"Honey, is that you?"

My husband called out to me as I came in the door from a mundane trip to Walgreens.

"Yeah" I said. "Why?" .... while internally rolling my eyes, well duh, of course its me. 

He then says:

"Oh, I just wanted to see if it was you or the hooker I ordered."

Omg, that man makes me laugh sooooooooo hard sometimes and when I least expect it. He has a deadpan humor that I can't beat.

Gas, sheepskins and the air show

I filled up the van last night. It was pretty empty, so I just closed my eyes and filled it up. Cross my heart, hope to die, this is where it clicked off, I did not inch gas in penny by penny, this is where it stopped all on its own:


Speaking of vans though, you know, you never really think about the height of your car when you drive a car because it doesn't matter. But when you drive a 9 foot 1 inch conversion van, it does matter. And makes me bonkers because so often there will be ample parking available ... in parking ramp that has a maximum height of 7 foot 10 inches. Or 8 feet 6 inches. Or anything less than 9 feet. In fact, 9 feet is the typical limit of most places that do have a height restriction such as parking ramps and drive-throughs. Most medical centers around here have parking ramps attached and so I typically have to drop Wheeler off, drive for 20 mins to find a street space 15 blocks away and try to parallel park our huge van on the left side of a one way street or something equally difficult.

But my biggest pet peeve is when you are not told that there is a height restriction until it is too late. Case in point: when I went to the airport to pick up our European guests, the only place to park on the airport grounds a shiny big new ramp. There are signs all along shunting you into it for 1/2 a mile beforehand. I kept looking though to see if what the height restriction was because I'd been there with my car before and knew it was relatively low. However, I kept following the signs to the parking and ultimately I was in position of no return. It was 2 lanes that were funneled off from the main road and there was no way to turn around if you, say, were in a vehicle that was too tall. I started to panic a bit and then I saw the bar hanging down with this sign "Height restriction: 9 feet". Great.

To make matters worse, my dad recently put on new shocks and so our 9 foot 1 inch van is even taller than usual because of that. But, I had no possible way to escape at that point, other than to drive the wrong way on a highway. I eased my way under hoping I'd make it ... and I made it. But I was steamed because what if I hadn't made it? There is nothing to warn you before it is too late to do anything about it. I was nervous when I drove into the actual ramp, but I had enough clearance there too.

Miss Swede, one of our European guests, and I spent 2 hours combing out the previously referenced peed-upon sheepskins. It takes a long, long, long time and alot of elbow grease to comb them. Left side is combed, right side not.


We went to the Langley Air Show a couple weekends back and it ROCKED. Offspring and I walked around, in, on every single plane and had a grand time. Wheeler, predictably, overheated and had to go to the emergency tent to cool down. Poor guy. I'm a plane junky, so I was in total heaven all day. 

The chicken club

About a week ago, Offspring told me that he had formed a chicken club. Here's how the conversation went.

Him: Hey mom - I opened a chicken club today.

Me: Oh?

Him: Me and Flavor of the Month Friend are in it.

Me: Oh.

Him: Fernette used to be in it, but I kicked her out.

Me: How come?

Him: I dunno.

(silence)

Me: Oh.

(longer silence)

Me: So what does one do in a chicken club?

(other than lay between two buns, hardeeharhar ...)

Him: We're just chickens.

Me: Ok.

(end of conversation)

In the meantime, it turns out that being in his chicken club means that one must:

• love chickens
• flap ones arms like a chicken when angry / frustrated / irritated / grouchy (this is surprisingly annoying when he does this)

Optional activities include:

• walking like a chicken (head poking back and forth)
• bawking like a chicken

Today I worked up my courage and asked today if I could be in the chicken club. He said no ... then reconsidered and said yes. He looked squinty eyed at me when granting me membership though, so I think I'm in the chicken club probationary period.

Man, I love having a 7 year old. It just don't get any better than dis.

Our cone

We have orange cones - or more properly, a single orange cone - in the back seat of the van that I use to block the parking space next to us when we are somewhere without an adequate h/c ramp space. That would be everywhere by the way. I've pretty much stopped using them because I had 3 and 2 were recently stolen. I think I wrote about it on here. Sometimes I feel like posting a big sign on the back of our van that says

PLEASE DO NOT PARK WITHIN 8 FEET OF THE PASSENGER SIDE OF THIS VERY SPIFFY GLAMOROUS CONVERSION VAN. IF YOU CHOOSE TO NOT HEED THIS 'SUGGESTION' AND DO PARK WITHIN 8 FEET OF THE PASSENGER SIDE OF THIS VAN, I WILL LOWER THE 1000 POUND CAPACITY LIFT ONTO YOUR CAR AND CRUSH IT. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.

But anyway. I don't much put out the cone anymore. However, Offspring has found a novel and highly useful way to utilize the cone. He speaks through it. It is worth noting first that it is a long long way from the back seat of the van to the driver's seat. It is also worth noting that the van is exceptionally noisy in the interior because it has lowered floors and the ramp (the aforementioned 1000 pound capacity lift) rattles like crazy when driving. Even when idiling. So I'm constantly yelling from the front seat 'WHAT DID YOU SAY?!??' to Offspring. A few months back, I was driving along and suddenly Offspring's voice was in my ear, clear as day, "Mom, could we stop at the toy store?" or whatever it was he said, although this is the most frequent sentence uttered while driving, followed closely by "Can we go to Chick Fil A?", the answer to which is no, I can't eat anything there and even when I could eat there, their chicken tastes really weird, its rumored to be marinaded in pickle juice, ewwwww. 

I looked in the rearview mirror and there was a giant orange cone where my boy used to sit. Its so big that it pretty much covers his whole body when he speaks through it. I can usually see his legs waggling out under it. After I nearly drove off the road choked with laughter, I was struck by the usefulness of this. So I merely answered him (loudly, as I don't have a cone) and ever since he pretty much speaks through the cone when we're in the van. Poor Wheeler is caught in the middle though and so he has to listen to Offspring's voice booming through the cone and often has to shout my responses to Offspring (as I don't have a cone). 

I have to admit though that he's been talking through the cone matter of factly for several months now but it still makes me laugh every single time he does it. I don't let him see me laugh because then it would rapidly deterioate from something useful to very, very annoying. 

Have you ever tried to call a movie theatre?

Well, good luck. 

For showtimes, press 1.For directions, press 2. For prices, press 3. For advance ticket sales, press 4. 

(silence)

Hnmmm. I want to talk to a real person. I need to know when Indiana Jones is showing in a big theatre instead of the crappy ones where we have to sit in the very front row. No option for 'talk to real person instead of annoying canned message'. 

Blogauthor pushes 0. 

Welcome to Carmike Cinemas! For showtimes, press 1. For directions, press ......

Argh. 

Blogauthors googles / switchboards / 411s / searchs high and low for another phone number .... ah-ha! Finds one. Dials. 

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring..... 

(insert 2 minutes of ringing here)

... Ring. Ring. Ring. 

Tries autobot line again, pushing *0, #, #0, 109 (hoping to get an extension maybe). Nope. Yell into phone hoping maybe it has voice recognition. Nope. Hang up, try again, maybe I missed something that first 6 times I tried. Nope. Regoogle, reswitchboard, re411, research. Nope.

I JUST WANNA KNOW WHEN INDIANA JONES IS PLAYING IN A NON-CRAPPY THEATRE! 

Is that really too much to ask?

My home is not broken

Maybe its because of Mother's Day, but in surfing my usual news sources online, I have read an inordinate number of articles about working mothers trying to balance career / family, about kids and discipline and any other number of family related topics. In nearly all of them, the term "broken home" is used. This is a universal term used for families with children with divorced parents. 

I am divorced (albeit married now). 

I am a parent. 

MY HOME WAS NOT BROKEN!

It's amazing how much this is upsetting me. I don't know if I've just never noticed this before, or if I'm hormonal or something, but I am really chagrined about this and feeling down. 

MY HOME IS NOT BROKEN!

Crushed and melted

We went to Chilis one day and saw this sign .... and he was absolutely adamant that cars in the to-go spots really would be crushed and melted. No matter how much I told him it was just a joke, he insisted it must be true because it was on a real sign:

Photos from my trip to New Zealand

Photos from New Zealand Part 1

I am going to New Zealand!!!!

One of my very good friends here is a Kiwi and her brother recently announced he is getting married on the 29th. She booked a ticket sans kids and husband then asked me to go along. After I finished laughing, I started thinking. Hmmmm. All of the obstacles I have were somehow surmountable. All of the planets, moons, stars and clouds somehow aligned to make this possible. Such as ... 

Wheeler has a SP catheter, meaning he doesn't need someone 24/7 with him. Our PCA is a student and is eager to stay here with him full time while I am gone to make some extra $$. So she is staying here the entire time I'm gone to take care of him. I got my passport back in time (... hehehe, my blog entry about that was during my 'just in case this completely crazy idea works out' stage). I have plenty of vacation time at work, I turfed off all of my work during my absence. Offspring will stay with his dad and Grandma. I'll be taking my wheeliegig, but I can walk short distances, so I will be able to get around pretty well. I notified the airline of my "mobility aid", it is approved and can be gate checked. I ordered a gluten free meal. A ticket was available on her exact route. And my fabulous husband is ok with me being gone during our anniversary. Of course, I will be bringing back a fabulous gift for my fabulous husband.

Normally all of the gods of coincidence and timing work against me; this entire blog is proof of that. But if I have massive streaks of bad luck, apparently the fates decided that I am owed some good luck. 

So .....

I am going to New Zealand a week from today.

With fabulous short red hair.

I am excited!!!!!!!!!

True or false?

True or false:

1. I am going to New Zealand a week from now.
2. I cut my hair into a short bob and dyed it very red
3. I am very excited.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhh, wow.

I knew just what to do

Offspring gets motion sickness. It started a few years ago when we took a cruise and the ship hit 11 foot waves the first night out to sea. It wasn't that big of a ship relatively speaking, so it was rockin' and rollin' pretty good. Or badly, depending on your perspective. I get ridiculously motion sick on airplanes, boats, and in anything I'm not driving, particularly at night. And for the last 6 months at least, Offspring has really suffered from car sickness virtually every time we go somewhere for more than just a 5 minute run to the store. 

He went to a 3-D type movie about a year ago and it made him feel sick, although he didn't actually throw up. Because of his increasing motion sickness, I didn't think it was such a swell idea for his dad to take him a few weeks ago to the new U2 imax movie where they even supply you with those weird paper glasses that make things jump out from the screen into your lap. They went anyway and so I said (mostly) jokingly "If you have to throw up, be sure you throw up on dad". He didn't throw up as it turned out. 

When he came home that night from the movie, I reminded him about how when he was a baby that I tried to get him to throw up on me because that way I could just change my clothes - and possibly wipe my eyes and rinse out my hair, depending on the velocity of the barf - rather than scrub the carpet and walls. He always finds that to be a funny story. 

Fast forward to Sunday. It was exceptionally windy and to land, they ended up having to circle 4 times and it was extremely turbulent the entire way from Detroit to here. During one of the circling landing attempts, Offspring barfed. As he was telling me this story upon his return home he said:

"And mom? When I felt like I had to barf, I knew just what to do. I barfed on Grandma".

Just when you think....

it can't get any worse, it does. 

I have been in a huge amount of pain for the last 5 days - my foot seemed to be getting better at first, but then a few days ago, I was walking on it - stupidly, without my boot and without crutches - and heard a pop. And felt it. Tried dealing with it but called my surgeon this AM and he squeezed me in today. I have a Jones fracture now, on top of the stress fracture (even though it happened acutely, its just what its called based on the placement of the break). So, big cast boot up to my knee, cannot cannot cannot take it off, crutches 100% of the time with zero weight bearing for a minimum of 4 weeks. MRI this week to see how damaged it is as xrays are a rough guide, especially as I clearly have tendon and ligament damage too. 

After 4 weeks, if it hstarts to heal, great, continued crutches and cast for several weeks and then heavy duty rehab. But the odds are only 50/50 that it will heal. "Non-union", or not healing at all, is very common - and probably higher odds in me because I am not a young strong athlete. Most of these injuries happen to young strong athletes. If it doesn't heal, then I'm under the knife for a pin, with real cast and no weight bearing for 6 more weeks, then limited with crutches for 4-8 weeks and several months of even more heavy duty rehab. 

I am numb. I don't even know where to start. I guess I do, I called some friends. It will all work out somehow, for what other choice is there after all?

File this under: If I didn't love you so much I'd murder you

Last night, as in Saturday, as I started to pick up my toothbrush to brush my teeth, Wheeler says

Is that blue one your toothbrush? 

Yes. 

Ummm. 

What? 

Well, emmm, uhhh, on Friday morning I had New-Butlerette clean out my razor with it, it was getting all gunked up with hair and shaving cream. 

At this point, my jaw dropped, my eyes got huge as the enormity of this statement began to settle in. As I began to decide upon whether to barf first then kill him, or kill him then barf, or maybe barf on himwhile I killed him, he said....

I meant to tell you yesterday but I forgot.

And you had her PUT IT BACK IN MY HOLDER???????

Under these circumstances, don't you think this would fall under either self defense, justifiable homicide, or something legal to kill him? Or at least break the other flippin' arm. If I made it to trial, jury nullifaction would save me. I mean honest to god, how completely utterly totally uber extraordinarily gross is that? Sometimes I think he broke his brain, not his neck.

As you might guess, the blue haze of profantiy is still hanging over our bedroom.

Not what I wanted to hear.....

It's broken. Midshaft 5th metatarsal fracture of the right foot.

I have no words. Only panic and tears.

I'm in a cast boot, crutches and go back in 2 weeks to see if its healing. Hmmmm, this sounds familiar. My doc knows me well and so he gave me a removable cast instead of a hard fiberglass one, which is what you'd normally do, because he knows that my life does not allow me to have a fiberglass cast. So I'm doing the best that I can. .....

A series of unfortunate events

We were out and about in the evening Friday and when Offspring opened the door to come in - I was still getting Wheeler off the ramp in the van - I heard him wail like his heart had been ripped out of his chest. I flew into the house to discover that Dogette had eaten one of his beloved, expensive, multi-hundred-piece, Lego Mars Mission contraptions. He started crying his eyes out, he was completely despondent. My heart broke into five million pieces, I picked him up while he hugged me hard and just cried. He is 7, he doesn't really cry like this hardly ever, not even when he falls down and hurts himself. He was SO upset. After that I noticed that not only had they eaten one of his lego sets, they ripped open a box containing a new lamp, chewed it to bits and drug it all over the house. Cardboard was everywhere. Offspring's backpack was in another room, they had pulled all of the jackets out of the basket, they munched tupperware bowls, and scratched the hell out of the inside of the front door. To say I was mad would be the understatement of the year. I snatched Dogette up and shoved her butt outside, I yelled at Dog for a long time, tied him to the stairs and then we tried to clean up. I had to get a broom from the garage, one of those huge ones, to sweep up all the stuff they had destroyed. I will never proclaim to have the magic of dog training again. The thing that was funny (it wasn't then but it is now) is that Offspring upon inspection of the mess said "WE ARE MOVING TO CALIFORNIA NOW!" I asked him why, and he said "So that Dogette and Dog can be trained by Cesar Milan! Mom, will you please call Cesar, please?!!!!". 

So that was Friday night. Saturday, the dishwasher crapped out. Again. Then we went to the Canes game and lost a game we should have easily won. We left a little early to avoid the traffic, but somehow we got stuck in traffic. Then Wheeler started backseat driving me, which he never does, so I don't what got stuck in his craw, but then started really pissing me off. He kept telling me what lane to be in when they were all sitting at a dead standstil. Then I wanted to listen to one station's post-game show and he wanted to listen to a call-in post-game show which consists entirely of variations of: "They fell apart in the third period. ... uhhh, I can't believe we blew a 2 goal lead". Well no shit sherlock! After about 30 mins, we made it out of the parking lot. 

Got home, I wanted to put Wheeler in bed. He wanted to play on the computer. I glared at him. He glared back. It was 10:30 and I was tired, and it takes a fair bit of time to get him out of the chair, undressed, cathed, positioned etc. So I wanted to do it then, not "in a few minutes", which for him on the computer translates to at least an hour and a half. He acquiesed, grumbling and looking grouchy. I put him in bed, discovered a whopping big pressure sore on his butt. Again. So I spent about 20 minutes debriding it, cleaning it, medicating it, and then it took alot more time to position him properly. It was about 11:45 when I finished it all up. That's when I found an enormous pile of dog diahhrea all over the living room floor (thank god, it was on the hardwoods). Just as soon as I finished cleaning it up, the cat barfed. 

This would be very funny if it were a slapstick comedy with Steve Martin - BUT IT IS NOT!!!

Woke up Sunday and had an argument over the cable box. Fast forward to today: it is defective, the TWC guy came out and its not working properly. Rewind to yesterday: it was my fault, I was not pushing the right buttons, I was doing it wrong obviously, just show it to me, do this, do that. NO I AM NOT WRONG, I DID IT RIGHT! Of note, I have several advanced degrees and more to the point, have operated a cable box just a few times in my life. But that was to no avail when trying to convince Wheeler. Simultaneously, my computer hung and I had to reboot several times. A minor nuisance in the grand scheme of things, but it served as kindling for my mood. Then around this time, Axel decided to not recognize the word "yes". I won't go through all of the shenanigans, but trust me when I say that this makes it impossible for Wheeler to do things with it. Case in point is that Wheeler could not retrain the word 'yes' because Axel asks you "do you want to retrain the word yes?". Wheeler would say "yes", Axel would say "Excuse me?", repeat this 5 times, then Axel says "Cancel, click, click, click". Argh! Then there is utterly no way to get anywhere. So my computer was farked up, Axel wasn't working, the cable box wasn't working and my blood pressure was through the roof. Decided to go with my parents for lunch to get out of the house. Came back and felt somewhat better.

Then we spent 1 hour and 11 minutes (not that I was counting) retraining Axel totally from scratch since it was so stupid, plus we needed to update it since we got a new TV. But Axel is from a decade ago at least, and so the functions are rudimentary at best. Trying to get it to work with a fancy new HDMI tv, a dysfunctional cable box, the stereo, the DVD, dish washer, electric fence, toilet and vacuum cleaner was challenging. I had hold the book up in front of Wheeler, then push various remote buttons while pointing at Axel, all the while hoping it would not cancel itself out after we got 6 sub-menus deep. 

Around 8 pm last night I realized the house cleaners were coming today and I had to clean up what was a horrific mess. That took until 10:30 pm. Then it was clean wound, cath, reposition, feed, medicate, give water to, time. I was wide awake until 2 am after that point. 

It was not a good weekend. Let's hope today is a wee bit better.

Yup, it is broken. Very, very broken.

Went to the orthopedic clinic today and confirmed that Wheeler does indeed have a broken arm, a very broken arm to be exact. And I don't have a broken arm. I know this because when he gets an x-ray, I get an x-ray. I have to hold him up! Actually, I wasn't on the film and got to wear a nifty lead vest, but it reminds me of when he is hospitalized ... he when is hospitalized, so am I. All those who deal with high level quadness know exactly what I mean. 

He has an oblique fracuture of the left humerus - it is a diagonal break, it is completely in two pieces and then just for fun, dislocated too. The treatment is just to wait for it to heal itself. They put him in a "functional brace", which is just a hard piece of plastic that protects the upper arm. The problem is that regular people can feel when the hard brace is pinching just a little wrong and can shift around. He can't feel it and so I'm terrified that his skin will pinch and cause a nasty pressure sore, which would truly be disastrous. 

I can't dress him because to dress him I have to roll him side to side to dress him, so I went and bought a bunch of sweat pants to slide - gently - onto him. I can't use our overhead lift to move him because of his arm, and so we have to do stand and pivot transfers, which is a fancy way of saying picking him up by brute force. Can't shower him, can't can't can't.... 

I'm sure this will seem more manageable in the morning, but I am truly getting overwhelmed. And panicky. Then I feel guilty on top of it all because he is the one with the broken arm for goodness sake. But it does affect me - alot - and I am trying to remember that its ok for me to feel overwhelmed too. Right? Something about being at the clinic, seeing the actual xray, hearing that it will take at least 8 weeks to heal under the best of circumstances (e.g. he wasn't a holey boned quad and had something crazy like, say, senasation) made it just all come crashing down on me. :(

And just to top it all off, the very expensive Lionel train that we bought for Offspring has a bad transformer. So I have to box it up, mail it back, etc etc. That just seems insurmountable. 

Things will seem better in the morning. 

Right? 

Sigh.