Wednesday, May 11, 2011
If you're visiting this site....
I've moved! Not that Blogger hasn't been a nice place to hang out...because it's been just fine...I just needed a little more power and presence and so I've moved here... www.nomathchris.wordpress.com. All the old blog content was transferred to the new site. I'd love to see you there! Thanks for being a reader and I'll see you on the new platform!!
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The doctor will see you now
I've been a nurse for about 15 years. Nursing is my second career and I'm not even sure why I chose to go into nursing other than I thought the uniforms were cool and who doesn't want to walk around with a stethoscope around their neck? When Greg was about a year old, I decided that I would look into going to school for nursing and was quickly shut down by our local community college who wasn't taking any more applicants. I half heartedly contacted the private Nazarene university that was close to where we lived and was surprised when they called back and said "COME ON DOWN!!" Before I knew what was really going on, they had arranged financial aid and I was a nursing student in a BSN program. I graduated three years later with honors and a mountain of student loan debt that will haunt me until I'm roughly 140.
Being a nurse has it's perks. People think I'm cool because I can give a shot or look at blood without passing out or vomiting on my shoes. I can tell great stories about brain surgeries and open heart surgeries and the weird medical maladies I've run across. I can also give sage advice to people who have questions about their medical care. My family and friends have learned that they can call me and begin any conversation with "I have a medical question" and I'm ready to dole out my advice about what they should do about it. Some of the advice is professional, others is more my personal opinion which they didn't ask for but it comes free with professional advice. It's a package deal. I'll tell you what I think about that mole on your back but then I'm going to tell you're insane for taking 235 vitamins and going to a chiropractor. I'm not always right, but my advice comes with no guarantee. Most of the time I'm close to right or I am right and I'll remind you of that by yelling "I KNEW IT!". When I'm wrong, I'll snort around a lot and tell you that your doctor is either nuts or what the hell do you want, I'M not a doctor!
The downside of being a nurse is that you're convinced you're dying half the time. Every time I learn about a new condition, I think I have it. Even the mildest symptom is an indication of something HUGE that will surely kill me within the next 24 hours...possibly sooner if someone doesn't DO something about it! I've worked with some fine medical professionals over the years. Brilliant nurses and some of the best doctors in the country in specialities like pediatrics, neonatology, cardiology and neurosurgery. At one time or another I've had a conversation similar to this with many of them...
Okay....I think I have Cdiff...
You don't have Cdiff.
I'm pretty sure I do.
You don't.
How do YOU know? My abdomen hurts.
You've got gas.
Probably from the Cdiff!!
Get out of my office.
Cdiff is a particularly nasty bacteria that likes to set up shop in your intestines and cause trouble. I'll spare you the details. It became my running joke when I worked in a neurosurgery office because when the other nurse in the office would ask me to do something I'd tell her I couldn't because I had Cdiff. It never worked well as an excuse, but I tried it anyway.
Recently, I developed a really horrible sinus condition with lots of sinus drainage. Tom and I were sitting on the sofa the other night and I was having a particularly bad night of coughing and choking on drainage. The conversation went something like this...
You know what...what if this is cerebral spinal fluid draining from my brain?
What are you talking about?
This drainage...what if it's coming from my brain..you know it's right there by your sinuses...
You think your BRAIN is leaking? Chris you're a neurosurgery nurse. Your brain isn't leaking.
Well....maybe I should call the neurosurgeon I used to work with...
He is going to hang up on you.
And he probably would too...but not until he laughed REALLY HARD. The poor guy put up with me running all sorts of crazy symptoms by him the entire time I worked for him. Usually he told me that maybe I should see a doctor, to which I replied that he was a doctor...and then he'd kick me out of his office.
Nursing as a career has been good to me. I've had so many incredible experiences and I've had the opportunity to learn from medical professionals that have taught me more than I ever thought I could learn. I've celebrated patient's recoveries and I've stood in horror as the attending physician motioned for me to turn off life support in a patient's room where family are sobbing at the bedside. I've left the hospital with my spirits soaring because the day had been so good and we'd made such a difference in lives and I've left in tears after a day where I've felt that our efforts were fruitless. Despite the outcome...whether it be positive or negative...I've learned that the outcome can't be the focus for me as an RN. I've learned that it's the moment that must be the focus...the moment during which a patient is frightened and or in pain and I have the means to ease that, the moment during which the family is confused or exhausted and I can bring them a soda or a warm blanket or an explanation. Doctors focus on the outcome...nurses focus on the now...getting through moment by moment until that outcome is achieved. Perhaps that's why I didn't go to medical school...I like working in the moment.
I try to be professional about being a nurse while I'm at work, but I'm not one of those very serious, stoic nurses who are all business. I'm more likely to burst into your room and throw my arms in the air like you've been waiting for my arrival and now here I AM!! Usually because I have your pain medicine and I'm the best thing you've seen all morning. I try to be gentle and compassionate, but if you tell me your pain is a 10 out of 10 and you're watching Sponge Bob and eating a sandwich, I'm not likely to believe you and call your doctor for the Dilauded that you think you need. I'll poof your pillows and bring you snacks, but you're washing your own butt and don't ask me if you can go outside to smoke. I'll teach you about your illness and help you understand how to get better, but if you choose to not do what you're told, don't come whining to me when you're in pain or your spleen falls out.
I really like what I do. I like teaching and helping. I don't mind giving you advice on that mole on your back, which by the way looks fine, but is interestingly shaped like a duck. No charge for the duck observation.
Being a nurse has it's perks. People think I'm cool because I can give a shot or look at blood without passing out or vomiting on my shoes. I can tell great stories about brain surgeries and open heart surgeries and the weird medical maladies I've run across. I can also give sage advice to people who have questions about their medical care. My family and friends have learned that they can call me and begin any conversation with "I have a medical question" and I'm ready to dole out my advice about what they should do about it. Some of the advice is professional, others is more my personal opinion which they didn't ask for but it comes free with professional advice. It's a package deal. I'll tell you what I think about that mole on your back but then I'm going to tell you're insane for taking 235 vitamins and going to a chiropractor. I'm not always right, but my advice comes with no guarantee. Most of the time I'm close to right or I am right and I'll remind you of that by yelling "I KNEW IT!". When I'm wrong, I'll snort around a lot and tell you that your doctor is either nuts or what the hell do you want, I'M not a doctor!
The downside of being a nurse is that you're convinced you're dying half the time. Every time I learn about a new condition, I think I have it. Even the mildest symptom is an indication of something HUGE that will surely kill me within the next 24 hours...possibly sooner if someone doesn't DO something about it! I've worked with some fine medical professionals over the years. Brilliant nurses and some of the best doctors in the country in specialities like pediatrics, neonatology, cardiology and neurosurgery. At one time or another I've had a conversation similar to this with many of them...
Okay....I think I have Cdiff...
You don't have Cdiff.
I'm pretty sure I do.
You don't.
How do YOU know? My abdomen hurts.
You've got gas.
Probably from the Cdiff!!
Get out of my office.
Cdiff is a particularly nasty bacteria that likes to set up shop in your intestines and cause trouble. I'll spare you the details. It became my running joke when I worked in a neurosurgery office because when the other nurse in the office would ask me to do something I'd tell her I couldn't because I had Cdiff. It never worked well as an excuse, but I tried it anyway.
Recently, I developed a really horrible sinus condition with lots of sinus drainage. Tom and I were sitting on the sofa the other night and I was having a particularly bad night of coughing and choking on drainage. The conversation went something like this...
You know what...what if this is cerebral spinal fluid draining from my brain?
What are you talking about?
This drainage...what if it's coming from my brain..you know it's right there by your sinuses...
You think your BRAIN is leaking? Chris you're a neurosurgery nurse. Your brain isn't leaking.
Well....maybe I should call the neurosurgeon I used to work with...
He is going to hang up on you.
And he probably would too...but not until he laughed REALLY HARD. The poor guy put up with me running all sorts of crazy symptoms by him the entire time I worked for him. Usually he told me that maybe I should see a doctor, to which I replied that he was a doctor...and then he'd kick me out of his office.
Nursing as a career has been good to me. I've had so many incredible experiences and I've had the opportunity to learn from medical professionals that have taught me more than I ever thought I could learn. I've celebrated patient's recoveries and I've stood in horror as the attending physician motioned for me to turn off life support in a patient's room where family are sobbing at the bedside. I've left the hospital with my spirits soaring because the day had been so good and we'd made such a difference in lives and I've left in tears after a day where I've felt that our efforts were fruitless. Despite the outcome...whether it be positive or negative...I've learned that the outcome can't be the focus for me as an RN. I've learned that it's the moment that must be the focus...the moment during which a patient is frightened and or in pain and I have the means to ease that, the moment during which the family is confused or exhausted and I can bring them a soda or a warm blanket or an explanation. Doctors focus on the outcome...nurses focus on the now...getting through moment by moment until that outcome is achieved. Perhaps that's why I didn't go to medical school...I like working in the moment.
I try to be professional about being a nurse while I'm at work, but I'm not one of those very serious, stoic nurses who are all business. I'm more likely to burst into your room and throw my arms in the air like you've been waiting for my arrival and now here I AM!! Usually because I have your pain medicine and I'm the best thing you've seen all morning. I try to be gentle and compassionate, but if you tell me your pain is a 10 out of 10 and you're watching Sponge Bob and eating a sandwich, I'm not likely to believe you and call your doctor for the Dilauded that you think you need. I'll poof your pillows and bring you snacks, but you're washing your own butt and don't ask me if you can go outside to smoke. I'll teach you about your illness and help you understand how to get better, but if you choose to not do what you're told, don't come whining to me when you're in pain or your spleen falls out.
I really like what I do. I like teaching and helping. I don't mind giving you advice on that mole on your back, which by the way looks fine, but is interestingly shaped like a duck. No charge for the duck observation.
Monday, May 9, 2011
I clean up now?
I've never been much for cleaning and by that I mean I despise it. I don't dislike cleaning a little bit, I will do almost ANYTHING to avoid it. I wasn't brought up that way.
My mother is a clean fiend. Growing up, I suffered under her clean regime. Every Saturday, she'd rise with the sun, rev up with a few cups of coffee and then break out the cleaning products. She'd scrub that house from top to bottom and vacuum every crevice. My job, when I wasn't trying to get out of it, was to dust the formal living room, the dining room and the family room, scour the bath tub, load the dishwasher and maybe fold a few towels. I could make those jobs last ALL day because I was SO convinced that I would die at any moment from the Pledge fumes. The formal living room took me hours to dust and I think there were two end tables and the fireplace mantle that needed dusting...but it took me a long time to get past popping the wax bubbles in the turtle candle that was on the bottom shelf of one of those end tables. Mom would go whizzing by with the vacuum cleaner...then back the other way with a bucket of soapy water...then back the other way with a basket of clothes. The whole while, I'd be dusting the same end table and while she was frantically vacuuming the stairs, I'd make a few more big holes in the turtle candle. I drove her insane.
Sometimes I'd be absolved from my cleaning duties and that's usually when BRIDGE CLUB was coming over that Saturday. NO ONE but mom cleaned when the bridge club was coming. This called for levels of clean that mere children could not achieve! In fact, mere mortals could not achieve this level of cleandom! Only the cleaning goddess in all her glory (mom) could do this job!! Mom belonged to not one, but TWO bridge clubs. One was a couples club and the other was an all ladies club. The harbinger to BRIDGE CLUB was the purchasing of matching playing cards and Tally Cards. We knew club was really getting close when she came home with salted mixed nuts and Brach's Bridge Mix. Soon recipes for foofy desserts would be lying in neat piles on the kitchen counter. We knew it was time to hide when the cleaning started. BRIDGE CLUB cleaning wasn't like "regular" Saturday cleaning. This was cleaning on a whole new level. This involved BROWN LYSOL.
I recently read that Brown Lysol will kill Norovirus. Norovirus is a gastrointestinal flu that makes you want to DIE. It's wildly contagious and notoriously hard to eradicate. It's the cruise ship flu. I'd like to remind you that non of us had Norovirus, we were just expecting a bunch of women over to eat dessert and pretend like they enjoyed playing bridge. Mom seemed to think that if she scrubbed the house from top to bottom with BROWN LYSOL that she would achieve some level of uber clean. She dusted everything with Pledge, she used Scott's Liquid Gold on the paneling and cupboards. She used Ajax on every porcelain surface. She used Mop n' Glow on the kitchen floor. She Sparkle'd every glass window. Dad was usually out coaching a football game or card table wrangling. My brother and I would slither around the house with stinging eyes, just trying to stay out of her way and not die from the fumes. She would vacuum and then later, if she had time between making mounds of fluffy, peaked meringue for some dessert masterpiece and re-dusting everything, she might pass the vacuum one more time. Finally the card tables with matching table clothes would appear in the dining and living rooms with perfectly placed divided dishes of nuts and candy. That's when we knew we'd lived through another bridge club cleaning hurricane. We'd breathe a sigh of relief and thunder up the stairs to wait out the gales of fake laughter that would soon fill the house. The ridiculously, insanely clean house.
For some reason, I didn't inherit my mother's gene for cleaning rampages. As I sit here on the sofa and gaze around my living room, there's a pair of Tom's socks on the love seat, four soda cans on the end table and assorted dog toys all over the floor. We won't even talk about the tumble-furs that roll across the room at regular intervals since it's shedding season. Those seem to be getting bigger by the day and I swore I saw one with eyes roll under the entertainment center. If my mother walked into my house at this very moment, she would be paralyzed with horror. This is the woman who found a Cheeto, stuck in a cob web under her kitchen cabinets and is still not over it...(that was my dad's fault, by the way)...if she came over here and saw...oh man...I can't even think about it.
Every once in a while, I get freaked out and feel the need to clean. Just last week I ranted and raved about the bathroom until Tom, armed with a bottle of KABOOM and rubber gloves, tackled the schmutz on the porcelain. Little advice: do not use Kaboom without ventilation because his nose is peeling on the inside and he was dizzy for a week. The bathroom, however, is SPARKLING clean! So, send those bridge club ladies right over! Party around the commode!
My mother is a clean fiend. Growing up, I suffered under her clean regime. Every Saturday, she'd rise with the sun, rev up with a few cups of coffee and then break out the cleaning products. She'd scrub that house from top to bottom and vacuum every crevice. My job, when I wasn't trying to get out of it, was to dust the formal living room, the dining room and the family room, scour the bath tub, load the dishwasher and maybe fold a few towels. I could make those jobs last ALL day because I was SO convinced that I would die at any moment from the Pledge fumes. The formal living room took me hours to dust and I think there were two end tables and the fireplace mantle that needed dusting...but it took me a long time to get past popping the wax bubbles in the turtle candle that was on the bottom shelf of one of those end tables. Mom would go whizzing by with the vacuum cleaner...then back the other way with a bucket of soapy water...then back the other way with a basket of clothes. The whole while, I'd be dusting the same end table and while she was frantically vacuuming the stairs, I'd make a few more big holes in the turtle candle. I drove her insane.
Sometimes I'd be absolved from my cleaning duties and that's usually when BRIDGE CLUB was coming over that Saturday. NO ONE but mom cleaned when the bridge club was coming. This called for levels of clean that mere children could not achieve! In fact, mere mortals could not achieve this level of cleandom! Only the cleaning goddess in all her glory (mom) could do this job!! Mom belonged to not one, but TWO bridge clubs. One was a couples club and the other was an all ladies club. The harbinger to BRIDGE CLUB was the purchasing of matching playing cards and Tally Cards. We knew club was really getting close when she came home with salted mixed nuts and Brach's Bridge Mix. Soon recipes for foofy desserts would be lying in neat piles on the kitchen counter. We knew it was time to hide when the cleaning started. BRIDGE CLUB cleaning wasn't like "regular" Saturday cleaning. This was cleaning on a whole new level. This involved BROWN LYSOL.
I recently read that Brown Lysol will kill Norovirus. Norovirus is a gastrointestinal flu that makes you want to DIE. It's wildly contagious and notoriously hard to eradicate. It's the cruise ship flu. I'd like to remind you that non of us had Norovirus, we were just expecting a bunch of women over to eat dessert and pretend like they enjoyed playing bridge. Mom seemed to think that if she scrubbed the house from top to bottom with BROWN LYSOL that she would achieve some level of uber clean. She dusted everything with Pledge, she used Scott's Liquid Gold on the paneling and cupboards. She used Ajax on every porcelain surface. She used Mop n' Glow on the kitchen floor. She Sparkle'd every glass window. Dad was usually out coaching a football game or card table wrangling. My brother and I would slither around the house with stinging eyes, just trying to stay out of her way and not die from the fumes. She would vacuum and then later, if she had time between making mounds of fluffy, peaked meringue for some dessert masterpiece and re-dusting everything, she might pass the vacuum one more time. Finally the card tables with matching table clothes would appear in the dining and living rooms with perfectly placed divided dishes of nuts and candy. That's when we knew we'd lived through another bridge club cleaning hurricane. We'd breathe a sigh of relief and thunder up the stairs to wait out the gales of fake laughter that would soon fill the house. The ridiculously, insanely clean house.
For some reason, I didn't inherit my mother's gene for cleaning rampages. As I sit here on the sofa and gaze around my living room, there's a pair of Tom's socks on the love seat, four soda cans on the end table and assorted dog toys all over the floor. We won't even talk about the tumble-furs that roll across the room at regular intervals since it's shedding season. Those seem to be getting bigger by the day and I swore I saw one with eyes roll under the entertainment center. If my mother walked into my house at this very moment, she would be paralyzed with horror. This is the woman who found a Cheeto, stuck in a cob web under her kitchen cabinets and is still not over it...(that was my dad's fault, by the way)...if she came over here and saw...oh man...I can't even think about it.
Every once in a while, I get freaked out and feel the need to clean. Just last week I ranted and raved about the bathroom until Tom, armed with a bottle of KABOOM and rubber gloves, tackled the schmutz on the porcelain. Little advice: do not use Kaboom without ventilation because his nose is peeling on the inside and he was dizzy for a week. The bathroom, however, is SPARKLING clean! So, send those bridge club ladies right over! Party around the commode!
Sunday, May 8, 2011
On motherhood
Once upon a time, long, long ago a doctor told me that I would have no children. I was about 21 and was some sort of gynecological mystery. My husband at that time and I tried fertility drugs paralyzed with fear that we would end up with twins. God knows we were so young we could barely take care of ourselves at that time. The drugs were a dismal failure at helping us have a baby, but they were an astounding success at giving me wildly swinging moods. I normally don't need any help in the mood swing department. We finally decided that it was too costly to us financially and personally and quit trying. I was expecting within months.
My pregnancy with Eric was eventful. I was involved in a head-on car accident that all but totaled my then, very cool, Buick Regal. Thankfully, we were both fine and I escaped with only minor bruising on my watermelon like tummy from the steering wheel. I was eight months along when the accident occurred and I was very lucky. After the accident I had a ridiculous amount of preterm labor. Eric was apparently enjoying his cozy home, however, and his due date of Christmas day approached with no other sign of him being interested in making his appearance. I was finally induced a few days before Christmas, probably because my OB/GYN was interested in NOT being called to the hospital for a delivery on Christmas day. We were very excited and armed with all the stuff that birthing class told us we'd need and several Kenny G tapes so that I could labor with soft, jazzy music in the background. It all seemed like it was going to be so much FUN. Ah...first time parents.
Cut to 18 hours later. Eric's father was exhausted. I had an epidural that was only working on one side of my body and I had taken up shrieking every time I had a contraction. At one point I grabbed the nurse by her scrubs, pulled her very close to my face and bellowed "I CAN'T DO THIS". She cheerily said "Yes you can! You ARE doing it!" But I wasn't. Eric was stuck...big time. The doctor came in to see what all the noise was about and murmured something to the nurses and the next thing I knew I was heading for the OR...still shrieking, by the way....the anesthesiologist tried explaining to me what she was going to do and with a voice from hell itself I yelled "KNOCK ME OUT"!!!!! And so she did. I'm sure everyone was much happier...at least their hearing was saved.
I woke up in the recovery room completely confused. They told me that I'd had a boy, but couldn't tell me if he was okay. After hanging around there for a couple of weeks (okay, an hour) they took me to my room and stopped by the nursery. They brought out a baby boy with a very very pointy head. I looked at him puzzled...how did I know he was mine? They laid him on my chest and he looked at me and SCOWLED. I'm sure he was thinking "What the hell was all that screaming about? I was the one who was STUCK."
Greg's birth was a little bit better. Having never gone into labor on my own, I really wasn't sure what was going on when it started in church on a Sunday in September. I remember looking down at my belly rather quizzically and wondering what the little fart was up to in there. Turns out he was planning his escape.
We went down to the hospital where my OB came in, broke my water and informed me that I'd "bought the farm". No Kenny G tapes this time. Instead, we watched a Mary Tyler Moore Mary-thon. We watched the contractions come and go on the monitor and all of a sudden...they started to hurt. I told Greg's dad that I needed the epidural and he said "no you don't, that one didn't look bad". I pressed my face through the bars on the side rail of the bed and said quietly but with some force "Get. The. NURSE!" I was a little calmer with Greg's birth, mostly because I had better drugs. He seemed to be hung up around a sharp turn and the OB gave me exactly 30 minutes to get on with it or he was going in after him. About 15 minutes later, Greg made his grand appearance. I yelled "I DID IT!!!!!" And if my legs had worked at the time I would have probably been leaping around the room. I watched the nurse plop Greg onto the warmer table and stick a baby hat on his head. He immediately yanked the hat off and peed on her. His personality was quite clear even at minutes old.
I wasn't expecting to have another child. I was feeling particularly rotten one night and was having chest pains. Emma's dad took me to the ER where they slapped some nitro paste on my chest and starting pulling blood for tests. I gave them the obligatory urine sample and a few minutes later there was a doctor standing at my bedside. He held up a slip of paper with a big "+" on it. I looked at him blankly. He shook the paper and pointed to it. I shrugged my shoulders and looked confused. He pointed to Emma's dad sitting in the corner and asked if he could share my health information in front of him. I nodded and he threw up his hands and said "You're pregnant!" I looked at him with wide eyes and said "Impossible." Later he sent me for an ultrasound and there on the screen was a tiny beating heart. I just sat gap jawed on the gurney. I was 38.
Emma decided that her arrival would be dramatic. There were constant false alarms with her because of preterm labor. Very early, she decided to make her appearance and the doctors put the kabosh on it by giving me some magnesium sulfate. Spoiled her day. Finally about two weeks before her due date, I'd had enough and the contractions were really convincing. We went back to the hospital and this time, I got the youngest doctor in the practice who agreed to do a C-section since I wasn't progressing. Seizing the opportunity to get this over with, I agreed to all the drugs I could get and happily went off to the OR. I had been looking forward to another natural birth, but to hell with that! I was too old for this stuff.
In the OR the doctors were listening to some weird Zamfir flute music. They started the C-section and with one mighty pull, Emma was out and I could breathe. I was admiring my new expanded lung volume when the neonatologist called "Hey mom, dad....LOOK!" And he held up an extremely pissed off, purple baby. TA DAH! While they stitched me up I listened to her give the neonatologist seven kinds of hell. The last one was here. I was never going to go through this again...and it hit me rather sadly all of a sudden...I would never do this...again.
The first hours of motherhood after the kids were born is sort of a blur. There are things though that I did each time that I think are innate...not something that you think about or want to do...but almost have to do. I unwrapped each one carefully from the cocoon of blankets and carefully explored their pink little bodies, marveling at tiny toes and perfect nails, the nose that was just like mine, the tiny shell like ears. I remember saying to Eric "oh my gosh, who are you?", to Greg "what am I going to do with YOU?" and to Emma "Hey...it's me! I'm the mommy!!" My favorite time was when I was finally alone with just the baby. I did the same to each of them. I stroked their hair with my fingers and then used my cheek to smooth it against my face. I inhaled long, deep breaths of baby wonderfulness. I remember that the most...I couldn't stop sniffing their tiny heads. I had never smelled a scent so marvelous...it was intoxicating. I had never felt anything as soft as their hair. I had never felt anything so powerful as that feeling at that moment. In those quiet moments when I was alone with them...I made them promises...none of which they remember, but all of which I've kept. Promises between me and each of them. And then, in the same manner each time, I tucked them close to me and we went to sleep. I would awaken periodically and sniff their soft hair and smooth their cheek with the backs of my fingers. Nothing else existed, but that tiny new person...somehow that had made it's way into the world through me. It was a perfect, magic time.
They are big people now. Eric 22, Greg 18 and Emma 7. They don't remember any of those things that happened but like to hear the stories sometimes. Of course, Greg loves the part where he ripped off his baby hat and peed on the nurse. Eric is still scowling at me. Emma is still demanding my attention. It's easy to forget that perfect, brief time after their births when promises were made. I think Mother's Day is a time for me to remember that time. While others honor their mothers for things they've done, I recall my children's births and how my life has been made so complete by their lives. I can never have that magic, perfect time back...but their existence reminds me of when we had it together.
Even now, as I write this, I can smell that scent in my mind and feel the softness of their hair against my cheek...Eric's blonde, Greg's dark brown, Emma's mousey brown. Those memories of bonding with them, lit by perfect light in my mind, are what make mother's day happy for me.
My pregnancy with Eric was eventful. I was involved in a head-on car accident that all but totaled my then, very cool, Buick Regal. Thankfully, we were both fine and I escaped with only minor bruising on my watermelon like tummy from the steering wheel. I was eight months along when the accident occurred and I was very lucky. After the accident I had a ridiculous amount of preterm labor. Eric was apparently enjoying his cozy home, however, and his due date of Christmas day approached with no other sign of him being interested in making his appearance. I was finally induced a few days before Christmas, probably because my OB/GYN was interested in NOT being called to the hospital for a delivery on Christmas day. We were very excited and armed with all the stuff that birthing class told us we'd need and several Kenny G tapes so that I could labor with soft, jazzy music in the background. It all seemed like it was going to be so much FUN. Ah...first time parents.
Cut to 18 hours later. Eric's father was exhausted. I had an epidural that was only working on one side of my body and I had taken up shrieking every time I had a contraction. At one point I grabbed the nurse by her scrubs, pulled her very close to my face and bellowed "I CAN'T DO THIS". She cheerily said "Yes you can! You ARE doing it!" But I wasn't. Eric was stuck...big time. The doctor came in to see what all the noise was about and murmured something to the nurses and the next thing I knew I was heading for the OR...still shrieking, by the way....the anesthesiologist tried explaining to me what she was going to do and with a voice from hell itself I yelled "KNOCK ME OUT"!!!!! And so she did. I'm sure everyone was much happier...at least their hearing was saved.
I woke up in the recovery room completely confused. They told me that I'd had a boy, but couldn't tell me if he was okay. After hanging around there for a couple of weeks (okay, an hour) they took me to my room and stopped by the nursery. They brought out a baby boy with a very very pointy head. I looked at him puzzled...how did I know he was mine? They laid him on my chest and he looked at me and SCOWLED. I'm sure he was thinking "What the hell was all that screaming about? I was the one who was STUCK."
Greg's birth was a little bit better. Having never gone into labor on my own, I really wasn't sure what was going on when it started in church on a Sunday in September. I remember looking down at my belly rather quizzically and wondering what the little fart was up to in there. Turns out he was planning his escape.
We went down to the hospital where my OB came in, broke my water and informed me that I'd "bought the farm". No Kenny G tapes this time. Instead, we watched a Mary Tyler Moore Mary-thon. We watched the contractions come and go on the monitor and all of a sudden...they started to hurt. I told Greg's dad that I needed the epidural and he said "no you don't, that one didn't look bad". I pressed my face through the bars on the side rail of the bed and said quietly but with some force "Get. The. NURSE!" I was a little calmer with Greg's birth, mostly because I had better drugs. He seemed to be hung up around a sharp turn and the OB gave me exactly 30 minutes to get on with it or he was going in after him. About 15 minutes later, Greg made his grand appearance. I yelled "I DID IT!!!!!" And if my legs had worked at the time I would have probably been leaping around the room. I watched the nurse plop Greg onto the warmer table and stick a baby hat on his head. He immediately yanked the hat off and peed on her. His personality was quite clear even at minutes old.
I wasn't expecting to have another child. I was feeling particularly rotten one night and was having chest pains. Emma's dad took me to the ER where they slapped some nitro paste on my chest and starting pulling blood for tests. I gave them the obligatory urine sample and a few minutes later there was a doctor standing at my bedside. He held up a slip of paper with a big "+" on it. I looked at him blankly. He shook the paper and pointed to it. I shrugged my shoulders and looked confused. He pointed to Emma's dad sitting in the corner and asked if he could share my health information in front of him. I nodded and he threw up his hands and said "You're pregnant!" I looked at him with wide eyes and said "Impossible." Later he sent me for an ultrasound and there on the screen was a tiny beating heart. I just sat gap jawed on the gurney. I was 38.
Emma decided that her arrival would be dramatic. There were constant false alarms with her because of preterm labor. Very early, she decided to make her appearance and the doctors put the kabosh on it by giving me some magnesium sulfate. Spoiled her day. Finally about two weeks before her due date, I'd had enough and the contractions were really convincing. We went back to the hospital and this time, I got the youngest doctor in the practice who agreed to do a C-section since I wasn't progressing. Seizing the opportunity to get this over with, I agreed to all the drugs I could get and happily went off to the OR. I had been looking forward to another natural birth, but to hell with that! I was too old for this stuff.
In the OR the doctors were listening to some weird Zamfir flute music. They started the C-section and with one mighty pull, Emma was out and I could breathe. I was admiring my new expanded lung volume when the neonatologist called "Hey mom, dad....LOOK!" And he held up an extremely pissed off, purple baby. TA DAH! While they stitched me up I listened to her give the neonatologist seven kinds of hell. The last one was here. I was never going to go through this again...and it hit me rather sadly all of a sudden...I would never do this...again.
The first hours of motherhood after the kids were born is sort of a blur. There are things though that I did each time that I think are innate...not something that you think about or want to do...but almost have to do. I unwrapped each one carefully from the cocoon of blankets and carefully explored their pink little bodies, marveling at tiny toes and perfect nails, the nose that was just like mine, the tiny shell like ears. I remember saying to Eric "oh my gosh, who are you?", to Greg "what am I going to do with YOU?" and to Emma "Hey...it's me! I'm the mommy!!" My favorite time was when I was finally alone with just the baby. I did the same to each of them. I stroked their hair with my fingers and then used my cheek to smooth it against my face. I inhaled long, deep breaths of baby wonderfulness. I remember that the most...I couldn't stop sniffing their tiny heads. I had never smelled a scent so marvelous...it was intoxicating. I had never felt anything as soft as their hair. I had never felt anything so powerful as that feeling at that moment. In those quiet moments when I was alone with them...I made them promises...none of which they remember, but all of which I've kept. Promises between me and each of them. And then, in the same manner each time, I tucked them close to me and we went to sleep. I would awaken periodically and sniff their soft hair and smooth their cheek with the backs of my fingers. Nothing else existed, but that tiny new person...somehow that had made it's way into the world through me. It was a perfect, magic time.
They are big people now. Eric 22, Greg 18 and Emma 7. They don't remember any of those things that happened but like to hear the stories sometimes. Of course, Greg loves the part where he ripped off his baby hat and peed on the nurse. Eric is still scowling at me. Emma is still demanding my attention. It's easy to forget that perfect, brief time after their births when promises were made. I think Mother's Day is a time for me to remember that time. While others honor their mothers for things they've done, I recall my children's births and how my life has been made so complete by their lives. I can never have that magic, perfect time back...but their existence reminds me of when we had it together.
Even now, as I write this, I can smell that scent in my mind and feel the softness of their hair against my cheek...Eric's blonde, Greg's dark brown, Emma's mousey brown. Those memories of bonding with them, lit by perfect light in my mind, are what make mother's day happy for me.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Alrighty then...
A couple of nights ago, we're laying in bed and Tom starts tapping on my arm with his finger. Figuring that he was just getting back at me for waking him out of a sound sleep with the semi truck horn sound effect that I have on my iPhone, I ignored him. Tap tap tap tap....tappity tap tap. Tap tap tap. I finally said "WHAT are you DOING?" More tapping. I grabbed his hand, "STOP." With a totally straight face he said "I'm looking for grubs." and resumed furiously tapping on my upper arm.
Looking...for...grubs. Now, granted, the bed room could use a good dusting and there is quite a bit of laundry in there but it's hardly grub ridden. He was still tapping.
"What are you talking about?"
"You know...that little guy with the long toe....I saw him on TV." TAP TAP TAP.
"STOP. What the hell are you talking about?"
"That little animal with the long middle toe and he taps on trees to find grubs!"
He meant this guy.... he's an Aye-aye Lemur from Madagascar. Apparently while in one of his geek TV induced trances, Tom had seen a program on how these creepy little animals incessantly tap tree branches with their middle toes in search of tasty (GAHHH) grubs.
Tap tap tap...tappity tap tap tap. I ended up having one of my signature wheezing, laughing-screaming attacks in bed which I'm sure wake the neighbors and usually at least disturb the chihuahua. After a few more rounds of frantically tapping each other's arms...we finally fell asleep.
He's such a strange man. Take a good look at that guy in the picture hanging from a branch. If you cover up the tail and look at the hairy arms, wild eyes and crazy hair...there's a striking resemblance.
Oh...honey....I forgot you read my blog... Tap, tap tap?
Dog Cookies, Sequins and Sunglasses
As my former friend, hair critic, and soon to be Broadway star, Josh Smith, pointed out...my parenting skills are flawed. He pointed this out tonight in Barnes & Noble while leafing through a hairstyle magazine. He claims he was trying to find a new style for me and was ranting about monthly placenta wraps, a shaped cut, and a color found in nature. I sort of looked around and absently asked where Emma was...after which Josh announced to the entire lower level of the Evansville Barnes & Noble that I had no parenting skills.
Listen! I've been working all week with Emma's teachers to help her prioritize her school work! Of course that was right after I contributed to Emma's truancy by allowing her to stay home from school for no good reason other than I was being a pill. Yep. I thinly veiled it in "She's got a sore throat" and Emma blew it the next day by telling her principal "Mommy let me stay home because I had a bad day at school the other day!" Busted.
My parents never let me skip school. I'm infinitely cooler than that. (Stop judging). It's not like I let her or the boys do it all the time, but from time to time I've been known to say "okay...you can hang out with me today" for no other reason than it makes me feel good to do it and they think I'm a Flying Golden Goddess-like Queen of the Universe. And what mom doesn't want THAT title?
Here's a snippet of our day on Wednesday...after getting Emma's hair cut, we walked down the strip mall to a little boutique dog store. Since the chihuahua only has one eye that works, we thought we'd better get her a special treat. Never mind that she weighs 14 pounds and should only weigh 4. This little store is a dog lovers money pit. Clothes, leashes , gourmet foods, toys galore and on a special table near the front of the store...dog bakery cookies. Each one delightfully frosted and cut into cute shapes that dogs don't give a fig about but that make humans buy them by the dozen. Well, we stopped short of buying a dozen, but Emma chose a cookie for each dog...then put them back and chose new ones....and then put those back and picked out more....and then....you get the idea. She finally settled on a strawberry for the chihuahua, an ice cream cone for Sophie, and a pink iced crown proclaiming "DIVA" for Charlie. Each was in a separate bag for the dogs and Emma agonized about whether she REALLY needed to wait for Tom before handing them over the to the dogs. I dragged her, cookies and all, to the car and we packed up and headed off to....(drum roll)...THE GIRL STORE.
I promised Emma that we would go shopping for girl stuff. I headed over to that little girl nirvana "Justice for Girls". Emma skipped next to me as we walked across the street to the store after we parked. I was so excited because the store is just FILLED with adorable outfits. I opened the door and pushed her a little ahead of me and cooed "Look! Isn't it cool?" She looked at me with a little disdain and said "It's a lot of CLOTHES". Everything in the store is covered with sequins or glitter. 'Tween girl music videos play on several hanging flat screen TV's. Emma spied a pile of big eyed stuffed animals on top of a rack of tiny camisoles and descends on them like a turkey vulture on a piece of carrion. "MOM!!!". I held up a sequin bedazzled shirt and said "LOOK!". She held up a pink poodle with eyes the size of dinner plates and screeched "IT'S SO CUTE!!!". I talked her into putting the dog down and we started exploring the store. Every time I try to show her an outfit, she holds up something like a mood ring. I find cute shorts, she popped up wearing birthday cake shaped sunglasses. I find a cute t-shirt, she put on a sequined cowboy hat. I hold up a dress, she comes around the rack wearing sunglasses this time that are spotted like Holstein cows. I said "Emma! Those are....um..." She looked at me over the top of the cow glasses and said "MOM. You're trying to hold me BACK." and stomped back to the rack of glasses. Sigh. I finally gave in and let her pick what she wanted. We ended up with the pink poodle, a pink tie dyed purse, a pair of rhinestone studded flowered sunglasses and I talked her into one pink sequin bedazzled t-shirt but ONLY because it said "Dance Team!" on the front of it.
The clerk at the register smiled hugely when she gave me the total "84.67!". I numbly handed over my debit card as Emma bounced up and down next to me waiting for her poodle with the huge eyes. I had to smile. I remember being her age...and how excited I would have been to spend a day like this...buying silly things that seemed so wonderful and even grown up. In that moment, I knew that I'd have paid a thousand dollars for that poodle. Emma put on her sunglasses with the tag still on, stuffed the poodle in her tie dyed pink purse and handed me the bag of clothes. The big dog cookie presentation loomed large in her mind as she chattered while pulling me out of the store. All was right in her world as she danced to the car with her new stuff.
Totally worth getting busted for contributing to her truancy.
Listen! I've been working all week with Emma's teachers to help her prioritize her school work! Of course that was right after I contributed to Emma's truancy by allowing her to stay home from school for no good reason other than I was being a pill. Yep. I thinly veiled it in "She's got a sore throat" and Emma blew it the next day by telling her principal "Mommy let me stay home because I had a bad day at school the other day!" Busted.
My parents never let me skip school. I'm infinitely cooler than that. (Stop judging). It's not like I let her or the boys do it all the time, but from time to time I've been known to say "okay...you can hang out with me today" for no other reason than it makes me feel good to do it and they think I'm a Flying Golden Goddess-like Queen of the Universe. And what mom doesn't want THAT title?
Here's a snippet of our day on Wednesday...after getting Emma's hair cut, we walked down the strip mall to a little boutique dog store. Since the chihuahua only has one eye that works, we thought we'd better get her a special treat. Never mind that she weighs 14 pounds and should only weigh 4. This little store is a dog lovers money pit. Clothes, leashes , gourmet foods, toys galore and on a special table near the front of the store...dog bakery cookies. Each one delightfully frosted and cut into cute shapes that dogs don't give a fig about but that make humans buy them by the dozen. Well, we stopped short of buying a dozen, but Emma chose a cookie for each dog...then put them back and chose new ones....and then put those back and picked out more....and then....you get the idea. She finally settled on a strawberry for the chihuahua, an ice cream cone for Sophie, and a pink iced crown proclaiming "DIVA" for Charlie. Each was in a separate bag for the dogs and Emma agonized about whether she REALLY needed to wait for Tom before handing them over the to the dogs. I dragged her, cookies and all, to the car and we packed up and headed off to....(drum roll)...THE GIRL STORE.
I promised Emma that we would go shopping for girl stuff. I headed over to that little girl nirvana "Justice for Girls". Emma skipped next to me as we walked across the street to the store after we parked. I was so excited because the store is just FILLED with adorable outfits. I opened the door and pushed her a little ahead of me and cooed "Look! Isn't it cool?" She looked at me with a little disdain and said "It's a lot of CLOTHES". Everything in the store is covered with sequins or glitter. 'Tween girl music videos play on several hanging flat screen TV's. Emma spied a pile of big eyed stuffed animals on top of a rack of tiny camisoles and descends on them like a turkey vulture on a piece of carrion. "MOM!!!". I held up a sequin bedazzled shirt and said "LOOK!". She held up a pink poodle with eyes the size of dinner plates and screeched "IT'S SO CUTE!!!". I talked her into putting the dog down and we started exploring the store. Every time I try to show her an outfit, she holds up something like a mood ring. I find cute shorts, she popped up wearing birthday cake shaped sunglasses. I find a cute t-shirt, she put on a sequined cowboy hat. I hold up a dress, she comes around the rack wearing sunglasses this time that are spotted like Holstein cows. I said "Emma! Those are....um..." She looked at me over the top of the cow glasses and said "MOM. You're trying to hold me BACK." and stomped back to the rack of glasses. Sigh. I finally gave in and let her pick what she wanted. We ended up with the pink poodle, a pink tie dyed purse, a pair of rhinestone studded flowered sunglasses and I talked her into one pink sequin bedazzled t-shirt but ONLY because it said "Dance Team!" on the front of it.
The clerk at the register smiled hugely when she gave me the total "84.67!". I numbly handed over my debit card as Emma bounced up and down next to me waiting for her poodle with the huge eyes. I had to smile. I remember being her age...and how excited I would have been to spend a day like this...buying silly things that seemed so wonderful and even grown up. In that moment, I knew that I'd have paid a thousand dollars for that poodle. Emma put on her sunglasses with the tag still on, stuffed the poodle in her tie dyed pink purse and handed me the bag of clothes. The big dog cookie presentation loomed large in her mind as she chattered while pulling me out of the store. All was right in her world as she danced to the car with her new stuff.
Totally worth getting busted for contributing to her truancy.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Never can say goodbye
My husband is a university instructor of technical theatre and stagecraft. Our life is full of drawings, drafting, sawdust, tools, paint and the occasional fog machine. Since I arrived in Evansville just over two years ago, I've participated in the build of around ten shows at the university. I'm usually the one with the pneumatic staple gun or glue bottle...typically something with which I can do little harm to the scenery, but makes me feel like I'm doing something to help. Mostly I try to stay out of the way.
One of my first memories I have of spending time in Evansville is spending time in Tom's shop. He seems to be perpetually in the middle of building a show. The building process is part of his teaching process. It's all very hands on and the theatre majors at the university all spend time in the scene shop learning about the tools of the trade and just how a pile of lumber becomes the backdrop for a show. I wasn't in the shop very long at all before I met his "kids". A passionate, eclectic group of theatre students with big personalities and even bigger dreams. I fell in love with them all and before long they felt like family.
University level theatre really is a thankless business. Hours upon hours and days upon days that turn into nights upon nights are spent building, painting, lighting, sound, blocking, costuming and rehearsing. After the final show, the technical team comes in and rips it all apart. All those hours of work are destroyed in an afternoon filled with dust and noise. I've watched Tom flip off the work lights and utter "thank GOD that's over". The theatre goes dark and empty. Exhausted students try to catch up with papers and homework...but they can't wait to do it again. No one makes any money. No one gains any fame. There's nothing lasting that they can hold in their hands. They fight, they laugh, there are tears. But they are in love with it. My husband lives to foster that love in these young people.
Each year at this time, he turns in his grades for the end of the spring semester. He usually does so with a sigh of relief knowing that another year of impossible budgets and crazy time frames has come to an end. Summer stock is around the corner and he's already thinking about the drawings he'll need to draft for the upcoming three shows that will be built in his shop and trucked some 30 plus miles away to an antique theatre in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. He's usually worn out, but satisfied that he and his colleagues have gotten another group of students through the program. I think it must be very satisfying for him to hear their plans of what theaters they'll be working in and where they'll be sending their resumes.
The hardest part of all of this is graduation. While the students are celebrating taking their last final exam and planning when they'll leave for their homes, we know that we are losing a part of us. People who have become part of the very fabric of our days and nights are going to be moving on. We've felt like surrogate parents at times. They've had holiday dinners with us when they couldn't get home and they've watched our daughter for us. We've laughed with them in social settings and we've seen them cry when school has driven them to their knees. This is the part we dislike. Tom and the others have done their jobs and most importantly, the students have done theirs. It's time to part ways. People that we've grown to love are going on their way.
This year is especially difficult. Some of the students that are graduating this year we feel very strongly about. They are a special group. Talented beyond measure. Full of dreams. We'll miss them terribly.
Josh & Tawni
This picture is from the day I met Josh Smith and Tawni Morningstar. They came flouncing into the shop brandishing fans and generally making a lot of noise. I've watched them grow from harried sophomores to confident poised seniors. Along the way they developed their own internet show, became rabid conehead fans, and sang, danced, acted and worked their way into the heart of the theatre program. They renamed Emma as Bodashka, kept her busy while we were working in the space, and have kept us endlessly entertained with their talent. I can't imagine one without the other. Josh has cheered me up with hugs and made me laugh when I've felt at my worst. He sang at our wedding and convinced me that he was allergic to ham. He is endlessly talented, drives like a madman, and is passionate like no one else I know. Write down his name...you'll see him again. He has what it takes. Tawni is brilliant and driven. She acts, does wardrobe, is the props queen (at times to her dismay) and knows just what she wants in this world. She's funny, unpredictable and I love her...and not just because she shared her chocolate covered almonds with Blythe Danner. Tawni too will succeed in theatre. It's her passion and that passion shows in everything she does.
Alica Tatman
I think I had been sitting in on one of Tom's classes in the shop when I met "Tatman". No one ever calls her by her first name. In fact, I don't know if anyone knows she has any other name. She's always been "Tatman" or just "Tat". She's a skilled carpenter, knows lighting and electrics like she was born with a wrench in her hands, swears like a truck driver and works until she drops. There isn't a job in the theatre or shop that she can't do. Her confidence and expertise at any task she takes on is incredible. She is the shop queen, rides electric bulls in a dress, and loves to hunt. There's no mountain too high for Tatman. She has spent the last several years torturing Tom including blasting him with a confetti cannon and he has adored every second of having her around. Tatman is irreplaceable. The theatre world is wide open to her with all of the talent that she has. We will be lost without her. The scenery will continue to be built and other talented students will come and go, but there will never be another one like Tat. The whole program will miss her.
I don't want to leave anyone out...Tom loves all of his students and for each one that he shares his knowledge with, they give back to him with their talent and respect. Former students of his work professionally all over the United States in the theatre industry. Not all of his students have chosen to go on to work in theatre, but the ones who did have done very well. He takes pride in that.
Josh, Tawni, and Tatman: you may not see us at graduation. It's not because we don't care...it's because we do care. We care very much. It's bittersweet to watch you go. One moment we're filled with pride that you've accomplished your goal of getting your degree in theatre, the next we're stricken with the thought of you not being here next year. Just know that the memories that you gave us of your time here in Evansville are some of the best times we've had. Holiday dinners around our dining room table, late night work calls, staples put through fingers, cars breaking down. We've loved every second of having you here. Best of luck to you. Your future is bright. We love you.
One of my first memories I have of spending time in Evansville is spending time in Tom's shop. He seems to be perpetually in the middle of building a show. The building process is part of his teaching process. It's all very hands on and the theatre majors at the university all spend time in the scene shop learning about the tools of the trade and just how a pile of lumber becomes the backdrop for a show. I wasn't in the shop very long at all before I met his "kids". A passionate, eclectic group of theatre students with big personalities and even bigger dreams. I fell in love with them all and before long they felt like family.
University level theatre really is a thankless business. Hours upon hours and days upon days that turn into nights upon nights are spent building, painting, lighting, sound, blocking, costuming and rehearsing. After the final show, the technical team comes in and rips it all apart. All those hours of work are destroyed in an afternoon filled with dust and noise. I've watched Tom flip off the work lights and utter "thank GOD that's over". The theatre goes dark and empty. Exhausted students try to catch up with papers and homework...but they can't wait to do it again. No one makes any money. No one gains any fame. There's nothing lasting that they can hold in their hands. They fight, they laugh, there are tears. But they are in love with it. My husband lives to foster that love in these young people.Each year at this time, he turns in his grades for the end of the spring semester. He usually does so with a sigh of relief knowing that another year of impossible budgets and crazy time frames has come to an end. Summer stock is around the corner and he's already thinking about the drawings he'll need to draft for the upcoming three shows that will be built in his shop and trucked some 30 plus miles away to an antique theatre in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. He's usually worn out, but satisfied that he and his colleagues have gotten another group of students through the program. I think it must be very satisfying for him to hear their plans of what theaters they'll be working in and where they'll be sending their resumes.
The hardest part of all of this is graduation. While the students are celebrating taking their last final exam and planning when they'll leave for their homes, we know that we are losing a part of us. People who have become part of the very fabric of our days and nights are going to be moving on. We've felt like surrogate parents at times. They've had holiday dinners with us when they couldn't get home and they've watched our daughter for us. We've laughed with them in social settings and we've seen them cry when school has driven them to their knees. This is the part we dislike. Tom and the others have done their jobs and most importantly, the students have done theirs. It's time to part ways. People that we've grown to love are going on their way.
This year is especially difficult. Some of the students that are graduating this year we feel very strongly about. They are a special group. Talented beyond measure. Full of dreams. We'll miss them terribly.
Josh & TawniThis picture is from the day I met Josh Smith and Tawni Morningstar. They came flouncing into the shop brandishing fans and generally making a lot of noise. I've watched them grow from harried sophomores to confident poised seniors. Along the way they developed their own internet show, became rabid conehead fans, and sang, danced, acted and worked their way into the heart of the theatre program. They renamed Emma as Bodashka, kept her busy while we were working in the space, and have kept us endlessly entertained with their talent. I can't imagine one without the other. Josh has cheered me up with hugs and made me laugh when I've felt at my worst. He sang at our wedding and convinced me that he was allergic to ham. He is endlessly talented, drives like a madman, and is passionate like no one else I know. Write down his name...you'll see him again. He has what it takes. Tawni is brilliant and driven. She acts, does wardrobe, is the props queen (at times to her dismay) and knows just what she wants in this world. She's funny, unpredictable and I love her...and not just because she shared her chocolate covered almonds with Blythe Danner. Tawni too will succeed in theatre. It's her passion and that passion shows in everything she does.
Alica Tatman
I think I had been sitting in on one of Tom's classes in the shop when I met "Tatman". No one ever calls her by her first name. In fact, I don't know if anyone knows she has any other name. She's always been "Tatman" or just "Tat". She's a skilled carpenter, knows lighting and electrics like she was born with a wrench in her hands, swears like a truck driver and works until she drops. There isn't a job in the theatre or shop that she can't do. Her confidence and expertise at any task she takes on is incredible. She is the shop queen, rides electric bulls in a dress, and loves to hunt. There's no mountain too high for Tatman. She has spent the last several years torturing Tom including blasting him with a confetti cannon and he has adored every second of having her around. Tatman is irreplaceable. The theatre world is wide open to her with all of the talent that she has. We will be lost without her. The scenery will continue to be built and other talented students will come and go, but there will never be another one like Tat. The whole program will miss her.I don't want to leave anyone out...Tom loves all of his students and for each one that he shares his knowledge with, they give back to him with their talent and respect. Former students of his work professionally all over the United States in the theatre industry. Not all of his students have chosen to go on to work in theatre, but the ones who did have done very well. He takes pride in that.
Josh, Tawni, and Tatman: you may not see us at graduation. It's not because we don't care...it's because we do care. We care very much. It's bittersweet to watch you go. One moment we're filled with pride that you've accomplished your goal of getting your degree in theatre, the next we're stricken with the thought of you not being here next year. Just know that the memories that you gave us of your time here in Evansville are some of the best times we've had. Holiday dinners around our dining room table, late night work calls, staples put through fingers, cars breaking down. We've loved every second of having you here. Best of luck to you. Your future is bright. We love you.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Sometimes you need to just pull the brake cord...
Alright...so I've haven't posted in a few days. I have a life, ya know. Not much of one, granted, but the measly life that I do have gets in the way every once in awhile. Then the writing stuff sort of takes a back seat to the more dramatic things going on at that moment...and yesterday was WAY dramatic.
Contrary to popular belief, I don't like to argue. I really hate confrontation. I'll be the first ostrich with my head in the sand when some conflict arises. Sometimes I never face the issue. In fact, I've been ostriching about some things in my life for roughly ten years...possibly more...I can't think about it. ANYWAY, I don't like to fight with people. For some reason though, when I feel threatened or if someone threatens my children or husband, I go into full on battle mode. Axe-swinging-homicide-causing-mean-raging-nasty-talking, the whole bit.
I think the day started out with something bad, like no coffee or something. I had the left overs of the night before's migraine still hanging around, so I wasn't even firing on all cylinders. I had forgotten to wash pants for Emma, there was no coffee, I was searching for a Turkish Kurus under the sofa (don't ask), there was a two hour delay for school, I was supposed to work at 10:30 and then was cancelled until 2:30. It was just a stupid morning. Finally, Tom and Emma were out the door and I was sitting on the sofa crabbing it up on the internet. The next thing I knew I was being awakened by my phone ringing. It was Emma's teacher. NEVER A GOOD SIGN.
Without going into a tremendous amount of detail...I ended up hanging up on her. This woman has been messing with my child emotionally since the beginning of school. I was DONE with it. And because I was in such a stellar mood...I launched a Jihad against her. I called her boss, I called the school counselor, I called the district office, I called my ex-husband and I called Tom. Ranting the whole time. I'm short. I'm Irish. I'd had no coffee. I'm peri-menopausal. And I had a HEAD-ACHE. Add that to "messing with my kid" and it's a recipe for the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan. I had myself completely wound up and it wasn't going to end until I had SATISFACTION!! JI-HAAAAAAAD!!
I finally calmed down enough to get ready for work. I stopped and got COFFEE at Starbucks and was talking myself into the idea that four hours at work was not going to be a big deal. I went skippity-skipping up to the floor and stopped by my mailbox first. Note. From. My. Boss. JI-HAAAAAAAD!!
Let's just say...it really...ruffled my feathers...because everyone knows you shouldn't blog bad things about work. It's no secret that I ended up in her office yelling at the top of my lungs. I stormed down to the unit with red flames shooting out my ears muttering about things I'd rather be doing, like having my skin removed with a lemon zester. I did calm down enough to take care of my patients with my usual cheery nurse attitude. Okay...I was pretty cheery...except to the surgery patient who accused us of dropping her on the floor in the OR...I told her we stopped doing that because people were complaining. She just stared at me. I gave her 2 mg of morphine and we were back to being best friends.
I got through the rest of the shift with only a minimal amount of bitching under my breath. Everybody got their medication....no one cart wheeled out of bed...I think I got all my charting done...I think...and I got out on time...with the worst migraine of my entire life.
I drove home...in the near dark, wearing sunglasses and weeping. Someone at work had taken my blood pressure and it was at a joyful 175/90. I could feel my heart beating in my teeth. Each. Individual. Tooth.
Finally made it home and laid face down on the bed for awhile and sent Tom to the pharmacy for LORTAB. That was the only thing I could think about...big blinking red letters....LORTAB...must have the LORTAB. I took blood pressure medication, 4 extra strength tylenol, got sick and slunk back to the bed. Thought about going to the emergency room and decided that standing up was a bad idea since the word NAUSEA would start to flash green in my head. It was a very very bad day. Tom arrived home with the LORTAB. I almost took his arm off at the elbow trying to get the bottle from him. I took more than I should and went back to whimpering on the sofa. Did I mention it was a bad day?
This morning was better. Opened one eye...then the other...hey no headache!! I thought about getting the day started. It was still darkish...everyone still sleeping. I poked Tom a couple of times who muttered something about some theatre issue and went back to sleep. When we finally started to wake up, we decided that Emma had had enough. We were going to keep her home until I had this worked out with the school. I later received a call from the principal who was calling from her home where she was recovering from being sick. Apparently the district office had called her after I had called them. Apologies were offered. Strategies discussed. Things were looking up. The day was starting infinitely better.
Emma and I spent the day together and it was a hoot. We shopped, had lunch, I went out to the hospital to deliver some paperwork and stormed around there for awhile and introduced her to my coworkers. We got her hair cut and bought ridiculously priced bakery dog cookies for the herd at home. We ended the day buying silly girl things like purses and sunglasses, bracelets and stuffed poodles, and a couple of cute shirts for her. Armed with a bag of kettle corn from the market, we sat on the sofa and watched a couple cartoons. The neighbor girl came over and asked if Em could play and I sent her on her way. Emma shrieked with happiness and made for the door, but she stopped and came back and threw her arms around my neck and said "YOU are the BEST Mommy EVER!!!" and she skittered out the door.
I don't even remember what happened yesterday.
Contrary to popular belief, I don't like to argue. I really hate confrontation. I'll be the first ostrich with my head in the sand when some conflict arises. Sometimes I never face the issue. In fact, I've been ostriching about some things in my life for roughly ten years...possibly more...I can't think about it. ANYWAY, I don't like to fight with people. For some reason though, when I feel threatened or if someone threatens my children or husband, I go into full on battle mode. Axe-swinging-homicide-causing-mean-raging-nasty-talking, the whole bit.
I think the day started out with something bad, like no coffee or something. I had the left overs of the night before's migraine still hanging around, so I wasn't even firing on all cylinders. I had forgotten to wash pants for Emma, there was no coffee, I was searching for a Turkish Kurus under the sofa (don't ask), there was a two hour delay for school, I was supposed to work at 10:30 and then was cancelled until 2:30. It was just a stupid morning. Finally, Tom and Emma were out the door and I was sitting on the sofa crabbing it up on the internet. The next thing I knew I was being awakened by my phone ringing. It was Emma's teacher. NEVER A GOOD SIGN.
Without going into a tremendous amount of detail...I ended up hanging up on her. This woman has been messing with my child emotionally since the beginning of school. I was DONE with it. And because I was in such a stellar mood...I launched a Jihad against her. I called her boss, I called the school counselor, I called the district office, I called my ex-husband and I called Tom. Ranting the whole time. I'm short. I'm Irish. I'd had no coffee. I'm peri-menopausal. And I had a HEAD-ACHE. Add that to "messing with my kid" and it's a recipe for the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan. I had myself completely wound up and it wasn't going to end until I had SATISFACTION!! JI-HAAAAAAAD!!
I finally calmed down enough to get ready for work. I stopped and got COFFEE at Starbucks and was talking myself into the idea that four hours at work was not going to be a big deal. I went skippity-skipping up to the floor and stopped by my mailbox first. Note. From. My. Boss. JI-HAAAAAAAD!!
Let's just say...it really...ruffled my feathers...because everyone knows you shouldn't blog bad things about work. It's no secret that I ended up in her office yelling at the top of my lungs. I stormed down to the unit with red flames shooting out my ears muttering about things I'd rather be doing, like having my skin removed with a lemon zester. I did calm down enough to take care of my patients with my usual cheery nurse attitude. Okay...I was pretty cheery...except to the surgery patient who accused us of dropping her on the floor in the OR...I told her we stopped doing that because people were complaining. She just stared at me. I gave her 2 mg of morphine and we were back to being best friends.
I got through the rest of the shift with only a minimal amount of bitching under my breath. Everybody got their medication....no one cart wheeled out of bed...I think I got all my charting done...I think...and I got out on time...with the worst migraine of my entire life.
I drove home...in the near dark, wearing sunglasses and weeping. Someone at work had taken my blood pressure and it was at a joyful 175/90. I could feel my heart beating in my teeth. Each. Individual. Tooth.
Finally made it home and laid face down on the bed for awhile and sent Tom to the pharmacy for LORTAB. That was the only thing I could think about...big blinking red letters....LORTAB...must have the LORTAB. I took blood pressure medication, 4 extra strength tylenol, got sick and slunk back to the bed. Thought about going to the emergency room and decided that standing up was a bad idea since the word NAUSEA would start to flash green in my head. It was a very very bad day. Tom arrived home with the LORTAB. I almost took his arm off at the elbow trying to get the bottle from him. I took more than I should and went back to whimpering on the sofa. Did I mention it was a bad day?
This morning was better. Opened one eye...then the other...hey no headache!! I thought about getting the day started. It was still darkish...everyone still sleeping. I poked Tom a couple of times who muttered something about some theatre issue and went back to sleep. When we finally started to wake up, we decided that Emma had had enough. We were going to keep her home until I had this worked out with the school. I later received a call from the principal who was calling from her home where she was recovering from being sick. Apparently the district office had called her after I had called them. Apologies were offered. Strategies discussed. Things were looking up. The day was starting infinitely better.
Emma and I spent the day together and it was a hoot. We shopped, had lunch, I went out to the hospital to deliver some paperwork and stormed around there for awhile and introduced her to my coworkers. We got her hair cut and bought ridiculously priced bakery dog cookies for the herd at home. We ended the day buying silly girl things like purses and sunglasses, bracelets and stuffed poodles, and a couple of cute shirts for her. Armed with a bag of kettle corn from the market, we sat on the sofa and watched a couple cartoons. The neighbor girl came over and asked if Em could play and I sent her on her way. Emma shrieked with happiness and made for the door, but she stopped and came back and threw her arms around my neck and said "YOU are the BEST Mommy EVER!!!" and she skittered out the door.
I don't even remember what happened yesterday.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Foodapalooza
We went to the grocery store tonight. A real grocery store. I say that because typically we shop at SUPER Wal-Mart...which is like shopping in Soviet Russia...except with a lot more hillbillies. We went to Schnuck's...which is really not THAT nice of a grocery store, but I swore I could hear grocery angels singing when the automatic doors swung open. I stood there in the floral department and gazed out into a produce wonderland. Hey. Don't judge. I don't get out much.
Apparently Emma was a little overwhelmed by the store too, because every 2.5 seconds she said "MOM look at THIS!" "MOM!" "MOMMA!" "hey MOM!!". She showed me every card in the card section, was lying on the FLOOR next to a display of croutons gazing at them lovingly, and spent a few moments eye to eye with the live lobsters. She made faces about the smell of the seafood department, read all the stock numbers off the side of the russet potato display, decided that she did NOT like tomatoes no matter HOW many different kinds there were and did 30 laps around the lettuce section with her hands in the water misters. She then informed me that she would try veggie chicken nuggets the NEXT time she came to the store. Liar.
Tom was shopping with Ida and making goo-goo eyes at the yellow fin sushi tuna in the sea food case while I was dragged around by Emma who pointed out that purple cabbage was just painted green cabbage. I divided my time between saying "What?" "NO!" and "STOP IT!!", sprinkled with a few "KNOCK IT OFF!"s punctuated with a couple of threats and upper arm pinches. I was trying to enjoy the huge selection in the store but was continually interrupted by loud cries of "WHAT'S THAT?????" I explained all the deli cheeses and the olive bar, what fingerling potatoes are and yes that people really do EAT lobsters. I also divulged that pepperoni comes in long sticks and isn't originally produced in circles on pizzas. This was mind boggling news.
We finally made it through produce, seafood, deli, cheeses, meats and entered the aisle of bread, snack cakes and donuts. Emma sighed happily as she looked around and said "Now THIS is a grocery store!"
She plucked a bag of powdered sugar donettes from the shelf and skittered happily over to the cart.
Apparently Emma was a little overwhelmed by the store too, because every 2.5 seconds she said "MOM look at THIS!" "MOM!" "MOMMA!" "hey MOM!!". She showed me every card in the card section, was lying on the FLOOR next to a display of croutons gazing at them lovingly, and spent a few moments eye to eye with the live lobsters. She made faces about the smell of the seafood department, read all the stock numbers off the side of the russet potato display, decided that she did NOT like tomatoes no matter HOW many different kinds there were and did 30 laps around the lettuce section with her hands in the water misters. She then informed me that she would try veggie chicken nuggets the NEXT time she came to the store. Liar.
Tom was shopping with Ida and making goo-goo eyes at the yellow fin sushi tuna in the sea food case while I was dragged around by Emma who pointed out that purple cabbage was just painted green cabbage. I divided my time between saying "What?" "NO!" and "STOP IT!!", sprinkled with a few "KNOCK IT OFF!"s punctuated with a couple of threats and upper arm pinches. I was trying to enjoy the huge selection in the store but was continually interrupted by loud cries of "WHAT'S THAT?????" I explained all the deli cheeses and the olive bar, what fingerling potatoes are and yes that people really do EAT lobsters. I also divulged that pepperoni comes in long sticks and isn't originally produced in circles on pizzas. This was mind boggling news.
We finally made it through produce, seafood, deli, cheeses, meats and entered the aisle of bread, snack cakes and donuts. Emma sighed happily as she looked around and said "Now THIS is a grocery store!"
She plucked a bag of powdered sugar donettes from the shelf and skittered happily over to the cart.
Generally....I like pills.
I'm all for western medicine. I'll never be one of those vitamin popping, herb ingesting, mantra chanting natural health people. If there's medicine for it, I want it. If it has pleasant side effects like sleeping or goofiness, I want a lot of it. Oh relax! I'm not likely to be cooking up drugs in my bath tub...unless it removes that soap scum issue on the sides of the tub. I just think that if someone is going to go through all the trouble and lab rats to test out medications that will help mankind with it's ills, that I will be one of the happy chemical cesspools that will take those medications. Look, you aren't likely to find me on a poster with meth mouth...you are likely to find me on a poster that says "Take Vicodin!" with a happy grin on my face, holding a pill bottle and glass of water. If you hurt...I think you shouldn't. It's that simple. Everyone, people, animals and anything else that doesn't feel good...deserves to feel better.
As an RN, I've always been fairly easy with regard to pain medication orders. If it's time for you to have them and you are hurting, then I'll be happy to dance on out to the medication cabinet and get you a dose. Especially because the side effect is that you'll feel better and go to sleep so that I can do something fascinating at the nurses station, like say, my charting. It's even better if I can get you an order for patient controlled analgesia so that you can give yourself your own damn medication and I don't have to really do much of anything but make sure you're still breathing and occasionally will answer one of my endless series of nurse questions like "Did you poop today?"
Pain medication is dangerous but necessary stuff. Working in a busy neurosurgery office, I saw many many patients with debilitating back pain. They needed pain medication and I happily wrote scripts out that were cosigned by the doctors and faxed them to various drug stores to keep people happy and functional while dealing with a very painful issue. You can't stay on it forever, but it can help you out during an acute period of pain. What I couldn't tolerate were the people who abused the medication. Here's a common example:
"Hello could I speak to the nurse?"
"This is the nurse, how can I help you"
"Well, my back hurts really bad and I can't get out of bed and nothing works but this pill that a friend gave me and I wondered if I could get a prescription of my own since it works so well."
"What did you take...by the way don't take your friend's medications. I can see if Dr. will write it for you."
"THC."
"(moment of dead air) you mean Marinol? That's medical grade marijuana in a pill"
"Yeah. So?"
"YOU'RE NOT GETTING MARINOL"
"Ok. BYE."
Honestly. You wouldn't believe the number of people who come lurching into a clinic saying they can barely move and the next day at the Farmer's Market you see them in spike heels carrying a watermelon on their head juggling tomatoes. These are the people who see health care providers as a buffet of pill possibilities. Fentanyl...a strong pain reliever...even comes in a lolly pop. For Pete's sake.
With my recent migraine issues, I've had the opportunity to try a smattering of pain pills myself. It's sort of like a wine tasting. Lortab...not bad. Norco...good too. Toradol...eh..not so much. A little IV Dilauded in the hospital...HOLY CRAP. How about some Nubain? HEY.....that's nice and floaty with a little bit of a warm buzz! I'll take a case and have it shipped right to my house!
Fortunately, the migraines have abated somewhat and I can rely on my old standby, acetaminophen (although my primary MD informed me I'm ruining my liver with it...I said it was trashed anyway). It's not as much fun, but it does the trick for those tension headaches and aches and pains. Cheap and not addictive isn't bad either. But for those really special occasions...it's nice to have a bottle of the good stuff aging on the shelf. Gotta go....late for my Vicodin poster shoot.
As an RN, I've always been fairly easy with regard to pain medication orders. If it's time for you to have them and you are hurting, then I'll be happy to dance on out to the medication cabinet and get you a dose. Especially because the side effect is that you'll feel better and go to sleep so that I can do something fascinating at the nurses station, like say, my charting. It's even better if I can get you an order for patient controlled analgesia so that you can give yourself your own damn medication and I don't have to really do much of anything but make sure you're still breathing and occasionally will answer one of my endless series of nurse questions like "Did you poop today?"
Pain medication is dangerous but necessary stuff. Working in a busy neurosurgery office, I saw many many patients with debilitating back pain. They needed pain medication and I happily wrote scripts out that were cosigned by the doctors and faxed them to various drug stores to keep people happy and functional while dealing with a very painful issue. You can't stay on it forever, but it can help you out during an acute period of pain. What I couldn't tolerate were the people who abused the medication. Here's a common example:
"Hello could I speak to the nurse?"
"This is the nurse, how can I help you"
"Well, my back hurts really bad and I can't get out of bed and nothing works but this pill that a friend gave me and I wondered if I could get a prescription of my own since it works so well."
"What did you take...by the way don't take your friend's medications. I can see if Dr. will write it for you."
"THC."
"(moment of dead air) you mean Marinol? That's medical grade marijuana in a pill"
"Yeah. So?"
"YOU'RE NOT GETTING MARINOL"
"Ok. BYE."
Honestly. You wouldn't believe the number of people who come lurching into a clinic saying they can barely move and the next day at the Farmer's Market you see them in spike heels carrying a watermelon on their head juggling tomatoes. These are the people who see health care providers as a buffet of pill possibilities. Fentanyl...a strong pain reliever...even comes in a lolly pop. For Pete's sake.
With my recent migraine issues, I've had the opportunity to try a smattering of pain pills myself. It's sort of like a wine tasting. Lortab...not bad. Norco...good too. Toradol...eh..not so much. A little IV Dilauded in the hospital...HOLY CRAP. How about some Nubain? HEY.....that's nice and floaty with a little bit of a warm buzz! I'll take a case and have it shipped right to my house!
Fortunately, the migraines have abated somewhat and I can rely on my old standby, acetaminophen (although my primary MD informed me I'm ruining my liver with it...I said it was trashed anyway). It's not as much fun, but it does the trick for those tension headaches and aches and pains. Cheap and not addictive isn't bad either. But for those really special occasions...it's nice to have a bottle of the good stuff aging on the shelf. Gotta go....late for my Vicodin poster shoot.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
A scene from the drive thru
What do you want?
Mmmmm...Roast beef and cheddar...and curly fries...and the chihuahua wants her own sandwich.
She's not getting a sandwich!!
(pouty face) But she only has one eye.
OH ALL RIGHT.
Junior roast beef!! We'll share fries.
Mmmmm...Roast beef and cheddar...and curly fries...and the chihuahua wants her own sandwich.
She's not getting a sandwich!!
(pouty face) But she only has one eye.
OH ALL RIGHT.
Junior roast beef!! We'll share fries.
The 'other' kids.
I like animals. Almost all of them. I can walk around a pet store and generally think I need every living creature in it. Even snakes. I draw the line at ferrets...they are too...ferrety. Anyway, in my life time I've had dogs, cats, birds, fish and horses. I had a cockatoo once that thought I was it's mate. It screamed "ERIC" all the time because it thought it was my mating call...because I yelled at my oldest son so much...but I digress.
I'm a pet junkie. I watch Animal Hoarders with rapt attention knowing that with one trip to the shelter I'd be their next feature story. Going to PetSmart or to The Pet Food Center makes me positively quiver with excitement. For some women, it's shoes...for me, it's leashes. If you take me to a horse tack store I nearly pass out. I can't keep my hands off the fine crafted leather reins and bridles and I am transfixed by the array of bits and saddlery. It's an sickness. I love animals and their stuff.
When I moved to Evansville, Tom already had a dog, Charlie. She's a black, mid-sized, snarky little mutt and she and I have this little agreement. I like to pretend like I'm choking her to death and she likes to pretend like she's trying to kill me. It's like a little dance we do. There's a huge cloud of black fur and growling while it goes on, but afterwards I bonk her on the head a few times and she happily tries to gnaw my arm off and we're all good for a few days and then we do it again. Some dogs like to snuggle. Charlie is not one of those dogs. She likes attempted murder. She's happy, I'm happy, it all works out. Because of Charlie, I did not submit Tom to my two pomeranian dogs that I had prior to our marriage and gave custody of them to my ex husband. He's been trying to give it back ever since. That's a different story.
We really didn't need any more pets. However, I kept lamenting about how I didn't have a dog of my own, we only had CHARLIE and she was a BITCH. We started tossing around the idea of a puppy. Meaning I mentioned it roughly every 30 seconds. Somehow, and I couldn't tell you how because it gets blurry, we ended up in some remote corner of Indiana at a Labrador Retriever breeder. In a small shack like kennel building, the breeder unceremoniously dumped about 11,000 lab puppies on the floor for us to choose from. They all toddled around drunkenly, being hopelessly cute and definitely smelly simultaneously. Suddenly one caught my eye. She was black and had the biggest head and paws of the entire group. I picked her. Tom has never let me forget it. We named her Sophie and she now qualifies as a continent. One day I thought it would be cute to take her to school to pick up Emma (she was grown at this point) and I nearly died on the Lloyd Expressway while a 120 pound terrified black idiot clung to me. Apparently we need to socialize her to the car a little more.
So now we had two. Charlie routinely beat the crap out of Sophie until Sophie outweighed her significantly and then...she continued to beat the crap out of Sophie. Sophie just lays on the ground and lets Charlie leap around her growling and biting. If she ever figures out how large she is, she'll know she can clock Charlie with one of her massive paws and the whole pecking order will be established as it should be. Until then Sophie lets Charlie think she's in charge. Sort of like I let Tom think he's in charge...oh honey...do you read my blog?
One December day, Tom and I were packing away Mexican food at lunch and I suggested we go to the local shelter to "just look". Tom eyed me warily. He knows what that means...so do you...this story is predictable, yes? So with cilantro laden breath, off we went to the shelter. Of course the adorable pomeranian puppy mix that I wanted was already adopted...and from the look of the liquid puppy dropping all over the cage, in retrospect, I'm glad it was. I perused the cats and then we hit the small dog area.
It was the usual assortment of small mutts. Cute, but nothing really that we needed...until we rounded the corner and there she was...standing defiantly in her kennel, sickle like tail bristling...a chihuahua. "LOOK AT HER", I cooed. Soon I had her in a play room and I was making her talk to Tom with a Mexican accent. She seemed to like me...I think the Mexican food on my breath had something to do with it...and she muttered several growls at Tom which I thought was....positive somehow. Next thing I knew I was sitting in the car with her on my lap, adoption papers and welcome home kit stashed neatly under the dash. We went to PetSmart next. I was approaching Nirvana.
So now we live with three dogs. The level of dog hair from the two black dogs is approaching the disaster status of Chernobyl. I've given up on keeping the white kitchen floor even remotely white. Picking up dog droppings is our new hobby and Tom and I haven't slept next to each other in bed since a day in December. That's when that little Mexican moved in and took over our queen sized bed. I'm off to Google the INS now. Although with her around, and me furnishing her speaking voice with a delicious Mexican accent, I get away with calling Tom vulgar names in Spanish. If he ever figures out the dog isn't really talking...I could be in trouble...oh honey....you DO read my blog??
I'm a pet junkie. I watch Animal Hoarders with rapt attention knowing that with one trip to the shelter I'd be their next feature story. Going to PetSmart or to The Pet Food Center makes me positively quiver with excitement. For some women, it's shoes...for me, it's leashes. If you take me to a horse tack store I nearly pass out. I can't keep my hands off the fine crafted leather reins and bridles and I am transfixed by the array of bits and saddlery. It's an sickness. I love animals and their stuff.
When I moved to Evansville, Tom already had a dog, Charlie. She's a black, mid-sized, snarky little mutt and she and I have this little agreement. I like to pretend like I'm choking her to death and she likes to pretend like she's trying to kill me. It's like a little dance we do. There's a huge cloud of black fur and growling while it goes on, but afterwards I bonk her on the head a few times and she happily tries to gnaw my arm off and we're all good for a few days and then we do it again. Some dogs like to snuggle. Charlie is not one of those dogs. She likes attempted murder. She's happy, I'm happy, it all works out. Because of Charlie, I did not submit Tom to my two pomeranian dogs that I had prior to our marriage and gave custody of them to my ex husband. He's been trying to give it back ever since. That's a different story.
We really didn't need any more pets. However, I kept lamenting about how I didn't have a dog of my own, we only had CHARLIE and she was a BITCH. We started tossing around the idea of a puppy. Meaning I mentioned it roughly every 30 seconds. Somehow, and I couldn't tell you how because it gets blurry, we ended up in some remote corner of Indiana at a Labrador Retriever breeder. In a small shack like kennel building, the breeder unceremoniously dumped about 11,000 lab puppies on the floor for us to choose from. They all toddled around drunkenly, being hopelessly cute and definitely smelly simultaneously. Suddenly one caught my eye. She was black and had the biggest head and paws of the entire group. I picked her. Tom has never let me forget it. We named her Sophie and she now qualifies as a continent. One day I thought it would be cute to take her to school to pick up Emma (she was grown at this point) and I nearly died on the Lloyd Expressway while a 120 pound terrified black idiot clung to me. Apparently we need to socialize her to the car a little more.
So now we had two. Charlie routinely beat the crap out of Sophie until Sophie outweighed her significantly and then...she continued to beat the crap out of Sophie. Sophie just lays on the ground and lets Charlie leap around her growling and biting. If she ever figures out how large she is, she'll know she can clock Charlie with one of her massive paws and the whole pecking order will be established as it should be. Until then Sophie lets Charlie think she's in charge. Sort of like I let Tom think he's in charge...oh honey...do you read my blog?
One December day, Tom and I were packing away Mexican food at lunch and I suggested we go to the local shelter to "just look". Tom eyed me warily. He knows what that means...so do you...this story is predictable, yes? So with cilantro laden breath, off we went to the shelter. Of course the adorable pomeranian puppy mix that I wanted was already adopted...and from the look of the liquid puppy dropping all over the cage, in retrospect, I'm glad it was. I perused the cats and then we hit the small dog area.
It was the usual assortment of small mutts. Cute, but nothing really that we needed...until we rounded the corner and there she was...standing defiantly in her kennel, sickle like tail bristling...a chihuahua. "LOOK AT HER", I cooed. Soon I had her in a play room and I was making her talk to Tom with a Mexican accent. She seemed to like me...I think the Mexican food on my breath had something to do with it...and she muttered several growls at Tom which I thought was....positive somehow. Next thing I knew I was sitting in the car with her on my lap, adoption papers and welcome home kit stashed neatly under the dash. We went to PetSmart next. I was approaching Nirvana.
So now we live with three dogs. The level of dog hair from the two black dogs is approaching the disaster status of Chernobyl. I've given up on keeping the white kitchen floor even remotely white. Picking up dog droppings is our new hobby and Tom and I haven't slept next to each other in bed since a day in December. That's when that little Mexican moved in and took over our queen sized bed. I'm off to Google the INS now. Although with her around, and me furnishing her speaking voice with a delicious Mexican accent, I get away with calling Tom vulgar names in Spanish. If he ever figures out the dog isn't really talking...I could be in trouble...oh honey....you DO read my blog??
Between Writers
Mom?
Yes.
I have to take back my library book tomorrow so if you need to look at it for ideas for your novel, let me know. Eric Carle is a good writer. I like him.
I looked at it today. But I'm not writing a novel, it's a picture book. And you're right, he's a very good writer. Thanks for letting me look at it.
No problem. Oh and if you need any advice? Just call me or something because I write a LOT of stories at school and I could probably give you some tips.
Thanks Em.
Yes.
I have to take back my library book tomorrow so if you need to look at it for ideas for your novel, let me know. Eric Carle is a good writer. I like him.
I looked at it today. But I'm not writing a novel, it's a picture book. And you're right, he's a very good writer. Thanks for letting me look at it.
No problem. Oh and if you need any advice? Just call me or something because I write a LOT of stories at school and I could probably give you some tips.
Thanks Em.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Keeps raining all the time
I have a long history with storms. Most of that history involves me at some level of hysteria with my face pressed against the window or standing in the driveway while I scan the sky for danger. It turns out that neither of those are recommended storm-time activities according to meteorologists.
I never really had good storm role models. My French-Canadian grandmother (who had no less than 2 million rosaries) used to be my caregiver when I was fairly young and apparently quite impressionable. If there was even a HINT of a storm on the horizon, I'd have to sit on the bed with my shoes on while she raced around the house lighting holy candles and throwing holy water on the windows. I remember sitting on that chenille covered bed with wide eyes while she'd go clattering by with a handful of rosary, matches, and vial of holy water. We always made it through every storm that she deemed tragic (which was all of them) so apparently the rosary-candle-holy water trick must have worked.
Cut to my tween years....I am now completely PHOBIC about storms. Even a vaguely blue-grey cloud has me edgy. I remember being at a picnic at my aunt's home and standing slack jawed in the front yard as a funnel cloud went zooming merrily by in the distance. For some reason, we were all considered safe because my uncle was CHIEF OF POLICE. I'm not sure how that ranks up there with holy water and rosaries, but everyone stood in the front yard and watched the funnel's cameo appearance during the storm like it was no big deal. I hot footed it for the house like the lily livered coward that my grandmother had trained me to be convinced I could save them all if I could just find the holy water and rosaries.
As a teen, the phobia drifted understandably to downright horror and hysteria after one particular storm when my dad decided to take action. He was a volunteer firefighter and we had a radio called THE PLECTRON. It screamed wildly whenever there was a fire, ambulance call, tornado or some other local disaster. One afternoon the PLECTRON went off signaling the approach of a tornado. I was already trying to ward of hysteria by playing solitaire and was madly flipping playing cards on the family room floor. Dad came rocketing into the room instructing everyone to "Get into the car! We're going to run right angles to the storm!!" and he rocketed out the back door. My mother was NOT down with this idea. My brother thought it was cool (he's an idiot)...and I was, of course, hysterical and by this point, weeping. So we all pile into the car with me dragging our reluctant Shetland Sheepdog, Duffy, who is panting wildly and dad starts driving. It becomes quickly apparent that there is no way to tell what exactly IS a right angle to the storm. So I think he just drove around for a while until the dog and I were both so out of our minds that NO ONE could take it anymore and we went home...safe and sound.
When I got older, I got bolder...for some reason I thought that storm warning translated to "go stand in the driveway and look at the sky". It turns out that this is apparently what happens as you age since the entire neighborhood would meet me out there and we'd stand in our driveways until the hail drove us into our houses or one of us was struck by lightening. One night, I went outside with my dinner plate and made it a little party. My husband drew the line at that and sent me back into the house where I sat on the sofa and sulked while watching the crawl on the bottom of the television while spooning hot casserole into my face.
I think I may have overcome my fear of storms since I've moved to southern Indiana. Only because they have one EVERY ten minutes. I'm not kidding. You know how when someone is afraid of something you expose them to it until they aren't afraid of it anymore? That's what they do down here. Constant storm bombardment until you are SO jaded about storms that you become quite flippant. "Oh. Another tornado warning...that's the 57th one today." And right after that you pound the weather radio flat. Last night there were very severe storms (they always sneak in when it's dark...bastards) and my husband wasn't home. He told me how to turn on the weather radio which is very cleverly affixed to the head of our bed. After about the 40th time the thing screamed in my ear about floods, tornados, damaging winds, hail the size of human heads, blah blah blah, I finally turned it off. I figured...I could either be wide awake and terrified when the storm killed me or sleep blissfully when it came through and sucked me into it's cow riddled vortex. I picked sleep. It worked for Dorothy.
Oh...and check out the thing about the cows...you know this is all their fault...they pass gas and the methane is ruining the atmosphere...go ahead...Google it. I'll be out in the driveway watching the sky.
Monday, April 25, 2011
In My Life
There are places I'll remember, all my life, though some have changed.
My husband and I both grew up in a rural area just south of Chicago. I was from "town", but he and his family lived on a small farm on a country road. His parents chose the land, built the home with their own hands and brought their two young sons to grow up in the country. An idyllic life for a couple from Chicago with two growing sons.
The land is a gently rolling five acre piece of property now dotted with mature trees and bushes. A natural waterway, lined with willows, skirts along one side. There are fruit trees and a curving line of pines that once provided a windbreak to an above ground pool that was installed by the boys. The pool is long gone, but the indent in the ground is now a small pond surrounded by rushes and water grasses. Occasionally a duck finds a home there. There is a pole building that houses an assortment of things, all of which are a tribute to the busy home and farm this once was.
I never visited the home when my husband was younger, although we've known each other since we were grade school children. We married when we were in our forties and by then his father had passed and his mother is living alone on the farm with her dog and two cats. The house is a three bedroom raised ranch with a full basement. The first time I visit the home, I notice that a lifetime of possessions fill the spaces. My mother-in-law is an accomplished seamstress and has worked for years with knitting. Her home is a happy jumble of craft and sewing supplies. A grand piano graces the living room having provided years of music from her fingers. A tote of toys lives under the piano waiting for visiting children. Shelves on the walls are lined with books and photos of family and her sons. Her chair in front of the picture window is surrounded by yarn, books, mail and an assortment of craft catalogues. Her kitchen and pantry are a collection of her favorite things with some relics of her husband's passion for cooking evident in the cookbooks displayed on a shelf. She keeps a few garden plants on her deck along with a few flowers. She is alone for long periods of time. She seldom leaves the property. Yet, she seems content with her life here on this isolated country road.
Things begin to happen like small strokes, falls and robberies during which family valuables are lost. Her dog and companion passes away. The family has a LifeAlert system installed and neighbors become more vigilant. Winters seem harder and colder. It seems more difficult to get off the farm. She begins to talk about wanting to be closer to family in a warmer area. We find a home in an over 55 community that is brand new. It's safe, there are neighbors to meet, she can bring her cat (which is now all she has left of her pets), and it's only eleven minutes from our house. The climate where we live is decidedly more mild. She decides it's time to make the change and hires people to help her go through her things and pack. The moving truck will come this week and we arrange to bring her down early so that she can be here, instead of there, when the truck is loaded with boxes full of her things.
When we went to pick her up this past weekend, I wasn't prepared. The jumbled happy house is now filled with stacked, generic, brown boxes. The boxes cover the floors, they are on the dining room table, they are around the piano. The cupboards of dishes are now empty, books packed away, pictures no longer where they used to sit. I have only been a part of this family for two years and I am shaken. I stand amidst the boxes and am not even sure where I am.
I then begin to understand the monumental change this is for her and not only for her, but for her sons. This is not just a pretty piece of countryside and a house and a pole building. This is True North for them. No matter where any of them traveled, it's where they always returned. They knew it was always there, waiting...unchanging. Whether they were traveling the world on business or touring with a rock band, it was their touch point. It's where they laughed, cried, dreamed and fought. It's where the boys grew to be men. Music was written literally and figuratively. It's where weddings were held and a granddaughter was celebrated. The family came together for holidays and birthdays. Plans were made, carried out and made into memories. A ramp was built onto the house so that a dying father could spend his last days at home and take his last breath with his family around him. Always, was the permanence of place. That slowly fading house and pole building on the gravel road meant home for more than just family, but for friends of the boys and anyone who knew the family and needed a place to spend time.
Tomorrow morning at seven a.m. a moving truck will slowly make it's way up the long gravel drive and while my husband supervises, the same ramp that allowed his dying father to come home, will now take blank brown boxes from his childhood home. I ache to be with him, but at the same time know somehow that he needs to say his goodbyes alone. As we left on Friday with my mother-in-law, I expected her to be tearful, however I suspect that she had said her goodbyes alone as well. With my husband outside loading the car and me bringing up the rear, I watched her pause before she descended the stairs to the backdoor. She looked around at her kitchen where so much of her life had happened. It was just for a moment and I looked away because I felt as though I was stealing that moment from her. I saw no tears, and there was no hesitation as she left the house that day. I never saw her look back. There's a time for everything, and it's time.
My husband and I both grew up in a rural area just south of Chicago. I was from "town", but he and his family lived on a small farm on a country road. His parents chose the land, built the home with their own hands and brought their two young sons to grow up in the country. An idyllic life for a couple from Chicago with two growing sons.
The land is a gently rolling five acre piece of property now dotted with mature trees and bushes. A natural waterway, lined with willows, skirts along one side. There are fruit trees and a curving line of pines that once provided a windbreak to an above ground pool that was installed by the boys. The pool is long gone, but the indent in the ground is now a small pond surrounded by rushes and water grasses. Occasionally a duck finds a home there. There is a pole building that houses an assortment of things, all of which are a tribute to the busy home and farm this once was.
I never visited the home when my husband was younger, although we've known each other since we were grade school children. We married when we were in our forties and by then his father had passed and his mother is living alone on the farm with her dog and two cats. The house is a three bedroom raised ranch with a full basement. The first time I visit the home, I notice that a lifetime of possessions fill the spaces. My mother-in-law is an accomplished seamstress and has worked for years with knitting. Her home is a happy jumble of craft and sewing supplies. A grand piano graces the living room having provided years of music from her fingers. A tote of toys lives under the piano waiting for visiting children. Shelves on the walls are lined with books and photos of family and her sons. Her chair in front of the picture window is surrounded by yarn, books, mail and an assortment of craft catalogues. Her kitchen and pantry are a collection of her favorite things with some relics of her husband's passion for cooking evident in the cookbooks displayed on a shelf. She keeps a few garden plants on her deck along with a few flowers. She is alone for long periods of time. She seldom leaves the property. Yet, she seems content with her life here on this isolated country road.
Things begin to happen like small strokes, falls and robberies during which family valuables are lost. Her dog and companion passes away. The family has a LifeAlert system installed and neighbors become more vigilant. Winters seem harder and colder. It seems more difficult to get off the farm. She begins to talk about wanting to be closer to family in a warmer area. We find a home in an over 55 community that is brand new. It's safe, there are neighbors to meet, she can bring her cat (which is now all she has left of her pets), and it's only eleven minutes from our house. The climate where we live is decidedly more mild. She decides it's time to make the change and hires people to help her go through her things and pack. The moving truck will come this week and we arrange to bring her down early so that she can be here, instead of there, when the truck is loaded with boxes full of her things.
When we went to pick her up this past weekend, I wasn't prepared. The jumbled happy house is now filled with stacked, generic, brown boxes. The boxes cover the floors, they are on the dining room table, they are around the piano. The cupboards of dishes are now empty, books packed away, pictures no longer where they used to sit. I have only been a part of this family for two years and I am shaken. I stand amidst the boxes and am not even sure where I am.
I then begin to understand the monumental change this is for her and not only for her, but for her sons. This is not just a pretty piece of countryside and a house and a pole building. This is True North for them. No matter where any of them traveled, it's where they always returned. They knew it was always there, waiting...unchanging. Whether they were traveling the world on business or touring with a rock band, it was their touch point. It's where they laughed, cried, dreamed and fought. It's where the boys grew to be men. Music was written literally and figuratively. It's where weddings were held and a granddaughter was celebrated. The family came together for holidays and birthdays. Plans were made, carried out and made into memories. A ramp was built onto the house so that a dying father could spend his last days at home and take his last breath with his family around him. Always, was the permanence of place. That slowly fading house and pole building on the gravel road meant home for more than just family, but for friends of the boys and anyone who knew the family and needed a place to spend time.
Tomorrow morning at seven a.m. a moving truck will slowly make it's way up the long gravel drive and while my husband supervises, the same ramp that allowed his dying father to come home, will now take blank brown boxes from his childhood home. I ache to be with him, but at the same time know somehow that he needs to say his goodbyes alone. As we left on Friday with my mother-in-law, I expected her to be tearful, however I suspect that she had said her goodbyes alone as well. With my husband outside loading the car and me bringing up the rear, I watched her pause before she descended the stairs to the backdoor. She looked around at her kitchen where so much of her life had happened. It was just for a moment and I looked away because I felt as though I was stealing that moment from her. I saw no tears, and there was no hesitation as she left the house that day. I never saw her look back. There's a time for everything, and it's time.
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