Terrible Horrible

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on May 29, 2016.

One of my favorite children’s books is Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. It’s about a little boy who has just has a rotten day from start to finish and declares he’s moving to Australia. This week I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day of my own.

Tuesday morning’s hair-fixing took me longer than usual. I recently cut my hair short and short hair is a fickle, fickle entity. The least little thing can anger it or at the very least be fuzzy and willful. I finally got it where I wanted it, hairsprayed it into submission, and decided I had time to water my freshly-planted garden before I headed out the door. I opened the front door to find three very happy dogs, one of whom was covered nose to tail in dirt. I ran – okay, haha, I don’t run – I walked briskly to the back yard to find every single mound where I had planted squash or zucchini had been happily dug into by Abby’s dog Jojo (who now lives with us). I stood there in the middle of all the disaster, my sparkly aqua flip flops sinking into the dirt, my fists clenched, fighting back tears. When Jojo came gleefully running toward me all I said was “JOJO. NO.” The words apparently had some serious power to them because she hit the ground and belly crawled all the way back to the front of the house. Finally I just decided to go ahead and cry while I replanted what seeds I could find, said a prayer over each mound, and went back in the house. Standing at the mirror to wash my hands I looked up and saw that my hair had become a fuzzy, wavy, unkempt mess and my makeup was streaky from the crying.

I text my coworker and told her I’d be late, fixed myself the best I could, decided I didn’t have time to pack a lunch and eating was overrated anyway. I flew out the door with Kady who was going to spend the day with me at work. The night before, I had left a bag behind at Walmart. When I realized it, I called and they said they had it and to come pick it up at my convenience. But by 8:45 the next morning they’d put it all back on the shelf. I did not have time to re-shop because for the life of me I couldn’t remember which boxers I had bought Paul the night before so I just asked for my money back. I had promised Kady a 99¢ morning Sonic drink and figured since I was apparently going to be skipping lunch, I deserved a breakfast burrito. Two bites in and I dropped a big hunk of cheesy, greasy sausage on my shirt. I just shrugged and laughed. I’d already cried enough.

The day got better when Mom called and said she wanted to buy me lunch, so bonus food! And even though I had to go to the salon where all the pretty people work that afternoon to pick up Kady with flat, weird hair and a burrito grease stain on my shirt there are much worse things in the world than looking unkempt and sloppy. I had the money to buy my husband’s boxers and the gum they put back on the shelf – and even a breakfast burrito. I have a house with a garden and a daughter who pulled weeds and visited with me while I planted, that same daughter who is currently incubating my beautiful granddaughter. I have a husband who watered my garden that morning because in all the hullaballoo I forgot to actually do that. I have a momma who buys me chicken strips when I have bad days. I have clothes, food, a Sonic nearby, and Jesus. My life isn’t so terrible horrible.

Bad days are going to happen. They are inevitable. They are also survivable. And just so you know, Sonic chicken strips usually help. 

For the Love of Hand Soap

So, I'm mad.

At the beginning of summer I finally ran out of a hefty supply of Bath and Body Works hand soap. I only buy it when it's on sale and I  refuse to buy without coupons. Over the years built up an amazing cache of soapy goodness. But alas, we eventually washed enough that we came close to running out.

I gathered my best coupon and while clutching it in my greedy - yet clean and fragranced - hand, I entered the store to have my olfactory senses attacked. I eventually settled on several bottles of Blue Skies and Blooms, Kady picked out something pear-y, I threw in some coconutty stuff so we could channel the Professor on Gilligan's Island, and made our way to check out. Then I saw the display for the New! American! Summer! Collection! Kady and I instantly fell in love with Driftwood Surf. It smells manly and woodsy and awesome. Her friend Miranda just washes her hands for no reason when she's here, it just smells that good.

And now.....we are on our last bottle. Kady looked last week and......it's gone. No mas. Adios, Driftwood. Sayonara, you manly hand soap, you. I can only find it on eBay. For $5+ a bottle.

 So if you see me on a street corner with a cardboard sign that says "Will work for Route 44's", before you drop some change in my empty Sonic cup, please ask to smell my hands. Because if I'm begging in a corner, it's because I couldn't resist the driftwood and had to pay such exorbitant prices on eBay I can no longer afford my Sonic-y goodness.








Wait.....maybe I should just beg for the hand soap.....

One to Another

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on December 21, 2014

Ephesians 4:32 says, “And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you.” (KJV) As I sit here at my computer on a very quiet Friday morning, I am pondering the very idea of kindness.

A few weekends ago I had a humiliating experience at an area Walmart. I won’t go into detail, but let’s suffice it to say that the person who was the humiliator went way beyond where he should have with what I’m sure he thought were clever quips and “jokes”. However, to a momma on a limited budget every day of the year, Christmas is just simply a very financially stressing time. My father was two days away from having part of a cancerous kidney removed and I was scheduled to go out of town to be with him – my stress level was already maxed and threatening to exceed its limits anyway. I left the store in tears while he grinned at his cleverness. Why couldn’t he have just been kind?

Just yesterday my mom, sister, and I spent the day trying to finish our Christmas shopping. The three of us hadn’t had a day out together in….well, I couldn’t tell you because it had been so long. In the 13 hours we were in Joplin we saw a menagerie of folks, from all walks of life, in just about every demeanor possible.

We had doors held open for us – and doors left to close as we struggled to get stroller, bags, and selves out of the drizzling rain quicker. A few folks saw we had dropped a bag or box and stooped to pick it up and hand it back with a smile. As I was holding a pile of bags back in an attempt to avoid an avalanche of plastic and purchases, my sister was trying to shove a gigantic parcel into back of the car. A box slid out and hit the ground with a thump. I made eye contact with an approaching woman and smiled. She looked down at the box that had fallen, looked up at us doing a comical disaster avoidance drill, looked away and walked on like we had suddenly become invisible.

Once as I was again trying to keep bags from sliding onto the wet pavement and Sis was trying to gather up the three carts that we had just emptied, a woman saw Sis heading toward the door with the carts, opened the door as little as possible to slip in, then let it close, never looking back. I saw the incredulous look on my sister’s face,  but before either of us could exclaim our amazement, a woman with a giant smile quickly ran to the door to hold it open and wish my sister a Merry Christmas.

I have thought of the quote by Ian Maclaren quite a lot lately. “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” How often do we get caught up in our own struggles and schedules, worries and whinings and forget that there are others that have it worse than we do?

I am glad I didn’t lay into the young kid behind the register at Walmart. First, two of my kids were watching my reaction. Second, he was as well. While I probably should’ve held back my tears and instead spoke kind words, at least I didn’t call him the names that were bouncing around in my head. 

As I sat fuming in the car on the way home that night Mr. Maclaren’s quote nudged me gently. What if that kid had just gotten his butt chewed by a supervisor? What is his dad has cancer as well? What if his dog had been run over just that morning? I don’t know what his battles were that day, but his need for kind words from me was greater than my need to call out his rudeness. He was fighting his own battles.

So, all that being said, have a Merry Christmas, Constant Reader – and be kind, one to another.

Clowning Around

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, October 12, 2014 (with a few bonus pictures!) 

Krusty the Clown from "The Simpsons"

I was 13 and had just been given the key to Pandora’s Box when my dad took me with him to the college library while he was doing some research for a paper. I sat cross-legged in the floor on the second story of the NEO library and read excerpts and passages of a seemingly endless supply of horror novels, creeping myself out, page by page. I had never had access to such a collection of “grownup” books and I was ecstatic. The book I settled on that night – my very first scary read – was “The Bachman Books”. It was a collection of Stephen King’s first stories when he was writing under the pen name Richard Bachman. And just like that, with those four short novels, I was hooked. Between my scary book obsession and my best friend and I watching low-budget horror films (rented from Showtime Video – anyone remember that place?) virtually every weekend of our adolescence, I developed a bit of a fascination with the horror genre. I love to be scared.

Pennywise. Eek!

I have read virtually every Stephen King book ever published – most of them more than once. I got Mr. King’s book “It” in all of its 1,138-page hardcover glory when I was 14 and began reading it as the family took off for a Branson vacation. I can’t tell you much about our trip to the Country Music Capital of the World that go ’round, but I can probably tell you anything you would want to know about Derry, Maine, where the story took place. I read it so feverishly and incessantly that I ended up carsick on those Ozark Mountain backroad hills. I was also reading it late one night (when I was supposed to be sleeping) by the light of a flashlight while covered up in a blanket. My mom came in to put up some laundry not having a clue that her opening my bedroom door would shave about 47 years off my life. As she stepped into my room, all she saw was a flashlight, a giant book, a blanket, and her daughter shoot straight up into the air followed by a round of nightmarish screams. When I realized she wasn’t Pennywise the clown coming to drag me into the sewers to kill me and she recovered from the heart attack I had just given her, we both busted out laughing.

I have a short list of phobias: water, spiders, heights, sewer grates, and clowns. The last two items on that list are directly because of the aforementioned book. It is the most haunting of Mr. King’s novels in my opinion and has stuck with me well into adulthood. Now, this might seem a bit oxymoronic – the girl who loves to be scared is phobic and terrified of something, but call it what you will. All I know is: clowns really freak me out. Really. Spiders freak me out, too, but after having been bitten by a black widow, I think anyone would be slightly scared of them. But clowns…..man. *shiver* Ronald McDonald is one scary dude in my opinion.

*shiver*

There are different schools of thought regarding phobias. Some say immersion therapy is the most effective way to overcome a phobia or fear. Immersion therapy simply baby-steps a person into different levels of contact/experience with a particular phobia until they have overcome their fear. I’m not 100% convinced. Although I guess I shouldn’t scoff at something that is regarded amongst the psychiatric community as successful.

I guess if there’s a doctor out there willing to set up a scenario regarding a clown who jumps off of a skyscraper into a body of deep water where he water skis on a sewer grate to a pit of spiders, I’d be open to watching that and see where things go from there.

 Twisty the Clown
from "American Horror Story: Freakshow"
Dude is seriously messed up. 

On second thought….nah. I’m okay avoiding clowns for the rest of my life. I’m not a big fan of McDonald’s food anyway.   

Well. That's a Problem.

From The Miami News-Record, July 6, 2014

Growing up we lived in a house in the country with rural water, so when the electricity went out and all our neighbors on wells were without water we were still drinkin’ water and flushin’ toilets with wild abandon.  Paul and I lived in town for 5 years on city water then moved to our Hudson Creek house which was again on rural water. There was only a short 10 month period as newlyweds that we had a well. It took a section of pipe with a hole in it to throw us into a waterless two day span marking what this spoiled girl thought was the seventh level of Hell. Fast forward to one day last week at our Wyandotte house when the kids and I were happily washing dinner dishes and the water just kind of fizzled out then …. stopped. I turned the water off and turned it back on, as if that magical routine would fix the problem. It didn’t. So then I did what I always do when something goes wrong: hollered for my husband.

He called the brother that lives closest. They both crawled under the house, scratched their heads a few times, then they called the other brother. Then they called a neighbor. Well, called the neighbor after Paul came in and asked if we had any money. I said we did, but not to get all high-falootin’ with that notion. He nodded and rushed back outside. Not long after that it was declared that some wires or something or ‘nother was shorted or burned or cut or possibly sabotaged by garden gnomes, heck I don’t know. Regardless of the actual problem, there was a bigger problem: by this point, all of us girls had to pee. The boys take advantage of Nature’s Toilet quite frequently out here, but we girls are a bit more delicate. Actually, I used to be quite adept at the ol’ pop-a-squat, but age and short chubby legs make it a bit more challenging these days. I mean, if I want to do yoga, I’ll ju—oh, who am I kidding, I’m never going to want to do yoga. Anyway, my girls just screeched at the thought of going outside even though their daddy told them to just get over it and go. I was going to, until I got out there, got myself all limbered up and then the coyotes that I’m pretty sure were attracted to the whites of my thighs started in with the howling and I vapor locked.

It is in times like these that I am glad I am a worrier with doomsday prepper tendencies because, see, I’ve been hoarding water in jugs since we moved out here. We moved in the middle of the winter to the top of a hill where the power lines run through the jungles of Wyandotte. The threat of ice storms periodically through the winter had me planning ahead for power outages. I’d nearly tackle a family member heading for the trash with a milk jug or juice bottle. Those were the precious receptacles of flush-water, I told them. They scoffed. I stood firm in my hoarding. When no ice storms came, I told them to just wait until the spring storm season. And even that has been mild. So turns out, I was just preparing for a shorted something or ‘nother in our well pump.

Because the well guy obviously had a life outside of coming to fix our well at 9pm, we were left with no choice but to employ the motto “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down,” further into the next day than any of us wanted. To be honest, you just don’t realize how pampered you really are until you are forced to piggy back your – ahem –efforts with family members and flush your toilet with hoarded water. We are definitely spoiled and incredibly fortunate, but more than anything, glad that’s over. 

And Then .... I Broke My Butt

Before I get to the part about my broken hindquarters, first I have to backtrack a bit.

Last summer, midst a flurry of church camp and VBS, an ever-growing and demanding youth group, three kids of my own, and a new school year bearing down on me I was bitten by a spider. A very. nasty. spider.

I woke up on a Sunday morning in July to an itchy spot on my hip. I had worn pajama pants to bed, so I figured it was a particularly ravenous mosquito who had bitten through the fabric. I commented about how bad it itched while I was getting ready for church, put some cream (or ointment or whatever) on it and went on to church. By the time we headed back to church that night for our YouthVBS program, the bite was as big as the diameter of a baseball and oh golly, how it itched. I took a Benadryl before I went to bed and marveled at how I had reacted to the silly thing.

Some time during the night I woke up drenched in sweat and aching all over. I had a house full of kids and I'm not exaggerating on that in the least. I had my three kids, my friend Kasey's three kids, plus her sister's two kids who were in from Tennessee. Kasey is a twin and her sister comes home once a year - I took the kids so they could hang out, so imagine how bad I felt when I had to call her at 8am and tell her I was sick as a dog and Paul was bringing all the kids home ASAP. I called the indian clinic, managed to get the very last same-day appointment with a nurse practitioner (with whom I was about to become very well acquainted with over the next few months). The bite was ugly looking, I felt like I'd been run over, I had a fever, I was nauseous -- needless to say: I was sick.

Abby had been bitten by a brown recluse a few years prior and considering we killed one of the nasty things about every other day somewhere in the old house, I assumed the offending spider was a recluse. The symptoms were the same, the bite looked the same, etc. The NP told me to expect it to form the traditional black spot as my flesh began to *gag* rot at the site of the bite, gave me two shots of steroids in the rear end, oral antibiotics, a prescription for Benadryl, said to drink water until my eyeballs floated and to stay down until I felt better. Two days later I woke up to find myself covered from the top of the head to the tops of my legs in a rash that made me look like I'd been dragged across the carpet for eight or nine hours nonstop. A call to the clinic then put me on oral steroids, more strict bed rest, and so much Benadryl I was *this close* to drooling. In fact, I may have actually drooled. More than once.

The following Sunday after the bite, after seven days of misery and pain, I sent Paul, Kady, and Sam off to church for the evening service while the Abby stayed home with me. I had been feeling funny, just slightly... off.... all day. Then my left arm, hand and fingers, the toes on my left foot and my face went numb. Well, my face was numb, but tingling. It was weeeeeiiiiiirrrrrdd. I called the indian hospital in Claremore, asked if someone could give me some advice before I drove the hour to the hospital for what might be nothing. They said they really weren't allowed to give advice over the phone, but asked what was going on anyway. When I described what was going on, I was patched through to a nurse who said, "Get here. NOW." I explained that I was an hour from the hospital and she said, "Then leave NOW. And get here." Abby flew to the church to get Paul and I called my mom to have her come get the kids and off we went. I had a little emotional meltdown in the car on the way because, as someone with OCD, I tend to imagine the absolute worst in any situation and imagine it often.

They drew blood (took five sticks, ow), examined the bite, called an internist and the final diagnosis was extremely elevated white count, systemic poisoning, definitely not a brown recluse, probably a black widow, the numbness/tingling was my body reacting to the poison, follow up with my primary in three days for a repeat white count. It took six weeks for my white count to return to normal. I was put on Neurontin for the pain that affected only the left side of my body and told that the nerve pain could come and go for as long as three years. She said stress would cause flare ups and also said to be very cautious during flu season because my immune system was pretty well shot.

Yeah.

By October I no longer needed the Neurontin with any regularity. I had a flare-up during the holidays due to stress, plus the remodeling of the new house, plus moving stuff, plus youth group stuff, plus a generally hectic schedule, but I was better.

Then in February I noticed this weird tingling sensation in my lower back on the left side. I immediately assumed it was a nerve flare-up and started back on the medicine. It didn't help. It would itch and burn and tingle, but when I would scratch, I couldn't actually feel it on my skin. When I was picking up a refill at the pharmacy I mentioned offhandedly that I was getting no relief and he got a verbal order from the NP to up my dose. Tripled it actually. Enter my new absent memory and a general foggy feeling in my head for about an hour, three times a day. But itching/burning didn't get immediately better.

It was Shingles.

Yeah.

Actually the whole shingles experience wasn't as bad as I've always heard. It was uncomfortable and I really don't want to do it again, but I never developed the blisters, so there was my little bit of mercy in the whole mess. I really only had two days where I hurt, but I survived.

So now it's April. I had my yearly well-woman exam, my mammogram, and my six-month follow-up for labs and general checkup all in a week's time. Turns out I do not have breast cancer (always a plus), but I'm anemic, my cholesterol is elevated, but my liver and kidneys are doing a good job at whatever their appointed tasks are. My lower left back is still numb/itchy/tingly and she said I may never regain sensation there. Dadgum stupid varicella.

I also mentioned the intense pain in my tailbone. Since last fall I have had a very hard time sitting. Actually the sitting isn't as painful as standing after sitting. My lower back hurts nearly constantly and did I mention my tailbone hurts? Well, it does. She got on to me for wearing crappy shoes, told me to wear good supportive shoes and an orthotic insert and said she wanted to do an x-ray of my lower back and pelvis just for good measure.

The next morning, bright and early, her nurse called to tell me that I was a congenital deformity in my lower back, to wear supportive shoes, and they had mailed me a handout to explain it all. Good-bye and good day.

Say whaaaa? I needed a bit more than that. So I spent the next 24 hours freaking the heck out.

So today I got the handout.

I have lumbar spondylosis. Actually, the spondylosis is no big thang really. Yes, it's degenerative and it's just one more glaring slap in the face that screams, "YOU ARE POSITIVELY ANCIENT, YOU OLD BAT." So that's nice. But it's actually pretty common. The handout they sent says that 80% of people over the age of 40 have it and it, in and of itself, has no real symptoms. It is typically found when they are looking for something else.

And for me, that something else is a pars defect. Yeah. It just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? Pars defect. Say it like you mean it. Beautiful.

Anyway, this is the congenital deformity the nurse mentioned. And I have spent the last five hours Googling it relentlessly. And here are my findings:

My back is broken.

Like, seriously.

It is a break in between vertebrae and is typically found in athletes. HA. Like, I am so not an athlete. Mine is the L4 and L5 vertebrae, as is fairly common. Pretty much it can be a congenital birth defect or it can be from repeated hyper-extension. And since I have yet to be hired by Cirque de Soleil, I'm pretty sure it's a birth defect. Or from playing the bass drum in the marching band. Either way, I'm not supposed to have any high-impact manipulations at the chiropractor. I'm pretty sure this will keep my professional tap dancing career at bay. And also, if this keeps me off of roller coasters I am going to be so. pissed.

Because I have no one to blame, I am going to blame the spider. Pretty much everything bad that happens in my life these past nine months has been blamed on the spider bite - solar flares, my computer's motherboard dying a painful, messy death, the national debt, that time I smeared my toenail polish, and the fact that McRib isn't really pork, but instead gelatinous globs of pork-flavored pasted pressed into a patty thus rendering me physically incapable of eating the one sandwich that made me happy before I started eating cleaner. Yep, all of it. Blaming it on the spider.

Buy Sell and Trade for a New 'Tude, Please

Okay, I have HAD IT with the Buy Sell Trade sites on Facebook. I don't buy, sell or trade on them, but my kids do and I'm fed up. That being said...

Dear Buy Sell Trade-ers of the Universe,

If you are a habitually early person you cannot - simply CANNOT - start your waiting countdown *before* the appointed time to meet. If you are to meet at 6 and you show up at 5:45 and then your meet person shows up at 6:02 and you are LONG GONE, you cannot post a nasty comment that you "waited 15 minutes". It's rude. Politeness would say that by 6:15 you can say you have waited that 15. And then when someone comes on to defend themselves, don't be ugly about it. Calling them an out-and-out liar isn't nice nor is using poor grammar and punctuation to start a written word war in the comment section. What did Bambi's mom say about saying nice things or shutting your mouth? Oh and hey, listen to this one please? When u uze splng lik dis to komyunikate w ppl i jus wana throw a lamp @ ur head. I will only overlook that so long before I will take a red grading pen to your every post and laugh manically while I do it.

If your TV/Playstation/Cell Phone/Analog Corded Wall Telephone from 1986/ Automatic Ear Wax Remover truly doesn't work, DON'T POST IN YOUR AD THAT IT DOES AND THAT YOU "JUST CHECKED IT, I PROMISE". One of these days, some teenager who scrimped and saved and worked her tail end off to earn $60 for a PS3 to whom you sold a "working" electronic gaming system, will not have a mother with a personality like mine nor is involved in youth ministry and is married to a deacon, and that mother is going to pour the whoop-up on you. Jesus saved you on that one, big fella. Because it is only the ministry and God in Heaven that has kept me from cussing you six ways to Tuesday and fashioning a voodoo doll in your image. We turned it into a life lesson, but man, that one stung. We now carrying various cords and chargers with us in the van whenever we go to pick  up items and we WILL check your "working" device to make sure you aren't a lying lie face. Yes, I know, I should refer back to the Bambi's mom statement in the previous paragraph.

Post pictures of your items. We don't all have amazingly vivid imaginations that will allow us to decide if your formula-stained baby clothes are truly worth our time and money. If you can't post pictures, don't sell them. Take them to the Goodwill or a resale shop where they can visually see those formula stains up front. You wonder why you can't sell your items? POST PICTURES.

No, I won't pick up or drop off items at your house. Don't ask again. It's creepy and every time someone suggests it, I write down your name and theirs so that if they go missing in the next week or so I can call the police department and inform them that you have likely just made a lampshade and curtains out of their skin as well as their old baby clothes.

Most of us don't sit at the ready to serve your needs. If you want to buy my used copy of Madagascar 3, you kind of have to be a tad flexible with meeting times. Most of us actually want to sell our things to you, we just don't like being made to feel like your dancing monkey who is only there to do your bidding. Snarky comments and tagging admins is way not cool. You work during the day, we school during the day. Yeah, the principal at our school is probably slightly more flexible than your boss, but we can still make this work as long as you don't fly off the handle and go all yell-y and typing IN ALL CAPS and tagging admins right and left.

And speaking of admins, if you are an admin drunk on the power of your position and you decide to kick a 14 year old off of your site (who was actually a member of the site before you imposed age limits), please also kick off the 4,287 other "underage" children selling, buying and trading as well. If you'd like, as a complimentary service to you, I will gladly compile a list for you of all the 8, 11 and 13 year olds you seem to "overlook". Don't make an example out of my teenager because someone stood him up and then threw a hissy fit and got all nasty and stuff. Okay, so he might've stayed under the radar if I hadn't mentioned my son's age when I took it upon myself to comment back to the "non-truther" (see, I didn't call her a liar) who had already sold a jank TV to my son six months ago then was a no-show on a video game sale, then tagged you because we weren't "being fair" to you and accommodating your heavy work schedule. Yeah, there's that. But still, that $20 TV we bought from her and then had to haul off ourselves after we discovered it didn't work is still kind of sitting there in my mind, nudging me with a pencil every now and then. Essentially, she got us to pay her to be her haul-off service. You're quite the entrepreneur, aren't you now, cupcake? *slow claps*

People, I loathe garage sales and these sites are allowing my children to sell their crap without me having to get up at 4am to set up tables and drink inordinate amounts of coffee while die-hard garage sale-ers haggle with me over my .25 mis-matched Tupperware containers, half colored-in color books, VHS tapes of the Lonesome Dove mini-series and Barbies with matted hair. But somehow, the lying and the hateful attitudes and snarky comments and outright tattling is starting to make me wanna brew a pot of coffee or seven and get out the price tags and tables.

Play nice. Be nice. Buy my kids' junk and don't call my kids liars. I have access to Google maps. I can find your house. I know how to fork yards and can throw a roll of TP pretty far.

Thank you and have a lovely day,

The Redneck Diva

A Scary Week

Sunday after church we came home to eat a bite of lunch then drove into town to an auction Mom was working. The kids wanted to go to Joplin to shop, but thank God Paul and I both felt that with the weather being iffy and storms forecasted to move in that evening we decided not to. We are totally big chickens when it comes to weather and don't stray too far from the 'fraidy hole when we know it's likely to get bad. We didn't even go to church that night, however Mom and Dad did. I called her while they were driving toward the church (which is about 2.5 miles from our house) and said, "Keep your phone on silent if you need to, but keep it where you can see it go off. I will text you if we go under any warnings. It takes less than five minutes to get here, so be ready." She assured me she would, but seeing as how she thinks I'm a nervous Nelly with weather I figured she wouldn't heed my warnings.

Paul and I had the kids pack their 'nader bags and put them underground, then we settled in to watch the storms roll in. We were watching the local NBC affiliate when the tornado warning for Joplin was issued and were also watching the tower cam when the tornado appeared on the screen seemingly unbeknownst to even the newscasters on the air live. They were showing graphics of tornado safety tips and the radar, but when they popped it over to the tower cam even they were feeling the same shock and awe we were as we saw a HUGE tornado hitting the city of Joplin. We could see the flashes as it took out power poles. We all five sat in horror and watched it slowly destroy everything in its path. I happened to be on the phone with Sis, who lives in Yukon, OK, and I kept saying, "You don't understand! It's happening RIGHT NOW! Even Jeremiah Cook and Caitlin McCardle didn't know it was there and THEY'RE THE METEOROLOGISTS!" She hung up with me to call her ex because he was on his way back here to Miami with my niece and nephew at the time. They weren't in danger, but she wanted him to be aware of what was going on.

Our NOAA radio was about to wear itself out it was going off over and over with various t-storm watches and warnings, followed by tornado warnings right and left. I text Mom and told her it was getting bad and we were going to the cellar. I was on Facebook and saw where someone said there was a tornado on the ground in Fairland. We are about five miles north of Fairland. That was when I called Mom. In church. She answered in a whisper and I said, "WHERE ARE YOU?" She said, "Hudson Creek. At church. Why?" I said, "Mom, I just heard there is a tornado on the ground in Fairland. Y'all need to take cover NOW."  Mom interrupted the preacher and told him. He said, "Oh. Okay, well, we should probably stop what we're doing then." About that time a first responder's radio went off and he ran out the door. He came back in moments later and said the tornado was in Ketchum, not Fairland, so the threat was somewhat less, but still imminent. They prayed and dismissed. Mom and Dad came here right after we came up from the cellar. We went in the house and watched in horror as the first pictures from Joplin started coming in.

Mike Bettes, with the Weather Channel, has been doing his Great Tornado Hunt this past week and drove into Joplin on the heels of the devastating twister. When a seasoned, veteran meterologist is rendered speechless and cries shamelessly on camera surveying the devastation and horror you know it's bad. We sat and cried as we saw the town we knew so well was now completely unrecognizeable. The surreality of it was stunning.

Monday we woke up to rain and the rain wouldn't stop. It rained so hard our main pond here at the ranch overflowed its banks and then some. Our driveway washed out to where I wasn't sure my van wouldn't get lost in it. Sam was supposed to go to basketball camp that morning, but his coach called me to see what I thought and also reassured me that they would take the kids to the safe room at the slightest hint of anything severe. It eased my mind and I decided to go ahead and take him. Then about 30 minutes later as I'm running my three kids and Conner to the cellar because there is rotation over my house, I text Coach and said we wouldn't be there. He already had kids in the safe room. By noon, the severe threat was over, however the rain just kept coming. I decided to go ahead and send Kady to the afternoon girls session of basketball camp and Sam stayed with her. At 12:30 the water was over our dirt road, but still passable. By 2:30 when Abby, Conner and I left the house to pick them up it was so high it was up the bottoms of the van doors. I called Paul and said, "You should probably come home as soon as you can. We're going to be flooded in soon." I turned out onto the highway and made it nearly a mile to the low water bridge and watched a car stall out trying to go through. I turned around and made a frantic call to my mother: "MY KIDS ARE IN FAIRLAND AND I CANNOT GET TO THEM!!" She tried to direct me down other dirt roads, but my van sits so low I didn't dare chance anything. I called Chad, Conner's daddy, and asked if he could get to the kids. He said he could and that he thought he could get through the low water bridge, too, seeing as how he drives a big ol' Dodge. Paul called to say he was in his Thunderbird and could I call Chad to see if he could wait for him, too? Poor Chad ran a taxi service that day, ferrying wandering Hoovers home. The Highway Department closed the low water bridge just as they got there and after an hour and a half of driving around trying to find passable roads, they made it here.

Miami canceled school the following day because of the widespread flooding and threat of severe weather the following day (Tuesday). By morning we were completely flooded in, so Courtney couldn't have made it anyway. Paul couldn't get out to go to work. By noon the rain had stopped, allowing the water to recede enough that we could get back into Fairland to pick up Paul's car, so we took Kady to afternoon ball camp and Paul spent the afternoon repairing our poor driveway while Abby, Sam and I put as much valuable stuff as we could fit into the cellar. We've made many a run to the ol' 'fraidy hole, but this past Tuesday was the first day I put baby pictures, the deed to the house and other important documents down there. I went to Paul and said, "The box isn't that big and if you think there is room, can you help me put the box of the kids' baby pictures in the cellar?" He got a mischievous grin on his face and started to make a joke. Then I busted into tears and said, "Paul, I'm scared. Please don't." He grabbed my hand and said, "Baby, go get the box. We'll get those pictures underground." We were completely and fully prepared to be blown away. The anticipation was horrible and I clenched my jaw so hard all day I was pretty sure my teeth were in danger of breaking. After picking Kady up from camp we just sat and waited, flipping the TV back and forth between local channels and TWC.

They closed the Canadian County courthouse early, which is where Tater works. She and her husband work in El Reno and live in Yukon and had planned to ride out the storm in their guest bathroom, but as they saw it making a path for El Reno they decided to head into the City where they rode out the storms in an underground parking garage. El Reno was hit and five were killed.

Back in the old days you ran for cover from the tornado when you saw it lifting off the neighbor's cows and silo, today we are given 24 hours warning, which is by all means a good thing, but still nerve-wracking. We went down into the cellar twice that night. Fortunately the storms didn't hit here like they did around us. Welch got some wicked winds, Grove had some tornados over the lake, but we managed to get by with some minor rain, moderate winds and not even a single hail stone. Praise God!

Today Paul is in Joplin helping some of his family's family empty what's left of their elderly uncle's house. The man is 97 years old and the house is demolished. The things left inside have been subject to theft the past few days. They are working furiously to empty what they can to keep the heartless looters away. I don't understand how people can be so low and I try to focus on the good I've seen coming to Joplin rather than the scammers and looters and heartless evildoers who plan to picket the town for their "wickedness" that caused the tornado. I try to think about the Tide Loads of Hope truck, the Duracell truck, the fact that Sam's Club is allowing anyone to shop there without membership, about the $1 million each that Home Depot, Walmart and Tamko Industries has donated to the cause, the KC Chiefs players who are clearing yards, the little girl in Texas who is sending her own personal belongings to Joplin, the doctors, nurses, firefighters, police officers and volunteers who are working tirelessly.

I pray and praise God in the midst of it all. I am very detached from it really, and everyone says seeing it in person is so much worse than what you see on TV and the internet. I hug my kids a little tighter. I am thankful. I am sad. I am proud. I am hopeful.

Stoner (Part 2)

I made it to the hospital that Thursday morning by about 5 after 7, kissed my swollen and puffy husband's face then settled in with my iPod to partake of free WiFi while we waited for the Surgery nurses, also known to kidney stone patients as Angels of Mercy. Paul told me he had had a bad two hours during the night when the stone was trying to move again and he maxed out on pain meds and commenced to doing the Funky Chicken all over the room. His nighttime nurse was a Godsend and he said he's forever grateful to her. It must've been bad.

It was after 8 when the two gals from surgery came up, got his IV unhooked from the pump, put his cute little bootie socks on his feet and it was just as she pushed the Versed in his veins to make him a little groggy before they took him downstairs they realized he still had his Bermuda shorts on under his gown. (Dude is a little bit modest and said he didn't like his "junk" out there all flappin' in the breeze, so he wore his underwears and Bermudas under his gown. He is just precious.) The girls kind of giggled and said, "We'll step behind the curtain so you can slip everything off." I stepped over to the side of the bed to hold his IV line out of the way and quickly realized my husband was absolutely 100% drunk out of his ever-lovin' MIND already. We're talkin' like two minutes. I gently moved his hands from the zipper where he was trying to repeatedly unzip his already unzipped shorts and kept saying, "Come on, honey. Help me out here." I heard giggling from behind the curtain. I was not amused. Okay, I was kind of amused. I said, "Uhm....girls.....he's plumb goofy, could I get some help?" Just more giggles. So finally after several more minutes of me trying to get him to lift his rump I managed to get the Bermudas off him. I left the underwear for the team of professionals downstairs. I figured they were getting paid the big bucks, let them lift his rump from that point on.

I kissed his forehead and gathered my things from around the room and went down to the surgery waiting room. I checked what was going on around Facebook, glimpsed quickly at Twitter, but it was reading Testify Blog that soothed me and passed the time for me without nerves. About 30 minutes after they took him I saw Dr. Stout come around the corner. He sat down next to me and bluntly said, "I couldn't get it." I love this guy. Most of the time when you see him he looks like Paul Bunyan, usually with a full beard and a lot of hair (on his head and all over his body) and sometimes he wears flannel. In the office. He played the oldest brother, Ruben, in the local little theater's production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat a few weeks ago. He's just an all-around neat guy. So there he was in his surgery scrubs, sitting in the chair next to me like we were old friends catching up, all relaxed and laid back, explaining that the stone was too high, as he had thought it might be, while I sat on the edge of my seat in horror that this ordeal was not over yet. He also said that the kidney they thought was fine and not blocked, was indeed blocked and when he placed the stent....well, I shan't describe it here as he described it to me. Suffice it to say....YUCK and EWWWW. Then he reminded me that he was leaving the following afternoon for Boston and wasn't going to be in town until early the next week. Oh the tears that wanted to spill at that moment.

He said, "I can send him home with that stent in place and we can schedule a lithotripsy (where they bust up the stone with sound waves) for when I get back if that's okay with you." Well, I had no choice, huh? I nodded dumbly and looked at my hands, feeling helpless and worried and knowing that Paul was not going to do well in that scenario. Dr. Stout patted me on the leg and told me I could go on upstairs and wait for Paul there. As I gathered my things, I glanced down at my iPod where the post on Testify I had been reading had quoted the old hymn I recall Tennessee Earnie Ford singing when I was kid, "It Is Well With My Soul". I blinked back the tears, took a deep breath and as I walked the long hallway toward the elevators I prayed. God, you are in control of this. You are the Great Physician and I can't worry any more. You have this. I know it. Paul is in the palm of Your hand and You are in control. It truly is well with my soul.

And I made it to that empty hospital room with a renewed spirit and no worry. And moments after I sat down in that hard-backed chair to await my Prince Charming the room phone rang. The nurse aide came screeching into my room hollering, "ANSWER THAT! ANSWER THAT! IT'S DR. STOUT!" I said hello with trepidition - had something happened to Paul in those few short moments between then and now? I pushed the thought away and listened as Dr. Stout told me he had called Oklahoma City, pleaded the case, arranged for them to send the mobile lithotripsy unit up the following morning and the procedure was scheduled for 8am. There would be no waiting the weekend, no dismissal to home with the stone still there, no having to wonder if another urologist was available in Dr. Stout's absence.

Talk about God's favor!

I took Paul a long time to come around what with him being a sedation lightweight and all and as he had when he had his EGD procedure back in March, he had some temporary amnesia and asked me questions over and over and over. It's cute at first. It gets less cute after you answer the same question for the 27th time. He was groggy and nauseated, in a lot of pain and just generally grumpy when it finally hit him that the stone had not been rolled away, so to speak. He refused to eat that day. He was depressed. Peeing was excruciating for him. Watching him under all of it was excruciating for me. He had a lot of pain medication in him. He was intensely nauseated. They were pumping the IV fluids in him like crazy and there was very little output. He swelled up like a poisoned pup.

I went home that afternoon to get the kids off the bus, let them re-pack their bags for another school night sleepover at Gram's and said I'd take them to Sonic after going to see Daddy. Abby caught me off to the side as soon as we walked in the hospital room and said, "Why does  Daddy look like that? Why is his face so FAT?" That had to be startling and I assured her he was fine, just retaining a lot of fluids, like PMS on steroids. She giggled. They visited with him for awhile, then hunger got the best of them. After kisses good-bye we headed to Sonic. As I puilled in my father called and said the storms headed our way looked bad, to get the kids to shelter and forget Sonic. Yeah.....no. They needed food and Sonic is fast and close to Mom's. We made it to Mom's, flipped on the TV, watching the radar show the storm go around us. Mom and Dad were eating dinner and with the weather iffy I decided not the leave the kids alone. I took that time to put my feet up since they were swollen from sitting in that dang hard backed chair for two days.

Dad dropped Mom off at the house and headed up to see Paul and take him some magazines. I loved on my babies awhile longer, visited with Mom and then headed to the hospital myself. He was in the shower when I got there and seemed to be feeling better, probably knowing the end was near and he was 12 mere hours away from relief. I went home again that night to sleep alone, no Little Joe to protect me from the big, bad coyotes and panthers and bobcats out here in the woods, but I was so exhausted Fitty could've waltzed in and hacked me to bits without me ever knowing.

I was back to the hospital by 7 the next morning, things were very delayed and x-ray didn't come get him until after 8. They had no sooner gotten him in the elevator the anesthesiologist walked in. He looked around with a confused look on his face and said, "Uhm.....your husband? He would be.......where?" When I said x-ray had just taken him he said, "Come on, we'll go catch him" and whisked me off to the surgery elevator. We missed him by moments and waited patiently outside the x-ray room door. The anesthesiologist also laughed when he said he was only giving Paul a half dose of Versed this time since he was hit pretty hard by the full dose the day before. I rolled my eyes and said, "Don't I know. You ought to have been the one trying to take off his shorts while the surgery nurses laughed at you behind a curtain! That's blog material for sure!" He laughed then assured me he would take good care of him and headed for the OR. I got to kiss Paul's face before the other surgery guy (far less giggling from him) whisked him away, I met Dad in the hallway and we waited together this time. The hour and 15 minute wait was made far easier with him being there.

Finally Dr. Stout made his grand appearance with specimen cup in hand. He showed us a stone fragment that had already passed when the stent had been removed. It was about the width of an unsharpened pencil lead. Ow. He said he had also managed to bust up some of the stones that were in the proper position in the left kidney, thus hopefully eliminating a few episodes in the future. I thanked him for all his string-pulling, mad stone removal skillz and wished him safe travels on his road trip to Boston.

And thanked God the ordeal was over. And praised him for his goodness and mercy and healing.

Paul was awake, alert and HUNGRY when he got back to the room this time. The nurse aide brought him a sandwich because it was still and hour and a half until lunch trays would be there. He ate and acted more like himself than he had in four days. And he ate part of the lunch on his tray when it got there. He put on his Sooner pajama pants and OSU hat - he is an enigma, that man - and said he was ready to go HOME.

By 2pm we were heading home with three prescriptions for antibiotics, pain and nausea meds. Our kids were insanely happy we were both there when they got off the bus that time. We were, too.

____________________________

Fast forward to yesterday, one week after dismissal: Paul passsed SIX stones/fragments yesterday. They were all about the size of a match head. He never even knew he'd passed them until he saw them in the urinal. Talk about God's favor again. I can't fathom trying to pass something that size.

Sweet tea has not touched his lips since and he says it never will again. I doubt that. I mean, we live in Oklahoma, for cryin' out loud, that stuff is everywhere. He's been drinking a lot of water and since he heard lemonade helps to etch stones that are already formed, thus reducing them in size, he drinks a LOT of lemonade. Hey, I guess whatever floats his boat. Or his stones.

Stoner (Part 1)

Two weeks ago Paul came about *this close* to rupturing a disk in his back. It was awful. I had just stepped out of the shower when I heard Sam say "She's in the shower. Okay, okay, I'll get her." My 12 year old son with eyes squeezed tightly shut, hand over his closed eyes and while holding the phone as far away from himself as possible slipped the phone through the bathroom door and said, "It's Dad." I grabbed the phone with my dripping hand, said hello and was greeted with the soft, panting voice (no, not that kind of soft, panting voice) of my husband saying, "You've *pant* got to *pant* come out here *pant* and help *pant* me. NOW. *pant*" I said, "Well, I'm dripping wet, I'll be out there as fast as I can! Where are you?" He replied with "*pant* The carport *pant*" and hung up.

I threw my shorts and shirt on while still drippy, squeezed excess water out of my hair and ran out the back door fully expecting to find my husband missing an arm or his leg bent awkwardly out behind him since the last time I had seen him earlier was as he flew down the driveway on a four-wheeler. I wasn't looking forward to what I thought I was going to see. Instead I just found him kind of bent over at the waist beside the lawnmower. He slowly turned his head toward me and said, "I threw out my back." My initial reaction was that I wanted to laugh, but then fortunately I caught myself as I realized he was really hurting. It took about 15 minutes, but we slowly, and I mean slowwwwwwwwwwwly, got him straightened up and I walked him in the house.

Three days of missed work, four chiropractor visits and a metric ton of ibuprofen and he finally felt like a human again.

Fast forward to 2am this past Tuesday morning. A tote fell off the cedar chest at the foot of our bed. I got up, put it back up and crawled back in bed. I had just settled in and felt Paul get up. He said, "My stomach's cramping" and kind of staggered sleepily out of the room. I figured there was nothing I could help him with there and promptly went back to sleep. About 45 minutes later I was awakened to him shaking the bed violently and saying, "Kristin, you've got to get up now and help me. I'm hurtin'. Bad." I grabbed my glasses and followed him to the living room where he took up pacing as he apparently had been doing for the previous 45 minutes while I snoozed away.

It was the dreaded kidney stone.

In 2008 he passed five of the little buggers and he recognized the pain of them moving all too well. Three years ago he was admitted to the hospital and was scheduled for basket retrieval surgery the following morning at 6am only to pass them all a few hours later.

Not so much this time.

I text his boss and told her he would not be coming in and what was going on. I rummaged around in the cabinet until I found the blessed bottle of Vicodin from three years ago knowing they were expired, but also knowing the dude needed some relief. At 5:30 I got up to start my day having not gone back to sleep.

He felt fine during the day that day (Tuesday), achey and sore on the side where the stone was, but not the horrible pain he had felt during the night. He figured the stone had dropped into his bladder and it was just a matter of passing it from there so he got down in the floor to put together a new ceiling fan for our bedroom. The crawling and squatting and bending got the stone moving again and within 30 minutes he was begging to be shot. I instead suggested the emergency room and while he insisted a bullet would've been better, he agreed to the hospital. Mom and Dad couldn't get there quick enough for his taste, so we left the two  younger kids in Abby's care and headed for Vinita, about 25 minutes away. There was a little girl with an ice pack on her arm ahead of us, so Paul took to pacing the floor. When he was finally called back to Triage the nurse and I struck up a conversation which included the game of "Don't I Know You From Somewhere?" and "Man, You Look Awful Familiar". Paul was not amused and kept giving me looks that essentially conveyed that I was heartless and shouldn't be allowed to continue living.

Two shots of Demerol and a shot of Morphine landed him on a heart monitor and oxygen because apparently they were concerned at the amount of drugs they were having to give him to even give him any semblance of relief. After the Morphine he finally quit doing the Funky Chicken all over the bed and settled down enough they could take him to CT where they announced he was the proud owner of a 5mm stone which was in the ureter and was certainly considered "passable". 20 minutes later the doctor came back in and said that upon further perusal of the films the stone was 7mm and right on the border of "passable" and "no way in Hell that baby is coming out on its own." He also announced there were six more stones in the left kidney and three more in the right which means we have the fabulous opportunity of potentially going through this NINE MORE TIMES. By 11pm the doctor was writing dismissal papers and said to drink until his eyeballs floated and if the pain came back and we couldn't control it at home to go to either Grove or Miami hospital because both of those hospitals have urologists and they didn't.

I didn't watch Conner that next day (Wednesday) considering neither of us had slept in two nights and he was still in pain and couldn't stop throwing up. By the time the kids got home he was pacing the floor and cursing, asking for a bullet in between barfing into a trashcan and draping himself over various pieces of furniture. At one point told Kady her voice was so annoying he couldn't stand hearing another thing from her mouth. Fortunately it didn't break her sensitive little heart and she didn't cry. She knew her daddy was hurtin' bad. I told the kids to pack an overnight bag and called Mom and said I was bringing them to her and we were headed to the ER. We dropped them off and he staggered into the ER where fortunately we didn't have to wait long to be triaged and sent to a room. More Morphine and Zofran for the nausea and the doctor said he was sending him home. Paul nearly started crying. He was exhausted from the pain and the vomiting, he was so dehydrated they had to stick him five times (after having stuck him seven the first time in the ER at the other hospital) and he just wanted some relief. I called and texted my best prayer warriors and put them on mercy-prayer detail - we needed favor in the form of a sympathetic ER doc and urologist.

It helps that the local urologist is a stone producer as well.

Another CT scan to see if the stone had moved in the past 24 hours (it hadn't considering it was the size of Manhattan) and the ER doc came in and said, "I can send you home with oral pain meds and we'll see if you pass this thing in a day or two or you can be admitted and Dr. Stout can do a basket retrieval procedure in the morning." We both at the same time said, "Admit!" Dr. Stout, the urologist, came by to see him while he was still in the ER and said the stone was kind of high, but he would try his best to retrieve it. By 8:30 he was being wheeled upstairs to his room where my sweet, exhausted husband just wanted to sleep. I went home around 10:30 that night to sleep and was so tired I just knew that no howling coyotes or even Fitty coming to hack me into itty bitty bits was going to keep me awake.

I finally fell asleep at nearly 1am. I was up by 5 to be back in there by 7 because the surgery was scheduled for 8. I was running on fumes and about eight hours sleep in three nights.



To be continued......

It's spider-rific! NOT

Abby's leg is still trying to rot off. I am so sick of dealing with this stupid spider bite I could scream. I hate spiders, have since I was a teenager and this just fuels my loathing of them even more. Over the past week and a half I've heard just about every comment under the sun:

"It's probably not even a spider bite. Most 'bites' are actually MRSA."  I agree, most "bites" probably are, but dude, we had the spider. I carried it in a Dixie cup in a ziploc bag IN MY PURSE to the doctor's office. It's definitely a brown recluse spider bite.

"Well, when my uncle's brother's cousin's friend who works at the CoOp with a gal he graduated from trade school with got bit the doctor put him on high-powered antibiotics and steroids IMMEDIATELY! Tell your doctor that's what you want." Telling her doctor that's what we want and him actually doing it are two different things, friends and neighbors.

"You need better insurance." Yeah, well, you pay the premium, bucko, and I'll be happy to sign the kids right up. As it is, they pretty much treat us the same as someone coming in with no insurance. We get the bare-bones treatment. Talk about making you feel super special and making you feel like they don't value your child's health one bit. It is a warm, fuzzy feeling, lemme tell ya.

"Try [remedy X]. When I got bit I [soaked my foot in gasoline] [peed on a gerbil] [walked around my house 12 times while playing the kazoo] [sucked the venom out like they show 'em doing to snake bites on old episodes of Gunsmoke] [dug it out with a spoon]." *sigh* Sorry, I'm probably not going to soak my daughter's leg in gasoline no matter how it worked out for you. And we are definitely not bringing a gerbil into this house. It would probably bite someone.

"Pray." Oh, we are doing this. Fervently. I don't think it would be doing as well as it is if we weren't. But God also gave us doctors. And herbs.

And believe me, there are more. I appreciate everyone's honest, good intentions, but you can only hear "When my brother got bit..." so many times before you start to chuckle.

That all being said, we are taking her to some random, total, complete stranger tomorrow afternoon - a random, total, complete stranger who apparently makes a wicked herbal poultice that will heal the bite up in two weeks, she says. How did we hear about this random, total, complete stranger? A lady at church was at the beauty shop and someone there had a family member who this woman helped. Folks, I couldn't make this up if I tried. I believe in herbal remedies, I really do. Otherwise I wouldn't be taking my daughter to a random, total, complete stranger.

If I don't see intensely real, true results from the herbal treatment by about mid-week next week I am making an appointment with a doctor in Oklahoma City who is having amazing, guaranteed results with "zapping" spider bites, mainly brown recluse and black widow bites. He uses a low voltage charge, similar to what a chiropractor uses to stimulate muscle contractions and shocks the bite. It changes the molecular makeup of the venom and the zap stops it from poisoning the tissues. From what I read, healing - visible healing - begins within 24 hours. So why am I waiting on this one? The one that seems the quickest and most sure? Well, mainly because Abby has already missed two days of school this semester, she gets behind very easily (especially in math) and I just would like to not have to drive to the City in the middle of the week, although the thought of seeing my sister does make my heart go pitter patter. I miss her something awful. 

I never dreamed a stinkin' spider bite would get this involved and cause this much turmoil in my brain!!

In a positive development, she isn't checking her bed quite so obsessively anymore. It was at least a heartbreaking 15 minute ordeal involving her pulling back every blanket and me shining a flashlight on every square inch of blanket and sheet, her throwing each and every pillow onto the floor where she would then proceed to stomp the living daylights out of each one, then finally, before actually getting into the bed, she would bounce on it repeatedly to scare any little buggers out, then one more pass with the flashlight and she would finally get in bed. Now we're just down to shining a light down at the foot of the bed, fluffing the pillows and bouncing once or twice.

She's just dadgum disappointed that she can't shoot a web out of her wrist. Peter Parker totally got the best deal around.

Help Wanted

A little over a month ago I came about as close to desperation as I have ever been in my life. For two weeks prior I had been having an irregular heart rhythm that wasn't painful, but just there. I'd be going along fine then instead of the usual "thump thump thump" my heart would go "thump thump THUMPTHUMPTHUMP". It was certainly enough to make me notice. And the longer it went on the more I noticed it and the more I was convinced I was dying. Like, literally dying.

See.....I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Of course, I didn't know that then. I just thought I was dying.

I know I've joked around on here probably since the birth of the blog about how I alphabetize my canned goods and books and eat my M&M's by color and number, things I've done since childhood, but there's more to OCD than having a neat pantry and a spotless house. (By the way, I do not  have a spotless house. Just in case you were wondering.) The alphabetizing is the "C" of it. The "O" part is the obsessiveness, the inability to stop thinking about something once it's wormed it's way into your mind. It's horrifying. It's paralyzing. It's cruel.

My little sister was diagnosed with OCD several years back when she was having obsessive thoughts that something was going to happen to her kids. She was completely convinced she would lose them, that something bad would happen to them. My cousin laid in bed one night and convinced herself she had bone cancer. Another night she was 100% positive she had a blood clot in her arm. These two women are very close to me and as they told me these stories I was sympathetic and said, "Oh honey, bless your heart," but .... until you have laid in the dark at 3am and planned out your funeral, have started writing letters to your children so they won't forget you when you're gone, have envisioned in your head the Highway Patrolman coming to the door to tell you your husband was in an accident and didn't make it. Or had the recurring thought that because you looked away for 30 seconds and didn't see your kids step onto that bus that morning you have somehow caused the bus to wreck on the way to school ..... you cannot for one second be as sympathetic as you need to be.

I hate going to the doctor and because I use the Native American Tribal Healthcare System for my medical needs it is sometimes a crapshoot getting in to see a doctor unless you have a severed limb or chest pains - and believe me when I say I was considering telling someone, anyone who would listen, that my chest hurt. I  needed to see a doctor and I needed to see one soon.

I managed to be the first one through the door on my second attempt at an appointment. That was totally a God thing - He knew how badly I needed to see someone. The RN who triaged me was concerned at the heart rhythm and got the doctor to order an EKG immediately. It showed nothing abnormal whatsoever. I kind of knew it would. See, I did this same thing roughly 17 years ago - irregular heartrate, elevated blood pressure, crying jags, etc. - and after an EKG and an echocardiogram was told I had a healthy heart, was suffering from panic attacks, was given a prescription for Xanax and sent on my not-so-merry way. Eventually life evened out (ie, we got pregnant) and I was fine. I never even refilled the prescription. So even though I was conviced I was dying, I knew the EKG would be normal. Because I knew what this was - anxiety.

The doctor came in, listened very intently to my ramblings and said, "We got this. This we can handle. You knew when you came in that OCD runs in your family. You are experiencing an undue amount of upheaval in your life right now. You not only have OCD, but also Situational Anxiety which gangs up on your General Anxiety Disorder. Now, here's what we're going to do for you..."

And right then I felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders. He didn't think I was a nutjob. He didn't think I was insane. He didn't even think I was weak. His words were, "You're not broken. You just need some help right now." Those were the exact words my sister comforted me with days before - "You just need some help right now."

I struggled for a few minutes with the diagnosis of what is a "mental illness", but I for once didn't dwell on it. I knew I needed help, know I still do and I'm going to be okay. I'm not insane, I have a chemical imbalance in my brain that needs some balancing. In order to be a better wife, mother, person in general, at this point in my life I need help.

My help right now comes firstly from my God who is strengthening me daily. He is the Great Physician and I know He will see me through. My second help is in the form of a daily medication (an SSRI used to treat depression and also OCD) and an additional one for the attacks that creep up on me out of nowhere. I feel so much better. I was worried the medicine would disable my ability to feel anything and I'd be an emotionless zombie, but now I just feel life. I can still cry. I can still laugh - in fact I laugh so much more than I did. I don't walk around with my fists clenched and my jaw locked. My teeth don't hurt from being gritted continually. My blood pressure is lower. My husband is happier. My kids are happier.

I am happier.

She's Nearly Nine

I've been sick the last couple days and have pretty much sequestered myself to the bedroom away from the rest of the family. This is hard for me since I'm usually all up in everyone's grills and stuff, telling them what to do, cooking for them, making them cry over helping them study spelling words and other "momma" type stuff. The first night I laid out in the bed and in my feverish haze would holler instructions and orders interspersed with pleas for ice water and Tylenol.

So since my fever broke this morning and I felt like a human again, albeit a human with a nagging cough and a minorly sore throat still, I came out of hiding and spent the evening with my family. I didn't cook. In fact, I'm pretty sure Abby had potato chips for dinner and Kady had popcorn. I don't have a clue what Sam ate. We watched Valentine's Day first and after it took a break to go play in the yard with the dog. Then we all met up again in the living room and decided to break out a vintage movie I recorded off of The Movie Channel quite awhile back, Mask. You know, the one with a very young Cher and a smoking hot Sam Elliott and Eric Stoltz, about the boy with the rare disease that disfigured his face. Yeah, that one.

Normally, I'm a cry-er, y'all know that, but I'm taking some medication that is well, making me less of a cry-er these days. (Yeah, there's a big ol' blog post a'brewin' about it, trust me.) I'm not sure I like it, but it sure does make watching sappy movies easier on my sinuses and my eyes are far less puffy the next day. Kady is my partner in cry - if I bawl during a movie, she will crawl up in my lap with a box of tissue and we'll sniffle through the final scenes, making all the rest of the family members roll their eyes at us. We are cry-ers. Just like Truvy said in Steel Magnolias, "I have a strict policy - no one cries alone in my presence."

Tonight I did cry, but not my usual sobbing, hic-hic-hic, snot everywhere kind of cry, just a few sniffles and some tears. Kady, however, bawled her little face off. It has been a long week, our schedule has been off because I've been sick and it was after 10. She was absolutely exhausted, which only added to the drama in her crying. She finally calmed down only to say, "And you know what? (hic hic) We watched a stupid STUPID movie today in school!"

Well, of course, I had to ask what on earth kind of movie would merit two stupids in the description and she answered, "It was about that day. (sniff sniff) You know...." Her voice got quieter. "....you know.....that day." I didn't know what day she was talking about, actually, so I asked her to clarify. "You know, Momma....September 11th. When those towers fell." And the crying began again in earnest.

I patted the couch in front of me and opened my arms. She barreled off the chair she was in and dove into me, sobbing. I smoothed her hair and wiped the tears and said, "I do know that day, actually. I remember it very well. Wanna know why?" She looked up and nodded. "I was sick. I had four -itises!"

"You had four what?" She giggled and sniffed, wiping a tear on my shirt.

"I had otitis." I pointed to her ear. "I had sinusitis." I pointed her her nose. "I had pharyngitis." I tickled her neck. "And I had bronchitis!" and I tickled her chest. When the giggling subsided she said, "Wow. That is a lot of -itises!" I answered, "Yeah. And? I was pregnant with you! So I couldn't take a lot of medicine. I pretty much just laid in the recliner all miserable and let your brother and sister go wild." She laughed.

Pushing her hair behind her ear I said, "And we were watching Blue's Clues when the towers fell." She looked up at me, one tear threatening to spill. "I sat in my chair and rubbed my belly, where you were, and hugged your brother and sister a lot - and I cried a lot, too. And it's okay to cry now, too. Sissy, in the midst of all the bad that happened that day, there was good, too." She looked up at me, cocked one eyebrow up and said, "Huh? There was no good in that video, Momma. None."

I answered, "That one day brought all of us together. There were no rich people, no poor people, no black people, no white people. We were all just people. The people in New York were covered in ash that day and no one could tell what color anyone else was. No one saw anyone else's clothes. People helped other people. People saved other people. Peopled prayed. People died, but....people also lived. We weren't just people that day, we were Americans."

She looked up at me and said, "You mean there weren't Democrats and Republicans?" I laughed and said, "No, Sis. On that day, the Democrats and Republicans got along and it didn't matter who was who." Leave it to her to bring politics into any conversation.

She put her arms around my neck and said, "Momma, I know every year you read us Bravemole* on September 11th, but maybe this year.....maybe we should skip it. I'm not sure you and I need to cry that much tomorrow. You know that one even makes Abby cry."

"Oh honey, this story should make us all cry."








*If you have never read the story of Bravemole you need to find a copy. It is a fabulous way to talk about 9/11 in a way children can understand..........Well, as much as anyone can understand.

Squinty

My first glasses were plastic framed and in hindsight perilously close to the horn-rims of the 50's. They were pinkish and just horrible. Hey, what did I know about fashion? I was 11. I thought twist-beads were the end-all-be-all. At the time I was also rather plump, shopping for all my clothes in the "Pretty Plus" section at Sears. I was the quintessential nerd, lemme tell ya.

Having been in glasses for the past 26 years I have seen my fair share of lenses and frames. I've had the horn-rims, the GIGANTO round frames (think Sally Jessy Raphael), I've had square, I've had oval, I've had plastic, metal, full-frame, half-frame and for the past few years the expensive ones with the magnetic sunglass clip so I don't have to resort to wearing those flip-up sunglasses the oldsters buy at Walmart. Hey, I need my sunglasses because I so rarely leave the house and go out into the sun, well, my eyes don't like sunlight. It burns. And it's so....so....bright.

Since I don't have insurance, I pay cash for my glasses. This is why I only get glasses every two to three years and only if I'm having issues. Like debilitating headaches. Or blindness.

I am horribly near-sighted and teetered on the edge of legally blind for years, but starting about five years ago my eyes have actually gotten a little better. The eye doctor I've seen since my tween years said I was a candidate for Lasix. I said, "Only if I find an extra $3000 someone dropped in a parking lot. Or if some long-lost aunt kicks the bucket and decided I was her favorite because she read my blog and decided I'm just that awesome. Now show me the frames, please." I have tried contacts and I am just one of "those" people who can't wear them. I am destined to a life of glasses and really, I'm okay with that. I've worn them longer than I didn't by far and I think I look funny without them on now. They complete me. I am one with the glasses.

About six months ago Kady asked me to untangle a knot in a necklace chain. I started the process of untangling when I realized I couldn't see, so I squinted. It didn't help. I opened my eyes wide. Didn't help. I looked over the top of my glasses and voila! It also became starkly clear that I was mimicking the exact routine I had seen my father do back when I was a kid and needed something untangled. I mentioned it laughingly to Mom one day and she said, "I bet you're going to need bi-focals soon, dear." I glared at her and told her that she was delirious and I was only 36 and that just wasn't going to happen. She gently reminded me that my father was in bi-focals at 16. Great.

And really, aside from an occasional moment where I had to look over the tops of my glasses I've done fine since then. I didn't do any counted cross-stitch this winter and really didn't read much either. I have yet to use that sewing machine out there collecting an impressive amount of dust. I've done my Facebooking and blogging with very little problem and can see great when driving at night and can see distances without a problem. I drove to Yukon over Spring Break - three hours of solid nighttime driving without so much as the twinge of a headache.

The Sunday of the freak Spring Break snow storm I downloaded the book The Lovely Bones to my iPod and started reading it. The print was no smaller than in a book, so I knew I wasn't straining to read something uber small, but an hour into reading it I was suddenly smacked by one of the worst headaches I've had in a long time. So bad I was nauseous and had to lie in the dark with a washcloth over my eyes for a few hours until it subsided. I get about two to three migraines a year, but this one didn't feel like a typical migraine even though it went away after doing my usual migraine relief techniques. Since that fateful headache I've been having more and more, especially after a day on the computer or reading. I can only read in about 15 minute increments and most of the time I take my glasses off to do it.

Paul's been complaining for months that he hates his glasses, he can't see at night and the computer screen he sits in front of for eight hours a day at work just gives him fits. I heaved a heavy sigh and said, "That's it. I'm making us both eye appointments."

Paul went first. The man is 47 and one of those folks who didn't get glasses until about age 35. It's a natural progression of age. So of course, his prescription needs to be strengthened, in his lens and the bi-focal, too. The eye doctor, a guy who played baseball with my high school boyfriend and is partnered up with the optometrist of my youth, suggested a new type of bi-focal for people who work on computers and heavily recommended an anti-glare coating. Paul has great vision insurance so I just nodded to everything the doctor suggested. Then it was my turn. I told him he problems I was having. He asked if it was always hard to see when I read or just sometimes. He nodded and hmmh'd as he asked me more questions - driving, computer work, etc. He said, "Here's what I think. We've got one of two scenarios going on. Either your prescription has changed again or....you are going to go into bi-focals early." I told him to bite his tongue and gave him a very nasty look. He examined my eyes and for the distance stuff I did great. But man, when he put that itty bitty text right up in front of my face and spotlighted it, it was a booger to read. Then he did his magic little "Better 1 or 2.....3 or 4....4 or 5...." schpiel and suddenly I could read that teeny tiny little blurb about the grass on the hillside exploding into green or something like that.

He took the equipment away from my face, put his hands on his knees and said, "Well, dear, here's the thing: Your distance vision hasn't changed a bit. Your prescription doesn't need to be adjusted in the least....." and then he took a deep breath and said, "....but you need bi-focals."

I would've immediately burst into tears had it not been for the fact that my tearful explosion was pre-empted by my husband's exuberant guffaw. He was laughing at me! Laughing at my optical misfortune! For better or worse obviously didn't cover "In single vision or bi-focals".  Then he told the eye doctor WHO IS ONLY A YEAR OLDER THAN ME BY THE WAY that I had been making fun of him for two years since he got bi-focals. LIAR! My husband LIED to our optometrist! I don't know what came over that man. It's not enough that I am ten years his junior and have WAY more gray hair than he does, but now I'm in bi-focals as well. And as if the laughing at my unfortunate optical development wasn't enough he then TOLD the doctor I had more gray hair than him. Then? THEN? He told the OTHER eye doctor the same thing! Oh, he was having a grand ol' time, lemme tell ya.

Dr. Walls was very nice about it really and while yes, he did chuckle at my husband's obvious mirth, he sweetly said, "We'll make sure you get a no-line and then no one but you, me and your husband have to know, okay?" And to that Paul laughed again and said, "Are you kidding? As soon as you walk out of this exam room she's going to put it on Twitter and Facebook! She can't keep a secret! Even one like this!"

And he was right. Even though my eyes were dilated and I couldn't see worth a whit I managed to tweet and Facebook update right then and there. I also sent a text to my mother and sister, knowing they would have words of comfort and wisdom for me because, after all, they are my two best friend. Sister immediately sent a text that said, "Make sure you ask for the package deal - the one where they throw in the walker with the tennis balls on the feet." I text her back immediately as well, but I won't write here what I called her. I'll let you use your imagination.

I picked out some cute purplish, mauve-ish frames which, of course, have the sunglasses clip. My husband and I got the same exact lenses, the Definity and anti-glare lenses. His, with his insurance, cost $280. Mine without insurance cost SIX HUNDRED FIFTEEN DOLLARS. It's fun going directly from the eye doctor to the bank to withdraw from your savings just so you can see. I considered taking out another $100 because a trip to the salon to cover all the gray taking over my head felt in order at that point, but I resisted. 

Paul's boss sent me a text later in the day suggesting I look into AARP's vision discount plan. I told her to shut her mouth or I would beat her with my cane.

Whippersnapper.

A little more

Friday night I was working on organizing my ever-UNorganized office while Kady played on the desktop and Abby was fooling around on her daddy's laptop (because in case you had forgotten MY LAPTOP WENT KAPUT last week). The boy was watching something on TV and Paul was asleep in his recliner. We girls were just being silly and chit chatting when Abby got a text then said, "No way. That's not cool." I asked what she was talking about and she said, "I just got a text that said Cheyenne died. Why would someone say that?"

Cheyenne had moved away mid-year last year after having gone to school with Abby since 1st grade. They weren't BFF's, but they knew each other and got along; they were classmates for six years. I said, "Oh, Abby, someone's just being cruel. She moved away so they're just trying to stir up drama. You know how rumors get started." Then suddenly her phone started receiving message after message, all saying the same thing: Cheyenne had died. She kept saying no, not possible and I was getting kind of irritated that these kids were perpetuating something so absolutely awful.

Then I got a text from another mom who confirmed the horrible news.

I have yet to hear a 100% ironclad reason as to why Cheyenne passed away, but I know one thing for sure -- 13 year olds just aren't supposed to die. It's not right, it's not fair and it's just something I, as a mother, have a very hard time wrapping my head around.

Abby internalizes everything, so I kept a close eye on her all weekend, watching for signs she was heading for a meltdown, blowup or anything in-between. Saturday Paul and I left Kady and Sam with Mom and Pops while we went furniture shopping with just Abby. We had lunch, kept things light, joked with her and gave her some extra attention. She was insisting on attending the funeral and I said I'd take her, but suggested maybe we should try the visitation first before we decided, explaining it wouldn't be like a funeral for an older person. She cried off and on here and there throughout the weekend over little things, things that would normally never make her cry. She's not one to wail and gnash teeth. She's very low-key. She had to take her Zantac several times, something she always has to do when she's upset or stressed.

I was 18 and a Senior in high school when a girl a grade below me was killed in a car accident. She and I weren't what you would call close, we were in accounting and band and on the yearbook staff together and had ridden the same bus since she started school. I think we played together a time or two during the summer when we were kids. We were schoolmates. Rebecca's death, though, was the first time I had to come to terms with my own mortality. I had lost a cousin to muscular dystrophy when I was little, had attended the funeral of a neighbor lady who bought milk from Papa's farm and was always so sweet to us kids and had gone to a few other funerals to farther-down-the-line relatives. But all those people were older than me, most by a lot; Rebecca was 17. Younger than me. Not supposed to die.

This week my 13 year old had to deal with her own mortality. At first she asked a lot of silly questions, questions she knew the answer to already, but I answered regardless. Then she asked tougher ones, like "What would you bury me in if I died right now?" That's a question that as her mother I didn't want to answer or remotely think about, but to her hurting little heart and mind it was important. I hate it we had to have conversations like that. I hate it that she had to learn so young that sometimes kids die and we don't know why, we don't understand, we don't have to like it and it sucks.

I got sick on Sunday evening and was in bed all day Monday which left her Daddy to take her to the visitation Monday night. She did okay. She's attended more than her fair share of funerals and visitations and was prepared for it. She came home and talked about how Cheyenne looked and the color of her casket and pictures they had put out of her as a little kid and that she had been holding a pilot's headset in her hands because she wanted to be a pilot just like her daddy when she grew up - things my precious little girl shouldn't have to talk about or deal with. I cried. She didn't. She was more than ever, though, resolute about attending the funeral.

I made arrangements with the mother of a classmate to take her to the funeral the following day and kept her home from school that morning. She took extra time to get ready and make sure what she was wearing was sufficiently nice and grownup, "but not dorky, right?" she made sure. When Melinda pulled in the driveway Abby grabbed me and hugged me so hard. And didn't want to let go. Not only was she preparing to attend the funeral of a peer, but she was having to do so without me. I cried again. She didn't.

It worked out that I was at the clinic when she got home from the funeral and my mom picked her up. God made that doctor's appointment work out for me so that Abby could express some feelings and emotions to her Grammy, maybe things she just wasn't sure she could say to me. Mom said she talked quite a bit and asked a few questions and voiced her concerns over a few things, but all told, she handled things pretty well. She said she was glad she went to the funeral and was glad it was over. She said it had been a sad day.

She grew up a little more yesterday.

Kapow KABLAM!

This is the sequel to my previous post titled "Kapow!" and it's a corker, lemme tell ya.



Paul has had to go in at 5am the last few days which means I have to wake him up at 3:30am because even at 47 he still cannot "hear" the alarm. I started that when we were dating, me calling him up to wake him up, thus relieving his poor mother of the duty. We both have spoiled him into a deaf monster as far as alarms go. Yesterday morning after he was up and around (not happily, I might add) I gently reminded him that he needed to drive my van because I needed the truck to move some furniture to the consignment auction. This threw him into a tirade of epic proportions at 3:45am. That, Constant Reader, is WAY too early to put forth that much effort into a blood-pressure-raising rant at one's spouse. It's also too early for the spouse to endure such baby whining. Dude, it's my truck, too. I shouldn't have to borrow my own truck. Just sayin'.

When he stormed off to work, driving my van entirely too fast down the driveway, probably changing my radio station to country I might add, I went back to bed for that whole 30 minutes. Then when the alarm started going off I snoozed it for an entire hour. Now, let me clarify that I have overslept two times since Paul started working at the casino and it traumatized me for life. I hate that feeling of waking up late and knowing that it's making someone else late. I have my cell phone alarms set for 5:05 and 5:12, my iPod set for 5:00 and 5:15 and the regular alarm clock set as a backup for 5:24. Snoozing all these alarms isn't remotely conducive to any form of rest, yet I laid there curled up in bed, reaching an arm out of my mountain of covers every 4.7 minutes to smack, tap or slide something. For an hour. Yes, it's pathetic. I'm aware of that.

Finally rolling out of bed at 6 meant that I would not be showering, but that was fine because I hadn't planned on going anywhere until later that evening and I could just shower after Paul got home from work. (My kids are old enough to be unattended, but I'm not keen on letting a 20 month old wander the house while I'm otherwise indisposed. And naked.) I looked like a skank, but Conner's used to that occasionally. As long as he still gets his juice and banana and the occasional iced animal cookie he could care less that I'm not fresh as a daisy.

I have been driving the kids to the end of the driveway in the mornings because it's too cold to stand out there for too long. I was ushering everyone out the door at 7:15, like always, and Abby had forgotten something so I was standing at the door hollering at her to hurry and hollering at Kady and Sam to get in the truck. By the time I got out to the truck Kady was looking frazzled at trying to hoist herself and her gigantic backpack in that big ol' truck. Then she slammed the door - on her hand. Sam and I were on the other side of the truck and knew instantly what she had done. She started squawking and Sam and I were hollering at Abby, who was standing on her side NEXT TO HER DOOR, to "OPEN  THE DOOR! OPEN THE DOOR! NOW! NOW!" And Abby in all her teenage glory goes, "Why? Why do I have to open the door? WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME??" I was about *this* close to reaching my arms through the truck to strangle her. Eventually someone (Abby? Kady herself?) opened the door and the real screaming began. I turned off the truck, calmly said, "Everyone in the house. I'll just take you to school." Then I picked up my wailing 8 year old and took her in the house where I wrapped her hand in an ice pack and sat down to soothe her sniffling, sobbing, hiccuping self. After Abby finished pouting that she didn't know why everyone was yelling at her when she wasn't the one that had shut her hand in the door, I told her to call Courtney and tell her to just bring Tater's tots up to the house and I would just drive everyone to school. Then about three minutes later it hit me - I was in the truck and therefore didn't have room for six kids. I hollered, "You have to ride the bus! Go! Go! Get out the door! HURRY!" which prompted another round of stomping and heavy sighing from my teenager. (Later I saw a tweet from her that said "I'm having SUCH a great day. NOT." She may not survive to 14.)

The big kids made it onto the bus, Kady's hand eventually came out of the ice pack and it was determined she had not broken anything. I took her to school and came back home where I discovered that the washing machine drain had backed up and the utility room floor was soggy.

Fast forward to 12:30 when I laid Conner down for his nap. I have to sit at the other end of the couch while he goes to sleep, otherwise he gets down and makes a run for the border. While sitting there I turned on my laptop to charge my iPod and started playing Bookworm on the iPod to kill time while he fell asleep. I, myself dozed off. I normally don't do that, but I totally blame the events from this point on in the story on PMS and that's my story and I'm stickin' to it. I just get so tired when I have PMS these days and it happened. Sue me. And my ovaries. Apparently at some point during my FIFTEEN MINUTE nap the processor in my laptop burned up. I woke up to a computer that was obviously somewhat on, but the screen was blank. I turned it off, manually, rebooted and then it just started rebooting and shutting down repeatedly, except it would never fully boot. I said a few choice words under my breath. I fixed a glass of tea. I shoveled about 487 Hershey's Kisses into my hormonal body and like an idiot, kept trying to reboot the computer. I eventually gave up and did some laundry and loaded the dishwasher.

When it was time to get Conner up I opened the blinds on the front picture window AND SAW THE BOX THAT HELD MY NEW DVR RECEIVER IN THE YARD IN A STATE ONE SHOULD NEVER SEE A BOX OF ELECTRONIC EQUIPMENT. Amazing what happens during a 15 minute unscheduled, hormone-induced nap followed by angry housecleaning - the laptop takes a dive and our ninja UPS man drives up, leaves a box, DOESN'T KNOCK and the dog eats the box.

I busted out the front door and dragged the dog by his collar to the chain on the far side of the yard and chained him up, all the while calling him names that would probably get me fined by the ACLU, PETA and any other organization that monitors the rights of living beings. I then finished my tirade by telling him I hoped that when he took a drink of water ALL THAT CARDBOARD in his stomach would swell up and give him horrendous gas and that he would die. I didn't mean it. Okay, yes I did. I was mad.

I got back in the house to find a very bewildered Conner looking at his crazed babysitter with a still-sleepy look. He heard the dog bark and hollered, "HUSH!" Yeah. You tell him, buddy.

I inspected the receiver, it appeared to be fine. Had he started chewing on the other side of the box he'd have gotten the power cord right off the bat, but as it was he just got packing foam. I hope that swells up in his guts, too.

I then started unplugging the old receiver and plugging in the new one. I got to the point where I had to call DishNetwork to active the receiver and SmartCard when Mom and Pops drove up, Paul got home from work and the kids got off the bus, followed closely by Courtney coming to pick up Conner, so I hung up. Things went from crazy, hormonal, stinky lady and a baby to a house full of people to stress me the heck out. Pops took a look at the laptop (he rescued the desktop from a dusty death a few weeks ago) because he is our family computer repair dude. He said, "Hmh. I don't know. Might be the processor. Might be the power source. Not sure. I don't work on laptops." ARGH! Fortunately, though, my brother owns a computer store and apparently has some awesome guy that works on laptops and Pops said he could take it to him if I wanted.

And it was at that point I just started bawling. And I couldn't stop. I know I freaked out the kids, frustrated my mom, bewildered my husband and dad and made my cousin worry that leaving her son with a mentally unstable person was probably a bad idea, but I couldn't help it. It all just hit me and I lost it.

Mom took the kids home with her (Paul and I were supposed to go see the local little theatre's production of "Greater Tuna" that evening, but I was really in no shape to go out in public) and said she'd bring them back later, unless I wanted them to spend the night. Since it was a school night I said they should probably come home. She kept offering the sleepover. I must've really had The Crazy in my eyes.

After everyone left and it was Paul and I alone I picked up the phone to call DishNetwork again. Normally you're greeted by an automated voice dude who tries to interpret your verbal answers, but usually just ends up saying, "I'm sorry. I didn't catch that. Could you repeat your answer please?" but that time the call was answered by a person. He asked who he had the pleasure of speaking with and I told him. He asked for my address. I told him. Phone number. The same. I figured he was just confirming things with me. They normally ask for a PIN to the account, but I didn't give that omission much thought. He then asked for my email address, which I thought was strange since they send me reminders when I forget to pay my bill every month it's time to pay my bill every month, but I gave it to him anyway. Then he said, "Congratulations! By giving me your email address you are now eligible to save $24 on your monthly bill. Tell me, are you ready for a new contract?" Again, I thought it was strange he didn't have that information in front of him, but I answered, "Well, we still have a year on this one." He said, "Aw, bummer. So tell me this, Mrs. Hoover, how do you protect your home?" Say wha? Huh? "Excuse me?" I asked. He asked me again how we protect our home. I answered, "We have a dog. And he will chew up anyone who tries to harm us. Really, I just want to activate my receiver." The dude would not let up? He kept asking me about protecting my home. Finally I had had enough and said, "Look. Dude. I just called you to activate my new DishNetwork satellite receiver. If you can't do that would you PLEASE transfer me to someone who can?" There were a few beats of silence before he replied, "Ma'am. It appears you have inadvertently called DirecTV. It's okay. Happens all the time. Our numbers are very similar." And he would've been on my good side had he not said, "Now, about your home protection..." I busted out laughing very loudly in that man's ear and said, "I am very sorry I wasted your time. I do not want to protect my home with ADT, I do not want you to sell me anything. I do, however, want to hang up and call DishNetwork." Dude was still talking when I disconnected the call.

DishNetwork's number is 1-800, DirecTV's is 1-888. Someone totally messed up with that one.

Finally I got hold of DishNetwork to activate the receiver and was told by the customer support person that they have no training on that particular receiver and she would have to transfer me to AT&T customer support because, as I mentioned in the previous post, we have an AT&T Homezone receiver although NO ONE KNOWS WHY. (Yes, the new one has the AT&T logo on it even though she said it wouldn't) The guy at AT&T, of course, couldn't access my account because we don't have any services with them, but thankfully he was a stand-up guy and tech supported me anyway even though he said he probably wasn't supposed to, but who else was going to if not him? He got me to a point where I could take it on my own then transferred me back to DishNetwork and the rep there activated my card and then, in such a stereotypical Southern Black Woman fashion, so stereotypical it was utterly comical, informed me that "Mmm mm, hunny, you need to git rid of that receiver soon as you possibly can becuz that ol' thang ain't nuthin' but TROUBLE. Mm hmm. I mean it, hunny. You gotta INSIST on a new one when yo' contract is up in Jan'yary, okay? 'Cuz, see? We cain't work on it and I don' know why dey send you one of doze anyways."

Paul couldn't understand how I had gone from sobbing uncontrollably a half hour prior to sitting on the end of the couch, biting my lip, trying not to laugh like a loon in that sweet woman's ear.

I finished getting the receiver set up, handed my husband the remote, took a long, hot shower and finally sat down to decompress a little. Mom and Pops came back around 8:30 with our three sugared up kids .... and life seemed to get back to as normal as it gets around here.

That is, until we put a DVD in to watch and the sound wouldn't work. Fortunately I just jiggled the cord and it came back. Courtney has a theory that electronics create a mass suicide pact and that when one goes, they all follow suit. If that's the case, I'm putting every other electronic in this house on suicide watch immediately.