Wienerschnitzel

Big Daddy swears that this is the best restaurant in the history of the world.

 I disagree.   

For those of you "unfortunate" enough  (according to Wiki, it's mainly people in Texas and California who are blessed enough to have one of these fine dining establishments) to have never tasted this haute cuisine, imagine school chili dogs they charge you three bucks a piece for, and ya got it.

Big Daddy was excited, dare I say, thrilled, when the hospital where we were going to have The Kid induced  was down the street from one of these babies.   Not  impressed that the hospital had an excellent birthing rooms.  Not that the they had one of the best neonatal records in the state.   Nope, what he cared about was that he could  buy chili cheese dogs while I was in the hospital, birthing and recovering.

Heck.   Yeah.

Since The Kid was going to be induced, we went in the night before for some special, magical gel which would aid in her coming more quickly.  No food or water after 5 pm! Then we drove the hour back home with said gel applied, to wait and see if it worked.

It didn't.

The next day (no food or water!) we went back to the hospital to get this show on the road,so to speak. As I am lying there, hooked up to IVs, big belly jutting like Mt. Everest into the air, no food or water for almost 18 hours, my dear, sweet husband looks out the window and exclaims, "Oh look!!!! It's a Wienerschnitzel!!!!  I'm STARVING!!!!   Is it all right if I go eat for awhile? It's not like you're going anywhere."

I answered, "Of course, it's fine."

Public Service announcement #9784:   When a woman says it's fine, it NEVER is.

My husband, however, had never heard that public service announcement so off  he went blithely skipping away to his culinary nirvana, leaving in his wake a pissed off wife in labor.

Now if I had the capability to put a poll into the blog right about here, I would, but I can guess what most of you would vote without a high tech fancy poll:    Big Daddy messed up.

While he was gone chowing down on a couple of chili cheese dogs, french fries, and a medium Dr. Pepper, his starving,  loving wife's water broke and her contractions grew stronger, as did her ire.

My sweet, oblivious hubby brought back his empty Dr. Pepper cup in order to rattle the ice and chew on it.

There are a couple of things that drive me nuts in this life..... people smacking, the sound of an empty water bottle being rolled between someone's hands, and the sound of someone rattling a cup and then chewing ice always gets to me....... ESPECIALLY  when I'm in labor and have been begging the Baby Nurse Nazi for  a stinkin' ice chip.  Not even an ice cube did I want.  An ice chip.....'cause that extra 1/8 tsp of water is gonna mess all kinds of things up.

Baby Nurse, drunk with prenatal power,  wouldn't give it to me though. It was bad for me.  It had been almost 24 hours at this point with no food and no water.

 THAT was bad for me.

 I was mouth breathing like a Lamaze machine, and I couldn't get a piece of ice to wet my whistle.  Are you kidding me?

At that moment, here came my hubby, all satisfied and smelling of grease and Dr. Pepper.     Those of you who know me in real life, know that Dr. Pepper is my Kryptonite. I like to call it Sweet Nectar of the Gods.   There was Big Daddy rattling the cup and chomping down ice.     It raked across my nerves like a toddlers' earache convention on an airplane.

"Anything happen while I was gone?"  RATTLE, RATTLE. CHOMP. CHOMP.

"My water broke,"  I said sweetly.

RATTLE.RATTLE. CHOMP. CHOMP.   "It did?  Good!  I was worried about that part," he confessed.

I licked my lips and calculated the distance from the hospital bed to the chair and if I could make it before Baby Nurse Nazi made it back.

"Give me a piece of your ice.  I'm dying here,"    I begged.

"I don't think I can.  What did the nurse say?"  RATTLE. RATTLE.  CHOMP. CHOMP.

"That I'm in labor and get to kill anyone who comes in my room drinking Dr. Pepper and eating ice."

RATTLE. RATTLE.  "What?"  CHOMP. CHOMP.

"WILL YOU THROW THAT DAMN CUP AWAY BEFORE I MURDER SOMEONE?  SPECIFICALLY YOU?"

"What?!?"  he asked all innocent and shocked, cup halfway to his lips.   He had heard stories of women turning into crazy people in the delivery room, and his eyes told me he thought I'd crossed the line.

"Please, throw away the cup.  Baby Nurse Nazi won't give me any ice, and the sound of you chewing ice is driving me nuts!"

 "Well, excuse me," he said, hurt.

Great, now his feelings were hurt, and I didn't have the time or the energy to deal with that.    He threw the cup away.

Two hours,  and a half of cup of ice chips later (FINALLY!), we had The Kiddo, staring up at us with her precious, round cue-ball face.

Funny how my least favorite restaurant in the world and my daughter are all mixed up in my memory of that day.    Big Daddy rolls his eyes when I remember that day.    His memory doesn't gel with mine.

I'm just thankful they weren't having a sale on large drinks.

Pyschotikitty

 Doesn't Psychotikitty look sweet while he's asleep? 

Big Daddy *hates* cats.  I don't mean he's not a cat person.  I mean he can't stand them.   I've often joked about getting one, and he has always assured me that the as soon as he is dead, I can.

 I grew up with a couple of cats:   Dusty, who tried to vocalize back to you when you spoke to him, and Whiskers a black cat, my sister was positive she was going to marry.   See?? I'm not the only crazy one in my family. ( Those of you who know are trying to figure out which sister it is, aren't you? I can't tell  you;   I would never out Carrie that way.... she would hate me forever if I told you it was her!)

When  a  too-new-to-be-away-from-his-momma-feral-kitten wandered up to our house back in November of last year,   I was surprised, nay shocked, that Big Daddy  spent hours sitting outside on the ground trying to get the flea-ridden, pitiful creature to come eat out of his hand.  Little did Big Daddy know, that not only was he offering the kitten food, he was offerring Psychotikitty his heart.

Now, this psychotic kitty (or Psychotikitty for short) has worked his way into all of our hearts.  I don't know why we thought he would be normal when no one else in our family is.

I think that perhaps because he thinks he is a dog more than a cat, we loved him even more quickly.    He is affectionate and loving.  He doesn't attack you or hiss. He snuggles up on the bed at night.   He does love to attack hands if they mistakenly hang off the side of the bed at night, but that's the extent of him biting or being mean, and even then he attacks with claws tucked in.   Despite his sweet disposition, he does have some definite "quirks."

Psychotikitty LOVES to  play fetch with stolen ponytail holders.    He has a kitty cache of them.   He loves to have you throw them and then he will fetch for hours or until your arm gives out and your interest wanes, whichever comes first.  

He'll play fetch  at two in the afternoon or two in the morning.  He doesn't care.   When he brings you the ponytail holder and RAWRs, you toss it and wait for sound of buffalo as he crashes back through the house to you.   Often, we wake up in the morning with four or five ponytail holders sprinkled throughout our bed, because we have somehow slept through his entreaties to play.

Psychotikitty also loves to drown his toy mice in the dog's water  bowl and then bring them to you dripping, for you to play fetch with.    NOTHING in the world is as awesome as waking up to having a wet mouse dropped on your face for you to throw, because Psychotikitty wants to play.    Definitely not  conducive to good sleep as I have  mentioned before.

Psychotikitty is truly a cat burglar.    If you leave dollar bills out, they won't be there for long.  I don't know how much money has gone missing while The Kid was counting out her piggy bank.   I'm not sure, either, what Psychotikitty is saving up for.  Catnip, perhaps?

Psychotikitty also likes to play tag with The Kid.    The Kid will chase him, screaming and running through the house, until she gets close enough to touch him on his tail or back.  Psychotikitty will bound up on his back feet and then stand there for a second looking at The Kid, as if he's shocked she dared to touch him.   Then The Kid will take off and Psychotikitty will howl and then rush behind her until he "catches" her and he'll touch her with one paw.  They'll  both stop and stare at one another for a moment, until he turns and with a screeching meow,  takes off like a rocket and she'll chase after him  once again.   They will play that game for a good thirty minutes making laps around my house like Jeff Gordon on crack.    

The cat also  loves to kill things.    Wasps, flies, dollar bills, your feet.  Anything that doesn't look "right" is on his kill list.    Our hall is often littered with his "kills," be they ponytail holders, crickets,  or toy mice.   There is something about our hallway that has become his kill zone.   Everything is taken there to be slaughtered.   If he starts hanging up plastic, I'm changing his name to Dexter.

One of the things that drives me craziest about Psychotikitty is his recent taste for killing bread in the kill zone.  Big Daddy makes awesome panninnis, hot pressed sandwiches on San Francisco sourdough bread.   They are scrumptious.   One night my husband left the bread out, closed, but out of the cabinet, rather than back in the bread basket.     I was woken up around three by the fiercest, not-of-this-earth, most demonic  growling I've ever heard.    Blurry-eyed I stumbled to the hallway and found the cat ON TOP of a loaf of sourdough in my hallway.  Pieces of plastic bag  and crumbs littered the carpet.  Psychotikitty had eaten most of the loaf.    I had to push him away with a shoe to get to what remained of  the bread, and then he chased me to the trash can for the entrails.

Another day, I was unloading groceries from Wal-Hell.  On a return trip from the car, I found the cat growling and attacking a loaf of sourdough bread through the Wal-Mart sack.    Completely destroyed.   We never even  got a taste of it.

Being smart people, we began to safeguard the sourdough since that was his carb of choice.   A few nights ago though, I awoke to that sound that made me wonder if one of the hounds of hell had gotten loose.   I stumbled back to the hallway and there was Psychotickitty destroying a brand new  bag of hot dog buns.  He had decimated two and the remainders had puncture marks.

We hide all  the bread in the microwave now.    Hannah left the loaf on the counter the other night, and apparently, he loves whole wheat  bread as well!

It's not just his eating habits that are off.   Being the off-kilter kitty that he is, of course, he won't let you just pet him with your hands, oh no.  That would be normal.   Psychotikitty's favorite way for you to show him some love is for you to take off your shoe, and rub his back and belly back and forth against the fur as hard as you can.    He lies flat on the ground,  front feet tucked under his chin, looking like a rubber chicken, eyes closed ,  and purrs in bliss as you grind your foot into his back.

I call this pose...Churro Kitty.

Psychotikitty also loves to stretch out  flat on his side on  the hardwood in the kitchen.  My husband will walk up and ask him if he wants to spin-kitty.   Psychotikitty will meow, and then  Big Daddy will put a hand on his back and spin the cat in circles all over the hardwood.  Eventually, Psychokitty will get up, and stumble around like a drunk toddler until he gets his equilibrium back.    

Cat ain't right, I'm telling you.

After watching "My Cat From Hell" on Animal Planet, I think I'll take weird over possessed any day.  

Eskimo bubonic malaria flu

Recently, we went on an Alaskan cruise.  Despite being married to the other half of me and having a totally kick ass Kid, this trip was one of the highlights of my life.   If anyone says to you, "Hey, wanna go freeze your  butt off in Alaska?"   Do it.

In order to save money on our flights, we took a circumventous route.   We were leaving out of Dallas, but we flew to Los Angeles, had a layover, and then flew on to Seattle.    Our return trip home we traveled the same path, but with a longer layover.

While hanging out in LAX for four hours, an Oriental man,  his wife, and his daughter sat down across from us.   The man was sickly.  His waxy skin had a greyish-green cast to it.  His eyes were tired.    He had a wracking cough and spit blood into a handkerchief he kept in his pocket.

Now those of you who read and retain knowledge, have seen Tombstone, or watched ER or House, can imagine what was running through my head.

Tuberculosis.

I'll be your Huckleberry.

I have a friend at work, who swears that an Ebola monkey lives in my attic, because if some obscure, impossible to diagnose disease is floating around, my family gets it.  I  just knew Tuberculosis was in our  future.

While in Alaska, I don't know if it was the temperature change or allergies, but The Kid and I both got sick.  We coughed and we hacked and our noses ran down to our chins.   We were quite attractive for formal night pictures.

Being the OCD person I am, I was prepared for any eventuality. I had brought Benadryl, eye drops, cold medicine, Immodium,  muscle relaxers, Tylenol, painkillers, band-aids, Preparation H,  and Ex-lax.   You never know what you're gonna need when you're going to the land of whale blubber for fuel, but I was obviously expecting tummy trouble of some kind.

None of our meds were working with our sickness though , and  since we didn't know if Sick Bay was free  (we were on a cruise after all), we just sucked it up (literally) and went on all the glacier watching excursions we could.  (You gotta keep an eye on those glaciers.  They're fast.)

Taken with my iPhone during our tour on the Floatplane of Death.

We decided since allergy meds wouldn't work, it couldn't be allergy.   We ached all over, had a sore throat, a scary cough, and a nasty nose.   The cold and flu meds wouldn't touch it.   We deducted that it wasn't a cold.  It did feel a little like the flu though, so  we  I quickly decided that it was probably something obscure....an Eskimo Flu only known to the Great White North or possibly the deadly  Eskimo Malaria that results  from all the huge mosquitoes that live in the land of ice and grizzly bears or  maybe  the Bubonic Plague that's running around from all the fleas on the moose and caribou.   Obviously  I am not at all dramatic when I'm sick.   I named our mystery illness the EskimoBubonicMalariaFlu or Eskimo Malaria for short. ( I liked the double M in EskiMo and Malaria.)

Upon our arrival back in Seattle after the cruise, we took a couple of days to see the sights and soak up the culture that is Seattle.

One day while walking around Seattle, I started coughing and couldn't stop.  Some Japanese tourists looked over at me in disgust.   I pointed to myself and said, "Eskimo Malaria."  Their eyebrows shot off their faces and they RAN, not walked, RAN away from me, chattering excitedly.  I'm sure they were headed to buy surgical masks and antibiotics.

See? Even people in other countries know about the Ebola monkey in the attic.




**Footnote:  Upon returning to the Great State of Texas, we went to the doctor, who told us he had "no clue" what we had but put us on a broad spectrum antibiotic because we sounded "bad."    See?  The Doctor didn't even know about EskimoBubonicMalaria Flu.

The Jacked Up Finger

As you guys know, it's been forever since I've posted a blog.  For my fellow OCD type folks, it's been 47 days.  I'm sure some of the followers I had have moved on to greener and funnier pastures.   For the rest of you loyal, intelligent, amazingly interesting readers, here's a post (and I stick my tongue out at those of you who have left me, not that you'll see it because you're gone, but it makes me feel better).

I think we've all established that I'm a little uncoordinated, sometimes even a little unlucky.  If there had been a Most Likely to Trip on Nothing category in high school, I probably would have won hands down.   It's been this way all my life.  I also seem to be able to get the most amazingly obscure or strange sicknesses. My motto is if you're gonna do it, do it big.

Like the time I perforated my eardrum with a Q-tip.   I know, I know.  Q-Tips are from the devil. Don't put them in your ear.  Use a washcloth.  Use an ear candle.   Use your car key.

Whatever.

Nothing feels better than a little cotton swab swabbing out the ol' ear canal. I can almost have an eargasm, it feels so good.  Until it doesn't.

There I was one morning before work, cleaning out my ears, minding my own business, with no clue of the tragedy that was about to befall me.  As I had the Q-Tip in there swirling it about, I noticed that the mini-blinds were crooked.  There is nothing, other than liver, the word ain't,  and when people confuse they're, their and there, that I hate more than crooked mini-blinds.  We may be white trash, but you don't have to let the neighbors know it.  Fix the dang crooked mini-blinds, people!

I couldn't stand to leave the blinds that way, so there I was, cleaning and swirling my Q-Tip with my right hand and pulling up the mini-blind with my left, when tragedy struck.   I knocked the stupid decorative crap figurine off the window ledge.

Leaving the Q-Tip in my ear,  I went to grab the figurine with my right hand before it crashed on the tile. Unfortunately, my outstretched arm forced the unattended swab into my eardrum.  It was with a mighty pop, sudden deafness, and great pain and several curse words starting with the letter S that I realized what I had done.

Now imagine with me, if you will, what it is like to call up your boss and explain through your tears that you have to come in late, because you have just ruptured your own eardrum.

With a Q-Tip.

Imagine the muffled laughter you can hear from him.   Muffled because he put his hand over his phone or because I was NOW DEAF, I'll never know.

Imagine as well, calling the doctor, and the receptionist telling you she's sure you didn't burst it, because well, you just can't burst an eardrum that way.    Imagine going to the doctor and him telling you he's sure you can't rupture your eardrum with a cotton swab.  No one in the history of the world has done that.

Hello, Doctor.  Meet me.  The exception to the rule.

And then imagine him looking at your ear and saying, "Huh, who knew?  It's ruptured."

So let's flash forward together to March of this year.

A sweet friend of mine, Lori,  calls up and wants to go bowling.  Bowling?  Huge heavy weights being flung through the air?  Me?  What could go wrong?

Four months, two braces, four weeks of physical therapy so far, and two billion dollars later, I'll tell ya.

The ball could get stuck on your finger.  No, you will not fall down and fly down the alley.  This is not a cartoon.   You weigh more than the ball.   Instead, there will be a horrific rip and mighty pain and given my propensity for an occasional bad word or two, a curse word.

Then your finger could look like this.

Looks awesome, huh?

And like this..... Notice the awesome diagram for all you medical folks.

No, it's not my finger. No, not only dark skinned people are lucky enough to have a messed up finger.  These were just the best pics on Google I could find of fingers with my injury that weren't of jacked up old people.  When I was going through all of this, I never thought to take a picture.  I'll remember the next time I'm in pain and my finger is deformed to take a picture for you people.  Geez.

It's called a boutonniere deformity and apparently you get it because you are an awesome bowler.

Or because the ball gets stuck on your finger and as the weight of the twelve pound ball rips free from your finger to go straight into the gutter resulting in a 37 score for the game, it also rips and tears every damn  tendon in your finger.

Oh yeah.   Go big or go home, people.  Go big or go home.  Seriously, go home.  Don't go bowling.  That's the moral here.   Don't.  Go.  Bowling.

The awesome thing about this injury is it doesn't show up right away.   That would be too easy, right?   So when you go to the doctor and get xrays and MRIs, it doesn't show up.  No.  That's for easy things like broken bones.   THIS freakin' loveliness waits up to a month to pop up.  Sneaky little bastard injury.

There you are, singing through your life like Mary Poppins, twirling your umbrella, safe in your little world, thinking to yourself, "Self, my finger's not broken.   It's bruised.  The doctor said so.  Yes it's swollen up like a corny dog and hurts like Satan is doing the backstroke in it, but it's not broken.  Just bruised.  La.La La." And then you skip around some more in your ignorance, safe in the knowledge that your finger will be fine in a week or two. Except it's not.

One day your finger starts drawing up, and the next day a little more, and then a little more. The pain isn't getting better.  It's getting worse.  And suddenly, you can't straighten it anymore.  And you can't type. And you can't wash your own hair or wipe your own bottom.  And heaven forbid you hit it in the Mexican food restaurant on your purse, because you will lay down in the seat and cry like a little girl.   (I saw a lady do that one time.   Not me.)

So you go to a finger specialist who tells you that you have ruptured/torn/jacked up all the tendons in your finger and need to go to physical therapy or you might need surgery later.  And so you do.

And that my friends, is where we are today.  In therapy.   Oh, the irony.  For years, people have been telling me I need therapy.  I just don't think this is what  they meant.

I've got a brace I'm wearing supposed to be wearing all the time.   The goal is to make my finger flat, straight, and stiff.  This will make the tendons longer.  Another four weeks in it should do.  Then I'll be in therapy for another four weeks to fix the stiffness and the fact that once it's been in a brace that long my finger won't bend. First, it wouldn't straighten.  Then, it won't bend.   Good times are being had here, people. Good.  Times.

In the meantime, I'm going to start working on blog posts.   Slowly, but surely.    I've got a ton of stories built up.   It's kind of like constipation.

If I don't get them out, I'll explode.

And we wouldn't want to have to read a blog post about that.

Looking My Best

Growing up, my mother always said we needed to look our best.   I remember being a little girl and sitting transfixed by all the tubes, pots, and colors as she her put on her make-up.  I loved to watch  the transformation of my at-home-mommy to my on-the-go mommy.

When I was young, I don't remember very many days when she didn't have on make-up and nice clothes.  Mom would put on her make-up just to go outside and check the mail.   She always looked nice.   Always.  That made a huge impact on me.   Add that legacy to a Southern upbringing and spectacularly low self-esteem and you end up with a woman who will put on lipstick to the clean the toilet.  Though I must admit, I stopped that a bit after the Kid was born.  Sometimes on the weekends,  I don't even get out of the pjs I put on the day before.  (My husband's lucky, I know).  If I expect someone over or if I'm  planning on going somewhere, then I better look good.

 Especially if I'm going to the doctor.

The other day, I had a doctor's appointment for a suspected bladder infection/kidney infection.    (For those of you keeping score at home, yes I was right with my diagnosis.  That's the 9,453,362nd time I was right.  Yet, another reason I should have gone to medical school and made the big bucks. I have a better record than Dr. Gregory House. *sigh*)

I always dress up to go to the doctor.  It's not like I think because I have on heels the doctor will see me first or give me better care.  It's not that I'm trying to impress anyone in the waiting room.

 Wait.   Now that I think of it, why do I dress up?

If I looked like hell, I'm betting the doctor would believe me better when I say that my right kidney feels like a thousand knives are stabbing it and I would kill my own cat to make the pain and spasms stop.  That's why I couldn't even dress myself, doctor.... yeah...yeah... That's the ticket. Next time, I'm hurting I think I'll roll out of bed in my pajamas, with unbrushed teeth, and my wild, morning  Rosanne  Rosannadanna hair and make my doctor's appointment.   He'll believe me then, when I say I'm about to rob a Walgreens for penicillin to get rid of the infection.  Oh yeah.   I'm on to something now.   It's like the "Emergency Room Paradigm."   You always  seem to have to go to the ER when you look like a trailer park princess, smell like you rolled in dead possum, and have not painted your chipped toenails in a month. That's how you know it's an emergency, 'cause you didn't have time to put on a bra.

Oh,  is that just me?

So there I was, all dressed up, looking nice... heels, make-up, fresh lip gloss, sick and in pain and at the doctor. Now the black pants that I had on had been  itching me around the knee area, all day long.  I kept picking at it, scratching behind my knee, but it wouldn't go away.  It was about to drive me to distraction.  I even went to the bathroom a couple of times, just to look at the back of my leg and see if I had a rash.  I never found a thing, but there I would be later, walking along, teaching my kiddos, and the infernal itch would start again.   I couldn't figure it out and the itching was about to put me over the edge just like the bladder/kidney infection.

Once I got called back to see the doctor, I was told I had to pee in a cup.   As I made my way to the bathroom, I felt the itch again, this time almost on my ankle.   As I closed and locked the door, I looked down.  There, peeking out of the bottom of my pants, was a pair of  black lacy underwear.  I don't know how long they had been down there winking at the world.

Apparently, the static cling of the day had finally let go and there for all the word to see were my skivvies.

I'm thankful that they blended in with my black pants, and weren't, say, red and white striped.  I'm so thankful that it wasn't in front of my class when the panties decided to make their appearance.   I'm thankful that hopefully no one, but me saw.

 I'm sad that this isn't the first time it's happened.

I really should invest in some Bounce dryer sheets.