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That’s what I feel right now.
Because of my rip-roaring allergy attack from yesterday’s cleaning, I wizened up (just a tad) and took a Claritin as soon as I could shove down a piece of toast this morning. I’d struggled all night with sinus pressure and jaw pain (from so much sneezing is all I can think of) but did I get up and take anything then? Nope. Like I said, I’m only a little bit smarter since yesterday.
It’s now lunch time. It only took Mr. Claritin 4 hours to kick in. And I’m feeling mighty fuzzy. I can’t decide if I like that feeling or not.
On one hand, it’s delightful.
On the other, my extremities are freezing, I have the jitters and I have a hard time focusing.
ALL allergy medicine does this to me.
Wait a sec, that was a lie.
Children’s Benadryl doesn’t. If I take one tablet (just to give you a comparison, that’s what you’d give a 5-year-old) BEFORE the allergies kick in, it does the trick beautifully. Any more and I get the jitters. And it won’t do a darn thing if the allergies are already well underway.
But then again, either does Mr. Claritin. That’s why I didn’t both with it yesterday once I realized I needed it. That train had already left the station. I knew the only remedy was just survive the day and get to bed as soon as possible. I hate that. Let me tell you, I was one HOT, BEAUTIFUL sight for my man when he walked in the door after work! Wooo! It’s a wonder he could keep his hands off me.
Mr. Claritin makes me want to sleep… or curl up in a soft blanket with a book… Except when I try to read, this is what I see:
Hubby and I had a chance to take a fantastic trip to Kauai a few weeks ago. Most of our vacations are spent with family or with the kids. We do manage to get away overnight on our anniversaries usually but an extended trip? Nope. We’re talking Blue Moon here. Last time we went away like this was when Poppett was a baby. That was almost 8 years ago. We did have big plans for our 10th anniversary that included a week at a Jamaican resort. But then Lil Blue surprised us and was due the same month we’d planned to get away. We didn’t think it would be worth the citizenship hassle. So to say we were excited about this trip is putting it mildly.
I had beautiful dreams of blogging on the beach and blogging on the lanai (that’s a porch for all you non-hawaii-speaks) and blogging by the pool and blogging on a stool.. oops sorry. Forget that last one. The inner Dr. Seuss got the best of me.
Point is, I just was having too much fun cavorting around the island to spend much time on the computer. I barely even made contact with my own offspring who were left behind on the mainland. I apologize for the neglect.
We went with another couple which helped our budget immensely. We picked up lunch and breakfast items at Costco on the way from the airport to the condo. That way, we only ate out once a day for dinner and saved a bunch of money. Splitting the cost of the two-bedroom, two-bath condo and the rental car was another money saver.
Despite the fact that it rained almost the whole time we were there, we had a blast. (does that word date me? Oh well) We made a lot of mad-dashes from the car to viewpoints but it didn’t really matter. We were soaked in seconds most of the time. You just learned to wear a hat (to keep the rain out of your face and keep the hair from under some form of control) and be comfortable with being wet. Warm rain helped too.
One day we drove around the island to the North Shore… in the pouring rain of course. We stopped for some shave ice before heading home. For those of you who haven’t had shave ice from Hawaii, let me just tell you, it’s NOTHING like a snow cone. It’s super soft shavings of ice first of all, nothing like those snow cone ice chunks that end up forming together in a hard crust that you have then have use your bark-chewing-beaver-skills to get through. Or in my case, give up and just drink up the syrup off the bottom and toss the rest because trying to eat the ice is frankly too much work, too messy and too attention grabbing when out in public. Nothing like running into someone you know when you’re in the process of chipping a tooth on a snow cone and have syrup dripping off your cheeks, nose and chin and pooling up in a nice big stain on your shelf… for some of us, that shelf is made up of “the girls” – post-babies (‘nuf said) and for the rest of us, it’s our left-over baby-gut. Neither shelf needs any more attention brought to it than it’s already bringing on its own. AnyWHO, shave ice is not only as soft as eating snowflakes and flavored with all sorts of tropical delish-ish-ness, but the ice/snowflakes are surrounding a ball of ice cream, macadamia nut ice cream at that. It truly is a beautiful thing my friends.
While we were there, scarfing up shave ice, we met a delightful couple from the mainland who were also enjoying some shave ice, in the rain. We chatted and quickly found out that they were both retired. He from the Air Force and she from Mary Kay. Now, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before or not, but I’m a MK consultant too. Normally, in a situation like this, I would have immediately started talking shop with her and getting as many ideas from her as I could before she could pry my little hands off her arm and escape. This time however, I just hoped to high heaven that everyone in my group was too absorbed with their treats to make any comment. Alas, it was not to be. My wonderful friend, “S” piped up, “Hey! She’s Mary Kay too!” The sweet retired Mary Kay wonder-woman turned to me and smiled… and I desperately looked for hole in the ground to open up that I could throw myself into. Why? You might ask. Well, remember, we’d been skipping around the island IN THE RAIN. I didn’t have a lick of make-up on, I had a ratty boy’s baseball hat plastered to my head, a soaked bathing suit and cover up that were dripping off my body, and thanks to the sudden humidity of the island, a break out that rivaled any teenager’s raging hormonal case of acne anywhere on the face of the earth. Yep, I was one perfect Mary Kay specimen. I squashed the urge to kick my beautiful, well-meaning friend’s shins and instead tried to not sound desperate as I explained my very NON-Mary Kay appearance. The Mary Kay wonder-woman very sweetly tried to make me feel better by patting her perfectly formed hair and dry, CLEAR, make-up’d cheats and said she was sure she was sight too. Um, yeah, not quite the same. But she got Brownie points for trying to make me feel better.
Of course, I vowed never to leave the condo again unless it was to see a waterfall, swim, hike, sit on the beach, shop, check out tide pools or eat. I couldn’t risk being seen TWICE in that state after all.
Stay tuned… pictures are coming.
The braces are off my friends!!!
And all I can think about is how badly I want them back ON.
Pathetic isn’t it?!
Retainers aren’t all they are cracked up to be, let me tell you. My ortho tweaked the bottom one because of a slightly wayward tooth that he wanted to fix. So the bottom retainer is really tight. It hurts so bad to pop it off and on that I seriously consider whether or not I need to eat at meal time. I mean, how hungry am I really?! And how important is it that I brush my teeth with the retainers off?
I’m kidding, I’m kidding! I know I have to eat (otherwise I wouldn’t be able to take the Advil that’s pumping through my veins right now without getting sick) and I know I have to brush everything in my mouth separately… I just don’t want to.
At least with braces I could still talk.
All of a sudden, I have a lisp, I can’t enunciate and no one can understand me. I feel the need to explain to everyone I talk to, especially complete strangers, the reason “forth whyth I thpeakth the wayth I amth”.
To top it off… gulp! I’m so embarrassed to tell you…
I’ve even whistled a few times while speaking! We’re talking, a mid-sentence, totally loud WHISTLE resounding from my retainer.
Isn’t that horrifying?! When it happens, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe I should just immediately stop and holler out over my shoulder, “Train’s a comin’! Get outta the way!!” and then calmly turn back around to the person I was talking to and continue my sentence.
Think that’ll distract from the random retainer-whistle or draw more attention?! lol. Course, it’d sound more like this:
“Twainth a comin’!! Geth outtha wayth!!”
The absolute cherry on the top of all this is I get to wear these babies, 24/7 for a whole year! Then I get to go to just at night time.
Oh glory days.
No, I’m not going to “hound” you (get it?! Man I crack myself up!) with disgusting tales regarding the making hot dogs, don’t worry. I love hot dogs too much to get within 10 feet of a tv program or youtube link that divulges that information. I’d rather keep my blinders on and continue chowing down on ’em, thank you very much.
No, this is a little ol story about real dogs… in heat. Oh yes, I’m going THERE! I think a topic like this is pretty darn close to writing about your own female cycles so I shall try to type delicately so as not to offend any male readers… I just have to vent a bit.
Lucy, our just-turned-9-months-old Boxer, is in the throws of her first cycle. Now before you all jump on the Spay/Neuter Bandwagon, I’m already on it. There’s a couple reasons why we just haven’t had it done yet. First off, I had no idea she’d start so early. Seriously, an 8 month old puppy being a mama?! Yikes! Second of all, I had read a theory that if you wait until after the puppy’s first cycle before spaying them, they tend to settle down and mature faster. While I was contemplating trying this method out, Hubby and I hadn’t actually come to a decision yet.
So Lucy made it for us.
Did you know that dogs are in heat for almost a MONTH??!!! I think if I’d been aware of that fact earlier, I’d have been waiting on the vet’s doorstep the very next morning with Lucy in my lap, begging for him to squeeze her in that very day.
Another not-so-fun fact: Dogs in heat are messy. Did you know that? Pet shops sell these funky diaper strap-on thingies for this very issue. Think about that though for just a minute. Seriously, who wants to change one of those?! That’s just as bad as having to hose down the patio every evening. That was the option I chose by the way…. hosing down the patio on a daily basis. Course, it probably wasn’t the cheaper choice. Given our current drought issues, the water was probably just as expensive as the Doggie-Rag-Pads. Oops! Sorry. That wasn’t very delicate at all, was it?!
Thankfully, we don’t have a lot of strays in our neighborhood. In fact, the only ones I see are usually neutered neighborhood escapees. So I wasn’t too worried about Lucy finding a Baby Daddy… That is, until a lovely friend of mine pointed out the fact that coyotes roam the area on occasion (usually when their food becomes scare and they decide the neighborhood kitties would make a nice snack) and oh, how funky-looking of a litter would Lucy have with a coyote!! … and then she laughed.
It’s amazing to me how, as soon as one realizes one’s sweet, innocent puppy is in heat and there’s even a remote possibility that a hornymale coyote is nearby, one suddenly begins to doubt the sturdiness of each and every fence board and post that is involved in the perimeter of one’s backyard. One begins a sunrise/sunset inspection ritual that involves a visual and “wiggle” check of each fence board. Oh and don’t forget the daily hole digging check too… on both sides of the fence line. One never knows when said puppy might try to dig her way out in shear desperation or a testosterone-pumped, leather-clad, slick-haired, bad-boy coyote might try to dig his way in. You know, if the fence happens to hold up against the brute-force attempts.
Needless to say, I’m feeling very OCD lately. Ever watch “Obsessed” on A&E? That’s me right now. I check the gate latch only about 50 bazillion times every day. Even though 6 months ago Hubby installed a spring hinge on the gate so that it will close itself after he a child has walked through and forgotten to close it. Nope. Doesn’t matter. I still have to check it. Thankfully I can see the latch from my kitchen window. Otherwise, I might sweat a few pounds away with those 50 bazillion daily checks in our 100+ degree summer heat. And we couldn’t have that now, could we?!
While the fact that MY dog being in heat is mighty depressing to me. The stories of other people’s dogs in heat are still pretty funny. Pioneer Woman’s Innocent-city-girl-exposed-to-the-wilds-of-the-animal-kingdom story is HILARIOUS! You must go read it.
I’m headed there again just so I can laugh and break up my OCD a little for this hour of the day.
Then I have to go do a perimeter check.
And I broke it to smithereens.
And to add insult to injury injury to insult, I cut my hand up in the process. Of course.
Most were tiny superficial cuts. No big deal but they sure helped earn more sympathy from the bystanders in my kitchen. I did have one significant cut that worried me. A nice flap, about 3/4 of an inch in length that sat right at the base of my thumb, close to my wrist. Of course. Because we all know that cuts near a joint heal so easily with all that movement going on.
So, as everyone scurried around me, very efficiently sweeping up glass, holding children at bay (why is it that children are drawn like magnets to a scene of disaster that they could easily get hurt in too?! Seriously! They come out of the woodwork at the sound of breaking glass! But that’s a topic for another time), vacuuming and moping up every last fleck of injury-causing glass splinters, I stood there, paper towel clamped to my wrist, inwardly wringing my hands at the thought of my sister-in-law’s broken glass bowl. I was frantically trying to remember who gave her the bowl set and therefore the sentimental value possibly attached to it. I was distraught at the thought of a memory I couldn’t replace. Oh, I would replace the bowl alright. Even if I had to scour Ebay for months in the wee hours of every morning. But what if my my precious mother-in-law (who passed away suddenly 8 years ago) had given her the set?! My heart absolutely seized up and refused to beat at that thought. Seriously.
My sister-in-law of course was amazingly gracious, turning down my offer of the same bowl in my own set, and joked about setting her dad on the hunt for a new bowl, since he always has to have something to hunt for.
Sorry. Did my title say a conspiracy? Oh! Yeah! That’s right. There is one. I promise. It’s coming up…
Hubby and I quickly glued the cut together and steri-striped it for support. In the process, we realized that I would need to go buy some more First Aid glue since what we had on hand was drying up. Shock of all shocks, we actually haven’t had to use it at all the last 6 months! That’s a record for us I’m sure.
And herein lies the conspiracy… thanks for hanging in there for so long… Me? Long winded? Naahhhhh!
I can’t find that darn glue anywhere! Not grocery stores, not pharmacies, not corner markets, not street corner drug dealers… (I KID on that last one!)
It’s gone. **POOF** Gone!
Wake up! Wakie, wakie! **shaking computer monitor** Rise and shine! Here’s my theory finally!
I think the Government has pulled all the First Aid glue off the store shelves.
**Gasps of Horror**
Why would They do this? Well, I think it’s just one more step of Them pulling power away from individuals and keeping it to Themselves.
If we can’t glue our own flaps of skin together at home, we’ll be forced to spend hours in the ER, waiting to be seen by an overworked, exhausted doctor (if you’re lucky) and billed for hundreds of dollars by our insurance company for months down the road.
There! I said it!
I’m already designing my protest signs.
“Let Us Glue Ourselves!”
“Hands Off Our Superficial Wounds!!”
“I May Have Had Less Training But I’ve Had More Sleep!”
I know there have to be much whitier slogans to write but I haven’t had my second cup of coffee after being woken up 8 times last night by a toddler with nightmares… err, I mean, umm, my fingers still waking up from my 18 hours of REM sleep last night?
Yeah! That’s it!
What would your sign say?
Please pipe in if you know where I can get some First Aid glue. Like, serious glue, folks. Not that Liquid Bandage stuff. It’s great and all but only for covering wounds, not holding skin flaps together while they heal.
Meanwhile I’m going to stock up on regular ol super glue. Next thing you know, the Government’ll catch wind that desperate wounded people will resort to gluing their gashes with Super Glue. Then **POOF** it’ll silently disappear off the store shelves too.
Mark my words.
Just remember you heard it hear first.
Note added: No that’s not my pyrex collection in the picture at the top. But I wish it was. I think I’d sit on the floor and just stare at it all day and let the dirty lowly plastic dishes pilled up in the sink. That picture is just beautiful to me.
I overheard a hilarious conversation earlier today. K, a 4 year old friend and girl, and Lil Blue, my 2 year old son, were outside playing around on the bikes. I heard a bunch of babbling going on so I tuned my supersonic mommy-hearing in to fine-tune the babble…
K,”Yeah! And you know what? When I was three I couldn’t use the pedals but now I’m big and I can”
LB, “Oh! Yeah! eyoi soi choo! Cows POOOOP!” (face scrunched in gross-out expression)
K, “…and I also couldn’t get my shoes on, or brush my hair but now I’m BIG and I can do EVERYthing!” (staring at her cute shoes as she pedals around the back yard)
LB,”Oh! Yeah! babble crabble soo-soo AAAAAHHHHH! Horse POOOOOOOP!! (again, face scrunched in expression of extreme gross out)
K,”…yeah, I love to dress up. I do it all the time” (twirling around, again staring at her cute shoes)
LB, starting to tune her out since he has no more animal poop statements…
K, “…and I’ve memorized all my multiplication tables and I’m learning to divide and figure square roots. Last night, just for fun, I started reading War and Peace” (this time twirling a section of her hair with her fingers)
LB, completely tuned out now and sucking on the muzzle of a (plastic) squirt gun while holding the grip with both hands and pedaling around on his trike.
Okay, so K didn’t really say anything about her multiplication knowledge or reading skills. I tend to exaggerate just a tad. But that’s what she might as well as said since I felt like my 2 year old was the blunt caveman of the pair. I almost expected him to blurt out something like, “Fire HOT. Me HUNGRY. You COOK!”
Actually, that might be a little too much vocab for him. We’ve got a few more animal pooping facts to work through before he’s ready to move on to more caveman vocabulary. Hmmm, should we discuss sheep, pigs or birds at lunchtime today?
** as a side note, the whole pooping statements started last week when we were at Poppet’s riding lesson. LB and I were talking and petting the horses when one moved to just the right angle to completely display his pooping excellence to us. LB just stood there, two feet from the action, his eyes bugging out of his head and a very serious furrow to his brow. The pooping comments have been never ending ever since. And he’ll throw ’em down at any given moment. He likes to show off like that. **
*** As an additional side note, there’s nothing quite so soothing to a frazzled, over-analyzing momma brain, than to see her young son walking around with the muzzle of a gun in his mouth. Yeaaahhh… I’m going to have nightmarish mental flashes of that one for eternity **
If you play Josh Groban’s “Noel” album loud enough while on a solo road trip, you can sing along at the top of your lungs (the truckers love to see any motions you might be inclined tothrow in while in the midst of your dream-duet-world too) and still convince yourself that you sound JUST LIKE Faith Hill.
So what if it really is Faith Hill’s voice you hear and that you’ve just drowned out your own squeaky, off-key vocal cords?! Hey, on a solo road trip, it’s your world Baby.
And no one puts me in a corner. (Name that movie!)
Unless of course I’m singing at the top of my lungs. But even then it’s not a corner. It’s more like a coat closet… or tool shed… as far away from humans ears as possible. Well, doggy ears don’t care for my singing much either.
It’s been a long time since I made a road trip on my own. A veerrryyyyyy long time. I think abut 8 years. Usually I’m stopping for countless potty breaks or to release the kids to run off some energy before I completely lose it and Hubby has to check me into the Looney Bin while I calmly use those few minutes to bulldoze clean the trash out of the van. This time was sooo different. The time seriously flew by while I played Christmas album after Christmas album at top volume. That sentence included two things I NEVER get to do: play my music for longer than 5 minutes (before swapping it out for Mickey’s Christmas album or a Veggie Tale sing along) and playing music LOUD. And folks, it really was loud. I had no fear of damaging tender young eardrums in the backseat. Since I have a 2 second memory, if my own drums aren’t in tip top shape, at least I can blame my forgetting to pick up my teenage boys from baseball practice on the fact that I didn’t HEAR that they needed a ride to begin with. Heh, heh… my brain may not be too sharp but it sure is crafty! This ol girl is a planner!
(Note to my mother and anyone else who is now concerned about my ears, no real drum damage was done during the road trip. I promise)
You might be wondering why I was able to make said road trip alone after so many years of traveling in a Pack. Well, my wonderful Hubby sent me on my happy little way while holding back said Pack from chasing me down and attaching themselves to my various extremities as I walked out of the house. He’s my hero. Not only that, my road trip was supposed to only be a two day leave but he called the morning of the second day and told me to take a third day. What a man! What also needs to be stated is the fact that that third day involved him watching four additional children (that would mean eight munchkins under 9 for those of you keeping track) for a couple hours while my friend T picked up food for us at our food co-op. I’m telling you, he not only earned enough points with me to carry him through all of ’09, he earned praise from T also.
Back off gals, he’s MINE! =0)
Unfortunately the reason for my road trip wasn’t a happy one, well, I guess it just depends on your perspective. My best friend from high school, M, her dad passed away the week of Thanksgiving after a year and a half long battle with cancer. I’m so thankful I was able to make it to his Memorial service. While it is heartbreaking to think of her family without him around (his pranks, goofy laugh, steadfast support and Godly example will leave a huge hole), you can’t help but rejoice through the tears, knowing that he’s free of pain and sickness and in the Presence of his Savior. He’s going to be cookin’ up one whopper of a prank for us all when we join him.
Gulp! Hope he couldn’t hear my roadtrip serenades! Oi! I can just imagine the razzing he’d give me over them. =0)
We don’t watch a whole lot of TV but I think I need to quit watching kid shows. Am I the only one who can’t help but dance to Sid The Science Kid’s theme music? It’s just too grrooovvvvyyy. I was a bit wary of the phrase, “can I show you how I groove?” that’s in the song but since her “groove” doesn’t involve any naked belly buttons, hip thrusts, cleavages or pants so low that the sides g-string panties show and in fact she looks like a very studious, appropriately dressed little girl with some cute, calm, innocent dance moves… well, I deemed it harmless.
You’ll have to excuse me, I’m feeling the need to break out my funky, totally-white-girl, groove right here, right now…
And then I’m going to search for a therapist.
Problem was, it wasn’t a cloth diaper.
Yeah, that’s right. The Queen of Multi-tasking (it’s a pet name I gave myself) threw a load of laundry in the washer this morning, trying to get a head start on the day by getting laundry done early. 45 minutes later, I paused the homeschooling, the cooking, the weeding, the canning AND the dusting (am I convincing anyone? No?! What?! Ya don’t believe me?! You’re right, everyone knows I hate dusting…), to switch the load to dryer. I opened the lid and blindly reached inside and grabbed a handful of clothes. As I brought them up to eye-level, I gasped at the sight of white stuff all over my handful of dark clothes.
“Man! I hate it when I miss a tissue! Who on earth left a tissue in their pocket?! No one’s sick or suffering from allergies, there’s no reason to even have a tissue near a pocket!” I fumed to myself. But, upon closer inspection, I realized that this substance had a gel-like texture to it. It wasn’t linty at all. In fact, it almost looked like little balls.
I was at a loss. I couldn’t think for the life of me what this stuff could be. But I started grabbing clothes and shaking them outside to rid them of as much mystery substance as possible. I was still wracking my brain when, as I shook out another handful of clothes, a diaper flew out. And not a little diaper. This puppy weighed about 69 pounds. Apparently, last night, when I threw the stack of dirty clothes in the laundry after bathing the kids, I hadn’t realized that there was a diaper in there somewhere.
As I continued cleaning out the washer, I found myself thanking the Lord that it was only a pee diaper. After all, it had two of my brand new, favorite tops in the load. Forget everyone else’s clothes, it’s not very often that mom gets new items to freshen up her dull wardrobe with!
All of a sudden, I panicked. I remember that last night’s diaper, before showers, was a POOPY one! (I’m sorry friends , it’s definitely TMI but I just have to share every emotion and thought) My first reaction was to dry heave. Phew! With that out of the way, I continued down the path of reactions… hysteria, screaming, crying, gnashing of teeth, and frantically checking the necessary parts of the diaper to see if there was anything left… but there was nothing there.
Now, I love my washer and dryer as much as any other mother who has experienced truckin’ loads of laundry to a Laundromat after a washer has kicked the bucket (toting a toddler to top it off), but my washer isn’t THAT good. There’s no way it could wash out and dispense of every single hint of a stinking dirty diaper from a FULL load of clothes. So what was up?
Then I remembered. Hallelujah! That nasty diaper from the previous night had been disposed of right away. So this diaper must have been a previous, only pee-ed in one. And the clouds parted and sun streamed through, illuminating my four munchkins who clustered together and broke out in the Hallelujah chorus. It was a beautiful moment.
And then reality hit with a thud. I still had a washer full of gel balls to clean out. And a wet load to run through it again. Had to be sure I rid my new clothes of all gel residue before hanging them up to dry. Those gel balls? Not so easy to clean up. You know how hard it is to drag those little boogers off a baby’s fanny when the little darlin has sat in a wet diaper just a tad too long? What I mean to say is, I’ve heard how hard they are to actually wipe off and not just drag around in a figure 8 pattern from one chubby, dimply fanny-cheek to the other. I’ve never experienced personally. Nope. My children were/are always changed every 43 minutes exactly. Uh, huh. That’s right. See my halo?
What?! You don’t?! Darn it! Where’d that thing go? I know it’s around here somewhere…
it’s probably right next to my “Mother of the Year” award and my “Leader of the Laundry Fairies” Trophy…