And I’ll take the low road. I am sure everyone has read all sorts of juicy bits about Mark Sanford, the South Carolina governor and proponent of “moral legitimacy,” as his life unravels before our very eyes. I know all the good easy jokes have already been made, but that won’t stop me from attempting to fling a little mud at this fine state’s most upright citizen. Let’s recap, shall we?
Last week, someone noticed our governor was missing and decided to ask a few questions. It’s nice to know the governor of a state can go missing for five days before anyone even realizes it or cares, but then again, this is not an election year, nor is this his first term, so no one was really paying that much attention. They checked with his wife, who claimed to not know his whereabouts. Over Father’s Day weekend. His lieutenant governor, Andre Bauer, no stranger himself to bad publicity courtesy of his enjoyment of fast cars (if not fast women) and crashing airplanes, had no idea where he was. His staff thought he was hiking on the Appalachian Trail and unable to be reached by cell phone. No one was a hundred percent sure where he was, exactly, until all of a sudden, the mystery snowballed into the usual media farce. The next thing we know, a state car is found at the Atlanta airport, and novice CNN reporters are peeping in the windows to tell us Sanford left a pair of sneakers on the front seat.
Well, it turns out he wasn’t “hiking” after all, unless that is a new code word. He was in Argentina, trying to end an extramarital affair that his wife has known about for months. He wasn’t home for Father’s Day for a good reason; Jenny Sanford kicked him out (and she knew where he was, which I suppose makes her a liar too). Poor Mark comes home to a face full of microphones, and he is forced to do the morally legitimate thing to do when someone is caught making a very personal and private mistake: he stages a press conference. (I have to admit I didn’t see the whole thing, but I did see enough to bounce up and down on the sofa cushion and clap my hands delightedly.) He stands before his state, his peers, and God, and confesses how he spent five days “crying” in Argentina with his “dear, dear friend” cum lover, with whom he has met on and off and shared a rather sappy email relationship. He cried some more for the cameras, so we all know he meant it when he said he cried, because, see, he is still crying. Anyone feel sorry for him yet? He then went on to do more of the right thing, since he is so moral and all, and resigned as chair of the Republican Governor’s Association, which leaves room for some other pillar of the community to step forward until he too will have to step down amid a tawdry scandal.
So now we wait, like spiders, to see how much further he will fall. He has yet to step down, and the legislature has yet to impale his head on a spike, but it’s coming, as it should. Because, really, his marital transgressions are not the issue here. Sure, it’s great to see a man who fought so hard for Bill Clinton’s impeachment on the grounds of lying about a blow job get caught not being a very good liar himself. Freaking great! And as long as he didn’t use the money of the good taxpaying citizens of this state to fund his little affair, then really, it’s between him and his wife, what does or does not take place in the bedroom. But to be the highest office of the state and not tell anyone where you are for a week, not place anyone in charge in your absence, and to lie to your own staff about your whereabouts, well, that’s just plain irresponsible. If we can’t trust him to do the right thing when it comes to doing the wrong thing, when can we trust him? Jesus, any moron can watch a few episodes of “Cheaters” on the CW channel and learn what not to do. I thought he was smarter than that, and I think he’s an idiot. And you always leave the babysitter a note, because you never know.
Keep in mind this is South Carolina. Even the democrats run as republicans here. We like to debate things like the confederate flag and whether having a Christian license plate is constitutional. And oh yeah, guess who is a big fan of that idea? We pride ourselves on being more judgmental than other states, with that whole free lovin’, if nobody gets hurt attitude. Who better to judge Mark Sanford than his own constituency? Let he who is without sin cast the first stone? Fuck that! Mark Sanford was the first one without sin, up until yesterday’s press conference. I say: start stockpiling your rocks now, folks! Why should we stand by our man? He has fought long and hard to sabotage the federal stimulus money as South Carolina (State motto: we’re not Mississippi!) prepared to lay off more teachers and cut more education programs while faced with some of the country’s highest drop- out and illiteracy rates. He grandstanded (or is it grand stood?) against unemployment benefit assistance because he didn’t like the dudes running the Employment Security Commission, right before Christmas during a recession, no less, while millions of the state’s unemployed worried about how to pay their rent, let alone a gift or two at Wal-Mart. He was too busy worrying about his position in the next presidential election to concern himself with the office to which he was most recently elected, and turned his fiscally conservative back on the very people who voted for him.
That must have been some fine Argentinean pussy. I hope it was worth it.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Map Quest with Local Flavor
Driving home from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, is much like driving home from anywhere; it’s more about the getting home, and a lot less about the drive. In my mind, I divide the drive into thirds, which might not be entirely accurate, but it works for me to break the monotony. There is the first third, from the beach to the Florence area, the middle third, which is Florence to Columbia, and the last third, Columbia to Greenville. The middle and last parts are typical interstate roadways, complete with heavy truck traffic and the occasional slow down due to an overzealous local sheriff or a Buick going the speed limit in the passing lane. That first leg, though, is where the action is. It consists of four lane highways through small towns, the names of which don’t register until you see it painted on a cop car or incorporated in the name of the local high school. They are all numbered roads, but I have been driving it for so many years, I don't even know the numbers anymore, which isn't so great when I have to actually tell one of my friends how to get to the beach. Still, it is the leg of the drive I prefer to do, because the possibilities are endless.
Leaving the beach means going first through Conway, a sleepy town with what I hear is a beautiful downtown area. But the road bypasses downtown, so instead it is the usual assortment of fast food places and run down strip malls. I have to be careful on this stretch, because it is the bottle neck of the drive, with all the RV’s and motor boats going in the same direction before the small roads split into even smaller ones as vacationers head off for different paths, up through North Carolina or continuing west to the interstate.
Next is Aynor, which is the perfect name for a redneck town. Just say it out loud and you will see what I mean. Aynor is nothing to write home about, except perhaps to ask Mom or Dad for money to cover the speeding ticket you most likely will receive there. The road goes from 60 miles to 45 to 35 in the span of one city block, and they mean 35, by golly. My husband got a ticket there once, back when we were in college, from a Boss Hogg type of cop who actually said to him, “How old ARE you, son?”
After Aynor, towns are less clearly defined by name. But there are definite landmarks along the way. I pass Galivant’s Ferry, which from the road looks to be more of a trading post and less of a community, with its lone church, gas station, and barn colored general store. It looks like the kind of place where you could pick up some calico cloth, a sack of coffee or flour, and maybe a couple of slaves rather than a Slim Jim. Off the main road, you can see the oak lined drives to the plantation houses of years gone by. The properties must somehow back up to the river, and I get the feeling if I look over the bridge I will see more than one Tom and Huck like pair poling down the waterway. It doesn’t look like there has been much gallivanting around these parts in well over a hundred years.
Along the way, I pass Sparky’s, one of those neon signed stops which keeps growing larger and more obnoxious by the years. I have never stopped there, but I am fascinated by the items they advertise outside their establishment. Minnetonka moccasins, fireworks, pecan logs. Sounds like a hot night at the trailer park to me. And it must be, because the parking lot is always packed.
I try to determine the road kill on the next stretch of road, until we approach one of my favorite bits of local color. At a fork in the road is the BoBo Spa, an Oriental European spa, housed in a nondescript white building no bigger than a small house. There are no triple XXX’s or posters about to tantalize. The sign speaks for itself; relaxing oriental European massage is all you need to know. What I like about it is in the opposite direction, not less than a mile away is the charred remains of the WaWa Spa, which burned down a number of years ago. It, in its heyday, was a more prosperous Oriental European spa, with a main house and smaller cabin sized outbuildings. I like to think it was arson from its rival gang facility, as those oriental European masseuses are a tough bunch.
Before I get to the main turnoff towards the interstate, I pass the empty remains of a couple of textile plants, their parking lots and grounds overrun with weeds behind the chain link fences that surround them. These plants make me sad, much in the same way that passing fields of crops other than tobaccy make me sad. They are the death of that town, those plants, no longer manufacturing anything. Up the road from them is a state of the art pharmaceutical manufacturing facility, all cool glass and modern design. It is a strange juxtaposition, especially when you consider that the people who worked at the defunct textile plants are probably not even qualified to sweep the floors at the new place.
A couple more Wendy’s, a gas station or two, and I hit I-95. The first leg is done. I drive on a bit further until it is time for my husband to take over, so I can slump in the passenger seat and snooze. All the good bits are done, and the rest is just road.
Leaving the beach means going first through Conway, a sleepy town with what I hear is a beautiful downtown area. But the road bypasses downtown, so instead it is the usual assortment of fast food places and run down strip malls. I have to be careful on this stretch, because it is the bottle neck of the drive, with all the RV’s and motor boats going in the same direction before the small roads split into even smaller ones as vacationers head off for different paths, up through North Carolina or continuing west to the interstate.
Next is Aynor, which is the perfect name for a redneck town. Just say it out loud and you will see what I mean. Aynor is nothing to write home about, except perhaps to ask Mom or Dad for money to cover the speeding ticket you most likely will receive there. The road goes from 60 miles to 45 to 35 in the span of one city block, and they mean 35, by golly. My husband got a ticket there once, back when we were in college, from a Boss Hogg type of cop who actually said to him, “How old ARE you, son?”
After Aynor, towns are less clearly defined by name. But there are definite landmarks along the way. I pass Galivant’s Ferry, which from the road looks to be more of a trading post and less of a community, with its lone church, gas station, and barn colored general store. It looks like the kind of place where you could pick up some calico cloth, a sack of coffee or flour, and maybe a couple of slaves rather than a Slim Jim. Off the main road, you can see the oak lined drives to the plantation houses of years gone by. The properties must somehow back up to the river, and I get the feeling if I look over the bridge I will see more than one Tom and Huck like pair poling down the waterway. It doesn’t look like there has been much gallivanting around these parts in well over a hundred years.
Along the way, I pass Sparky’s, one of those neon signed stops which keeps growing larger and more obnoxious by the years. I have never stopped there, but I am fascinated by the items they advertise outside their establishment. Minnetonka moccasins, fireworks, pecan logs. Sounds like a hot night at the trailer park to me. And it must be, because the parking lot is always packed.
I try to determine the road kill on the next stretch of road, until we approach one of my favorite bits of local color. At a fork in the road is the BoBo Spa, an Oriental European spa, housed in a nondescript white building no bigger than a small house. There are no triple XXX’s or posters about to tantalize. The sign speaks for itself; relaxing oriental European massage is all you need to know. What I like about it is in the opposite direction, not less than a mile away is the charred remains of the WaWa Spa, which burned down a number of years ago. It, in its heyday, was a more prosperous Oriental European spa, with a main house and smaller cabin sized outbuildings. I like to think it was arson from its rival gang facility, as those oriental European masseuses are a tough bunch.
Before I get to the main turnoff towards the interstate, I pass the empty remains of a couple of textile plants, their parking lots and grounds overrun with weeds behind the chain link fences that surround them. These plants make me sad, much in the same way that passing fields of crops other than tobaccy make me sad. They are the death of that town, those plants, no longer manufacturing anything. Up the road from them is a state of the art pharmaceutical manufacturing facility, all cool glass and modern design. It is a strange juxtaposition, especially when you consider that the people who worked at the defunct textile plants are probably not even qualified to sweep the floors at the new place.
A couple more Wendy’s, a gas station or two, and I hit I-95. The first leg is done. I drive on a bit further until it is time for my husband to take over, so I can slump in the passenger seat and snooze. All the good bits are done, and the rest is just road.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Hey, You Impolite Lady!
Spelling is a lost art. A simple switching of two letters, or adding one where it shouldn’t be, can make all the difference in the meaning of the word. Here’s a little story to illustrate the point:
My daughter E wrote a report in class last week about Marco Polo. She had to describe how he dressed, and so she wrote about how he wore furs and, oh, I don’t know, puffy shirts and knickers or something. I am not up on the fashion scene of the 1200’s. Anyway, instead of writing “wore” to say he wore puffy shirts and knickers, she wrote “whore.” An innocent enough mistake at the age of nine, especially for a kid who is very fond of H’s.
Her teacher brought back the report to her after she finished reviewing it so my daughter could make corrections. And she told E that the word she wrote, “whore,” was a bad word and she needed to change the spelling. E, who, courtesy of another kid in her class, is well versed in George Carlin’s list of dirty words, but whore was a new one to her. So she asked her teacher what it meant. (Really, the story could end there if you knew the teacher. I’ll give you the brief version. She is a spinster woman from the northern part of Sri Lanka, and she is about my daughter’s height. And she blinks a lot.) Her teacher thought for a moment and said, “It is not a nice word. It is an impolite lady.”
E told me about her wore/whore mistake over dinner, and I snorted over the impolite lady bit.
“Well, it means a bit more than an impolite lady,” I said to E.
“What does it mean, then?” she asked me.
“You remember when we talked about sex?” I asked her. Yes, we have had that conversation, and it is a story for another day.
“Yes.” E looked at me with the big eyes.
“Well, sometimes, when a man isn’t married, he might still want to have sex. And a whore, she is a woman who, um, the man pays her money to have sex with her.” E thought about that for a moment. “It’s not a very nice thing to call someone,” I told her, “And there are a couple of other words for the same thing. One of them is prostitute. Or a slut. Have you ever heard those words?”
“Nope, but I have now,” E answered.
It was a banner day. Not only did she learn she was a lousy speller from her teacher, but then she came home and learned a couple more swear words from me. I am so glad I am arming her for the day when she uses them against me. Why worry about what bad words she will learn at school when I can teach them to her myself? I gave homeschooling a whole new meaning.
My daughter E wrote a report in class last week about Marco Polo. She had to describe how he dressed, and so she wrote about how he wore furs and, oh, I don’t know, puffy shirts and knickers or something. I am not up on the fashion scene of the 1200’s. Anyway, instead of writing “wore” to say he wore puffy shirts and knickers, she wrote “whore.” An innocent enough mistake at the age of nine, especially for a kid who is very fond of H’s.
Her teacher brought back the report to her after she finished reviewing it so my daughter could make corrections. And she told E that the word she wrote, “whore,” was a bad word and she needed to change the spelling. E, who, courtesy of another kid in her class, is well versed in George Carlin’s list of dirty words, but whore was a new one to her. So she asked her teacher what it meant. (Really, the story could end there if you knew the teacher. I’ll give you the brief version. She is a spinster woman from the northern part of Sri Lanka, and she is about my daughter’s height. And she blinks a lot.) Her teacher thought for a moment and said, “It is not a nice word. It is an impolite lady.”
E told me about her wore/whore mistake over dinner, and I snorted over the impolite lady bit.
“Well, it means a bit more than an impolite lady,” I said to E.
“What does it mean, then?” she asked me.
“You remember when we talked about sex?” I asked her. Yes, we have had that conversation, and it is a story for another day.
“Yes.” E looked at me with the big eyes.
“Well, sometimes, when a man isn’t married, he might still want to have sex. And a whore, she is a woman who, um, the man pays her money to have sex with her.” E thought about that for a moment. “It’s not a very nice thing to call someone,” I told her, “And there are a couple of other words for the same thing. One of them is prostitute. Or a slut. Have you ever heard those words?”
“Nope, but I have now,” E answered.
It was a banner day. Not only did she learn she was a lousy speller from her teacher, but then she came home and learned a couple more swear words from me. I am so glad I am arming her for the day when she uses them against me. Why worry about what bad words she will learn at school when I can teach them to her myself? I gave homeschooling a whole new meaning.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Bless Her Heart!
My daughter S has had a rough year, health wise. By most accounts, she appears to be a normal, healthy seven year old. She is a little taller than her classmates, no thanks to me, and she does have a booty that would make J Lo jealous. But other than that, she is like the other kids. Except this year, she has had a string of incidents and episodes that seem to be coming too frequently to be coincidental.
She started with her spectacular tumble down the stairs, which resulted in a sprained ankle and an assortment of bruises. She looked more like a college student after a rough weekend than a first grader. After a few days of limping around and a note from me excusing her from running laps, she stopped milking it and resumed normal activity.
On the heels of that, she developed a mystery virus. She had a normal fever, not brain cooking high, but she had delusions. She woke up from her bad dreams confused and screaming, raving about a big machine that destroyed my bedroom, which somehow she felt she caused. The next morning was no better, when she awoke to the cats, the two we normally have, but somehow she hallucinated a room of them, coming after her. By the time I took her to the doctor that day, her fever had broken and she was fine.
No sooner was that over when she broke her finger playing goalie at her second soccer game. That resulted in three weeks of her wearing a splint on her finger, along with three weeks of her asking me if she could take the splint off her finger. I am pretty sure there was a week and a half in there of me telling her to put the splint back on her finger.
We took a trip to the beach while her finger was recuperating, and on the way home from that, she puked all over herself in the back seat, during a repeat viewing of the library’s copy of “Mary Poppins.” I doubt she was the first kid to throw up all over a library DVD, but it was certainly the first time one of my kids did it. At least she threw up on herself and not the actual DVD player, but we still had one of those episodes where the entire family stood on the shoulder of the highway, screaming at each other while the puking child stands in her underwear, crying, with vomit tinged mucus running down her face. Normally we pass one of those families and think, Suckers. Not that day. I don’t know if she ate something bad or had a stomach bug, but she was the only one who got sick, and it only happened once. It is possible that delicious bacon and cheddar croissant was too much to handle that day.
Did I mention she is also afflicted with plantar warts? She would kill me for telling you this, but she has two warts on her foot, just like her sister did a few months ago. Lucky for me, I kept the unused portion of ridiculously expensive genital wart cream her pediatrician prescribed, which came in individual daily doses that my husband somehow managed to make last for a month. When I took off her band-aid off last night, it took all the skin surrounding the wart with it, leaving what looks like a wart castle teetering over a shallow moat of ripped flesh. Only worse than that.
This past weekend, we took a family hike on a misty morning. She loved it, climbing up the slopes, skipping up the trail. She didn't love it so much when she tripped over a tree root and landed hard on her knee, skinning and bruising it. I didn't love it either when she cried at the top of her lungs for the rest of the hike.
Yesterday, she woke up with an angry stye in the corner of her eye. It is red and inflamed and itchy and streaky. I have washcloths at the ready to soak in hot water and press over that pustule, trying to relieve some of her discomfort. So far, it’s not working that well, but I figure there isn’t much else that can be done, and quite frankly, I am tired of paying her pediatrician to tell me what I already know.
So, is it a fluke? Is she having a bad streak, or is her immune system compromised? Am I overreacting, or is she just a little klutzy? I try to remain optimistic, but I am at the point where I am ready to buy a giant plastic hamster ball for her. I am just a phone call away from ordering enough bubble wrap to make her a protective suit, and I am pretty sure I can find those astronaut diapers online somewhere.
She started with her spectacular tumble down the stairs, which resulted in a sprained ankle and an assortment of bruises. She looked more like a college student after a rough weekend than a first grader. After a few days of limping around and a note from me excusing her from running laps, she stopped milking it and resumed normal activity.
On the heels of that, she developed a mystery virus. She had a normal fever, not brain cooking high, but she had delusions. She woke up from her bad dreams confused and screaming, raving about a big machine that destroyed my bedroom, which somehow she felt she caused. The next morning was no better, when she awoke to the cats, the two we normally have, but somehow she hallucinated a room of them, coming after her. By the time I took her to the doctor that day, her fever had broken and she was fine.
No sooner was that over when she broke her finger playing goalie at her second soccer game. That resulted in three weeks of her wearing a splint on her finger, along with three weeks of her asking me if she could take the splint off her finger. I am pretty sure there was a week and a half in there of me telling her to put the splint back on her finger.
We took a trip to the beach while her finger was recuperating, and on the way home from that, she puked all over herself in the back seat, during a repeat viewing of the library’s copy of “Mary Poppins.” I doubt she was the first kid to throw up all over a library DVD, but it was certainly the first time one of my kids did it. At least she threw up on herself and not the actual DVD player, but we still had one of those episodes where the entire family stood on the shoulder of the highway, screaming at each other while the puking child stands in her underwear, crying, with vomit tinged mucus running down her face. Normally we pass one of those families and think, Suckers. Not that day. I don’t know if she ate something bad or had a stomach bug, but she was the only one who got sick, and it only happened once. It is possible that delicious bacon and cheddar croissant was too much to handle that day.
Did I mention she is also afflicted with plantar warts? She would kill me for telling you this, but she has two warts on her foot, just like her sister did a few months ago. Lucky for me, I kept the unused portion of ridiculously expensive genital wart cream her pediatrician prescribed, which came in individual daily doses that my husband somehow managed to make last for a month. When I took off her band-aid off last night, it took all the skin surrounding the wart with it, leaving what looks like a wart castle teetering over a shallow moat of ripped flesh. Only worse than that.
This past weekend, we took a family hike on a misty morning. She loved it, climbing up the slopes, skipping up the trail. She didn't love it so much when she tripped over a tree root and landed hard on her knee, skinning and bruising it. I didn't love it either when she cried at the top of her lungs for the rest of the hike.
Yesterday, she woke up with an angry stye in the corner of her eye. It is red and inflamed and itchy and streaky. I have washcloths at the ready to soak in hot water and press over that pustule, trying to relieve some of her discomfort. So far, it’s not working that well, but I figure there isn’t much else that can be done, and quite frankly, I am tired of paying her pediatrician to tell me what I already know.
So, is it a fluke? Is she having a bad streak, or is her immune system compromised? Am I overreacting, or is she just a little klutzy? I try to remain optimistic, but I am at the point where I am ready to buy a giant plastic hamster ball for her. I am just a phone call away from ordering enough bubble wrap to make her a protective suit, and I am pretty sure I can find those astronaut diapers online somewhere.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Final Moments
Yes. I wrote about squirrels again. All I'm saying is there are a lot of squirrels around here. Be glad I didn't take a photo of it and post it here.
I saw something driving home today that almost made me cry. It involved squirrels, so I could not be entirely sympathetic, but a little squirrel-sized piece of my heart did break. A freshly killed squirrel lay in the road, face down. It was not still twitching, but rather, very still, and seemed peaceful in its final repose. It was not yet flattened. Guts were not spilling out of its little slack mouth. It was your average non-graphic dead squirrel.
What was different was the living squirrel that repeatedly ran into the road, seemingly saddened and confused by its exceedingly sedentary compadre. The living squirrel kept darting up to the victim, looking nervously about, shooting back to the curb, then again sidling next to the body. I couldn’t help but imagine what the living squirrel would say, if I were speaking for it.
Alive Squirrel: “Hurry up, Joe! I think we can make it! Follow me!” Alive Squirrel sprints across the street, thinking Dead Squirrel is right behind. Alive Squirrel jumps on the curb. “Whew, Joe. We did it!” He says, panting hard, his palms resting on his squirrel thighs. Alive Squirrel looks over his shoulder and sees Dead Squirrel, in the road, dead. “Noooooo! Say it ain’t so, Joe! They got you! I can’t believe they got you!” Alive Squirrel tears at his fur, dropping to his knees. “Ah, damn you! Damn you all to hell!”
And scene.
Or maybe it was more like this.
Alive Squirrel: “Come on Mary. I think we can make it.” He runs in front, making it across the street to the curb. “See, Mary, I told you we could…Oh, Mary! My sweet Mary! Dear God in heaven, have you no mercy?” Alive Squirrel rushes back to Dead Squirrel’s side. “Mary, don’t leave me. Hang on, don’t leave the children. We need you, Mary, we all need you.” Alive Squirrel cradles Dead Squirrel’s head in his lap. “Don’t leave us. We can’t make it without you, Mary.” He shakes his fist at the sky. “Dear God, dear God, why hast thou forsaken me??”
And scene.
Here’s a third possibility.
Alive Squirrel: “Nuts! Nuts on the other side! Follow me! Nuts for everyone!” Alive Squirrel hurtles across the road. He makes it. Dead Squirrel doesn’t. And dies. Alive Squirrel looks back at his ex-fellow rodent, lying face down in the road. He skitters toward the body, poking it with his paw. “Nut? No, that’s no nut.” He looks up quickly, his shifty eyes on the nearby yard. “Oh, look, there’s a nut.” And he scampers away.
Like I said, I almost shed a tear. Sniff, sniff.
I saw something driving home today that almost made me cry. It involved squirrels, so I could not be entirely sympathetic, but a little squirrel-sized piece of my heart did break. A freshly killed squirrel lay in the road, face down. It was not still twitching, but rather, very still, and seemed peaceful in its final repose. It was not yet flattened. Guts were not spilling out of its little slack mouth. It was your average non-graphic dead squirrel.
What was different was the living squirrel that repeatedly ran into the road, seemingly saddened and confused by its exceedingly sedentary compadre. The living squirrel kept darting up to the victim, looking nervously about, shooting back to the curb, then again sidling next to the body. I couldn’t help but imagine what the living squirrel would say, if I were speaking for it.
Alive Squirrel: “Hurry up, Joe! I think we can make it! Follow me!” Alive Squirrel sprints across the street, thinking Dead Squirrel is right behind. Alive Squirrel jumps on the curb. “Whew, Joe. We did it!” He says, panting hard, his palms resting on his squirrel thighs. Alive Squirrel looks over his shoulder and sees Dead Squirrel, in the road, dead. “Noooooo! Say it ain’t so, Joe! They got you! I can’t believe they got you!” Alive Squirrel tears at his fur, dropping to his knees. “Ah, damn you! Damn you all to hell!”
And scene.
Or maybe it was more like this.
Alive Squirrel: “Come on Mary. I think we can make it.” He runs in front, making it across the street to the curb. “See, Mary, I told you we could…Oh, Mary! My sweet Mary! Dear God in heaven, have you no mercy?” Alive Squirrel rushes back to Dead Squirrel’s side. “Mary, don’t leave me. Hang on, don’t leave the children. We need you, Mary, we all need you.” Alive Squirrel cradles Dead Squirrel’s head in his lap. “Don’t leave us. We can’t make it without you, Mary.” He shakes his fist at the sky. “Dear God, dear God, why hast thou forsaken me??”
And scene.
Here’s a third possibility.
Alive Squirrel: “Nuts! Nuts on the other side! Follow me! Nuts for everyone!” Alive Squirrel hurtles across the road. He makes it. Dead Squirrel doesn’t. And dies. Alive Squirrel looks back at his ex-fellow rodent, lying face down in the road. He skitters toward the body, poking it with his paw. “Nut? No, that’s no nut.” He looks up quickly, his shifty eyes on the nearby yard. “Oh, look, there’s a nut.” And he scampers away.
Like I said, I almost shed a tear. Sniff, sniff.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Good Fortune
I wanted to write about what happened this weekend, because now I find it funny. It certainly wasn't funny at the time, and due to reasons which would be obvious to all of you if you knew what I was talking about, I am not at liberty to discuss the event. So instead, I thought I would treat you to some of the fortune cookie fortunes I found in my purse when I cleaned it out yesterday afternoon, while my kids watched "Ratatouille." I did in fact prefer cleaning out my purse to watching that dull movie again. And I am sharing the benefits with you, the reader. I shall post them in no particular order, mostly because I am not anal retentive enough to sort them. Just deal with it.
I don't know if this referred to a UFO or the guy filling my water glass.
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(You will live a long life and eat many fortune cookies.)Or else.
(Only the prepared speaker deserves to be confident.)
Amen to that. Not so much funny, but definitely true.
(Your life will be happy and peaceful.)
I don't know if cookies should bring you this level of peace. After some wicked good chicken with garlic sauce, this one did the trick.
(You have an unusual equipment for success, use it properly.)
I'm still working on this one. I don't think it involves a pole or interpersonal skills.
(A huge fortune at home is not as good as money in use.)
This one seems more timely now with the economic crisis than when I actually ate the cookie.
(God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another.)
This either applies to my two faces or my multiple personalities. Or perhaps my proclivity to refer to myself in the royal "We."
(An alien of some sort will be appearing to you shortly!)
I don't know if this referred to a UFO or the guy filling my water glass.
(You will live a long life and eat many fortune cookies.)
Friday, May 8, 2009
Splint: $5.99, Co-pay: $20, BelievingYour Parents: Priceless
Both my daughters are playing soccer this spring, which is funny because they are together two of the most non-athletic, uncoordinated children you’ve ever seen. They come by it naturally. I have broken seven of my own ten toes in various clumsy acts, one of which I like to refer to as “chronic terminal stubbing.” Their father once broke his arm most impressively while killing a roach. Clearly, we are not making any Mia Hamms in this gene pool.
So it should come as no surprise that one of the girls has already suffered a soccer-related injury. S, who is renowned for her frequent tumbles down the stairs, was playing goalie at her last soccer game. She has already let one ball roll right past her, forgetting that the magic of playing goalie was the ability to use her hands. When the next kick sent the ball her way, she reached right out and stopped it. We all cheered. S looked at me and said, “My finger hurts.” She came over to us and sat down, holding up her right pinkie for us to see. It looked much like a finger should. And she wasn’t crying. We offered her something to drink, and she went back in and finished the game, not as a goalie this time, but rather as one of those kids who kind of runs in circles and never quite gets close enough to kick the ball. I don’t know what position it is, but that’s okay, because never did she, nor did any of her team.
With her game finished, she might have mentioned again in passing about her finger hurting, but it was time to eat lunch. W Then later, when my other daughter played her game, S went searching for caterpillars in the trees, bringing them back on a stick, naming them good caterpillar names like Sticky and Callie and my favorite, Fasty. She got bored with her livestock and again mumbled about her finger hurting. I told her we would get some ice for it when the game was finished.
After E’s game ended, we went home, took showers, and watched some of a movie. And periodically, S would say something about her hurt finger. No tears. No moaning. No sign for worry.
Until about 4:00, when she said, “Mom, my finger still really hurts.”
“Let me take a look at it,” I told her. She waved it in my face. Holy crap! Her finger had turned thirty different shapes of purple and was about three times the size of the other fingers sharing the hand. It looked like a Vienna sausage that had been left out in the sun for two days. “I think it might be broken. K, come take a look at it.”
My husband shuffled over and peered at the pinkie. “It’s probably just sprained. Fingers get jammed all the time. Can you move it?” he asked S. She tried, but with all the swelling, it wasn’t too movable.
“Do you think we should go to the ER?” I asked in my worried mom voice.
“What for?” he said. “They don’t do anything for pinkies. I’ll look online and see what it says.”
Like most people in the modern age, my husband takes more stock in what Dr. Google has to say than an actual live doctor. Especially if it kept us out of the emergency room on a Saturday night. I decided to call the pediatrician to confirm our choice to not examine the pinkie, while S wandered into the other room to practice piano. About the time I spoke with the nurse is when finally, the crying started.
“Has she been crying like this all day?” the nurse asked me pointedly.
“No,” I replied. “Just since I made her practice piano.”
Dr. Google recommended icing and a finger splint, and the nurse didn’t say anything we wanted to hear, so we moseyed over to the CVS and found what I could only assume was a toe splint, the perfect size for a 7 year old pinkie. We splinted her, gave her Motrin, and considered it fixed.
The next day, while visiting the girls’ grandparents, S showed off her shiny pinkie splint, which we had taken to calling her robot finger. “K, you ought to x-ray that at your office,” my father in law said. Did I mention my husband is a dentist? Well, he is. And while he does not have x-ray vision, something I know he yearns for, he does have access to the next best thing. We left my in-law’s house and drove straight to his office. K got everything set up and took out a couple of bitewing x-ray films, you know, the ones that irritate the crap out of the side of your cheeks as you hold still with that metal ray gun cone pointed at your head. He positioned S’s finger on the counter, a bitewing film underneath it, and aimed his x-ray cylinder pointing straight down above it. We all skedaddled out of the room and K zapped her picture. Then he repositioned her finger for a side view, and did it again. The girls raided the treasure drawer of free kids’ dental crap like tattoos and bouncy balls while we waited for the x-rays to develop. K popped them on the light box, and lo and behold, we had two one inch square x-rays of a pinkie. Luckily, there was no Frankenstein crack running along the bone, so we congratulated ourselves for not over reacting and went home to get ready for bed.
Later, as I tucked S in and kissed her good night, she said to me, “Mommy, can you please take me to the doctor tomorrow? “
“Is it bothering you worse, baby?” I asked her.
“No, I just want someone who knows what they’re doing to look at it.”
After dropping E off at school in the morning, S and I went to see the doctor. We had our bitewing finger x-rays with us, finger splinted in its metal casing, when we went back to the exam room.
When Dr. P came in the room, he took one look at the sleeve of x-rays and said, “What’s that?”
“Oh, those are her x-rays,” I said smugly for being so thoughtful and prepared, like it was a college entrance exam instead of a physical one.
He stared at them for a minute. He looked back at me. “They’re kind of small.”
“Yes, well, my husband is a dentist.” I told him.
He looked at me some more. Then he shook his head slightly. He picked up the films and peered at them, holding them up to the fluorescent light overhead. He looked back at me again. “Do you mind standing?” He asked me.
I stood up, and Dr. P grabbed my chair and put it directly under the fluorescent light. Then he stood on the chair and held the x-rays right up to the light again. “It’s a finger!” he announced. He examined it some more, then said to me, “See right here, by the top joint? That’s where it’s broken.” He handed it to me and I pretended to see what he was talking about. “Mmm hmmm, I think you’re right,” I said.
“Well, it looks like you just need to splint it, S.” He picked up her right hand. “Where’d you find such a tiny splint?”
“CVS,” I announced proudly.
He took the splint off her finger and moved her bruised pinkie, flexing and bending it. “Looks like no ligament damage. It still moves well. S, you need to wear that splint for about two weeks. After that, you should tape it for another week, and then we’ll see how it feels.” He put the splint back on her. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. “ He patted her back, friendly-like.
“Could you please tell her that her parents did the right thing, Dr. P?” I asked.
“They did,” he said, addressing my daughter, who still looked skeptical.
We are on week two of finger splinting. Piano practice is difficult, as is any homework, washing hands, or carrying lunchboxes. Luckily, the broken finger doesn’t interfere with her ability to play with toys, sleep, eat chips, hold hands, carry the cat, or surprisingly, play soccer. But she does refuse to be goalie again.
So it should come as no surprise that one of the girls has already suffered a soccer-related injury. S, who is renowned for her frequent tumbles down the stairs, was playing goalie at her last soccer game. She has already let one ball roll right past her, forgetting that the magic of playing goalie was the ability to use her hands. When the next kick sent the ball her way, she reached right out and stopped it. We all cheered. S looked at me and said, “My finger hurts.” She came over to us and sat down, holding up her right pinkie for us to see. It looked much like a finger should. And she wasn’t crying. We offered her something to drink, and she went back in and finished the game, not as a goalie this time, but rather as one of those kids who kind of runs in circles and never quite gets close enough to kick the ball. I don’t know what position it is, but that’s okay, because never did she, nor did any of her team.
With her game finished, she might have mentioned again in passing about her finger hurting, but it was time to eat lunch. W Then later, when my other daughter played her game, S went searching for caterpillars in the trees, bringing them back on a stick, naming them good caterpillar names like Sticky and Callie and my favorite, Fasty. She got bored with her livestock and again mumbled about her finger hurting. I told her we would get some ice for it when the game was finished.
After E’s game ended, we went home, took showers, and watched some of a movie. And periodically, S would say something about her hurt finger. No tears. No moaning. No sign for worry.
Until about 4:00, when she said, “Mom, my finger still really hurts.”
“Let me take a look at it,” I told her. She waved it in my face. Holy crap! Her finger had turned thirty different shapes of purple and was about three times the size of the other fingers sharing the hand. It looked like a Vienna sausage that had been left out in the sun for two days. “I think it might be broken. K, come take a look at it.”
My husband shuffled over and peered at the pinkie. “It’s probably just sprained. Fingers get jammed all the time. Can you move it?” he asked S. She tried, but with all the swelling, it wasn’t too movable.
“Do you think we should go to the ER?” I asked in my worried mom voice.
“What for?” he said. “They don’t do anything for pinkies. I’ll look online and see what it says.”
Like most people in the modern age, my husband takes more stock in what Dr. Google has to say than an actual live doctor. Especially if it kept us out of the emergency room on a Saturday night. I decided to call the pediatrician to confirm our choice to not examine the pinkie, while S wandered into the other room to practice piano. About the time I spoke with the nurse is when finally, the crying started.
“Has she been crying like this all day?” the nurse asked me pointedly.
“No,” I replied. “Just since I made her practice piano.”
Dr. Google recommended icing and a finger splint, and the nurse didn’t say anything we wanted to hear, so we moseyed over to the CVS and found what I could only assume was a toe splint, the perfect size for a 7 year old pinkie. We splinted her, gave her Motrin, and considered it fixed.
The next day, while visiting the girls’ grandparents, S showed off her shiny pinkie splint, which we had taken to calling her robot finger. “K, you ought to x-ray that at your office,” my father in law said. Did I mention my husband is a dentist? Well, he is. And while he does not have x-ray vision, something I know he yearns for, he does have access to the next best thing. We left my in-law’s house and drove straight to his office. K got everything set up and took out a couple of bitewing x-ray films, you know, the ones that irritate the crap out of the side of your cheeks as you hold still with that metal ray gun cone pointed at your head. He positioned S’s finger on the counter, a bitewing film underneath it, and aimed his x-ray cylinder pointing straight down above it. We all skedaddled out of the room and K zapped her picture. Then he repositioned her finger for a side view, and did it again. The girls raided the treasure drawer of free kids’ dental crap like tattoos and bouncy balls while we waited for the x-rays to develop. K popped them on the light box, and lo and behold, we had two one inch square x-rays of a pinkie. Luckily, there was no Frankenstein crack running along the bone, so we congratulated ourselves for not over reacting and went home to get ready for bed.
Later, as I tucked S in and kissed her good night, she said to me, “Mommy, can you please take me to the doctor tomorrow? “
“Is it bothering you worse, baby?” I asked her.
“No, I just want someone who knows what they’re doing to look at it.”
After dropping E off at school in the morning, S and I went to see the doctor. We had our bitewing finger x-rays with us, finger splinted in its metal casing, when we went back to the exam room.
When Dr. P came in the room, he took one look at the sleeve of x-rays and said, “What’s that?”
“Oh, those are her x-rays,” I said smugly for being so thoughtful and prepared, like it was a college entrance exam instead of a physical one.
He stared at them for a minute. He looked back at me. “They’re kind of small.”
“Yes, well, my husband is a dentist.” I told him.
He looked at me some more. Then he shook his head slightly. He picked up the films and peered at them, holding them up to the fluorescent light overhead. He looked back at me again. “Do you mind standing?” He asked me.
I stood up, and Dr. P grabbed my chair and put it directly under the fluorescent light. Then he stood on the chair and held the x-rays right up to the light again. “It’s a finger!” he announced. He examined it some more, then said to me, “See right here, by the top joint? That’s where it’s broken.” He handed it to me and I pretended to see what he was talking about. “Mmm hmmm, I think you’re right,” I said.
“Well, it looks like you just need to splint it, S.” He picked up her right hand. “Where’d you find such a tiny splint?”
“CVS,” I announced proudly.
He took the splint off her finger and moved her bruised pinkie, flexing and bending it. “Looks like no ligament damage. It still moves well. S, you need to wear that splint for about two weeks. After that, you should tape it for another week, and then we’ll see how it feels.” He put the splint back on her. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. “ He patted her back, friendly-like.
“Could you please tell her that her parents did the right thing, Dr. P?” I asked.
“They did,” he said, addressing my daughter, who still looked skeptical.
We are on week two of finger splinting. Piano practice is difficult, as is any homework, washing hands, or carrying lunchboxes. Luckily, the broken finger doesn’t interfere with her ability to play with toys, sleep, eat chips, hold hands, carry the cat, or surprisingly, play soccer. But she does refuse to be goalie again.
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