My Maniacal Misfit Menagerie

What's a sit up?

2017-07-06T19:11:00.005-04:00

Today, I learned the true definition of love. Not that Romeo and Juliet crap my daughter has recently tried selling us all on. I'm talking hard-core, unconditional love. You know, like the kind a mother has for her child. You may recall I told you my youngest was going to be playing Pop Warner football in the fall? Well starting in August he begins strength and conditioning. In his previous sporting endeavors, he's been more interested in the playing side than the practice and drill sessions. My older son is the opposite; complaining if he doesn't get a balance of play time and practice/coaching time. In an effort to try and make this sport work for him, I've come to realize that he will need to be comfortable with the sheer physicality that will be required for him to get through August. So today, I started training with him. Actually, training may be an overly generous term for our sessions.
Having no real idea what his "strength and conditioning" might actually be, I turned to the all-knowing internet for an answer. We found a program that on the surface looks very reasonable. It's from a group called youthfootballonline.com. The regimen consists of high knees, push ups, mountain climbers, pull ups, tuck jumps, and sit-ups. The suggestion is that you do each of the exercises for 20-45 seconds in succession with rest in between, for 2-5 circuits total. Since neither one of us are fitness gurus, I thought it would be prudent to start slow. We agreed to pick 2 exercises to start with, and add one each time we "train". I picked sit-ups, and he picked high knees. It seemed like a great place to begin.
Before we began, I had an errand to run, so I asked if he wanted to come along. Dick's Sporting goods has a rewards program and one of the ways you can earn rewards is by hitting your daily step target each day. (As you might imagine, we go through a fair deal of sporting goods in this household.) Always the thinker, my son suggested that we walk the pond area while we were there. An excellent idea. We did a couple of laps for a total of 1.67 miles. It was, in my humble opinion, a pretty decent warmup.

Now we were ready to get serious. He tells me that he will need me to hold his feet to do sit-ups. I told him to just do what we used to do and stick his feet under the couch. I wouldn't need to do that, however, as I had long ago mastered the art of the sit-up. Keywords, "long ago." Nature, it seems -- and subsequently her side kick, gravity -- are bitches. I went to do a sit up and much to my surprise, I was floor bound. At best, I managed a sad crunch. Incidentally, the same sound all of my bones made during this activity. Undaunted, I remembered everyone has to start somewhere. My son, meanwhile, is whizzing through sit-ups, presumably trying not to laugh at me. Do you know how long 45 seconds is? Apparently when you're exercising, it's just a titch under an hour. Just before I blacked out, the timer on the phone dinged. "Ding". Time for high knees. They may have started respectably high, but by the time the timer dinged again, they were more like shuffle feets. "Ding". Brief rest. "Ding." Go again. "Ding". And again. "Ding.". Thankfully my phone is in a protective case. It turns out lack of oxygen can make you a little snarky. We made it through 3 circuits before laughter and exhaustion made it necessary to stop.

After a few more household tasks, I suggested we cap the day off with another leisurely stroll. Sort of a greatly delayed warm down period. Almost 4 miles later, I'm pretty sure I really never was meant to be "physically fit". I can't even imagine what this program will be like by the time we're done adding in the other exercises. I sure hope this whole thing is helping him. I'm pretty sure I'll be dead before he ever even puts on his uniform for the first time. Ah, the things we do for love!

No Soup For You!

2017-05-25T20:48:00.000-04:00

So I'm back to my all time favorite task since starting this blog: researching what I'm doing. Throughout my studies one fact becomes glaringly more obvious with every article I read. I have created a Seinfeld blog. That's right. A blog about nothing. Nothing I tell you. All of the information out there tells you how to promote your business through your blog. I have no business. My blog is simply to entertain you all. I'm like a bard. Or perhaps more accurately, a court jester. I'm not trying to promote my fortune 500 company or show off a new product we've just developed here at headquarters. I'm certainly not trying to educate anyone. In fact, I'd like to add a disclaimer here that if you have learned anything, it was purely accidental and not intended. Furthermore, it might be best if you attempt to unlearn anything you accidentally did learn in the reading of said non educational posts.
These professionals suggest informative graphics, guest speakers and panels of experts. What experts would I call upon? I literally have articles - plural - about shit. I've tried not to include colored pictures and informative graphs for those posts. Apparently I should be linking back to specialists to provide you all with more research on the topic. I should ask compelling questions to engage you and get you to leave your comments here. Or perhaps your own pictures and pie charts. "Tell me about a time you had a similar experience." Let it not be said I didn't listen to the advice on the internet, though. A Pie Chart:

By God, we're looking professional now! The numbers are made up and the information is irrelevant, but that's beside the point.
Another great suggestion offered is word count. It seems I should be shooting for 2,000 or more words to optimize my search engine hits. Really? Do you know how many pages that is? Like, 4. I looked it up. 4 pages of nonsense. The last time I did that was in school when we all learned how to play with fonts to make them look normal, when in actuality we were stretching the pages out. I had a mythology class that I wrote 20 pages on the symbolism found in 2 pages of James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake. I am not going to be attempting those kind of shenanigans in my free time, no matter how much I love you all.
So I guess what we're left with is the knowledge that this blog is just going to be its own thing. It clearly doesn't fit into the mold of the rest of the ones out there according to the self proclaimed experts. As long as it entertains you all though, I'll have met my goal. By all means though, feel free to leave your comments and stories here so as to "engage" with these posts!

Not This Sh!t Again

2017-05-23T20:06:00.002-04:00

I knew what kind of day it was going to be at 4 o'clock this morning. Winnie had just crawled back into bed with us and began her routine of getting as close as possible. Just as I noticed a certain odor, a wet paw stepped on my face. Because apparently, some days you step in shit, some days it steps on you. So at 4 o'clock in the morning, I'm in the bathroom giving an angry cat a bath. Ever give a cat a bath? I recommend it at least once before you die. Everyone believes the propaganda that cats have 4 legs. Little known fact: cats are gremlins. That's right. Watch what happens next time you get one wet. First of all, they sprout way more than 4 legs. Each tiny precious kitten foot sheds its retractable nail and is replaced with razor blades. The time/space continuum loses its fluidity; allowing the cat to be simultaneously attacking your arm, wrapped around your face, and half way down your shirt all at the same time. The darling animal you've invited into your home and heart becomes a monster you saw recently in a horror film that brutally murders an entire town. I'm pretty sure I saw fire shoot out of her mouth at one point. Inevitably, the task becomes more about survival than cleanliness.
I suppose I should be thankful it was my face she stepped on and not my husband's. He's far more immune to her charm than I am, and I suspect that delightful act would have seen her banished from the bedroom for the foreseeable future. I cannot imagine a scenario in which he gently scoops her up, pads off to the bathroom and engages in the early morning calisthenics that I enjoyed at dawn.
Once we were both freshly bathed, reasonably dry, and completely pissed off at each other, she seemed mystified at the fact that she had been relegated to the foot of the bed. Of all the things I love most about cats, I think this is my favorite: their unwavering belief that they can do no wrong. They're kind of like hairy toddlers, but more cunning. Its not that they can't be taught or reasoned with, it's that they choose not to be. And yet, humans sign up for this contract by the billions. Some people have more than one of these demons living in their home right now. We buy them toys and fancy treats. Pay more for their health care than our own. The Egyptians even worshiped these heathens. What is wrong with us?
To add insult to injury, she has napped on and off most of the day. After all, she had a tough night. Me? I've been up and running all day. I even capped off the night with a mosquito laden baseball game. Tonight, though? I've learned my lesson. I'm sleeping in a ski mask!

The Making of Frankenstein

2017-05-21T17:07:00.001-04:00

For those of you who follow regularly, you'll be surprised to discover that this post is about Winnie. I know, I know; I hardly ever talk about her. It seems oddly fitting that the member of the family who seems to require the most attention daily should develop her own online following. This blog was never meant to be about her daily antics, and yet it seems to be evolving that way, with other random posts thrown in for good measure.
So as previously stated in other posts, Winnie likes to watch the hummingbirds. And she thinks she's a husky. And she likes to spend many of her waking hours at my side. So I suppose we really all should have seen this coming. With the nice weather, I've been trying to spend as much time as humanly possible outside. Since my vitamin D levels are always so low, I like to say it's doctor ordered. "Sorry, I want to clean the house today, but it's nice out. I should hang out on the patio and sunbathe. Doctor's orders." " Grocery shopping? Eh, sounds like an indoor activity. I'm really supposed to be outdoors." Anything that's really worth doing can be done outdoors. Wolf is also an avid supporter of this idea. He loves to sit on the patio and feel the wind blow through his hair. (If he would ever stop being such a big fat baby and let someone brush his hair, the wind might blow through it even better, but he'll not be convinced of this simple fact, thank you).

So just for fun the other day, we hooked Winnie up to her ferret harness (yes, a ferret harness. We needed a harness small enough for her and at the time, it was all we could find. Plus, she bears an uncanny resemblance to a ferret) and took her outside. She had been outside one previous time. She high stepped through the grass, took a couple of sniffs, and decided the great outdoors was not for her. We should have left it alone. She spent so much time by the back door, we thought we'd be teaching her a lesson. "See? There's nothing interesting out there." Not surprisingly, she taught us. Whatever her initial objections to the great outdoors were, she seems to have gotten over them. She still high steps in the grass. It's a riot to watch. Dandelions are an endless source of wonder and fascination. Bugs? Those are just nature's candies and Winnie is a fearless hunter in the jungle of our backyard. (Before you even ask, she has always had flea and tick treatments. Just because she doesn't go out, doesn't mean that Wolf wouldn't bring creatures to her).

The newly created problem is, that despite Winnie's self supposed street cred, she is an indoor cat. And will remain such. Which sets us up for our new dance called "oooh-I-hear-the-door-I-bet-I-can-get-outside-faster-than-you-can-block-me!" She can magically appear from anywhere in the house to outside the back door in a nanosecond. Yet she still can't catch a fly. I'm not judging, I'm just stating a fact. This game is made exponentially more fun based on the number of items you are juggling in your hands trying to get in or out. A glass of wine = 1 fun point. An entire weeks' worth of groceries? Jackpot! So far the initial shock of winning each round has led her to pause at the backdoor unmoving, as if she can't believe she's won. I'm waiting for the day when it's 1 o'clock in the morning and Wolf goes out for his final pee of the night. I easily envision the components of this game stretching to include me in my pajamas running around in the pitch dark after this fool only to find her cozied up with Wolf's friend the skunk. Because really, that's the only logical conclusion I can see this coming to. And when it does my friends, it doesn't matter where you live. You'll easily hear the end of that story from your livingrooms!

Winnie and the Winged Wonders

2017-05-12T20:14:00.004-04:00

I suppose sooner or later it would come out that I am mildly obsessed with hummingbirds. An impartial observer may say that my obsession is a little bit more than "mild" but we just won't conduct any polls on the matter. I will say that one of our family trips a couple of years ago involved flying out to Arizona for a hummingbird festival. I even got to cross an item off my bucket list - hold a hummingbird in the palm of my hand. I still say that doesn't make me obsessed. It just makes me passionate. Ooh, wait. Interesting. It makes me interesting!

This really all started when I was much younger. Before I had ever even seen an actual hummingbird. I have no idea how it all began. I just remember being fascinated by their diminutive size and their unique flight patterns. By the time I hit my mid twenties, I had experienced an occasional sighting here and there. I vowed if I ever had my own home, I would make it a hummingbird mecca. Think "if you build it, they will come". So when we bought this house nearly 6 years ago I was delighted to discover that the garden at the back of the house had herbs for people, and better still, plants for hummingbirds. It included some plants I had never even heard of. One of my favorite pictures I have ever taken of my birds is a little female feeding on a plant called a Japanese wax bell. I only know this because the good people at my favorite garden spot - Briggs Nursery- identified the flowers from the picture and even special ordered some more for me. (Yes, there are now 3 more of these plants scattered throughout the property, even though initially I thought I didn't like them. Just so you know, I can hear you now. "Yep. Obsessed.")

Slowly I built a garden in the woods for "my babies". As I'm sure you've guessed, merely putting out feeders would not be enough. Our first spring here, the good people of Lowes sent out an idea book which featured this easy to build trellis. Naturally, I just knew my husband was looking for a project. So I suggested (whined until I got my way) that it would be a really sweet birthday project for he and the kids to make me. He happily set out to build this monstrosity and was done in no time at all (Slightly longer than a month. Ish. Also, in thinking about it further, the words he used to describe the unfolding project did not suggest that he was happy at all. More like coerced into a project he didn't have the time for. But this is my memory, so I'll tell it any way I want). I planted a small clipping of honeysuckle which has since blossomed to cover the entire trellis. There's also foxglove, bee balm, weigela, bleeding heart bushes, butterfly bushes and a bunch of other perennials purchased with them in mind. It's a veritable candy store for hummingbirds.

Over the years we've added more and more flowers.After all, we have more and more hummingbirds. This is Winnie's first year as an avid bird watcher. Actually, everything is her first this year. I know for sure and for certain that she is my soul in kitten form. She will sit at the window for hours watching and waiting for them to come to the feeders. Now that the weather is warming up (slightly) we can open the windows so she can listen to them chitter back and forth. She doesn't know this yet, but the bank of windows in the family room provides a great place to watch the males court the females. Its still a little early, so she has yet to see them them do their death dives from way up high to millimeters away from the patio, but I am certain she will be glued to the window when they start. Much like she is now, waiting for them to get their late afternoon snack.

There is a mesh sock by one of the feeders full of Wolf's hair that a wide variety of songbirds have been shopping from for nest building materials. These birds hold only a minor curiosity for Winnie. They aren't built for speed and ready to fight over their favorite feeder. They don't hover right outside the window, taunting her with the fact that she cannot get them. The hummingbirds enjoy her antics almost as much as she enjoys them. Though the windows are several feet tall, she stretches out as high as she can to catch the birds. They know that the screen will prevent her from being successful, but I'm not sure she does. I can only imagine the games that will take place when I finally put the window feeder up.

Once again, it is dusk. While this time of the day at the baseball fields brings about the scary bugs, here it is the final feeding frenzy for the hummingbirds before they go to sleep for the night. Winnie and I will snuggle together on the couch to watch the last of their antics for the day. And tomorrow morning, she will wait patiently for someone to open the curtains so she can start another day of watching her birdies.

Be Still My Heart

2017-05-05T18:37:00.000-04:00

I can finally share a story I've been sitting on for a little over a week. After all, it wouldn't be fair to share it here when I wasn't even telling my kids about it. Some of you may have figured out through these posts or my near constant story telling/picture sharing that I am unreasonably attached to Winnie, our 5 month old kitten (Or, as she was referred to today as, our 26 week old kitten). How can I not be? She never really leaves my side. She often comes running up to me purring excitedly as if it hasn't been a mere 10 minutes since we saw each other last. Pretty sure she likes me more than my husband likes me (to be fair, she hasn't known me nearly as long). So at her vet check up a little over a week ago when the vet heard a murmur and suggested an echocardiogram "just to be safe" I tried to react like a normal human being. I missed normal by a good thousand miles, but I tried. First, I questioned about specific (benign) cardiac abnormalities, prompting her to ask what exactly it was I said I did for a living. When she told me the murmur wasn't likely caused by the same same thing my little preemies are prone to, I admit I started to feel an overwhelming sense of dread. I managed to not google it for several days. Finally, I had to know. I swear, all I typed in was heart murmur in kittens. But you all know Google. It smells fear. They just had to up the ante. They returned a bunch of results for heart murmur in ragdoll kittens. 'Cause, you know, if you're going to be terrified, don't just half ass it. It would seem that ragdoll cats, or floppy cats as they are lovingly referred to as, seem to be genetically predisposed to something called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy (HCM). It's a thickening of the walls of the heart muscle. The more you read, the worse it gets. Needless to say, after reading this, I am now certain that she has this. I am no longer able to comfort myself with the fact that she acts completely normal and healthy. That she is not a purebred ragdoll. She gets plenty of exercise, she eats well, sleeps well, pees fine. That doesn't even register in my mind. Instead, when she curls around my face to sleep, I find myself listening to her breath sounds to see if she's going into heart failure. I have stopped short of busting out my stethoscope and truly listening. So far. Now the echo no longer needs to be done to see if she is cleared for surgery (spaying). It needs to be done to see if I am going to develop cardiac issues.
Our family vet doesn't happen to have a cardiologist on site, so they referred us to an animal hospital nearby. When I called for the appointment, they explained that she would need to be brought in at 10am today. We would go through the ER where she would get a triage exam to make sure she was okay to be kenneled essentially, and then she would be placed into the day's rotation. Typically she would be examined around 11am. Now, I know better, but still I managed to play this out differently in my head. I thought she would have the echo and come home. Nay nay. They wanted her to stay until the cardiologist read the echo and made her recommendations, etc etc. They told me they would probably have results somewhere between 4 and 5pm, at which point I could bring her home. These people clearly did not understand that she had to come to Florida with us in February because we can not be separated like that. Still, with little other choice, I returned home without my fearless sidekick.
Thankfully they called right around 2pm. The kids hadn't really even been home long enough to notice she was missing yet. The cardiologist says its just a benign kitten murmur and she is fine. There is a slight thickening of one of the valves and they recommend a follow up echo in 6-12 months. Right now, though, she is cleared for surgery and all of her daily kitten shenanigans. I was concerned that she would be mad at me, but it seems I am forgiven. As I write, she is curled up next to me right where she belongs.

Coach Class

2017-05-04T19:01:00.001-04:00

Last night was a baseball game night. I want to start by saying that my sons have had the good fortune of having some great coaches. People that love the game, the kids, and volunteer from the heart. I have always been thankful for these people who have been part of the village that has helped us raise them. We all know there's those "other" coaches out there, though. Yesterday, we ran into one. I want to be fair and submit the following disclaimer: I know nothing about this man, his life, or any coaching techniques aside from what I witnessed last night. That being said, he really didn't shine too brightly during that time.
My children will be the first to tell you that it is exceedingly difficult for me to watch a professional game quietly. Thankfully, most of these are seen from the relative obscurity of my livingroom. That does not dissuade me in the least from coaching loudly and occasionally inappropriately. (It took Wolf almost an entire football season to stop being on high alert as I screamed at the TV). I don't yell out specific plays that should have been run, players that should have been fouled, or anything that even remotely suggests that I have more experience/better insight than their current coaches. Rather, it's more of a "Run the damn ball" followed by a lengthy string of expletives. When I am lucky enough to be at games, I try to tone down the more colorful portion of my coaching for the sake of the people sitting next to me. But I still share my views of each play. These are grown ass men who make more money playing that one game than I will make in a year. They can handle it. If not, they can wrap themselves up in their chauffeured cars and cry about it all the way home to their mansions. That is not the case when children are involved.
Our boys were late to the baseball playing experience. They both missed T ball and I would be a bigger liar than any politician if I said I'm sorry to have missed that painful experience. We still had our fair share of the learning years, however. If you've ever watched small kids play, you know that their "at bat" lasts until they hit, or an hour has passed. The coaches during these years have to have the patience of a saint. I used to love when the kids would ask me who won. (Unsolicited parenting tip: the correct answer is NOT "certainly not the people in the stands watching the game." Found that out the hard way). Regardless, they were praised after every game. "Mom! Did you see that hit I got!" "Yes! It was amazing! I am so proud of you!" Now that they are older, though, we lace in some critiques. After all, my older son is playing "big diamond" league now. We say things like "You should work on your fielding a little bit." "You have a great arm, just don't let those balls get by you when you play the outfield." And when they have a phenomenal double play, you better believe we run around telling everyone like they just single handedly won the World Series. As I said, though, they need critique/gentle criticism as they get older or they wont grow. Most parents are aware of this. Most coaches are as well. They yell, cajole and practically turn hand stands to get the best out of their players. They also praise a job well done. What kids don't need is a screaming, raving lunatic hurling insults throughout the entire game. Which brings us to last night.
This was actually a make up game from the night before, where; after watching our coaches run around for an hour trying to dry the field; the umps decided it wasn't safe. That can be a story for another day. So the teams are warming up hoping that tonight they'll actually play. Me? I'm sitting in my car basking in the warmth for as long as I can. If there were horrible interactions during this time, I can only imagine them. As the game is getting ready to start, the umpires call the coaches over to discuss ground rules, what will constitute a home run, etc. Our coaches complied promptly. The other team took their sweet time to even acknowledge the umps. This already raised my hackles because it seemed to be blatantly rude. I decided I was being unnecessarily judgemental. Then the spittle began to fly. From the sidelines Coach Madman began to yell at everyone. His players, other coaches, the umps. By the end of the game he looked like a rabid Jabba the Hutt with foam, sweat and insults flying everywhere. The nicest thing I can say for him is that he seemed to distribute his disdain evenly across the board. Nothing pleased him.
While the scoreboard suggests their team just barely pulled ahead for the win, I'm not so sure they did. Their faces didn't radiate from the glow of a hard fought win. They didn't pack up their gear surrounded by high fives and atta boys. They looked more like war weary soldiers than a winning sports team. I'm sure many of them will go on to play ball in high school and college. There might even be a pro among them. Hopefully, though, if they move on to coaching their children's teams in the future, they'll have had better role models to base their techniques on then what I witnessed last night.

Hush-a-bye

2017-04-29T09:41:00.001-04:00

As I listen to the dulcet sounds of my husband snoring next to me, that sleep number bed commercial keeps playing in my mind. Have you seen this gem? The happy couple gets into bed and he immediately starts snoring. She reaches over to her nightstand, grabs a remote control and gently raises the head of his bed. Like magic, the bastard stops snoring. Moments later, when she also begins to snore, he does the same. I need this bed and its magic remote. But you see, I've been listening to this cacophony a little too long now. I want the deluxe remote. I think you know what I'm talking about. Not the remote that gently lifts the head of the bed. That simply won't be enough here. What I want is the one that catapults him from the bed and flings him across the room. After listening to this for hours, it seems like a satisfying thump from his body hitting the wall is what's really called for here.

To be fair, he has bought a variety of stupid gimmicks in the past to try and help. One was a mouth guard piece. The idea was to keep his tongue down so it didn't occlude his airway or some such nonsense. The science behind it didn't really interest me. I just figured it could be used as a gag if it didn't work as intended. That lasted a hot minute before he "lost it". He must have sensed my intentions and the imminent danger he was in.

The most recent was my favorite. It was a shock collar. Well, really it was a bracelet. The idea was once he got to snoring and snarking and everything else, this device would give him a gentle buzz on the wrist. Just enough to pull him out of sleep to reposition. I swear to God, I did not adjust the zapper strength to electrocute him (though the thought may have crossed my mind). I WILL admit that I found it funny that the sound of Winnie purring could set it off. Or the sound of me laughing at Winnie purring, zapping away at him. I mean, come on. Who wouldn't laugh? Obviously, not my husband. I told you his sense of humor wasn't as keen as mine. You can probably guess how long this little device lasted.

So now I'm left here listening again. For hours. No mouth guard. No zapper. Certainly no deluxe remote. Just Winnie and I glaring angrily at him. Maybe another pillow would help. A nice, soft one. Placed gently over his face. No one would ever have to know...

All the Better to See You With

2017-04-24T22:48:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I went for an eye exam at my local Lens Crafters. I now remember one of the reasons why I haven't been in years. We got there early to fill out paperwork. Luckily, we were early enough to hold the seats in the waiting room down for awhile as well. Fast forward to actually meeting with the doctor. I understand not everyone has a keen sense of humor, but this doctor was special. She started by asking what brought me in. I explained that I was having increased difficulty seeing distances as I was driving and I was having problems reading tiny print. She ingratiated herself to me by reminding me that "once you pass the age of 40, your vision starts to age as well." Now, I know this. Everybody knows this. The issue is, I like the idea of seeing. The appointment continued. She did all the typical eye doctor shenanigans, then concluded with the image killer: you could benefit from bifocals. I can wander around all day long without glasses and I haven't bumped into anything yet. So I tried to salvage my tattered dignity by asking if I would need to wear them all the time. I swear to you, this woman never paused when she said "only when you want to see." I wish I could tell you she was kidding. I'm not sure she was. So she dilates my eyes and sends me back out to the waiting room. Twenty minutes later, we're back for more. She explains to me that though my eyes are painfully dilated and making me nauseous, she needs a really bright light for this part of the assessment. As soon as she is done, she will stop shining the light in my eyes. Trying to add some levity to the situation, I asked if I could just close my eyes. She informs me that if I do that, she wont be able to see. I kid you not. "I won't be able to see."
I know the average person would get their glasses then and there and just be done with the entire process. Pretty sure that was the assumption they were under as well. But if I don't want to wear the glasses in the first place, paying $200 for the frames before I even add the glass to them is not going to make this bitter pill any easier to swallow. So begins the search at my husband's go-to eye glass place: 39dollarglasses.com. This site allows you to take a selfie and "try on" glasses before you buy them. I feel kind of like I'm picking my favorite dental tools for an upcoming root canal. I personally don't understand why the people of Lens Crafters didn't offer me money for NOT putting their poor salespeople through the hell that has become picking out my glasses. All of these glasses are named after male scientists or towns on Long Island. None of them are flattering on me. I have gone back and forth between the same half dozen pair for well over 24 hours now. I hate the glasses. I hate my face. I hate my face in the stupid glasses. "Only when you want to see" she said. Maybe seeing is overrated.
I know the obvious solution is contact lenses. I tried those a couple of different times. Working in hospitals has got to be the driest environment for your eyes. I would come home at the end of the shift and on more than one occasion I had to literally scrape them from my eyes. It was more than a little painful. Also, marginally scary. So we're back to the glasses. If I don't pick a pair soon, my vision will deteriorate even further. So it seems we're going with the family favorite, "teacher". I choose not to even think about the hidden meanings. So here they are. I hope they come with Novocaine.

WTF Am I Doing?

2017-04-21T22:00:00.000-04:00

I know you all are suffering from withdrawal after not having heard from me in DAYS! But there's a couple of reasons. First, and foremost, I've been wrestling with a major ongoing case of drag-ass. What's drag-ass you ask? Surely you jest! That's when your ass is dragging throughout the day and there is no energy for even the simplest things. Its when moving feels as if you have lead weights attached to your limbs and you're running through water. There's also a mental fatigue that usually accompanies it. A brain fog if you will. Imagine if you knew nothing about advanced theoretical physics. I know, this is going to be a stretch for some of you because honestly, EVERYONE knows advanced theoretical physics. But just pretend with me for a minute. What if someone said in a week you needed to take an 82 page exam and get a score of no less than a 97.2% or you would die? You'd study pretty hard. All night and all day. I mean, you can sleep after, right? At the end of a week, with no sleep and an accompanying mental fatigue you would be moving like sludge. That's the drag-ass fatigue of fibro.
Secondly, I've been trying to promote the blog, so that more of the general population can be exposed to the mania that is my daily life. Except, as previously noted, I have no idea what I'm doing. When I first mentioned that, I'm sure you thought I was exaggerating. Nope. And trying to figure it out with a full on brain fog? It really is laugh out loud funny. I read an article. Terms are used that mean nothing to me. I open another window to research the term. Where more terms are used that I don't understand. More windows are opened. More terms are used. More windows. Terms. Windows. Terms. Windows. Agghhh!!! It's a vicious circle. All the while, my stats page shows zero followers. I know its not true. People are signed up for email, they +1 on Google. They run into me and quote lines from my latest post. Still the number shows zero. It messes with my OCD. It taunts me. Relentlessly. Zero.

They even highlight it in blue, those snarky bastards. Most people would think, "Hey 776 pageviews for a blog that's 3 weeks old isn't bad." Well, I think we know I can't claim to be like most people. I am heartened by the fact that my random musings seem to be spreading throughout the world, much like a flesh eating virus.

But let's keep this virus spreading, shall we? We'll need a means of communicating in case the impending zombie apocalypse manifests itself. So sign up for email updates (Don't worry, I wont spam you with my favorite cookie recipes.) Share with your friends. Share with your enemies. Tweet it. Share it on Facebook. And if anybody knows how to get rid of the bleeping blue zero, please leave your comments on this post! Thank you, and good night.

Spinning out of Control

2017-04-19T20:48:00.000-04:00

Today I want to bitch about one of the newest fads my children have taken to like medieval leeches to a person with "the vapors". Spinners. Have you seen these things? They're fantastic. They're marketed under the guise of stress reducing tools. Nay, nay my friends. I don't know what they do for the stress level of the person spinning them, but let me assure you, they can ratchet my anxiety right through the roof. A couple of spins of those things in my car and I develop a nervous tic. Clearly these were invented, not by some well meaning person who works with people suffering from anxiety/ADHD. No. This was invented by someone who hates parents. Possibly teachers. I can't imagine they're too thrilled with these fantastic do hickies either. One of my sons mentioned they were banned in his school. The other one followed it up with "yeah, that's because someone used it like brass knuckles to hit another student." Gee. And for that they banned them? How "unfair and mean" to roughly quote #45.

Don't get me wrong. When used as they are actually intended, I can see a possible benefit for them. A targeted means of fidgeting, which then allows you to focus on the task at hand. I bought my daughter a fidget cube because it gives her a way to channel her anxiety in class so she can focus on the material being presented. I'm simply stating that my children have made an even better game out of some plastic and some ball bearings. It's called Drive Mom Batshit Crazy. Sadly, I fear it's not just a passing fad. For the sake of my sanity, I can only hope that these spinners are!

Sh!t Happens

2017-04-14T18:37:00.002-04:00

This post is actually being written at the request of my coworkers. Plural. More than one asked last night. You'll need a little background to understand, but they assured me that my misery should not be self contained; but rather, placed out into the world for all to enjoy. I'm a special care nursery nurse. I take care of premature and sick babies. Last night my patient assignment consisted of 2 babies. They had feeding tubes in place and would only be attempting to eat by bottle 1 time each for my entire shift. It should have been an easy night. Of course, it wasn't. You see, I've also been dubbed the human laxative. Last night I was having a particularly productive night, much to the unending delight of my loving and supportive colleagues.
In an effort to try and promote growth, especially for our most fragile patients, we try to let the infants sleep, only waking them for care time. That's when we do our assessments, vital signs, feedings, changes, etc. We try and schedule any procedures, lab work and medications around this time as well, giving them 3 hours of straight sleep in between. In an 8 hour shift, we generally have 3 "rounds" of this. Like boxing. Or at least, it is in my case.
Round one. This is generally the round we try to weigh the babies at night. Any full assessments are usually contained in this round as well. Then, if the rest of the night should become crazy with admissions, deliveries, or sick babies, at least you've completed the lion's share of your assignment. I began with the smaller of the 2 babies. She was in an isolette, which is essentially a plastic box with sides that drop down. Small babies are placed in here as we can control the heat, making it as warm as they need. It also serves to dampen the sounds of the nursery, promoting better sleep for the babies we lovingly refer to as feeders and growers. Unless we are taking the babies out, any care is performed through portals (small arm holes) to keep as much heat in as possible. Everything was proceeding as planned. Her assessment was unremarkable, vital signs were fabulous, her milk was heating in the warmer. I was even slightly ahead of schedule. All that was left was to change her, weigh her, and hook up her feeding. I should have known.
Whenever I am teaching a parent to care for their baby, I start by sharing what things I am concerned with and what things I am not. I'll say "Your baby has a tenuously placed IV right here. Try not to wiggle, jiggle, or pull it. Obviously the oxygen works better if she keeps the prongs in her nose. That feeding tube is her 33rd one of the day. She has figured out how to rip it out and it is her new favorite past time. All of these things I want to protect. Mostly everything else on her is stickers and wires sending information to her monitor. Don't worry about those at all. Seriously. They'll get in your way, but they aren't anything I want you to worry about." Then I share what I consider to be the most valuable piece of information I can give these parents. Do not EVER change a dirty diaper without a clean one underneath, just in case. Once you remove the dirty diaper, you have one right there ready to go.
As I prepared to change my tiny cherub, I was ready. I thought. As it turns out, she was more prepared. She shot poop everywhere my friends. Everywhere. All over her bedding, new diaper, old diaper, my gloved hands, and dripping down the walls of her isolette. When I gave report the following morning, I made sure to say that though she was only up 5 grams from the night before, I am certain if I had weighed her one diaper change earlier, her weight gain would have been more significant. I hooked up her feeding and moved on to my second opponent. Uh, I mean, baby. Thankfully, she only felt inclined to pee on the scale. Much more manageable.
Round two. As you may understand, I was now wary of my first baby. One of the nurses who had less feedings than me took pity and offered to do her care for that round. She, of course, emerged unscathed. Feeling like I had dodged a bullet, I moved on to my other friend. I had bottle fed her the round before, so this was going to be a cake walk. She was not in an isolette. There was no protection. None. So committed to her cause was she that she shot over the crib, hitting the floor. This was only appropriate I suppose as my colleagues hit the floor next. While I am standing in the middle of a literal shit storm, these 2 women who are supposed to be the essence of care and concern, are of no help to me with tears streaming down their faces while they laugh at the show I am presenting. Several minutes of the night are lost to the perceived hilarity of the situation. Word spreads quickly throughout maternity and labor and delivery of my nursing prowess. On the bright side, though I had previously scribbled on my notes that the baby's belly was slightly distended, I was now able to cross that off.
Round 3. With just one final round to go, I am now terrified of my tiny charges. Though together they weigh less than the bag I bring to work every night, they have proven to be worthy opponents. They are quick, and they are loaded with high calorie breastmilk. (For smaller babies, we often add calories to their feedings to help them gain weight quicker while still taking small volumes of food). They have proven to have no scruples and seem to now believe it is their sole responsibility to amuse and entertain the women I am working with. I am visibly shaken. I suggest that we place them in the isolation nursery, cover the walls with sheets, and take off their diapers. Have you seen what passes for abstract art these days? I am convinced with creative marketing and an exorbitant price tag, we can sell these pieces and retire on the spot. One nurse suggests we label it as scratch and sniff artwork. I believe a 4D art immersion experience will sell better.
I escape relatively unscathed. Sure, the first one tried to get me again. I just managed to catch it all. I am undecided at this point if my reflexes have picked back up, or if she is slowing down for the night. I do not care. For the safety of the nursery, and perhaps because my coworkers really DO love me just a little, my last baby's feeding is covered by someone else. Again, unremarkably.
So here's to you ladies. May you enjoy laughing now as much as you did in real time! And to the two beautiful babies who kept us so entertained last night, I am back on tonight for the third night with you. For the love of God, show some mercy!

An Ode to Amazon

2017-04-13T21:36:00.000-04:00

Well, okay. Maybe not an ode. That suggests insightful poetry or epic story telling. This is not the place where you'll find that kind of writing. Let's set our sights a little lower. This will be more of an homage. Regardless, I'm not sure how I survived in the pre-Amazon days. I love being able to shop from home. Kids come home with an obscure book they need by the end of the week? Amazon. I know exactly what kind of sheets I want but I most certainly do NOT want to look all over America for them? Amazon. Bra shopping? I'd rather rub shit through my hair. My good friends at Amazon realize this. They even take the time to get to know me. "Based on your previous purchases, we think you might like the following items: ..." I do! I do like those items! Wait a minute. Aren't you linked up to my bank account? Oh Amazon. I'm pretty sure we both know I won't be purchasing any of those suggested items today. Let's create a wish list and call it "Not in this lifetime".
Working third shift and having a crazy sleep schedule makes shopping difficult to begin with. Many days, fibro makes it impossible. After all, if I happen to be awake at 3 in the morning and realize I still haven't purchased a birthday gift (even though its been on my to-do list for the past 3 weeks), what other store will welcome me with open arms and accommodate my weird shopping hours? My buddies at Amazon even have my niece's address saved so they can ship her gifts without my even tearing through my contacts list. "Would you like to ship the Barbie kitchen to this address?" Yes!!!!! I would! How do you know me so well?
Then there's the social aspect. Or rather, the anti-social aspect. Some days I swear my patience is stretched so thin it really isn't a good idea to deposit me in a public place just to see what happens. I'd much rather pay for shipping than bail. And with Amazon Prime, I don't even need to worry about shipping! How many bail bondsmen offer a pay-ahead program? Nevermind. It may be better if I don't know the answer to that. However, Amazon, if you're looking to extend your market, there's an entire market not being tapped into. I'll definitely add that to my wish list.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

2017-04-11T18:05:00.000-04:00

I'm currently at the little league field here in town. Otherwise known as my spring home-away-from-home. My oldest son has been playing baseball for...a long time now. I've lost track of exactly how long. He took a brief hiatus, but I think he regretted it about a week into the season. Since then, we've been here steadily. My youngest did baseball for a couple of years as well. It didn't take long, though, for him to decide that his real passion was soccer. Until is wasn't. I now have until the end of this week to sign him up for pop Warner football. Last fall my husband was waiting for our takeout order to be ready when he struck up a conversation with a member of the New England Patriots. His parting advice was to have "the soccer player switch to football." Who can say whether or not that had any bearing on his decision. But I digress.
I love baseball. Always have. These fields, however, sit in the middle of the Bermuda triangle. If it is 80 degrees in town, its 55 degrees at the field. Sunny all day? Not here. I imagine they do some kind of bug control. Its futile since there are no bugs here. No, there are winged creatures of destruction that the average bug might ride. These insects are big enough to be identified by their various gang tattoos. And they are ornery. Even the birds are afraid of them. On more then one occasion I have found myself cowering on a bleacher, praying it doesn't choose that moment to collapse from old age and fatigue, with a small baseball bat in my hand for protection. So they wait. Because dusk comes early to the baseball field. They know my eyesight isn't what it used to be. They lie in wait and as the sun goes down, they make their move. One representative will buzz my face. The others, snickering quietly, descend from behind. If I wasn't covered in welts, I might almost applaud their teamwork. Its often better than the teamwork I witness on the field. Instead, I flap around like a flamingo having a grand mal seizure. I distract my son. I'll hear about that later. Probably from my bed in the ICU where I'll receive blood transfusions and hefty doses of IV Benadryl. It's a wonder I haven't contracted malaria down here yet.
The crack of the bat reminds me where I am now. My son is up on deck. I have to pay attention now. If I miss this, dinner will be unbearable. Also, dusk is approaching....

Rain, Rain Go Away

2017-04-09T18:48:00.000-04:00

Remember that old Eddie Rabbitt song I Love a Rainy Night? God I loved that song because I absolutely agreed with him. What better way to fall asleep than to listen to rain falling on the roof with thunder in the background. There's nothing like a good storm to cleanse the soul. Except, I hate the rain now. I can feel it before it even gets here. All of my muscles start to stiffen. I begin to feel like I'm 90 years old hobbling around doing a poor penguin impression. The other night at work was the worst. We were half way through a biblical flood and I arrived feeling less than fantastic. By the time I was a couple of hours in, I thought I might become a patient myself. Sharp shooting pain was radiating from both sides of my spine down my butt and into my thighs. My hips felt like I had rocks in them. The skin around my upper arms, collar bone and chest felt like it was on fire. My feet felt like I had been running around in narrow heels 4 sizes too small for me. Let's not forget my old Ikea elbow injury, throbbing away diligently.

Thankfully, my husband dropped me off at work and would be picking me up. The ride in was a luxury; the ride home a necessity. On more than one occasion recently, I have gotten a radiating nerve pain that cripples my legs, including my right leg while driving. At some point, I will most likely have to address this with some kind of long term plan. But for now, I try to turn a blind eye. On the ride home, every bump sent fireworks of pain radiating through my body. I cried most of the way home. I felt like I was horse back riding with a body full of broken bones. I took a couple of muscle relaxers and pulled myself up the stairs to bed. Thankfully I was exhausted and fell asleep quickly.

It seems that while I was sleeping, my husband and older son hopped in the car to see if they could find my birthday present locally instead of ordering it online. You see, there's this new (ever so slightly expensive) TENS unit named Quell that is supposed to have miracle healing powers for widespread chronic pain. If you can believe it, that became my most sought after birthday present. I would have traded fist fills of diamonds for the slightest possibility of less pain. They found it on their first try. The 2 of them crept into the room really quietly to share their excitement over having found it. My husband plugged it in to charge, and left the box on the dresser where I could see it. In case I woke up and "thought it was just a dream." So now it's charged, programmed and held in place on my calf with my dreams of a slightly more normal existence. The majority of the people I've spoken to who use it say that it takes a couple of weeks to fully work.

But who knows; maybe tonight showers will "wash all my cares away; [and I'll] wake up to a sunny day".

Quick! Write this down!

2017-04-06T17:21:00.001-04:00

I swear I'm having a Sean Spicer kind of day. I don't often draw parallels to him (actually, I've NEVER found common ground with him). But this whole password fetish in America is getting out of hand. I'm happy if I remember to eat lunch. Now everywhere I go wants a password. This one wants a certain set of requirements. This site here has different password criteria. Too long. Too short. You need a capitol letter. No, not that one. Try again. That password is already taken. You need a symbol. No, there's no middle finger emojis allowed as your symbol. Don't use birthdays, pet names, star constellation cordinations, or anything else you might reasonably have a chance of remembering. By the time you find a bloody password that is acceptable, you've long since forgotten what your last attempt was! There's something to be said for live tweeting your passwords in the hopes that someone, somewhere can access your freaking Snapchat account! Even if I remember the password long enough to write it down, you can rest assured that I certainly won't remember where I put the paper.
Oh, but we're forgetting the best passwords of all. Work passwords. You betcha. Work passwords come in two flavors: the kind they give you, and the kind you make up. Neither works out too hot for me. Randomly assigned passwords at least take the anxiety out of having to be found acceptable under the eyes of the password Gods. Little known fact: When they randomly assign you a password, I'm pretty sure they change it for your first 3 log in attempts just so you don't start feeling all smug about your password savviness. Then there's the one you choose. Usually, they tell you a couple of log ins in advance to allow the pressure to build. Remember, most computers have cameras these days. Somewhere in a back office is an IT guy with a package of Snackwells watching the beads of sweat starting to form on your brow. The first 4 attempts never count. The computer is programmed to automatically flag them as unworthy. The 5th attempt is one that you have already used. Yeah, THEY can remember my passwords. YOU know you don't have time for this. THEY know you don't have time for this. Still, they persist. Try again. Try again. It's not until you are swimming in sweat and sobbing uncontrollably that they finally capitulate and allow your selection to pass muster. You feel like you've finished a marathon. (Disclaimer: I don't know what it feels like to run a marathon. My longest run was when the skunk out back was chasing me).
Phew. Safe for another 3 months. Now where did I put that paper?

Tiny Football Men

2017-04-05T21:35:00.000-04:00

We got Winnie shortly after we lost our cat Larkspur. He was a lovebug and rarely got into things he shouldn't. Winnie is not cut from the same cloth. After posting about our loss on Facebook, a friend suggested Winnie might be perfect for us. I was reluctant, because it was far sooner than I was ready for. But it turned out to be just what I needed. I sometimes refer to her as my therapy cat. Not because she's well behaved, you understand, but because she is a great distraction. She is my shadow. Even now as I write this, she is at my side to "help".
In the beginning, she was still in her tiny-kitten-sleeps-all-day stage. Coincidentally, I was going through yet another med change which left me inclined to sleep all day as well. We were soulmates. Because of my fibro and a side order of Reynaud's, I am always cold. Always. Even in California in August. Since Winnie has no body fat, she is constantly looking to snuggle, especially under the covers. As such, I broke my long standing "no cats in the bedroom" rule and she began to edge my husband out of bed. At least SHE doesn't snore. (Interesting side bar- for some reason on the nights I work, my husband locks her out of the bedroom. Guess he likes sleeping on the bed as opposed to the floor!) Each night when she is ready for bed, she will frantically scour the house looking for me. When she finds me, she will begin to purr. My oldest son likens her purr to a motorcycle. He's not wrong. She jumps into bed and plasters herself as close as she can get. Often, she gets me in trouble. I am absurdly ticklish. When she crawls up onto my collarbone, she sets me off on a raucous giggling fit. Since theoretically we are supposed to be trying to settle down to sleep, my husband is not amused by this game. Ever start laughing at an inappropriate time, so you try real hard to stifle it? Which, of course, makes you laugh harder still. The struggle is real. I believe she knows she is getting me in trouble. So the dance on my collarbone continues. Finally we settle down and usually the simple act of cuddling with her is enough to help me fall asleep. You see, in a cruel stroke of irony, lots of people with fibro have trouble falling and staying asleep. But wait, you say. Isn't that the condition that makes you sleep all of the time? Yes. But not soundly. The theory is that, in part, you never really fall into a deep, restful sleep because of the pain. So you are always tired. At least Winnie gives me a fighting chance though. I rarely take anything to fall asleep anymore and believe me, that's a victory.

Now that she is getting older, though, her interests are broadening. Like tiny football men. One of the boys got Madden 17 for Christmas. Winnie enjoys watching the little football men run all over the screen, and often pauses to offer them a high five or a congratulatory pat on the butt. (She knows to leave Gronk alone, though, as he is mine!) She will hear the kids come home from school and runs around upstairs until such time as someone plays tiny football men. Yes. We are all controlled by this minuscule dictator. She has recently broadened tiny football men into a real live version of the game to be played downstairs with the dog. The 2 of them often play tag, crashing through furniture and getting into all sorts of things they shouldn't. The other day, they finally pushed my mild mannered husband over the edge. He put them in time out in Wolf's crate. We are not allowed in Wolf's crate, but obviously he can't say no to his kitten. So he tolerates it when she goes in there on her own. I believe this was an insult too much for him to bear, though. They were only in there for a few minutes, but their faces tell a great story. I was upstairs sleeping after having worked the night before. I woke up to a text of this little gem:

I thought it was the greatest picture ever. Then my daughter informed me that there was one better. In this one, Winnie looks quite ready to escape from prison and track down her jailer!

So while the ADA ruling may never stretch quite far enough to cover the likes of Winnie, I think she's found a permanent job here. After all, it would take a far braver person than I to say no to that little face!

This, too, shall pass. Well, maybe not.

2017-04-05T20:21:00.000-04:00

Just over a year ago, my husband took me to New Orleans for a surprise anniversary trip. I had never been and we were only going for the weekend, so I decided that we would need to average about 46.279 tourist stops a day to cram in a small portion of what I wanted to do down there. It was Friday night, so I figured Bourbon Street would be a great place to hang out. Saturday morning I wanted to wake up early and try this charming cafe that sold beignets. We got off the plane, checked into our hotel, and my downward spiral began. I felt like someone had attached a vacuum to me and sucked out all of my energy. Just moving was an almost insurmountable task. To be fair, I work nights, so I assumed I was just a little "off". No big deal. Bourbon Street would still be there tomorrow. We didn't wake up quite as early as I planned, but we still made it for my beignets. Holy moly. Well worth the trip!
We managed to do a couple of things here and there, but not nearly as much as I had hoped. The kicker, my friends, came Sunday morning. My husband and I have slightly different memories of how the morning played out. He remembers suggesting a leisurely stroll through the French Quarter. I remember him suggesting we walk 64 miles. At one point, we stopped at a beautiful park. I sat down on a park bench in the warm sun, and pleaded with my husband- tears in my eyes and all- to please just let me take a 20 minute nap on the bench. It seemed so very reasonable to me, but the appalled look on his face suggested that he didn't see it the same way. On the plane ride home I decided to face the facts- something was very wrong.
I decided to see a doctor. Or rather, my favorite nurse practitioner. In the week leading up to my appointment, I slept. All night. All day. I woke up for some meals, not all. I went to work. And that. Was. It. So by the time I saw the NP who suggested that I might have fibromyalgia, I wasn't all that surprised. She ordered lab work and set me up with an appointment for a rheumatologist the next day. Sure enough, it was fibro. I know what some of you are thinking: "what about the widespread pain? How did that not tip you off?" Friends, here's another secret. Nurses suck as patients. If you tell a nurse your stomach bothers you, they start a checklist in their head, comparing symptoms, alleviating/aggravating factors, etc. If a nurse's stomach bothers them, they know exactly what it is. Nothing. Widespread pain? Of course. I have 3 kids. I work nights. Our mattress is old. I was working on the kitchen yesterday. The list (excuses) goes on. I once wrenched my ankle, sent my husband to CVS to get an aircast, and proceeded to work for the next 6 weeks with it. The x-ray showed no breaks so I was fine. Except, the x-ray didn't show that I had ripped 2/3 of my ligaments off the bone and bruised the bone on the other side so badly that 3 months later you could still see it on the MRI. So when I tell you that I am super good at ignoring pain, you can take that to the bank.
I have finally met a pain I can't ignore. It has gotten progressively worse since my initial diagnosis. Most days I feel like I just got out of the dryer after a couple of cycles with an old pair of work boots clanging around in there with me. I'm on all sorts of medications which really only work enough to keep me just this side of living. Thankfully, my family has taken it all in stride. They are quite adept at determining what I need on any given day. And my youngest? He can brew a cup of coffee like nobody's business! I tell the others it's because he makes it with love. I tried to play on their natural competitiveness to get them to work on their skills. They were not fooled.
So to any of you living with chronic pain, I salute you. And I support you. Because we need all of the support we can get.Maybe on this journey together we'll come across some great tips, therapies, etc. But even if we don't, it's a good place to cry in our beers!

Lemonade from Lemons

2017-04-05T19:29:00.000-04:00

So we live in this beautiful home built in the 1830's. I say beautiful. My husband seems to be more inclined to draw parallels to the Tom Hanks movie The Money Pit. We live in sunny Massachusetts where the weather is as fickle as a woman in a shoe store. And then there's the snow. Ugh!! 2 years ago it snowed 4,286 feet over the course of, I believe, 2 weeks. While I thought the sight of pristine snow falling on the woods behind us was becoming a little monotonous, I soon came to understand that rain falling in my kitchen was a far less pleasing site.
But hey, we had always talked about doing the kitchen someday. I was thinking in the way far away future. Like when I could reasonably expect my cyborg houseboy Q4HN to take care of it. But now that the good people of the disaster company had already removed the wall boards and such, I, uh, suppose this is as good a time as any. Right?

I work nights. What that translates to for the rest of the world is "since you're home all day..." The general consensus is that this leaves me available to do the lion's share of the work. But really, my middle of the day is everyone else's middle of the night. No matter. Still I did a lot of work on the kitchen, as did my husband and my father-in-law. We now have beautiful new ceilings. A new floor. Well, mostly. Except for under the dishwasher and fridge. And along the edges. But mostly, a beautiful new floor. New sink, big enough to wash a tiny 4 pound kitten in. I suppose you can really do a lot of dishes in there too. It just seems so blase to use a sink for dishes. The real feature, though, is the new cabinets.

In an effort to save money, we purchased the cabinets from Ikea. Boy you should have seen me the day they came! I was excited! I was ready! I was going to get this project started baby! I was seriously stupid! Over 100 boxes were delivered. My living room became a staging area. Really, I kind of needed a warehouse. I was not deterred. I began sorting the boxes into groups. That was sheer folly. They barely fit in the living room in the manner that the delivery men stacked them. Also, there were two, relatively fit gentlemen who moved the boxes in together. Then there was me. On more than one occasion I began to lift a box, only to realize that it would be staying right where it was. Never fear! I was still ridiculously optimistic. After all, it was only day 1.

I'm sure right about now you're thinking about all of those tests to see if you and your significant other have what it takes to make it work. The most important test is the teamwork required to build Ikea furniture, right? I found a work around. Yep. Do it yourself. I know, I know. All of the directions clearly show TWO happy Ikea bubble people building their furniture together. I decided I was way more advanced than the clowns in their pictures. And I would have been okay, too, if I had simply used an electric screwdriver. I did not. I built 16 cabinets with a regular old phillips head screwdriver. If it wasn't the dumbest move of my life, it certainly has to be featured in the top 10. So far, I've had 1 cortisone shot in the elbow that lasted a few months. I really need another one, but I'm a big fat baby. But at the end of the day, the cabinets are gorgeous!

So, at least the kitchen's done though, right? Well, not quite. As I mentioned, there are still areas of the floor that need to be done. And the edging around the counter tops. And the tile back splash. But for the most part, the end is in sight. Because my husband is right: there's always a fun new home improvement project waiting just around the corner for us!

Meet the Cast

2017-04-05T18:46:00.002-04:00

So let me introduce some of the people who are sure to find their way into these stories, whether they want to or not. After all, isn't that what family is for? The husband and I have been married for (hang on, gotta do the math...shh, don't tell him. You and I will have lots of secrets here on this wildly public site) 15 years. We've been together for over 18 years though. While I am ever so slightly impulsive and marginally irrational, he is wired completely differently. Probably a good thing. He'd lead a boring life without me. Don't worry; you can share that fact with him. He already knows. He and my oldest son will probably end up as my technological consultants. If there's something about the computer they don't know, it isn't worth knowing. My husband can rip a computer's guts out and stitch them back together. He's pretty good at recovering lost files, linking networks together and a wide variety of other things I barely even comprehend. He keeps my mighty Surface Pro connected, even if I go all the way out to the woods at the back of the property to write. In return, I have imbued him with infinitely more patience than he started with, and a heightened sense of humor. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Next up, I have a teenage daughter. She is smart, she is funny, she is beautiful. And she is exactly what my mom wished on me: "a daughter just like you!" There have been moments during a heated discussion where I've had the distinct misfortune of watching myself fall right out of her mouth. It's hard to argue effectively with her then. A fact I am certain she knows and capitalizes on whenever possible.
Then there's my son, the aforementioned computer genius. He is a pretty even tempered guy. Until he's not. He's a middle child, so I will admit he occasionally gets the short end of the stick. He'll say it's more often than occasionally, but I think that's standard middle child talk.
Finally in the people department, we have my youngest son.He has this quick wit that will totally catch you off guard. He is wise beyond his years. Most importantly, though, he still likes to cuddle. I suspect I'm running out of time. He's a mere 18 months behind the son who will most definitely not say "I love you." I will admit a small part of me thinks that he cuddles in an attempt to be the sole heir to our fortune. Bwahahahahahahahahahaha!!! Joke's on him; there IS no fortune!
Continuing on, there's our husky Wolf. He is 3. He believes he is a lapdog. There is simply no convincing him otherwise. He is well traveled. Every summer we load the car up with kids and snacks and drive somewhere. Since he loves adventure, Wolf usually joins us. He's been to places like Florida where he's learned the white "snow" on the beach tastes funny. Tennessee, which provided him with the answer to the age old question "Does a bear shit in the woods?" (The answer is "Yes. A lot"). But I'm guessing his favorite is Kentucky, where the people in the magic windows seem particularly friendly and willing to share their fast food treats with an oversized fluff ball.

Winnie is our 4 month old kitten. She thinks she's a husky. Go figure. She's not nearly as well traveled, but to be fair, she's not nearly as well behaved. She and Wolf will most likely find themselves the subject of many of these posts.
Lastly, there's our 6 year old chinchilla, Chili. He's quite feisty. I'm pretty sure he thinks he's a dragon, or some other equally invincible creature. He has no fear and will yell at and torment the kitten and the dog far more than any of us puny humans do. But he's so soft and fluffy, so he pretty much gets away with it. Head's up though. If you ever crash on the pullout bed in the family room, he WILL yell in the middle of the night just for the joy of seeing you crap your pants. It's just what he does.
So now you have a little backdrop to the people and animals who make up the menagerie. If I ever find myself in court, however, I bet they'll simply be referred to as exhibits A through G.

How'd we get here?

2017-04-05T18:38:00.000-04:00

A friend recently said to me, "Ya know, I was thinking of you the other night. If this whole nursing thing doesn't work out for you, you should start a blog." First of all, I can't help but laugh that ten years later I'm still getting the "If the nursing thing doesn't work out..." At what point can we say it has or hasn't? For Christ's sake, I'd rather wait out retirement at this age than retrain for another damn career! And frankly, I love nursing. But she got me to thinking. Usually that statement is followed with "you could be a stand-up comedian." Yeah...not likely. First of all, I'm more of a sit down kind of girl. I've got three kids (four with the husband), a dog, a brand-new kitten, and a chinchilla. Yeah, a chinchilla. Because what self-respecting American household DOESN'T have a chinchilla? Secondly, there's a lot of effort in stand-up comedy. The writing, the booking, the delivery, the instant judgement. None of those things really appeals to me. But a blog? Well let's think about this a minute. I can write in my favorite pajamas. Check. I mean, realistically, what are scrubs if not pajamas with pockets? Already it's appealing. Whenever I want (or don't). Check. Tell stories of my life, which- while occasionally very distressing to me, seems to be quite entertaining to others. Check. Alright. Why not?
I guess this might be a good time to confess something. I barely even know what a blog is. So, uh, adjust your expectations accordingly. I figure I'll just share daily stories of my life, tag it as humor (though that's NOT what I tell Jesus it is!), and go from there. Feel free to laugh (everyone else does), comment or even offer suggestions (though my mom will tell you I'm not likely to take them!)