up.)
Me: Hmmm, how do I explain this?
(Self cleaning oven? Lubrication? Snail trail?)
Me (again): Okay, let's see. You know how your nose makes snot? To trap germs and dirt and kind of keep things moist and happy? Well, vaginal discharge is kinda like that.
Alison (eyes real big): Vagina snot?!?!
Me: Yep. Sort of. Yep.
Alison looks at me again, then falls on the floor laughing. She stumbles out of my bathroom, giggling all the way to her room.
I doubt this is the last I will hear of what is in her panties.
There is Nothing Funny about a Stroke
My father in law is in the hospital. He suffered a stroke about a week ago, the second one in three months. He was seemingly fine after the first one, with very little weakness on his left side that resolved quickly. He was back to volunteering at his former place of employment, what I like to call free consulting, and being the primary caregiver for my mother in law, who is in even worse shape than he is. But despite his daily walks, his abstaining from all things alcohol and sugar related, and his strict adherence to medication, he surprised us all by having another stroke.
Only this time, he isn't home and recovering in three days. He is still in the hospital, and while the medical professionals all agree he should recover well, they have no time frame they want to share with us. He is able to walk, talk, think, and feel. He has vertigo, though, so while physically he can stand, every time he does, he is like a falling tree. He has already had a good fall, too, good enough that he has a special fall bracelet and bathroom restrictions. And to top it off, he is experiencing double vision, so he isn't able to read a newspaper or magazine, and can only look at a computer or the television with one eye closed. So he is wearing an eye patch. Like a pirate.
My father in law is the strong silent type. He likes a good joke, especially if it is raunchy, but he doesn't laugh loudly unless he has a really good reason. He rather listen than talk, especially when you need advice. He belongs to the "show, not tell" school of love. He doesn't talk about his feelings, but if you need him to do something, he does it. Family matters more to him than anything in the world. Clemson football and a good hot dog are close seconds.
I love my father in law, and so do my kids. They got short-changed in the grandparent department, as some kids do. I was lucky in grandparents, which made up for the shitty parents I had. For my children, it is the opposite. They have no grandmothers to teach them how to bake, to put on lipstick or make pin curls in their hair, to take them shopping and to tea parties and spend the nights. They have no grandfathers to teach them how to whittle a stick, or catch a fish, or change a tire, or mix a tall Jack Daniels and water. They have two grandmothers who are unable to care for them or be alone with them, even though they both love them. They have one grandfather who won't talk to them, opting for his cigarettes and his daily nap over conversation or even game playing.
And then they have my father in law, who is different from the other three because he listens. He asks them questions and sits back for the answers to unfold. He teases them, in a subtle way, which is enough to make them smile and be glad for his company. They each have their own style with him, their own inside jokes, their own special relationship. He respects their individuality, and they know it.
None of us is handling his stroke well. We all want him to be like he was over a week ago, none of us half as much as he does. We want him to go back home, back to driving and working for free and grilling chicken tenders and falling asleep on the couch in front of the television. I don't know when that will happen. Until then, I hope he gets better, and I hope he gets over his frustration at himself, at his inability to self heal, at his anger for getting older. Actually, I hope that for all of us.
My youngest daughter thought they should make hospital gowns in plaid for her grandfather, since he wears plaid shirts almost every day of his life. She wants to play with the buttons on his bed and the levers on his tray and the convertible bed in his room and (of course!) his wheel chair. My oldest daughter, however, stands there and watches it all with her big doe eyes, wanting to ask the question that none of the adults in the room want to answer, because we don't know or don't want to admit it. She wants the truth, and we can't give it to her.
To make herself feel better, my oldest daughter drew a picture for her grandfather, whom my girls call Andaddy, since "grand" was too hard to say when they were babies. She was taken with his eye patch, since it gave him his first real air of mystery. It depicts him as a pirate, his hospital bed his ship, and his wheelchair as a treasure chest. I know he will love it when he see it. My daughter felt better making a fantasy out of a hospital stay, and honestly, it's a much better scenario than the ones I make up. Getting old sucks, but being a pirate is cool.
Only this time, he isn't home and recovering in three days. He is still in the hospital, and while the medical professionals all agree he should recover well, they have no time frame they want to share with us. He is able to walk, talk, think, and feel. He has vertigo, though, so while physically he can stand, every time he does, he is like a falling tree. He has already had a good fall, too, good enough that he has a special fall bracelet and bathroom restrictions. And to top it off, he is experiencing double vision, so he isn't able to read a newspaper or magazine, and can only look at a computer or the television with one eye closed. So he is wearing an eye patch. Like a pirate.
My father in law is the strong silent type. He likes a good joke, especially if it is raunchy, but he doesn't laugh loudly unless he has a really good reason. He rather listen than talk, especially when you need advice. He belongs to the "show, not tell" school of love. He doesn't talk about his feelings, but if you need him to do something, he does it. Family matters more to him than anything in the world. Clemson football and a good hot dog are close seconds.
I love my father in law, and so do my kids. They got short-changed in the grandparent department, as some kids do. I was lucky in grandparents, which made up for the shitty parents I had. For my children, it is the opposite. They have no grandmothers to teach them how to bake, to put on lipstick or make pin curls in their hair, to take them shopping and to tea parties and spend the nights. They have no grandfathers to teach them how to whittle a stick, or catch a fish, or change a tire, or mix a tall Jack Daniels and water. They have two grandmothers who are unable to care for them or be alone with them, even though they both love them. They have one grandfather who won't talk to them, opting for his cigarettes and his daily nap over conversation or even game playing.
And then they have my father in law, who is different from the other three because he listens. He asks them questions and sits back for the answers to unfold. He teases them, in a subtle way, which is enough to make them smile and be glad for his company. They each have their own style with him, their own inside jokes, their own special relationship. He respects their individuality, and they know it.
None of us is handling his stroke well. We all want him to be like he was over a week ago, none of us half as much as he does. We want him to go back home, back to driving and working for free and grilling chicken tenders and falling asleep on the couch in front of the television. I don't know when that will happen. Until then, I hope he gets better, and I hope he gets over his frustration at himself, at his inability to self heal, at his anger for getting older. Actually, I hope that for all of us.
My youngest daughter thought they should make hospital gowns in plaid for her grandfather, since he wears plaid shirts almost every day of his life. She wants to play with the buttons on his bed and the levers on his tray and the convertible bed in his room and (of course!) his wheel chair. My oldest daughter, however, stands there and watches it all with her big doe eyes, wanting to ask the question that none of the adults in the room want to answer, because we don't know or don't want to admit it. She wants the truth, and we can't give it to her.
To make herself feel better, my oldest daughter drew a picture for her grandfather, whom my girls call Andaddy, since "grand" was too hard to say when they were babies. She was taken with his eye patch, since it gave him his first real air of mystery. It depicts him as a pirate, his hospital bed his ship, and his wheelchair as a treasure chest. I know he will love it when he see it. My daughter felt better making a fantasy out of a hospital stay, and honestly, it's a much better scenario than the ones I make up. Getting old sucks, but being a pirate is cool.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
A Bumper Crop
I drove my kids to camp the other day, and you will never guess whose car was in front of us. That’s right, Cindy!
I knew this because it said so right on her license plate, proudly announcing CINDY, so I couldn’t miss it. Cindy has two daughters, two dogs, and one fish, according to the adorable sticker on the bottom left hand corner of her rear window. One of those daughters must be a really good student, if that bumper sticker from her elementary school is to be believed. And one of them is big into cheerleading, since I doubt Cindy put that magnet on her gas tank cover for herself. Cindy is a devoted Christian, a believer in the truth, so sayeth the fish decal. She continues to show her support for McCain and Palin, never mind that the election ended over half a year ago. Cindy likes Disney World. Me too, Cindy!
The back of my car paints a very different picture. I have a few band stickers I bought at concerts I have attended over the past few years. One of my friend’s husband commented that my car looked like it was driven by a sixteen year old. Sure, from the back maybe. But my stickers are all mine, not a testament to my need to feel superior through my children’s accomplishments or my political or religious views. They also help me find my car in the parking lot.
But enough about me, let’s get back to Cindy. Why would she think that sharing so much about herself on her car while driving so crappily is a good idea? Does she think advertising her name, her family size and activities, and even her locale based on her kid’s school is a safe thing? Maybe she doesn’t worry about that because of her faith. Or maybe she is an idiot.
She is hardly alone. No, Cindy is in good company. It seems half my town feels the need to share their census information, religious and political views, and even their sexual orientation on the backs of their cars. I can see the family demographics illustrated with stick figures, pirate heads, and even flip flops. Not only do I know how many dogs they have, I know the breeds. If I were a serial killer, I wouldn’t have to do any lurking or spying, since everything is laid out for me nice and neatly on each person’s vehicle. I would know exactly where to park my late model white van with the back windows blacked out. It would be next to Cindy’s car.
Remember the good old days, when bumper stickers were amusing and slightly offensive? Keep on truckin’? I brake for unicorns? My other car is another car? If this van is a’rockin’, don’t come a’knockin’? Those gave way to the Baby on Board signs and Garfields suctioned cupped to the inside windows, which in turn gave way to the road rage inducing stickers. How many times do you remember seeing Calvin peeing on a rival sports team logo, or How’s my driving? Call 1-800-EAT-SHIT? Bumper stickers were vengeful, and reading them was supposed to make you as angry as the owner of the car you were tailgating.
But now it’s just personal. It’s all about your children, who you voted for, what god you worship, even personalized RIP stickers so you can memorialize your loved ones on your rear bumper, in case you ever forget. I am waiting for the day, which I know is coming soon, when I can learn the blood type , social security number, and insurance group numbers of the other car’s drivers by looking at a bumper sticker, which I predict will be included in your next State Farm bill, to make exchanging information at your next accident even more convenient.
Until then, drive safely, Cindy!
I knew this because it said so right on her license plate, proudly announcing CINDY, so I couldn’t miss it. Cindy has two daughters, two dogs, and one fish, according to the adorable sticker on the bottom left hand corner of her rear window. One of those daughters must be a really good student, if that bumper sticker from her elementary school is to be believed. And one of them is big into cheerleading, since I doubt Cindy put that magnet on her gas tank cover for herself. Cindy is a devoted Christian, a believer in the truth, so sayeth the fish decal. She continues to show her support for McCain and Palin, never mind that the election ended over half a year ago. Cindy likes Disney World. Me too, Cindy!
The back of my car paints a very different picture. I have a few band stickers I bought at concerts I have attended over the past few years. One of my friend’s husband commented that my car looked like it was driven by a sixteen year old. Sure, from the back maybe. But my stickers are all mine, not a testament to my need to feel superior through my children’s accomplishments or my political or religious views. They also help me find my car in the parking lot.
But enough about me, let’s get back to Cindy. Why would she think that sharing so much about herself on her car while driving so crappily is a good idea? Does she think advertising her name, her family size and activities, and even her locale based on her kid’s school is a safe thing? Maybe she doesn’t worry about that because of her faith. Or maybe she is an idiot.
She is hardly alone. No, Cindy is in good company. It seems half my town feels the need to share their census information, religious and political views, and even their sexual orientation on the backs of their cars. I can see the family demographics illustrated with stick figures, pirate heads, and even flip flops. Not only do I know how many dogs they have, I know the breeds. If I were a serial killer, I wouldn’t have to do any lurking or spying, since everything is laid out for me nice and neatly on each person’s vehicle. I would know exactly where to park my late model white van with the back windows blacked out. It would be next to Cindy’s car.
Remember the good old days, when bumper stickers were amusing and slightly offensive? Keep on truckin’? I brake for unicorns? My other car is another car? If this van is a’rockin’, don’t come a’knockin’? Those gave way to the Baby on Board signs and Garfields suctioned cupped to the inside windows, which in turn gave way to the road rage inducing stickers. How many times do you remember seeing Calvin peeing on a rival sports team logo, or How’s my driving? Call 1-800-EAT-SHIT? Bumper stickers were vengeful, and reading them was supposed to make you as angry as the owner of the car you were tailgating.
But now it’s just personal. It’s all about your children, who you voted for, what god you worship, even personalized RIP stickers so you can memorialize your loved ones on your rear bumper, in case you ever forget. I am waiting for the day, which I know is coming soon, when I can learn the blood type , social security number, and insurance group numbers of the other car’s drivers by looking at a bumper sticker, which I predict will be included in your next State Farm bill, to make exchanging information at your next accident even more convenient.
Until then, drive safely, Cindy!
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
My Humps
No woman wants to hear the “You have a lump,” but last month, I heard just that at my annual exam. “You have a lump” was followed with “it’s probably nothing,” which is about as reassuring as a phlebotomist with fangs. My doctor ordered a diagnostic mammogram and a breast ultrasound, adding “you’re going to be forty soon anyway, but why wait?” Thus wrapping up one of the worst medical experiences I have had since the last worst medical experience. They are all pretty bad, are they not?
Yesterday, I hauled my old lumpy tits to the outpatient radiology department, which is so top secret, they don’t even have their name on the signs, either outside or inside the building. I felt like I was going for a CIA interview; they didn’t confirm the appointment by phone nor mail, and when I called for directions, I had to ask for clarification three times before she would even tell me what building they are in.
The top secret nature of my mammogram continued when I walked up to the information kiosk and asked the woman behind the counter if the radiology department was in the building. She answered my question with one of her own, asking me what I was scheduled to have. I told her, and then she asked me for my date of birth. Mind you, she had no paperwork open in front of her nor a computer monitor on her desk. She directed me past the main waiting room and down the blue hall to the radiology window. Before I went, I mentioned to her that none of the signs in or out of the building indicated the location of the radiology department and she said, “They just joined us,” whatever that means.
I sauntered past the bored families with their ill clothed children sitting on every available chair, all watching the extensive coverage of Michael Jackson’s memorial service. When I reached the radiology window, I was again asked for my birth date, only this receptionist had a stack of papers which she turned over and flipped through and turned again and shuffled, like she was solving a 2 dimensional Rubik’s cube. Finally, she looked at me and said, “Follow the green wall until the left turn and go to Breast Imaging.” All these halls and windows. I walked the labyrinthine halls, until I find the breast imaging window, where I again recited my date of birth to another woman behind glass. Only this was the end of the line, or rather, the start of the real line. She told me to follow the short hall to the waiting area. Whoever designed this facility must have been a big Dante fan.
Anyway, I found the waiting area, and there was only one seat unoccupied, right next to the smoker who was waiting on his wife to finish having her breasts imaged. I contemplated telling him that one of causes of breast cancer was second hand smoke, but I didn’t really want to engage him in conversation, lest the smell coming from his open mouth was worse than the one emanating from his clothing. The rest of the boobs waiting were watching Michael Jackson’s memorial service on television, all slack jawed and mesmerized. I read the book I brought with me, but unfortunately I only had one chapter left and didn’t think it would hold me.
Miracle of miracles, my name was called right when I finished the last page. I was escorted to a dressing room with a door on either side, complete with dorm room sized television, box of Kleenex, and several industrial sized cans of Secret antiperspirant. The nurse told me to disrobe from the waist up and handed me a big square vest with two snaps at the top, and told me to wait until the technician came for me. I took off my t-shirt and bra and stuffed them in my purse, then put on the vest and sat in the chair in front of the mirror. There was a full length mirror on the back of the door, so I had the opportunity to see how bad I looked from more than one angle, which I thought was very considerate of them. I riffled through the magazines arranged on the counter, but the newest was over two years old, which didn’t bode well for the wait I faced.
Finally, a technician opened my other door and escorted me into the mammogram room. She couldn’t get her computer to work to ask me the preliminary questions that I referred to as “foreplay,” so we got right down to business. Right breast out. This woman whose name I couldn’t remember positioned it, yanked on it, and finally trapped it between some Plexiglas before telling me to hold my breath, while she stepped behind a clear screen and took some images. After rearranging my right knocker for a few more snaps, I was permitted to tuck it back in its little vest and then sat down to answer some questions about why I was there, my nursing history, and a whole bunch of other extremely personal boob questions that even I don’t want to talk about again. I pointed out that the small talk usually comes before second base, which lucky for me she found amusing, since we still had to get to the left side, the reason I had come here in the first place. She took out a sticker and labeled the general lump area, not unlike a grocery store tomato, before we started in on the squishing and grabbing and squeezing of that side. I was proud of myself for avoiding all eye contact. I did experience some discomfort, but it was more of the emotional kind than actual physical pain.
I went back to my little dressing room to do what else, wait some more, since I was having an ultrasound as well. I sat and stared at myself for a while, then broke down and turned on the television. Bingo! Cable, right there in the dressing room. I flipped through all the channels covering Michael Jackson’s memorial service, which was making this whole experience even more surreal, and kept flipping until I found Wild Boyz on MTV. I might watch this show in the privacy of my own home, but what if some ultra Christian nurse walked in on me watching two men electro stimulate their nifkins? So I settled for the innocuous Animal Planet, barely paying attention while listening to another nurse call names in the waiting room like it was The Price is Right or something. My door opened a few more times, but they were false alarms.
Twenty minutes later, a technician opened my door and escorted me down the hall, me clutching my purse and clothes in one hand and my vest in the other, since it was peeping open with every step I took. We entered the ultrasound room, which is a lot like a massage room, only slightly more medical looking. The lights were dimmed, and the gurney almost looked comfortable, although there were no aromatherapy products or CDs of trickling water in the background. I hopped up on the gurney and she squirted hot gel all over my chest before rubbing over it with her trusty little ultrasound thingy. She didn’t look like she had a sense of humor, so I decided to not make my standard inappropriate ultra sound joke (Is it a boy or girl?). I didn’t move, opting instead to stare at the starving artist’s oil painting on the wall and wish this whole thing to end. She removed my lump sticker as slowly and painfully as possible, and then went to work on the left side, before handing me a towel and telling me she was off to show my tits to the radiologist.
I felt so used, lying there with sticky breasts and a generic white towel. I had no idea how long it was going to take, since she never gave me any sign of encouragement, such as “all clear” or “I don’t see anything” or “nice rack.” So, of course, that was when my cell phone started to ring. And ring. And ring. It never went to voice mail, it just kept ringing what before then I thought was a funny cool ring tone, but at that moment was the worst noise ever imagined. I finally hopped off the table and shut the damn thing off which had somehow gotten stuck on ring mode, then scampered back to my position before I was detected.
She came back some time later and handed me a blue piece of paper. “We’ll see you next year,” she said cheerfully. “Everything looks normal.” “What about the lump?” I asked her. “Oh, that’s nothing,” she said. “Just be sure to check it every month and see if it gets any bigger. To get out, go out that door, follow the tan hall, take a left, then another right.” And she left.
I was pretty happy as I wiped off my girls and cradled them gently back in my bra. I held my chest up proudly as I attempted to find my way back out, and by the time I got to my car, I felt like ripping my shirt off and twirling some pasties. But I didn’t. Just because my tests are normal doesn’t mean I have new and improved titties. They are the same ones I started the day with, only now they are certified with a clean bill of nipple.
Yesterday, I hauled my old lumpy tits to the outpatient radiology department, which is so top secret, they don’t even have their name on the signs, either outside or inside the building. I felt like I was going for a CIA interview; they didn’t confirm the appointment by phone nor mail, and when I called for directions, I had to ask for clarification three times before she would even tell me what building they are in.
The top secret nature of my mammogram continued when I walked up to the information kiosk and asked the woman behind the counter if the radiology department was in the building. She answered my question with one of her own, asking me what I was scheduled to have. I told her, and then she asked me for my date of birth. Mind you, she had no paperwork open in front of her nor a computer monitor on her desk. She directed me past the main waiting room and down the blue hall to the radiology window. Before I went, I mentioned to her that none of the signs in or out of the building indicated the location of the radiology department and she said, “They just joined us,” whatever that means.
I sauntered past the bored families with their ill clothed children sitting on every available chair, all watching the extensive coverage of Michael Jackson’s memorial service. When I reached the radiology window, I was again asked for my birth date, only this receptionist had a stack of papers which she turned over and flipped through and turned again and shuffled, like she was solving a 2 dimensional Rubik’s cube. Finally, she looked at me and said, “Follow the green wall until the left turn and go to Breast Imaging.” All these halls and windows. I walked the labyrinthine halls, until I find the breast imaging window, where I again recited my date of birth to another woman behind glass. Only this was the end of the line, or rather, the start of the real line. She told me to follow the short hall to the waiting area. Whoever designed this facility must have been a big Dante fan.
Anyway, I found the waiting area, and there was only one seat unoccupied, right next to the smoker who was waiting on his wife to finish having her breasts imaged. I contemplated telling him that one of causes of breast cancer was second hand smoke, but I didn’t really want to engage him in conversation, lest the smell coming from his open mouth was worse than the one emanating from his clothing. The rest of the boobs waiting were watching Michael Jackson’s memorial service on television, all slack jawed and mesmerized. I read the book I brought with me, but unfortunately I only had one chapter left and didn’t think it would hold me.
Miracle of miracles, my name was called right when I finished the last page. I was escorted to a dressing room with a door on either side, complete with dorm room sized television, box of Kleenex, and several industrial sized cans of Secret antiperspirant. The nurse told me to disrobe from the waist up and handed me a big square vest with two snaps at the top, and told me to wait until the technician came for me. I took off my t-shirt and bra and stuffed them in my purse, then put on the vest and sat in the chair in front of the mirror. There was a full length mirror on the back of the door, so I had the opportunity to see how bad I looked from more than one angle, which I thought was very considerate of them. I riffled through the magazines arranged on the counter, but the newest was over two years old, which didn’t bode well for the wait I faced.
Finally, a technician opened my other door and escorted me into the mammogram room. She couldn’t get her computer to work to ask me the preliminary questions that I referred to as “foreplay,” so we got right down to business. Right breast out. This woman whose name I couldn’t remember positioned it, yanked on it, and finally trapped it between some Plexiglas before telling me to hold my breath, while she stepped behind a clear screen and took some images. After rearranging my right knocker for a few more snaps, I was permitted to tuck it back in its little vest and then sat down to answer some questions about why I was there, my nursing history, and a whole bunch of other extremely personal boob questions that even I don’t want to talk about again. I pointed out that the small talk usually comes before second base, which lucky for me she found amusing, since we still had to get to the left side, the reason I had come here in the first place. She took out a sticker and labeled the general lump area, not unlike a grocery store tomato, before we started in on the squishing and grabbing and squeezing of that side. I was proud of myself for avoiding all eye contact. I did experience some discomfort, but it was more of the emotional kind than actual physical pain.
I went back to my little dressing room to do what else, wait some more, since I was having an ultrasound as well. I sat and stared at myself for a while, then broke down and turned on the television. Bingo! Cable, right there in the dressing room. I flipped through all the channels covering Michael Jackson’s memorial service, which was making this whole experience even more surreal, and kept flipping until I found Wild Boyz on MTV. I might watch this show in the privacy of my own home, but what if some ultra Christian nurse walked in on me watching two men electro stimulate their nifkins? So I settled for the innocuous Animal Planet, barely paying attention while listening to another nurse call names in the waiting room like it was The Price is Right or something. My door opened a few more times, but they were false alarms.
Twenty minutes later, a technician opened my door and escorted me down the hall, me clutching my purse and clothes in one hand and my vest in the other, since it was peeping open with every step I took. We entered the ultrasound room, which is a lot like a massage room, only slightly more medical looking. The lights were dimmed, and the gurney almost looked comfortable, although there were no aromatherapy products or CDs of trickling water in the background. I hopped up on the gurney and she squirted hot gel all over my chest before rubbing over it with her trusty little ultrasound thingy. She didn’t look like she had a sense of humor, so I decided to not make my standard inappropriate ultra sound joke (Is it a boy or girl?). I didn’t move, opting instead to stare at the starving artist’s oil painting on the wall and wish this whole thing to end. She removed my lump sticker as slowly and painfully as possible, and then went to work on the left side, before handing me a towel and telling me she was off to show my tits to the radiologist.
I felt so used, lying there with sticky breasts and a generic white towel. I had no idea how long it was going to take, since she never gave me any sign of encouragement, such as “all clear” or “I don’t see anything” or “nice rack.” So, of course, that was when my cell phone started to ring. And ring. And ring. It never went to voice mail, it just kept ringing what before then I thought was a funny cool ring tone, but at that moment was the worst noise ever imagined. I finally hopped off the table and shut the damn thing off which had somehow gotten stuck on ring mode, then scampered back to my position before I was detected.
She came back some time later and handed me a blue piece of paper. “We’ll see you next year,” she said cheerfully. “Everything looks normal.” “What about the lump?” I asked her. “Oh, that’s nothing,” she said. “Just be sure to check it every month and see if it gets any bigger. To get out, go out that door, follow the tan hall, take a left, then another right.” And she left.
I was pretty happy as I wiped off my girls and cradled them gently back in my bra. I held my chest up proudly as I attempted to find my way back out, and by the time I got to my car, I felt like ripping my shirt off and twirling some pasties. But I didn’t. Just because my tests are normal doesn’t mean I have new and improved titties. They are the same ones I started the day with, only now they are certified with a clean bill of nipple.
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