Not to be confused with the Schwarzenegger classic The 6th Day, we have now entered Day Five of The Fever. We haven't heard back from the lab yet about the kid's urine sample. We looked at WebMD last night and it said children usually run higher fevers than adults and that it's not uncommon for relatively high fevers to run three or four days with no other significant symptoms. It went on to say that in such cases, it's usually nothing to worry about. What the hell do they know, anyway? She is at daycare today because it's treasure chest day. She's on the Motrin, so we'll just have to see, I guess.
I've been so caught up with talking about fevers and toilets that I have not written about the incredibly stupid thing my friend's husband (I'll call him Dufus) did the other day. My friend and another friend went to drop some things off at Goodwill or something and left all the kids with Dufus. Well, Dufus told them if they weren't back by 4:30 so he could go to baseball practice, he was going to leave. My two friends laughed because he was obviously joking. Now there were four children left in Dufus's care: his two sons aged three and eight and the other friend's two daughter aged four and six. When the two friends returned at 4:35, they were greeted by Dufus waiting in his van at the end of their very long driveway. Once my friends pulled into the driveway, he pulled out and left. That means he left all four kids in the house, unsupervised while he sat in the van waiting to drive away the second he saw my friends. By the time my friends got to the house, the youngest boy was running around naked. Anyway, this led to a very serious talk between my friend with the daughters, her husband and Dufus because Dufus obviously has no proper judgement when it comes to the care of children. Dufus is the same parent who wanted to leave his son sleeping on the couch at 6:00 am, alone, to get ready for school by himself before I could pick him up and take him to school. Of course that never happened because I told Dufus if he did not bring that child down to my house when he left for work, I was going to be at their house at 6:00 am to collect him myself. Basically, this guy was more concerned about being late for baseball practice than making sure all the kids were safe. He's an idiot. Anyway, that's all I'm going to say about that because thinking about Dufus makes me want to hit something.
June 16, 2005
June 15, 2005
Little KC is in the hizzie.
My daughter wants me to interview her for your reading pleasure, so here we go:
KC: What do you want to talk about?
Little KC: Uh, you have to ask me something.
KC: I just did ask you something.
Little KC: I did not know what you asked me.
KC: I asked what do you want to talk about?
Little KC: You have to ask me a question, I said. Do you get it?
KC: I get it, but I don't think you get it.
Little KC: Just ask me a question.
KC: OK, how are you feeling right now?
Little KC: Sick.
KC: Sick in what way?
Little KC: I feel couch sick.
KC: What's couch sick?
Little KC: I don't know. I just heard my parents say it. What do you think I am, weird?
KC: Uh, yeah.
Little KC: :Leave me alone. Just kidding.
KC: Seriously, what did you want to talk about?
Little KC: I don't know.
KC: Are we finished, then?
Little KC: Nope. You have to ask me more questions.
KC: OK, how are you enjoying your summer vacation?
Little KC: I don't know but this weekend Mikey is coming over and I'm going to Chuckie Cheese.
KC: So that's good?
Little KC: Yup. Only if I feel better, he can come over and then we're going to Chuckie Cheese this weekend which is in two more days.
KC: What if your're not feeling better?
Little KC: THen I'll have to wait a whole entire 'nother week.
KC: What else are you going to do beside Chuckie Cheese?
Little KC: I don't know. I guess go to church.
KC: So Chuckie Cheese and church, huh?
Little KC: Yup.
KC: That sounds like a pretty complete day.
Little KC: Then after we go to Chuckie Cheese, Mikey's coming over to my house for a playdate, if I feel better.
KC: Do you want more medicine?
Little KC: Yes.
KC: You're feeling bad again?
Little KC: Why do you ask so many questions? You're my mother.
KC: What do you want for dinner?
Little KC: I don't know. (general groan of misery) Can you just ask me questions about stuff that I know about and then I can give you the answer.
KC: OK, are you missing school?
Little KC: Nope, uh, yes and no.
KC: What are you missing?
Little KC: Mikey.
KC: Anything else?
Little KC: All my friends.
KC: Well, you'll see Mikey on Saturday.
Little KC: I know.
KC: Are you going to go to sleep now?
Little KC: Nope. I'm just trying to stay warm.
KC: Why don't you just tell me something? What's on your mind?
Little KC: Pokemon and Mikey and Chuckie Cheese.
KC: And what about those things is on your mind?
Little KC: I really don't know. My memory is short here people.
KC: You look sleepy to me.
Little KC: I am.
KC: Then go to sleep.
Little KC: I don't want to.
KC: Why not?
Little KC: I'm having too much fun telling you everything that I'm telling you.
KC: Are you excited about the new Harry Potter book?
Little KC: Yes, I wonder who's the new character.
KC: Who do you think is going die?
Little KC: Malfoy. He is evil. In number two, did you see how his father treated that house elf Doby?
KC: I did. Their whole family is evil.
Little KC: Yeah because Malfoy's father is a Deatheater. At first I thought Deatheaters were good because I thought they ate death but then I realized that they're evil in the fourth book.
KC: What are you doing?
Little KC: I'm telling you what I'm doing, I'm watching Pokemon and I'm laying down.
KC: So you're a multi-tasker?
Little KC: A what? What's a multi-casker?
KC: Someone who makes lots of casks.
Little KC: Oh.
KC: Really, a multi-tasker is someone who can do a bunch of things at the same time.
Little KC: I can even play my Gameboy and write a book while I'm laying down and watching Pokemon Dyoxis. I really can.
OK, I think that's about all I can take. This conversation is boring enough for me to go to sleep and I have to be interested because it's my kid.
KC: What do you want to talk about?
Little KC: Uh, you have to ask me something.
KC: I just did ask you something.
Little KC: I did not know what you asked me.
KC: I asked what do you want to talk about?
Little KC: You have to ask me a question, I said. Do you get it?
KC: I get it, but I don't think you get it.
Little KC: Just ask me a question.
KC: OK, how are you feeling right now?
Little KC: Sick.
KC: Sick in what way?
Little KC: I feel couch sick.
KC: What's couch sick?
Little KC: I don't know. I just heard my parents say it. What do you think I am, weird?
KC: Uh, yeah.
Little KC: :Leave me alone. Just kidding.
KC: Seriously, what did you want to talk about?
Little KC: I don't know.
KC: Are we finished, then?
Little KC: Nope. You have to ask me more questions.
KC: OK, how are you enjoying your summer vacation?
Little KC: I don't know but this weekend Mikey is coming over and I'm going to Chuckie Cheese.
KC: So that's good?
Little KC: Yup. Only if I feel better, he can come over and then we're going to Chuckie Cheese this weekend which is in two more days.
KC: What if your're not feeling better?
Little KC: THen I'll have to wait a whole entire 'nother week.
KC: What else are you going to do beside Chuckie Cheese?
Little KC: I don't know. I guess go to church.
KC: So Chuckie Cheese and church, huh?
Little KC: Yup.
KC: That sounds like a pretty complete day.
Little KC: Then after we go to Chuckie Cheese, Mikey's coming over to my house for a playdate, if I feel better.
KC: Do you want more medicine?
Little KC: Yes.
KC: You're feeling bad again?
Little KC: Why do you ask so many questions? You're my mother.
KC: What do you want for dinner?
Little KC: I don't know. (general groan of misery) Can you just ask me questions about stuff that I know about and then I can give you the answer.
KC: OK, are you missing school?
Little KC: Nope, uh, yes and no.
KC: What are you missing?
Little KC: Mikey.
KC: Anything else?
Little KC: All my friends.
KC: Well, you'll see Mikey on Saturday.
Little KC: I know.
KC: Are you going to go to sleep now?
Little KC: Nope. I'm just trying to stay warm.
KC: Why don't you just tell me something? What's on your mind?
Little KC: Pokemon and Mikey and Chuckie Cheese.
KC: And what about those things is on your mind?
Little KC: I really don't know. My memory is short here people.
KC: You look sleepy to me.
Little KC: I am.
KC: Then go to sleep.
Little KC: I don't want to.
KC: Why not?
Little KC: I'm having too much fun telling you everything that I'm telling you.
KC: Are you excited about the new Harry Potter book?
Little KC: Yes, I wonder who's the new character.
KC: Who do you think is going die?
Little KC: Malfoy. He is evil. In number two, did you see how his father treated that house elf Doby?
KC: I did. Their whole family is evil.
Little KC: Yeah because Malfoy's father is a Deatheater. At first I thought Deatheaters were good because I thought they ate death but then I realized that they're evil in the fourth book.
KC: What are you doing?
Little KC: I'm telling you what I'm doing, I'm watching Pokemon and I'm laying down.
KC: So you're a multi-tasker?
Little KC: A what? What's a multi-casker?
KC: Someone who makes lots of casks.
Little KC: Oh.
KC: Really, a multi-tasker is someone who can do a bunch of things at the same time.
Little KC: I can even play my Gameboy and write a book while I'm laying down and watching Pokemon Dyoxis. I really can.
OK, I think that's about all I can take. This conversation is boring enough for me to go to sleep and I have to be interested because it's my kid.
Don't know what's going on.
My daughter still has a fever. No one seems to know what it's about. My husband took her to the doctor yesterday and she doesn't have strep, she doesn't have an ear infection, she doesn't have a UTI, and her minor cough does not seem to have anything to do with it. They sent her urine sample to the lab to check for bacteria, but the medical staff are stymied. When I say she's been running a fever since Sunday, I'm talking about a fever. Her temperature has been ranging between 101-102 for four days. When she's on the Motrin, she's fine, but as soon as the medicine wears off, she's back to where she started. I'm officiallly worried now because I automatically assume when there is no reasonable answer, the remaining options can't be that good. Right now she's lying under my desk playing her Gameboy. I wanted to try and send her to daycare just to see how it would go, but she really didn't want to and my husband didn't think it would help her out. Of course, she wants to go tomorrow because Thursdays are treasure chest day at daycare, so she is not about to miss out on gift day, girlfriend. While we were walking to the office I asked if she thought she felt like she would have been OK at Kristy's after all. She said, "No, I don't want to spread my disease around to everyone else."
I said, "But you don't care about spreading your disease around tomorrow, do you?"
Then she just looked at me with a sheepish grin and asked, "What do you mean?"
"I think you know exactly what I mean," I answered.
I am worried, though, about whatever is causing her to have a fever. I'm probably going to dig around on Google a little today where I'll find out all unexplainable fevers in children are caused by leukemia or something equally as bad. Naw, I'm not overly dramatic. Why do you ask?
So, I installed my toilet last night and so far, so good. No leaking. No shattering. No exploding. You know, sometimes I amaze even myself with my ability to do just about anything. Really. I am amazing. I could have my own show I'm so amazing. When I went to the store, they had this new-fangled toilet gasket that you use in place of the wax ring. It has a ten-year guarantee not to leak, so I decided to give it a try. I'm hoping that since there is no wax to compress, the seal will work better. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Now that I've proved my handiness around the house, yet again, I think I'm going to get started on that addition I've always wanted.
I said, "But you don't care about spreading your disease around tomorrow, do you?"
Then she just looked at me with a sheepish grin and asked, "What do you mean?"
"I think you know exactly what I mean," I answered.
I am worried, though, about whatever is causing her to have a fever. I'm probably going to dig around on Google a little today where I'll find out all unexplainable fevers in children are caused by leukemia or something equally as bad. Naw, I'm not overly dramatic. Why do you ask?
So, I installed my toilet last night and so far, so good. No leaking. No shattering. No exploding. You know, sometimes I amaze even myself with my ability to do just about anything. Really. I am amazing. I could have my own show I'm so amazing. When I went to the store, they had this new-fangled toilet gasket that you use in place of the wax ring. It has a ten-year guarantee not to leak, so I decided to give it a try. I'm hoping that since there is no wax to compress, the seal will work better. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Now that I've proved my handiness around the house, yet again, I think I'm going to get started on that addition I've always wanted.
June 14, 2005
So much to say, so little time.
K, where to start? Yesterday I was out becaue my daughter has been running a fever since Sunday. Although she seems in a little bit better spirits today, her temperature has only gone down about one degree and my husband took off today to take her to the doctor and stay home with her. Her throat is sore and her tonsils are swollen. According to the lady that watches her over the summer, strep is going around. Her son's baseball team was out about five players over the weekend because of strep. So, we'll see if that's the culprit in her case. Beyond that, I did something not so smart yesterday. I smashed my toilet to bits. Actually, I crushed my toilet to bits. It's a long, drawn out story that starts five years ago when we bought our house. So settle back for the long haul on this one.
Our upstairs toilet has been a chronic leaking pain in the ass since we bought our house in 2000. (Our house was built in 1949, so it's old.) The first thing we did was change the wax ring and that took care of the leak for a few months, then we had another wax ring put on (actually two because the plumber said he thought the problem was that since the flange was raised a little too much above the floor, compression from us sitting on the toilet was causing the wax ring to be squished out and flat from beneath the toilet, thus eliminating an effective barrier.) The two wax rings worked for a few months and then we saw leaking again. So we had the subfloor redone so that the flange would be more flush with the floor. At that time, we also bought a new toilet just in case the leaking was being caused by a crack in the stool that we couldn't detect. That seemed to work for about a year and then I noticed it was leaking once again. So I bought a new toilet because the previous one I'd bought was the cheap "kit" toilet where everything you need comes in a box for $79.00. I thought, OK, let's splurge on something a little bit nicer because I believe you do get what you pay for. So I bought a nice toilet and about a month later it starts leaking. I called in the plumbers and it would seem when the last wax ring was put in, it was put in upsidedown, so a good seal wasn't in place. They put in a new, mondo-ass, extra thick wax ring. That was last summer and a few days ago I discovered leakage anew from under the toilet. To say I am vexed by this little problem would be a massive understatement. I have concluded the flange (which is cast iron) must be cracked because in all of this it is only thing that has not been replaced/ repaired. However, before calling the plumbers again, I decided to take a gander at my Minor Home Repairs book to see if it might be something simpler. And I find, a-ha, check that all bolts are secure. So, I pull out my trusty rachet-wrench and start to tighten the floor bolts a bit. Before I go on, I should explain that I do know about the dangers of over-tightening a toilet to the floor bolts. I know that over-tighenting can cause the stool to crack. I now know that you don't really have to tighten all that much before the stool cracks, nay, shatters from the force. I also now know that before the porcelain bowl explodes, you're warned by a slight but ominous and almost musical, tinkling sound of splintering ceramic.
I guess I should consider myself lucky that more water didn't come spilling out. It was easily contained and wiped up. I guess I should consider myself lucky that I had just cleaned the toilet the day before so I wasn't mucking around in urine or fecal matter. I guess I should consider myself lucky that I only demolished the stool and that the tank is still completely servicable. However, I don't consider myself lucky at all. When I realized what I'd done, I reacted pretty normally. I muttered "shit" under my breath, cleaned the mess up as best I could and called my husband to tell him I broke the toilet. He said he now gets one free "get out of jail" card for future use. Anyway, since I'd ruined the toilet, I pulled it up to check out the wax ring and look at the flange. The wax ring did look unusually compressed to me, yet again, and I didn't see anything with the flange to indicate that's the problem. I'm going to Lowe's today after work to get a new stool (which, if you're counting, will be the fourth toilet in five years) and extra, super-duper wax ring and I'm going to put it all in today. And when I say I'm going to put it in, I mean I'm going to put it in. After five years of "professionals" having their way with it, I couldn't possibly do a worse job. Of course, I will use a gentle touch when tighetening the floor bolts this time. Hopefully, this will be the end of my leakage problems, but I seriously doubt it.
On the good side, staying home yesterday finally gave me time to paint my toenails.
Our upstairs toilet has been a chronic leaking pain in the ass since we bought our house in 2000. (Our house was built in 1949, so it's old.) The first thing we did was change the wax ring and that took care of the leak for a few months, then we had another wax ring put on (actually two because the plumber said he thought the problem was that since the flange was raised a little too much above the floor, compression from us sitting on the toilet was causing the wax ring to be squished out and flat from beneath the toilet, thus eliminating an effective barrier.) The two wax rings worked for a few months and then we saw leaking again. So we had the subfloor redone so that the flange would be more flush with the floor. At that time, we also bought a new toilet just in case the leaking was being caused by a crack in the stool that we couldn't detect. That seemed to work for about a year and then I noticed it was leaking once again. So I bought a new toilet because the previous one I'd bought was the cheap "kit" toilet where everything you need comes in a box for $79.00. I thought, OK, let's splurge on something a little bit nicer because I believe you do get what you pay for. So I bought a nice toilet and about a month later it starts leaking. I called in the plumbers and it would seem when the last wax ring was put in, it was put in upsidedown, so a good seal wasn't in place. They put in a new, mondo-ass, extra thick wax ring. That was last summer and a few days ago I discovered leakage anew from under the toilet. To say I am vexed by this little problem would be a massive understatement. I have concluded the flange (which is cast iron) must be cracked because in all of this it is only thing that has not been replaced/ repaired. However, before calling the plumbers again, I decided to take a gander at my Minor Home Repairs book to see if it might be something simpler. And I find, a-ha, check that all bolts are secure. So, I pull out my trusty rachet-wrench and start to tighten the floor bolts a bit. Before I go on, I should explain that I do know about the dangers of over-tightening a toilet to the floor bolts. I know that over-tighenting can cause the stool to crack. I now know that you don't really have to tighten all that much before the stool cracks, nay, shatters from the force. I also now know that before the porcelain bowl explodes, you're warned by a slight but ominous and almost musical, tinkling sound of splintering ceramic.
I guess I should consider myself lucky that more water didn't come spilling out. It was easily contained and wiped up. I guess I should consider myself lucky that I had just cleaned the toilet the day before so I wasn't mucking around in urine or fecal matter. I guess I should consider myself lucky that I only demolished the stool and that the tank is still completely servicable. However, I don't consider myself lucky at all. When I realized what I'd done, I reacted pretty normally. I muttered "shit" under my breath, cleaned the mess up as best I could and called my husband to tell him I broke the toilet. He said he now gets one free "get out of jail" card for future use. Anyway, since I'd ruined the toilet, I pulled it up to check out the wax ring and look at the flange. The wax ring did look unusually compressed to me, yet again, and I didn't see anything with the flange to indicate that's the problem. I'm going to Lowe's today after work to get a new stool (which, if you're counting, will be the fourth toilet in five years) and extra, super-duper wax ring and I'm going to put it all in today. And when I say I'm going to put it in, I mean I'm going to put it in. After five years of "professionals" having their way with it, I couldn't possibly do a worse job. Of course, I will use a gentle touch when tighetening the floor bolts this time. Hopefully, this will be the end of my leakage problems, but I seriously doubt it.
On the good side, staying home yesterday finally gave me time to paint my toenails.
June 10, 2005
It does a body good.
When I was in the doctor's office with my daughter the other week, waiting for her to be seen for her staph infection, I flipped through one of the parents' magazines and came across an article written by a woman explaining why she has chosen to nurse her children until they are older. At the time of writing the article, she was still nursing her youngest child, a five-year-old girl, and had nursed each of her older children until they were anywere between five- and seven-years-old. She explained in the article that she lives with constant ridicule heaped upon her by friends, family and strangers because everyone thinks it's weird she's continued to breastfeed her children for so long. I have to say, I find it odd and disconcerting. However, I did think the author made an excellent point is stating that the reason she believes people are so turned off by the idea of nursing children past infancy is because our Western society has so sexualized female breasts that we can't comprehend her desire to nourish her children with what she believes to be the best food for them as a non-sexual desire. She said she believes her children have benefited from being allowed to nurse into childhood. I think she has a point about the way we view the female body, but I can't help but thinking that the idea of nursing my seven-year-old daughter is repugnant to me. Not that I would personally view it as a sexual act in any way if I did do it, but my daughter is a kid. A kid with opinions and thoughts and observations and there's just something really discordant in my mind with nursing a child old enough to unbutton my shirt and use my breasts as a self-service bar. In fact, in the article it's mentioned that the author's daughter indicates her desire to nurse by saying, "I want some numies."
I nursed my daughter until she was fourteen months, so I don't see myself as a person unaware of the benefits of breatfeeding, but I have to say I was ready to be done with it when I was done with it. It's tiring in some ways having to be so physically tied to your child. My daughter took bottles when I wasn't around, and that gave me a lot of freedom compared to some women whose babies would only take the breast, but it was still a challenge for me because I had to carry my breast-pump around everywhere to keep her in supply and to keep my breasts from exploding. No matter what, I was still tied to this whole activity of nursing every second of my day. I can't see keeping that up for seven years. It boggles my mind.
I nursed my daughter until she was fourteen months, so I don't see myself as a person unaware of the benefits of breatfeeding, but I have to say I was ready to be done with it when I was done with it. It's tiring in some ways having to be so physically tied to your child. My daughter took bottles when I wasn't around, and that gave me a lot of freedom compared to some women whose babies would only take the breast, but it was still a challenge for me because I had to carry my breast-pump around everywhere to keep her in supply and to keep my breasts from exploding. No matter what, I was still tied to this whole activity of nursing every second of my day. I can't see keeping that up for seven years. It boggles my mind.
June 09, 2005
Official bad attitude day.
I don't know what it is, but I swear there really are days when you just wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I'm just pissy today and everything around me is just making me pissier. It's the kind of day where I just feel like I'm ready for someone to do the one little thing that will give me an excuse to bite their head off. Really, I'm walking around hoping someone does something stupid so I can go off on them. You know, that's just wrong. It's because I'm trapped in these offices. I'm sitting here just wishing I could be somewhere else doing something more productive. I'm ungrateful to whine because there are plenty of people who would change places with me in a heartbeat, but I'm just not me if I'm not slightly aggravated with something.
When I went jogging yesterday, one of my editors was walking around the track. It's the old, crazy editor who drives me nutty with his stupidly obvious e-mails and who didn't want his wife to go home to her sister's funeral because he was convinced she'd contract SARS and pass it on to him. I'm not making that up, by the way. Anyway, I just ignored him. I just acted like he wasn't there because if I was forced to interact with him, I would've been rude--even more rude than just ignoring him. I just can't pretend to be nice to people I don't like. I feel like I'm betraying myself when I do that. I know it makes people think I'm a bitch, but I don't care. I'd rather they think me an honest bitch than a false sweetie. I understand people have the prerogative to act any way they choose, and I have the prerogative to respond to them accordingly. What I don't like is people who treat others like shit and then expect that they should be treated with respect or kindness. I know if I were better person, I'd turn the other cheek, but I guess I'm just not a better person at the end of the day. As far as I'm concerned you should get what you give. That's probably not very Christian, but I've mentioned I'm already anticipating a healthy stay in Purgatory. But in some ways, this gets to the heart of what I was talking about yesterday, this compulsion to fill our lives with unimportant shit. How others conduct themselves really isn't important enough a thing for me to get riled up about, but I do and I spend lots of time thinking about it. It doesn't do me any good to do this. It doesn't change people for the better. It just weighs me down with stuff that really doesn't count and distracts me from what I should really focus on, which is how fortunate a life I lead. But there is just something in me that really bristles at the idea of letting people get away with thinking they're OK when they're not.
When I went jogging yesterday, one of my editors was walking around the track. It's the old, crazy editor who drives me nutty with his stupidly obvious e-mails and who didn't want his wife to go home to her sister's funeral because he was convinced she'd contract SARS and pass it on to him. I'm not making that up, by the way. Anyway, I just ignored him. I just acted like he wasn't there because if I was forced to interact with him, I would've been rude--even more rude than just ignoring him. I just can't pretend to be nice to people I don't like. I feel like I'm betraying myself when I do that. I know it makes people think I'm a bitch, but I don't care. I'd rather they think me an honest bitch than a false sweetie. I understand people have the prerogative to act any way they choose, and I have the prerogative to respond to them accordingly. What I don't like is people who treat others like shit and then expect that they should be treated with respect or kindness. I know if I were better person, I'd turn the other cheek, but I guess I'm just not a better person at the end of the day. As far as I'm concerned you should get what you give. That's probably not very Christian, but I've mentioned I'm already anticipating a healthy stay in Purgatory. But in some ways, this gets to the heart of what I was talking about yesterday, this compulsion to fill our lives with unimportant shit. How others conduct themselves really isn't important enough a thing for me to get riled up about, but I do and I spend lots of time thinking about it. It doesn't do me any good to do this. It doesn't change people for the better. It just weighs me down with stuff that really doesn't count and distracts me from what I should really focus on, which is how fortunate a life I lead. But there is just something in me that really bristles at the idea of letting people get away with thinking they're OK when they're not.
June 08, 2005
What's it all about?
Do you ever feel completely lost? Do you ever feel like you're standing smack-dab in the middle of a big, empty room looking around without a clue? I was lying in bed last night thinking about all the small shit we stuff into our lives that is completely meaningless. Stuff like keeping up with the Joneses, if you know what I mean. The older I get, the less I want crap in my life. I feel like if I could just streamline everything and get rid of anything that's not essential, then life would be much easier. I'm tired of wanting stuff. I look around at people and everyone just seems soulless to me.
June 07, 2005
It's gonna be a scorcher.
OK, that's about the fourth time I've said that today and it's only about 9:30. Does that make me odd or does it just mean I am completely lacking in originality when it comes to discussing the weather? But it really is going to be a scorcher. It's supposed to hit 94 today, which will set a new record or something. I have now metamorphosed from Zebra Woman to Lizard Woman, the amazing skin-shedding wonder of the modern world. I managed to peel a good chunk of skin off my left arm yesterday. What started the whole thing off is that I noticed that my skin was all bubbled looking after I finished running. It looked like it was covered with blisters and I didn't know what the heck it was because the blisters weren't there before I ran. Then I realized that my sweat was trapped under the layer of dead skin. It was somewhat gross because when I got home I took a pair of tweezers and started peeling the skin off and then all the trapped sweat started oozing down my arm. Not that there was a huge amount because how much does your arm sweat anyway? But there was definitely a good amount of moisture trapped underneath. Actually, it's kind of a relief that my skin is starting to peel because my arms and legs have been itching like mad the last couple of days. It feels much better with the dead skin gone. I managed to get most of the skin off my left arm, but I asked my husband to help with my right arm because I am right-handed and not quite as dextrous working my right arm with my left hand. So I hand him the tweezers and he starts at it a little and then says, "No, I can't do this, it's not natural. I feel like I'm flaying you."
"Come on, " I said. "You've got to finish. The itching is killing me."
"No, no. It's grossing me out too much."
Men are such wussies. I need some freaking relief from the agony. What's a little skin-peeling when I pushed a baby out of my loins? He's not feeling anything. So I'm doing as best as I can by myself.
What is it about taking a satisfying dump that just makes you feel all happy? I just finished up my business in the bathroom and it was the kind that makes you groan in pleasure when it's all over. Normally, I wouldn't go number two in a public restroom, but here at work it's a one-toilet job and I've got some privacy. It took me a long to even be willing to sit on the toilet. Normally, I just hover, but there are only two other women on my floor and they don't look like they have lice or anything so I figure it's safe.
"Come on, " I said. "You've got to finish. The itching is killing me."
"No, no. It's grossing me out too much."
Men are such wussies. I need some freaking relief from the agony. What's a little skin-peeling when I pushed a baby out of my loins? He's not feeling anything. So I'm doing as best as I can by myself.
What is it about taking a satisfying dump that just makes you feel all happy? I just finished up my business in the bathroom and it was the kind that makes you groan in pleasure when it's all over. Normally, I wouldn't go number two in a public restroom, but here at work it's a one-toilet job and I've got some privacy. It took me a long to even be willing to sit on the toilet. Normally, I just hover, but there are only two other women on my floor and they don't look like they have lice or anything so I figure it's safe.
June 06, 2005
I smell skunk.
Seriously, I smell skunk. Where could it possibly be coming from? I am completely dumbfounded. Anyway, this past Friday we went to a trivia night at my daughter's school. It was a fundraiser to help supplement families who can't afford full tuition. We had nine people on our team and we were so close to winning it was painful. We lost in the final round when we had to name a bunch of dogs. None of us on the team knew anything about dogs, so that was the end of the show. It was an agonizing defeat, I must say. We had a great time, though, because we were the most obnoxious team. We carried on with a lot of chanting and hand-raising. It was GREAT.
Last night, we watched my friend's kids while she and her husband went to some graduation party. They have to girls and a son. The girls are six and four and the boy is 11 months. I kept the girls up with my daughter in her bedroom so they could play and stay out of my hair, and my husband and I watched the baby downstairs. There is nothing like taking care of a baby to remind me why it is I've chosen to have only one child. When my friend left, the baby cried for 45 minutes and couldn't be consoled no matter what I did. Finally, my husband took him and the baby quieted right down, and eventually went to sleep. Obviously, it's true that babies do pick up on the evil bitch vibe. I love my daughter more than life, but it was hard for me when she was a baby. She was colicky and you couldn't put her down or she would cry like she was being drawn and quartered. Times were not good for me when she was a baby. I suffered from post-partum depression and I was basically crazy for her first year. I didn't realize how bad off I was until I started to come up for air. Looking back on it now, I wish I would have had the wherewithall to get help. Luckily, I was able to continue caring for my daughter, but in all other ways I shut down. If it didn't have to do with taking care of my daughter or school (I was in grad school at the time), I basically tuned it out. I kind of went into automotion. Needless to say, things weren't exactly sunny in my marriage either. In fact, if there was ever a time when my husband and I came close to divorce, it was probably then. Fortunately, over time and a lot of talking, we were able to see how vile we had become toward each other and recommitted ourselves to making our marriage work. But in some ways, I think the shock of raising an infant played heavily into our decision to have only one child. A large portion comes from the fact that I suffer from infertility and finances work out much better with only one child, but I absolutely dread thinking of caring for another baby. And when we were watching my friend's son last night and he wouldn't stop crying, I felt myself turning inward again, like I did with my daughter when she was a baby. I felt my brain start to numb and my eyes start to glaze. It was kind of scary to me, actually. It's also the reason I say that if my husband and I ever do decide to have another child, we're adopting a kid from China or Korea or something.
Last night, we watched my friend's kids while she and her husband went to some graduation party. They have to girls and a son. The girls are six and four and the boy is 11 months. I kept the girls up with my daughter in her bedroom so they could play and stay out of my hair, and my husband and I watched the baby downstairs. There is nothing like taking care of a baby to remind me why it is I've chosen to have only one child. When my friend left, the baby cried for 45 minutes and couldn't be consoled no matter what I did. Finally, my husband took him and the baby quieted right down, and eventually went to sleep. Obviously, it's true that babies do pick up on the evil bitch vibe. I love my daughter more than life, but it was hard for me when she was a baby. She was colicky and you couldn't put her down or she would cry like she was being drawn and quartered. Times were not good for me when she was a baby. I suffered from post-partum depression and I was basically crazy for her first year. I didn't realize how bad off I was until I started to come up for air. Looking back on it now, I wish I would have had the wherewithall to get help. Luckily, I was able to continue caring for my daughter, but in all other ways I shut down. If it didn't have to do with taking care of my daughter or school (I was in grad school at the time), I basically tuned it out. I kind of went into automotion. Needless to say, things weren't exactly sunny in my marriage either. In fact, if there was ever a time when my husband and I came close to divorce, it was probably then. Fortunately, over time and a lot of talking, we were able to see how vile we had become toward each other and recommitted ourselves to making our marriage work. But in some ways, I think the shock of raising an infant played heavily into our decision to have only one child. A large portion comes from the fact that I suffer from infertility and finances work out much better with only one child, but I absolutely dread thinking of caring for another baby. And when we were watching my friend's son last night and he wouldn't stop crying, I felt myself turning inward again, like I did with my daughter when she was a baby. I felt my brain start to numb and my eyes start to glaze. It was kind of scary to me, actually. It's also the reason I say that if my husband and I ever do decide to have another child, we're adopting a kid from China or Korea or something.
June 03, 2005
Be prepared.
My friends and I were talking the other night of maybe taking our kids camping together this summer. Just the moms and the kids. We all thought this sounded like a great idea. We'd tire the kids out during the day and then enjoy margaritas around the fire once the kids were down for the night. While we were talking, I remembered my most memorable camping trip ever, which I fondly call The Camping Trip From Hell. One weekened, a couple of friends from work, one of the coworker's two-year-old and dog, my brother and I decided to go camping in Shenandoah National Park, which is a great place, by the way. Anyway, we all decided it would be lots of fun to go hiking and camping for the weekend. We get to the campground, pitch our tents and decide to go on a hike before it gets dark. My friend with the daughter, who is a very experienced outdoorswoman, whips out her map and picks out a nice five-mile circuit that should only take a couple of hours. Cool, we pack a couple of snacks and some water and all head out.
After a couple of hours we realize we're not really close to the end of the hike. My friend looks at her map again and realizes that she's miscalculated the length of the circuit and really it's about a ten-mile hike when it's all said and done. Needless to say, we comprehend we are not prepared for a ten-mile hike. We've finished off our water, we've gone through our few paltry snacks, and we're all starving because none of us has really eaten since breakfast. Luckily we encounter a couple spickets along the way with pottable water, so at least we're not worried about dehydration, but we are worried about how long it will take to get back to camp since it was already late-afternoon when we took off on our little expedition. Another couple of hours pass and my brother realizes he has a small bag of Del Monte trail mix in his backsack. I'm talking something that's meant to be a kid's snack in a lunchbox. It's small, but it's the only food we have. My brother pours the contents into his hand and the rest of us crowd around his outstreched palm to pick as quickly as possible at this unexpected bounty. Did I mention that there are four adults and a child to feed? So we polish off the trail mix in about a second, look at at the map and see that's there's about another two and a half miles back to camp. We finally get there and we are STARVING, STARVING. The kind of starving where you feel like you could eat your own foot if you had to. We had packed a lot of food: hotdogs, hamburgers, that kind of stuff. So my brother and I go to get the Coleman stove so we can commence with the grilling of the meat. I pull the stove out from the box and realize there's no fuel tank attached to it. "Where's the fuel tank?" I ask my brother.
"It's in the box, " he answers.
"No it's not," I say.
"Yes it is," he responds. "It's always in the box with the stove." He goes to the box and looks into it. "Where's the damn tank?" he asks.
The only stove we have is a small one-burner that one of my friends had thought to pack. We can't cook hotdogs or hamburgers on it, but at least we can cook the bag of Lipton's noodles over it. (This is again the friend--Rose--who spends many, many, many hours in the wilderness with her husband and child.) She takes out the burner and fills it with the fuel her husband has packed for her. She attempts to light the burner and is confused when it doesn't take. She, my brother and I make repeated attempts to get the thing lit with no success.
"What the fuck?" she says. "Why isn't this thing lighting?"
"Are you sure you've got the right fuel?" my brother finally asks.
"Yes, my husband knows it uses white fuel."
"Let me see the container," my brother says. Rose hands him the canister and my brother expertly sniffs it and says, "This is kerosene, not white fuel."
"Shit," Rose says. "It won't work with kerosene."
"Don't worry," I say. "I've got a whole canister of white fuel in the car." I go get the canister, we dump out the kerosene and fill it with white fuel. However, it takes awhile to burn off the residual kerosene in the burner before the white fuel takes the flame. Did I mention we're really, really starving?
While Rose and my other friend Lanette are busying themselves cooking the bag of Lipton's, my brother says, "I'm going to start a fire. We'll be able to roast the hotdogs, at least." He goes around and starts collecting some wood to start a fire, but there are only small twigs lying around. Nothing that will fuel a fire for very long. In addition, he realizes that the wood feels a little damp. "This wood feels a liitle damp," he says.
"It doesn't look wet," I say.
"But it feels wet," he says. My brother (who was a boy scout for about ten years) walks over to the closest group of campers to us and asked if it rained anytime recently, and they tell him it had rained pretty good that morning. So all the wood is wet. It's starting to get dark and cold. We had already eaten the bag of Lipton's by this point, but it didn't do anything to curb our hunger because it was just the one bag and there were five of us.
"We need more wood," my brother decides and asks if anyone packed an ax or a saw. We all look around at each other, shrugging shoulders and understand that, no, no one has thought to pack an ax or saw.
My brother goes out to the periphery of our campsite where a couple of small trees are down, gets another log for leverage and starts bouncing on branches to snap them off. He manages to get quite a few branches this way. All us womenfolk are mightily impressed by his abilities. But there is no luck when it comes to lighting the damn things. They're just too wet.
"Dammit!" my brother yells. We're all pretty desolate by this time. We've resigned ourselves to the fact that we are going to bed hungry, tired and cold. "I'm finding something to start a fire," he says determinedly and stalks off to find something to burn. About ten minutes later, he comes back with a shit-eating grin on his face, dragging a huge-ass cardboard box behind him. It's like a refridgerator box. That's how big it is.
"Where the hell did you find that?" I ask.
"It was propped up against a soda machine down by the showers," he answers. He bends and rips the box until it can fit within the stone circle for the fire then says, "Bring me that leftover kerosene."
Rose hands him the canister and he dumps the entire amount on the box. "Stand back," he instructs us before he tosses a lit match onto the drenched box. Basically, the box exploded in flame and fire. It was almost beautiful, I have to say. We moved some of the logs and branches close to the fire so they could dry out, which they did pretty quickly. The box was big enough to burn for quite awhile. We had our fire. We all found sticks for our hotdogs, roasted those babies and had a couple of beers. We even made smores. So in the end, it all turned out pretty well. We laugh about it now because we really did feel like we survived the elements that day. Man against nature, the endless stuggle that never fails to motivate and inspire. We had won. For the day, we had won and all was good in the world.
After a couple of hours we realize we're not really close to the end of the hike. My friend looks at her map again and realizes that she's miscalculated the length of the circuit and really it's about a ten-mile hike when it's all said and done. Needless to say, we comprehend we are not prepared for a ten-mile hike. We've finished off our water, we've gone through our few paltry snacks, and we're all starving because none of us has really eaten since breakfast. Luckily we encounter a couple spickets along the way with pottable water, so at least we're not worried about dehydration, but we are worried about how long it will take to get back to camp since it was already late-afternoon when we took off on our little expedition. Another couple of hours pass and my brother realizes he has a small bag of Del Monte trail mix in his backsack. I'm talking something that's meant to be a kid's snack in a lunchbox. It's small, but it's the only food we have. My brother pours the contents into his hand and the rest of us crowd around his outstreched palm to pick as quickly as possible at this unexpected bounty. Did I mention that there are four adults and a child to feed? So we polish off the trail mix in about a second, look at at the map and see that's there's about another two and a half miles back to camp. We finally get there and we are STARVING, STARVING. The kind of starving where you feel like you could eat your own foot if you had to. We had packed a lot of food: hotdogs, hamburgers, that kind of stuff. So my brother and I go to get the Coleman stove so we can commence with the grilling of the meat. I pull the stove out from the box and realize there's no fuel tank attached to it. "Where's the fuel tank?" I ask my brother.
"It's in the box, " he answers.
"No it's not," I say.
"Yes it is," he responds. "It's always in the box with the stove." He goes to the box and looks into it. "Where's the damn tank?" he asks.
The only stove we have is a small one-burner that one of my friends had thought to pack. We can't cook hotdogs or hamburgers on it, but at least we can cook the bag of Lipton's noodles over it. (This is again the friend--Rose--who spends many, many, many hours in the wilderness with her husband and child.) She takes out the burner and fills it with the fuel her husband has packed for her. She attempts to light the burner and is confused when it doesn't take. She, my brother and I make repeated attempts to get the thing lit with no success.
"What the fuck?" she says. "Why isn't this thing lighting?"
"Are you sure you've got the right fuel?" my brother finally asks.
"Yes, my husband knows it uses white fuel."
"Let me see the container," my brother says. Rose hands him the canister and my brother expertly sniffs it and says, "This is kerosene, not white fuel."
"Shit," Rose says. "It won't work with kerosene."
"Don't worry," I say. "I've got a whole canister of white fuel in the car." I go get the canister, we dump out the kerosene and fill it with white fuel. However, it takes awhile to burn off the residual kerosene in the burner before the white fuel takes the flame. Did I mention we're really, really starving?
While Rose and my other friend Lanette are busying themselves cooking the bag of Lipton's, my brother says, "I'm going to start a fire. We'll be able to roast the hotdogs, at least." He goes around and starts collecting some wood to start a fire, but there are only small twigs lying around. Nothing that will fuel a fire for very long. In addition, he realizes that the wood feels a little damp. "This wood feels a liitle damp," he says.
"It doesn't look wet," I say.
"But it feels wet," he says. My brother (who was a boy scout for about ten years) walks over to the closest group of campers to us and asked if it rained anytime recently, and they tell him it had rained pretty good that morning. So all the wood is wet. It's starting to get dark and cold. We had already eaten the bag of Lipton's by this point, but it didn't do anything to curb our hunger because it was just the one bag and there were five of us.
"We need more wood," my brother decides and asks if anyone packed an ax or a saw. We all look around at each other, shrugging shoulders and understand that, no, no one has thought to pack an ax or saw.
My brother goes out to the periphery of our campsite where a couple of small trees are down, gets another log for leverage and starts bouncing on branches to snap them off. He manages to get quite a few branches this way. All us womenfolk are mightily impressed by his abilities. But there is no luck when it comes to lighting the damn things. They're just too wet.
"Dammit!" my brother yells. We're all pretty desolate by this time. We've resigned ourselves to the fact that we are going to bed hungry, tired and cold. "I'm finding something to start a fire," he says determinedly and stalks off to find something to burn. About ten minutes later, he comes back with a shit-eating grin on his face, dragging a huge-ass cardboard box behind him. It's like a refridgerator box. That's how big it is.
"Where the hell did you find that?" I ask.
"It was propped up against a soda machine down by the showers," he answers. He bends and rips the box until it can fit within the stone circle for the fire then says, "Bring me that leftover kerosene."
Rose hands him the canister and he dumps the entire amount on the box. "Stand back," he instructs us before he tosses a lit match onto the drenched box. Basically, the box exploded in flame and fire. It was almost beautiful, I have to say. We moved some of the logs and branches close to the fire so they could dry out, which they did pretty quickly. The box was big enough to burn for quite awhile. We had our fire. We all found sticks for our hotdogs, roasted those babies and had a couple of beers. We even made smores. So in the end, it all turned out pretty well. We laugh about it now because we really did feel like we survived the elements that day. Man against nature, the endless stuggle that never fails to motivate and inspire. We had won. For the day, we had won and all was good in the world.
June 02, 2005
I'm crispy flavored.
Yesterday was Field Day at my daughter's school. I volunteered for the day and worked the Wheelbarrow Race, which was fine. I was outside all day without sunblock and I am paying the piper now, my friends. I look like Zebra Woman for all the striped patches on my arms and legs. I slathered the sunblock on my face, however, because, you know, I don't want wrinkles. I am literally red and white. If there is a bright side, it's that I'm not burned over every square inch of my body. The thing I hate most about sunburns is the twitching. The pain causes you to spasm every now and again and for some reason it just bugs the living crap out of me. Unfortunately, when I burn, my skin stays dark for a very long time. I've still got a dark patch on my lower back from a sunburn I got two years ago. I really don't want to look like a farmer for two years.
Today is my daughter's last day of school for the year, so she's pretty excited. While my husband and I are stuck here working, my daughter has quite the travel-packed summer laid out. She's home for June, then she'll go to Montana to go on a horseback-riding, back country camping trip with my sister's family. She'll stay in Montana until everyone heads to DC in August for my brother's wedding, at which time my husband and I will collect her and bring her back home, then it's right back to school again. Oh to be young and free and have places to go and people to see. Sigh.
Today is my daughter's last day of school for the year, so she's pretty excited. While my husband and I are stuck here working, my daughter has quite the travel-packed summer laid out. She's home for June, then she'll go to Montana to go on a horseback-riding, back country camping trip with my sister's family. She'll stay in Montana until everyone heads to DC in August for my brother's wedding, at which time my husband and I will collect her and bring her back home, then it's right back to school again. Oh to be young and free and have places to go and people to see. Sigh.
May 31, 2005
YUCK!
I just went to use the restroom and when I switched on the light, this sucker was waiting:
Needless to say, I exited and used the Men's room instead. Now I'm paranoid that killer cockroaches are going to come jumping out at me in the office. I hate cockroaches.
Needless to say, I exited and used the Men's room instead. Now I'm paranoid that killer cockroaches are going to come jumping out at me in the office. I hate cockroaches.
Too much damn food.
I ate a whole lot of food this weekend. Too much food. I feel like bloated whale sitting here right now. Good thing this is a running day. My daughter's staph infection is pretty much cleared up, so everything's good now. She just has to keep taking her antibiotic for another couple of days and that will be that. This is her last week of school and tomorrow I'll be volunteering for their field day. It's a fun day for the kids. My husband had to go to our daughter's school last Friday for a Dad's Luau. It was like the Mother's Tea I went to a couple of weeks ago, but for the dads instead. Our daughter also made a little book for him, like the one she made for me. My two favorite entries were the ones that said: My dad is the master of computer games. I never get to play on the computer because he is always using it; and My dad is the king of the diningroom chair. When my mom puts my dinner on the table, he moves my plate to another spot and says, "That's my chair." I was busting a gut when I read those because they're absolutely true.
The girls night was fun. We went to a restaurant for dinner and drinks. While we were there, I saw a couple in a booth across from us where the guy looked about 35 and the girl looked 12. They were kissing and stuff and I tried to get our waiter to go over on a covert operation to scope out the scene and report back to us if there was, indeed, as much of an age difference as there appeared to be. However, once I started describing the pair, he knew exactly whom I was speaking of and said, "Yeah," while rolling his eyes. When I say she looked 12, I mean she looked 12. She acted like she was 12, too. You know, the way girls that age hold themselves and can't quite sit still and flop their arms around when they talk. Anyway, it was disturbing to say the least. After dinner, we went to Barnes & Noble because one of my friends is planning on building a deck and general redoing her backyard and my other friend is crazy about design, so we went to the bookstore to look at landscaping books. I'm not a big fan for looking at that sort of thing so after awhile I said I was going to go get a trashy romance novel before the store closed and both my friends seemed shocked that I would read trashy romance novels. I don't know why, though. I also got a copy of Mansfield Park because B&N has this classics series and only charge about $5.00 for a book. The funniest thing, though, is that my friends decided to start looking for books, too, and my one friend was flipping through the bargain books and she said, "Oh that sounds like a sweet story," about a book she was looking at. And I said, "Why, what's it about?" And she said, "It's about a girl who has an accident and becomes a quadrapalegic. " And I started laughing and said, "Yeah, that sounds like a really sweet story." Then she realized what she said and then tried to explain there was more to it than that.
Yesterday, my daughter had a friend over for a playdate and we managed to get the house cleaned, so it wasn't too bad a day.
The girls night was fun. We went to a restaurant for dinner and drinks. While we were there, I saw a couple in a booth across from us where the guy looked about 35 and the girl looked 12. They were kissing and stuff and I tried to get our waiter to go over on a covert operation to scope out the scene and report back to us if there was, indeed, as much of an age difference as there appeared to be. However, once I started describing the pair, he knew exactly whom I was speaking of and said, "Yeah," while rolling his eyes. When I say she looked 12, I mean she looked 12. She acted like she was 12, too. You know, the way girls that age hold themselves and can't quite sit still and flop their arms around when they talk. Anyway, it was disturbing to say the least. After dinner, we went to Barnes & Noble because one of my friends is planning on building a deck and general redoing her backyard and my other friend is crazy about design, so we went to the bookstore to look at landscaping books. I'm not a big fan for looking at that sort of thing so after awhile I said I was going to go get a trashy romance novel before the store closed and both my friends seemed shocked that I would read trashy romance novels. I don't know why, though. I also got a copy of Mansfield Park because B&N has this classics series and only charge about $5.00 for a book. The funniest thing, though, is that my friends decided to start looking for books, too, and my one friend was flipping through the bargain books and she said, "Oh that sounds like a sweet story," about a book she was looking at. And I said, "Why, what's it about?" And she said, "It's about a girl who has an accident and becomes a quadrapalegic. " And I started laughing and said, "Yeah, that sounds like a really sweet story." Then she realized what she said and then tried to explain there was more to it than that.
Yesterday, my daughter had a friend over for a playdate and we managed to get the house cleaned, so it wasn't too bad a day.
May 29, 2005
Aargh, I hate housework.
I'm posting as an excuse to take a break from laundry. I am really in a funk lately when it comes to housework because the state of my house is really dragging me down. I can't stand a mess, but I feel like the effort of trying to keep the place up is so worthless because as soon as I clean something, it's dirty ten seconds later. Anyway, the husband and kid are out on a reptile-catching expedition and I'm supposed to go out for a girls' night out this evening. So I'm trying to clean my house because it is an absolute disaster area and I'm just pissed and defeated feeling right now. I wish I had a maid.
May 27, 2005
Should they stay or go?
We have several rodents as pets: a hamster, a rabbit and two guinea pigs. Over the past couple of days my husband has been suggesting we get rid of the guinea pigs. I think, primarily, because they stink if you don't clean their cage often enough and my husband isn't up to daily upkeep. They're both female and their names are Spotty and Brumhilde. They both love my husband something fierce. Whenever he comes home, they squeak in excitement and glee. They're hay whores and they know my husband is always willing to give them what they want. But now he wants to chuck them to the cruel, harsh world. My daughter is somewhat hesitant to give them up because she loves them, although, she loves the rabbit more. So, should they stay or go? I want to know what you think. Is it thumbs up for the girls or thumbs down? If I had a digital camera, I'd put their pictures up, but I don't so I can't.
Disclaimer
We are not Spotty and Brumhilde. We are merely underpaid stunt doubles. We repeat, we are not Spotty and Brumhilde. But from what we understand, they kind of, sort of look like us in that they are also guinea pigs as we are.
Disclaimer
We are not Spotty and Brumhilde. We are merely underpaid stunt doubles. We repeat, we are not Spotty and Brumhilde. But from what we understand, they kind of, sort of look like us in that they are also guinea pigs as we are.
I almost forgot...
I was so keen to tell you about my new MP3 player, I totally forgot to mention the very nice thing that happened to me Wednesday. My friends threw me a belated surprise birthday party. We had plans to meet at a local pizza joint with the kids as a summer kick-off. So when I get there, one of my friends presents me with a very nice bouquet of roses. It was so sweet and I told her, "You didn't have to do that." And she says, "Well, I felt bad about not doing something when it was your birthday."
Aaaah, so sweet.
So our other friend gets there and then my husband and then my friend's husband shows up and we all eat pizza and have a generally good time. Then one of my friends disappears and reappears with a cake that she and her daughters had baked to celebrate my birthday. Now I'm really flabbergasted because it's all such a surprise. The cake was good and my friends picked up the bill. So you see, some things are worth waiting for.
Update on my daugther and her maybe staph infection: I called the doctor's office Tuesday to find out if they had the results from the culture yet and that launches a flurry of phone calls between me and the office because no one can locate the culture and the lab has no record of it. So at this point, I still don't know if she's got staph or not, but I'm giving her the antibiotics they prescribed. Today is the first day that it seems like maybe the sores are healing, but it's hard for me to really know because they're still pretty fiery red looking to me. Plus, my daughter has sprouted a couple of other sores on her scalp that weren't there they day we saw the doctor. So I don't know. I'm going to try a different shampoo on her just to see if that might help the sores on her head.
Aaaah, so sweet.
So our other friend gets there and then my husband and then my friend's husband shows up and we all eat pizza and have a generally good time. Then one of my friends disappears and reappears with a cake that she and her daughters had baked to celebrate my birthday. Now I'm really flabbergasted because it's all such a surprise. The cake was good and my friends picked up the bill. So you see, some things are worth waiting for.
Update on my daugther and her maybe staph infection: I called the doctor's office Tuesday to find out if they had the results from the culture yet and that launches a flurry of phone calls between me and the office because no one can locate the culture and the lab has no record of it. So at this point, I still don't know if she's got staph or not, but I'm giving her the antibiotics they prescribed. Today is the first day that it seems like maybe the sores are healing, but it's hard for me to really know because they're still pretty fiery red looking to me. Plus, my daughter has sprouted a couple of other sores on her scalp that weren't there they day we saw the doctor. So I don't know. I'm going to try a different shampoo on her just to see if that might help the sores on her head.
May 26, 2005
A very bad thing.
When I was running Tuesday, a very, very bad thing happened. Tragic, really. I busted my walkman. I BUSTED MY WALKMAN!! The horror, the horror. I accidentally knocked if off the sink when I was washing my hands and busted it. It sort of split at the seams, and I snapped it back together, but it was useless. The radio still works, but the cassette player does not and the cassette player is all that matters because I have to listen to very specifc music when I run. You never know what you're going to get with the radio and you can't always count on reception. I cannot exercise without music. Not I dont want to exercise without music, I CANNOT exercise without music. I suffer from a rare disorder known as noexercisimus sansmusicplayiolitis. It's been a lifelong battle, but it's just the way the cards were dealt for me. I have to listen to specific music when I exercise, music that allows me to imagine I'm really cage dancing while I run. So my current exercise tape has stuff like RuPaul's Supermodel, Spice Girls' Wannabe, KC and the Sunshine Band's Shake Your Booty, Duran Duran's Planet Earth, Depeche Mode's Master and Servant, and you get the picture. While I run, I see myself dancing and it helps me keep going because dancing's fun. Anyway, when I realized that I had broken my cassette player, I became a little frantic because what the hell am I going to do now? I can't run without the tunes, man. I've talked a bit about how I'd like an iPod to use while I run, but I'm one of those people who tends to be really behind the curve when it comes to up-to-date personal electronic purchases. I always feel guilty spending money on myself when there are more important things to take care of, so I usually go with the lowest common demoninator (cost-wise) to satisfy my desires, hence the portable cassette player rather than the digital audio player or even a portable CD player. But I knew a time of reckoning had come, I didn't want to spend money on a new cassette player when what I really want is an iPod or MP3 player that I can just strap to my arm while I run.
And here's the part where I turn a frown upside down. I stopped at the Walgreen's across the street from my daughter's school this morning to just see what they had, thinking maybe I'd just buy a really cheap cassette player to bide my time. I go in and notice an MP3 player on sale for $41.99, reduced from $69.99. I think, "Should I?" Because that's really not a bad price for something like that, and I decide quite impulsively, "Yes, yes I will." So I get the MP3 player feeling pretty satisfied that I've gotten something close to what I'd like at a fairly good price, then I go to the register, the lady scans the package and it rings up at $35.99. YES, I rule. I'm getting an even better bargain than I counted on. Plus, the MP3 player comes with it's own armband carrying case and headphones, along with all the computer paraphenalia required to download the music. So when I go for my run after work today, I am going to be bustin' moves like Madonna and J. Lo all mixed up. Oooh, oooh.
And here's the part where I turn a frown upside down. I stopped at the Walgreen's across the street from my daughter's school this morning to just see what they had, thinking maybe I'd just buy a really cheap cassette player to bide my time. I go in and notice an MP3 player on sale for $41.99, reduced from $69.99. I think, "Should I?" Because that's really not a bad price for something like that, and I decide quite impulsively, "Yes, yes I will." So I get the MP3 player feeling pretty satisfied that I've gotten something close to what I'd like at a fairly good price, then I go to the register, the lady scans the package and it rings up at $35.99. YES, I rule. I'm getting an even better bargain than I counted on. Plus, the MP3 player comes with it's own armband carrying case and headphones, along with all the computer paraphenalia required to download the music. So when I go for my run after work today, I am going to be bustin' moves like Madonna and J. Lo all mixed up. Oooh, oooh.
May 25, 2005
I hate stupid people. (Or at least annoying old biddies who sound like they come from NY and have retired to Florida.)
I just got off the phone with one stupid bitch. She called from a school in Florida wanting to subscribe to one of the journals I work for. Actually, she called last week and gave me the credit card number to charge the subscription to and then asked that I send her an e-mail confirmation when I processed the order, which I did. However, when I sent the e-mail, it came back as undeliverable. I checked the address with the one she gave me and it was correct, so what are you going to do. Anyway, she calls back today saying I was supposed to e-mail her and what follows below is an approximation to the conversation that we had, with her speaking in the heaviest most obnoxious New York accent I've ever heard. Words appearing in parentheses are subtext.
KC: Yes, I did....
SB: You forgot to send it though?
KC: No, I didn't forget. I sent it last week and it came back undeliverable.(Dumb ass, don't assume I forgot. Stupid bitch, I'll cut ya.)
SB: Oh, then you must have gotten the e-mail wrong.
KC: Well, why don't you give it to me again to make sure I have it down correctly. (And to make sure you gave it me correctly in the first place, dumb ass.)
SB: It's blah, blah, blah.
KC: Yup, that's exactly what I have and what I put on the e-mail, but it came back. (Dumb ass.)
SB: Well, maybe it's because I didn't have my computer on.
KC: Oh, your server doesn't save your e-mail messages? (Yeah, it's because your computer wasn't on, dumb ass. Whatever.)
SB: Well, you know, sometimes I send e-mails to my friends and it comes back with that message. (My translation: "I don't know what a server is because I'm a dumb ass. And I'm old.")
KC: Are any of the letters supposed to be capitalized? (That means some of the letters will be "big" letters.)
SB: It shouldn't matter if they're capitalized, but let me look how they have me down. (My translation: "Wait, maybe I don't know my e-mail address.)
SB: Well, it looks like the "S" and the "B" are capitalized, but it shouldn't matter.
KC: OK, then, let's try that and I'll resend to see if it makes a difference. (You know nothing about modern technology because you're a dumb ass.)
SB: Did you send it?
KC: Yes, I did. (Isn't that what I said I was doing?)
SB: Well, let me try this and this....(general mumbling to self.) Do you want me to call you back?
KC: You can e-mail me, I'm leaving in a couple of minutes. (Dumb ass.)
SB: What time is it there?
KC: About 10:25. I leave at 10:30.
SB: And what time is it here?
KC: I don't know, what time zone are you in? (Are you kidding me?)
SB: But I don't know where you are?
KC: I'm in Indiana and it's central time here. Don't you know what time it is where you are? (What difference does it make where I am, it has absolutely no effect on your time, dumb ass.)
SB: It's 11:30 here. (I think, but a clock is too complicated for me to figure out.)
KC: So you're an hour ahead. But don't worry, the order has been processed.
SB: But I want confirmation.
KC: OK (I am confirming right now by telling you. The e-mail doesn't say anything I haven't already told you, stupid bitch. Now you're really starting to annoy me big time.)
SB: OK, I'll e-mail you if it comes through, otherwise I'll call you tomorrow.
KC: OK, that's fine. (Get off my phone, I'm losing brain cells from talking to you.)
*Click*
I'd be much more gracious about the exchange if she hadn't talked to me in a manner that suggested she couldn't possibly be in the wrong. Anyway, now that I've gotten that off my chest, I feel much better.
KC: Yes, I did....
SB: You forgot to send it though?
KC: No, I didn't forget. I sent it last week and it came back undeliverable.(Dumb ass, don't assume I forgot. Stupid bitch, I'll cut ya.)
SB: Oh, then you must have gotten the e-mail wrong.
KC: Well, why don't you give it to me again to make sure I have it down correctly. (And to make sure you gave it me correctly in the first place, dumb ass.)
SB: It's blah, blah, blah.
KC: Yup, that's exactly what I have and what I put on the e-mail, but it came back. (Dumb ass.)
SB: Well, maybe it's because I didn't have my computer on.
KC: Oh, your server doesn't save your e-mail messages? (Yeah, it's because your computer wasn't on, dumb ass. Whatever.)
SB: Well, you know, sometimes I send e-mails to my friends and it comes back with that message. (My translation: "I don't know what a server is because I'm a dumb ass. And I'm old.")
KC: Are any of the letters supposed to be capitalized? (That means some of the letters will be "big" letters.)
SB: It shouldn't matter if they're capitalized, but let me look how they have me down. (My translation: "Wait, maybe I don't know my e-mail address.)
SB: Well, it looks like the "S" and the "B" are capitalized, but it shouldn't matter.
KC: OK, then, let's try that and I'll resend to see if it makes a difference. (You know nothing about modern technology because you're a dumb ass.)
SB: Did you send it?
KC: Yes, I did. (Isn't that what I said I was doing?)
SB: Well, let me try this and this....(general mumbling to self.) Do you want me to call you back?
KC: You can e-mail me, I'm leaving in a couple of minutes. (Dumb ass.)
SB: What time is it there?
KC: About 10:25. I leave at 10:30.
SB: And what time is it here?
KC: I don't know, what time zone are you in? (Are you kidding me?)
SB: But I don't know where you are?
KC: I'm in Indiana and it's central time here. Don't you know what time it is where you are? (What difference does it make where I am, it has absolutely no effect on your time, dumb ass.)
SB: It's 11:30 here. (I think, but a clock is too complicated for me to figure out.)
KC: So you're an hour ahead. But don't worry, the order has been processed.
SB: But I want confirmation.
KC: OK (I am confirming right now by telling you. The e-mail doesn't say anything I haven't already told you, stupid bitch. Now you're really starting to annoy me big time.)
SB: OK, I'll e-mail you if it comes through, otherwise I'll call you tomorrow.
KC: OK, that's fine. (Get off my phone, I'm losing brain cells from talking to you.)
*Click*
I'd be much more gracious about the exchange if she hadn't talked to me in a manner that suggested she couldn't possibly be in the wrong. Anyway, now that I've gotten that off my chest, I feel much better.
May 24, 2005
How'd she get that?
Well, I took the child to the doctor yesterday and she seems to think my precious daughter has a staph infection.
"Staph infection?!?!" I say. "How would she get a staph infection?" In my mind, people get staph infections from being in the hospital. Especially if they're post-operative. Staph is everywhere, really. But it needs an entry point into the body, and many times that opportunity is available after surgery in the hospital.
The doctor then explained that she's been seeing a rush of staph infections in kids over the past two weeks that have her confounded. "I've seen more staph in the past two weeks than I saw in the entire previous year," she said.
"Really?" I asked.
"Yes, really."
She said she's considering calling the health department because she's got so much of it. The problem is that they've also been seeing the drug-resistant strain of the bacteria. She took a culture from one of the blisters on my daughter's neck and said she'd start her on antibiotics before they get the results back just to play it safe. Having once been a medical journalist, I'd like to take this opportunity to provide a little background about staph infections.
This is what a staph infection looks like (although, there are several variations of appearance depending on what type of tissue is involved):
My daughter's infection doesn't look this bad. I couldn't find a really good, gross photo, though. I like using the worst scenario type photos for some reason.
Here's a brief description of a staph infection found at: www.medicinenet.com/staph_infection/article.htm.
What is Staphylococcus?
Now, as I mentioned the doctor explained that she's seeing drug-resistant strains of staph in the patients whoare presenting. As you may or may not know, drug resistance is becoming a BIG problem. There are several reasons for this: people don't finish their antibiotics, which doesn't completely get rid of the bacteria but allows them to build resistance; doctors have too often prescribed wide-range antibiotics that affect all bacteria, including those that are not causing infection which allows those bacteria to develop resistance; patients demanding antibiotics when they are suffering from viral infections rather than bacterial infections, meaning people are taking antibiotics when they are not warranted and allowing any present bacteria to build resistance. The best way to combat this problem is to take all your antibiotics when they are prescribed, even if you're feeling better; request a narrow-range antibiotic designed to zero in on the particular bacteria causing infection; and don't ask your doctor to prescribe medication if you're suffering from viral infection. The doctor should know better anyway, but some are apparently willing to write the prescription just to get rid of their annoying patients. Antibiotics have absolutely no effect against viruses, which is what is responsible for things like the common cold and flu. With most viral infections, the only thing you can do is treat the symptoms, not the virus itself. There are anti-viral medications available, I think most of them either keep the virus dormant to lessen its effects on the patient rather than actually killing the virus. Once you're infected with a virus, you've got it forever.
Some researchers also believe the increased use of all our anti-bacterial cleaning products have help increase drug-resitance because they mutate and develop was to survive. Some also believe our increased consumption of beef or chicken that has been treated with antibiotics contributes to drug resistance. And scientists simply cannot develop new antibiotics quickly enough to out pace the bacteria's ability to mutate and strengthen itself.
"Staph infection?!?!" I say. "How would she get a staph infection?" In my mind, people get staph infections from being in the hospital. Especially if they're post-operative. Staph is everywhere, really. But it needs an entry point into the body, and many times that opportunity is available after surgery in the hospital.
The doctor then explained that she's been seeing a rush of staph infections in kids over the past two weeks that have her confounded. "I've seen more staph in the past two weeks than I saw in the entire previous year," she said.
"Really?" I asked.
"Yes, really."
She said she's considering calling the health department because she's got so much of it. The problem is that they've also been seeing the drug-resistant strain of the bacteria. She took a culture from one of the blisters on my daughter's neck and said she'd start her on antibiotics before they get the results back just to play it safe. Having once been a medical journalist, I'd like to take this opportunity to provide a little background about staph infections.
This is what a staph infection looks like (although, there are several variations of appearance depending on what type of tissue is involved):
My daughter's infection doesn't look this bad. I couldn't find a really good, gross photo, though. I like using the worst scenario type photos for some reason.
Here's a brief description of a staph infection found at: www.medicinenet.com/staph_infection/article.htm.
What is Staphylococcus?
Staphylococcus is group of bacteria, familiarly known as Staph, that can (and do) cause a multitude of diseases. Staph bacteria can cause illness directly by infection (such as in the skin) or indirectly through products they make such as toxins responsible for food poisoning and toxic shock syndrome. The name "Staphylococcus" comes from the Greek staphyle meaning a bunch of grapes + kokkos meaning berry, and that is exactly what Staph look like under the microscope, like a bunch of grape or little round berries. (In technical terms, these are gram-positive, facultative anaerobic, usually unencapsulated cocci.)
What are complications of Staph infections?
Staph infection can be simple and localized, such as with impetigo of the skin. It can, however, become widespread, by infecting the blood. It can thereby seed to various areas of the body. This spreading occurs more commonly in persons with abnormally suppressed immune systems. Scalded skin syndrome is a potentially serious side effect of infection with the Staph (Staphylococcus) bacteria that produces a specific protein which loosens the "cement" holding the various layers of the skin together. This allows blister formation and sloughing of the top layer of skin. If it occurs over large body regions it can be deadly (just like a large surface area of the body having been burned). It is necessary to treat scalded skin syndrome with intravenous antibiotics and to protect the skin from allowing dehydration to occur if large areas peel off. The disease occurs predominantly in children under 5 years of age. It is known formally as Staphyloccoccal scalded skin syndrome and as Ritter disease.
Now, as I mentioned the doctor explained that she's seeing drug-resistant strains of staph in the patients whoare presenting. As you may or may not know, drug resistance is becoming a BIG problem. There are several reasons for this: people don't finish their antibiotics, which doesn't completely get rid of the bacteria but allows them to build resistance; doctors have too often prescribed wide-range antibiotics that affect all bacteria, including those that are not causing infection which allows those bacteria to develop resistance; patients demanding antibiotics when they are suffering from viral infections rather than bacterial infections, meaning people are taking antibiotics when they are not warranted and allowing any present bacteria to build resistance. The best way to combat this problem is to take all your antibiotics when they are prescribed, even if you're feeling better; request a narrow-range antibiotic designed to zero in on the particular bacteria causing infection; and don't ask your doctor to prescribe medication if you're suffering from viral infection. The doctor should know better anyway, but some are apparently willing to write the prescription just to get rid of their annoying patients. Antibiotics have absolutely no effect against viruses, which is what is responsible for things like the common cold and flu. With most viral infections, the only thing you can do is treat the symptoms, not the virus itself. There are anti-viral medications available, I think most of them either keep the virus dormant to lessen its effects on the patient rather than actually killing the virus. Once you're infected with a virus, you've got it forever.
Some researchers also believe the increased use of all our anti-bacterial cleaning products have help increase drug-resitance because they mutate and develop was to survive. Some also believe our increased consumption of beef or chicken that has been treated with antibiotics contributes to drug resistance. And scientists simply cannot develop new antibiotics quickly enough to out pace the bacteria's ability to mutate and strengthen itself.
May 23, 2005
OK, I'm gonna tell you anyway...
Yesterday, my husband told me he woke up Saturday night because I was talking in my sleep. Doesn't sound so weird, right? But he told me that I was speaking very loudly and that it sounded like I was speaking in tongues (it was vaguely European sounding, he said) and then I said, "Praise the Lord." Then I went back to speaking the undecipherable language and then responded, "Thanks be to God." He said that was the point at which he told me to roll over, which I did, and then it was over. So I'm a little freaked out while he's telling me this; although, I'm laughing my ass off. I asked what did this "speaking in tongues" sound like. I told him to imitate it and he said he couldn't. I have no recollection of the dream I must have been having, but I think this has to be a result of my reading that exorcist book I was telling you all about.
But I do want to know what vaguely European sounding is supposed to mean. The only European languages I think you can easily confuse with each other are Eastern European languages because they all sound kind of Russian to me. Whereas, Western Europe, you're looking at German, French, Spanish, etc. It's all very different sounding. I said it's weird that I should be speaking another language because I sometimes dream in either French or Korean where I know in the dream I am saying everything correctly, but I wouldn't be able to do it in waking life. When I said this, then my husband said, "Maybe it was Korean. Yeah, you were speaking Korean." I don't know, I'm dying to know what this other language sounded like.
I've always been some what fascinated with the idea of speaking in tongues because I want to know what it sounds like. I've asked people who have heard it and they basicallys say it sounds like gobbledy-gook. But I'm thinking if it's supposed to be inspired by the Holy Spirit, shouldn't it sound like something? Even if it's a dead langugae, don't you think it should be a real language? I don't know. Because anyone can just act like they're talking some weird language by making noises, but that doesn't mean they're really saying anything. I'd like to witness it myself some day just to know what it's like.
I've got to take my daughter to the doctor this afternoon because she has some odd bumps on her head and on her neck. It started Thursday when she said she felt bumps on the back of her neck under her skull. I felt it and there were two very hard nodules under the skin. They sort of felt like swollen glands, but harder. So I called the doctor to make an appointment, which is today after school. She said that the bumps hurt if someone touched them and that if she moved her head a certain way, it would also hurt. Then Friday, I notice two very small pustules near the area where the the glands or nodes are swollen, but it doesn't look like anything major, but there are now more hard, inflamed nodules. Then Saturday night, she's scratching her head really hard and I look and there's a patch of about ten or so red, inflamed pustules on her scalp. My husband said they looked like spider bites. There were so many of them, though, I asked could it really be spider bites. Would they bite so many times? And he said, yeah, that they just bite and the go on and bite again. He said some spiders eat blood and that's what they're trying to get. At the same time, but the red bumps on her neck are getting bigger and more blister-like in appearance and it's itching her. I've been trying everything to ease the itching for her. This morning I put camphor spirit on the all the bumps. I hope the doctor can give her something to make her more comfortable. I'm thinking if they are spider bites, then the great number of them must be working her immune system pretty hard if she's got swollen lymph nodes or glands because of it. Of course, since I've done such a good job of transferring my hypochondria to her, she's worried her head is going to start melting at any moment. When she woke up this morning she said he was so happy it was Monday because it's doctor day.
Anyway, I'm also going to spray down the entire house to get rid of any bugs that might be taking up residence. We washed her blankets and everything in hot water, so that should kill anything that was crawling around. I know it's not lice, though, because I looked through her head hard and long with a magnifying glass to make sure I didn't see any nits. I hate bugs, I don't know if I've mentioned it before or not but I figure they've got the entire rest of the world to live, they don't need to share my house. My husband gets mad at me, though, because I spray the house every spring and one year I ended up mutating the toads around our house. Some of them didn't have back legs and stuff like that. He's something of a naturalist, so he doesn't appreciate my "cleansing" ritual. He said I couldn't spray anything other than the house anymore. I'd spray up the trunks of the trees and things before and three feet out from the house around the entire perimeter. I'm not excessive, do you think? My husband is a birdwatcher, too, and he didn't want me contaminating the insects because he said the birds would die from eating poison bugs. I don't want to kill any birds, but I don't want insects in my house. I'm not freakish about it or anything. I swear. I wish I had a digital camea, then I could show you all a picture of the scabies on my daughter's head. You'd all like that , right?
But I do want to know what vaguely European sounding is supposed to mean. The only European languages I think you can easily confuse with each other are Eastern European languages because they all sound kind of Russian to me. Whereas, Western Europe, you're looking at German, French, Spanish, etc. It's all very different sounding. I said it's weird that I should be speaking another language because I sometimes dream in either French or Korean where I know in the dream I am saying everything correctly, but I wouldn't be able to do it in waking life. When I said this, then my husband said, "Maybe it was Korean. Yeah, you were speaking Korean." I don't know, I'm dying to know what this other language sounded like.
I've always been some what fascinated with the idea of speaking in tongues because I want to know what it sounds like. I've asked people who have heard it and they basicallys say it sounds like gobbledy-gook. But I'm thinking if it's supposed to be inspired by the Holy Spirit, shouldn't it sound like something? Even if it's a dead langugae, don't you think it should be a real language? I don't know. Because anyone can just act like they're talking some weird language by making noises, but that doesn't mean they're really saying anything. I'd like to witness it myself some day just to know what it's like.
I've got to take my daughter to the doctor this afternoon because she has some odd bumps on her head and on her neck. It started Thursday when she said she felt bumps on the back of her neck under her skull. I felt it and there were two very hard nodules under the skin. They sort of felt like swollen glands, but harder. So I called the doctor to make an appointment, which is today after school. She said that the bumps hurt if someone touched them and that if she moved her head a certain way, it would also hurt. Then Friday, I notice two very small pustules near the area where the the glands or nodes are swollen, but it doesn't look like anything major, but there are now more hard, inflamed nodules. Then Saturday night, she's scratching her head really hard and I look and there's a patch of about ten or so red, inflamed pustules on her scalp. My husband said they looked like spider bites. There were so many of them, though, I asked could it really be spider bites. Would they bite so many times? And he said, yeah, that they just bite and the go on and bite again. He said some spiders eat blood and that's what they're trying to get. At the same time, but the red bumps on her neck are getting bigger and more blister-like in appearance and it's itching her. I've been trying everything to ease the itching for her. This morning I put camphor spirit on the all the bumps. I hope the doctor can give her something to make her more comfortable. I'm thinking if they are spider bites, then the great number of them must be working her immune system pretty hard if she's got swollen lymph nodes or glands because of it. Of course, since I've done such a good job of transferring my hypochondria to her, she's worried her head is going to start melting at any moment. When she woke up this morning she said he was so happy it was Monday because it's doctor day.
Anyway, I'm also going to spray down the entire house to get rid of any bugs that might be taking up residence. We washed her blankets and everything in hot water, so that should kill anything that was crawling around. I know it's not lice, though, because I looked through her head hard and long with a magnifying glass to make sure I didn't see any nits. I hate bugs, I don't know if I've mentioned it before or not but I figure they've got the entire rest of the world to live, they don't need to share my house. My husband gets mad at me, though, because I spray the house every spring and one year I ended up mutating the toads around our house. Some of them didn't have back legs and stuff like that. He's something of a naturalist, so he doesn't appreciate my "cleansing" ritual. He said I couldn't spray anything other than the house anymore. I'd spray up the trunks of the trees and things before and three feet out from the house around the entire perimeter. I'm not excessive, do you think? My husband is a birdwatcher, too, and he didn't want me contaminating the insects because he said the birds would die from eating poison bugs. I don't want to kill any birds, but I don't want insects in my house. I'm not freakish about it or anything. I swear. I wish I had a digital camea, then I could show you all a picture of the scabies on my daughter's head. You'd all like that , right?
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