My Easter began with the traditional pre-Easter chewing of the door frame by our suddenly can’t-be-without-us rescue GSD on Saturday night, and proceeded to the traditional splish-splort-what-the-feck-is-going-on foray into the flooded bathroom and sewage back-up into both tubs/showers, followed by the now traditional monsoon minutes after the kids finished the Easter egg hunt. In between, there was one seriously wounded knee (mine, it met the enemy – the dishwasher door – and was soundly defeated) multiple loads of laundry as every towel in the house was called into service, mops, bleach, gloves, more bleach, paper towels, more bleach, one $320 plumber bill (snaked the sewer line, no roots found so he thinks we are okay), one black eye (granddaughter, meet plastic car in your brother’s running at full speed hands), one spilled soda all over the floor, table, rugs, and one collapsed table – one side decided to call it a night long before we were ready, and that’s when the drink got dumped on the floor, and it ended with hubby and I collapsing into a totally exhausted and so sore we could barely move heap. I need a vacation from my holiday…stat.
And not in a blatant, roll-over-you or fall-on-top-of-you way.
No, my car knows that if it’s going to kill me it will have to do it subtly.
Like, pretend it’s been shot and make me think that I’ve been shot.
That’s what it did on Sunday.
I was driving home from the store when I heard the loudest BANG! come from the driver’s side door.
I looked for a hole in the door. Nothin’.
I looked for blood running from me, somewhere. Nothin’.
Then, apparently because I hadn’t died from the non-shot shot, the driver’s side window suddenly SUH-LAMMED! down into the door frame.
I admit a twinge of pain in my chest as I reacted to that one.
Or it may have just been that I’d suddenly forgotten how to breathe.
Fortunately, I remembered.
I got home, and since hubby was mowing the front yard he yelled over the lawnmower “Shut your window!”
“I CAN’T. It’s GONE!” I replied, as I proceeded to wave my hand around in the window frame where there should have been a hefty piece of tempered glass but now there was just dusty, grass-filled air.
As if the fact that I was gone a short time mattered, hubby said: “You were gone for like 5 minutes. What happened?”
I shrugged, “I have no idea, but the glass is inside the door. Maybe we can get it out and I don’t know, duck tape it in place.”
He looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears.
Needless to say, that idea went nowhere. Fast.
Also needless to say, I tried anyway and got nowhere. Fast.
The next morning I was waiting at the dealership – the only place that could fix the car quickly – and I spent the day at home, playing with my new Kirby.
That sounds way more kinky than it is.
A Kirby is not a “who”..it’s a “what”.
It’s a fancy-schmancy (read ‘expensive’) vacuum cleaner, and hubby bought me one recently.
When I went to pick up the car, the bill was well over $400 and included words like “replace” and “regulator” and probably “flugelbinder”.
I admit that I grew faint reading the numbers. So much so, that the ‘Service Advisor’ (why isn’t anyone just a plain-old mechanic anymore?) offered me a hefty discount if I promised not to die right there on the service-bay floor.
So, although well-played Vlad (my car’s name is Vlad, because he’s an Impala – wait a moment, you’ll get it) you failed to kill me…barely.
Better luck next time.
You know how you can be driving along and all of a sudden the car in the lane next to you decides that right where you are is right where it needs to be right now?
And, you hit the brakes, utter some expletives about the level of intelligence of the driver of said car and honk.
And then, the car that almost caused a nasty wreck with lots of damage and plenty of pain for you pulls ahead enough for you to see the logo on the back of the car, and it says “Maserati”.
And you yell, “Come back, I didn’t mean it! Hit me, PLEASE!!!”
Just me, then? Okay.
It was an epic battle.
It lasted five minutes, but as any veteran of battle can tell you five minutes can seem like a lifetime when your adrenalin is pumping and you feel you are in real danger.
And, I was totally unprepared.
I mean, I was at work for cryin’ out loud!
Oh sure you hear about workplace violence all the time, but you never think you’ll be involved.
And then one day you are.
I’m proud to say I came out of the battle relatively unscathed.
Aside from the emotional scars.
Those…sigh…those will take longer to heal.
I cannot say the same for the wasp that decided to first land in my hair as I got in the car, and then transferred to the back dash flopping its body against the rear glass in a vain attempt to escape my ice scraper as I frantically attempted to either kill it or remove it from my car.
In the battle of wasp vs. awesomesauciness, the wasp was the clear loser.
I need a drink.
And I don’t drink.
According to the poll, I’ll sell at least ten copies if I can get this thing written and find a publisher interested in it.
No, I will NOT self-publish.
Yes, I’m a snobbish bitchy-writer who refuses to even consider vanity publishing.
I’ll keep you semi-posted, because I’m finding the task not so much daunting as painful.
I write a line, grab a tissue, wipe the tears and proceed.
I do this over and over.
I’m running out of tissues.
Thank you, really..no, really, thank you for believing I can do this.
I’ll mention all of you on my dedication page. You’ll know I mean you, because it’ll say “To all of You”.
So, here goes nothing and if my posts here are sporadic, remember you only have yourselves to blame….or thank.
When it’s 4:00 in the morning and you’ve just managed to impale yourself with the business end of the syringe you use to give your cat his daily insulin shot, and your thumb is bleeding like Old Faithful and you’re alternating holding it with a tissue and wondering if you’ve just given yourself enough insulin to cause a diabetic coma in a non-diabetic (before realizing you stabbed yourself before you loaded the insulin in the syringe), you don’t spend a lot of time wondering what kind of bandage you’ve just yanked out of the package and slapped on your gushing wound.
It’s only later, when you are administering a very professional test in a very professional setting with very nervous potential employees – said potential almost entirely dependent upon their performance on this test – that you realize your thumb has a woody.
And you point it out.
To a room full of young men.
Not about the amazing Veet.
No, this is PSA is a warning to avoid the following while reading the reviews on the amazing Veet:
1. Do NOT drink and read…not even water.
2. Do NOT eat and read…you’ll thank me later.
3. Do NOT expect to still have your makeup intact afterwards – this applies to all genders who wear makeup.
4. DO have a paper bag handy for managing the hyperventilation caused by hysterical laughter.
That said, I present…testimonials on the amazing Veet.
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.
That was the text message that I got last week from my oldest daughter. My first thought was…
I began to dial her number when I got the second text…
“I’m at daughter’s school and we are on lockdown. I’m terrified, what do I do?”
This is not what you think you’ll hear when all your daughter was doing was having a simple little teacher conference regarding your six year old granddaughter.
It’s just not.
I begin checking every radio station, every local news website and finding…
Maybe the authorities were keeping it hush-hush.
Maybe there’s someone in the school, armed and dangerous.
Maybe some disgruntled ex-employee/spouse/significant other is loose in the school, ready to exact revenge by killing a bunch of kids and teachers (and random parents just there for a simple conference).
And, the thoughts went downhill from there.
I picture this guy, going room to room looking for random victims
I send her texts…
“Can’t find anything on the news.” “What’s happening?” “Are you okay?”
I get no responses…the mind reels.
My other daughter (Baby Girl) calls, she’s frantic as her sister has also texted her and is trying to get a message to her husband. My baby girl is near tears. Her big sister is in danger and there’s nothing she can do. “Mom, I’ll get a hold of her husband. It’ll give me something to do.”
Baby Girl is pregnant and already emotional enough. Now, she’s near panic.
“Okay, honey…I’ll see if I can find out anything.”
I send my hubby a text and tell him what’s going on.
No sooner do I send it than my oldest daughter texts me again.
“OMG! It was a DRILL!!!!!!!!!!”
I laugh, nervously and my phone rings. It’s hubby and he’s alarmed. I quickly explain it was a drill. He’s confused and so am I.
Didn’t anyone get the memo there’d be a drill?
Apparently not, which is what I found out later that day when oldest daughter called me.
Daughter: Oh my God, Mom! It was so scary! The principal comes on the intercom and says the school is on lockdown. I was in the classroom with daughter’s class and her teacher turned off the light and locked the door and then we were all supposed to be very quiet. Mom, these kids are 6 years old! Do you know how hard it is for them to be quiet?
Me: (chuckling nervously, I’m still rattled) Uh..yeah. I heard you were trying to get ahold of your younger brother during all this. Why? You do know that if there is a real lockdown no one can get near the school, right?
Daughter: Yeah, but he has GUNS Mom!
Me: (this time I laugh out loud at my bleeding heart liberal daughter – politically we are polar opposites) Oh…so NOW you want guns, do you?
Daughter: Hell yes! And, it gets worse, Mom. I was remarkably calm the whole time, which for me is a minor miracle you know, and all I could think of was how I needed a knife or something.
Me: For protection, it’s only natural. I’m guessing that since no one was notified of this “drill” that the object was to find out how the staff and students would react in a perceived real emergency.
Daughter: I guess so, but Mom there were fully half the teachers and students in complete meltdown afterwards. I was a little shell-shocked but really I’m fine. And surprised. I didn’t know I’d react so calmly, especially since I freak out at the littlest things.
Me: Well, maybe it’s the big things you are prepared for because your children are depending on you.
Daughter: Yeah, I just kept thinking about them. I had younger son with me, too, and I kept asking teacher if she had a knife or something. Apparently, dangerous situations make me all stabbity.
Me: (laughing really hard now) My new motto – “Warning: Danger makes me stabbity and I decide what’s dangerous”
Oooh…I am totally getting her this t-shirt for Christmas. Totally.
….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.”