My family is not normal. Nothing we do is normal. No event is normal. Hell, if we had a “normal” day, that’d be abnormal, so right in line. Even our normal is weird.
Easter egg hunts are not normal at my house. The grandchildren generally get along, the bigger kids help the little ones find eggs, and there is much rejoicing.
The parents, however, are another story. It’s Hunger Games, Easter Egg Hunt at our house. There’s tripping, shoving, misdirection (“Holy shit, you just stepped in pile of dog poo!”), and general foolishness as each parent tries to gain an advantage for their offspring.
In short, they’re a bunch of miscreants. I couldn’t be more proud.
This past Easter’s egg hunt was the same as all the others. The only differences, for me, were 1) for once the yard wasn’t a mudpit as it had been pretty dry all week and 2) I had to watch from afar having smashed the ever-lovin’ shit out of my big toe that morning when I opened the back door to let the dog out and shoved the bottom of the door over the top of my toe. It still hurts like a sonofa….
And then, the Outbreak Monkey arrived.
C’mon, tell me you have seen the scary movie “Outbreak” starring Dustin Hoffman and Renee Russo. If not, get thee to a Red Box or Netflix, or something and watch it.
*builds storage shed*
*cures world hunger*
You back already? Good, now I can finish the story.
So, in my family the first person to get sick with whatever is the one we call the Outbreak Monkey. This time, it was my 8-yr. old granddaughter and our first clue was the text her mother sent as they were driving home:
“Aaaand…we have pukage in the van!! AWESOME!”
At 1:00 a.m. the next morning, the poor baby was still puking in her sleep, no less. My daughter called me asking for the magical potion I keep to stop pukages, so instead of sleeping at 1:00 a.m. I was dispensing wizardry in the hopes my sweet granddaughter would stop the pukies. She did, and there was much rejoicing in the land…
….until this morning, when my daughter texted me again and said her other daughter has it now…
We had FIFTEEN people at our house on Easter Sunday. Two are sick, that makes thirteen more to go…except I think I had it already. I think it’s the nasty new norovirus that has been going around and which I got right after Christmas.
At least I hope that’s what this is.
Or, if my daughter is right – as she said in a follow-up text this morning – it only affects kids 8 and under, or as she put it “the very geriatric, like you Mom”.
Age has its advantages.
I can never go anywhere, or do anything, without it turning into an adventure; a story to hand down across the generations.
I just wanted to get my teeth cleaned.
Call me strange, but I like getting my teeth cleaned.
They always feel so….well…clean when the hygienist is done. And fresh.
So the other day I went for my semi-annual cleaning.
I was the only one in the place, and the sweet young lady who was going to clean my teeth and I chatted a little while before she started.
There’s a sequence of events to getting one’s teeth cleaned.
It’s routine, rote, the same every time.
Except when it isn’t.
The first tool used is something like a fine Dremel tip to scrape the crud off the surface of the tooth.
During this operation, the tip slipped and got stuck between my two front bottom teeth.
At first, no one panicked.
Then I looked up at the hygienist’s eyes, and got more than a little concerned by the look in them.
“I can get this.”, she said reassuringly. “Really, I can. I..can..do..this.”
She said all this as she was standing up, hunched over my mouth, pushing and pulling and hurting.
And because of the huge drill bit stuck in my teeth I couldn’t say anything.
After an hour..okay, probably a minute, but it felt like an hour – she finally dislodged the bit from my teeth.
I felt around with my tongue, relieved to not find a chip.
It still hurt for a while, and after she was all done she shook her head and muttered, “Never had that happen before.”
Of course not. I am, after all, me.
No, really it’s a bear..or part of a bear anyway and it’s in my freezer at home.
Here’s how these things happen to me.
I walked in the door from work late last week and hubby was looking like a little boy who’d just scored the Topps package with an extra bubble gum accidentally stuck inside.
“C’mere”, he said excitedly waving me towards the garage.
“What?”, I replied as I followed him.
“Look!” he said, as he opened the freezer
*yes, we’ve been married so long we have entire conversations that consist of one-word exchanges – communication-schmumunication*
“Look what the boss gave me.”, he said as he placed a clear plastic bag of a frozen meat-like substance in my hand
“And this is….?”
“Bear meat! Ground bear meat!”
He looked so giddy I didn’t have the heart to say what I couldn’t stop my mouth from saying anyway.
“What am I going to do with ground bear meat?”
*this is the part where I watch hubby’s happy balloon totally deflate*
“I dunno…make chili or stew with it, I guess.”
He snatched the bag from my hand and shoved it back in the freezer.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to make up for my obvious insensitivity over the excitement of ground teddy bear, “I’ll use it in the chili, okay?”
“I guess, but boss-man says it tastes kinda gamey so be sure to add a lot of spices.”
“Great. No, really that’s great. I’ve never had bear chili before.” (shocking, I know given that I am a Texan and we are known to be a bit crazy and adventurous when it comes to food)
I hugged hubby and told him to thank boss-man for the bear.
And, now I’m back to my original question – what the hell am I gonna do with several pounds of ground gamey-tasting teddy bear? I’m not sure there’s enough chili powder and cumin on the planet to cover that taste, and I’m not sure I can get past the thought of the doe-eyed look of every cute li’l cartoon bear I’ve ever seen on television and around the Intertubes for as long as I can remember to eat it.
Next year, boss-man, why don’t you try trout fishing instead?
I was walking towards the door at Wally World, and I saw a young man a few feet in front of me as he crossed my path. He was wearing the *unique* clothing of his age – an Aeropostale t-shirt and some cargo shorts. Flip-flops completed the *look* and his hair was a mass of blonde waves.
The wind was blowing about 30 miles an hour – typical for Texas – and I was downwind of him.
Hmmm….I thought….I wonder if he is wearing…..
OH MY GAWD!!! I’VE BEEN AXE-ED!!! I staggered as I grabbed my forehead – a searing pain developing right between my eyes.
I didn’t have to wonder what kind of *fragrance* he was wearing anymore.
Just then, another young man came across my path and although he wasn’t wearing the typical uniform of the rich kid, I wasn’t fooled…however; I wasn’t fast enough to duck out of the way in time and…
HOLY SHIT-BIRDS! I CAN’T FEEL MY FACE AND MY EYES, MY EYES ARE BURNING!!! I had to grab onto the nearest light post for support.
Then a third young man….surely it couldn’t happen again, could it?
I’M BLIND! HOLY MOTHER OF ALL THAT IS HOLY!! I CAN’T BREATHE! I CAN’T SEE!! MY FACE IS MELTING!!
Axe – It’s Not a Scent, It’s a Chemical Weapon.
*contemplates sending a note to the Axe people giving them permission to use that as their new tag line – right after I copyright it – and working a revenue deal…this could work in my favor after all*
I decided to write a little about the searches that bring you wacky folks to my site.
That is, if a search brought you here.
If you just stumbled in, on your own, well then feel free to poke around the site and enjoy yourself.
If you like what you read invite your friends. If you don’t like what you read invite your enemies.
The single term that drives people here seems to be “t-rex”. Although, it has many iterations, like “t-rex short arms”, “I’m a t-rex head”, and the like.
I must admit that I was stopped in my tracks by this search string, though:
“t rex ding a push up enema”
I..just…umm…I reeeeeeeallly don’t want to know why someone would search such a thing.
But, I can speculate – in my own twisted way.
The obvious, of course, is that someone’s t-rex is constipated and doing (or “ding” if you prefer) push-ups hasn’t helped.
Or…during the administering of an enema, the t-rex in question started doing push-ups.
Or…someone used a t-rex as an enema. This would clearly fall under the I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing category..if I had one. It would also hurt like hell, and I seriously doubt it would yield the desired result, unless having a dinosaur shoved up your ass is your idea of fun…or works better than a traditional enema. Either way I don’t want to know any of the details.
I don’t think this t-rex approves of your searches.
I have never met a dentist who wasn’t a little bit off.
Some are a lot bit off, not just a little.
And some are batshit crazy.
I blame it on the nitrous hits they get whenever administering to the patients. It’s a proximity high that over time just creates a permanent crazy spot on their brains and it affects some more than others.
Or, they’re just crazy.
One of those.
My loyalty to a dentist only extends as far as my insurance coverage. If he/she doesn’t accept my insurance then I’m forced to break up with him/her. I’ve yet to have one call me crying at one in the morning begging me to come back, but since these are dentists we’re talking about I wouldn’t be surprised.
My current dentist is a little younger than me and he’s one of the nuttier ones I’ve encountered.
But, in a good way.
Last week I went in for a routine cleaning and Dr. Goofy was dancing across the hall when I got there. He was also dressed in an extremely loud Hawaiian print shirt and was singing some song I didn’t recognize right away.
In other words, a normal day in his office.
The hygienist was new, to me, but she was very normal and very nice. Apparently, you don’t get the nitrous when you get your teeth cleaned…unless you ask and it didn’t occur to me…so that may explain her normalness.
When I was finishing up a young girl – maybe 17 years old – was sitting in the chair across from me. Her mother was there and the girl kept going on and on about how scared she was.
“Will it hurt?” she asked.
“Well, maybe a little at first”, her mom replied.
The dentist’s assistant came over and the girl asked the same question of her. She got the same answer.
Then, Dr. Goofy showed up.
“Will it hurt?”
“Oh, yes…it will hurt…a lot!” he said, grinning evilly.
The girl started to get up; panicked by Dr. Goofy’s response, but her mother and the assistant assured her he was just kidding.
I stifled a giggle myself, and then I saw “it”.
If you’ve ever had Novocain or epinephrine to numb your mouth you know what “it” is.
It looks like a medieval torture device, but is in fact a simple syringe used to administer the numbing meds.
He came up over her head with it and into her field of vision.
“Out in the West Texas town of El Paso…” Dr. Goofy began to croon…”I fell in love with a Mexican girl.”
The girl sat back in the chair, with the *help* of her mom and the assistant. She stared at Dr. Goofy.
“Nighttime would find me in Rosa’s cantina”
“Music would play and Feleena would whirl” The girl’s mother and the assistant now joined in and sang more of the song, and by the time they finished the first chorus the girl had gotten three shots and hadn’t flinched a bit.
Like I said, most dentists are crazy, but this one is definitely crazy in a good way.
Next time I have to get those shots I’m going to insist he sing “El Paso” to me, too.
Hello, I’m Dr. Goofy. First, I shall stab you with this loooooooooong needle, many times. Later, I will use this drill to create large holes in your teeth and fill them with possibly-toxic chemicals. Afterwards, you shall pay me for all of this. MUWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!
….when I called hubby from the Big Box Home Improvement store to ask him a few questions about the list of nail-thingys and other fixy-thingys he asked me to pick up.
Do you realize there’s like a hundred gozillion different sizes of nails?
And the types? Fuhgeddaboudit!
He wasn’t answering the phone. That was odd.
Odd and irritating.
I was, after all, doing him a favor by getting those nail-thingys so the least he could do was answer his phone when I tried calling.
I had questions. Lots of questions.
Finally, I found what I thought were the right thingys and went home.
I walked in the front door, ready to yell at him for not answering the phone when I saw that he was standing at the kitchen sink, muttering under his breath and furiously scrubbing his hands.
“I can’t get this stuff off me!”
“What ‘stuff’ are you talking about?”
“The de-greaser,” he said and nodded in the direction of the garage where he’d been cleaning the floor with some type of solvent.
I went out there and picked up the jug of cleaner and began reading the label.
By the time I got back in the house my hands were shaking and I was sweating.
“Did you even read the label?!”
“No, but I’ve used it before.”
‘This?” I said holding the jug up in front of him as he continued to wash his hands.
“Well, no, not that, but something like that.”
I rubbed my brow.
“Honey, it says if you get this on your skin you should SEEK IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ATTENTION!”
“Now you’re just trying to scare me.”
I shoved the jug in his face, “Here, YOU read it.”
He kept scrubbing his hands.
“Were you wearing gloves?”
“Did you splash it on you or…..”
“No, I used a brush to clean the floor with it and then I was sopping up the excess with a sponge and wringing the sponge out in the bucket.”
“WITH YOUR BARE HANDS???”
Hubby stopped scrubbing and dried his hands.
“They’re sticky feeling…before, they were slimy.”
They were also shiny, red, and the tips of the fingers on his right hand were blistering and peeling.
I grabbed the phone and dialed Poison Control. The helpful “Medical Professional” on the other end strongly urged us to go to the ER…like five minutes ago.
I dragged hubby to the ER, the whole way there he’s marveling at his now stinging/burning/hurting red hands and muttering, “..they should put better warnings on the label….done this before….if I’d of just used gasoline, like when I was a kid….”
Me, I’m breaking every speed limit on the way – and where is a cop when you need one?? – and telling him that he’s just acid-washed his hands and we’ve got to neutralize the acid to stop the burning process.
The ER was another voyage to the strange and weird.
He saw three nurses before the doctor.
You know what EVERY ONE of them asked?
Two things – What did poison control tell you to do? Uh..come here, dumbass. Okay, I didn’t actually call him a “dumbass” but I wanted to.
…and…the other thing they asked?
What do you expect us to do?
I swear, visions of tackling and pummeling the entire ER staff did dance in my head for a few seconds before I managed to gain my composure and…
….stare, blankly, at the idiot nurse who had asked the question.
Maybe my “blank” stare translates to “murderous-daggers-and-flame-from-eyeballs” stare on the receiving end, because she turned pale and retreated backwards out the door and said the doctor would be right in.
The doctor knew what to do. Thank God. He has no idea how close he came.
Oddly enough, the solution is to neutralize the acid with a base (this I knew) but the coolest/strangest part is the base they use is something called “GoLightly”.
If you’ve ever had a colonoscopy, and who doesn’t love a good colonoscopy, right? Anyway, if you’ve ever had one you will recognize the name. It’s the stuff you drink to clear the plumbing prior to the big day.
Hubby had to soak his hands in this solution for twenty minutes. Then they slathered this silver-based cream on his hands and wrapped them in gauze.
He looked like he was wearing mittens.
The next day we had to soak his hands again and since they felt so much better there was no need to slather on the cream (which, we were told, would turn his hands a lovely and permanent tan color – it didn’t though) or re-apply the mittens.
His hands are still shiny – a result of stripping the epidermis and leaving the dermis exposed, much like the chemical peels women pay a fortune for at high-end salons – and the tips are kinda raw and sore. They are also swollen, but all in all he’s much better.
It coulda been a LOT worse.
So, after the ordeal I asked my husband one question.
“So, what did we learn from this?”
To which he replied,
“Next time, use gasoline.”
I took two of my grandkids to Mickey D’s Sunday afternoon. We, and by “we” I don’t mean hubby and I…because you know FOOTBALL…I mean “I” had agreed to babysit them for a while so their Mommy could attend a meeting.
Knowing they’re six and four and there’s nothing better than a huge indoor playground I decided to take them to our local Mickey D’s for some ice cream, french fries, soda and playtime with other little hellions like them.
They had platforms:
And these connecting tubes that swayed or bounced: