Quality Time

You can learn a lot from an episode of Cops. Had I only known, I wouldn't have avoided it all this time. Just yesterday the boys and I got to catch a show after crashing together in the family room.

And for once, I had the remote. After finally, finally, getting a healthy lesson on TV remote control usage (hey - the men were leaving for Scout camp . . I had to give in or it could have been a long week of something awful, like no HGTV!) --I finally know my way a bit more around the television.

Well needless to say, I am all fingers now. If I'm not mistaken, --I even recorded something using the cable dvr, while they were gone at camp.
And I meant to do that!



Anywhooo, the poor bad guys, of Tacoma, Washington. I mean, that place is crawlin' with cops . . from what I could see. And surprisingly I found it not as hard as you'd think to find comparisons in those reality scenes, to one's own life.



Example.

First thing we see is four cops runnin' their you-know-what's off, to catch some Superbad. I mean there was panting, sweating, and bumbling like you wouldn't believe. I thought to myself, 'Man! That bad guy must be able to run!"

Turns out, all of the cop'rs suddenly turn a corner and bam! There he is, the bad guy, --sleeping under a blanket, by a chainlink fence, the whole time!

Uh?

Yeah, --everyone's going full steam, like crazy, and all they needed is to pull this dude out of bed! Well, the cops start yelling at him, banging at him, pullin' the blanket off, threatening taser action . . their dog is yelping and barking and yelping, --pulling at the dude's ankle with his teeth . . and I turn to my 18 year old and remark, "hey, --that's just like when we're trying to get you out of bed at eleven o'clock in the morning!"

For some reason, he totally didn't get it, I guess, --and takes off in a huff. Why?



Next scene, some criminal is dashing from his car, and making a break for it to the nearest concrete runoff tunnel, by the freeway. Well, I can certainly see why he is in such a dang hurry . . because his pants are about to completely fall off! And then, in no time at all, he can't even move, 'cause those jeans were so low on his hip - his belt was screamin' for mercy. Next thing you know, bam! The pants are at his ankle, and he isn't going anywhere. How humiliating!
"Wow!" I motion to another son, "that goes to show what a pickle you'd be in should your legs ever have to actually travel at any real speed, wearing what you wear. ---And there'll certainly be no escaping the police with your pants like that!"

He leaves the room too. Another one bites the dust? What for? This show is just getting good.


Next we see three cops banging and banging on someones door. "Open up . . Open up!" they yell. "Is anyone there? Is anyone home? Answer the door!"
Well of course, we, the audience, know someone has gotta be in there . . but they are not responding in a timely manner, at all! What's their problem? --you have to ask yourself. Don't they know they are only going to get in more trouble?? Then, just as you think one of those good officers is about to bust the door down, --some nut cracks it open and says, "Huh? What? . . Um, didn't hear you officer . . . Sorry."

"Would you look at that?" I say to one dear son left in the room. "That reminds me of when the phone is ringing, or the doorbell is going - and you guys don't lift a finger because, as you say, it's 'probably not even for you.' Look what could happen next time you blow off the phone or the door just because you don't feel like getting up -- You might be going down for the count, man! . . Would you look at that!"

For some reason my boy shoots me the stink eye, and goes to find something else to do.


Can't a girl have any fun around here??


Now it's just Hubby and I. I pat his leg and purr, "I wonder what they're going to enlighten us with next, Hon, don't you? . . This is like a party game, or something!" He mumbles about liking me better before I knew how to find all the channels, and leaves to find his compadres.


Well then, it only took fifteen minutes of MommyTime for me to clear the room. Doesn't exactly make me feel loved, now does it!
I guess next time I'll just have to keep all my helpful commentary to myself. No Big'ee. But I gotta tell you - I don't know what good that's going to do anyone~~

Whippersnappers

It wasn't that long ago we were teens ourselves, the Hubby and I, ---and so believe me when I tell you, we know how to roll.


I know, I know . . most parents think they 'still got it.'
And parents before us, thought they 'still had it.'

But believe me when I tell you, we 'still got it' . . even if we are the only ones who know it.



Our boys didn't write the book on having lame parents (like that would happen--)
--It's been written before. Like a billion quadrillion times. And sometimes--I might add--by kids who actually read!

I mean come on! Who do they think we are? Now that Hubby and I have lived on both sides of the fence. We're experts. We can get inside a kid's head like nobody's business. In fact as the latest generation of parent-types, we should be the Darwin theory-like most adapted and functioning of our time! Double-in-fact, --so adapted are we in our position as head of the pack, we're downright . . freakish!




Do I remember my teen years? Like they were yesterday! And don't forget, --Hubby and I are from the eighties! (for heaven's sake) --and who knew cool better than the 80's (and a bit of 70's), I ask you?


We may not have stuff like Flock of Seagulls, un-airconditioned cars, and Tab soda anymore, but . . .
(---well, maybe aged Flock still plays at county fairs . . . and Hubby is driving ala'-unairconditioned because all fix-it money went to the kid's car, and Red Bull's like, twenty-six Tabs in-one . . . so sure - some similarities within the decades still exists.)


All the more to prove we totally understand this younger generation! Right? Ultimately - the Hubs and I generally know what's up, and deserve much more uber-respect.


"You can't talk that way to me, child!"

I saw ELO laserium at the LA Griffith Observatory! (and not a one of us wore seat belts all the way there!) I watched Three's Company when my parents weren't looking! A girl in my high school English class drove a Pinto!

I danced to Jefferson Starship and Spandau Ballet, feathered my hair, and wore the original hip-huggers! Eric Estrada filmed an episode of Chips down the street from me! We drank Coke from a glass bottle! Listened to music on a transistor! We ran out of TV shows at nightfall, liked polyester, and rode in a station wagon with backward facing seats. Don't mess with us!

Keep on Truckin'
Have a Nice Day
I'm a Pepper
Who ya gonna call?
Hang Ten
I'm what Willis was talkin' about!

The Other Side of the Mountain . . . . pal!




Parents before us lived through the depression and fought in the war, yes.
--Apples and oranges.
Hubby and I experienced all the heck we needed-soup to nuts-to relate perfectly to these little buggers.


So why is it then our sons' think we don't know our backside from our front??
I've know my backside from my front since before they were a twinkle in their father's eye! And they look nothing alike!



We're cool. We're hip. We're wise.

We're tired. We're poor. We're throwing darts in the dark.



Either way ( . . the Manual says . . ) something will stick.

( . . . that, or somebody's going to lose an eye.)

P.S. --t.p.

In Target yesterday I passed by the paper towels and tp in full panic, realizing I had left all my coupons for them at home. And they were on sale too!

I was just sick at passing up a golden paper products purchase opportunity. ('Must-buy-toilet-paper . . . Always!!') ---But just couldn't bring myself to buy, without my dang coupons.



A friend of mine likes to blog about her family's emergency Preparedness-Palooza activities, wherein they spend quality family time preparing for an emergency.
I know, that sounds like a downer, planning for natural disasters -- but it's not.

Anywhoooo . . in all her wise talk and pics, I dare say --- I have not noted a rousing supply of toilet paper, in order. Maybe she just hasn't mentioned it, --but still, --it concerns me.

Believe you me -- one emergency-full of no toilet paper -- and they'd be singing the Preparedness-Palooza blues!

Imagine, if you will, a citywide disaster . . and you and yours are out of soup.
Fine.
No harm done.

Now imagine you and yours are out of toilet paper?? Get my drift?



I don't know. That scenario always gets to me. Hence, if there is toilet paper to be bought -- I'm there buying.
(And yes batteries too . . and water jugs, and first aid paraphernalia, and dry milk, and beef jerky. But, please. Let's keep it real, shall we?)



I suppose my mother and I both spell disaster 'w-e A-R-E o-u-t O-F t-0-i-l-e-t P-A-P-E-R', because once when I was growing up, my brother made a tower of toilet paper in our living room out of her supply, that was ceiling high and eight feet in diameter. Yes, he was making fun -- but what does he really know, about bathroom pinches, right??!! The imperative word being 'he'.

For at least 80% of his bathroom sojourns . . he could just as easily use a bush as a toilet. And there isn't a single bush in time of emergency or peace, that wouldn't do the job just fine for him.

We ladies, on the other hand, like our paper. Need our paper. Want our paper.
And that's all there is to it.


A girlfriend ( . . don't worry - you're name shall go unmentioned here) once used her kid's diaper at midnight, while in a tent, on a family campout. (I've got a memory like an elephant. Don't tell me anything you don't want me to remember . . . ) ~~ And frankly I don't blame her! And who are we to pass judgment??


At our house we don't have diapers around anymore, --but it's got me to thinking, emergency preparedness-wise. You know?
I'm just sayin'.



I guess everyone prepares for the future differently. Did you hear recently about the granny in Italy (or France?) who kept like, a million dollars, in her mattress . . . and her daughter took the mattress to the dump?
Tell me my kid would be able to mistakenly toss a mega load of toilet paper. Never! I don't stuff my mattress with it, and it's perfectly labeled. So obviously what I am saying here, is I'm not as dumb as a look.

Yes, we should all know how to climb out our windows, and run to a neighbors during a fire drill. But - if there isn't any toilet paper waiting for us when we get there - what's it all for???



Fine then. I'll play the roll (ha-ha. i said 'roll') of Preparedness Police. I don't care. Heck, consider it a friendly reminder.
And one handy decorator's tip for you? Throw a table cloth over two packages of Giant 24's --- and you have a sweet side table.
(--word to the wise though, --doesn't hold wine glasses and cups of juice reliably  . . . )

Pride Full

You may or may not know, --but my surgery 'hole' kept leaking for quite awhile. And probably because it remained so moist - it was also having a hard time closing up.

Kinda gross. Yeah.

Anyhow, next thing I knew this like, protrusion-type thing, fleshy, nickle-sized, comes poking out, and sits right along my surgical slice line.
Things are getting weirder . . . and there was no way any healing and closing up was going to happen with that baby there.
I go to see Doc.


In two seconds he says, "Oh! Yeah, --you have a Proud Flesh. No biggy." A Proud Flesh?

And he sets about to slicing it off and digging it out (and no - that did not feel good) (and thank goodness I could not see, because it did not feel pretty either) (and I hate it when someone keeps asking you "are you alright?" when you are not alright) (What? I should say - "Oh yes, fine. I've seen more slicing at a deli-convention" ???) ~~Finished, he tells me the draining will stop soon . . and the site will finally start sealing-up as well. (Yippee!)



First thing I do when I get home is Google 'proud flesh' -- and guess what?? Every veterinary medicine site in the World Wide Web comes up! I kid you not -- there is not a human in the whole of cyberspace--I guess--that has ever developed a 'proud flesh'. Yup. It's just me and the animals. Me and the swine. Me and the cattle. Me and the stallions.

How's that supposed to make a girl feel, huh???!!!

Google examples.   From Horse Rider, and Amp magazines:

"Your horse has a wound that just won't heal. What proud flesh is and how to prevent it."

"This proud flesh is a disfiguring protrusion from the limb of the horse and is accompanied by inflammation and can significantly lower the abilities and aesthetics, as well as the value of the horse."

" . . 'Proud Flesh' is a German rock band from the early Krautrock era."

". . . 'proud flesh' is a disfiguring protrusion from the limb of the horse and ... an unsightly accumulation of granulation tissue resulting from poor wound healing, is commonly removed surgically (which produces additional scarring) or through various caustic solution treatments (which can eat into the skin and surrounding area, also leaving scarring). Typically, the hair that re-grows over the wound looses its pigment and the hair that grows back is white in color."



Great -- And now I gotta have a hairy back too?!   (ya, alright - hairier than already???)

And of course I don't even get my proud flesh on a limb, like a normal horse would. No. Mine has to grow out of my back. Like a mutant.

(PS - I threw in the rock band definition just to make me feel better. It was the only one that didn't make me feel like a cow.)


Ah geez.
Anyhow. Now this last week, proud flesh free and proud of it, I've got this lump under my skin that won't go away. I saw it before - but I was still swollen. Now I'm way less swollen - but it's still there.

I ask Hubby after I come out of the shower, "see this lump here?"   (What lump? Where? Which one? The poor man is looking at my hiny and just above it . . and let me tell you - that's a lumpy area altogether. What the heck is he going to say that doesn't get him in trouble? I can't see his face, --but I imagine little beads of sweat are breaking out on his forehead.) So I point it out impatiently, "right here! --at the scar . . ."

And sure enough - I have this crazy like, folded over muscle, or tissue, or who knows what - sitting just under the skin. It's like a two inch area, and I don't like it! It's not right! And clearly not as proud, or brave, or whatever the heck you want to call it as my other thingy was, that came right out and showed itself.

Now I don't know what Doc is going to do about this new, less-prideful, but still like, in-your-face thingy. But I'm praying he won't just tell me it's fine, or it's nothing because it feels way weird, and 'cause it's going to totally blow my bikini line if it stays through the summer.

Like they always say, --if you have your health (and your bikini line) --you have everything.


One thing for sure I can tell you, this new thingy -- I refuse to Google it.
And if muscle lumps under the flesh, by scar tissue, only happen to monkeys and giant moths? ---so be it.

I will just have to chalk it up to experience.
Well -
Experience,
. . . and nuclear spills.

The Secret

Oh good.
Oh thank goodness.
Oh there is a heaven-on-earth.


My catalog (including a coupon for free undies)--finally
came in the mail
. . . from Victoria's Secret.

I nearly choked on my Twinkie!
When I say I have nooo idea how I got on their mailing list . .
I mean to tell you I have no idea!


They could not have gotten their demographics more wrong including me in their follies, than if I'd gotten a surprise mag subscription from Hairless Cat monthly.

That's not to say I don't wish Victoria and I were a perfect fit. Believe me, I do! ( . . and possibly Hubby too?) ---- but what can I say? Victoria and I go together like pickles and chocolate bars. Like Michael Jackson and grown men. Like mirrors and New Year's morning.

Someone in their office heard I was ready for my close-up (I guess), but they couldn't be further from the truth. This morning I exercised for the first time since my surgeries . . and all I did was stretch my back over a rolled-up towel while I took deep breathes. Not exactly Buns-of-Steel level.

I did order something from Victoria once, years ago.
It was an over-sized FlashDance style, sweatshirt. Super mod, yes, --but also super roomy.
(It was immediately discontinued.)


Maybe, maybe, I've lost 10 pounds since my notorious diet-start date (see blog 1/6/09) ---but that ain't saying much. And don't forget that gruesome cellulite tattoo so recently spoken of? How would that look poking out under a puny Victoria Secret strip of fabric?
----Wait,
--I take that question back (--because I don't need anybody trying to conjure up a mental picture of me in said strip . . . )


Let's just say . . . when the models in Victoria's catalog turn sideways, they disappear (well, all except for their yoo-hoos) . . . and there is no way I can compete.
When I turn sideways, I resemble a tank ---with yoo-hoos, woo-hoos, and boo-hoos galore.




Years ago, I used to get JC Penny's catalog regularly.
Once, I threw the mail in the car with my kids, and we hit the road on errands. My oldest son, maybe 4 or 5 at the time, picked up the catalog and started flipping through it--I'm sure looking for Power Ranger undaroos or Matchbox cars--
---Instead, through the rear view mirror, I noticed him silently thumbing through the pages of woman's undergarments. I wondered when to step-in, or what to say --- But he said it all when he finished, passed the catalog onto the younger bro sitting next to him, and informed him this page-turner, "wasn't that bad, --once you got used to it."


What the heck could a mother add to that??
Ah. My little men.


Maybe I'd do good to take the same advice when unsolicited top-heavy anorexic undie reading comes my way -- and tell myself it's not that bad, once used to it.


Nah. It's bad.
At least for anyone with eternally developing self-esteem, like me.

And if Hubby can wear "comfortable" high school era t-shirts every date night for the rest of our existence (which seems to be his plan) . . . I don't have to feel self-pressure to squeeze into Victoria Secret's demanding sizes. How the heck do you squeeze a normal number into a zero anyway??


From now on I'll just go eco on Victoria's butt immediately, and recycle her.
If our friendship ever changes - you'll be the first to know.
---Right after I've shouted it off of rooftops.

The Flip Side

So, a little second surgery story for you.

I ended up running in kind of hurriedly for it, to fix a spinal fluid leak. I couldn't do much to prepare my sorry body for the procedure (--not that anyone can likely tell a difference when I do 'prepare' my body for naked procedures . . but I try).

Normally I like to pluck, perfume, shave, pray, bathe, dye, exfoliate, massage, and pedi for surgeries ( . . and formal readings and baby showers.) -- but all I could do this time, was slap some tanning lotion on my legs and call it a day. --and Thank Goodness I did because when I lifted up my leg, I found a clear circle 'x-lrg' stickertag stuck to the bottom of my foot!
I don't know whose shirt purchase it was from, or what it fell off of -- but Lord knows I didn't need an informational toe-tag of the Extra Large kind, hanging off my foot when I was being moved, flipped, and pushed into an unconscious-rump-high-surgery position!


And once in surgery, finally, and laying in the cold metal surgical room, on my wee, pre-flip-me-over gurney, waiting patiently for my nighty-night medicine, --I got to thinking.

There was turning out to be an awful lot of people in the surgery room.

And while I'm no professor, I could easily do the math.
--I bet flippin' a body (dead weight, especially) ain't like flippin' an egg-whites omelet, you know? And I bet these people were being called in (from every nook and cranny of the hospital) . . . to flip ME!

And those two guys over there? The ones that look like janitors or Wrestling Federation members? --They've got those big belts on, -- you know -- the kind of flat, wide, back-support thingys dudes wear at Costco for lifting pallets of televisions or stacks of tires. hummmm.    And still, more and more hospital workers streaming in.  What the?   --finally, the ugly truth sinks in.

I hate my life.
Someone quit picking up the emergency batphone and calling more heavy-lifters in here!  Enough is enough!!
(Man, I've got issues.)

The anesthesiologist says he is about to give me some medicine, that might make me see double - but not to let it bother me.
I tell the Russian-Olympic-gymnast-looking woman next to me doing her pre-lifting squats, "great . . so now I'll think there's twenty of you in here instead of ten, waiting to give me the heave-ho." She smiles, and I nod off. Or was she laughing at me?


Well, the last laugh will have been on them, my blog friends, when those Heave'rs will have gotten a good long look at my flip side.  I have some very tricky to deceiver artwork there.

At my last MRI - to find the spinal fluid leak - I took some Valium in an effort to ease the claustrophobia.
My girlfriend drove me there, and helped me fill out the paperwork.  She asked the questions, -- and I drugged, as it were, through the answers.   Turns out that Valium is like truth serum! -- and everything just came spilling out.

No doubt it would have shocked my friend when she asked if I had a tattoo, to hear that in fact I did.   Yup, I went ahead and spilled the beans to her tender little ears.

"I was young . . . I was stupid . . . I don't know what I was thinking ----
--- years ago I got a big tattoo of cellulite plastered across my whole bum.  It's true.
. . I know, I know -- it was a crazy thing to do.   It was immature.  I was a kid, you know?
Do I regret it now? Of course I do. But what's done is done . . .--and, now, well . . that's what's doin' back there, --should you ever get an eyeful.   Frankly? -- I'm glad to finally have it off my chest."

And so to all those Hospital Heave-Ho'ers -- Hope you got the memo! 

It's aaaalll a tattoo, bru'ther' ---
Pretty crazy, eh?   Looked real, right??  One day I may have stretchmarks tattoo'd onto my belly, too!  Just to be silly!!   Ha, ha.   But ya, who knows.  


Good news is ultimately, the day all worked out. I was flipped, sewn, scarred, re-flipped, and no doubt --- entertained the hospital peeps with my intricate tat'art in the process.  But I'm nothing, you should know, . . if not a crowd pleaser.

Star Spotting

I'm so sorry ~~ I just haven't been able to sit and write a piece. Even though the stories are racing through my head, --my temporary surgery woes have mounted to the point of really keeping me in bed, pained and whiny.

One day soon ~~ I promise ~~ I will be back, and with a vengeance!

'Til then, I do have this one little tidbit for you:



As a big favor to Hubby--who has taken wonderful care of me--I told him, 'yes, we could go to see Star Trek.' I didn't know what would hurt more . . 1) watching the movie, or 2) sitting in the seat for two hours, ----But it was my best day in quite awhile . . and I was all hopped up on my pain killers, --so we went for it. For some of the movie, I did indeed end up having to stand in the hall 'cause it was too painful to sit . . . but ultimately pulled it off, and we had a good time.

Anyhoooo --
Here is the tidbit . . (and it's really awful) (are you ready??) (ah! I can't say it. I can't say it . . here goes--)


On they way out of the theater, a lady came running breathlessly up, followed us close behind, and asked, ~~

"Are you guys Trekkies?"


AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Please!! Please!! What part of me or Hubby mistakes us for a Trekkie?? ~~~ And when did this happen? And how can we reverse it immediately??!!


I guess the lady had huge movie plot conflicts and Star Trek history questions ~ and it was us she had scoped out for her Star Trek conferencing. Blaaaaaaaaaaa!!! Auuggggggghhhhh!


How's that for my first day back in society!
I've been home again ever since, shaking it off, and crying it out.
Next I'll be mistaken for an Obama Mama!


Indoors I'll stay, for more slow healing.
You'll be the first to know when I'm semi-recovered ~~

And yes, that'be both physically . . . and emotionally.