I am just coming to terms with last Wednesday. And I had a whole long weekend to recover from it.
It started with the guy who came over to adapt my new grill from propane to natural gas. My awesome electrician's son had planned to come do it (and that's some good eye candy), but an unanticipated rewire of a house in midtown and the crap weather of last week made it impossible for him to come by. The electrician, though, didn't want to leave me in a lurch (imagine that, gardener!) and sent a colleague over.
The colleague, though really really nice, kinda hit me by surprise. First off, he was struck by a motorcycle when he was stranded on the side of the road, which left him half-paralyzed a year ago. So, he's still got a substantial hitch in his giddy-up. Two, he brought his chihuahua with him. I was concerned about his steadiness on my uneven driveway and patio. I would have felt terrible if the motorcycle accident had paralyzed him, but my lawn furniture had finished him off. Second, who brings a chihuahua with to hook up a grill?
Clearly, I had no business playing with natural gas (I really need my eyebrows) but I hadn't planned on supervising the whole modification procedure. Two hours gone.
Then, I head off to school for the 3rd, yes 3rd, Thanksgiving celebration of the week. Yes, Virginia, the Pilgrims ate Froot Loops and DID drink Capri Sun out of foil pouches during the first Thanksgiving. You got a problem with that?
THEN, I had to go to the girlie doctor for my annual TSA-style check up. Which, of course, provoked all the usual questions pertaining to my mortality. Especially: if 40 is the new 30, then why do I need a mammogram now? Do the girls not know they are ten years younger than they were a generation ago? Ugh. Although seeing all the mothers-to-be in the waiting room with their babydaddies always gives me a chuckle. There was this woman sitting with her mom-to-be folder cooing over every prenatal milestone with her man beside her: "AWWW. Look what the baby can do at 18 weeks. AWWWWWWWW at 22 weeks. AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW at 28 weeks."
Meanwhile, I'm playing on my iphone because sitting in the waiting room listening to mellow music and doing the online crossword puzzle is the first calm I've had all day. I'm thinking, "wait 'til you get a load of what they do during week 312, lady! I'll give you a hint: it involves permanent markers, hot wheels, and your new upholstery. Sucker."
I'm all proud of myself as the woman with the mature uterus until the nurse asks me to get up on the scale. What kind of sadism is this doctor practicing? And, why, oh why, on my health history questionnaire is there a box to tick off if I wear my seat belt? SEAT BELTS? This is how we assess my quality of life? Do I smoke? Do I drink? Do I wear a seat belt?! For real? How about the box where I check that I do all three. At once. Or if I eat vegetables occasionally. Or if I eat fried foods at every meal. Nope. Seat belts=how seriously you take your health.
After finally escaping with an ego feeling its age and my girlie parts excessively lubed up, I head for the boys' friends' houses. Very nice friends have picked up my kids from school and taken them home to play. Unfortunately, said friends live on opposite ends of the universe. I stop in at the grocery and head to midtown to Friend #1.
Friend #1 is the most optimistic, good natured soul. EVER. It's just really beyond belief how upbeat and positive she is. TOTALLY unlike me. I just sit back in awe, thinking she should be in a zoo or something. Where's the cynicism? The angry humor? The wry and insulting sarcasm?
I have groceries in my trunk, and I walk into her (immaculate) house and agree to chat. But, time gets away from me. I realize I've imposed for nearly an hour while Friend #2 has S at her house. ACK! I rush out and half-drive, half text Friend #2. (And the doctor thinks a seat belt is important. Hah!)
EXCEPT. I accidentally text Friend #1 the message intended for Friend #2. Fortunately, Friend #1 is (as mentioned earlier) perfect, so I had nothing nasty to say, but was a bit frazzled at the mix-up nonetheless.
Now, I'm driving in holiday traffic, panicked, and trying to retext Friends 1 and 2 to clarify the mistake.
Blessedly, Friend #2, KH is the most laid back mom ever. She has boys and babies and chaos and seems remarkably sober and well adjusted depsite it. She called and offered to keep S overnight. Which is AWESOME, since it would have taken several more hours in that traffic to get to her house anyway. She's laughing at my texting gaffe. Her LOL comes through as actual laughing.
Finally, I got home. E and M and I wolf down our belated dinner and chillax in front of the TV. I refuse to tell M of the texting debacle since he is anti-text anyway. Around 10, KH calls me. S wants to come home.
I get BACK in my car, which I have been in for a substantial part of the day, and head off to pick up S. Who has been keeping KH's household up for hours. I apologize, pick up my kid, and head home.
Finally. It's 10:30 and everyone's asleep. I thought of my new scripts (Hooray! Chemical sanity!) to console me and my girls for their medical trauma. I faded into sleep and dreamed of more awkward texting scenarios, wondering if perhaps wearing a seat belt is really my best option.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
This post rated G for Gross
A couple of weeks ago, we had to take S back to the gastroenterologist for his bi-annual check up. And the whole thing is a clustercuss.
For one thing, the pediatrics specialty offices affiliated with the university are located in an old hospital. So, upon walking in, everything seems kind of normal, if labyrinthine, but soon everything gets kinda weird.
The reception desk is the old nurses' station. It's a giant counter. The waiting room is two old hospital rooms combined. And the actual patient rooms are hospital rooms. So, they are relatively huge compared to normal clinic rooms. They all have bathrooms. Plus, they're under-furnished. Big, old, tiled hospital rooms with one little exam table, a series of cubbies with GI information, and a hard wooden chair to wait in. The whole effect is something like Cuckoo's Nest meets The Shining.
Which really starts to mean something when I tell you we wait at this doctor's office forever. Every time. This time it was an hour and 45 minutes. And then we really start to feel like we're Jack Nicholson.
For one thing, the pediatrics specialty offices affiliated with the university are located in an old hospital. So, upon walking in, everything seems kind of normal, if labyrinthine, but soon everything gets kinda weird.
The reception desk is the old nurses' station. It's a giant counter. The waiting room is two old hospital rooms combined. And the actual patient rooms are hospital rooms. So, they are relatively huge compared to normal clinic rooms. They all have bathrooms. Plus, they're under-furnished. Big, old, tiled hospital rooms with one little exam table, a series of cubbies with GI information, and a hard wooden chair to wait in. The whole effect is something like Cuckoo's Nest meets The Shining.
Which really starts to mean something when I tell you we wait at this doctor's office forever. Every time. This time it was an hour and 45 minutes. And then we really start to feel like we're Jack Nicholson.
So, the doctor is asking me all these questions about S's eating habits, pooping habits, growth, etc. etc. We go through the same questions every time. Every time, I remind the doctor that with the exception of my mother, my family are tall. I would be tall if not for spinal surgery. M's brother is crazy tall. S's brother is crazy tall. Tall is something we do. Except for S. So, his 12th percentile is really more significant than at first blush, since the rest of us are in the 75 or above.
So, we go over all of this again, and he gives S a cursory physical examination. He palpates some poop. Reminds me to go back to giving S Miralax daily. Urgh.
After a couple of days on the Miralax, I feel bad for poor S. He's gone from Jack Johnson, all Sittin' Waitin' Wishin' to Paul McCartney, a Man on the Run, as it were. And we're supposed to be checking the evidence and keeping mental notes of how it all, um, comes out.
A couple of notes about that: we have issues with the boys forgetting to flush. So, telling S to wait and not flush is counter intuitive to the goals of a sanitary house. Second, I am not a connoisseur of pooh. It all looks like pooh. And I have no burning desire to inspect it. I leave the pooh inspection to labs on walks and techs in labs.
But, hilariously, we have a chart to measure the pooh. And all I can think of is that stupid pooh character from a really dumb Canadian animated show about Terrence and Phillip, or was it South Park? I dunno. Here's the chart, anyway, in case you need/want to check your pooh:
You need to strive for #4, if you're wondering. And, Bristol, wherever you are now: Thank you for your AMAZING contribution to medicine. Without this chart, all would be lost.
Pooh Inspection has worn thin on me, so I have taken to shouting at S when I hear him race off to the potty:
Are you in the potty?
-yes
Are you going poop?
-yes
Is it regular?
-yes
Did it hurt?
And, my son, bless him, even he has a shred of privacy and doesn't shout everything through the rooms of our house for all to hear, screams back:
STOP ASKING ME POOP JEOPARDY QUESTIONS!!
Ooh. Soorry. The correct answer should be phrased as a question.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Das Auto
I heart leasing vehicles. Because that makes today the happiest day for the next 3 years and 36,000 miles:
Julie: Keeping the economy afloat since 1975.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The Physics of Parenting
As far as I understand physics, which is not very far, current theories abound on alternate dimensions, alternate realities, wormholes through mulitidimensional spaces, the possibility that our reality is merely a hologram, and a space/time continuum that can be disrupted with a flux capacitor.
Very intelligent people with very advanced degrees and brains much bigger than mine are probing the universe both vast and miniscule for proof of these ambitious theories. I, however, have found proof.
Yes, it's true. I know that you're thinking, "J, I've seen you try to calculate a tip at lunch. There is no way you have solved the enormous mysteries of the universe."
But, I have seen and heard with my own senses the reality of an alternate universe. For real. And people, that universe is beautiful.
First, let me explain the players in our universal dilemma:
Reality A: That is the reality I know. It's the reality in which my friends here exist, the planar dimension in which children, laundry, discipline, homework, and all other trappings of mortal life exist.
Reality B: This reality has accidentally intruded upon my reality. This is the reality for people without children who live in real cities, have disposable income and free time.
Wormhole: The cell phone, equipped with the flux capacitor, with which I am able to communicate with Reality B.
Holographic Me: HM. The person on the other end of the flux capacitor cell phone. Sounds a lot like my younger, married, blissfully childless sister.
Now, the first blip, if you will, of the space/time continuum between Realities A and B occurred last week. HM contacted me through the Wormhole and asked what I wanted for Christmas. Christmas? That's like 2 Reality A months away! Nobody in Reality A is thinking that far ahead. Reality A people have dug their claws in and are just trying to survive effing Halloween. Clearly, Reality B time accelerates much faster than ours.
The next blip occurred three days after the conversation with HM. A box arrived on my doorstep. Was this UPS man MY UPS man? Was he a Reality A UPS man? Or was he the John Connor of UPS men? Was he a messenger not of material goods, but of space and time itself?!?
Upon opening the box, I found a gorgeous Williams-Sonoma salt-keeper made of hand polished Italian olive wood. This very item was what I told the HM I wanted for Christmas. Holy shit!! HM is sending me my wishes from an alternate dimension.
Yesterday, another box arrived from HM. It was a very appropriate, hip and well-fitting sweater for M. HM had processed my request for clothing for my husband and sent it through the wormhole device through the personage of the intergalactic UPS man? Things were indeed getting seriously cool.
THEN. This conversation. Between me and HM through the Wormhole. all the evidence in the Reality A that another reality clearly exists.
HM: You said your kids needed pj's for Christmaskah. (wow. HM even knows my hybrid holidays)
Reality A Me: Yes. PJ's are things that children on our planet sleep in.
HM: Yes. I am in Target. In the boys' section. I see pj's. I need to know what size your boys are.
RA Me: S is XS. E is M. Thank you!?!
HM: E likes this Bakugan (buh-KU-gun) thing, no?
RA Me: Yes. It is called BAK-u-gan. I don't really understand it, but it appears to be something Earthlings his age are playing with.
HM: Target has these bak-u-GAN pjs here. They seem to be navy with some kind of bomb thingys all over the pants.
RA Me: Oh, yah. He has those. Weird. Those exist in your universe, too? Perhaps they have Phineas and Ferb pjs in his size. His brother already has the Phineas and Ferb ones, but E would probably like them, too.
HM: What are you saying? Fin YAY us and Fur?
RA Me: Sorry, the Wormhole connection must not be clear. Phineas and Ferb. It's a cartoon series.
HM: How would I recognize this Finny and Fur pj?
RA Me: Phineas and Ferb. There's a ninja fighting platypus on the front.
HM: Now you're just messing with me. You can't just put random words in order and make a sentence. You must use proper, sensical words in my universe.
RA Me: No, for real. His name is Agent P. The pants have his nemesis on them. Jewish looking dude in a lab coat? His name is Dufenshmirtz. Wanna hear his theme song?
HM: Seriously. I am looking for pajamas. I do not know what the hell you are talking....oh, shit. Look at that! I found the Ninja platypus. Part mammal, part reptile, entirely effed up.
RA Me: Yes, and my son tells me that the male platypus has a poisonous spur on his hind food. Seriously strange. But I digress.
HM: OK. I have the Finny Furry pjs. Now, what about the other son? They have something here with animated cars that talk and have eyeballs instead of headlights?
RA Me: No. Those aren't cool anymore.
HM: Does S want the Backy gan pjs?
RA Me: No. S hates Bakugan. (Why can HM not learn this word?!?) What else do they have?
HM: It appears as though there are Star Wars characters made out of....Lego pieces?
RA Me: Yes! PERFECT. He loves Lego Star Wars.
HM: There were no Legos in Star Wars. Also, what is this creature that looks like a lizard? What is a Clone Wars?
RA: Yes. We call it cross marketing. Lego has recreated the entire Star Wars Universe in Lego pieces. They sell the kits for bazillions of our monetary units. Also, George Lucas created another episode of the Star Wars saga with animated aliens to expand the time between the young Jedi Anakin's training and his rebirth as Darth Vader. I think the lizard thing you see might be Ahsoka. Is it female?
HM: What the @#(*() are you talking about?
RA Me: Actually, that was way nerdier than I anticipated. Yes, get the Lego-ized animated alien pajamas. That will make son #2 happy.
HM: Great. These are only like $12. Their Christmas shopping is done, too. I'll go over to the Lego store and pick up a couple of those kits.
RA Me: YOU HAVE AN ENTIRE LEGO STORE!?!? S would explode with happiness.
HM: Yes, it's right next door to Banana Republic.
RA Me: YOU HAVE BANANA REPUBLIC?!?! I would explode with happiness.
I love your universe.
HM: I've been shopping for like 3 hours. I'm almost done with my Christmaskah list.
RA Me: But how did you shop with the kids whining and bitching and touching and begging to go home?
HM: Don't have 'em. Don't want 'em. I'm done. I'll drop these things in the mail tomorrow. Bye.
RA Me: (left staring at the Wormhole) Woah. No kids. Banana Republic. Amazing. Christmas shopping all done in peace and quiet? Woah. *Shiver*
It's humbling, people. It's a big universe. And CLEARLY, there is intelligent life out there.
Very intelligent people with very advanced degrees and brains much bigger than mine are probing the universe both vast and miniscule for proof of these ambitious theories. I, however, have found proof.
Yes, it's true. I know that you're thinking, "J, I've seen you try to calculate a tip at lunch. There is no way you have solved the enormous mysteries of the universe."
But, I have seen and heard with my own senses the reality of an alternate universe. For real. And people, that universe is beautiful.
First, let me explain the players in our universal dilemma:
Reality A: That is the reality I know. It's the reality in which my friends here exist, the planar dimension in which children, laundry, discipline, homework, and all other trappings of mortal life exist.
Reality B: This reality has accidentally intruded upon my reality. This is the reality for people without children who live in real cities, have disposable income and free time.
Wormhole: The cell phone, equipped with the flux capacitor, with which I am able to communicate with Reality B.
Holographic Me: HM. The person on the other end of the flux capacitor cell phone. Sounds a lot like my younger, married, blissfully childless sister.
Now, the first blip, if you will, of the space/time continuum between Realities A and B occurred last week. HM contacted me through the Wormhole and asked what I wanted for Christmas. Christmas? That's like 2 Reality A months away! Nobody in Reality A is thinking that far ahead. Reality A people have dug their claws in and are just trying to survive effing Halloween. Clearly, Reality B time accelerates much faster than ours.
The next blip occurred three days after the conversation with HM. A box arrived on my doorstep. Was this UPS man MY UPS man? Was he a Reality A UPS man? Or was he the John Connor of UPS men? Was he a messenger not of material goods, but of space and time itself?!?
Upon opening the box, I found a gorgeous Williams-Sonoma salt-keeper made of hand polished Italian olive wood. This very item was what I told the HM I wanted for Christmas. Holy shit!! HM is sending me my wishes from an alternate dimension.
Yesterday, another box arrived from HM. It was a very appropriate, hip and well-fitting sweater for M. HM had processed my request for clothing for my husband and sent it through the wormhole device through the personage of the intergalactic UPS man? Things were indeed getting seriously cool.
THEN. This conversation. Between me and HM through the Wormhole. all the evidence in the Reality A that another reality clearly exists.
HM: You said your kids needed pj's for Christmaskah. (wow. HM even knows my hybrid holidays)
Reality A Me: Yes. PJ's are things that children on our planet sleep in.
HM: Yes. I am in Target. In the boys' section. I see pj's. I need to know what size your boys are.
RA Me: S is XS. E is M. Thank you!?!
HM: E likes this Bakugan (buh-KU-gun) thing, no?
RA Me: Yes. It is called BAK-u-gan. I don't really understand it, but it appears to be something Earthlings his age are playing with.
HM: Target has these bak-u-GAN pjs here. They seem to be navy with some kind of bomb thingys all over the pants.
RA Me: Oh, yah. He has those. Weird. Those exist in your universe, too? Perhaps they have Phineas and Ferb pjs in his size. His brother already has the Phineas and Ferb ones, but E would probably like them, too.
HM: What are you saying? Fin YAY us and Fur?
RA Me: Sorry, the Wormhole connection must not be clear. Phineas and Ferb. It's a cartoon series.
HM: How would I recognize this Finny and Fur pj?
RA Me: Phineas and Ferb. There's a ninja fighting platypus on the front.
HM: Now you're just messing with me. You can't just put random words in order and make a sentence. You must use proper, sensical words in my universe.
RA Me: No, for real. His name is Agent P. The pants have his nemesis on them. Jewish looking dude in a lab coat? His name is Dufenshmirtz. Wanna hear his theme song?
HM: Seriously. I am looking for pajamas. I do not know what the hell you are talking....oh, shit. Look at that! I found the Ninja platypus. Part mammal, part reptile, entirely effed up.
RA Me: Yes, and my son tells me that the male platypus has a poisonous spur on his hind food. Seriously strange. But I digress.
HM: OK. I have the Finny Furry pjs. Now, what about the other son? They have something here with animated cars that talk and have eyeballs instead of headlights?
RA Me: No. Those aren't cool anymore.
HM: Does S want the Backy gan pjs?
RA Me: No. S hates Bakugan. (Why can HM not learn this word?!?) What else do they have?
HM: It appears as though there are Star Wars characters made out of....Lego pieces?
RA Me: Yes! PERFECT. He loves Lego Star Wars.
HM: There were no Legos in Star Wars. Also, what is this creature that looks like a lizard? What is a Clone Wars?
RA: Yes. We call it cross marketing. Lego has recreated the entire Star Wars Universe in Lego pieces. They sell the kits for bazillions of our monetary units. Also, George Lucas created another episode of the Star Wars saga with animated aliens to expand the time between the young Jedi Anakin's training and his rebirth as Darth Vader. I think the lizard thing you see might be Ahsoka. Is it female?
HM: What the @#(*() are you talking about?
RA Me: Actually, that was way nerdier than I anticipated. Yes, get the Lego-ized animated alien pajamas. That will make son #2 happy.
HM: Great. These are only like $12. Their Christmas shopping is done, too. I'll go over to the Lego store and pick up a couple of those kits.
RA Me: YOU HAVE AN ENTIRE LEGO STORE!?!? S would explode with happiness.
HM: Yes, it's right next door to Banana Republic.
RA Me: YOU HAVE BANANA REPUBLIC?!?! I would explode with happiness.
I love your universe.
HM: I've been shopping for like 3 hours. I'm almost done with my Christmaskah list.
RA Me: But how did you shop with the kids whining and bitching and touching and begging to go home?
HM: Don't have 'em. Don't want 'em. I'm done. I'll drop these things in the mail tomorrow. Bye.
RA Me: (left staring at the Wormhole) Woah. No kids. Banana Republic. Amazing. Christmas shopping all done in peace and quiet? Woah. *Shiver*
It's humbling, people. It's a big universe. And CLEARLY, there is intelligent life out there.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Conspiracy Theory
They're out to get me. It's a plot. A conspiracy. An evil league of evil doers completely set on two things and two things alone: making me insane and destroying my worldly posessions.
Shhhh. They'll hear me. I don't want them to know that I am on to them. They might attack in a new way. Do you think they can read this? Are they online now, watching me?
M made a paper boat for them on Sunday. They set it out to sail on the pool. Naturally, it got wet. S turned it into a wadded ball and put purple marker on it while it was still wet. He threw it up on to the ceiling where it stuck like a spitball. Until I got it down. But it left a purple stain on the ceiling.
See what I mean? That clearly can't happen without tremendous foresight and evil planning? How did they convince M to make the paper ship? How did they know? How did S know to use purple marker instead of yellow or some other slightly less conspicuous color? How did he know to throw it up on the ceiling directly over the TV so that I notice it every time I sit down?
They must have been planning. For a long time.
How did they know that leaving sticky lollipop residue on the cabinets would cause navy lint from their uniform shorts to adhere and leave dark, sticky mess all over my cabinets? How many experiments did they secretly run to determine the stickiest adhesive? The most obvious color of lint?
I think I am being regularly drugged while they conduct their experiments. It's why there are never enough hours in the day...I'm telling you...
Shhh. They're right here. Watching. Always watching.
I just want my theory to be written down. Just in case something (else) happens to me. So there's a record. I think they just put something in my drink...EUYHRIKLFWEUISQWUI#*#(&@$
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Shhhh. They'll hear me. I don't want them to know that I am on to them. They might attack in a new way. Do you think they can read this? Are they online now, watching me?
M made a paper boat for them on Sunday. They set it out to sail on the pool. Naturally, it got wet. S turned it into a wadded ball and put purple marker on it while it was still wet. He threw it up on to the ceiling where it stuck like a spitball. Until I got it down. But it left a purple stain on the ceiling.
See what I mean? That clearly can't happen without tremendous foresight and evil planning? How did they convince M to make the paper ship? How did they know? How did S know to use purple marker instead of yellow or some other slightly less conspicuous color? How did he know to throw it up on the ceiling directly over the TV so that I notice it every time I sit down?
They must have been planning. For a long time.
How did they know that leaving sticky lollipop residue on the cabinets would cause navy lint from their uniform shorts to adhere and leave dark, sticky mess all over my cabinets? How many experiments did they secretly run to determine the stickiest adhesive? The most obvious color of lint?
I think I am being regularly drugged while they conduct their experiments. It's why there are never enough hours in the day...I'm telling you...
Shhh. They're right here. Watching. Always watching.
I just want my theory to be written down. Just in case something (else) happens to me. So there's a record. I think they just put something in my drink...EUYHRIKLFWEUISQWUI#*#(&@$
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Monday, October 18, 2010
Turkeys, crows, chickens and other birds
Have you been wondering about where I've been? I know you're missing me and the shining light of humor I bring to you every morning.
I have been sucked into the vortex of the iphone. I haven't been online with my computer since I got it. I have turned into one of those antisocial freaks peering into the nanoscreen of my iphone to get my news, email, weather, world-goings on, games, entertainment and life resources in general. Sad, but true.
Even in the fog of technology, however, I did enjoy the company of my family, however briefly.
S came home with a good story last week. At school, they played a variation of capture the flag. Only I guess they play it with a rubber chicken?! When S's team won, he demonstrated the score with his fingers: one to zero. He was crowing about his team's success, and I suspect he was probably not exhibiting the best of sportsmanship.
However, instead of using pointer man to illustrate one, he used tall man. And for those of you without kids, that means he gave the losing team the finger.
After regaling us with the victorious tale of capturing the chicken, and his flaunting of the score, we asked him why he used his middle finger instead of his pointing finger.
He says, ever so nonchalantly, "I flipped them the bird."
Why, yes you did, young man. "Do you know what that means?"
No. But just like a chicken, you know, bird?
Hmm. Yes. Indeed. However, in our culture, flipping some one the bird is a really obscene thing to do. It's like saying a dirty word. Like, sometimes when you want to curse or swear at some one and maybe they can't hear you, you can say the obscene message with your middle finger.
Like f#$( you?
Exactly. (How lovely that my child can just blurt out that sentiment). Pointing the middle finger is like saying f&^* you. In fact, it is saying that without using words. Everyone in our culture understands that gesture to mean f&*^ you.
Hmmm.
Now, I feel as though I have armed little S. Not only with knowledge (I am sure he's heard the expression like a million times) that he can share with his mini cohorts; but also with a certain power. It's kind of alarming. Like having a small nuclear device in the trunk of your car.
Let's hope he uses his new found power for good, rather than evil. Although he has been so mischievous lately, it would not surprise me at all for him to get caught flipping the bird at another losing squad. But, also it would not surprise me at all for him to look up at the disciplinarian with wide, pathetic eyes a la Puss in Boots from Shrek, and say, who, me? I was just showing them the score. How could THAT be naughty?
That kid is trouble. f#$%
I have been sucked into the vortex of the iphone. I haven't been online with my computer since I got it. I have turned into one of those antisocial freaks peering into the nanoscreen of my iphone to get my news, email, weather, world-goings on, games, entertainment and life resources in general. Sad, but true.
Even in the fog of technology, however, I did enjoy the company of my family, however briefly.
S came home with a good story last week. At school, they played a variation of capture the flag. Only I guess they play it with a rubber chicken?! When S's team won, he demonstrated the score with his fingers: one to zero. He was crowing about his team's success, and I suspect he was probably not exhibiting the best of sportsmanship.
However, instead of using pointer man to illustrate one, he used tall man. And for those of you without kids, that means he gave the losing team the finger.
After regaling us with the victorious tale of capturing the chicken, and his flaunting of the score, we asked him why he used his middle finger instead of his pointing finger.
He says, ever so nonchalantly, "I flipped them the bird."
Why, yes you did, young man. "Do you know what that means?"
No. But just like a chicken, you know, bird?
Hmm. Yes. Indeed. However, in our culture, flipping some one the bird is a really obscene thing to do. It's like saying a dirty word. Like, sometimes when you want to curse or swear at some one and maybe they can't hear you, you can say the obscene message with your middle finger.
Like f#$( you?
Exactly. (How lovely that my child can just blurt out that sentiment). Pointing the middle finger is like saying f&^* you. In fact, it is saying that without using words. Everyone in our culture understands that gesture to mean f&*^ you.
Hmmm.
Now, I feel as though I have armed little S. Not only with knowledge (I am sure he's heard the expression like a million times) that he can share with his mini cohorts; but also with a certain power. It's kind of alarming. Like having a small nuclear device in the trunk of your car.
Let's hope he uses his new found power for good, rather than evil. Although he has been so mischievous lately, it would not surprise me at all for him to get caught flipping the bird at another losing squad. But, also it would not surprise me at all for him to look up at the disciplinarian with wide, pathetic eyes a la Puss in Boots from Shrek, and say, who, me? I was just showing them the score. How could THAT be naughty?
That kid is trouble. f#$%
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Crazy like a fox
I took Clooney to the vet yesterday. He's been licking and chewing at his skin for weeks now, and it's to the point that he's driven to distraction by itching.
I didn't go to the regular vet. The regular vet is the guy who gives rabies shots, flea repellent, heart worm prevention. The regular vet is the guy who has giant posters of anatomical cross sections illustrating cat's urinary systems and dog's inner ear. The regular vet has Milk Bones in a jar and rewards Fido for a nice, passive inspection process. The regular vet has an office with technicians and is, you know, regular.
I went to Dr. Apocalypse. Dr. Smoke and Mirrors, Dr. Magic Wand, Dr. Pixie Dust. Dr. Pixie Dust has NO pharmaceutical-sponsored diagrams. Dr. PD has a bag of Purina with a skull and crossbones drawn on it. Dr. PD has a Milk Bone Box with the nuclear waste icon. Dr. PD's office is like going into a palm reader's lair. Walking through the door suspends all disbelief. Walking through the door transfixes you, engages you, and absolutely renders everything you hear in that examination room compelling, factual and completely plausible. Despite the fact that there's a 50-50 chance Dr. Pixie Dust is a quack.
A few things about Dr. PD--he is an actual DVM. He got his degree at Auburn. (Which, for the record, has an excellent animal health program) He is by and large sane in his appearance. It's what he says that is alternately paranoid bat-shit crazy and completely and totally true.
In his examination room, I listen to what he has to say (and he DOES have a lot to say) and I think about the world, the toxins humans pour into it every day, and the new "science" of food. Then, I pay my bill, go outside and see the bright, shining light of day, and think, "nah. That was nuts."
We first visited Dr. PD when we got Clooney. He gave us his lecture on the four horsemen of the Apocalypse: milk, wheat, soy and corn. Not what you were expecting, eh? He explained that these products should not be in dog food, and are inserted in various amounts to add volume cheaply. These foods, he very rationally told us, are toxic to dogs, and to humans (a big leap, yes. But WAY beyond the purview of this blog right now) and that we need to feed the dog limited ingredient foods developed by such noteworthy dog-food companies as Dick Van Patten (of Eight is Enough. I wish I were making this up.) These food brands include such non-traditional combinations as salmon and sweet potato, bison and potato, duck and rice, elk and sweet potato.
I swear to God, every time I bought that bag of food, I laughed. In what Universe was a 12 pound dog, with only a faint genetic wisp of wolf left in his DNA meant to eat ELK? I mean is there anything funnier than the image of Clooney, long (well-maintained) hair blowing in the breeze like Fabio, chasing down a herd of elk, culling out the weak, and bringing one down with a swift leap and fierce bite to the throat?
Honestly, I am laughing now, just describing it.
After a while, Clooney grew bored? Ill? Intolerant? to the Dick Van Patten food. I went back and bought an alternate brand, whose name I can never recall, but whose bag looks much like a tampon/Masengill ad. The packaging offers water color renderings of open prairies, deer and bear standing harmoniously together, fish jumping in the stream. It's like Snow White's menstrual cycle, illustrated. Clooney ate this brand with enthusiasm for weeks.
But then. The Itch.
Poor Clooney. He has been itchy and licky and miserable. Without exaggeration, he will sit and lick his feet (a notorious sign of allergy or skin irritation) for more than an hour at a time. I'm thinking to myself, I'm feeding the Masengill food, what more could be wrong with this poor dog? I then started reading about environmental allergens. Did you know that some dogs are allergic to GRASS?
OK. That does make the fantasy of Clooney hunting the elk even more comedic. Now he is sneezing uncontrollably as he's stalking the herd.
Maybe Clooney, in all the generations of tinkering that have been done to his genes, suffers from grass allergy. What the hell, Dr. PD probably knows about this.
I go in to Dr. PD. Without examining the dog, he begins his diatribe. I intervene early, not wanting to listen to the litany of ailments caused by corn gluten. (And there is a list, by the way.) I proudly announce that I feed my dog Masengill dog food, fresh non-municipal water, offer him no treats or human food, and bathe him only in unscented, unperfumed oatmeal based baby shampoos.
AHA! I must be the perfect client for Dr. PD! I think for SURE I am going to get a quick rundown of what to do and be out the door.
Wrong. He begins to tell me about the cellular process of allergy. About mast cells, and histamines and leukotrienes, and nano-charges of cells. I start to have flashbacks to our first visit. We had this little puppy and got a huge lecture about food, and the dog fell asleep, and M swears he fell into a corn-gluten-induced coma. And we all left the office shaking our heads and thinking this guy was a nut job. Until we bought conventional, non-Masengill brand dog food and the dog barfed non-stop for a week, developed a yeast infection in his ear, and developed malaise unlike any puppy should have. We tried the Dick Van Patten stuff within a week, and voila! Perfect Puppy. Crap. Hate it when the nutjob is right.
So, back to the current appointment. I blacked out for a while during the part about nanovolts of human cells and free radicals. But then he said something that started to resonate: this has been the worst allergy summer for humans and animals in the past 15 years. (This is documented fact, per the news) during the oil spill, hundreds of thousands of gallons of dispersant were sprayed over the gulf. This highly volatile dispersant, in Dr. PD's opinion, evaporated readily, was absorbed into the high humidity air over Mobile and, at the molecular level, has created poor air quality and stimulated everyone's allergy responses.
OK. STOP. I know. Bazillions of quantity of air in the world. Relatively small quantity of toxic crap. True. I get it. But, pollen levels are unusually low this year. AND, when my parents came, my mother's allergies went into hyperdrive. AND, government air quality standards have consistently identified Mobile's air as fair to poor all summer. AND, who trusts the government or BP to tell us what REALLY went on this summer? Perhaps the dispersants are the equivalent of thousands of poorly-maintained diesel trucks driving around? I'm just saying. It's possible right?
In the end, Dr PD suggested I make Clooney home cooked meals for 5 days to see if the licking stops. If the licking stops, we can start examining the food for triggers to the itching. If the licking doesn't stop, we can try a drug for 5 days to see if the licking is externally caused. If the licking stops then, we wait for the heat and humidity to die down along with the quantity of pollutants in the air.
Oh, fine. You're right. In the light of day, this all sounds like nonsense and insanity. It's like recounting a dream you had to some one and you realize that describing a monkey in a wizarding outfit offering you a telephone made of cheez-its really doesn't do justice to the strangeness of the dream, but instead makes you sound like a raving lunatic. I'm just saying.
If the dog stops licking, I'm going to let you know.
Because Dr. PD will be promoted to Grand Poobah of the Pixie Dust and I will begin following his advice on EVERYTHING. Except maybe fluoride. Fluoride HAS to be good for you, right? Seriously. Doesn't it? Right?
I didn't go to the regular vet. The regular vet is the guy who gives rabies shots, flea repellent, heart worm prevention. The regular vet is the guy who has giant posters of anatomical cross sections illustrating cat's urinary systems and dog's inner ear. The regular vet has Milk Bones in a jar and rewards Fido for a nice, passive inspection process. The regular vet has an office with technicians and is, you know, regular.
I went to Dr. Apocalypse. Dr. Smoke and Mirrors, Dr. Magic Wand, Dr. Pixie Dust. Dr. Pixie Dust has NO pharmaceutical-sponsored diagrams. Dr. PD has a bag of Purina with a skull and crossbones drawn on it. Dr. PD has a Milk Bone Box with the nuclear waste icon. Dr. PD's office is like going into a palm reader's lair. Walking through the door suspends all disbelief. Walking through the door transfixes you, engages you, and absolutely renders everything you hear in that examination room compelling, factual and completely plausible. Despite the fact that there's a 50-50 chance Dr. Pixie Dust is a quack.
A few things about Dr. PD--he is an actual DVM. He got his degree at Auburn. (Which, for the record, has an excellent animal health program) He is by and large sane in his appearance. It's what he says that is alternately paranoid bat-shit crazy and completely and totally true.
In his examination room, I listen to what he has to say (and he DOES have a lot to say) and I think about the world, the toxins humans pour into it every day, and the new "science" of food. Then, I pay my bill, go outside and see the bright, shining light of day, and think, "nah. That was nuts."
We first visited Dr. PD when we got Clooney. He gave us his lecture on the four horsemen of the Apocalypse: milk, wheat, soy and corn. Not what you were expecting, eh? He explained that these products should not be in dog food, and are inserted in various amounts to add volume cheaply. These foods, he very rationally told us, are toxic to dogs, and to humans (a big leap, yes. But WAY beyond the purview of this blog right now) and that we need to feed the dog limited ingredient foods developed by such noteworthy dog-food companies as Dick Van Patten (of Eight is Enough. I wish I were making this up.) These food brands include such non-traditional combinations as salmon and sweet potato, bison and potato, duck and rice, elk and sweet potato.
I swear to God, every time I bought that bag of food, I laughed. In what Universe was a 12 pound dog, with only a faint genetic wisp of wolf left in his DNA meant to eat ELK? I mean is there anything funnier than the image of Clooney, long (well-maintained) hair blowing in the breeze like Fabio, chasing down a herd of elk, culling out the weak, and bringing one down with a swift leap and fierce bite to the throat?
Honestly, I am laughing now, just describing it.
After a while, Clooney grew bored? Ill? Intolerant? to the Dick Van Patten food. I went back and bought an alternate brand, whose name I can never recall, but whose bag looks much like a tampon/Masengill ad. The packaging offers water color renderings of open prairies, deer and bear standing harmoniously together, fish jumping in the stream. It's like Snow White's menstrual cycle, illustrated. Clooney ate this brand with enthusiasm for weeks.
But then. The Itch.
Poor Clooney. He has been itchy and licky and miserable. Without exaggeration, he will sit and lick his feet (a notorious sign of allergy or skin irritation) for more than an hour at a time. I'm thinking to myself, I'm feeding the Masengill food, what more could be wrong with this poor dog? I then started reading about environmental allergens. Did you know that some dogs are allergic to GRASS?
OK. That does make the fantasy of Clooney hunting the elk even more comedic. Now he is sneezing uncontrollably as he's stalking the herd.
Maybe Clooney, in all the generations of tinkering that have been done to his genes, suffers from grass allergy. What the hell, Dr. PD probably knows about this.
I go in to Dr. PD. Without examining the dog, he begins his diatribe. I intervene early, not wanting to listen to the litany of ailments caused by corn gluten. (And there is a list, by the way.) I proudly announce that I feed my dog Masengill dog food, fresh non-municipal water, offer him no treats or human food, and bathe him only in unscented, unperfumed oatmeal based baby shampoos.
AHA! I must be the perfect client for Dr. PD! I think for SURE I am going to get a quick rundown of what to do and be out the door.
Wrong. He begins to tell me about the cellular process of allergy. About mast cells, and histamines and leukotrienes, and nano-charges of cells. I start to have flashbacks to our first visit. We had this little puppy and got a huge lecture about food, and the dog fell asleep, and M swears he fell into a corn-gluten-induced coma. And we all left the office shaking our heads and thinking this guy was a nut job. Until we bought conventional, non-Masengill brand dog food and the dog barfed non-stop for a week, developed a yeast infection in his ear, and developed malaise unlike any puppy should have. We tried the Dick Van Patten stuff within a week, and voila! Perfect Puppy. Crap. Hate it when the nutjob is right.
So, back to the current appointment. I blacked out for a while during the part about nanovolts of human cells and free radicals. But then he said something that started to resonate: this has been the worst allergy summer for humans and animals in the past 15 years. (This is documented fact, per the news) during the oil spill, hundreds of thousands of gallons of dispersant were sprayed over the gulf. This highly volatile dispersant, in Dr. PD's opinion, evaporated readily, was absorbed into the high humidity air over Mobile and, at the molecular level, has created poor air quality and stimulated everyone's allergy responses.
OK. STOP. I know. Bazillions of quantity of air in the world. Relatively small quantity of toxic crap. True. I get it. But, pollen levels are unusually low this year. AND, when my parents came, my mother's allergies went into hyperdrive. AND, government air quality standards have consistently identified Mobile's air as fair to poor all summer. AND, who trusts the government or BP to tell us what REALLY went on this summer? Perhaps the dispersants are the equivalent of thousands of poorly-maintained diesel trucks driving around? I'm just saying. It's possible right?
In the end, Dr PD suggested I make Clooney home cooked meals for 5 days to see if the licking stops. If the licking stops, we can start examining the food for triggers to the itching. If the licking doesn't stop, we can try a drug for 5 days to see if the licking is externally caused. If the licking stops then, we wait for the heat and humidity to die down along with the quantity of pollutants in the air.
Oh, fine. You're right. In the light of day, this all sounds like nonsense and insanity. It's like recounting a dream you had to some one and you realize that describing a monkey in a wizarding outfit offering you a telephone made of cheez-its really doesn't do justice to the strangeness of the dream, but instead makes you sound like a raving lunatic. I'm just saying.
If the dog stops licking, I'm going to let you know.
Because Dr. PD will be promoted to Grand Poobah of the Pixie Dust and I will begin following his advice on EVERYTHING. Except maybe fluoride. Fluoride HAS to be good for you, right? Seriously. Doesn't it? Right?
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