Thor is severely hotter than this man.

I was inspired today by a new blog a friend turned me onto…called Momastary…check her out, she is totally brill.

Definitely read her blog post from today…(Aw hell, read them all, she is twelve times the writer I am.)  Anyway, in her latest post, she mentions how her husband gave her a “look”  when she said something to him that he found slightly shocking.  Hey, hey!  I get that look a lot!

Let’s make a case study of that.  (Puts on hot school teacher reader glasses.)  It varies, the look.  If the lips curl on one side, Thor is a touch disgusted by what I say.   There may be an occasional eye squint when he is thinking I am exaggerating the truth.  Which I do a lot.  The eyebrows may jump up at a rapid pace when there might be a sexual overtone.  It’s important to add that his eyebrows are up a great deal of the time.

So I thought, in honor of Momastary’s brilliant blogging and Thor’s distaste of most everything I do or say, I have decided to name a few looks I get from my husband Thor.  Note:  These are LOOKS.  He hardly ever SAYS anything to me that is negative.  He is the nicest of men.  I DRIVE him to internalize and contort his face.  It is really important to point out that Thor is the sweetest, most forgiving and kindest man I have ever met; not to mention the best father.  I just absolutely cannot blame him for thinking he married down.  Most of the time, I am a ridiculous wife.

I don’t have pictures, because (1) I can’t find my camera (2) my phone is dead and I can’t find the charger and (3)he would absolutely catch on if I started taking pictures of him reacting to everything I do.  Your land of imagination is a special place! Use it!

First I will tell you what I said or did, then I will name the special Thor look.  Off to the races:

• I tell him I went $365 over budget at The Target = The “have-fun-taking-a-shower-in-melted-snow-because-now-the-water-is-going-to-get-shut-off” look

• I can’t find my keys for the 11th time today and I am shedding actual tears because of it=The “you-are-holding-them-in-your-hand-dufus” look

• I come home from a gig late night with false eyelashes, slutty makeup and one shoe with a broken heel= the “wanna-do-it?” look

• He comes home from work in a bad mood and I have neighbors over, we are having a blast, some wine, kids are everywhere, no homework has been done, no birthday party thank-yous have been written, no dinner has been started and every single remaining Christmas present has been opened and is sitting in a pile in the living room floor and someone spilled something on the rug that he hasn’t noticed yet, but now he knows  about it after reading this blog=The “you-just-really-suck-as-a-mother-and-spouse‘ look.  (It’s important to note that this look is followed by my “NON-look” because I refuse to look at him at all for the rest of the night.  This is because I am on strike for him making me feel guilty.  I will set up shop to sleep on the couch, but it’s really uncomfortable, so I wake up at 1:45am with a crick in my neck and a Cheetos stuck in my hair.   I peek in the mirror and give myself a look called, “you-freakin’ idiot” and I slink up into bed.   It’s called projection, people.)

• And finally, the ever alluring, I wrote this blog and published it so everyone we know can read it = The ‘you-are-dead-to-me-and-lawyer-up” look.  (I will be expecting this look to walk in the door today around 4:45pm.)

Special mention looks worth adding are stares like “how-many-old-boyfriends-did-you-HAVE?”, “that’s-not-what-the-screwdriver-is-for”, “where-in-the-hell-is-my-brush-again”, “my-mother-was-right” and one of my personal favorites, the “there-is-something-really-really-wrong-with-you-please-get-help.”

One of these days, I am going to haul ass and give the look back.

Just kidding.  Cause for every look that I get, I have given him 500.  There is no doubt that I wear the bitch in the family.  I love Thor.  Hope he loves me back.

I apologize the for low quality of this photo. Perhaps you will forgive me, since I only have ONE WORKING ARM.

I blame Love’s frozen yogurt.  You chilly,swirly bastard.

I was with Cracker yesterday, just leaving an appointment and I saw a sign that had this retro international symbol of awesomeness…

"Open to the public!"

I totally slammed on the breaks and did a U-ey…man, I used to love that stuff!  Where has it been??? The whole Frozen Yogurt Movement!!  It used to be all over the place…wasn’t it?  Am I crazy?  I mean, I think the last time I had one, I was wearing a Bosom Buddies t-shirt.  I kept on telling Cracker it was ice cream, hoping that it wasn’t going to taste like crap.

It was inside of a workout facility for seniors and they were trying to promote the “healthy” vibe in there.   When we walked out, some old lady actually asked Cracker if she just finished working out.  Cracker giggled adorably and said “no”.  And the lady said, in all seriousness, “then you don’t deserve to have that”.  I seriously, seriously almost bitch-slapped her.  Seriously.

So, you remember, you can twist that all up together…two flavors…remember that????  So I got a french vanilla, just for nostalgia-sake, and some sugar free/fat free pepermint.  Holiday party in.my.tummy, ya’ll!

HELLO, SELF, you idiot.  I am allergic to anything NOT PURE.  There is nothing that is pure in a sugar free/fat free yogurt.  Like, what IS IT?  And it kinda tasted like peppermint baby vomit.  But I ate it in defiance.  The whole freaking thing.  I could hear Cracker in the back seat, going “ew” a couple of times, but I think she ate it in defiance, too.  In defiance of what, I am not certain, but has a tenancy to run a little surly.

It took about 30 minutes before I started to feel “THE TWINGE” in my left shoulder.  It can be any joint.  My immune system likes to change it up and leave me guessing.  “THE TWINGE” is quickly followed by the voice in my head saying “Uh oh.  ‘THE TWINGE.’  I will be virtually lame within an hour.”  By the time we finished errands and I am rushing home to teach a lesson, I could barely steer.  On goes the sling.  I really need to bling that thing up.

After dinner, I realize that I have to get my nieces’ gifts in the mail, wrapped, so they can be delivered in time for Christmas.  I annually SUCK at all things having anything to do with Christmas deadlines, but  “As God is my witness…not this year!” she says, holding up a radish to the skies…

Look, she only has one arm, too.

Now, I had my arm in a sling, not because it’s frozen, but because if I move it a cillimeter of a millimeter of an eigth of an inch, shooting daggers of pain whip up my arm, through my shoulder and stab my brain.  So, I just try not to move it.

Thor sweetly offered to help, but he was busy helping Alpha finish the project at the last minute that he had TWO WEEKS TO DO BUT DON’T GET ME STARTED.  Cracker was off somewhere having her Barbie’s kiss and hug ’cause that’s her newest thing and Bambi is running around the house like the quadruped Turkish tribe who walks on all fours.  We are strange, yo.

So I had to wrap all these presents.   Bambi eventually returned to Bipedalism and offered to help.  She actually got really excited and put on Christmas music.  She said, with kind of a maniacal and over-caffeinated look in her eyes, “This is great, you guys, I feel like an only child!!!”  *Sigh*  I love her.

And I was thinking while we were doing it, every crease, every fold, every piece of tape thrown on there and the bow, Lord of the RINGS, the bow…all of it was literally made very slowly, painfully and with a helluva lot of love.  And in the end, with all three of us together, Thor and I agreed on one thing:  a nice wrapping job, done well and with care, is definitely part of the present

And I will NOT be accepting Love’s frozen yogurt gift certs this year, thankyouverymuch.

(And you can only imagine how long it took me to type up this post with only 4 fingers from my right hand.  Love, people; that’s love.)

Rambunctious, sassy, creative, good in the kitchen, at times aloof and always the first to draw out a giggle, Billy Bob Joe delights our family every morning with another witty hiding place.  Here are some highlights so far in the Moran 2011 Christmas holiday season….

Hurry! Time for WGN Morning News!

Elf jazz. Dig it.

Who Stole the Cookie From the Cookie Jar?

Elves get THIRSTY.

Elfmlette Anyone?

MadElfLibs

Prince Ken's Utter Devastation...

Come ON dude, what a mess!

Oh, Billy Bob Joe, key parties are soooo 1973.

Movie Night!

Baby, It's cold Inside the fridge, ya freak.

The Games Elves and Barbies Play When The Cat's Away...

Unfortunately, you can't see that Prince Ken has safari hot shorts halfway up his thighs.

Is it WRONG?

The Elf Jar: Dude, that's gotta hurt.

More Elf mischief coming soon…Happy Holidays….

Mine were not this long.

…don’t really work.

At least that is what I was thinking when all the other moms were talking to me this morning at the tech rehearsal for Cracker’s holiday dance show tonight.  They pretended not to notice that I looked like a washed-out 60 year old hooker on a 4 day bender.  I found that rather gallant of them.  Especially because I think the falsies were a little crooked.  I still had some of my makeup on from last night.  I am just glad they actually stayed on my eyes.  Once, I woke up with one of them stuck to my cheek.  At first I thought it was my old cat Emma licking me on the face, but then I realized I didn’t have a cat anymore.   *Blink*Blink*

I had a TON of makeup on last night for my show. We ended up staying at my moms after a last minute detour on the way home from Cabaret Club to the Redhead Piano bar.  That place is aces.  So it was a late, late night, I mean morning.  We just crashed when we got home, knowing we would have to wake up in 4 hours to head back home for the rehearsal. I usually take everything off and wash my face, etc, but sometimes, I am just too drunk.  There, I said it.  Just kidding, sometimes I’m too tired. Sometimes, I just don’t care.  Sometimes, I rip those falsies off after a gig and leave them on the kitchen counter.  I disgust even myself.

But let me ask you, where does the makeup GO?  I think I heard that it gets absorbed in the skin.  Ew!  Is that true?  I mean, if that’s true, don’t you think we have to be more careful about what it’s made of and what we are actualy putting in our bodies? (This, coming from the woman who just put an Egg McMuffin, of which she is allergic to, in her body.  Have you SEEN the FB viral McDonald’s chicken video?   I shutter.)  I am thinking that if you are going to be putting makeup on your face that is going to eventually oooozzzeee into your pores, you might at well make it fun.  Aha!  Let’s start a new makeup line!  Like pomegranate-infused vodka foundation or Skinny Girl Cosmo eyeshadow.

I love this stuff. Let's make an eyeliner out of it.

I think I have also heard somewhere that some crazy party renegades actually put vodka in their eyes to get a buzz.  Whoa, dude. That’s extreme.  I like my cocktail on the rocks with a swizzle stick and not mixed with my falsies and a touch of  mascara.

Hey, it just occurred to me. You do know that when I say falsies, I mean fake eyelashes and not boobs, right?  I did not go to Crackers dance rehearsal this morning with fake boobies on my eyes.  Just wanted to make sure you got that.

So, I was saying that I had all this makeup on for my show that I did last night.  The show that we did for my husband.  And 4 family members.  And one guy who looked at his watch and mumbled every 16 seconds.  Did I mention this?  Oh, you guys, this weekend at the Cabaret Club.  Rock bottom, ya’ll.  Really strange.  Really surreal.  Really humbling, annoying and eye-opening.  Did I mention expensive?  I think the cherry on top was having to pay $750 out of my own pocket to cancel one night and do the show for my mom the next night.  That’s ok.  It was just the entire Santa money for my kids this year.  Hey, maybe Alpha, Bambi and Cracker would be okay to find under the tree Cabaret Club cocktail napkins, a semi-opened mint from the bottom of my purse and olives on a toothpick.  Cause that’s all I got left.  We will figure something out,we always do.  I married my hero and together we will save the day.  Or rob a bank.  Ironically next week I will be doing the same show for hundreds of people who will love the hell out of it.  I don’t know. Life is a total goof job.

Whatever.  You know, I needed this.  It was like a really expensive wake-up call. I really think that I am ready to move on from performing and concentrate more on the things I love…my family, my friends, my home, teaching, cleaning my pantry, not being a cripple…really put focus on the important things in life.  Like the most precious moments:  watching Cracker tonight as she tap, tap, taps like a beautiful dancing happy smiling penguin right into my heart.  That right there, folks, is what it’s all about.

Tap, tap, tap…Tap, tap, tap…Tap, tap, tap…

Yesterday, I think I definitely had one of the more crappy days of the year.  But HEAR YE!  HEAR YE!  A Decree!   I hereby announceth that instead of being all moany and poorme, poorme, life suckity sucks about it, I am going to put a happy lens on the camera…a little fun twist, tinted green and red for the holidays….without further ado, here is the account of my very, merry shitty day yesterday, complete with jazz hands:

1.) Woke up with out the use of my right elbow. The pain was unbearable.  And I loved every minute of it.  Everyone should have an auto immune disease that attacks your joints.  Rheumatoid Arthritis for the house, bartender!

2.)Off to the dentist: OH EM GEE!!! It was so freakin’ fun! The excitement was high from the beginning as I was almost completely out of gas and there is not one mother trucking gas station 50 miles from where I live in Siberia. So I had a veritable BALL driving in the car with the heater off, on a 14 degree day, singing one of my favorite holiday ditties, “Please Santa, Get Me to the Dentist Soon Because I Will Die in the Cold If My Car Breaks Down on Fairfield Rd.” La! La! La!

When I arrived, it was all sunshine and roses, as every dental appointment usually is…I had to wait 30 minutes extra, but that’s ok because I didn’t really have any agenda for the day.

Once I finally got in the chair, the dental hygienist zapped my root nerves with the Invisilign thingy two times! I loved it so much, that she did it again. What a Christmas treat. It was so funny that I cried and I got a charlie horse in my toes from flexing for 60 straight minutes. I was totally bummed that there was an appointment after me because I REALLY wanted to have it done all over again…. *sigh * now, I have to wait 6 more months.

I really had to hurry home and get Cracker off the bus, but before that, I got to sing my “Christmas Santa Don’t Let me Die” song all the way on fumes to the closest gas station, praying that I could still make it home in time to get #3 off of the bus. BTW, the Shell station rocked.  I even got some gasoline on my brand new gloves! Luckily, I will be able to smell that for weeks and weeks.  Who needs perfume?  And isn’t it so awesome when it costs $70 to fill up your car? I love that.

3.) One of the most rewarding parts of my day was dressing up in Alpha’s Lacrosse jersey and going to to mall to stand at a gift wrapping booth to get donations, only to get treated like shit from every third person who walks by…the whole environment was oozing with Christmas spirit.  Who knew that no one would want to be nice and smile?  I was so excited when I finally wrapped one present.  ONE.  Huh.  Well, at least I bought a new outfit for the show, with the last of my cash in my account.  I think it makes me look really superfat, so life is awesome.

4.)  Oops, I forgot to eat today.  Hee Hee!!

5.) So I am really pumped because I get on the highway from the mall to head downtown and I am hoping, well, begging really, to be in Friday traffic for about 4 hours, but I was so bummed, ya’all!  I was only stuck in the car with no food or water and a dead cell phone for only 2.5 stinking hours.  Lame.

6.)  I get to the venue, which I will call, Cabaret Club, to find out I have only a reservation for 2 and need to cancel for the first time EVER.  WHAT????? WOOT!!!  WOOT!! WOOT!!  Hee Haw and Merry Christmas, I must be dreaming!  All this hard work really didn’t pay off, thank you Jesus.  Who would have thought, that the same show last year, which was a massive failure because it sold out  in less than a week, only to annoyingly add a repeat performance?  Glad THAT didn’t happen again this year!  Phew!  For me, ya’ll, the best part was that I still have to pay everyone.  That’s right, I had to PAY money to NOT do my show.  Schwing!

7.)  I felt like I won the lotto when I went to feed my meter after tech and found a parking ticket on my car for $75.  Just wake me from the dream.

8.)  I know I wasn’t going to be negative but the only really horrible thing that happened is that some girl found my discarded credit card near my car…she actually had the nerve to go home and Google my name, find out that I was, um, “performing” at Cabaret Club that night and called to say she was coming to bring it to me.  What a horrible person.  Karma is a bitch, lady.

OK…Truth?  For reals?   The best part of my night was the support of my pals,  BassMan, PianoMan and DrummerSub, my lighting/sound buddy TechFro, all the staff at Cabaret Club and Credit Card Angel.  And what really pulled me out of the muck was listening to some lovely music made my some really special pals.  Thank you.

Let’s do this again, bitches!  Tonight, take 2.  Heidey Ho and Merrrrryyyyy Christmassssss!!!!

THE CLAW

Do you see this thing? This evil tool from the game room of the pits of hell?

It’s the claw game.  Most of you have seen one.  It’s the gargantuan crack-like monster lurking in the corner of dusty and dirty game rooms in mid-rate family restaurants across the land.

And Bambi is addicted.

I mean it, I am not sugar-coating it.  Where did I go wrong?  Why can’t she be drawn to the mint bowl like Alpha or the lollypop stash like Cracker?  But Bambi aims higher.  Oh, and let me say also that Bambi is a doll.  A gorgeous, sweet, funny, lovable sweetheart and I love her more than anything.  But she turns…Every time we encounter the crappy animal stuffed beast, she spots  it, right at the moment when we walk in.  If she doesn’t find one right away, her eyes bulge with her mission, eyeballs ever searching, jutting, tearing apart the layout with tiger-like prowess.  She makes her mark and she starts to jiggle, jostle around and sweat.  And she spots her Shangri-La.  She is instantly transformed, she is Gollum.  THE CLAW THE CLAW, THE MIGHTY CLAW.  From the second we sit down, she starts the “claw whine” and I know how badly it will end.  It will end with her crying all the way home.  But let me fill in the middle.

She starting the please game.  “PPLLLEEEASSSEEEEEEEE. “

“Honey, you can’t play that game, we go through this every time.”

“But Mommy, just ONE TIME.”

“No, sweetie, no one ever wins.”

(This is when, conveniently, the little brat from the next door table returned with her gloating father, carrying a cheap ass, Korean-stuffed, lower-quality-than-carnival-crap teddy bear.)

DAYUM

“MOMMMMMMMMM-”

“Just- Honey, can we order first?”

Movie in my head:  I walk over the table, grab the satanic prize  from the little brat and then I smack the dad in the face repeatedly while yelling at him for not being a team player.

If parents across the world would just say NO, then the owners of these establishments would remove them for non-use.  But we get suckered in.  Because we are hungry and we want the cheeseburger and draft beer and we can’t have them until they stop begging and we give them a fucking quarter.

We try to avoid this.  Mike and I do a “claw check”  when looking for a place to eat, much like the old “kid friendly-non smoking” peek in from days of yore.  He double parks and I run in.  If there is a claw, we move onto the next Applebees-barnabys-Hackneys-TGIF’s-crap place that we are looking to dine at…

Santa even had the elves construct a real claw game for HOME.  She plays with it non-stop, while I crouch in the corner and whack my head repeatedly with a wooden spoon to the beat of the circus song that plays over and over and over and over and over an

This should sate her, we gave her the crack pipe.  We let her use it in the comfort of our home.  Surely, she need not go out to get a buzz.  But crack kills, kids, crack kills.

We had an incident the day after Christmas.  Damn, I let my guard down ONE MINUTE.  We were heading to meet family at Buffalo Wild Wings.  It was my cousin Coconut’s birthday and we were all coming together to celebrate.

THERE WAS THE CLAW.  Stop staring at me, you big red greedy whore. You thief, you stealer of little tykes’ hopes and dreams.  Starter of addictive personalities.  DON’T EVEN LOOK AT IT.

What could we do?  We couldn’t leave, this was not our gig.  I could have said, “a table please, very far away from the claw”,  and an older motherly hostess would, with a twinkle in her eye, lightly chuckle while winking and lean in to whisper, “I completely understand, let’s see what we can do”.  And she would put us in the farthest corner from the devil box.  Alas, we didn’t have Aunt Bea, but this young waitress at the prime of her life with her tight sports jersey and her perky, non-breastfed boobs and she would not get it.  She will know soon enough when she starts to breed, but this time,  the slutbag she seats us right smack dab in front of it.  Not directly near it, but riiiiggghhhttt where Bambi can stare at it.

Who am I kidding?  She would have found it.  All the kids were walking around, scoping out the video situation.  Planning and strategically toying with our money in their quick little minds.

I was at the women’s table with the mommies and the offspring.  “A round of chicken tenders, chocolate milk back, for everyone!  And three beers for us, please.”  Cracker was getting a cold and was not recovered from her 5 minute nap in the car.  She whipped off her shoes and hunkered down into doublefisting both her and Bambi’s chocolate milk.  Seven minutes after that, the caffeine kicked in, her legs started to pump and spin like the Road runner, and for the next hour, I chased her while she did laps and half tripped every nubile, perky breasted waitress in the joint.  My beer was neglected.  I needed one of those hats with the beer holders and the straws – Spongebob recently owned one of those.  So J.

And everytime she came back, she went to me first.  Ol Battleaxe Betty who tells it like it is.  “No one ever wins, sweetie.  They make them that way.  Yo-”  (And piping in from the party of 8 in the corner) “I got one Daddy!  I got one!”

Bambi claws at me, “SHHHEEEE GOOOOTTTT ONNNNEEEEEE, MOMMMMYYY PLLEEASSEEEEEE”

“Go talk to your father.”

And Mike who is sitting at the guy table, shoving habanera teriaki wings in his mouth with one hand, and alternating drinking his beer and playing computer poker with the other.  He licks his fingers clean and gives her money.  And the  nightmare continues.

Mike gave the lil nugget almost THIRTY dollars in the span of an hour and half.  Are you fucking kidding me?  AND, it was in 4 quarter increments.  Do you know how many times that means she went back to him to ask for more?  And he gave them to her?

Oh, but by no means was she alone in all this.  She had a partner in crime.  My cousin, Felt and his wife, Teeth, have two adorable little boys, Heisman and Wrestler Fan.  Heisman and my very sweet Alpha were happily content at the end of the table, wolfing down smily face fries and taking turns with the Nintendo DS.  Apricot’s little guy, Star Wars kid, who is like a 4th child to me, brought a little buddy along with him so all the boys were content in their mini-man-dom.  Cracker continued to run laps while gnawing on a chicken tender, which leaves us with the dynamic duo, Bambi and Wrestler Fan.

Those kids were nothing, if not diligent.  At one point, Wrestler Fan, I think was amazed at her determination and put all his efforts into grabbing one for Bambi.  And we all rejoiced!  Our champion!  Our knight!  Victorious!  Slaying the dragon and bringing Guenevere the riches of the world!  Now she can shut it, sit down and eat her mac and cheese.  But it wasn’t the one she wanted.  She wanted the MONKEY. And there were tears.  She flung the unwanted stuffed alligator at Cracker, who screeched with glee and whipped it at the couple behind us.  Bambi was finally cut off.  “You are CUT OFF.”  She remained pouting at her seat, in claw rehab.  There she moped, moaned, keened and wailed until I finally chugged my Blue Moon and declared to Mike, “Wipe your wing-stained mouth, help me grab Cracker and let’s hit it.  I can’t stand it anymore.”  And we dragged Bambi to the car, and she cried the whole way home.

The next morning, my cousin and Coconut’s wife Apricot called me, trying to entice me with bloody mary’s and HBO mockumentary marathons.  As tempting as it was, I was in my own different little rehab, so I had to decline.  But before we ended our chat, she added, “So, wow, Bambi really is addicted to the Claw.  You weren’t kidding.”

Thus,we move on..we start anew, we remain vigilant in our quest for non-claw dining and we strive to encourage home use.

And the bright side is that, although she is tiny enough to do it, she has not been one of the Chuck E Cheese idiots that have tried to climb inside.  Dumb, Bambi ain’t. 

]]> http://irishheather.wordpress.com/2008/12/30/ban-the-claw/feed/ 5 irishheather kyoto_plush_claw_game http://irishheather.wordpress.com/2008/11/12/and-now-for-something-completely-serious%e2%80%a6part-2/ http://irishheather.wordpress.com/2008/11/12/and-now-for-something-completely-serious%e2%80%a6part-2/#comments Wed, 12 Nov 2008 20:50:38 +0000 irishheather http://irishheather.wordpress.com/?p=62 ]]> The mom of Voxx came on the second day.

She came in like a bat out of hell.  A large woman with the poodle perm and a cane like her daughter’s,  the old gal had a mission: to tell Voxx and anyone else who would listen the exact dollar amount of all their delinquent bills and how much money they do not have in their bank account.  Voxx and Ethan Frome owe over $600 to Nicor.  That’s a lot of gas.  And they are really really late.  But they only have $64 dollars and some change in their bank account.  And not one iota of this is something that I should know.

Our very sweet and patient Phillipino nurse, Bandaid, came in announced Movie Tuesday!  She let us pick a DVD and she ordered us some popcorn from food services.  The mom of Voxx pulled up a chair and the two us enjoyed a little Meg Ryan/Kevin Kline French Kiss, while Voxx shaked with the DT’s.  I actually really enjoyed her company.  She was my second favorite visitor.

The only problem was she just couldn’t stop talking about Voxx and Frome’s financial situation.  I was actually starting to sweat and get he DT’s myself.  I was withering and writhing to hear about someone else’s uncomfortable and unfortunate financial troubles.  And when mother of Voxx insisted on calling Comcast right from the room, I decided to go try to take a shower .  All my trials, Lord, will soon be over.

The shower?  Not successful.  I washed my hair with what felt like nail polish remover and was I really clean?  I mean REALLY?  Was I? I felt like as I was standing in there, little amoebas of germ nasty sprung from the walls of the institutionalized shower and stuck onto my flesh.

But it was fun in there compared to pity payment party in bed area two.

Mother of Voxx left and the damn woman took with her Voxx’s hand lotion.  Shit.  I heard about that for the next 7 hours.  She told me about 9-10 times.  She told Bandaid.  She told One of the many annoyed and perplexed doctors who rotated in and out of our room.  She told the food service lady.  She called a lot of people on the cell phone, too.  In the end, I gave her my lotion.  I think she threw it at her closet later on but that’s okay, she can go ahead and keep it.  I’ll get more.

On Day three, I woke with a migrane.  I have no idea why.  Hm.

I have never have one like that before.  I even rated it a sad face number 10 and I have NEVER picked that one in my life.  Every flicker of light was a BBQ skewer in my cornea.  Every sound was a swinging bat over my head.  It even hurt to move.  So, it was so frickin awesome when Voxx’s Kenyan Physical therapist came in the room for her workout session.   BECAUSE HE TALKED LIKE THIS AT ALMOST SCREAM LEVEL AT ALL TIMES IN A VERY THICK KENYAN ACCENT AND APPARENTLY HE ALSO THOUGHT MAYBE VOXX WAS NOT JUST A DRUG ADDICT BUT COMPLETLY 100% FUCKING DEAF.  FOR ONE HOUR. Who was the one whimpering now?  Me. I did.  I whimpered for 60 minutes.

Again, *sigh*

This was about the point that I realized that this is not really happening.  Like scenes like thisare made for movies or books, just so fucking ridongulous that they are a cliche.

A cliché is a phrase that is so overused that it has lost its meaning.

My existance in that room was a true dead metaphor.  I was worse off than when I got there, but I needed to leave now more than ever.

Here came the groan. I heard her stretch and moan in pain for the curtain.  She ripped it back and then I had to look at her sagging tits again hanging out the sides of her hospital gown and she thrusted a pencil at me with a menu that had a piece of macaroni and cheese on it.  “Write your address on the back.”

THINK MAN, THINK.

WhatnameshouldigiveherwhatnumbercanImakeupcanIgiveherafalseemailaddressbut shewillknowshewillknowandsheknowswhoiambecausethedrsmadeabigdealoutofmebeingaperformer

andwhensheheardthatshefreakedoutandtalkedandtalkedandralkedaboutcomingtoseemeeperformand

whatnumbershouldigiveherifilieshewillstalkmeandcometoashowandkillmeafterwards

I gave her my name.  I gave her my address and my phone number.  I even gave her my email address.  The good one.  Because I had nothing left.

I am home now.  Every time the phone rings, I do a Voxx check.  She hasn’t called. Which…is sad.

And I really hope she is okay.

But I really, really, really need to start taking vitamins so I NEVER end up in the hospital again.

It has been a long time since I have been inspired to blog.

My hospital stay with pneumonia last week was a catalyst for me jumping back on the wagon here.  Actually, it was my prescription drug-addicted roommate that put me over the edge.

It was bad enough that I struggled to breathe with a viral cement in my chest and my out of control asthma, horrible that I was on (and still am)  8 different medications that prevent me from sleeping.  But I was forced to endure three straight days of her moaning and screaming for her next round of meds. It was something out of a bad dream, to be completely cliche.

With every Shirley McClaine/Terms of Endearment rant she went on, I felt the box of hell that I was trapped in enclosing around me in the little corner of Good Shepard hospital room 342, bed one.  At one very low point, I was was in fact begging the nurses myself to not skip her dose and wake her up because when she would waken, she would already be withdrawing and I could not handle one minute more of the mania.

She was actually in there for a week already before I got there, with a torn rotator cuff.  She fell and her daughter found her.  I don’t know why she fell.  She has a cane propped up near her bed.  I don’t know what it’s for.  She pees in a bed chair an arms length away from my head.  Behind the curtain, of course.  In my mind, I secretly discouraged her from drinking any liquids so I didn’t have to lie there and listen to her spray in a plastic container next to my head.  Just to let you know, she hadn’t had a bowel movement in a week.  She told everyone this.  I was actually quite relieved about that.  And let’s call her Vexx.  I will save you the Google: Vexx means Goddess of Pain.

When they initially wheeled me into the room on my gurney, Vexx looked at me and said, “What kinda shit is this?  They told me my new roommate was gunna be a guy.”

Charming.

Fantastic.

Vexx sadly also suffers from internal lupus, fibromyalgia and side effects of diabetes.  Although, one of the many annoyed and perplexed doctors who rotated in and out of our room insisted that she was borderline diabetes and does not need to be on a special diet.  And then she would cry.  Because I think she wanted as many ailments as possible that might qualify her for an extra narco or V.

It is no wonder she is on a lot of medication.  It is NOT her fault that she has a drug addiction.  She is in pain and she needs relief and sadly, the body develops an intolerance, therefore the need for an bigger dosage.  I think pain pill addiction is the saddest because it comes out of a place where you are in physical pain and you need help managing it.  He children probably do not understand this.  They just see that their mother has gone away and probably have stopped wondering if she is ever going to come back.

In some of her more severe withdrawal moments, I could see her sitting up and rocking, hugging herself and screaming, throwing Kleenex boxes and lotion bottles and she would cry that she hates this stupid fucking hospital because gets more meds at home.  She should be home…she should be home…she should be home…she locks her pills in her bedroom so her kids can’t get them.

One of the many annoyed and perplexed doctors who rotated in and out of our room verified that she was born in 1959 and I had to pump up my oxygen when I overheard that.

Surely Vexx was in her late 60′s.  I pegged her for almost 70.  I thought it strange that she rambled about her 14 year old daughter and that she should be at home helping her with her homework.  I knew that something was off: I thought national Enquirer, old ladies having babies, images of elderly women breastfeeding infants swirled in my mind.  She is NOT ONLY 10 years older than I am.  But alas, Vexx very much the definition of rode hard and hung up wet.

He kids did not want to visit her.  In a rant, she told me that they miss their old mom…they don’t like to see her like this…do ya think?

On my medication, my heart rate stays at a constant 108 to 135.  But when she would pass out after a dose, she would drift off and I would see my monitor bump down every once in awhile to 103,102,101…ahhh…sweet relief.

I didn’t have any visitors until I broke down on the second day and called Mike crying to pop in and see me.   I was losing my edge with her, unable to endure much more of her unsolicited conversations through the curtain.  The nurses gave me headphones so I could plug into my remote control and watch 12 uninterrupted sleepless hours of a House marathon on USA network.  I am sure the headset cost me about $100 but worth every penny.  They are still in my purse in case I have to go back.

But let’s discuss the visitors of Vex…

The first night I was there, her husband came in, an Ethan Frome, a sad insurance salesman who is apparently about to get downsized, as I hear from one of Vexx’s many erratic cell phone calls.  He is a little man, beaten down and there isn’t enough Wild Turkey in the world to help him forget that that this woman is going to eventually come back home.  She cried and she whined and said to him, “Why didn’t you call me back, I have been calling and calling you (and believe me, she did) and he said to her, “There is something wrong with my phone, it keeps on going dead” and Ethan Frome and I both knew that it’s dead because he can’t bare to turn the god damn thing back on.

Vexx tries to throw the curtain open for the tenth time to show me the mickey mouse boxers that he brought her from his underwear drawer.  And she has been showing them to me all day.  She repeats herself a lot.  I start to clutch my keegel when I hear her stretch and moan in pain for the curtain.  She would pull it back and then I have to look at her sagging tits hanging out the sides of her hospital gown, shaking sad Ethan Frome’s ridiculous Disney boxers that you know he got for Christmas 5 years ago.  She yells at him for bringing her some of his old t shirts for her to wear: he “fucked up” because they have “baloney pits.”

*Sigh*

all I could do at that point is sit back and wait for the nurse to come in and check my vitals so I can signal her to pull the curtain shut again. I could fffffeeeelllll him trying to leave.  I can hear him saying, “Ok, well..” half a dozen times, he cannot take one more minute with her.  I think about what it was like when they met and fell in love?  She was the outgoing one.  Did he court her?  Were they affectionate?  How long did it take in their marriage before he became shrunken by her constant badgering, nagging, complaining, whining, crying, never ending beat down.  Or did she become that way because he never paid any attention to her?  Wasn’t interested in hearing the sound of her voice?  If I have to hear the sound of her voice one more time, I think that I might stab her with a fork and then we will see how much medication she will need.

Frome leaves and Vexx howls.  I buzz my nurse for an Ambian.  It’s going to be a long night.

But now here I am back home.  I am tired now, really feckin weak and still trying to recover.  I get really short of breath and need to lie down after every little mundane task.  It’s all very Camille.  But I am not cleansed of this experience quite yet.  I still have yet to talk about the mother of Vexx and the gas bill visit.

The world seems to me a lot darker after the time change.

I am declaring this as an official statement.

Here Ye, Here Ye, pilgrims of Motherhood! I am officially sick as hell of children’s television.

Even as a college student, I had dreams of being a mom. As I lied in the arms of my college bofriend, I planned out what it would be like. No TV allowed, just blocks of clay in the corners of rooms and paint in buckets so they could paint the walls. I would make all my own organic foods picked out of our garden. I would hand stitch all of their clothing with hemp and frolic in wild open fields with my babies, wearing weaved daisy crowns on our heads and some shit like that. What an asshat.

Then I had Alpha. Oh, I was a proud first mother with all the best intentions. I would not even DARE to let him watch anything when he was a baby. I logged his bowel movements in an excel spreadsheet. With multiple tabs. I made homemade apple sauce, peas and he only drank soymilk. When Bambi came along at a whopping two pounds, we were freaked out for a year so: TV became a little more familiar. Thomas the train and Bob the Builder became familiar friends. By the time Cracker came around, it was hot dogs, pudding, goldfish and after-dinner drinks for Mommy and Daddy. I started to get an itchy rash when hearing Elmo’s voice and my butt would clench listening to the teletubbies theme. But believe you me, bucko, that shit was ON.

Cracker recently became completely obsessed with Dora the Explorer. Ahhh Dora, our little bowl-cut bilingual friend. I love her and I love that she teaches my children to say “por favor” instead of the ol’ stanby “please”. Cracker was previously addicted to Dora’s madcap animal rescuer cousin, Diego, but she has since moved on…

I have taped every episode on our DVR and she would scream “Dddoooorrraaahhh!” at the top of her voice. It’s on quite a bit. There are, of course, regulated breaks. We go out side, we play, we eat, we do puzzles, we read, we play with all of her Dora and Diego toys, but somehow it slowly creeps back on…

I find myself cleaning one room and as I am doing that, the kids are utterly destroying the family room that they are in. When I return to the room*, it’s feckin TRASHED

(*This is not my home, merely a prototype. You get the idea and most probably relate.)

I moan and I cry a little bit and I send them to their rooms. (“DON’T MESS ANYTHING UP! I JUST CLEANED IN THERE!”) I cry because I KNOW that they are trashing the rooms that I just cleaned. I pick up the shit that I have tried to throw away numerous times and has been stealthy picked out of the garbage can by little hands. I find an eleven month old banana stuck in the bottom of the Lincoln log holder and I think I crawl over a little urine on the rug and my blood pressure rises with every bend of the waist and Dora is turned up to volume eleven and our little Amiga is bitching and moaning about Swiper stealing something, (Diego’s Bobo’s are not much better) and I have to yell,

SWIPER, YOU LITTLE FUCKIN’ DELINQUENT, STOP TOUCHING HER DAYUM SHIT AND PISS OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And then I cry because I have cramps and look at the clock and see how many hours it is going to be until I can have a glass of wine. Usually it is around 9:30am and that is always a very unfortunate thing.

Next fantasy…no more TV.

Where’s my glass?

]]> http://irishheather.wordpress.com/2008/06/25/swiper-nooooooo-swiping-if-you-are-going-to-take-something-go-steal-me-a-glass-of-wine-will-ya/feed/ 2 irishheather http://irishheather.wordpress.com/2008/06/18/i-once-was-lost-but-now-im-found/ http://irishheather.wordpress.com/2008/06/18/i-once-was-lost-but-now-im-found/#comments Wed, 18 Jun 2008 14:19:33 +0000 irishheather http://irishheather.wordpress.com/?p=36 ]]> Why?

Glen and Mar with The Swell Season at the Chicago Theatre June 15th, 2008

*Note: there is virtually nothing funny here. This is a seriously serious account of one of the most fabulous nights of my life.*

So, if you know me and regularly read this blog, you know two things:

(1) I have a slightly unnatural obsession and mad crush on Marketa and Glen. The concert the other night put Mike and I over the edge. We would star in the new TV show, “Swingtown” with them. Of course, we wouldn’t, but it’s the thought that counts. That, and, they would look at us and go “ew”.

(2) The last concert I went to, I was abused by a drunk young feck and cried in the bathroom because I am old and fat. (Please visit the Aunt Barbara thread.) I have since realized that I could be older and I could be fatter. All better.

(3) I have been in a little funk and have not really been inspired to blog as of late.

I am now re-inspired.

The show was the most incredible and emotional concert I have ever seen. I have seen a lot. Sorry, Stones, my #1 all-favorite band. You have just had your Start Me Up asses kicked by The Swell Season.

We brought my mom as a thank you for turning us onto the movie. After Once opened in theaters here, she begrudging gave up her copy to me, shoving it my hand and said you will fall in love with this BUT GIVE IT BACK. She almost broke her foot last week while sitting for my middle kid “Bambi”. She jumped into the pool to save her from drowning. She insisted on going to the concert ON CRUTCHES. She yelped when I suggested that she stay home. “WHAT? Are you KIDDING me?” If she were dead, she would demand that we drag her body to the seat and duct tape a glass of wine in her hand. Nice visual.

And let’s face it: we all were a little bit of a mess, me and my mental state was of course, the sloppiest. I was hit with a neurotic stick repeatedly for a couple of hours. From the very first song I was clutching Mike’s knee and smacking my Mother’s arm: “Oh my God, I LOVE this song! Oh my God, I LOVE this song! Oh my God, I LOVE this song!” Glen is hilarious. I would be laughing once minute and blubbering like a baby dropped on her head. I am a true idiot. Could it have been the Margaritas that the cocktail waitress kept bringing us? Perhaps. But I was Spongebob Drunk Ass absorbing the love in the room. Chicago Theatre is one of the most beautiful theatres on the planet. I have seen some pretty big names perform there for the last 25 years and they officially own that space.

And let’s talk about

Definition of Chemistry: ” Miraculous power of transmuting something common into something precious.”

They are both insanely charming in their own right.

They are both gifted and blessed with the upmost talent and that special something that makes people stop everything, shut their mouth and listen with all the power one can muster. And they are a couple. When Mike and I saw the movie at my cousin “Apricot” and …I don’t have a name for him yet..how about “Celinelover”? No, he would be pissed. Let’s call him “Coconut”. I digress. While watching the movie, I was shocked at how I reacted. I burst into tears watching the “Falling slowly” scene and was like “what the fuck?” I looked at Mike to laugh at myself, rolled my eyes to laugh at how stupid it was that I was blubbering like a baboon (Do baboons blubber? Or is it whales?) Then I realized that Mike was SO man-crying. I guess I was moved at the sheer beauty of the scene but maybe because, being a musician, it was so honest and in the moment and beautiful. These are the moments that I cherish when I perform, whether it’s in front of hundreds of people or when I am simply singing a lullaby to my kids.

The point I guess I am trying to make is that I don’t know if they are really a couple. That is the magic of the movie. [SPOILER ALERT – JUMP THE THE NEXT PARAGRAPH OR YOU MAY WANT TO SLAP ME IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE MOVIE} It’s doesn’t have the neat, tie-it-up-in-a-bow Hollywood ending that we are used to…but you leave wanting them to be together. And, holy shit, they are really in love in non-movie life. You can’t make that shit up. You see it in every look they give each other. Every time they approach each other between songs and whisper something (like we can hear anyway, haha). It’s a beautiful dance and if they are indeed, not a couple, they have figured out that, shit, it sells CDs and sold out concerts because whether it’s real or a ruse, it’s romantic as hell. If it’s not true, please don’t ever tell me. It’s the ultimate documentary of love with a hell of a soundtrack.

Let me just wrap this nonsense up with two more things

(1). I loved their other tunes, not just the ones from the movie. The band featured some of the Frames members, including a guitarist from Chicago and Liam, the violinist was breathtaking. The gorgeous song Moon was insane, Marketa was mesmerizing and the acoustic closing of the show was knock-your-socks off brilliant. It’s true, I couldn’t find my socks after the concert.

Here is a really bad cell phone pic of the last number.

I didn’t even mind that we got home at 1:30am (I am sure that the band was still partying at their room at the “W”) and I woke up with a HELLA hangover with the baby at 6am.

(2) Marketa and Glen, if you ever read this, which you never will, don’t be scared. My fascination is harmless. Ever heard of John Hinkley? No. Nothing like that.

It feels good to be back.