Cold Sores and Dry Shampoo

It began innocently enough.  A minor itch.  A slight twinge.  A little tingle.  I started to fret.  But maybe it wouldn’t happen this time.  After all, I had gotten through other bouts of illness without developing one—maybe this would be one of those times.  

 

Dream on. 

 

It was not to be.  At work, I felt the no-mistaking-it tingle heralding the new arrival, and a look in my compact mirror confirmed what I already knew:  I was witnessing the birth of the world’s worst cold sore.  

 

Fever Blister.  Herpes simplex.  It all sounds different to the ear but in the end, they are all the same—a gigantic cootie cluster on my lower lip, half an inch from dead center.

 

Maybe it wasn’t so much a birth as a coming home, however.  After all, the only place I ever, ever get cold sores is in that very same spot.  Same lip.  Every time.  What skeeves me out even more is the fact that despite my OCD antibacterial hand gel application efforts, despite wiping every touchable hard surface at home and at work with antibacterial wipes, despite bathing in Lysol and gargling with bleach, I got one anyway.  

 

Remembering backward, I realized that I had seen a coworker sporting a fever blister a week or two before.  The "ewww" factor has been racketed up a notch.

 

Typically, the day before the spot actually makes its debut there is also quite a bit of pain, especially on the Chris Cacciatore unique pain scale.  I'm not saying I'm a big baby but even a hangnail will wake me up at night.  Throw a cold sore at me and it’s grounds for calling in sick.

 

The last time I got a massive cold sore was during a…you guessed it…cold.  My defenses were down; I should have seen it coming.  I had felt crappy all day at work, and suddenly, my entire bottom lip looked as if a chorus line of bees had stung it in unison.  That night at home, the pain was so intense that I was forced to start my obituary.  

 

The next morning, surprised to find myself still alive, I realized that due to all the tossing and turning I did the night during the world’s worst night’s sleep, I had overslept.

 

For those who have no time for a quick shower, it’s dry shampoo to the rescue.  Or so I thought.

I had picked it up on a whim, this Tresemme dry shampoo.  I had overheard a conversation while sitting at McDonald's writing one afternoon.  It's normally a great place to write because you can tune everything out except this time, when two young women were talking about their hair, it caught my attention, mostly because they were actually pronouncing it "her".  That word was accompanied by lots of patting of said "her".  The conversation was animated as they discussed hair products but came to a standstill when one told the other she washed her hair daily.

 

The other said back, "You'll dry your "her" out!  Don't do that, girl.  Use some o' that dry shampoo.  You won’t believe how it perks up your hairstyle on days when you are skipping a day, or maybe you're just too lazy to wash your hair.”  

 

What?  A new way to be stylish while still allowing me to be lazy?  Sign me up.  I actually found some at the store on the way home.  Now, normally, I don't take much advice from people sitting in McDonald's but due to the above referenced illness, I’m game...and since I overslept, what better time to try it?

 

Getting ready for work that morning, squinting through the cloud of agony my lip was causing, I read the directions and applied the dry shampoo to my own "her" accordingly, then brushed it out as instructed.

 

This is a product that I will never, ever buy again.  I have a dreadful feeling it had been moved from the Halloween section of Wal-Mart into the hair section, as it obviously was meant to be used to make white stripes in my hair for a Bride of Frankenstein costume.  Despite vigorous brushing, I couldn't brush the white out and ended up with not only white hair but a very pink scalp.

 

not so fast, Romeo.  This chick is taken.

 

Thanks, random strangers at McDonald's.  Moms always said don't eavesdrop and I should have listened.

 

It worked out in the end, however, because coworkers were too busy trying not to stare at my white streaks to even notice I had a cold sore.

Spoiler: It's not Maybelline

The Hair

In October (which seems like a lifetime ago) Joe and I were in our garage, getting it all cleaned out for a party.  We heard one snuffling, leaf rustling sound, then another.  We paused in our sweeping to listen a little harder.  The noise was just outside the garage, coming from the back yard.  Like an animal was back there.

I look at Joe in a panic, thinking our dog was loose. "Is Cooper out?"

His eyebrows come together. "No, he's in the house."

Amongst other things, Cooper is our black lab.  He's definitely blog worthy.  He's also a gigantic pain in our respective butts.  Read about it here.

The reason I asked if it was Cooper back there is because he's been known to take luxurious, albeit unauthorized, field trips around the neighborhood, usually in the early morning hours.  Mostly when I have on only a t shirt and bad hair. (I have run braless down my street, throwing baloney and cheese at him to come back. Asshole dog.)

But I digress.  Our dog wasn't out there, but there were two new dogs running around in our back yard; smallish beagles, belonging to the neighbors across the street.  We round them up, slap leashes on their collars, and deliver them back to their owners.

Back at home, in preparation for costumes, we got out the bag o' wigs, one of which Joe slapped on his head and promptly forgot about.  The wig was cut into a bob of longish red hair and looked like something Annabelle might have worn in her movies.

The Wigged One was happily grilling hot dogs for our guests when again the leaf rustling took up but this time, there was only a thin screen door between Cooper and the interlopers and our dog saw them and desperately wanted to play.  Still in the garage, I turned to yell at Joe that the little beagles had once again escaped and were back in our yard, but he was one step ahead of me.

Joe spied the two doggie trespassers and in full red-headed, wigged glory dramatically ran toward them in the back yard, while his hair flowed in the breeze.  It was practically in slow motion.  But his hair.  Oh, my holy goodness.  But it wasn't his hair, as he keeps it to a respectable 1/8" cut year round...it was the hair of this silly wig, which had slipped down and wasn't even on right.

Watching him sprint heroically, grilling tongs waving in the air, to the back to rescue the two beagles, with his hair-not-his-hair flowing in the breeze, I could no longer keep my laughter in and I absolutely lost it.  I dissolved.  My knees went weak.  I could not catch my breath for anything in the world and in fact, couldn't even walk up the back steps into the house because I was laughing so hard at the picture he made in the back yard.  I think I peed my pants a little (who am I kidding, I had to run in and change) and the funniest part of all?

Joe had no idea what I was laughing at because that wig on his head had somehow, in his mind, morphed into just a hat keeping his head warm.  He wasn't even wearing a wig anymore, in his mind, just a toasty head warmer.  He stood there, shaking his wigged head at me, like I was the one who was nuts.

But I knew better.



My handsome Bear, in his "hat", and a sample bite of hot dog in his mouth

 

Rumpty Dumpty

It was inevitable that I would eventually write about poop.  

After all, the word is part of the name of my blog.  I have written about periods here, and surgery here, and gas here; but only touched on the “poop” subject here.

However, this story rocketed to the top of my “stuff to blog about” list when my husband called me at work with a tale that needed to be told. 

Apparently there’s a light out in the bathroom he normally uses at work.  He found that out when he went to use the facilities and there was no response when he flicked the light switch.

Since he had to go, however, and since he was already there (and his bladder somehow recognized that he was near a toilet) he needed to use THAT bathroom.  Right then.  Immediately.  Thinking quickly, he whipped out his trusty 3G Droid smart phone, upon which his thoughtful wife (that’s me) had installed a flashlight app.  Thanks to the bright light of his phone screen, he was able to find the toilet stall in the dark, locate the bowl, remember where everything was and tidy up accordingly, all by holding the phone with its handy flashlight under his chin.

like this. except on your phone.

That day, we had a good laugh over this when he called me to tell me the story and thank me for the app.

Things deteriorated a few days later.  Mr. Forgetful waited until it was almost too late to make his frantic morning jog to the same bathroom referenced above.  This time, however, he was racing against a couple cups of my strong coffee and his morning bran.  He grabbed his phone almost as an afterthought on the off chance he needed to make a phone call, text someone, check the Cubs standings, or for the flashlight app if by some strange circumstance the bathroom light was still out. 

It was.

That’s fine, he thinks, as he struggles to unbuckle and unzip quickly, as he ran in the general direction of the stall door.  I have my fancy phone with the flashlight app.

However, for some reason, despite repeated, desperate attempts to pull up the flashlight app, the app has disappeared and due to extreme gastrointestinal pressure, he gave up trying to get it to work and attempted to go it alone, in the dark.  In all the fumbling with his smart phone trying to get the app to work, though, he has waited a little bit, a tiny bit, a hair too late to get his pants down fully.

It should be noted that on the best of days, he is not Mr. Technology.  Under pressure, however, his difficulty with smart phones is exponentially worse. 

If this were a bad script, I would at this point write “hilarity ensues” but in all actuality he didn't find this at all hilarious, as he was forced to go to the bathroom in the dark, then attempt to clean up after himself in the dark.  Between you and me, reader, he has a difficult enough time when it’s his OWN bathroom, with sufficient lighting to rival the sun and a brand new container of baby wipes. 

In the dark, cold, empty bathroom at work, he does the best he can under the third world circumstances. 

He is forced to make the drive of shame home and change pants, losing yet another pair of undershorts to such an ordeal which, praise God, seldom occurs.

Kids, need a gift idea for Dad for Father's Day?

Luckily, the badly mutilated underwear in question went directly into the garbage because otherwise if yours truly was sorting the white clothes I would have assumed he came face to face with a Yeti.

sort of like this one, which would make ANYONE crap their pants.

Later, he also told me that the majority of the bathroom accident from hell occurred because of two things:  a) the fact that he fucked around so long trying to get his flashlight app to work that he almost lost control right then and there on the floor and b) because of the low lighting from his cell phone screen he sat down on the bowl at the wrong angle and needless to say, not all the “kids” got dropped off at the pool.

He showered four or five times that night, just to make sure.

A few days ago, he visited the same washroom, which now has a working light and Joe was not only able to seat himself comfortably at the correct angle, but also have sufficient light with which to cleanse himself afterward.

 Lucky for him and his underwear drawer.  (and me, and probably the Yeti too.)

She's learning. And it's amazing.

The smartest grandchild in the world

The grandchild came over to spend some time on Sunday and again last night.  I get her approximately once a week for about a half day, and watching her grow is the most amazing thing I've ever seen. 

I think back to when I was a young woman and my children were small and I wish I could have all that time back.  I see Alyssa, my 13 month old granddaughter, doing these grownup things and I think, "when did my kids do that?"  And I DON'T REMEMBER.  It makes me sad.  I'm sure it was amazing at the time, and I bet I called my mom or my sister and told them what Child A B or C did, but I just don't remember anymore.  And those of you thinking, "look it up in their baby book"?  Well, I only did a few pages of each child's baby book, but lost all of them in the flood of 1996, when we were living in the Joliet area and the water in the basement crept up to almost the third stair from the upstairs.

Good times.  Lost in that flood were pictures, favorite toys, favorite blankets, ultrasound pictures, and all of my faith in storm drains.

While at my house, Alyssa left the living room to wander down the hallway toward the bedrooms.  Most of the doors are closed off to her because she certainly doesn't need to be in the bathroom (she throws everything she can find into the tub, and would play in the toity I'm sure if she got the chance) and there's nothing in the other bedrooms or closets she would be allowed to play with.  (besides our my husband's Sing-a-ma-jig, but she spilled coffee on it and Joe took it back.) 

Alyssa, Grandpa is keeping this all for himself.  Sorry.

I called for her and could hear her voice in "her" room, where we have her books, toys, and a rocking chair.  I came around the corner and she came running at me with her favorite Usborne book, smiling with anticipation, then ran back to the rocking chair and patted it with her tiny fingers, her book in the other hand.

She wanted me to sit down so I could read her a book.  She communicated with me.  Grandma, I would like you to read to me.

Ermehgerd. Alyssa has realized where we go to rock and read books.  She knows that Grandma loves to read to her.

My mother pointed out that Alyssa first communicated the second she opened her mouth and cried for the first time.  That is true, but this time she had purpose.

At what point do they eat people food? 

I did daycare for 11 years and took care of a lot of children.  (ah, those were the days.)  I can remember moms coming in while their children were in the high chairs and hearing them say happily, "hey, I didn't know they could eat that yet!" to cereal bars, or cut up bananas, or yogurt.  Last night Alyssa was at the house for dinner and I smashed up the corn, chicken, and potatoes from a can of Progresso Chicken Corn Chowder.  Smashed fine enough, it made the perfect dinner, with an accompaniment of a graham cracker and applesauce and a fine house juice.

When my oldest was 1, I had some friends over for dinner, and they noticed me feeding my son in a high chair.  I distinctly remember my friend's husband asking, "when do they start eating people food?"  It's been 25 years but I still remember that like it was yesterday because it was so funny to me. 

Grandma, I can reach up high now.  Watch out.

A lesson I learned last night, because I must learn everything the hard way, is that Alyssa is not only walking around (and has for three months now) but she can reach.  She stands up on her tippy toes in her pink sandals and her adorable painted toes, and reaches up onto the counter and table for everything she can get.  She also likes to open my drawers in the kitchen to get out items specifically not meant for children of her or any age...baggies and steak knives among them.  Looks like I have to do some baby proofing, I believe.  (she said, as she writes down outlet covers on her grocery list)

I'm not as young as I used to be.

After having her for only three hours last night, I was exhausted.  I harken back to the long, ten hour daycare days and now I realize why I was so tired at night.  I was licensed for 8 children, most 6 and under, and all day I ran after them, swept and mopped the floor a kajillion times, pushed on swings, played in the sandbox, cleaned off counters, faces and hineys all day long.  (not at the same time, thankfully.)  It was a lot of work. 

This is just one child and I was as tired as if I had taken care of 6.  It's why I work in an office now, and don't run a daycare. 

At my age, I have to save my energy for just the one child.  Because she sure is saving it up for me.



shall I talk on the phone, or bang my drum?  Or BOTH???  Let's do both.
 

Sandman! Oh, Sandman!

For a while, I wasn't sleeping at all at night.  Total insomnia.  To the point that I started worrying a little bit after oh, say 9:00 p.m.  I built it up in my head.  I know I won't be able to sleep.  I know it.  I'll get into bed and lay there for hours.  I was tired, exhausted even; but the minute my head hit the pillow I laid there, wide awake. 

here's me.  not sleeping.

Things got better for a while, thanks to my good friend Southern Comfort.  I was able to break through whatever it was keeping me awake and actually get some real rest at night.  Whatever cycle I had been experiencing was over, apparently.  
 

At least, that's what I thought. 

 

It was a Sunday like many other Sundays.  The cars started. It rained but we didn't get water in our basement.  The dog didn’t run away.  Dinner was good.  Nothing earth shattering.   
 

However, Sunday night around 10:30 p.m., my husband and I kissed each other good night, as we always do, cuddled for approximately 10.7 seconds until it got wayyyy too hot, and then turned over to our respective spots.  I hadn't even given my sleeplessness a thought.  I burrowed further into the covers.   

And laid there.  A half hour went by.  I knew my husband was awake.  He knew I was awake too because he says my eyes make a sound when I blink.   

We laid there some more.  And laid there.  Another half hour went by and…  

…we’re still awake.  And I’m thinking, what the hell?  

I get up and pee to break the monotony.  I am quiet and careful, reluctant to jostle my husband or bounce the bed.  I know where the squeaky floorboards are and avoid them, drawing on years of experience with fretful babies and a father who worked midnights.  I don't use any lights, even in the bathroom.  I climb back into bed with the stealth of a ninja. 

Having taken care of that, I snuggle back down.  I think, any time now I’ll fall fast asleep.  I close my eyes and try to count sheep but end up mentally composing a story about them instead. 

I hear my son come in at midnight.  He doesn't wake me up because I'm not asleep.  He knows after years of sneaking in how to hold the bells on the door so they don't make a noise when he opens it.  He too is familiar with the floorboards and is able to avoid the squeaky ones.  He pees and goes to bed.   

Now my husband gets up to pee.  He is not silent and careful like I am.  He was a bachelor for 45 years and never had to be quiet for a sleeping wife or child.  Everyone knows he's up because he uses every light he can on the endless ten foot trip to the bathroom.  He has owned the home longer than my children have drawn breath and yet doesn't know the path to take on the wooden boards to avoid making excess noise. 

He stomps back to our room and swings himself back into bed like an orangutan, then proceeds to thrash around on the bed trying to get comfortable.  Good God, I think.  He moves more than a kid in a bouncy house. 

Unbelievable.  I wait until he is settled and I blink several times in a row, loudly, in retaliation. 

Shortly after he gets back to bed, my daughter is up.  She has inherited her mother's ability to walk catlike in a sleeping household.  She also has inherited her mother's sneakiness and I know she's going outside to have a cigarette.  She is fooling no one.    She too knows to hold the bells on the door as she comes back in and creeps back to her room, stopping in the bathroom, also to pee. 

Ok, I think.  Now that we’ve all ensured there would be no bedwetting, we’ll all get to sleep. 

Husband whispers to me.  "Are you awake?"

 

I whisper back. "Yes, what’s the deal with this?  I’m so tired and I just can’t fall asleep!  Is there some giant geometry test I didn’t study for?  A project I didn’t turn in?  Because the only time I can’t sleep is when I’m fretting.  And for the life of me, I don’t have anything to really fret about."

Husband whispers again. "I can’t sleep either!  And I think Annie is smoking!"

No shit, Sherlock, I think.  Only for like six months now.  Out loud, I say, "Gosh, I hope not."  And then I think, why are we whispering, anyway?  We're all awake.

During the course of the sleepless night from hell, husband ends up sleeping in the living room on his chair.  I must be experiencing some sort of menopausal symptoms, as I am either freezing or too hot, and eventually make my own way out to the living room as well where I lay wide eyed on the couch for two hours, with a floor fan three inches from my face.

4:41 a.m.  I haven’t slept at all.  I briefly drift off and dream I'm in a wind tunnel.

4:42 a.m.  Husband turns on a new age music channel on cable.  It reminds me of the nightmare that was his deviated septum surgical recovery and I fight the urge to throw up.

5:00 a.m.  We should probably just stay up.  However, I don't come from a family of quitters.  I get up and stumble down the hallway to the much more comfortable bed and that's all I remember, because I sink into the most blissful sleep anyone has ever experienced. 

For about one hour.  It's not enough.  I'm so tired and frustrated I want to punch someone.  However, it is at this time I smell fresh coffee. 

One thing my husband manages to do quite well is the coffee.  And I firmly believe that today, it's probably saving his life.

 

What not to say to your wife, a/k/a "The List"

My husband is one of the most wonderful people you'll ever meet, truly.  Everyone loves him.  He's friendly.  He's handsome.  He's loyal.  He's thoughtful.  He's a great husband, a great son, a great (read:  patient) father and now, a grandfather.  

He also is a name-maker-upper for us at home.  For instance, if I'm ironing a shirt, he'll find me down in the basement.  "Hi, Iron-y!"  If I'm cleaning the bathroom, he stands behind me, "Hi, cleany!"  (All the time.  He does this all the time.)  If I get home from shopping, "Hey, shoppy!"  Cooking:  "Hey, cooky!"  I think you see the pattern. 

While silly and goofy, those names aren't harmful in any way.  They don't hurt my feelings.  Silly and goofy were two of my "husband" requirements, as a matter of fact.  He has those two qualities in spades, people.  In spades.    He just comes up with something on the fly.   

He's really creative like that. 

The birth of "the list" list was created several years ago out of necessity.  We were newlyweds, and ever mindful of developing FWS (fat wife syndrome) I was standing in the kitchen having a low carb snack after work while I waited for the coffee to get done.  He came in the door from work, big, happy smile on his face, and the first words out of his mouth were, "Hi, porky!"  

No.  I am not kidding.

This isn't me but it sure is cute.

I was eating low carb pork rinds, not twinkies.  And he saw me eating pork rinds, and in typical creative fashion, said that unfortunate word.  In quiet protest, I did not make dinner that night, and in addition (just in case he didn't get the hint) maintained a stone cold, icy silence for the rest of the evening, which is my preferred method of communication when I am upset.  (Who's with me?)   

"The list" was born.  There have been remarkably few additions here and there, because ol' what's his name has learned his lesson.

 

Or has he? 

This morning I was getting ready for work, hurrying as usual, running around our bedroom slapping on deodorant and finding my shoes.  I grabbed my body spray (what I call smellgood) from Victoria's Secret and was spritzing it on.  I always try to arch my back and shake my hair as I do this, like the VS models do, but even the dog doesn't take me seriously.  My husband wandered in the bedroom to grab his gym bag, saw me spraying, and says cheerfully, "Hi, smelly!"   

He realized right away what he had said and looked like a rabbit with his back foot caught in a trap, trying to get away.  Fortunately, my steely gaze pinned him to the spot. 

"LIST." 

It must be time for a refresher course.

 

 

 

 

Whichever one is Number Two.

When I got home from work last night, I made some coffee.  My darling husband came home about the same time.  The following is a true and accurate representation of the conversation we had while I made coffee and talked to him.


Me:  How was your day?

Joe:  It was good, how about yours?

Me:  Busy.

(Small break here for a welcome-home kiss.)

Joe:  I had an interesting start to the morning, though.

Me:  Why?

Joe:  Well, I went downstairs to go to the bathroom but someone forgot to flush the toilet.

(I'm safe, I think to myself.  It wasn't me.  I'm not naming names but I have a pretty good idea who it was.)



Could we clear the room?  Not you, Frau.  Not you, Scott.  Not you, henchman arbitrarily turning knobs. 

 Me:  That's just gross.  Was it Number One or Number Two?

Joe:  Whichever one poop is.


He wasn't even trying to make me laugh, but somehow watching the absolute outrage on his face was enough to make me laugh pretty much all night long.

Touch my Nook.

It was a Christmas present, my new Nook.  I found out later that the very child I had made fun of for going out shopping on Black Friday had, in fact, waited in line for a very long, long time at a local store to buy a Nook for her mommy, at a very, very good price. 

not exactly a Nook, but you get the idea.

All that and a gift card to fill it!  And didn’t I feel like a horse’s ass for teasing?

I immediately mess it up play with it, in the process downloading what I found out later was a very norty book veiled as a romance novel.  It amounted to poorly written erotica.  I read skimmed it and wished for a red pen the entire time.  Don’t these people even edit?  Or attend church?

I figured out how to find the good books, the really good books, and managed to blow through my gift card in under seven minutes.  I also had several books pop up in my library that I didn’t order.  In chatting with a friend later, I discovered that she too had a couple show up in her Nook, uninvited, right around the time she had gone into (rhymes with Smarms & Coble) where there is wifi, as opposed to her home, which is wifi-lacking.

She went back in to Smarms & Coble to find out why these books were downloaded into her library and wouldn’t you know it, those books were gone.  Missing.  She was unable to find them anywhere in her Nook and hadn’t pushed any buttons to remove them.  Now, my friend is not a stupid person and has not begun seeing things that aren’t there.  Yet.

However, the skeevy bookstore employee obviously decided to have a little fun with her.

  

Friend:  Hi, I was just wondering why books I didn’t buy are being downloaded to my Nook? (Hands over Nook)

Bookstore:  (scrolls through her Nook library.)  You must have downloaded them.  Or someone lent them to you.  But they’re not in here anymore.

Friend:  (grabs Nook back, pages through) What the…They were just there!!! 

Bookstore:  (shrugs) Well, they’re not there now.  Next customer in line?

Friend:  Now, wait just a damn minute.  I can barely download books I want, much less lend stuff I didn’t buy!

Bookstore:  If they were ever even there (smirking) I’m thinking maybe that’s exactly what you did; you lent them to someone.  You can do that, you know, lend your Nook library to someone.  It’s in the directions.  That’s probably what you did.

Friend:  (voice is rising a little bit) I didn’t lend them to anyone!  I just got this thing, and I can’t work it; what makes you think that I am so technologically gifted that suddenly I learned how to share my library with someone?
 

Bookstore:  I’m just saying you probably touched your Nook to someone else’s.  Did you touch Nooks?  

Friend:  (gasps) I’ve never, even seen another person’s Nook, much less touch them together or let someone touch mine!  I’m not that kind of person!

Bookstore:  You had to have touched Nooks with someone.  It’s ok; we all want to see what other people’s Nooks look like.  It’s human nature.  Some people cover their Nooks with special decorations and some people just let them be au natural.  (Giggles) 

Friend:  (quietly, defeated) Mine has a light on it so I can use it in bed.

Bookstore:  Oh, a party girl, huh? 

Because I was laughing so hard as she related that story to me, I hardly heard anything past “touching Nooks together.”

Wait…I think I already downloaded that book.

The Nose knows

Would you rather: 

a)  Slam your hand repeatedly in a door?

b)  Poke your eye with a sharp stick?

c)  Cover yourself with honey and lay on a fire ant hill or

d)  Take care of your husband/boyfriend when they’re sick.  

e)  a, b, AND c.  Or virtually anything to avoid the petulant, mewling infant masquerading as your husband/boyfriend.

“You have never been this sick.”

Recently, my husband underwent surgery to correct a deviated septum.  For months, he has been unable to breathe at night through his nose, and instead resorts to a cacophony of puh’s and rhythmic, sinus-y, repeated “noooooood” sounds. 

Sorry, ladies, he’s taken.  Guys like this are snatched up like *that.

I invested in earplugs, and have gotten to be somewhat of an earplug expert, as I am able to put them in while still sleeping, when my beloved begins his discordant nightly lullaby.

Thursday, Day One.  Surgery Day.

The surgery went very well, and we were told prior to the surgery that he would have nasal splints.  Yes, splints in his nose.  What we weren’t told is that once we got him home, our house would resemble the inside of a slaughterhouse.  Bloody tissues, bloody washrags, bloody nose, fingers, nasal spray, and face.  Joe’s in a constant haze of Vicodin, saline spray and antibiotics. 

The first night, Thursday night post surgery, went fine.  I was kind.  I was solicitious.  I was loving.  I play an excellent nursemaid to my poor, poor honeybear, for my true love has stitches and giant plastic splints in his poor schnoz.  “Is there anything I can get/do for you” become a mantra.  I fetch, carry, soothe and kiss.  After all, this is why I am off for two days from work; my boo-boo bear has a sore nosey-poo and I’m needed at home to help him!  He doesn’t have much of an appetite, poor dear.  I feel bad going to sleep because I know he’s going to be uncomfortable on his recliner.  I hope he sleeps ok.  ***

here's the Poor Dear.

Friday, Day Two.



Joe did not get much sleep.  I thought that might happen, and gosh, I feel so bad.  I bet he’ll sleep today, take lots of naps.  And since I’m off work, I might get some writing done.  This might be a good thing.  It will be like caring for a newborn; he will sleep, eat, poop.  Sleep, eat, poop.  I prepare a wonderful lunch.  After one bite he pushes it away.  Poor baby.  I guess the Vicodin is making his tummy hurt.  I take the uneaten lunch back in the kitchen and begin a never ending, cycle of providing tissues, squirting him with nasal spray, cleaning out his nostrils with q tips (only gagging once) fetching antibiotics and Vicodin, and taking pictures.  I feel needed.  I don’t get much writing done and resort to playing games on my phone, most of which I can’t finish because he needs one thing or another, but that’s ok.  He sleeps on the recliner again.  I “go” to bed but don’t “stay” in bed, because he urgently needs me for one thing or another and wakes me up approximately 32 times.  I’m tired but I love my pookie pants so I get up mostly to offer him moral support.

Happier times.  In the chair.

Saturday, Day Three.

It comes back to me how exactly a newborn sleeps.  I am crabby from lack of sleep and both pinch myself and swill coffee regularly to stay awake.  It’s not hard because the second I start something (including resting my head on a pillow) Joe’s Superpowers of Interruption kick in.  I have given up trying to write.  I have given up trying to read.  I have given up playing games on my phone, even Ruzzle, which is a two minute game. It is for the best because my eyes are watery and red.  I make a really good dinner which goes uneaten (by Joe, because he has no appetite and by me, because I’m full already—of resentment).  I endure another day of nostril cleaning, Vicodin fetching, and making meals that Joe won’t eat.  I hide in the bathroom with a can of Pringles and a Snickers bar but he finds me.    

…and Saturday Night.

The worst night of all.  Like, nightmare bad.  Due to clotting in the bad nostril, Joe is completely unable to breathe through his nose at all.  I don’t understand why this is a problem and tell him so.  I must have had a tone because he looks wounded.  I don’t even try to go in the bedroom tonight but rather bring a pillow to the couch out in the living room near Sniffle Snifflepants.  He struggles to breath.  I tell him, “breathe through your mouth, honey” except “honey” somehow came out as “stupid.”  I tuck the blankets around him, ensure he’s got tissues/nasal spray/headphones, turn the TV onto Soundscapes and lay down.  I think now he’s going to be able to rest because after all, he’s gotten about one hour of sleep in the past three days.  He lies there for approximately thirty seconds before he throws the covers back, sighing, and tells me, “I’m confused about how I should be breathing.”  I stare at him in utter disbelief and wonder if I should use the pillow from the bedroom to smother him or just use one from the couch.

…and even later Saturday night.

He gives up on the recliner and lays on the sectional at a right angle to me.  No sleep for either of us.  He’s convinced the splints have come out and he will choke on them in his sleep.  He might be right about the choke part but it won’t be the splints doing it.

Sunday morning.

I have given up on all pretense of kindness.  I am surly.  I am unkempt.  “What can I get/do for you” has died a mucous-y bloody death.  I am suffering withdrawal from Facebook, Twitter, Words with Friends, and Ruzzle.  I know now why I stopped after three children; I can’t do anything for more than two minutes without Snuffolupagus racing after me with nasal spray and/or Q tips and I can no longer stand the serene notes of Soundscapes without wanting to weep.  Crankypants is hungry but won’t eat.  Any patience I had is gone.  I make him a sandwich he is not going to eat and it makes me feel better when I poke a hole in it with my finger on my way into the living room with the plate.  He’s a manchild.

Sunday afternoon.

I’m not going to name names but it appears someone has been dicking around with the Q tips without me and has caused a torrential flood of a nosebleed.  I am instructed to call my EMT brother in law and find out what the best way is to stop the nosebleed because even though I have had first aid training and the aforementioned three children and have stopped enough bloody noses to last me the rest of my life, it’s not enough.  I grit my teeth and call and I’m given the magic instructions…pinch bridge of nose, put a small roll of gauze in between frenem and top lip and ice the forehead.   The nosebleed stops but the whining does not. 

Sunday night.

I am a broken woman.  I wish I’d never heard the term “deviated septum.”

Present day.

Pookie Pants Honeybear is now two weeks post-op.  He’s doing great.  He’s slept more in the past three nights than he has in a very long time.  

We both have. 

***most of this is not true.

What I did over summer vacation



Despite being wracked with grief over the impending divorce of Katie Holmes from Tom Cruise, we were able to have a lovely Fourth of July*.  Busy?  Yes.  Fun?  Yes.  Family?  Some.  Beer?  Yes.  Oh, yes, please.

Not only did we have today off, about a week ago, after work, Joe and I packed, got our routine “drive” coffees and some candy, and then drove to his sister’s house in Wisconsin, arriving around 7:30 pm.



Yes, we actually stayed here.  It was gorgeous.



There, we met up with two of my husband’s sisters, Anita and Carla, and Joe’s mother Mary.  Also present:  Anita’s boyfriend Ron and Carla’s hubby John.  (Missing:  the last sister Lisa, her three kids, and all three of mine.)  Sadly, work schedules are extremely prohibitive sometimes.  L



Hey, turn around.  I'm taking a picture here.



But I digress.

We were there Thursday through Sunday afternoon.  A typical day consisted of getting up and having coffee, then taking a nice hour long walk looking at the pretty scenery.  It was also very hot.  It is beautiful, too, as you can see.  



Woops, wrong picture.  But still pretty darn cute.



That's better. 

Did I mention it was hot?  By the time we got back, it was almost beer: thirty.  Time to get on the bathing suits and head down to the refreshing water after packing up a cooler and some reading material.  I was able to finish the book “The Litigators” by John Grisham (it was good), and Carla worked on the last book by Stieg Larsson, which I believe is “The Girl with the Tattoo Who Played with the Fiery Hornet’s Nest”.   She recommends it highly. 

We read.  We walked.  We ate.  We laughed.  We floated on our backs, on rafts, on noodles.  We hogged the cookies.  We drank one or two beers.  (cough *an hour* cough)  We played games of Sequence every night before the sun, fresh air, and liquid beverages caught up with us…then woke up to do it all again the next day.

We were on lake time.



A very serene Sunday except for the Loch Ness Monster sighting.

In short, it was an awesome (if somewhat abbreviated) vacation.  Good for the body, good for the soul. 

Not so great for the waistline.  Those vacation calories waited until I was asleep before slapping themselves all over my sunburned self. 

Stay tuned for the next article, tentatively entitled “The Girl Who Lost Weight by Running Away From a Hornet's Nest."

*interesting note.  Tom Cruise also starred in the movie “Born on the Fourth of July.” 

Cooper the Pooper gets a pool

Summer…well, it just isn’t summer until you are able to burn a big, ugly 4’ round patch in your lawn.  Gee, that's crazy...kiddie pools are 4' and round too!  What a co-inkey dink!

It’s not enough that we had a little blue washtub filled with water for him to romp around in.  Cooper would go to the tub and put his two front legs in it and just stand there, dejectedly.  Wow, he’d say.  No dog should be allowed to have this much fun.  It just obviously wasn't enough.



No dog should have this much fun. 



We got tired of watching him making a fool of himself and we decided together, because all of our important decisions are made together*, that we would get him a kiddie pool.

His doggy daddy and I schlepped into Menardsh (cue the tv commercial guy) and found the pool.  I tried to find the inflatable rings I saw on sale, (not for Cooper’s pool, silly, but for a future trip up North) but they were sold out. 

In the future, Menards, maybe order more $2.99 floats.  Maybe order more.

At home, hubby filled up the surprise pool with ice cold water, so that when Cooper finished swimming and came over to shake violently next to us, we could also appreciate the refreshing coldness.

Myself, I didn’t appreciate the coldness.  Mostly because I was too preoccupied that his long leash would wrap around my ankle (again) and he’d run one way and I’d fall the other, swept off my feet and staring at the sky before you could say “Damn Dog.”

We bought him outside and he knew, he just knew, that the pool was just for him.



I have a Pool!  I have a Pool!!!

$6.99 has never been better spent.  Oh, he had fun.  Buckets of fun.  He splashed.  He ran.  He drank.  He splashed some more.



Dad!  Look at my pool!





Water, water everywhere.  And yes, I think I"ll drink.



Currently he’s doing a very good impression of a big black throw rug on the living room floor... 

Now that is one happy dog.

…dreaming of chasing sticks and resting up for another big day playing in his new pool.

*I just say that.