Forgotten Apple Password, My Knuckles and A Wall.

bluewall

That’s me with a red nose from crying and some Kleenex™.  Ok, well you can’t see my nose.  But trust me, it’s super red.

That’s my favorite Cubbie sweatshirt and my Cubbie blue wall next to my computer in my vocal studio.

I am pointing to the spot that I almost punched.

All because I couldn’t change my Apple ID password for two weeks.

I am that person who has about 17 different variations of a password.  My important crap is so protected, that even I can’t get into it.  It’s not like it’s on purpose.  It’s not like I have some sort of ninja special op internet security plan that I have devised for myself.  It’s literally more like:  Gah, I forgot my password.  Let me reset it and add another character at the end.  Honestly,  my last password was probably longer than “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious@%*(+!”.  … with a new exclamation point at the end.

(Side note: While writing htis just now, it took me 4-5 times to try to spell “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” before I Googled, copied and pasted it into this post. I had to tell you.  I share everything when I write. Especially my faults.)

So, all the time, I keep on having to change my passwords.  I never write them down because I never write them down.  But I know it has to be some sort of variation of the old one.  This is usually where things go very wrong.

Two weeks ago, I’m, as usual, in a hurry, and I need to buy an app on my phone VERY QUICKLY, because of some very, very important need (insert “really stupid need”) and I can’t remember my password.  This is where I type in about 6 incorrect variations, until I get prompted to change my password.

OK.  I go to change my password.

“Enter ID User Name”….ok…entered.

 

At this point, it prompts me:

“Enter Old Password”…

bitchplease

Now I’m starting to sweat on my upper lip and my aura is fading to black and I have to mad-pee….that’s kind of like hungry+mad= hangry.  Mad-pee.™

Hey Apple phone, you little fucker: I don’t know what my password is, because if I did, we wouldn’t be where we are right now. And I would already have been able to download and I would already be playing my very important zit popper game.

I think I blacked out large memory chunks of what happened next, but there are images and flashbacks that creep in and out of my mind like…reset password…..enter credit card….apple calling you with pass code, please hold…

Inevitably, I get to a screen message that informs me that I am in “ACCOUNT RECOVERY MODE“.  I’m locked out. I am told that I will be contacted in an indefinite amount of time when my account can be verified.

Kablam - The Ultimate Smartphone Screen Protector

I mean, I didn’t.  But I wanted to…

Over the next two weeks, I check my email a couple times a day to see if I’ve received any information.  I have self-refused to call the Apple store and accept the appointment that they are going to offer me that is available in three weeks, just so I can go there in three weeks and have them tell me that I have to go home and wait for the email.

Now, it’s crunch time…I have to get this changed…I have a recital coming up and I have to buy some songs from iTunes and I can’t get INTO the rat bastard. I Google search and I go to restoremypassword.com or what ever the hell that site is called.  I’m lip sweating again as get all the same traumatic prompts, only this time, on the website page, it actually has the ability to tell me an actual waiting time period for my account to be verified…and for me in this case…is waiting eleven more days.   %FPK&'[43j3d#(Jht#!

This is when I really start to look at my wall and look at my knuckles and I start to generate some pretty self-sabotaging fantasies: I’m going to punch that wall.  I’m just gonna….DO IT.  But, if I punched the wall, would I break my hand and then I couldn’t hold my microphone at gigs because I always hold it in my left hand….maybe I should punch with the right…why is it that I can’t hold the mic in my right hand when I’m singing, that’s so weird, but it feels weird, I’m so weird…If I break it, I want hot pink cast.”

Then I see the 1-800 Apple number at the bottom of the page, but I am soooooo glass-half-empty at this point.  If I call it, I know that I will just have to deal with either (1) totally automated crap or (2) I will end up with a potentially stupid and unhelpful human.  (I am so sorry but I have been talking to a bunch of those all.week.long.)

I even throw up a little “help me” FB post.  Waiting.  A friend says to me “namaste”…that helps a little.

Then I call the number, automated…and in a very slow, psychotically controlled, yet pissed-off voice, I say, “I.WANT.TO.TALK.TO.A.HUMAN.”

Hey!   I’m actually connected to a human!  Well.  She didn’t disappoint in the glass half-empty department.  She literally did not know what the fuck she was doing.  I could hear her trying to read down the org chart on what she was supposed to say….while I am waiting for her to work her way through this…I start to take my right, less-significant fist and push really hard on the wall, tap-tap-push…tap-tap-push….pretending it was her face.  After nine minutes of her muddling through this painful dance, I beg her to talk to a supervisor…

Hey! I’m actually connected to a supervisor!  My proverbial glass is filling up and that’s good, because, boy, oh boy, do I need a drink!  Now, this one, this human..she knows what she is talking about; I can smell it. She’s going to get me to paradise and quick.

Supervisor: “What device are you on?”

Me: “My phone.”

Supervisor: “Do you have any other Apple devices?”

Me: “iPad.”

Supervisor: “Get your iPad and log into my settings.”

Me: “Done.”

Supervisor: “Now go to change password and enter a new password.  Done!”

What.

What? What the ever-living F.

Let’s take a silent moment to process.

Apparently, all I had to do was change my password on another devise.

 

<https://giphy.com/embed/Qb5AnG2cn5m1y

 

Yes, I said I was an IT tech for years.

I didn’t say that I was a good one.

 

Namaste.

 

 

 

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Cinco de Miko…Ole!

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An open love letter to my compadre:

It’s just not easy being married to me.

I feel bad because he probably had no idea what he was leaping into, this poor man.

This guy, my Mike, on a daily basis, deals with frantic phones calls, texts or smoke signals that can include some or all of the following:

“Oh my God, I can’t find my *wallet (*can be replaced with keys, car, iPad, kid, dog.)”

“My tooth fell out.”

“The car is dead and I need to be at work in four minutes.”

“I left my hair straightener on and I’m scared the house is going to burn down.”

“I threw my check in the garbage at the car wash. Last Thursday.”

“At gig. Please bring bra.”

“I’m working the next 17 days straight. Can you bring the kids to appointments, go to games, take them clothes shopping, oh, and we have no food…Mariano’s run, please and I don’t know what we actually need and also, one of the kids, I can’t remember which one, maybe #2, needs school snack tomorrow, homemade, for 40 kids. No peanuts, no gluten, no soy, no sugar, no wheat, no milk and no….something else, but I forgot And, I love you.”

I love you.

I love this guy. Not for the obvious millions of reasons that I have outlined above, even though he could very well be sainted by the Vatican any day now.

I love him for probably about 385 million other reasons.

Also, we never, ever have any fun. Never ever.

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But, some highlights:

He is downright loving and kind. He will do anything for anyone. And legitimately be ok with it. He’s not annoyed, put out or angry, even when stressed. And we run very stressed around these parts. No, it’s like this:

Anyone: “Mike; can you do anything in the world for me?”

Mike: “Yes and when.”

That’s about right. In a world where I can’t, because I am late and I have to be in four places 10 minutes ago and I can’t find my pants and I super-glued my shoe to my foot (while still on) and also, I’m dying of some plaque….I’m so sorry, I can’t…

… but he can. I love him.

His parenting skills? Phenomenal.

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When I was in labor With the number one, in between my screeches of murder, angst and betrayal, blaming him that he got me pregnant in the first place, I screamed at him to go to the hospital store and grab toothbrushes. My labor progressed faster than we all anticipated and he made it back right in time to see the doctor catch our baby like a football. Touchdown!

While I was gross, shaking and trying to figure out what a placenta was and why I had to push again, I watched him take our baby in his arms and then I saw him cry. (The only other time he cried that hard was during movie “Once”.  Sorry, honey, but true dat.) Love was pouring like rain from his entire body.

And it has not stopped raining for 18 years…the beautiful, light, soft rain that we all love to raise our faces up to, because it feels so good.  That’s my Mike.

Every diaper change, every cry, every ouchie, every touchdown, every first dance, every cough, every sneeze, nighty night book time, tournaments in the rain, college visits, bra shopping (no wait, that was definitely me), gross pet situations, awesome birthday party music, lice…..

He loves us hard and loves us steady, like the strongest rock.

And he’s gorgeous.

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And my Lord, but he loves the Cubbies. He didn’t always…he grew up a loyal Sox fan, just like my mom, but as his family would say it’s our fault that we brought him to the dark side. But look, see, this is why he is amazing…he appreciates both. It takes a special person to do that. I love him.  Go Cubbies.

And boy, who doesn’t love DJ Mikey Mike? No one. There is no one that doesn’t love him. Nope. Not a one.

I’ll just leave this right here.

 

Happy birthday, honey.  I’m sorry you have to deal with me, but I’m blessed that your stuck with me.  We adore you, you complete us and we win because we are loved by you.

Gotta go. The Vatican is calling.

love,

The Wife

“This is only a drill.”

Last year, I was helping out in my youngest daughter’s classroom. We had a surprise lockdown drill.
I.LOST.MY.SHIT.
First, this is embarrassing, but…yeah, I’ll share.  Because I know that I’m not the only one who has felt like this and it needs to be talked about because it’s actually ok for us to say out loud, “this is scary.”  I am scared for my children, for my friends’ children, for my teacher friends.  I’m scared for everyone.  Even everyone I don’t know.  The whole package.  And also, I wish I was braver and not so scared. 

Let’s all agree that if you know me well, I’m a little…let’s say…hyper-empathic, to a fault….badly coupled with an overactive imagination that is way too big for it’s britches.  
But here I am….excited to help out in class…the last year that I can before my youngest moves to middle school. Cry! Weep! Take a selfie with her…post! I adore the teacher and the kids and we are doing cool things with planets and rockets and cereal boxes and cotton and….

Surprise lockdown drill? 

That…was not on my volunteer agenda. But here I am.  I’ve got this.

The alarm goes off and the teacher locks the door, turns off the lights and starts to huddle the kids under the desks. I look at her quizzically and she smiles and tells everyone it’s a drill. Or did they announce it?? I don’t recall.  I do remember feeling my blood boiling and my face getting hot and I put my hands on my cheeks and my stomach starts to hurt.  I follow her lead and pretend like I’m even an 1/8 of the superhuman she; as all teachers are in situations like this.  I am trying to calm the kids, who’s levels of fright are somewhere probably ranging anywhere from a 1-3 out of ten….I was lingering at somewhere around 149 out of five. While I’m smiling, winking and making funny cool-mom faces, inside I’m dying. Kind of literally.  All replayed out in different scenarios in my over-active absurd mind. I’m legitimately scared and there is no valid reason for it.  It’s a practice drill.  But I’m not 100% sure.  They don’t tell you that before it starts because….it’s a DRILL

Some of my thoughts…that I can vividly remember…that were pounding in my head, flying and whipping around like lights at a Floyd laser show:

(1)WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER. She’s literally right next to you.  Where are my other kids? Safe at school.  Safe?  Safe. These kids are safe.  I’m mom to all of them right now.   Count the kids. one, two, three…I don’t even know how many kids there are but still count..four, five, six….smile.

(2) What is that look in the teacher’s face? She looks scared.  This isn’t real.  Could this be real?  This isn’t real.  I’m listening so hard with my ears for every.little.thing.

(3) Can the kids see me crying a little bit?  Stop.  Stop.  Breathe. Smile.  

(4) Wall of windows.  How do those windows open? How fast can I get there and open one to get the kids out before something happens and I can’t make it? Omg STOP.

(5) Can the kids even fit out the window? How far do they open? Stop.  

(6) Where is my cellphone?  Where is my purse? It’s across the room.  I don’t need it.  Why the FUCK is my cell phone not in my pocket?  Smile.

(7) Re-lax. This is a drill.

(8) Almost done.

(9) Is the teacher scared? Wait? Is that a scared look? No, she’s fine. No wait, she’s acting like she’s fine, but she’s losing her shit.  No, she’s annoyed that her parent helper keeps staring at her and is losing her shit.  I’m so sorry.
(10) This could NOT be a drill.

(11) Keep smiling.  Keep making silly faces.  Keep winking.  Hide fright.  

(12) Why doesn’t Mike ever volunteer?

(13) I want Mike.

(Smile at Lulu, wink, squeeze her hand…make funny face)

(Turn away so she doesn’t see me crying again)

I hear footsteps.  Then the door jiggles. They are checking the locked doors. The principal and the police officers.  I know this.

It’s just a cop.

It’s just a cop.

It’s just a cop.

Omg. Is this real? Staring at windows. Starting at teacher. Staring at windows.

The next 5 minutes felt like 5 hours.

*Announcement: Drill over.

As I non-challantly blow a kiss to my daughter, make a lackadaisical eye-roll laugh and wave at the teacher, after I sign out at the front desk, tossing out some witty repartee about how “I always pick the best days to volunteer” and as I saunter out of the building… I am choking…CHOKING back the tears and the sobs that I finally let out all the way home.  I should have just taken her home with me.  I want to take the entire school home with me.

There wasn’t enough bottles of Chardonnay for me when I got home that day.  Why yes, I did day drink that day.  Sue me.

That experience wasn’t the real thing.  The vile thing.  Nothing I felt or thought that day could ever even TOUCH what all these children and teachers have had to experience and are continuing to experience.  The HORROR.  The REALITY.  

NO ONE. No child, no teacher, no parent, no law enforcement, no rescue teams should EVER have to go through any of it. Those children were helpless in a war they didn’t ask to fight in, in an unmarked war zone they called school and without any way to defend themselves. This is the worst kind of war ever.

And in the End…Home Trumped Ovaries.

I’m sitting here reflecting on how, right at this very moment, I would be coming out of major surgery to remove my lady bits.  But instead, I am home and able to celebrate the 16th birthday of my daughter.

About three weeks ago, dear husband and I decided that there was no way we could financially survive me not singing or teaching for two whole months.  I thought long and hard about it all…weighed the pros and cons…finally deciding that in order for us to be able to eat and have a roof over our heads for the next year, I had to take one for the team. That makes it sound like I am the bread-winner; I most certainly am not.  I’m more like the crumb-loser.  But it occurred to me that it’s time that we needed to get real about what is really happening to us financially.

Federal Debt

We are in big trouble.  There.  I just said it out loud.  Most people don’t want to hear that.  Many are in trouble too and don’t want to share that.  Some simply just don’t want to know the real story.  “GAH AHHHH!!!!DON”T TELL MEEEEEEE!”

My dear husband has been gently encouraging me to watch motivational videos by different financial analysts, ranging from get-rich gurus to more emotionally connected professionals like Suze Orman.

A really strange think happened to me when I started to watch them:  I would choke up and bawl.  I felt some strange emotions and I did’t understand why i was getting so upset. It was blocking me from really listening to what some of these people are trying to help me understand.  Suze Orman really got me.  She’s good.  She basically pointed out that we are are a bunch of people walking around, not being real and not talking about our debt.  And that’s why we all have it.

We are not a family that has ever had money.  Never since we have been married….we have struggled to stay afloat for 18 years.  EIGHTEEN YEARS. Yikes. We are people that barely meet the needs of our children, much less anyone’s wants.  But they do get to do their sports and play their instruments and we struggle because we try to make that happen.  We get ourselves into trouble “trying to make it work.” We don’t spend money to impress. We don’t care what our neighbors are doing or the other kids at school or even our friends.  But wait.  That’s a lie.  We are trying to impress someone.  Our children.  We want to give them what they need and want to show them how much we love them and it’s killing us.

What is my greatest financial fear?

I have a couple: Losing our house.  It’s very real right now.  Therefore, not being able to provide a roof over our children’s heads.  Another one?  Feeding them.  Getting number three her braces.  Keeping number 2 in therapy.  Making sure they can all go to college.

So, we set our goals.  My first goal is to try to prevent all the scary things I just listed from happening.  Have money on hand for emergencies.  Start saving for things that we need to improve our house like floors and paint.  Build a back paver.  Remodel a bathroom.

Big goals?  Vacation.  We have never brought the kids on a vacation.  No Disney, No Cabo, no skiing.  Any trip we have taken, it’s been to Florida and it was gifted for holidays and birthdays by my parents.  How grateful we are and how embarrassed we are.  That’s honesty for you.

The saddest thing is we work hard.  Dear husband has a great job.  I teach around 25 lessons a week in three evenings and sing at night 2-4 nights of the rest of the week.  I also have a part time day job at a friend’s store.  Darling husband comes home from a long day and he feeds and takes care of our three kids while I work.

And it’s still not enough.

We don’t “go shopping” or “go out on dates”.  We don’t have “credit cards”. We don’t have “cable” or “go do family outings”. Most of our money is spent on our mortgage, bills, food, school and paying the high interest on the loans we need to take out to make it another month.  We are in a huge hole and we will not be OK until we can crawl out.

How are we fixing it?  By being honest.  Here it is.  We are so broke, that I can’t get the operation I need.  But, when one door closes, another one opens.  Or in this case, when one ovary is not removed, we can make a mortgage payment.

We are working with a great budget program and have been analyzing our spending for the last three months.  We are figuring out where we can save and make cuts.  We are setting goals and will try to turn around the way we look at our money.  The little we have.  And we try like hell to make it grow.

As far as my Fallopian Tubes…oh well, stay comfy in there, you goofballs; we get to keep partying together until next January.  Let’s make 2018 the best year ever.  Midol, anyone?

 

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Fallopian Send-Off Countdown…and Go!

I just scheduled my appointment to get gutted.

This moment only took me four years.   But alas, I am here.  I have officially been put in a vaginal timeout by my Lady Doctor and there is no going back.  My last check-up a few weeks ago with him went a little something like this:

(Scene: Doctor’s office follow-up with results, after complete biopsy under the hood.)

Lady Doctor: Besides your endometriosis, your fibroid is growing.

Me: I’m an overachiever.

Lady Doctor: (Not amused.  I start to think: when you look up chee-chaws all day long, I guess humor slowly erodes away like lining of a vaginal cavity.)

Lady Doctor: Last year your fibroid was a lime.  Right now it’s an orange.  It’s time.

Me: Hm.  Ok.  Now, would you classify that as a clementine? I love those little guys.

Lady Doctor:  (Not amused.) Not at all.  The big one.  It’s time.

Me: That doesn’t sound apPEALing! (I laugh too way hard, trying to hide my tears.)

Lady Doctor: (Literally no expression.)

Me: K.

*****

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My Trunk Junk.

Friends, meet cervix.  Cervix, meet friends.  In 2 short months, all of these once-overactive baby maker tools will be Jack-the-Rippered out of me.  Sayanara, sweeties!

The saddest part is all the excuses I have made.  I can say that I put these shenanigans off because of “work”. I book our gigs months in advance and I don’t want to screw my musical partner out of months of work=valid.

I can say that I can’t afford to stop teaching and singing for two months=valid.

I can say that I don’t want to leave my students voice teacher-less in the heart of high school spring musical audition season=valid.

I can say that I am scared to get all the weird and non-glamorous side-effects I will adopt, after they rip out my woman bits=valid.

I can even say that I am not sure what I am going to do with myself for two months, because I literally have watched the absolute and complete entire collection of Netflix=VALID TO ME.  And also embarrassing.

But the real truth…the one that festers and bubbles…the one I dare not whisper to anyone, even sometimes to myself…is that I am dreading the pain=The most valid.

But it’s going to hurt me so badly.  Not so much from the relinquishment of my reproductive whozits and whatzits galore, but my actual BODY will pulse and vibrate with breath-taking pain from not being medicated.  I have to go off of my Humira 10 days before and I can’t start up again until 6 weeks after.  During that time, my rheumatoid arthritis will unleash from the very gates of the seventh circle of hell to attack every joint in my body.  It’s a dark place, brother.

I could be all Pollyanna and pretend that it will “not be as bad as I think”, but fuck glasshalffull.  I know it will suck hard, because it happened to me unexpectedly last year.  (Please refer to the past WOUND posts.  It wasn’t pretty.)  It freaking hurt.  I’d rather have 5 more babies, all popping out at the same time.  Oxycodin from my surgery will help, but eventually I will have to stop, to prevent me from being an addict looking for a fix in the parking lot of Mariano’s, Zumba and all the other popular mom-addict drug spots in the surrounding Lake County area.

But it’s time.  Now I have 51 days to really show my ovaries a rockin’ good time.  I’m taking them to Florida.  I am definitely not going to neglect them from any opportunity to enjoy a tall Tito’s and soda.  They can help me decorate my Cubbie Christmas tree this season.  I’m even going to dress them up in flapper sequins and let them sing with me at my big closeout NYE gig this year.  They will want for nothing…..these bitches will be spoiled, but they are going out in style, yo!

Word.

 

 

 

 

 

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Ouch.

Pain is dark.

It’s quiet and lonely and heavy and it throbs.  It sure can take your breath away. It’s a hard thing to explain to somebody even when they are desperately trying to understand how much it hurts. There is not a lot of sound here.  I can hear the ceiling fan and a random giggle from downstairs that feels good and also a little sad. Even now, I am lying on my side and I’m staring at a picture of my kids, trying to cope with every joint in my body hurting.  I want to scream the F bomb.

Here is my view:

There are some interesting things in this picture..Thor’s unmade side of the bed, Cracker’s lost boot: the reason she had a 34 minute before-school tantrum on Friday morning…Whoop, dere it is!  Found it, you little brat. (That’s OK, mommy loves you.)

I know you want to know about the camera. (Insert 70’s porn music here). TOO BAD!!! No kinky shenanigans.  Just my pals trying to bring music to ME while in confinement…we made a little music video. If you have an extra 14 minutes and 36 seconds just lying around, check it out.  It’s a sweet examination into the compassionate world of friends who will do anything to make you feel better.  But wear your low expectations hat because I was trying to sing sick in bed with a vacuum attached to my belly.  Vacuum belly!!! It’s mission? To suck out Ghostbusters slime grossness out of my wound.   That Vac was a constant companion….I called it “my little friend.” But you have to say it out loud with the Tony Montana Scarface accent. You try it.  Say it:”my little friend.”  Say it again.  “My little friend.” So fun, huh?  That vac went everywhere with me.  It was like carrying around the grossest purse in the world.  But I couldn’t go anywhere for long because of it.  I could only run around in social circles and with gangs that had a lot of outlets handy…here’s the video!

The Sick Sessions with Gritman&Moran
But seriously.  Go back to the above photo and look at that picture of my kids, taken on our favorite beach in Naples.  Omg.  It’s precious to me and I’ll never forget that moment. That picture in itself is an anti-inflammatory for the soul; it’s OxyContin for my heart; it’s a Kleenex, stopping the trail of my tears. I have been staring at it in pain for a over a month. It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten….a beautiful soul had it blown up for me.  Thank you, my sweet, red-headed friend. 

At this point, I am not really feeling any pain from the surgery. My wound is kind of closing up and I am just weak from being laid up so long. I was able to scrounge my way through a couple of gigs and run a few errands but now I’m back in bed jail. And it’s not even really from the earlier craziness.  It’s due to a medical condition I have had for about 6 years.  Most of the time you would never even know I have it.  It’s called Rheumatoid Disease aka Rheumatoid Arthritis aka RA aka Evil Bitch From Hell. They changed the name from RA to add the word “disease” because it’s a nightmare of an auto-immune disorder. And frankly, the RA powers that be were probably sick of people not understanding it.  Like every time they mentioned that they had rheumatoid arthritis to the person talking to them, the other person would inevitably start complaining about how their knuckles hurt when it rains. Not the same thing. Weather has nothing to do with this.  Here is what it is, deftly illustrated by a select chosen lot of drunk people dancing:

Immune system broken….like going all crazy on itself…like THIS…but instead of flouncy dancing at your joints, it’s punching them…like THIS. Humira, a miracle drug that I shoot in my thigh every week, calms my immune system down so it’s like THIS. You get the idea. Dance like no one’s watching.  (But we are.). (And we’re laughing.)

Th whole mess happened because sometimes when I’m on the drug, my immune system can’t fight anything. So if I get, let’s say a random chest cold or a stupid little bug bite, unlike most people, my body can’t fight it. It’s one of the more rare side effects of the drug, like I think it’s written near the bottom of side effects on the warning label, listed under “spontaneous eyeball bleeding.” It rarely happens, but this is how lucky I am! Weeeeee!!!

The hospital stories are coming next. But I’m grossed out.  I am a person who does not handle anything yucky well at all.  For instance, If you are walking with me on the street and you lean over and you spit, I will throw up.  When I clean a toilet, I do it while I am dry-heaving.  If you have an eye-related incident, you’re going to have to go to somebody else with it. And when my kids spurted any blood throughout their childhoods, I have been known to completely run the other way. There is also a very large unrelated issue with clowns.  So you can imagine how traumatizing it was for me to be in the hospital with a gaping, staph-infected hole in my stomach.  I was never able to even look at it.  But everyone else in the free world sure did!  And I was really good at reading everyone’s face when they were looking at it so I could tell how bad it really was.  I’m nothing if not painfully observant. My husband Thor tried to take pictures of it and I groggily threatened divorce.  A very good friend came to visit me and I was happy to see him until he (1) tried to plan with another visiting friend on how they could get their hands on my morphine and (2)tried to take a picture of my wound and start a public fan Facebook page. I know. Funny but awful.  

So I think tomorrow I will start writing about all those gross things but I just can’t bear to do it today. 

And here we are. I’m banned from Humira for another month and everything hurts. EV-ER-EE-THING. I’m sorry, but I’m whiny.  I have a whole in my stomach the size of the Grand Canyon, medical professionals keep sticking their fingers in it, my family has been through hell, my dream job fired me, I have missed countless gigs so I’m broke as hell and I have sunk so low trying to entertain myself, that I am currently binge-watching The Nanny. Do NOT tell anyone that.

But this is not how I’m going to play this. A pity party is not how I’m going to choose to handle this.  It’s beneath me.  It’s going to go down exactly like this:

I have a great bed. Cable has not been shut off yet. Look at my kids, please. They’re adorbs. My husband Alpha, the best man in the world, would definitely be Knighted by the Queen if we lived in Great Britain. My parents are incredible; all of them. I have this ridiculously fantastic nurse who came to my house and she healed me inside and out and she was so nice, she didn’t even try to tie wood chunks on my ankles and break them so I couldn’t run away. (Great movie) Voice text on my iPad is the BOMB. I have so many incredible friends who are so loving and giving, I could spaz out with love for them. And I get to sing, sing, sing with my homies and I get to sing, sing, sing for people that I love. I have a house, I drive the Blueberry and I live in the best town in the land.  Soon my gaping wound will be gone, “my little friend” The Vac will be returned, cleaned, sanitized and sent off to suck Ghostbusters slime out of some other poor bastard. I will be back on Humira and no one will know that I even have this stupid disease. I will get a new job, have a kick ass summer on Bangs Lake and watch a buttload of Alpha playing lacrosse.  And most importantly, I will always have the memories of the time when I desperately needed a village and the village came running. 

It Takes An Open Wound…

…to get a girl back to blog land.

I have recently been through a life-threatening medical trauma.  But we will get to that in my next installation because I am a big fan of suspense. At my lowest moment, when I didn’t think I could take any more insanity, I stared up at the hospital ceiling and thought, “Jesus.  I need to blog this shit.”

Conveniently enough, that day my family visited me and brought me a bag of get-well goodies.  My favorite things were the roll of Rolos and an adult coloring book.  It sounds kind of pornographic, but it’s not.  It’s not pages filled with nasty bits, if thats what you had in mind.  Yucky on you.  They are filled with grown up and pretty and hard-to-stay-in-the-lines pictures.  I’ve seen these coloring books on The Facebook but I didn’t fully understand the hype.  Omg.  Best invention ever.  So calming…so calming…so calming…

The Wound Journal.


It might have been the continuous IV Morphine and Norco cocktail, but I decided that I needed to color the shit out of this thing and use it as a diary to write the greatest non-fictional novel ever known to man, entitled “The Wound Chronicles”.
Then I realized that it was just too soon. Way too soon to laugh about any of it.  I kept on trying to start talking about it, but much like me not being able to actually LOOK at the wound, I still couldn’t even really tell anybody much about it.  Until yesterday, when I went on an adventure to visit my infectious disease doctor – yes, I have one of those.  Don’t be jelly. 

As I was sitting in the waiting room and I was trying not to touch ANYTHING (seriously, I think I left my arms above the armrests for a full 47 minutes.)  I was side-staring at people, germ profiling them and worrying about how they were going to spread their tse-tse flu or Zika virus tainted cells into my healing wound.  I was being a germist form of a rascist and I was very ashamed.  And then I was worried that they might be grossed out by me, so I started to have a full-blown panic attack.  I began quiet Lamaze breathing.  That made me look weirder.  I totally started upper lip face-sweating.  WHY WAS THE COMPLIMENTARY TV OFF?  This was a torture chamber.  They had to know that an episode of “House Hunter: International” would have calmed all of us freaks down.   I was a shell of a woman.  They finally called my name and I hobbled faster than a turtle to get away from everyone. I am quite sure they were equally glad to get rid of the sweaty, strange woman puffing her breath and leering at all of them with her arms up in the air.

The nurse made me lie down and she removed my dressing.  She didn’t even put anything over it. Exposed naked wound in room 4!  She left me and the gaping hole and all of the whole mess just out there, exposed for the world to see and ripe for a brand new strain of MRSA.  I had to wait way too long for the doctor in that vulnerable state.  As every minute passed, I realized that now my wound was on display to the open air and to the WHOLE PLANET and anyone even walking by the window. I was distraught that I left my phone in my purse so I couldn’t be distracted from the crazed images of invisible flying death germs stealthily dive-bombing directly into my healing cavity.  At this point, I was absolutely sure that I was going to get the conga flu in the hole or rickets or polio and I really, really hoped that it wasn’t going to turn black.  I started to hum the theme to the movie “Tootsie” for absolutely no other reason than that I was coming completely unhinged.

There it was.  That was the Oprah “aha” moment.  It was while I humming “somethings telling me it might be you” that I laughed very loudly at myself and my mental instability and I realized…yep.  It’s time.  It’s time to share the epic story of the wound.

For now, I have to wrap this up because I’m so tired.  I still get weak.  Doing nothing throws me into nappy time.  It’s so totally stupid.  Typing this has put me into a near coma and I’m already practically lying down.  But I look forward to going back to my notes and sharing some crazy wound crap with anyone who came stomach it enough to read it.  My goal is to post one a day but I have no follow-through.  See you tomorrow?  Or in 2019.  My last post on here was from 2012.  I wish me the best of luck. 

The Moran Elf Project 2012: Watch it, Bucko.

 The little rat bastard is BACK.  Billy Bob Joe…Merry Christmas; come trash my house.

Let’s face it.  He is creepy, snarky and get’s into all my shit.  But he is very loved, intensely anticipated and he is filled with the stuff that makes Moran little-people-memories. So let’s see what the little North pole Juvie has in store for my clan.  Bring it, Elf!

Welcome, Trouble.

Dec 1: Welcome, Trouble.

Those pretzels were for lunches.  Not a good start.  I may send him out to the Jewel to get new snacks ’cause we are not made of money around here, Elf.  Wasteful troll.

Dec 2: State is not for Suckers.  Go Lulu.

Dec 2: State is not for Suckers. Go Lulu.

I was SO pissed off he punched holes in the Cuties with little toothpicks.  Those things are pricey.  I may juice HIM.

Thanks, Billy Bob Joe, for the Mammories.

Thanks, Billy Bob Joe, for the Mammories.

I will make him finish that whole glass.  And if he comes back from his little “check-in visit” from the North Pole tonight and that Oberweiss is not fully consumed, then it will still be waiting for him to finish in the morning.  And the day after that.  And the day after THAT.

Cause Mommy Dearest doesn’t screw around.

pirate1 pirate2 pirate3

Bitch Pirate Barbie strikes again.

apples1I think someone is officially DTF.

fishies

Here fishy, fishy, fishy…..

copy

elfbutt

Too much egg nog at the office party, ya little brat?

jar

Jar-head, busted.

repel 3 repel1 repel2

“Creepy Elf boyfriend, I am falling and I can’t get up!”

“I’LL SAVE YOU!”

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I’m Fine, I’m Fine, No Really, I’m Fine.

This is exciting.  I am an empty day nester!  I cried on and off for the first 2 days and now…I am good.  Cracker, Bambi and Alpha are all nestled into their classrooms and I can rest easy.  Cause like I literally have to rest.  I went to my rheumy yeterday and he actually diagnosed me with exhaustion.  It’s making me twitch.  Full truth, people.  It’s made my RA bad and now my muscles have been effected.  And I have had an eye twitch for 2 weeks.  I am NOT winking at you.  It didn’t help that after singing last night, I couldn’t get to sleep until 2am.  I have a million projects and things to do…a house to scrub…but for today, I need to get rid of this twitch.

And so, for those close friends and family that have been worried about me, I am fine.  I am going to go rest.  But not before I share with you todays Heatherevent:

This all started with my dear friend “Sid”.  I call her that because she has undiagnosed OCD.  I am pretty sure I came up with that name after too much Pinot Grigio, while she was scrubbing my floor on her hands and knees.  She is incredibly thoughtful and she picked up some cream for me at the store the other day when I was feeling ill.  (BTW – “Sid” started this whole nickname thing with calling me “Rah”, making fun of my awful auto-immune crippling disease know as Rheumatoid Arthritis.  Love that bitch because laughter is the best med I take.)  I had this really bad, crazy week where I found myself not being able to have a freaking cup of coffee.  I was starting to get a little obsessed with the absence of it.  And I only drink decaf, which makes the whole scenario a lot more embarrassing.

 First, I was out of coffee, then I was out of cream, then I tried skim and it tasted like poop, then I thought I would drive to Starbucks then I was too sick to drive to Starbucks.  Then my sweet dear friend “Volly” from next door came over and bought me some coffee.  Then I was still out of cream so it just sat there. Then “Sid” eventually came over at some point and brought me 2 small creams, instructing me to put one in the freezer and pull it out the day before you need it.  Her mom always did that, she said and I can verify that her mom knows everything.

HELLO “Sid”, who do you think you are dealing with?  It’s “Rah”.  Like I would ever be organized to plan ahead.

Today, I made a gorgeous pot of coffee and I couldn’t WAIT to enjoy some quiet time on my stoop after the bus left…and I go into the kitchen make THE perfect cup of coffee and I am freaking out of cream.

Now, I know what I am going to do next.  And it’s going to suck because it’s not going to work out well for me at all.   But I do it anyway, because I lie to myself that I am an optimist.  I go into the freezer and I pull out the frozen cream.   Frozen, rock hard, frozen, frozen.  I mean like, take-a-day-to-thaw-a-turkey-frozen.  I dropped it on the counter THUNK and stared at it for a minute or two.  I now have time for this, you know.  I decided  to go get a teeeeeennnyyy weeeeeennny little kid’s knife.  I shoved that little knife in there and I scraped and scraped little tiny shards of frozen cream into my coffee cup.  Plop.  Plop. Plop.  Stir it up….and voila!  Outcome?

I’m going back to bed.

 

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I have misplaced my ability to read…

…it must be around somewhere….I used to be able to read all the time…let’s see….let me get my glasses…oops, don’t know where they are either…probably on my head….nope…darn it all to heck…that’s really a shame because I FINALLY got a copy of the middlemarch book , but upon opening it, I realize it’s typeset is sized for readers the size of…

THUMBELINA

The cover is super pretty, ya’ll….looky….

I finally grabbed a spot on the couch…it was really quiet a beautiful breeze blowing in..kid were upstairs and I had about 20 minutes to spare before getting ready for a fun Friday night out…and I stared at the cover for about 5 minutes.  I kind of got lost in it, really.   I ceremoniously adjusted my head on the couch pillow and started to read the first page.

Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.”   Kick-ass first line.  This is going to be good.

Then a wet naked Barbie flew over me on the couch.  Oral bomb noises quickly followed,  and ended with a biff-to-the-forehead noise and an “OUCH-UH!!!”  (That’s a new thing that the girls are doing…adding “uh” to the ends of words.  That’s DUMB-UH, WHAT-UH,  COME ON-UH.   WTF is that?  Look, there is even a FB page for it HERE)

 Then Bambi yelled at Cracker for whipping it at her and they had an apology fight.  “You apologize, no YOU apologize.” Someone please fucking apologize because I have read the first line 5 times.  Then the phone rang.  Then I really tried hard to concentrate and while I was reading the first paragraph, I tried really, super hard to concentrate but then I thought about if I have time to take a shower before we go over to a friends and did Cracker leave her Sonic shake in the car because I will forget about it for a couple of days until it smells and OW!!! I  suddenly got one of those shooting boob pains, what the hell IS that when that happens cause I don’t die from it when it happens but it’s in my boob and I think I need to Google that…READ READ READ, concentrate….I came across words like “frippery” and I really wish I could be reading this on my Kindle so I could hit the word and the definition pops up.  I suddenly realized I am going to need a pocket dictionary.  Hey, look.  I am no chump.  I am no idiot.  I was an English Lit. minor in one of my many colleges I attended.  I done read good.   But it’s been awhile and I have spent the last 12 years reading Highlights Magazines, Mattel Toy Assembly instructions and “Everybody Poops”.  (Great read BTW, highly recommend.)

I got down to about a third of the page and I started to schvitz a little bit.  I flipped back to the end of the book .  746 pages.  That’s a lot less than Volly, my reading project partner.  That’s maybe because my font size is -1pt.  

“The pride of being ladies has something to do with it…”  What is that smell?  What IS that?  Is that a rotten orange?  Shit, I forgot to drop off dress at the dry cleaner and I can do it tomorrow….no I can’t do it tomorrow, what is tomorrow, what do I have tomorrow, OMG why can’t I remember what tomorrow i-FOOTBALL scrimmage, right, then drive Papa and Nana to airport and

Shit…ok….“The pride of being ladies has something to do with it…The Brooke connections, although not slightl-“

I was staring at the words.  I was starting at each individual word, trying to process it.  It actually made me feel like I was going a little bit insane.    I heard a fly and thought of the bad meal we had a a local place this weekend because we ate outside and there were flies everyone and I thought about how they poop on everything and how everyone always freaks out and really, how bad could fly poop be, I mean it’s so small that it’s almost as small as the font size in my book.

Then I really start to ride the procrastination train and I start reading the quotes on the back.  Who does that but people who are procrastinating?  Or bored people pooping on the potty?  Then I read the biggest quote on the back.  I quite literally made me jump up, shove a Bath and Body Works 20% coupon in the book as a marker and run into the office to quit reading forever.

“One of the few English books for grown-ups.”  – Virginia Wolff

I am too busy to read now.  I have to go get that shake out of the car, find the source of the kitchen smell and starting drinking heavily.  Then, when I stumble wasted into bed later tonight and read the first page of my book 12 times, I will at least have a very good excuse.

(I have NEVER even blogged the word “poop” before and I think I used it today about 10 times.  See what a bad influence reading can be to a person?)

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