Tuesday, January 24, 2012

She did it again!

Our winter holidays started out as normally as they could have, considering who we are.  We had our annual dinner and gift exchange at the in-laws' after church on Christmas Eve, which is always a great time; dinner was wonderful, conversation was even better and there was wine.  Yay, MOSCATO!

It seems like every holiday, something happens that I simply MUST write about because...(because I'm an obsessive over-sharing maniac) because I'm a blogger.  Sharing the mundane stuff like this is my life, my passion. 

This year, Christmas was full of blog-worthy stuffs to relay to you, gentle reader.  Sadly, the majority of it was lost on Christmas morning because that is when tragedy struck.

I'm getting ahead of myself (again).


A Holiday On Hold
The girls each got a new pair of warm, fuzzy, stay-at-home-socks in their Christmas stockings from jolly old Saint Nicholas.  They love All Things Soft and Fluffy, so of course they put them on immediately.   This is important.  Trust me.

After the last present was opened, the plan was for the kids and The Man to clean up the mess from Unwrapaganza while I started a lovely Christmas breakfast for everyone. That plan was rudely interrupted when I heard Lily yell something that derailed our lazy Christmas morning and sent it careening off into a ditch:

"MOM!  SAM GOT A SPLINTER!!"

Sam ran through the dining room in the slippery wood-collecting-socks that evil bastard brought for her and when she skidded to a stop, yes indeed, Sam...got a splinter.  

If you are a regular reader of my family's tales, you will remember that this has happened before.  Many of you are already aware that I have a child who is a magnet for splinters and when she gets one, she doesn't mess around with the tiny stuff that can be gotten out with a simple tweezers or the aid of a needle.  No way, no how!  When Samantha does it, she goes all out - sliding across the hard-wood floors, yards at a stretch, to see just how much flooring she can strip off in one go.  "FIND ALL THE SPLINTERS!" she cries.  She also gets these enormous planks embedded so deeply and so securely into her skin that it requires medical attention to retrieve them.  THIS was one of those times. 

Yeah, that's not gonna cut it.
After last year's ordeal (which I will link again, because it's just that incredible), we knew not to waste any time waiting for an army of white corpuscles to stop what they were doing and meander over to the foreign body that had taken refuge in the sole of her foot, for she was likely to lose the entire appendage by the time they cooperated enough to force the splinter out.  It was time to get dressed and head to the Convenient Care Clinic.  *nodding*  No Post-Gift Exchange Nap for you, Johnny-Boy.  No waking up to the smell of maple bacon crisping in the oven.  Coats on, everybody!  Let's move out!

The Waiting is the hardest part

We got to the Convenient Care Clinic, checked Samantha in and began to wait.

And wait...


And wait...
Three bored children, two parents, one large plank of wood didn't make for a very merry Christmas.  At least we were all together...irritated, but together.



Soon...(what am I saying? Strike that...) After waiting roughly the same amount of time it takes to cook a 20 pound turkey, we were shown to a room where a nurse got the skinny on Sam's allergies (or lack thereof), and a brief run-down of how she came to have a hunk of petrified oak jammed inside her person.  When she had enough information, we were then told to follow her to the next room and you'll never guess what happened there!

Aw, you guessed it: more waiting.


So we snapped a picture of the adorable six-year-old's foot to kill some time:
*pffft* Well, that took all of thirty seconds.  What do we do now?

As if sensing my boredom...irritability...and general impatience that this was taking SO LONG, the more mobile members of Sam's entourage began to play a nifty little game called "TOUCH EVERYTHING!!!"  Fun stuff, that game.   It's guaranteed to make your mother go abso-fricking-lutely insane in a matter of minutes. 

Just when we were sure they had forgotten about us (I have no idea how that was possible, as we are noisy and were cordoned off from the rest of the office by only a curtain), in walked the doctor who would surely save Sam from the stabbing pain of Pinocchio Syndrome and us from the agonizing wait. 

He took one look at it and said, sounding much like Gary Cole in Office Space: "Mm...yeah, I think we're going to have to go ahead and, uh...numb that."  Well, gee, Bill, do you think so?  I mean, look at it.  There's nothing to grab on to.  Any fool can see that we're going to have to go in after it and one of us may not come out alive.  If you want to try that on a frightened six-year-old without Novocaine, be my guest.  Just use your Jedi mind trick and we'll be on our way.  Moron.

Instead of using The Force, we (Dr. Bill and I) opted to put a topical numbing agent on it so the needle wouldn't be as traumatizing to my six-year-old.  Add fifteen more minutes of waiting, this time with Mommy sporting a pair of purple surgical gloves to apply some jelly textured numb-making stuffs to Sam's foot with "gentle PRESSURE" (*sigh*  Poor Sam), follow that with Dr. Bill shooting Novocaine into the entry point, and we were ready to begin. ("BEGIN?!" WTH?!)   He made a few futile attempts to grab the splinter, but found he was unable to get a good grip on it with the smallest hemostat he had, so after all this time, Good Doctor Nimble Fingers couldn't get the splinter out and he sent us to the hospital emergency room.
Damn.  This rivaled last year's splinterectomy debacle in a big, sad way.

At the ER
I am happy to report that after another hour of waiting , an ultrasound on Samantha's foot, two near-fistfights between the Tired and the Hungry, and about a thousand mobile status updates to Facebook, Sam was once again, splinter free.   HALLELUJAH!  

Holy crap!
































By this time, we were an hour late for dinner at my mother's house, so we gathered up Sam, the splinter and the rest of our clan and headed for Nana and Poppa's house, stopping ever-so-briefly at home to grab the presents and the makings of my contribution to our meal (thank God I didn't have to make anything more complex than green bean casserole).

We'll call this next part "Splinter At Large"
When we finally got to my parents' house, Sam immediately wanted to show the splinter to her cousins.  Now, after the morning's ordeal, we didn't expect her to actually take the splinter OUT  to show it off and we sure as hell didn't expect the splinter to make a break for it, but that's what happened.  When she opened the container, it fell.   It fell near(?)...under(?)...IN(?)...the cushions of the couch.  It was lost.  Oh, damn.  That's at least a hundred dollar splinter (and probably more, as we have yet to receive the bill from the ER).  We wanted to keep it and put it in our shadow box of "Stuff that got stuck in our kids".  Shoot.  Now it's gone.  Bummer.

Was Lost But Now Am Found
I went to my parent's house the day after Christmas to have coffee and in a last-ditch effort, searched the couch cushions once more, to see if I could find that blasted splinter.  I picked up a cushion and clapped it once and the splinter fell onto the couch.
*THUD*
Me:  No. Freaking. Way.  I FOUND IT!  QUICK!  DAD, GET THE BOTTLE!  GET THE BOTTLE!  
My Father: Where is it?
Me:  It's still in my purse!
My Father:  Don't move!  I'm on it!

And so we wrangled that splinter into the bottle and closed it up tight. REALLY TIGHT.

That oughta hold it.




 Once again, the world is safe for Samantha's tender feet.  Sort of. 


We're getting carpet this spring.

Monday, January 16, 2012

Anatomy of an Argument...For Underachievers

John and I rarely fight, but when we do, this is pretty much what happens.

Him: "Oh, look! A CD on the floor. No case! That's real nice. That's the way to take care of things!" Me: "Here, hon. Why don't you take it and put it away?"
Him: "Well, I didn't leave it on the floor!"
Me: "Do you want to put it away or do you want to bitch about where it ended up because you didn't put it away in the first place?"
Him: "I want people to put things away where they belong."
Me: "Okay then. I'm not the only person who can do that. Here." *hands him CD, which he takes and drops down on the desk*
Me: "Asshole."
Him: "You're the asshole." *stomp stomp stomp* 
Wait three minutes...he returns.
Him: "Guess what temperature the thermostat is set at."
Me: "69."
Him: "Yup. 69 Degrees."
Me: "Awesome."
Him: "Sixty. Nine."
Me: "Yup."
Him: "Degrees."
What.  That's a serious argument, yo.  
 
Side note: He just came in to the bathroom while I was taking a shower, opened the curtain (I lipread, remember) and said..."Bass... *plays music on pretend guitar*...Bass... *pretends to catch Walter from On Golden Pond*...*shrugs shoulders*  Why??"
And when I looked at him like he had three heads, he hugged me THROUGH the shower curtain.  
He's ALL mine, ladies.  Mine.
 

Monday, January 9, 2012

The Year Grandma Stopped Loving You

During our Christmas Eve gift exchange, my sister-in-law pointed out the tag on her gift, saying: "To Jennie.  Mom and Dad".  No "Love, Mom and Dad?"  Really?  *quietly*  I used to be your favorite...

This caused our evening to take a most entertaining turn.  We were no longer so curious to find out what we'd been given, but much more intent to find out whether or not it was given "with love".  It became the mission of one and all to answer the question "Where's the love?" as we hungrily tore through the gifts from my mother and father-in-law to see how our cards were signed and find out whether or not we, too, were among The Beloved.

We used that one piece of hilarity to propel us through the rest of the night.

I'm happy to report that every one of the grandchildren got the coveted Golden Ticket of "Love, Grandma and Grandpa".

All adults in the room were gifted with a lukewarm "Mom and Dad".

This will make next year very interesting as it seems everyone's back in the running for Favorite.  It's so gonna be ME!

Saturday, January 7, 2012

40-Year-Olds Don't Lick The Chocolate Off The Dessert Plate...

It's my birthday.  Today I am 40 years old.

My mother took me out for the day.  There was shopping and wonderful food and lots of laughter and adult conversation.  There was an It's Not Every Day Your Baby Girl Turns 40 Celebratory Drink for my mom and one for the birthday girl.  We we had a lovely grown-up time...until dessert. 

It doesn't even matter what the actual name of the decadent slice of heaven set before me was, because whatever name they gave it would not have done it justice.  This was not just a sinfully rich and delicious confectionery.  This was a chocolate orgasm. 

We joked that it was so good, I could lick the chocolate off the plate.  BUT.  40-year-olds don't lick the chocolate off  dessert plates at the Olive Garden.  40-year-olds recycle.  40-year-olds keep an ongoing shopping list in their purse.  40-year-olds vote and do dishes and drive places and wear reading glasses and stuff.  40-year-olds can remember when Mtv used to play music.

Of course, THIS 40-year-old still snickers at the words "melon baller", "cotton balls" and "pussyfoot". 

So let me rephrase my initial statement:  today I am CHRONOLOGICALLY 40 years old.  Emotionally, I'm still 14.

I licked the plate.  I licked it good.

Some Other Stuff I Wrote