Sep 28, 2011

cartoons of me dying by the hands of Dr. Satan

I am writing from my deathbed, also known as my couch.

I went to a dr today, and he pretty much, sort of, really, kind of, KILLED ME. (With excruciating pain and torment. I think he might be Satan.)

So, to backtrack, I've been ignoring something for about, oh, 3 1/2 years. Partly because before Husband got his new job we had the worst health insurance EVER.  And partly because I had to fix my eyes first.  And partly because I was hoping that if I ignored it long enough, it would just GO AWAY.  Like magic.  Or a stray dog.

But no.

Pretty much it's just gotten worse. And worse. And really super worse. And basically my whole abdominal region is thoroughly messed up. Probably I'm the champion at messed up abdominals. I should really get a medal or trophy or something. Instead, all I've gotten is pain, sickness, pain, more sickness, pain, pain and mostly a whole lot of pain.

And the past few-ish months it's gotten to the point where life pretty much sucks the big rocks. And I don't even like to move my body. Or think about moving my body. Or think about thinking about moving my body. And then, when I actually have to move my body (which happens on most days) I find myself in super mega pain, and want to murder puppies and strangle unicorns and then die.  And stuff.

So I saw a surgeon today, because most of the pain is being caused by a hugely ginormous hernia right in the middle of my stomach that has a wad of unprotected intestines protruding from it in a massively vulnerable state (medical TMI, I know).  So the surgeon needs to fix that, so I can go on fixing other crap that needs fixing until one day I'm a normal human being again.

AND NOW I've drawn helpful illustrations to chronicle the rest of my day (because while on my deathbed I was perusing hyperbole and a half, which I haven't done in awhile, which is sad because it's hilarious, and also which always inspires me to draw my own pictures).

First the doctor wanted to make sure he had the right spot.




He may or may not have been using his elbow, sprouted horns and/or called up hellfire.  I'm not really sure because first I was blacking out from the pain and then my natural "fight or flight" instincts started kicking in.





Except, in real life, the pain was just too much.  I couldn't even get my sword out, or kick him, or anything, because I was too busy doing this:

  

And then I had to crawl ALL THE WAY back to my car (which was really far because I couldn't find any parking spaces anywhere remotely close to the building).


And then when I got home I put on my comfy pants (which are actually the pants I wear all the time, unless I have to leave my house, since leaving my house requires real pants).  And the rest of the day I've been on my deathbed (couch) doing this:


And this:


And this:



And, you know, perusing Hyperbole and a Half and then drawing pictures on my ipad.  But mostly, I've just been dying.

ALSO, it's really comforting to know that Dr. Satan will be cutting open my innards in two weeks.  I'll probably wake up impregnated with devlish spawn embryos that, upon returning home, will burst out of my chest like in the movie Aliens.

Sep 27, 2011

doors, pinkies, shards of glass

I've often wished I could have a mechanical pocket door that slides closed when I push a button.  Actually a few of those doors.  That way I can put them on my kids's bedrooms (someday when we don't live in this house and they actually have bedrooms anyway) so that I can stand all scary looking outside the door and say something authoritative like, "you will clean this room" or "you're grounded" and then push the button, and the door will slide closed while I'm still looking all scary.  And maybe I'll do an evil laugh or make my eyes glow or something.  And then, of course, the doors would automatically lock upon  closing so my kids would HAVE to do what I tell them before they can get out.  Because I would be the only one with the door opening codes. And then all their crap would be cleaned up.  And it would be great.

We signed Opie up for flag football.  And then I forgot about orientation until it was already over.  (In my defense I was all fire-throat-y that day, so my brain shouldn't have to be required to remember things at the same time it's thinking, "ouch, ouch, ouch, need to swallow, ouch".)  And since his first game is tomorrow we thought it would be a good idea for  him to learn the rules of flag football.  So Husband took him into the back yard saturday evening and taught him. 

And then THIS happened:


THIS would be a broken pinky finger (and a safety pop in his mouth).  We found out today that he'll need it splinted for 3 weeks and buddy-wrapped for another week.  FOUR WEEKS.  To heal a broken pinky finger.

Honestly, it's a little bit lame that the first broken bone I have to deal with as a parent is a pinky finger.  I mean, not that I would rather he have random broken bones protruding from his body or anything.  Just that a broken pinky is......annoying.  You know?  But in four weeks, he should be ship shape and fracture free.  And he did get that safety pop out of the deal, so you know, there's a plus.

Right before I took Opie's picture something really horribly terrible happened - I dropped my iphone on the concrete and the screen shattered.  And now when I try to use it, shards of glass (is it really glass?) jab into my fingers.  So I'm thinking that talking on the phone is now O-U-T.  Which is ok, since I'm not a big phone talker anyway, but I really want to play with my apps!  I MISS THEM.

There's my Pinterest app that I use at every available moment.  And I'm not done breeding my Pocket Frogs.  And I can't even browse Ebay or Craigslist on a whim.  And I just expanded an establishment in my latest app procurement, Pet Hotel, so now how am I even supposed to collect coins from all the animals?  Not to mention, I can no longer write emails from the bathroom (Caroline, I added this one for you, because I know how much you love it when people communicate from the toilet).

So anyways, long story short, we're doing super fabulous here.  You know, if you consider a lack in self-closing doors and broken bones and shattered screens to be fabulous.

Sep 22, 2011

boop boop, bleep, whirrrrrr, ding

I think life would be easier if I were a robot.  But not like one of those ugly metal things with a monotone digital voice.  I think I would still want to look human but with perfect robot abs and perfect robot hair and perfect perky robot boobs and other perfect robot parts (like elbows).  That still look human. 

And I would have to be programmed to blink, because things look really creepy when they don't blink, and I would want to CHOOSE when to look creepy, not have it be constant.  You know?

If I were a robot, I would never get sore throats.  That would have been appreciated this week, let me tell you.  Sore throats are horrible, because I can't even yell at my kids or make sound effects or anything.  And robots are excellent at sound effects, plus also, I would have a volume control so I could yell loud enough to shake the neighbor's windows.

And the volume control would come in really handy when my kids are doing their own yelling.  If you look back in my archives I used to call Opie "Screamer" because he is so very good at screaming.  Number Four also has many screaming talents.  All of my kids are good at it, really.  But Opie and Number Four PRACTICE screaming. 

You think I'm kidding, don't you?

I'm not kidding, Opie and Number Four will get into (daily) screaming tantrums and change the pitch and tone of their scream to find the absolutely most annoying sound possible.  Because the point of their (daily) screaming tantrums is to get whatever they want when I say no to things like more than 5 marshmallows or making them put their own socks away or enforcing the "no kicking your sister in the teeth" rule.  They really hate it when I move on with life instead of  giving in.  So they scream.  Then the practicing starts up.  And then they find that perfect annoying combination of pitch, tone and volume.  And then my head explodes.

If I were a robot, my head would never explode.  Because I would just turn down the volume on my ears and then my kids could scream their little lungs out over things like marshmallows and socks, and I could make dinner in peace.

I would invent a second robot to do all the laundry, if I were a robot.  Because robots are smart, and they know how to make other robots.  And my laundry robot would be THE BEST.  And I would even make it starch Husbands jeans, because I hear that good laundry robots do that.  And maybe the laundry robot would clean the bathrooms when it wasn't busy with the laundry. 

Except that the laundry robot would be the ugly metal kind because I wouldn't want it to steal away my husband with it's promises of starched jeans and clean toilets.

If I were a robot, I wouldn't have to sleep.  Sure I'd have to plug myself in sometimes.  But only like every other thursday or something.  For about 2 hours.  And can you imagine all the crap I could get done with all my free time?  I could put my plans of world domination into effect AND watch all the Netflix I wanted.

I think I would like to be a robot kind of like Inspector Gadget.  Not the part where he's really stupid, just all the gadgets.  Like when the lawn needs mowed, I would just stick out my arm and it would turn into a lawnmower and I would use my super speed to cut all the grass in under 15 seconds. 

Or when my kids need to go to school, I wouldn't even need a car because I could just have a propeller come out of the top of my head and a basket lower from my butt and the kids would hop in and I would fly them wherever they needed to be. 

And also, I think I would want to have an internal replicator so that if we needed something I would just think about it, and then I would push on my belly button and my stomach would pop open like a microwave door and the thing we needed would be sitting in my hollow innards.  Except, if the thing we needed was like a car or something, I wouldn't want to replicate it because that would make me look really fat, walking around with a Porsche in my gut.  And if I were a robot, I would never ever look fat.  Ever.

If I were a robot, I would be programmed with the right emotional responses.  So if someone told a joke, I would laugh automatically, and everyone would want to be my friend because apparently people like to have their jokes laughed at. 

And if a kitten sneezed, I would automatically say, "awwwww," and think it was adorable. 

And if someone made me mad I would automatically punch them, and then I'd say, "I'm sorry, that is my automated response, consider this your warning." 

But I wouldn't have any sad emotions programmed in.  And I wouldn't even own tear ducts, because they would probably destroy my positronic matrix or something.

There are so many more good things about being a robot.  Stuff like having extra eyeballs or an infallible memory of every stupid thing other people say.  But, sadly, I am not a robot, so I have to do my own laundry and lock myself in the bathroom when my kids scream and waste my time sleeping.  So I think I'm going to go cry about it now, since I don't even have a positronic anything to mess up.

Sep 12, 2011

men, pfffffffft.

I made the grossest dinner tonight.  It was disturbingly horrid.  I had to eat in the other room so I could gag it down and then yell to the kids, "Eat your dinner!  It's good!  Just plug your nose first, or something." 

I'm not even going to tell you what was in it (so don't ask, I will never tell).  Just know that I totally made it up with the ingredients we had in our pantry and the idea of it sounded edible enough when I was putting it together.  But sometimes things work out way better in my head than they do in real life.

I think that's going to be my life motto.

Here, you can even pin it on pinterest:

(Is it lame to pin your own pictures on your own pinterest board?  Because I'M TOTALLY GOING TO.)

To change the subject -to something possibly grosser- there's a continuing debate that goes on in our house that has recently surfaced due to the now potty trained Monkey.  The debate is about rump wiping, and if it's better to fold or wad the toilet paper.

Personally, I wad.  Folding TP is completely unnecessary.  Who wants to take the time to fold something that has the sole purpose of wiping feces?  Really, who?  MY HUSBAND.

Husband is resolute on the toilet paper folding thing.  Although his reasoning is well beyond the comprehension of sane people.

And while we're on the subject, Husband will also take his towel off the hook, every morning, and fold it just so he can shower, then UNfold the towel and dry off with it.  And yet there are constantly baskets of unfolded laundry just hanging around that he refuses to touch.

MEN MAKE NO SENSE.

And we're only talking about FOLDING.  I'm not even going into the other 5,243,877,283,992.31 reasons that men are weird.

Speaking of men that make no sense, Cereal is doing much better today.  He hasn't fallen all day or anything. 

Our secret?

We sprayed water on him.

Seriously.

I gotta say, if I had known all along that his ugly praying mantis body just needed moister, I would have made a practice of spitting on him daily.  Husband says we should just use the spray bottle, but like I previously mentioned, HE'S WEIRD.

Sep 10, 2011

bugs, hackers and Bollywood

I'm pretty sure that Cereal (our pet praying mantis) is the dumbest insect of his species. He's all huge because he shed his skin, which was super really gross, and came out about half an inch longer than before.  And he must have shed some brain cells too, because now he's just an idiot.

Cereal loves to hang out at the top of his bug habitat, upside down.  Husband says this is normal for praying matises (praying manti?)  But over the past week-ish, he keeps falling from his ceiling perch.  And then he clambers back up, just to fall down again.

See? He's DUMB.

I'm thinking we need to get him some special praying mantis lessons.  Something along the lines of "How Not to Fall On Your Head, IN 3 EASY STEPS!"

Or maybe we just need to get him a little buggy harness, with an automated pulley system. 

We're wondering if he's sick or dying or something.  But he still seems to be eating ok.  Last night he ate a whole cricket in about 90 seconds.  Except that instead of hunting it down like praying mantises usually do, he just fell on it and then started chomping.

IN OTHER NEWS

I had to de-hack Green Jello with Carrots yesterday.  Which, I'm surprised I actually pulled off, but told everyone I managed due to my supreme intellect.

But it made me realize something: Hackers are girlfriendless jerkfaces who need to move out of their mom's basements and get a real life outside of Japanese anime and Middle Earth.

I mean, I realized this BEFORE, but now I just really really hate hackers.

ALSO

Someday I want to attend an Indian wedding and have henna tattoos up my arms and wear the head thing and a sari and everything.  As far as I can tell from all the Bollywood movies I've watched, Indian weddings are awesome.

And sometimes I have fantasies of meeting a famous Bollywood actor during a vacation in Goa; of course he'd fall instantly in love with me and sing me a song that's only half in English while he dances around on the beach in white jeans. 

These fantasies usually only happen when I'm severely sleep deprived.

ONE MORE THING

Our water here tastes gross. 

I just can't get used to it.

Sep 8, 2011

uuummmmmmmm,

Once again I find myself on the precipice of "I really ought to go to bed" and "I really don't want to go to bed".  And as I ponder this decision it's like I have a little angel and devil on my shoulders.  Just like in cartoons.

Except that it's not really an angel or a devil.

And they're not really little.  Or cartoon-like.

What it's more like is me arguing both points of view, with myself, in different voices. And I flip my head to the right or the left depending on which point of view I'm presenting.  And sometimes I make hand motions.

In a high, innocent voice (and facing right) I say, "You know your lazy rear will never get out of bed in the morning if you don't grab some unisom and get in bed RIGHT NOW."

And then in a low, slightly satanic voice (and facing left) I say, "Yes, but it's so much fun to stay up late and write stupid blog posts, so go ahead and take your unisom and stick it up your aaa....."

High voice, "Woah, woah, woah, there is NO NEED to start swearing, and I will not stick unisom anywhere other than in your mouth.  Right now.  To bed with you.  Let's go."

Low voice, "You're right, maybe I will go to bed....to watch 5 episodes of Doctor Who on the ipad!  That's right."

High and right, "You're evil.  I'm telling."

Low and left, "Mwa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, cough, sputter, ack, ha."

FYI, I am not actually having this actual conversation with myself OUT LOUD.

No, I am not that crazy.  Yet.

The conversation is just going on INSIDE MY HEAD.

So, see, I'm perfectly sane.  Thank you for your concern though.

Do you think they have any new episodes of Doctor Who on Netflix yet?  Because I'm kind of dying to see the next season.  Unless they're about the stone angels.  Because then I'd NEVER get to sleep, those things are creepy.

Sep 6, 2011

dedicated to my first baby



On saturday Two Bits was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.  That's a pretty humongous milestone.  And it remains a mystery to me how she got so old and so smart and so gorgeous and so amazing, so fast.

Also, it occurs to me that I never wrote her special "this is Two Bit's story" on her birthday last year when I had vowed to write birthday posts to my kids.  I neglected to write her special post, because, most likely, I am a horrible horrible undedicated parent that doesn't deserve such an old, smart, gorgeous, amazing daughter.

Or, because I was saving it for NOW.  This is Two Bit's story:

Two Bits was (obviously) my first baby.  When we found out that she was a girl, we ran to the mall (or the tiny strip of pathetic stores that Moscow Idaho calls a mall) and bought her a pink outfit.  And then lots more pink outfits.  And then we were given even more pink outfits.

Being my first baby, I should have been devouring every pregnancy book and going to every birthing class, but I didn't.  I read a few pages out of pregnancy books, but they kept telling me to exercise and eat vegetables, and I was too busy feeling like a nauseous beached whale to do either of those things.  So I stopped reading books.  And birthing classes were horribly frightening - you couldn't have forced me into one had you dragged me blindfolded, calf-tied and sedated.  I wanted to go into the birthing process completely unaware of the excruciating pain, and blood and guts that it involved. 

I was induced four days before my due date on July 4th.  I wanted her to be born that day so that I could lie to her every year and tell her the fireworks and parades were all just for her.  Except that she decided, even in the womb, not to believe anything I say and she wasn't born until the next day.

They let my epidural wear off, so I could "feel" when to push.  Which, BY THE WAY, is majorly stupid.  STUPID STUPID STUPID.  After an hour and a half of pushing my doctor came in and I was all whimpering and half dead and I said, "I can't do this."  And he said, "You can't?  Or you won't?"  And then I gave him a big mental punch in the face, because I was way too tired to do it for real.

A little bit after that (after about 36 hours of labor) Two Bits was born via c-section.  She weighed 9 pounds and 5 ounces, and was 21 1/2 inches long, and she had a 14 1/2 inch head that had been posterior and completely unable to be born  any other way.  So when my doctor checked on me the next day, I said, "So COULD I have pushed her out?"  He had to clear his throat a little and quietly say, "Um, no," and then shuffle out of the room.  And I gave him a major mental butt kicking as he left, because I hurt too much to do it in real life.


Two Bits was an adorable, round, bald baby who slept and ate and slept and slept.  She was perfect.  But, I can only see the perfection in hindsight.  Not that I didn't love the little cheeks right off of her, but I was so busy WORRYING that I didn't fully appreciate her perfectness.

My mom helped me for the first few days after I came home from the hospital.  But then she drove away.  And left me.  And I was expected to be in charge of ANOTHER HUMAN LIFE.  I was extremely terrified.

Two Bits would sleep, and I would worry when she didn't want to eat every 3 hours.  And worry when she didn't cry.  And worry when she was perfectly content and totally healthy, because that's kind of what I did for the first few weeks.  Everyone kept giving me advice, and the books would say that she needed to be on a schedule, and doctors would say, "You should never rock your baby to sleep."  And I listened, because I had no idea what I was doing (except for the rocking your baby to sleep thing, I wouldn't have given that up for all the chocolate truffles in the world).

Then I chilled out a little, and in between all the worrying, I spent my days dressing Two Bits in all of her pink outfits, with all of her little shoes, and her little headbands, and laid her on all of her cute pink blankets and took pictures with our horrible little webcam, because we didn't even own a real camera back then.  And then I'd email the pictures to everyone I knew.

Also, we just did the normal baby stuff like nursing and laundry and poopy diapers.

Two Bits was the master of poop.  We tried all the brands of diapers, and she could explode poop out of every single kind.  One time, when I was changing her, she shot poop through my fingers, across the room and onto our couch.  Boy could that girl projectile poop.  (She was deeply talented, even at such a young age.)


Two Bits continued to be an excellent baby.  She slept through the night.  She took great naps.  She ate.  She played.  She even listened when I said, "Don't touch that."

She was a little slow in her gross motor development, and she was wary of new situations, and she didn't usually say much.  But, overall, Husband and I considered ourselves to be huge parental successes.  It was later that we learned that Two Bits was just an excellent kid.

She was only 17 months when Opie was born.  I think they had about the same amount of hair, only it took Two Bits all of those 17 months to accumulate what Opie was born with.  And big bows weren't even in style back then, so she wore a lot of pink so people would stop giving us the "your little boy is so cute" comment in public.


Two Bits took to being an older sister right away.  She only bit her baby brother once.  And after I overly-freaked out about it, she was too scared to ever try anything like that again.  Most of the time she liked being helpful anyway.  I'm pretty sure her mothering instincts were fully functional at birth.  (She certainly has always had the bossing others around thing down to a T.)

Although she has always been mostly well-behaved, Two Bits does have a bit of a stubborn streak.  For instance, when she was two we made her eat a slice of cooked carrot and she held that carrot, unchewed, in her mouth for almost an hour before I finally relented and let her spit it out.  And she still refuses to eat carrots.

She also refused to talk until her second birthday.  No amount of speech therapy and bribery could get her to say even simple things like "pop".  She was also that way when we wanted her to crawl and walk and even reach for toys.  Instead, her first couple of years involved a lot of watching and learning and planning, and then she'd crawl or talk or whatever, when she felt good and ready.  She still likes to do things at her own pace, thankyouverymuch, and don't even think about pushing it.


By the time she was 3, Two Bits was a downright princess.  She was spunky and smart and loved all things girly.  (Possibly from all the years dressed in pink?)  She finally grew some real hair and it was blond and full of curls.

Imagination burst out of Two Bits at the rate she used to projectile poop.  She liked to dress me in pretend gowns and shoes and jewelry to go to fancy pretend parties, or play invisible musical instruments while she danced around the room, or construct big scenes with our Fisher Price Little People. 

It was when Two Bits was about 3 1/2 that she invented Gootka, her invisible best friend.  Gootka hung around for years and years and years, and sometimes, just for fun, we still talk about Gootka and what she's doing.  As time went on we learned more about Gootka: she had a little sister named Geesie and a little brother named Austin; her mom was from Mexico, but her grandma lived in China; Gootka taught Two Bits how to play Cricket and ride invisible ponies and play Super Hero Cowgirls.  We had to feed Gootka invisible dinner and keep her seat clear in the car.  Two Bits and Gootka were inseperable.


When Two Bits was 4 she went to preschool.  She had a friend, who lived around the corner, named Carter who she claimed she would marry.  But when Carter moved away, Two Bits didn't worry too much and just moved on to the other cute boys.

Except that at age 4, she was horribly shy and timid.  Her speech was hard for everyone but me to understand, and she wasn't really sure where she fit in around her peers (other than planning their weddings, of course).  But she loved school, and loved her friends, and loved to learn.  And she was happy.


By the time Two Bits turned five, she had 3 younger siblings.  And they took up a lot of my time.  And she was required to help a lot.  And she was mostly ok with that.

She started kindergarten so we let her participate in some of the after school programs like ballet and soccer and theater.  It was then that she started to find her passions (art,ballet and theater), and her not-so-passions (soccer and cleaning her room). 


At six, Two Bits dealt with first grade.  At first it was a little rough.  I could tell that school stressed her out because she would walk to the playground every morning on her toes after I'd drop her off.  I know it sounds kind of weird, but we were learning a lot about sensory integration, and phsyical therapy and auditory processing that year and I knew that walking on toes = stressed out Two Bits.

About half way through first grade it all got better for Two Bits.  She graduated out of speech therapy.  She had friends.  She stopped walking on her toes (for awhile).  She learned to read.


Seven was a good age for Two Bits.  In second grade we found out that she was excellent at math (even though she hates it).  And the she is excellent at reading (even though she only likes books with lots of pictures).  She coasted through school days on a cloud of happy fluff, helping other students and chasing boys at recess.

She also coasted through her ballet classes, with all of her natural gracefulness and strive for perfection.

She also coasted her way into a lot of time outs at home when she decided that she was tired of being the oldest and that she didn't want to help out all the time.  But then I realized that she was right.  And I started making Opie help out too. 

Even with less mandatory "helping" we've butted heads a lot the past little while.  She's older now, and exerting her independence.  I'm older now and exerting my "I'm the parent and you WILL listen to me"ed-ness.  It's not exactly a smooth combination.

But despite the butting heads, I think we've gotten a little closer the past little while too.  She's started joining in when I'm being sarcastic at the dinner table (which I adore).  She'll practice her braiding skills on my hair on days that I have a headache (it's like getting a head massage).  She'll tell me about her day or things she has learned or how she's pretending to be a teenage orphan who ran away from the orphanage and is setting up a shop to make her own way in the world and that's why there's a billion toys cluttering the entry.

And NOW.

Now, Two Bits is eight.  And in third grade.  And getting lanky.  And growing adult teeth.  She is creative.  And kind.  And smart.  And still a little bit stubborn.  And now she's a baptized member of the church.  The years go by much too fast.  Every day she becomes more and more amazing.  And less and less that round, bald baby that began our journey as a family.

But sometimes she still lets me dress her in pink and take her picture.