The goddamn fucking gate has been off the fence all this time and someone just stole my gas BBQ. It was here before I left for mom’s birthday dinner last night.
All I needed was to get the stupid thing back on the post. People offered to help but I didn’t stand there with a whip and it didn’t happen. I literally cannot lift it myself. And now the 16-foot storage POD will be here within the hour, along with Dylan and Daphne, who are sick. My ex is bringing them here so he can have phone calls.
And one of my children just received one of the worst behavior reports ever and I HAD NO IDEA. Why did no one talk with us about this before sending it home, so we could fix it?
It’s just raining kittens and ice cream here.
At least I will have time to myself to finish clearing out personal stuff so the Realtor can show the place ASAP. The kids will spending their winter break in Tahoe with their father and my parents this Saturday through Wednesday, so I got that going for me, which is nice.
Well, Internets, I have the Swine flu.
Please, Whoever is Messing With My Life, it’s not funny. Cut it out.
The last week has been hazy, with the exception of yesterday’s highly memorable trip to the walk-in clinic for screening, at the end of which I was curled up in a ball, shivering and sobbing. No wonder no one wants the unwashed, uninsured around. By the time they seek medical attention, they’re already a holy mess.
I’m currently holed up at My Guy’s for the duration—he’s quarantined himself here along with me and is working from home—trying to stay comfortable, then warm, then cool, then comfortable, then warm, omg is it hot in here, then where the hell is my sweater, are you insane it’s like the arctic circle in this place.
You get the idea.
The screening came back negative with a sixty to ninety (depending on which study you read) percent margin of error—gotta love those false negatives—but both my children’s pediatrician and the doctor I saw yesterday said that almost all the flus walking in with my symptoms are presumed to be H1N1 and treated accordingly. As in, go home and stay there and don’t touch anything. I’m so relieved that both my and My Guy’s kids are with the other parent this weekend. They can have their normal routine and not have to cancel Halloween along with me.
No, I am not handing out candy this year. And I’m certainly not putting out the huge bowl of Honor System Treats after someone took the ENTIRE BOWL OF CANDY before seven p.m. last year. The kids are still all touchy about that.
They are happily ensconced at Daddy’s, my little cheerleader, Pimp Daddy, and Man Eating Shark. I’m dying to see them in their costumes. Note to self: get photos from ex.
This has been another feature brought to you by the Roberts Family Curse.
I thankyew.
Some of the highlights from our Mother’s Days through the years and the exciting days surrounding them. Might want to make some popcorn.
May 15, 2008: Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you all kinds of things that irk me anyway
May 13, 2008: Oh, I’m not done with Mother’s Day yet
May 11, 2008: Who knew Mother’s Day could actually be FUN?
May 09, 2008: Isn’t that the name of a Country Western song?
June 01, 2006: Am I out of my tree?
May 16, 2006: Five Minutes’ Peace
May 15, 2006: I should be over this, but I’m not
May 15, 2006: High Cortisol Level: For Sale or Trade
May 13, 2006: For all you mommies out there
May 09, 2006: It’s a small, small, small, small world
May 18, 2005: Napoleon Roberts
May 07, 2005: For Don
May 06, 2005: To Whom It May Concern
May 09, 2004: Quickie
May 09, 2004: Me, Me, Me
May 09, 2004: The Obligatory Holiday Post
Daphne and I spent half of Friday getting all sorts of blood panels and other unpleasant tests done.
Got the call today: Parvovirus B19. Fifth Disease. I thankew
I don’t even know where to start.
Phil’s home—we picked him up at the airport last night—and we all stayed up for midnight and then stumbled to bed, where the children were asleep before I pulled the covers up.
Sounds fun, huh? Sure, if you like that sort of thing, or you if omit the Buster Keaton routine we ran between six and nine last night. We figured if Phil landed at 6:30m there was very little chance of spending New Year’s Eve at baggage claim again. As it turns out, it wasn’t for lack of trying.
I took the kids to see Marley & Me (hey, remember I have a 15 year old Labrador at home, along with two little boys and a girl? They should have stopped us at the door.), which ended just in time to put us at SFO before seven, plenty of time for Phil to get his bags and be on the curb. Ninety minutes after we arrived, we were still circling the airport. All this time, I’m trying to fix my cell phone charger (I kept hearing Tim Allen in my head from Home Improvement: “So I rewired it!”). My phone was dead, the charger had a wire loose, I was driving, the kids were falling apart, the parking cop wouldn’t let me walk five feet to a payphone, and I didn’t have correct change anyway. I needed two quarters; I had a fistful of silver dollars from the Post Office stamp vending machine. Why do they do that? Never mind, I know why, but there are precious few implements that take silver dollars.
We finally said, FINE, and went to short-term parking. Only it was short term for International, and I didn’t see the sign until we where whizzing past it. To get out of there, I had to go down a road that landed me practically in San Bruno, and then we had to take a detour through the loading docks to find the terminal again. As we drove up the ramp to domestic parking, Logan said, “Oh, no. No, this is NOT happening.”
We found a space, went down a moving walkway, up an elevator and then an escalator to a completely, and I mean completely, empty baggage claim. I asked a porter if he had change, but no. I mean, why should a guy who accepts tips all damn day have a couple of quarters? But there was a change machine waaaaay over by the carts. I put in a dollar, got change, fed two quarters into the pay phone, and then two more because, I don’t know, it sensed I really needed to make a call. These were entirely new experiences for the children, and they were fascinated. I was annoyed.
Any, Phil had JUST LANDED. So we went back through the escalator, elevator, walkway, and garage, drove to the exit, put in the ticket, saw that we owed two dollars, and swiped my debit card. And swiped it again. And again. Christ on a sesame cracker. I blared the assistance intercom, waving to the guy behind me that he’d have to back up. When someone finally answered, he said, and I swear this is verbatim, “Fuck. Ahhhh, try the next one over, and if that doesn’t work, go to Level One where there’s an attendant.”
Thank you. Thank you for the profanity lesson for my children.
So we waved the car behind us to back up, they shuffled over to the next lane, then we pulled up behind them and waited our turn to watch the machine reject my card a few more times, and then got two more people to back up behind us, ON THE RAMP, no less, and I had to figure out how to get out of the chute. I asked the kids to duck, threw the car into reverse, and Magnum, P.I.‘d my way halfway back up the ramp, threw it into drive, and flipped a right into the parking area just before the next car came careening down the blind curve. And then suddenly I’m in Paris trying to negotiate one of those ridiculous turning circles, only this one had seventeen arrows and ramps that went up and down, and none of them actually said anything like LEVEL ONE or ACTUAL, FUNCTIONAL EXIT, so we just kept going down until we hit the last barrier, and lo, there was a woman in one of the booths.
“Oh thank goodness you’re here. We literally pulled in, made a phone call, and came right out, and it was two dollars, and my card was unreadable, so I tried the next lane over, and then it was four dollars, like five seconds later, and here’s my ticket.” I looked up at her with Marley eyes.
“I’m sorry, but it says four dollars. I can give you a slip to mail in, asking for a refund.” Yeah, lady. I’m going to buy an envelope and a 41 cent stamp, and send in a request for a two dollar refund that IF APPROVED will arrive in eight to twelve weeks. I got your slip, right here.
I paid the four dollars and by now was in tears. Logan offered to lend me two dollars when we got home. “That’s not the point, honey, but thank you.”
Two hours after we arrived at the airport, we had Phil in the car and were headed once again toward the exit. Phil turned around in his seat. “Happy New Year!”
And then? This afternoon? A home care nurse called to tell me that my aunt, the aunt in Connecticut who only speaks to two members of her family (me, and some guy I’ve never met), had a stroke the day after Christmas and was frantic to know why I hadn’t called. The cousin was supposed to contact me. I’ll be leaving him a message. As soon as my voice stops shaking.
To date:
December 10: Stepdad laid off.
December 15: Stepdad breaks leg.
December 21: Wine opener breaks off in my thumb, five stitches, healing badly, btw.
December 24: Car dies, windstorm, rain, parked over storm drain. Nice.
December 25: Impetigo.
December 27: Stepbrother falls off roof/ladder. Cuts and bruises.
December 28: Decision made to delay replacement of torsion spring in broken garage door. Who needs the risk?
Last night, I celebrated the first day of winter break at the emergency room, courtesy of my Rabbit wine opener. It has a stubborn mechanism and you have to pull and then push a little harder to get the cork out. The handle snapped off and sliced open my thumb from knuckle to knuckle. Give yourself a thumbs-up. There you go! Now, bend your thumb toward your pinky. See where it creases? That’s where the first stitch went. Good Lord A-mighty. Makes typing fun too, but as long as I stay away from the space bar I’ll be fine.
So, after pulling the wound open and seeing another layer of tissue in there, I called my ex. “Can you come over? I need stitches and the pizza guy’s coming.” WHOOSH. I love that. When one of us needs something, the other drops everything no matter how irritated we are with each other. Meanwhile, my son was gaping at the wound, asking, “Doesn’t it hurt? Why aren’t you screaming or crying?”
“Well, you’ve got to know these things when you get to be Mom. Stiff upper lip and all that.”
“I’d be on the floor, yelling.”
“Well, I’ve got to drive myself to the hospital so it’s best to remain calm. Dad’s on his way, there’s your spaghetti and meatballs, and a pizza’s coming for the rest of you.”
Daphne begged to come with me, since she’s an old hand at stitches, don’tcha know, and will watch over me. Or ask me to read a book to her the entire time we’re waiting in the ER. Whichever. As we walked out the door, Daddy came with us, saying, “We’ll be back soon!” I thought he was teasing the boys. Then I noticed his car was still running.
“Dude, what are you doing? I called so you could hang with the kids.”
“Oh! I thought you needed me to drive you! When you said stitches, I pictured blood spouting everywhere.”
“That’s what paper towels are for. No, I’m fine, go back inside. But first turn off your car.” And then we were laughing and muttering.
Guard #1: Right, we’ll stay here until you get back.
King of Swamp Castle: And make sure he doesn’t leave.
Guard #1: What?
King of Swamp Castle: Make sure he doesn’t leave.
Guard #1: The prince?
King of Swamp Castle: Yes, make sure he doesn’t leave.
Guard #1: Oh, yes, of course.
[Points at Guard #2]
Guard #1: I thought you meant him. You know, it seemed a bit daft me I were to guard him when he’s a guard.
King of Swamp Castle: Is that clear?
Guard #2: [hiccups]
Guard #1: Oh, quite clear. No problems.
King of Swamp Castle: Right.
[King of Swamp Castle turns to leave the room, both guards follow him]
King of Swamp Castle: Where are you going?
Guard #1: We’re coming with you.
King of Swamp Castle: No, no, no. I want you to stay here and make sure *he* doesn’t leave.
Guard #1: Oh, I see. Right.
At the hospital, Daphne was a champ, cracking me up and making faces every time I had to show someone my hand. When the intake nurse remembered her from her own visit and remembered she’d been very brave, Daphne was soooo proud.
Every time someone asked how it happened, the story ended with “...and he’s probably drinking your wine right now.” Five stitches later we’re on our way in a record hour and fifteen. And sure enough, half the bottle was gone.
“But I poured from the one that was already open!”
“Yes, I did manage to get the cork out.” [crowd: “...and I’ve got the scars to prove it!” *rimshot*]
“Oh, sorry.”
I opened the pizza box. Half gone. Blast!
Well, I suppose I’ll get out of dishes and cooking prep today, because I can’t get the wound wet. Did I mention that we’re having thirteen for dinner?
Because, you know, I realize it happened on the day after Thanksgiving, but we couldn’t get the bigger family group together until Friday.
After dinner but before dessert, I offered to go pick up one of the kids from a birthday party so that everyone could be part of the smash and smush angel cake surprise. What’s that? Well. My mother, the woman who never kept sweets in the house and fed us Familia Swiss Muesli until we were old enough to buy our own damn cereal, planned to have the kids slather an angel food cake with freshly whipped cream, bust up a pile of candy canes with a hammer, and sprinkle the debris all over the cake. What kid in his right mind wouldn’t want to be handed a hammer, candy, and whipped cream and told to get busy?
So I borrowed my ex’s Expedition (just to drive it again—it used to be mine), drove to the friend’s house, got out and stepped in a puddle, couldn’t remember the address, drove back home, picked up the school directory, drove back up the street to the party, got out of the car, stepped in the same puddle, and collected my child.
As I grabbed the “oh shit” handle and hoisting myself up into the SUV, my wet clog went flying off the running board and I fell forward at Mach 3 and, luckily, broke the fall with my neck. On the steering wheel.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Mmmmfhhm.”
“Where are you? Where did you go?”
“I’m down here, babe, I slipped. Let’s go back to Grandma’s.”
So I was just sitting here watching Armageddon on TV, rubbing my neck to get the muscles to relax a bit, when I felt a DENT in my SKULL.
I’m changing my stage name to Klutzina McSlipsky.
I carefully shut down my brain at nine last night and went to sleep right after the kids were tucked in. I just didn’t want to think about putting Molly down this week after bringing her home as a puppy fifteen years ago.
I’m heading over to my ex’s to help the kids get ready for school and do the school run. Then I’ll meet him at the vets for Molly’s bone biopsy. Suspected osteosarcoma, cancer in three out of four limbs, but can’t know for sure until Monday. We’ve had her fifteen years.
I just turned forty. Actually, I have been forty for fifteen hours already in China, but if I think about that for too long I’ll start dividing by zero and then the world will implode.
We arrived home a little while ago from Beijing after 30 hours of traveling by bus, air, car, and the seat of our pants. Not even the couple that flew with us to within fifty miles of our destination know what a Benny Hill episode it turned out to be. Sure, there were twelve terrific hours in the air in business class from Beijing, but the eighteen that followed courtesy of United Airlines Domestic sucked ass. I won’t go into gory details until later, so here are the highlights before I melt into my pillows:
- First leg: Awesome! Hot nuts, fillet mignon, endless libations, snuggly pillows and warm blankies.
- Cleared customs in San Francisco without a hitch!
- We were FIFTY MILES from home, but had to continue through L.A. to honor the itinerary (please, we looked for every possible loophole) before going home.
- Tried to get on the connecting flight to L.A. with one excruciatingly expensive bottle of duty-free 1995 Bordeaux and were told that it didn’t matter that we were given it to carry on board the flight from China and already checked our bags through to L.A., we were not allowed to carry it through security. It would have to go into our bags, which were already checked. Security invited us to drink the wine there (alors!) or give it up.
- Optionally, Phil could run to the check in area and see if they could box it and check it as baggage. In the end, they made him throw it away, and we had to sprint (separately) to the gate. They only held it for us because we were in first class, and I am not kidding when I say that my hair was nearly caught in the door as it was closing.
- Upon arrival in L.A., I was waved toward baggage claim while others stumbled toward connecting gates, but screeched to a halt before making a wrong turn. Alas, I had already stepped on the RED LINE dividing departure gates from the rest of the functional universe and was not allowed back in. Technically, only one foot violated the RED LINE, but RULES ARE RULES and they insisted that I had to now exit the airport via baggage claim and re-enter via check in and go through security again because I stepped on the RED LINE. I was ready to ride that argument all the way to jail, I swear to puppies, I was. It was like a scene from Silkwood. I was contaminated, and my transgression prohibited me from any contact with the inside of the concourse. Our friends were five feet away from me, trying for an alarmed and disappointed goodbye hug, but they were physically prevented from touching me. And then, as I refused to be separated, they threw Phil out along with me.
- That argument lasted just long enough for us to miss our connecting flight. We were put on standby for the next one in four hours, and then didn’t make that one either. However, our bags did.
- Once we realized that the standby list was just being rolled over and over into later flights and that there was no way out tonight, we rented a car and DROVE the last 350 miles from L.A. and thenpicked up our bags at the San Jose Airport. Did I mention that only three were there because one arrived in L.A. seven hours later than its companions? And didn’t get on the standby? They’ll deliver it tomorrow. We hope.
So now we’re home, and the house is hot as balls from being closed up for a week, I had to take a defibrillator to my computer to get it going after such a long time untouched, and there were one hundred twelve unread messages in my inbox.
I was ridiculously happy to have a shower as soon as we got home, and stepped out at exactly midnight to find Phil waiting with a crystal goblet. “Happy Birthday. Cent’anni!”
..She will need a walker. If you give your mom a walker, she will need a one-story house and an accessible shower stall. So, hey! I live two miles from the hospital, and have a master suite with a million pillows and a total ADA-compliant, walk-in shower! Come on over! I’ll be your Convalescence Home. The kids will love waiting on you.
In the first hour, she takes her first real shower. I’ve lived here for ten years and had at least ten showers (maybe more) and THIS is the one that finally snaps the hot water handle deep inside the wall. The next thing I know there’s a plumber walking in the door saying, “I can fix that for $312.13.” I pulled out my checkbook and both mom and step dad dogpiled me, insisting that they will pay for it.
Today? Is Saturday. He had to come back because it turns out that it can’t be fixed by removing the handles. All these tiles have to come out. And it’s now running to eight hundred dollars. And oh, the sunflower shower head I have that rains this lovely rain down on you? Is all totally crimped now. Did you want another one like that? Or do you want the one that came with the replacement handles I picked up this morning? I could run out and get you one… NO. Just use what’s there. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, we need that bed and bath back, stat.
For those of you wondering how we skated through another holiday without a scrape, turn up the schaudenfreude!
I woke up to an extraordinarily tender ear yesterday–not the normal kind of ache, just a dull throb along the cartilage at the top. As I walked my fingers along the ridge, I found a DENT in my ear. Yes, A DENT. And behind my ear was the most horrific bruising. Have you ever tried to look behind your own ear? You could bruise yourself that way. I finally asked my kids to look and tell me how bad it was and Logan actually yelped and jumped back. Nice.
I got it at the park while carrying Daphne’s scooter over my shoulder. As I started to put it down, the wheeled board swung around and smacked me in the side of the head. I knew it hurt, but I didn’t know I’d wind up looking like an animal that had lost a fight. Seriously, you could ID my body by this thing now. It’s forever.
Speaking of forever, I will never, ever regret raising my children in a perpetual snuggle. Every time they write about their mother for something at school, “snuggling” gets mentioned in there somewhere. It’s my favorite thing to do, ever. And so I give you my children’s Mother’s Day gifts to me this year: Logan’s, Dylan’s, and Daphne’s, front and back.
I just went out to pick up my prescription, but didn’t get out of the driveway. The car won’t start.
That’s right! This is getting so repetitive I can’t believe it. This is not a gimmick, I do not make these things up.
I just returned from three hours at the urgent clinic where I paid a fortune for chest Xrays and treatment. Why? Because I couldn’t get an appointment with my own doctor to save my life. They had an opening for “flu” but not for “sinusitis and probable pneumonia.” I am not making this up. That is what the receptionist told me.
Also? He asked if I was a nurse or a doctor or something, because I was using words he’d never heard before. Oh. So, “prolonged URI with secondary bacterial infection of the sinuses” is something wacky in your office? What trade school did you roll out of? I finally asked that if the doctor couldn’t see me, could he please call me and we’ll do it over the phone.
A while later, a woman we’ll call Tweedledum phones to say, “He says you should steam, and use saline drops, and get some cold medicine.” It was all I could do not to reach through the phone and throttle her. I can’t even begin to tell the story, so I’m pasting a conversation I had with a friend before I went to the doctor.
Oh, and keep in mind that when I got to the counter with the freshly restored insurance coverage information, it couldn’t be verified. I had to pay cash. In advance.
Join the Momversation
I write. A lot. I wrote a book
I'm on Momversation.com Hire me for web and graphic design I made some free WordPress Party Themes I like Tenderness and Grace My Latest Videos My Latest Press
There are 28 people reading.
Subscribe to the Feed
- © The MommyBlog.com and Wonderbelly.com
- illustration by TearDrop
- website design by Moxie Design Studios™
The Mommy Blog™, Wonderbelly™, Mommy Confidential™, and PearSoup™ are trademarks of Wonderbelly™. All rights reserved. -
| 
| 
| Blog Listings |
GeekySpeaky: Submit Your Site!