1. If you put the word "camel toe" in the title of a blog, you will have an explosion of views. Theses views will come from Google. In other words, it's perverts looking for camel toe pictures for their "viewing pleasure".
2. Hershey kisses suck. But, a dear friend of mine shared a recipe that might make them more palatable.
3. I am a raging rhinoceros when you get into my personal space. This morning, at Indo Row class, a young lady was trying to move all the rowers together so we could all be by our friends. Nevermind all the empty space on the other side of the room or in the middle of the room. It made sense to her for us to be elbow-to-tit for an hour. I moved my machine into said empty space but instead of being cool about it, I was a bitch. I'm not proud but reminded that I am a rhinoceros...hear me roar. (yes, I will try to be a nicer person) (damn you!)
4. Some people don't see how the AMC show "The Walking Dead" could be romantic. I explain that I watch it with my hubby, it's e only time during the day when it's just him and me, we cuddle, blah blah blah. "wow, so watching a show where people blow kids' heads off, kill zombies and each other is romantic?". Well, when you put it THAT way....
5. I should always listen to my dad when it comes to money. He should write a book. Love ya, Pops!
6. I'm 1 of 5 individuals in Texas who know to pull over when I see a police car, ambulance, fire truck or funeral procession come rolling down the street. If you didn't know that's what you're supposed to do, well...now you know.
7. Certain antibiotics give children the poops. I guess suffering from a double-earache isn't enough; they should also suffer from constant shits blowing out the back of their diapers. Poor kid. :(
8. I love my sister more than anything in the world and want to do whatever I can to make her life easier. But I don't know what I can do! (please call me so we can Skype)
9. I don't give a shit about politics, who you love and who you think will be a better choice for me. I'm a grown-up. I will do my research and I will make an edicated vote. I cringe when I think about the upcoming election. I don't want big dumb Diddy in my face telling me I will die if I don't vote. I don't want (add random actor/actress/musician name here) waxing poetic about politics. Shut up, read your lines, strum your guitar or sing. Get out of my face.
10. I'm a far-better "pinner" than "doer" on Pinterest.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
Camel Toe Etiquette?
First off, I've been lax in my postings. My little boy has been having some issues of late and I wasn't in the mood to write. Hopefully you'll all come back and read again!
Secondly, what the eff, people at the gym?! I enjoy rowing on the "Indo Row" machine. I hadn't done it in a while thanks to my son's RSV (or "RSVP" as I'm apt to say). Anyhow, I struggled in class, wanted to go back on my own and work a kink out in my shoulder when I heard a voice behind me. "I've always wondered how these things work". I turn around and there it is, pretty much in my face: the dreaded "camel toe".
I wish I could post a picture of the machine. If you're too lazy to google it, I'll give you a general description. The rower sits on a seat that goes back and forth on a rail. You pull the handlebars like an oar and you row. Easy-peasy. As the rower, I'm sitting about 4 inches off the floor. Given my height, it makes my head be about crotch-level when someone stands next to me. In this case, a woman who'd (judging by her sweat-soaked clothing) put in a good workout and decided to stop by Studio 2.
Her camel toe was not a baby camel, it was a full-grown adult camel. I quickly looked away. Sputtering about how easy a workout it was. She just stood next to me, sweaty camel toe next to my right ear. She wanted to know what all the numbers meant, how I adjusted the tension in the handlebars, all legit questions. I kept my head turned away. How could she be so oblivious to the fact that her crotch was eating her shorts??
This begs the question: is there camel toe etiquette? You see a camel toe, do you say something? While I know I would be mortified if someone mentioned I was rocking a cleaved-hoof look, I think I would be a little relieved that I could fix the problem. At the same time, it's not my biz and that is one extremely personal problem.
I didn't say anything. She left, promising to come back for the next class. I washed my eyeballs out with hand sanitizer. No one should be subjected to such close proximity with camel toe. I feel like I lost a touch of innocence today.
Secondly, what the eff, people at the gym?! I enjoy rowing on the "Indo Row" machine. I hadn't done it in a while thanks to my son's RSV (or "RSVP" as I'm apt to say). Anyhow, I struggled in class, wanted to go back on my own and work a kink out in my shoulder when I heard a voice behind me. "I've always wondered how these things work". I turn around and there it is, pretty much in my face: the dreaded "camel toe".
I wish I could post a picture of the machine. If you're too lazy to google it, I'll give you a general description. The rower sits on a seat that goes back and forth on a rail. You pull the handlebars like an oar and you row. Easy-peasy. As the rower, I'm sitting about 4 inches off the floor. Given my height, it makes my head be about crotch-level when someone stands next to me. In this case, a woman who'd (judging by her sweat-soaked clothing) put in a good workout and decided to stop by Studio 2.
Her camel toe was not a baby camel, it was a full-grown adult camel. I quickly looked away. Sputtering about how easy a workout it was. She just stood next to me, sweaty camel toe next to my right ear. She wanted to know what all the numbers meant, how I adjusted the tension in the handlebars, all legit questions. I kept my head turned away. How could she be so oblivious to the fact that her crotch was eating her shorts??
This begs the question: is there camel toe etiquette? You see a camel toe, do you say something? While I know I would be mortified if someone mentioned I was rocking a cleaved-hoof look, I think I would be a little relieved that I could fix the problem. At the same time, it's not my biz and that is one extremely personal problem.
I didn't say anything. She left, promising to come back for the next class. I washed my eyeballs out with hand sanitizer. No one should be subjected to such close proximity with camel toe. I feel like I lost a touch of innocence today.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
If an errant ball goes flying...
I can guarantee it will hit me in the face. I don't care if I'm in a concert venue with thousands of other music lovers, I know the moment they release those beach balls, I'm going to get hit in the face with one-hard like volleyball spiking hard. Yes, I've been hit with a pool ball during a vicious game of "Crud". If it's round, has the word "ball" in it and can sail in the air, my face has seen contact with that object.
Today was no different. My daughter participates in a basketball clinic at our local YMCA. We go, toss the ball around, she gets bored about 8 minutes in and falls to the floor crying until I carry her out (best $35 I ever spent). Afterwards, I leave her at the child care center while I work on narrowing my chins down to just one.
All the cardio machines had someone huffing and puffing on them, thus I was forced to go back to "Studio 2" which houses all the Indo Row machines. These are glammed up rowing machines that use water basins to help with your workout. It's nice to hear the whoosh of water as you pretend to row a boat. Anyhow, you sit on a seat which moves forward and back. Pull on a bar to mimic the oars and you just row away. They're a great workout, the machines are expensive to replace but worth every penny. Pair this with some good tunes on my IPod and I felt like I was moving down the river, sweating my butt off and enjoying a workout.
Enter Joey, Bobby and Johnny plus Dad. Each had a basketball. Each had the determination to turn Studio 2 into their half-court. When they all started dribbling the balls, I was mildly irritated. My zen felt broken with each thud. Plus, those kids can't dribble the ball to save their lives! I mean, I'm no basketball player and, hell, I'm a girl but I would have mopped the floor with them. Anyhow, the dribbling became passing, which turned into shooting which ended up into some kind of weird drill where Dad had them passing the ball from behind their backs.
Now, let me reiterate that Studio 2 is not a basketball court. It's a room with one wall of mirrors and one wall of glass window. There's a sound system, complete with 4 speakers up front and 3 paintings hanging on a third wall. Each corner of the room has a 3-foot-tall vase full of decorative branches. Along the back wall are 14 other Indo Row machines, each on their "head" waiting for someone to take it down and put it on the floor. I was on a machine in the far left quadrant of the room, under a ceiling fan, blissful.
As a mother, if I had 3 kids who wanted to throw some balls around, I would not choose this room. But, Dads are different, I suppose. I tried to ignore the coaching, passing and bouncing of the balls...until I got smacked right in the face. Because I'm holding the handlebars, I couldn't block it or deflect it in any way. No one yelled a warning and I got "Marsha'ed" right in the nose.
Immediately, I stopped rowing. "are you kidding me?"
Dad looks and says "whoops. They're kids."
Me: is the gym full or something?
Dad: yeah.
Me: there's a lot of equipment in here, you need to take it out into the hallway or locker room
Dad: c'mon, they're kids. Don't get dramatic.
I get punched in the face with a basketball, i explain there should not be basketballs in my vicinity and I'm being told I'm dramatic?!
Meanwhile, Johnny throws a ball it it knocks a machine over. He retrieves the ball and CONTINUES to throw it around. I don't know why I snapped, I just know I did because I'm in Dad's face telling him he needs to move on. I don't think he expected me to get out of the machine, much less get into his face in front of his boys. I'm a little surprised I did it myself. I don't remember much of what I said. I know I called him "Douchy McKnit-hat" (cause really, it's 82 degrees in the gym, you need to wear a knitted hat?) and I told him to keep walking. He came back with the standard "you're a bitch" but left nonetheless.
I told management about it. I'm irked that there was no apology. No "oh, man this is a bad idea". Instead, I'm a bitch because I got hit in the face by a hard basketball in a room full of breakable equipment, NOT a basketball court and I dared to get pissed about it.
More than likely, I will get hit in the face with another errant ball. My only hope is that nothing will be broken. As for the Asshat, I'll see him again next week. Our kids are in the same program. I plan on having Katie hit him in the junk with her basketball. You know, 'cause she's a kid. It'll be okay.
Today was no different. My daughter participates in a basketball clinic at our local YMCA. We go, toss the ball around, she gets bored about 8 minutes in and falls to the floor crying until I carry her out (best $35 I ever spent). Afterwards, I leave her at the child care center while I work on narrowing my chins down to just one.
All the cardio machines had someone huffing and puffing on them, thus I was forced to go back to "Studio 2" which houses all the Indo Row machines. These are glammed up rowing machines that use water basins to help with your workout. It's nice to hear the whoosh of water as you pretend to row a boat. Anyhow, you sit on a seat which moves forward and back. Pull on a bar to mimic the oars and you just row away. They're a great workout, the machines are expensive to replace but worth every penny. Pair this with some good tunes on my IPod and I felt like I was moving down the river, sweating my butt off and enjoying a workout.
Enter Joey, Bobby and Johnny plus Dad. Each had a basketball. Each had the determination to turn Studio 2 into their half-court. When they all started dribbling the balls, I was mildly irritated. My zen felt broken with each thud. Plus, those kids can't dribble the ball to save their lives! I mean, I'm no basketball player and, hell, I'm a girl but I would have mopped the floor with them. Anyhow, the dribbling became passing, which turned into shooting which ended up into some kind of weird drill where Dad had them passing the ball from behind their backs.
Now, let me reiterate that Studio 2 is not a basketball court. It's a room with one wall of mirrors and one wall of glass window. There's a sound system, complete with 4 speakers up front and 3 paintings hanging on a third wall. Each corner of the room has a 3-foot-tall vase full of decorative branches. Along the back wall are 14 other Indo Row machines, each on their "head" waiting for someone to take it down and put it on the floor. I was on a machine in the far left quadrant of the room, under a ceiling fan, blissful.
As a mother, if I had 3 kids who wanted to throw some balls around, I would not choose this room. But, Dads are different, I suppose. I tried to ignore the coaching, passing and bouncing of the balls...until I got smacked right in the face. Because I'm holding the handlebars, I couldn't block it or deflect it in any way. No one yelled a warning and I got "Marsha'ed" right in the nose.
Immediately, I stopped rowing. "are you kidding me?"
Dad looks and says "whoops. They're kids."
Me: is the gym full or something?
Dad: yeah.
Me: there's a lot of equipment in here, you need to take it out into the hallway or locker room
Dad: c'mon, they're kids. Don't get dramatic.
I get punched in the face with a basketball, i explain there should not be basketballs in my vicinity and I'm being told I'm dramatic?!
Meanwhile, Johnny throws a ball it it knocks a machine over. He retrieves the ball and CONTINUES to throw it around. I don't know why I snapped, I just know I did because I'm in Dad's face telling him he needs to move on. I don't think he expected me to get out of the machine, much less get into his face in front of his boys. I'm a little surprised I did it myself. I don't remember much of what I said. I know I called him "Douchy McKnit-hat" (cause really, it's 82 degrees in the gym, you need to wear a knitted hat?) and I told him to keep walking. He came back with the standard "you're a bitch" but left nonetheless.
I told management about it. I'm irked that there was no apology. No "oh, man this is a bad idea". Instead, I'm a bitch because I got hit in the face by a hard basketball in a room full of breakable equipment, NOT a basketball court and I dared to get pissed about it.
More than likely, I will get hit in the face with another errant ball. My only hope is that nothing will be broken. As for the Asshat, I'll see him again next week. Our kids are in the same program. I plan on having Katie hit him in the junk with her basketball. You know, 'cause she's a kid. It'll be okay.
Monday, January 16, 2012
I Just Made An "ASS" of "U" and "ME"
I've been sick. Stupid allergies. Stupid state. Stupid cedar. Those of you (okay, 2 of you) wanting an entry here, know that I'm pushing through some serious haze here, just for you. My 6 readers. :)
I know you're not supposed to make assumptions in life, but sometimes one can't help it. Take, for instance, last Saturday at the local YMCA. I knocked on the family bathroom door. My kid had to pee and those of us with toddlers know that when the kid says "Mommy, I gotta go!" you have 30 seconds to get on the pot. I waited 5 seconds, heard nothing and opened the door...to find an old woman on the can, magazine in hand. Give me a break! Here's what's wrong with the picture (for those of you who might be confused):
1. If I was unloading my soul into the crapper like she was and someone knocked, I would've thrown out an "Occupied!". Hell, even if I was in there whizzing away and someone knocked, I'd yell "occupied". In general, if I'm in a room that someone else wants to gain entry to and I don't want them to, I'd let them know "hey, busy in here, thanks!". I don't understand her technique of being as quiet as possible in the hopes that I would think "hmm, it's awful quiet in this bathroom. I better move on."
2. I *never* forget to lock a bathroom door. How can she take the time to get a magazine, open it and start reading but forget to push a button in on the door? She's settling in, finish the job! Lock the door.
3. It's the family bathroom with the changing table and kid-sized toilet next to the regular toilet. It's next to impossible to cram me, the kid, a gym bag and the kid's bag in a tiny stall. Plus, the regular toilet is too high and big. Luckily, family-oriented places like the Y made designed these bathrooms for us Moms and Dads. We're a greatful nation, but Dammit, woman, get out of there!
It's akin to the time years ago when I walked AROUND a woman in a wheelchair to snag the handicapped bathroom because I had a run in my hose and wanted to take them off. After I was done and stepped out, I realized my mistake (as she sat there throwing me dagger stares). I felt like the smallest person, but really, when has there been a handicapped person in the bathroom the same time as you? Not trying to make excuses; I was an ass, through and through. Perhaps this is Karma. I dunno.
Back to present time, of course Katie yells "ewwww!" and I'm trying to get out of there. She stunk up the whole hallway. Okay, technically I did because I opened the doorway to Hell, but I stand by my original assertion: you should be able to assume that if you knock on a bathroom door and no one answers, that potty is vacant.
Thoughts? Do you have your own bathroom story? Someone please have a worse one than my handicapped story!
I know you're not supposed to make assumptions in life, but sometimes one can't help it. Take, for instance, last Saturday at the local YMCA. I knocked on the family bathroom door. My kid had to pee and those of us with toddlers know that when the kid says "Mommy, I gotta go!" you have 30 seconds to get on the pot. I waited 5 seconds, heard nothing and opened the door...to find an old woman on the can, magazine in hand. Give me a break! Here's what's wrong with the picture (for those of you who might be confused):
1. If I was unloading my soul into the crapper like she was and someone knocked, I would've thrown out an "Occupied!". Hell, even if I was in there whizzing away and someone knocked, I'd yell "occupied". In general, if I'm in a room that someone else wants to gain entry to and I don't want them to, I'd let them know "hey, busy in here, thanks!". I don't understand her technique of being as quiet as possible in the hopes that I would think "hmm, it's awful quiet in this bathroom. I better move on."
2. I *never* forget to lock a bathroom door. How can she take the time to get a magazine, open it and start reading but forget to push a button in on the door? She's settling in, finish the job! Lock the door.
3. It's the family bathroom with the changing table and kid-sized toilet next to the regular toilet. It's next to impossible to cram me, the kid, a gym bag and the kid's bag in a tiny stall. Plus, the regular toilet is too high and big. Luckily, family-oriented places like the Y made designed these bathrooms for us Moms and Dads. We're a greatful nation, but Dammit, woman, get out of there!
It's akin to the time years ago when I walked AROUND a woman in a wheelchair to snag the handicapped bathroom because I had a run in my hose and wanted to take them off. After I was done and stepped out, I realized my mistake (as she sat there throwing me dagger stares). I felt like the smallest person, but really, when has there been a handicapped person in the bathroom the same time as you? Not trying to make excuses; I was an ass, through and through. Perhaps this is Karma. I dunno.
Back to present time, of course Katie yells "ewwww!" and I'm trying to get out of there. She stunk up the whole hallway. Okay, technically I did because I opened the doorway to Hell, but I stand by my original assertion: you should be able to assume that if you knock on a bathroom door and no one answers, that potty is vacant.
Thoughts? Do you have your own bathroom story? Someone please have a worse one than my handicapped story!
Monday, January 2, 2012
2012-IN YO' FACE!
I did not make any "official" resolutions. There's the standards: "let me, please, lose this extra ass of mine" and "I will organize the shit out of my house until it looks like The Container Store". But, those aren't really resolutions. If it happens, HELLZ, YEAH! If not (and this is the likely outcome) I will go on living. No harm, no foul.
Maybe I should be more disappointed in myself for not fulfilling my resolutions of New Years' past. Since gaining the weight of a typical 5th grader during the pregnancy of my first-born, I've tried to shake the jiggle out to no avail. I finally made some headway, thanks to Kat and her awesome spinning class; however, that was fleeting. I got pregnant again and BOOM! Helllllo, ass number #2. Wait, that reads weird...my kids aren't asses, I managed to put an additional ass on top of my existing shelf, thus making it ass #2.
As far as organization goes, we have too much shit. I have three full sets of clothes: skinny Joyce clothes that I can't fathom giving away becaue it's the "good stuff" and i'll fit in it again, right?; pregnant Joyce clothes that could double for sails on the finest sailboats; big fat Joyce clothes that I bought after being busted for wearing maternity clothes long after I gave birth. My hubby has clothes he wore in high school (the man is 35 years old) and he refuses to wear it or give it away. I know the feeling and I can't judge. It's all mixed together, co-mingling in our closets. I should thin it out, but I get depressed.
My kitchen is packed full of fun baking gadgets, pots and pans plus various kitchen appliances. Most of it is from my single days when I had the time to bake wonderful fragrant goodies. I don't have time to brush my teeth, much less whip up a souffle. Still, I hang onto it because "one day.....". On a side note, I credit my baking with the quick sale of my house. Yes, this nerd followed the advice of a professional stager and made a huge batch of chocolate chip cookies. I rolled them into logs, wrapped them in wax paper and froze them. Every morning, I baked a dozen for the aroma. Sold the house in 3 days. We had 3 offers and a bidding war ensued. Thanks, chocolate chip cookies!
We have doubles of everything. Tv's, couches, kitchen tables, full bedroom sets, etc. stuff, stuff, stuff. We also have a large collection of Christmas decorations and Halloween stuff. I refuse to be "that guy" on the block who doesn't decorate. Plus, my daughter is old enough to enjoy looking at it. I rock as a Mom; therefore, it stays. I should pack it all up neatly in some tubs. Instead it's here and there. I can find it when I need to and, well...doesn't that count for something?!
I choose to not feel like a total loser every December 31. Therefore, I am not about to head down that Resolution Road. Instead, I promise myself that I will be the coolest broad I know. I will love my husband like no tomorrow. I will love and adore my kids even when they vomit in my face or tell me I'm the worst mommy EVER. Like I said, if I lost more fat, HELLZ yeah. If not, I'm gonna keep working until I do. No pressure.
Maybe I should be more disappointed in myself for not fulfilling my resolutions of New Years' past. Since gaining the weight of a typical 5th grader during the pregnancy of my first-born, I've tried to shake the jiggle out to no avail. I finally made some headway, thanks to Kat and her awesome spinning class; however, that was fleeting. I got pregnant again and BOOM! Helllllo, ass number #2. Wait, that reads weird...my kids aren't asses, I managed to put an additional ass on top of my existing shelf, thus making it ass #2.
As far as organization goes, we have too much shit. I have three full sets of clothes: skinny Joyce clothes that I can't fathom giving away becaue it's the "good stuff" and i'll fit in it again, right?; pregnant Joyce clothes that could double for sails on the finest sailboats; big fat Joyce clothes that I bought after being busted for wearing maternity clothes long after I gave birth. My hubby has clothes he wore in high school (the man is 35 years old) and he refuses to wear it or give it away. I know the feeling and I can't judge. It's all mixed together, co-mingling in our closets. I should thin it out, but I get depressed.
My kitchen is packed full of fun baking gadgets, pots and pans plus various kitchen appliances. Most of it is from my single days when I had the time to bake wonderful fragrant goodies. I don't have time to brush my teeth, much less whip up a souffle. Still, I hang onto it because "one day.....". On a side note, I credit my baking with the quick sale of my house. Yes, this nerd followed the advice of a professional stager and made a huge batch of chocolate chip cookies. I rolled them into logs, wrapped them in wax paper and froze them. Every morning, I baked a dozen for the aroma. Sold the house in 3 days. We had 3 offers and a bidding war ensued. Thanks, chocolate chip cookies!
We have doubles of everything. Tv's, couches, kitchen tables, full bedroom sets, etc. stuff, stuff, stuff. We also have a large collection of Christmas decorations and Halloween stuff. I refuse to be "that guy" on the block who doesn't decorate. Plus, my daughter is old enough to enjoy looking at it. I rock as a Mom; therefore, it stays. I should pack it all up neatly in some tubs. Instead it's here and there. I can find it when I need to and, well...doesn't that count for something?!
I choose to not feel like a total loser every December 31. Therefore, I am not about to head down that Resolution Road. Instead, I promise myself that I will be the coolest broad I know. I will love my husband like no tomorrow. I will love and adore my kids even when they vomit in my face or tell me I'm the worst mommy EVER. Like I said, if I lost more fat, HELLZ yeah. If not, I'm gonna keep working until I do. No pressure.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
I have a new love in my life
Hello, Garmin Forerunner 405CX.
It's a sexy beast. It keeps track of me while I scoot around the block, gives me splits, tracks my heart rate and gives an accurate calorie count. Then, it bundles all this information up and puts it on a nice little graph for my viewing pleasure. There's more it can do, but I did the typical "New Gadget Routine": I ripped it out of the box and slapped it on my wrist. Didn't read any literature, just pressed "start" and hoped for the best. Actually, I did have to do a little set-up, but then I got moving. If your gear doesn't make you do this, you have shit gear. I know this for a fact because I have a lot of shit gear myself. Don't beat yourself up. C'mon, let's hug.
My hubby got this for me for Christmas. He's very supportive of my efforts to drop the LB's. he's never been mean, grossed out, whatever about my being, errrr....husky. However, I owe it to myself to get back in shape like I was pre-kiddos. I want to get healthy, have more energy and blahblahblah. The other part of the picture is that my hubby was never a chubby-chaser. Why should he start now?
I'm not usually one to cling to a material object and hold it so near and dear to my heart; however, I find that I love this watch more than 99% of humanity. That makes me part of the 1% that everyone (who's cool) hates. I don't care. Let them eat cake! I love this friggin watch!
Christmas was great-minus all the barfing. The final tally: 3 of 5 had the stomach flu. A 4th got sick 2 days later. I should have out the watch on while puking to see what kind of workout I was getting. I lost 6lbs that night! Man, I always have great ideas after the fact. Dammit!
It's a sexy beast. It keeps track of me while I scoot around the block, gives me splits, tracks my heart rate and gives an accurate calorie count. Then, it bundles all this information up and puts it on a nice little graph for my viewing pleasure. There's more it can do, but I did the typical "New Gadget Routine": I ripped it out of the box and slapped it on my wrist. Didn't read any literature, just pressed "start" and hoped for the best. Actually, I did have to do a little set-up, but then I got moving. If your gear doesn't make you do this, you have shit gear. I know this for a fact because I have a lot of shit gear myself. Don't beat yourself up. C'mon, let's hug.
My hubby got this for me for Christmas. He's very supportive of my efforts to drop the LB's. he's never been mean, grossed out, whatever about my being, errrr....husky. However, I owe it to myself to get back in shape like I was pre-kiddos. I want to get healthy, have more energy and blahblahblah. The other part of the picture is that my hubby was never a chubby-chaser. Why should he start now?
I'm not usually one to cling to a material object and hold it so near and dear to my heart; however, I find that I love this watch more than 99% of humanity. That makes me part of the 1% that everyone (who's cool) hates. I don't care. Let them eat cake! I love this friggin watch!
Christmas was great-minus all the barfing. The final tally: 3 of 5 had the stomach flu. A 4th got sick 2 days later. I should have out the watch on while puking to see what kind of workout I was getting. I lost 6lbs that night! Man, I always have great ideas after the fact. Dammit!
Friday, December 23, 2011
A note to the triage nurse:
I get it.
It's the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night. Who the Hell wants to go to work? I know I always loathed those occasional Friday night air refueling missions when I was Active Duty. Shiiiiiiit, girl! I'm with you!
But you know what else I don't want to do on the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night? I don't want to watch my baby vomit so hard he's breathless. I don't want him to crumple against me after hurling the water he just drank and letting out a soft whimper because he's too weak to cry. Then, he pulls himself up and stumbles to the kitchen and says "wahwah" because he's so friggin thirsty (since he can't keep anything down). I don't want to watch him sway and stumble or feel his tight little grip on my neck as he clings to me for comfort, his breath sour with stomach acid.
Above all else, The number one thing I do not want to do on the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night is talk to you. I don't know how you got where you are...working the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night. Perhaps you're the lowest on the totem pole. Maybe you guys drew straws. It could be your scheduler doesn't like you. Or, maybe you're hard up for extra cash and took the shift so you could put food on the table and this makes you angry. Either way, know how you DIDN'T get to be working this Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night? Not by me. I had no say in the matter. In fact, I don't even know your schedular's name much less a phone number. No, triage nurse, I had no say in the matter. Please don't take it out on my baby boy, Sam.
In case you're wondering, I heard every sigh. I noticed every impatient note in your voice as you "answered" my questions. I picked up on your "You're a dummy, Mom" vibe. For example, when you asked "how many times has he puked" and I said "10" I totally heard the annoyance as you had to explain that you don't count the actual number of times barf left his mouth, you count the times he had an "episode" of puking separated by time. So, although he puked 3x, it only counts as 1 since they were back-to-back. How stupid of me not to know this.
Like I said before, I get it. I know this is no big deal to you because, well...you told me it was no big deal. I thank you for your advice on how to help my little boy. It was hard pulling that nugget of wisdom out of your brain, but I have it. Sam has finally fallen asleep and I hope he is able to fight this thing while he slumbers.
But this isn't about my little man, it's about you. Ms. Triage Nurse, I wish you a healthy life. I hope there will never be a day our paths cross because tonight I will wish on a shooting star that I could harness the power of projectile vomit so I could do so right in your face (you know since it's no big deal). Hope you enjoy the rest of your night! I will hug my children and be glad I don't have to work Eve of Christmas Eve and Friday night. I've seen how that can make a person into a cold heartless mass of shit.
It's the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night. Who the Hell wants to go to work? I know I always loathed those occasional Friday night air refueling missions when I was Active Duty. Shiiiiiiit, girl! I'm with you!
But you know what else I don't want to do on the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night? I don't want to watch my baby vomit so hard he's breathless. I don't want him to crumple against me after hurling the water he just drank and letting out a soft whimper because he's too weak to cry. Then, he pulls himself up and stumbles to the kitchen and says "wahwah" because he's so friggin thirsty (since he can't keep anything down). I don't want to watch him sway and stumble or feel his tight little grip on my neck as he clings to me for comfort, his breath sour with stomach acid.
Above all else, The number one thing I do not want to do on the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night is talk to you. I don't know how you got where you are...working the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night. Perhaps you're the lowest on the totem pole. Maybe you guys drew straws. It could be your scheduler doesn't like you. Or, maybe you're hard up for extra cash and took the shift so you could put food on the table and this makes you angry. Either way, know how you DIDN'T get to be working this Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night? Not by me. I had no say in the matter. In fact, I don't even know your schedular's name much less a phone number. No, triage nurse, I had no say in the matter. Please don't take it out on my baby boy, Sam.
In case you're wondering, I heard every sigh. I noticed every impatient note in your voice as you "answered" my questions. I picked up on your "You're a dummy, Mom" vibe. For example, when you asked "how many times has he puked" and I said "10" I totally heard the annoyance as you had to explain that you don't count the actual number of times barf left his mouth, you count the times he had an "episode" of puking separated by time. So, although he puked 3x, it only counts as 1 since they were back-to-back. How stupid of me not to know this.
Like I said before, I get it. I know this is no big deal to you because, well...you told me it was no big deal. I thank you for your advice on how to help my little boy. It was hard pulling that nugget of wisdom out of your brain, but I have it. Sam has finally fallen asleep and I hope he is able to fight this thing while he slumbers.
But this isn't about my little man, it's about you. Ms. Triage Nurse, I wish you a healthy life. I hope there will never be a day our paths cross because tonight I will wish on a shooting star that I could harness the power of projectile vomit so I could do so right in your face (you know since it's no big deal). Hope you enjoy the rest of your night! I will hug my children and be glad I don't have to work Eve of Christmas Eve and Friday night. I've seen how that can make a person into a cold heartless mass of shit.
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