She was my 3rd grade teacher, and she rawked. She was beautiful and smart and funny, and she took no crap from the "bad kids," even though at 9 years old, many of them were already taller than her. That was the first year we got homework, and I remember feeling so responsible and grown up. That was also the year I got glasses (she called me up to her desk one day and say, "Mija, you keep squinting at the blackboard. You need to get those big ojos chocolates checked."), and I just had to have some "gold" aviator frames just like hers. And if I could have gotten away with it, I would have asked my mom for a matching macrame dress and wedgies, too. She was The Shit. So - much love, Mrs. DT, wherever you are.
My Peachy Pie starts her 3rd year at GGMS tomorrow, and she couldn't be more excited. I swear she would have gone back a month ago if they'd have let her. She spent Friday afternoon with her BBFF from school, and they pretty much talked non-stop about school. And not just the fun stuff, but school school, and how they can't wait to get to work. She got a precious letter from her teacher, talking about how she and the other 3rd years are going to be leaders this year with lots of opportunities to help others. Peach really takes that role to heart, and she can't wait to get in there and mix it up with the new kids.
T-Bone and I both love GGMS and have been beyond pleased with Peach's success. Now we're very excited for Olive to finally drink the Montessori Kool-Aid there, too. She had two pre-visits last week, and she starts on Wednesday, feeling very big to be going to school with her "sis." Both my little brainiacs, flying the coop together. Sigh.
I know I have to give you the work update, but all this GD crutching around has me punchy and braindead enough, so I'd rather NOT think about that unfortunate inevitability. These stitches are supposed to come out in the next couple of days, and T-Bone assures me he can do it for me. I know he's a doctor and all, but let's just say I'm not totally comfortable with the idea. I mean, I've played Operation with the guy and beat his ass pretty soundly. Stay tuned ...
August 24, 2008
August 20, 2008
I Blew Out My Flip Flop* UPDATED!
Stepped on a ... seashell. THAT'S how I ended up with four stitches in the mutha effin' ARCH of my left foot. See, as opposed to the idyllic beach vacations had by some of my blogging pals, mine ended in blood and shots and an ER doc who couldn't quit telling me how old I was to have a 4 year old. Really. And blood.
Let me the set scene for you. Last Saturday, we bounded out of bed at the coastal condo of dear old family friends, ready to hit the beach. And here's what happened:
11:03 am - We pay $4 to the nice lady in the booth for the pleasure of parking on the beach.
11:05 am - We find the "perfect spot" and begin The Unloading of kids and chairs and towels and beach toys and a cooler, etc..
11:15 am - We begin The Application of The Sunscreen.
11:28 am - We hit the water, which is warm and shallow as the beach is basically a man-made sandbar, with some patches of seaweed or grass or whatever here and there.
11:30 am - The clouds begin to roll in.
11:32 am - Darkness falls across the land, and we see several bolts of lightning in the distance, coming ever closer.
11:33 am - We decide to pack it up and come back after lunch, weather (or near-death experiences) permitting.
11:34 am - As Peach and I are exiting the water, through some of that seaweed or grass or whatever, I step on Something, and think, "Oh. I just stepped on Something."
11:35 am - We hit the beach and Peach says, "Mommy, I stepped on something a little sharp." I reply, "Yeah - me too." To which T-Bone says, "BABE! Your foot!"
11:36 am - I am now standing in what looks like the contents of an entire bottle of ketchup, mixed with sand. I shit you not. Strangely, it doesn't hurt, but I am terrified that Peach has done the same thing. While standing on one leg, I grab her foot for a quick inspection, and she does have a small scrape, but no blood. I'm doing the bleeding for the both of us, apparently.
11:37 am - As the rain starts to fall, I alert Mama Turista to the situation, trying my best not to freak out the children, and then I bleed some more and quickly begin The Loading.
11:38 am - Ever Johnny-on-the-Spot, Papa Turista appears with his First Aid kit and a bottle of water, and cleans and wraps me up the best he can in this totally ridiculous situation.
11:46 am - We're back in the car, sandy and bloody, and on our way out, we ask the nice lady in the booth where one might get stitches if one needed such a thing. And she directs us to "The EMS Place" over there by the post office. Okay.
So here's where it gets even more ridiculous. As if that's possible. We drop the majority of the crew back at the condo, and Papa Turista ferries me to The EMS Place, which turns out to be some kind of compound situation, and there are no cars or, you know, SIGNS to show us where to go or any signs of life or anything. We finally spot one that says, "Yes! We're Open!" and I think, "Gee - that doesn't sound very medical. But maybe it's the copious amounts of blood I've lost." I hobble up to the door of what appears to be a craft fair or fund-raising bazaar (for The EMS Place?) or some shit, with a bunch of blue hairs sitting at folding tables, eating lunch and quilting. They point me in the direction of another building in the compound, and dammit, if PT and I didn't walk around that entire place, trying 8 different sets of doors, and there weren't nobody home. As I retrace my bloody footprint back to the car, thanking God that I'm not in labor or something, I realize that PT has now called 911. Shit. I hear him say, "Yeah, we're here at The EMS Place, over here by the post office. No, it's my daughter who cut her foot. Yeah. She's 40." Oh. My. God. And not only am I light-headed from the trauma and blood and sheer stupidity of the whole thing, but now the rain has stopped, and I am melting in the 90 degree/2000% humidity those poor coastal bastards consider a good weather day.
So we wait. I bleed. And after 10 minutes, PT calls 911 AGAIN. The dispatcher apologizes and says, "Oh, they was at lunch. They should be along directly." And that's when I heard the sirens. The entire fleet (all two of them) of The EMS Place comes roaring into the parking lot, and three EMTs bust out of the back of one of the trucks and drag me over to it. I had never set foot in an ambulance, and I have to say, the sterileness and equipment organization was lovely. If they got better gas mileage, I might be interested in one myself. After a quick assessment, and mad props for PT's First Aid skillz, they suggested I go to the county hospital for stitches, and in fact, offered to take me there, guns blazing. I declined, several times (I think they were bored or training somebody or something), and they wrapped me back up and sent me on my way.
The county hospital was about 15 miles away, and it is exactly what you would expect a tiny county hospital to be. Complete with NASCAR blaring in the ER waiting room. Luckily, we were the only ones there, so I got in and out pretty quickly, if not painlessly. Y'all. I had never had stitches before, even after berfing two babies, and those numbing shots hurt like SHIT. The doc really scrubbed my wound (I hate that word) and decided that the Something that I (and probably Peach) stepped on was a seashell, of which he found evidence in the gaping gash across the bottom of my foot. Through it all, he kept marveling that I was "so old" and "waited so long" to have such young children, and if he hadn't been elbow deep in my flesh and armed with lots of needles, I would have politely ripped him a new one. Or at least made sure that he wouldn't be making any more babies any time soon. Dumbass.
After a trip to Walmart (natch) to pick up my antibiotic prescription (it really was $4, just like in that commercial) and some gauze pads, you know, for the BLOOD, we were back at the condo by about 3 pm. Peach and Olive had been enjoying the pool, and with the arrival of my nephew Opie, they wanted to head back to the (now) sunny beach. So they did. WITH shoes on. And I stayed behind, hopping around the condo until the numbness wore off, and I started reconsidering my refusal of painkillers. I finally gave in and called Dr. Chauvinist, M.D., who called in a prescription to - yep - Walmart. I swear, I don't know what I was thinking before. ALWAYS get the pain meds, my lovelies.
On Sunday, we completed the Walmart trifecta by purchasing some badly-needed crutches (who knew they sold crutches?) because that hopping shit was getting old fast. Like me. I have been to the beach hundreds, nay thousands, of times in my life, without incident, and in one fail swoop, I step on Something and nearly lose a foot and get stitches and crutches for my trouble. And the one thing that escaped me until much much later, after I had bled and traipsed all over the friggin' county, was that I was wearing my GD bathing suit the whole time. In front of God and everybody. Need more painkillers ...
* Actually, Jimmy, I was barefoot at the time. Also, you're an idiot.
UPDATE: Look what I found left up on my computer this morning. This is why I love T-Bone so.
Let me the set scene for you. Last Saturday, we bounded out of bed at the coastal condo of dear old family friends, ready to hit the beach. And here's what happened:
11:03 am - We pay $4 to the nice lady in the booth for the pleasure of parking on the beach.
11:05 am - We find the "perfect spot" and begin The Unloading of kids and chairs and towels and beach toys and a cooler, etc..
11:15 am - We begin The Application of The Sunscreen.
11:28 am - We hit the water, which is warm and shallow as the beach is basically a man-made sandbar, with some patches of seaweed or grass or whatever here and there.
11:30 am - The clouds begin to roll in.
11:32 am - Darkness falls across the land, and we see several bolts of lightning in the distance, coming ever closer.
11:33 am - We decide to pack it up and come back after lunch, weather (or near-death experiences) permitting.
11:34 am - As Peach and I are exiting the water, through some of that seaweed or grass or whatever, I step on Something, and think, "Oh. I just stepped on Something."
11:35 am - We hit the beach and Peach says, "Mommy, I stepped on something a little sharp." I reply, "Yeah - me too." To which T-Bone says, "BABE! Your foot!"
11:36 am - I am now standing in what looks like the contents of an entire bottle of ketchup, mixed with sand. I shit you not. Strangely, it doesn't hurt, but I am terrified that Peach has done the same thing. While standing on one leg, I grab her foot for a quick inspection, and she does have a small scrape, but no blood. I'm doing the bleeding for the both of us, apparently.
11:37 am - As the rain starts to fall, I alert Mama Turista to the situation, trying my best not to freak out the children, and then I bleed some more and quickly begin The Loading.
11:38 am - Ever Johnny-on-the-Spot, Papa Turista appears with his First Aid kit and a bottle of water, and cleans and wraps me up the best he can in this totally ridiculous situation.
11:46 am - We're back in the car, sandy and bloody, and on our way out, we ask the nice lady in the booth where one might get stitches if one needed such a thing. And she directs us to "The EMS Place" over there by the post office. Okay.
So here's where it gets even more ridiculous. As if that's possible. We drop the majority of the crew back at the condo, and Papa Turista ferries me to The EMS Place, which turns out to be some kind of compound situation, and there are no cars or, you know, SIGNS to show us where to go or any signs of life or anything. We finally spot one that says, "Yes! We're Open!" and I think, "Gee - that doesn't sound very medical. But maybe it's the copious amounts of blood I've lost." I hobble up to the door of what appears to be a craft fair or fund-raising bazaar (for The EMS Place?) or some shit, with a bunch of blue hairs sitting at folding tables, eating lunch and quilting. They point me in the direction of another building in the compound, and dammit, if PT and I didn't walk around that entire place, trying 8 different sets of doors, and there weren't nobody home. As I retrace my bloody footprint back to the car, thanking God that I'm not in labor or something, I realize that PT has now called 911. Shit. I hear him say, "Yeah, we're here at The EMS Place, over here by the post office. No, it's my daughter who cut her foot. Yeah. She's 40." Oh. My. God. And not only am I light-headed from the trauma and blood and sheer stupidity of the whole thing, but now the rain has stopped, and I am melting in the 90 degree/2000% humidity those poor coastal bastards consider a good weather day.
So we wait. I bleed. And after 10 minutes, PT calls 911 AGAIN. The dispatcher apologizes and says, "Oh, they was at lunch. They should be along directly." And that's when I heard the sirens. The entire fleet (all two of them) of The EMS Place comes roaring into the parking lot, and three EMTs bust out of the back of one of the trucks and drag me over to it. I had never set foot in an ambulance, and I have to say, the sterileness and equipment organization was lovely. If they got better gas mileage, I might be interested in one myself. After a quick assessment, and mad props for PT's First Aid skillz, they suggested I go to the county hospital for stitches, and in fact, offered to take me there, guns blazing. I declined, several times (I think they were bored or training somebody or something), and they wrapped me back up and sent me on my way.
The county hospital was about 15 miles away, and it is exactly what you would expect a tiny county hospital to be. Complete with NASCAR blaring in the ER waiting room. Luckily, we were the only ones there, so I got in and out pretty quickly, if not painlessly. Y'all. I had never had stitches before, even after berfing two babies, and those numbing shots hurt like SHIT. The doc really scrubbed my wound (I hate that word) and decided that the Something that I (and probably Peach) stepped on was a seashell, of which he found evidence in the gaping gash across the bottom of my foot. Through it all, he kept marveling that I was "so old" and "waited so long" to have such young children, and if he hadn't been elbow deep in my flesh and armed with lots of needles, I would have politely ripped him a new one. Or at least made sure that he wouldn't be making any more babies any time soon. Dumbass.
After a trip to Walmart (natch) to pick up my antibiotic prescription (it really was $4, just like in that commercial) and some gauze pads, you know, for the BLOOD, we were back at the condo by about 3 pm. Peach and Olive had been enjoying the pool, and with the arrival of my nephew Opie, they wanted to head back to the (now) sunny beach. So they did. WITH shoes on. And I stayed behind, hopping around the condo until the numbness wore off, and I started reconsidering my refusal of painkillers. I finally gave in and called Dr. Chauvinist, M.D., who called in a prescription to - yep - Walmart. I swear, I don't know what I was thinking before. ALWAYS get the pain meds, my lovelies.
On Sunday, we completed the Walmart trifecta by purchasing some badly-needed crutches (who knew they sold crutches?) because that hopping shit was getting old fast. Like me. I have been to the beach hundreds, nay thousands, of times in my life, without incident, and in one fail swoop, I step on Something and nearly lose a foot and get stitches and crutches for my trouble. And the one thing that escaped me until much much later, after I had bled and traipsed all over the friggin' county, was that I was wearing my GD bathing suit the whole time. In front of God and everybody. Need more painkillers ...
* Actually, Jimmy, I was barefoot at the time. Also, you're an idiot.
UPDATE: Look what I found left up on my computer this morning. This is why I love T-Bone so.
August 18, 2008
Back in 15 Minutes. Give or Take.
I swear I have not forsaken thee, dear reader(s?), but I've been a bit bizeee these past two weeks. Here's what I've been up to since we last spoke:
- Had my first mammogram (twas normal, thanks)
- Interviewed for and was offered two jobs (more on that later)
- Had my first head-between-the-knees-paperbag-needing hyperventilation episode (see above)
- Spent my first night ever without Peach and Olive in the house
- Went "out" twice in one week for the first time in 8+ years
- Watched a shitload of Olympic swimming
- Found evidence of "field mice" (NOT rats) in my flower bed
- Sat inside my first ambulance (more on THAT later)
- Got my first stitches (ditto)
- And my first crutches (oy)
I know. Glamorous, right? Well, at least Mrs. Squirrel thinks so, as she awarded me some Order of Blogging KickAssery trophy or something. See:
August 5, 2008
I Am An Official Cougar
So the planets aligned in just such a way that I was at Target yesterday and spotted a lone Wii Fit, sitting in its little locked case, calling to me to spring it. I've been tempted before, and for the past couple of months, Papa Turista has been on one of his hell-bent-for-leather missions to get me one for my birthday. It was really meant to be, you see, because when I called to tell him to call off the dogs, the eagle has landed, and all that, I actually GOT him on the phone - which never happens on the first 30 tries. So I took it as a sign, a $89.99 + tax sign, to buy the GD thing. And so I did, and we hooked it up last night, and my new workout Mii is named - wait for it - Mama Miia. And you know what else? Even though T-Bone and I had nearly identical BMI scores (which I'm sure is not a good thing for one us, probably me, but we were at least in the "normal" category), his Wii Fit age is a full 16 YEARS younger than mine. So at the ripe old Wii age of 43, I have trapped me a 27 year old cub. Or pup. Or yearling or whatever.
Must now return to my Weather Channel vigil as all of Mama Turista's family lives in the Galveston area. I called to check on my grandmother last night, and she told me she had already battened down the hatches and was watching the Teen Choice Awards(!) because that "sweet Little David from The Idol" was going to be on. She's 90. God only knows what else she had to endure before she saw him. And yes, I'm expecting a call any minute so I can confirm for her "just which one of those brothers is named Jonah."
Must now return to my Weather Channel vigil as all of Mama Turista's family lives in the Galveston area. I called to check on my grandmother last night, and she told me she had already battened down the hatches and was watching the Teen Choice Awards(!) because that "sweet Little David from The Idol" was going to be on. She's 90. God only knows what else she had to endure before she saw him. And yes, I'm expecting a call any minute so I can confirm for her "just which one of those brothers is named Jonah."
August 3, 2008
Sunglasses at Night
According to our outdoor thermometer, it was 104 today. That's 4 degrees over "way too effin' hot." Seriously, I'm a Native Texan, and I know it gets hot in the summer. And the spring. And the fall. And December. But HOLY Lord, this is ridiculous. Last summer, we hardly went outside because of all the rain. Remember that stuff? This summer, we're held captive by the very real fear of spontaneously exploding into a ball of flames every time we open the door. And did I mention that our house faces due WEST? Yeah, so late afternoon and early evening are a barrel of fun if you're sitting in the living room, what with the blinding prism rays from the cut glass in the front door shooting all over the place, burning your retinas. And doing wonders for my proclivity for light-induced migraines. Yay! We knew when we built the house that this might be "an issue," but we sure as hell weren't anticipating actual crippling injury to person and property because of it. I do, however, deeply love everything else about our house, so if I have to avoid certain areas (like the entire front half of the house) for a few hours each day, then so be it. So suck on that, Mr. Sun, you asshole.
Speaking of assholes, we've chosen to avoid the heat by staying indoors a good portion of the day, and I can now officially say that I hate anyone named Michael and/or who has a Hobby and/or who lives in a building with a Lobby. It looks like a GD craft store exploded in my kitchen. And now I'm off to finish my sparkly unicorn hook rug oven mitts.
Speaking of assholes, we've chosen to avoid the heat by staying indoors a good portion of the day, and I can now officially say that I hate anyone named Michael and/or who has a Hobby and/or who lives in a building with a Lobby. It looks like a GD craft store exploded in my kitchen. And now I'm off to finish my sparkly unicorn hook rug oven mitts.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)