One day, you invite me into your life. You tell me all your secrets, your pain, your prejudices, and fears. You show me your joy, your loves, your passion, and laughter. We realize, together, that we share a lot.
Harmony.
We share air, giggles, tears, dinners, experiences, and gripes.
Your home is my home. Mine is yours.
One day, you tell me, "Heather! The kids are at their grandparents' house! Bring Tyler! Come on over for some wine and cheese!"
And I arrive, expecting an evening of friendship, cutting loose.
Of being me.
Me is a complicated person with simple pleasures. Certain wines, stinky cheeses, no sadness, only comedy, and lots of foul language.
You greet me at the door and I enter, knowing that I can be me because it's only my friends here, friends and loved ones who get me and know me better than I can sometimes know myself.
The conversation progresses, back and forth, ebb and flow. We are all communicating. Catching up. Sharing little details.
And then, it happens.
I. Drop. The f-bomb.
It happens. I do it a lot when I'm by myself or in the company of other adults who know me and aren't bothered by it. But I never do it in front of children. Elders. Bosses. Popes.
And you. You look at me. As if I've just shot you. And you say, "HEATHER! Take that back! Shut your mouth! There's a child in the next room!"
A child, you say? But I thought your children were gone for the weekend, to their grandparents' house.
"NO!" you respond, "It's the neighbor's daughter whom we're babysitting."
You never told me there was a stranger listening in. A stranger who is also a minor. Knowing there was a child in the next room would have changed my demeanor. My stance. My language.
But you never bothered to tell me.
In the real world, this (hopefully) never happens.
In social media? It's every. fucking. day.
And this is why I unfriended someone on Facebook. Someone I love and adore. Someone who chastised me for an f-bomb I unleashed that their friends could see. Their friends that include customers and children.
Children.
The lesson I have learned in the last few days is that if ANY of you have children lurking amongst your social media life, children who could possibly see my horribly offensive f-bombs, s-bombs, mf-bombs, etc. you need to tell me. And then I will probably unfriend you, too.
Because those children and their parents aren't as social media savvy as me or you.
I can search through the rooms of your house, looking for that elusive child or elder or boss or customer for whom I need to tiptoe around.
I can't search through the friendship connections of your Facebook or Twitter or Tumblr or Blogger. That's not MY responsibility. It's YOURS.
Please learn that before you make me feel like the biggest embarrassment of your online life.
Showing posts with label wtf?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wtf?. Show all posts
27 January 2013
20 December 2012
Personal Apocalypse
OR
PSA #382: WHY OUR CHILDREN SHOULD WEAR HAZ-MAT SUITS UNTIL THEY'RE 34
For the last week, I have been in some righteous pain. I woke up a week ago and nearly ploughed into my dresser because my ankles and knees forgot that they're supposed to help my feet with this whole walking business. I toddered into the kids' rooms to wake them up, trying to walk like a 40-year-old rather than a 140-year-old. It's hard to act nonchalant when a whole part of your body is rebelling against you.
So, for two days, my feet and knees checked out on me. Pain, swelling, numbness, it was ridiculous. In addition to that, my elbows felt creaky, my shoulder blades felt cranky, and my hands were just revving up. I gave in and went to my doctor who promptly threw prednisone at me and demanded blood as payment in return.
By Monday, my feet and ankles were OK, but it was my right hand that had decided to form a labor union and call a strike. Have you ever tried making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a hand that won't grip the knife? Because when you guide your hand toward said knife, the pain receptors start yammering and won't shut it? Yeah, it was tons of awesome and tons of painful. Several hours later, my doctor called, told me my inflammation levels were off the charts, and threw around words like lupus, sjogren's syndrome, autoimmune, and rheumatologist.
I cried for the rest of that day and resisted calling 911 to report a short-of-breath panic attack at Wellesley Crest Drive.
By Tuesday, I had my appointment secured with a local rheumatologist and I had accepted my fate as one of the autoimmune masses. I kept telling myself that it would be OK. I would be OK. No one dies from lupus, my sweet, upbeat brain whispered to itself, You're going to be fine. But then that little negative bitch brain would whisper back Oh yeah? Well, plenty of people die from pneumonia and that's what's going to happen when you start suppressing that cunt of an immune system we got down there! Which is what was going on when I picked J-man up from school on Tuesday. I started talking to his teacher about what was going on with me and she looked at me with shocked eyes and rounded mouth and said...
OH MY GOD, HEATHER! YOU HAVE FIFTHS DISEASE!
She explained fifths to me as I hustled J-man to the car and on the way to the twins' school, I furiously Googled fifths disease during stop light pauses and called up images and started to do the math.
J-man - complained about headaches and tiredness two weeks ago - he wasn't finishing work at school because he said he was too tired
Miss-Miss - had two days of fever the same time my pain started - just fever, nothing else
Bubba - in the middle of my pain, his cheeks turned bright red in what we thought was an allergic reaction to some body crayons - redness remained despite repeated doses of Benadryl, making him look like the Google images of kids with fifths
Me - had two days of fever, two days of calm, then extreme joint pain and swelling with a rash on my abdomen
I added all of this up and discovered our house was most likely patient zero for a parvovirus outbreak.
Where's a veterinarian when you need one?
So, to sum up. I have gone to the rheumatologist, who agreed that it could be parvovirus, but she still took eight (ZOMG EIGHT!!!!!!) vials of blood in an effort to narrow down what's going on. My inflammation numbers were off-the-danged charts high and that concerned her. So, for right now, I'm taking pain killers and not much else. My joints are back to being stiff, swollen, tingly, and uncooperative, but so far, no major pain. I'm going to take this next week as the perfect opportunity to let the relatives raise my kids while I sleep.
And just after the new year, I'll know if my immune system is doing its job and fighting off a childhood disease that makes adults suffer or if my immune system is being a dick and attacking me for no reason.
I'll keep you all posted.
PSA #382: WHY OUR CHILDREN SHOULD WEAR HAZ-MAT SUITS UNTIL THEY'RE 34
For the last week, I have been in some righteous pain. I woke up a week ago and nearly ploughed into my dresser because my ankles and knees forgot that they're supposed to help my feet with this whole walking business. I toddered into the kids' rooms to wake them up, trying to walk like a 40-year-old rather than a 140-year-old. It's hard to act nonchalant when a whole part of your body is rebelling against you.
So, for two days, my feet and knees checked out on me. Pain, swelling, numbness, it was ridiculous. In addition to that, my elbows felt creaky, my shoulder blades felt cranky, and my hands were just revving up. I gave in and went to my doctor who promptly threw prednisone at me and demanded blood as payment in return.
By Monday, my feet and ankles were OK, but it was my right hand that had decided to form a labor union and call a strike. Have you ever tried making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a hand that won't grip the knife? Because when you guide your hand toward said knife, the pain receptors start yammering and won't shut it? Yeah, it was tons of awesome and tons of painful. Several hours later, my doctor called, told me my inflammation levels were off the charts, and threw around words like lupus, sjogren's syndrome, autoimmune, and rheumatologist.
I cried for the rest of that day and resisted calling 911 to report a short-of-breath panic attack at Wellesley Crest Drive.
By Tuesday, I had my appointment secured with a local rheumatologist and I had accepted my fate as one of the autoimmune masses. I kept telling myself that it would be OK. I would be OK. No one dies from lupus, my sweet, upbeat brain whispered to itself, You're going to be fine. But then that little negative bitch brain would whisper back Oh yeah? Well, plenty of people die from pneumonia and that's what's going to happen when you start suppressing that cunt of an immune system we got down there! Which is what was going on when I picked J-man up from school on Tuesday. I started talking to his teacher about what was going on with me and she looked at me with shocked eyes and rounded mouth and said...
OH MY GOD, HEATHER! YOU HAVE FIFTHS DISEASE!
She explained fifths to me as I hustled J-man to the car and on the way to the twins' school, I furiously Googled fifths disease during stop light pauses and called up images and started to do the math.
J-man - complained about headaches and tiredness two weeks ago - he wasn't finishing work at school because he said he was too tired
Miss-Miss - had two days of fever the same time my pain started - just fever, nothing else
Bubba - in the middle of my pain, his cheeks turned bright red in what we thought was an allergic reaction to some body crayons - redness remained despite repeated doses of Benadryl, making him look like the Google images of kids with fifths
Me - had two days of fever, two days of calm, then extreme joint pain and swelling with a rash on my abdomen
I added all of this up and discovered our house was most likely patient zero for a parvovirus outbreak.
Where's a veterinarian when you need one?
So, to sum up. I have gone to the rheumatologist, who agreed that it could be parvovirus, but she still took eight (ZOMG EIGHT!!!!!!) vials of blood in an effort to narrow down what's going on. My inflammation numbers were off-the-danged charts high and that concerned her. So, for right now, I'm taking pain killers and not much else. My joints are back to being stiff, swollen, tingly, and uncooperative, but so far, no major pain. I'm going to take this next week as the perfect opportunity to let the relatives raise my kids while I sleep.
And just after the new year, I'll know if my immune system is doing its job and fighting off a childhood disease that makes adults suffer or if my immune system is being a dick and attacking me for no reason.
I'll keep you all posted.
31 October 2012
Do Purples Have More Fun?
I know. You can't believe it. And you're all going to comment Pictures or that shit didn't happen! Too. Damned. Bad. I am not digging through 13 years of pictures to find one, but I can assure you they do exist. Picture me younger, 20 pounds heavier, and WAY blonder. My friend Toni said I looked like a proper German girl. But I wanted to know if it was true. Do blondes have more fun?
Not really. At least, I didn't notice any discernible difference in how I was treated by strangers or friends. I was still the nerdy, small-breasted, BRUNETTE I had always been. A brown-hair in blonde's clothing, so to speak. And, to mangle a Sean Connery-James Bond phrase, The collars and cuffs did NOT match.
From that point on, I decided if I couldn't get a tattoo (tattoo = Ty-man divorce = sad CMG with trashy Chinese characters on her back that probably translate to Fortune Cookie Whore) I would allow Wayne to play with my hair. My typical appointment with Wayne since the Blonde Incident of 1999 has tracked like this:
Wayne: What do you want me to do?
Me: I don't know. I'm bored.
Wayne: How bored?
Me: Wayne-can-have-fun bored.
And I would walk out an auburn chick with blonde streaks, or a brunette with red streaks, or just a plain old HIDE YO GRAY! chestnut.
But this fall was different. With the twins starting first grade and me being introduced to the species of human female known as Towne-Lake-SAHM-Who-Has-Too-Much-Time/Money-and-No-Talent/Life-Who-Wants-To-Run-The-Lives-Of-The-Other-Moms I freaked. out.
Enter Wayne and his magic bottle of purple from stage left.
Exit me, stage right, with the gnarliest hair I've ever had the privilege of wearing.
I could totally take the easy way out and admit that this was me screaming through a year-40 crisis. But it isn't. At 40, I finally feel comfortable in my own skin. I know who I am, what makes me tick, and you know what? I love this bitch. I'm pretty danged cool. No, this purple hair is me, announcing to the outside world that I'm different. I'm not your average room mom. I'm not your average suburbanite. I'm not every other mother you see in the grocery store. This is my inner fireworks coming out to say FECKIN' A! Check this shit out!
Now, to finally answer the question put forth by this post's title: Do Purples Have More Fun? Well, I certainly had more fun with it. I left the house with a spring in my step, knowing what was on top of my head. These purple stripes have been money well-spent and out-cooled that birthday tiara by MILES. What I can tell you is that purple hair certainly gets you noticed. As in just about everyone in the Washington, D.C. and National Harbour area digs your wig. And strange men came up to me, in Kentucky, with the Ty-man standing RIGHT NEXT TO ME, and started up random conversations. All because of the purple hair. The grocery baggers at Kroger think I'm the shiz. But guess what? I'm still the same, meek chestnut none of them would have bothered to know this past summer. Because of these purple streaks, I'm suddenly more interesting. I'm note-worthy. And that's sad. It's sad that it takes an unnatural hair color for someone to get noticed. For others to even care.
Which is why when I return to Wayne in November, I have a decision to make. Do I ditch the purple or do I keep it? I can't decide.
Help?
30 November 2011
Never Hang a Dead Body on Your Christmas Tree
OR
THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS
You guys know about our new dog, right?
Did you know that dogs eat anything? And when I say anything I mean anything/everything/ZOMG they'll eat that?!?
I did not know this, but I do now.
Picture it. I was in my kitchen, loading up the advent calendar with treats for the kids. The house was quiet, kids were at school... and I heard a noise. It sounded sort of wet and crunchy and it was coming from behind me. I looked but there was nothing behind me that could make that noise. Huh.
So I kept working. And I kept hearing it. The sound of something being eaten. After five minutes (Nope. I'm not really bright before noon.) of looking for the source of the crunching I found Macy in the kids' playroom. At first, I thought she had discovered a powdered doughnut one of the kids may have dropped. And then I realized what was going on.
She had eaten almost all of a starfish Christmas ornament that had hung on the kids' Christmas tree. It was an actual dried starfish I purchased in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and said starfish was painted with a snowy-white paint that had a faint glitter finish. Girlfriend had feasted on this dead animal with a FULL BOWL of food just a few feet away.
First I was all O_o. And then I was all GUH! MAAAA-AAACEEEEEE!!!!! And then I was all Where's that frakking vet's phone number?!?
Actual conversation:
Vet: Animal Hospital of Boondocks Atlanta! How may we help you?
Me: MY. DOG. JUST. ATE. A. STAAAARRRRFISH!
Vet: Um.
Me: Yeah. I know! It was an ornament on my kids' tree! AND SHE ATE IT!
Vet: A real starfish?
Me: Damn skippy.
Vet: Hold on... OK. The doctor wants to know where you got the starfish from.
Me: South Carolina.
Vet: But, is the starfish from South Carolina or was it marked "Made in China"?
Me: Nope. Nothing. Why?
Vet: Starfish from Asia can contain a toxin that can cause paralysis.
Me: No shit! Even when it's dried and several years old?
Vet: Yep.
Me: Fucking China.
Vet: You need to bring her in for an X-ray to make sure she chewed up the starfish. If there are big, sharp chunks, we'll need to operate to get those out.
Me: Uh.... What if I don't.
Vet: Just watch her for vomiting and diarrhea and then bring her in.
Me: Yeah. We'll be there in five.
The X-ray revealed that the starfish had been well-chewed and our dog had to devour four cans of sticky, wet, smelly high-fiber canned food to coat the starfish and force her to poop. A bunch.
I'm still waiting for this monster poop. You may see headlines about "Suburban Atlanta Dog and Owner Buried In Mound Of Crap."
What went through Macy's mind yesterday?
Ooooo! Yummeh star-thingy!
I LIKE this yummeh star-thingy!
Why is the tall lady yelling my name?!?
Hide under the big bed!
OH! We're going for a ride! GOODY!
Looky! I get yummeh stinky food! LOTS of yummeh stinky food!
That was fun! I need to eat more yummeh star-thingys! I get to ride in the car and eat stinky food! I LOVE MY NEW LIFE!
What have I learned? Don't hang dead bodies on the Christmas tree.
What did Macy learn? Not a damned thing.
THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS
You guys know about our new dog, right?
Did you know that dogs eat anything? And when I say anything I mean anything/everything/ZOMG they'll eat that?!?
I did not know this, but I do now.
Picture it. I was in my kitchen, loading up the advent calendar with treats for the kids. The house was quiet, kids were at school... and I heard a noise. It sounded sort of wet and crunchy and it was coming from behind me. I looked but there was nothing behind me that could make that noise. Huh.
So I kept working. And I kept hearing it. The sound of something being eaten. After five minutes (Nope. I'm not really bright before noon.) of looking for the source of the crunching I found Macy in the kids' playroom. At first, I thought she had discovered a powdered doughnut one of the kids may have dropped. And then I realized what was going on.
She had eaten almost all of a starfish Christmas ornament that had hung on the kids' Christmas tree. It was an actual dried starfish I purchased in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and said starfish was painted with a snowy-white paint that had a faint glitter finish. Girlfriend had feasted on this dead animal with a FULL BOWL of food just a few feet away.
First I was all O_o. And then I was all GUH! MAAAA-AAACEEEEEE!!!!! And then I was all Where's that frakking vet's phone number?!?
Actual conversation:
Vet: Animal Hospital of Boondocks Atlanta! How may we help you?
Me: MY. DOG. JUST. ATE. A. STAAAARRRRFISH!
Vet: Um.
Me: Yeah. I know! It was an ornament on my kids' tree! AND SHE ATE IT!
Vet: A real starfish?
Me: Damn skippy.
Vet: Hold on... OK. The doctor wants to know where you got the starfish from.
Me: South Carolina.
Vet: But, is the starfish from South Carolina or was it marked "Made in China"?
Me: Nope. Nothing. Why?
Vet: Starfish from Asia can contain a toxin that can cause paralysis.
Me: No shit! Even when it's dried and several years old?
Vet: Yep.
Me: Fucking China.
Vet: You need to bring her in for an X-ray to make sure she chewed up the starfish. If there are big, sharp chunks, we'll need to operate to get those out.
Me: Uh.... What if I don't.
Vet: Just watch her for vomiting and diarrhea and then bring her in.
Me: Yeah. We'll be there in five.
The X-ray revealed that the starfish had been well-chewed and our dog had to devour four cans of sticky, wet, smelly high-fiber canned food to coat the starfish and force her to poop. A bunch.
I'm still waiting for this monster poop. You may see headlines about "Suburban Atlanta Dog and Owner Buried In Mound Of Crap."
What went through Macy's mind yesterday?
Ooooo! Yummeh star-thingy!
I LIKE this yummeh star-thingy!
Why is the tall lady yelling my name?!?
Hide under the big bed!
OH! We're going for a ride! GOODY!
Looky! I get yummeh stinky food! LOTS of yummeh stinky food!
That was fun! I need to eat more yummeh star-thingys! I get to ride in the car and eat stinky food! I LOVE MY NEW LIFE!
What have I learned? Don't hang dead bodies on the Christmas tree.
What did Macy learn? Not a damned thing.
21 November 2011
Why We Crate Our Kids
OR
HOW WE ENDED UP WITH A DOG
What the Hell?
I know, I know. I've never said it out loud, but I'm a cat person. This does not mean that I shun all dogs and ignore them outright. If your dog is cute and not actively trying to separate my arm from my body, I will pet and love on said dog until it's time for me to leave. And then, I will go home and thank God that all I have to do is scoop a litter box and not walk in the freezing rain to watch my dog take a dump. Oh, and? SLOBBER! Ick. And that whole "incessantly licking one's genitalia" just escapes me.
But then, there's Macy:
Macy showed up unannounced at our kids' school and after spending a day in their class, it was discovered she had a microchip and 24 hours later, her family picked her up. And then 24 hours after that, the wife called to say that the husband wouldn't let her keep the dog.
Hrm.
We decided to take her in because she was already housebroken, up-to-date on all her shots, and the best part? She sat in a room full of little kids for six hours and never once growled or tried to bite at anyone.
After one day with her, I had decided that no matter what, we would keep her forever because of what I saw and discovered. She made it from Dallas, GA to Acworth/Kennesaw, about 16 miles, with no tears or scrapes on her pads. She didn't walk there, she was dropped off. When she was discovered, she had no collar, yet when she was turned over to us, she had a well-used collar on her neck. When Ty-man took her out to our fenced-in backyard to run and play, she cowered off to the side of our house when he took off the leash.
This dog was neglected by her previous family and purposefully dumped.
Supposedly, when these people adopted her in February, the rescue organization stated that her previous owners had abused her. And it's obvious that that was the case because when I hollered at the boys yesterday to come to dinner or suffer the wrath of Mama, she slunk out of the sunroom, ears back, as if she were mentally preparing herself for a beating.
What. The?
This dog doesn't bark. I've heard her whine in her sleep and whine at Andy. She hasn't once messed in the house even through the trauma of being passed off to strangers. She follows us everywhere, walks down the sidewalk like a pro, and rolls over on her back after wagging her butt because she's so happy to see you after a whole five-minutes of not seeing you.
Why? Why in the damned world are people so mean and nasty? I don't get it. She's the most awesome dog I've ever met and I'm not being biased here. I mean, I'm already biased for cats. I should be all She's OK but my Andy rocks your face off! And yet I'm not, because she's awesome.
But the best thing about having Macy as a member of our family? She ignores her crate, but the kids don't.
I think I'll turn their bedrooms into clothes closets and just buy them each a crate.
My name is Heather and I'm a dog-lover.
HOW WE ENDED UP WITH A DOG
What the Hell?
I know, I know. I've never said it out loud, but I'm a cat person. This does not mean that I shun all dogs and ignore them outright. If your dog is cute and not actively trying to separate my arm from my body, I will pet and love on said dog until it's time for me to leave. And then, I will go home and thank God that all I have to do is scoop a litter box and not walk in the freezing rain to watch my dog take a dump. Oh, and? SLOBBER! Ick. And that whole "incessantly licking one's genitalia" just escapes me.
But then, there's Macy:
Macy showed up unannounced at our kids' school and after spending a day in their class, it was discovered she had a microchip and 24 hours later, her family picked her up. And then 24 hours after that, the wife called to say that the husband wouldn't let her keep the dog.
Hrm.
We decided to take her in because she was already housebroken, up-to-date on all her shots, and the best part? She sat in a room full of little kids for six hours and never once growled or tried to bite at anyone.
After one day with her, I had decided that no matter what, we would keep her forever because of what I saw and discovered. She made it from Dallas, GA to Acworth/Kennesaw, about 16 miles, with no tears or scrapes on her pads. She didn't walk there, she was dropped off. When she was discovered, she had no collar, yet when she was turned over to us, she had a well-used collar on her neck. When Ty-man took her out to our fenced-in backyard to run and play, she cowered off to the side of our house when he took off the leash.
This dog was neglected by her previous family and purposefully dumped.
Supposedly, when these people adopted her in February, the rescue organization stated that her previous owners had abused her. And it's obvious that that was the case because when I hollered at the boys yesterday to come to dinner or suffer the wrath of Mama, she slunk out of the sunroom, ears back, as if she were mentally preparing herself for a beating.
What. The?
This dog doesn't bark. I've heard her whine in her sleep and whine at Andy. She hasn't once messed in the house even through the trauma of being passed off to strangers. She follows us everywhere, walks down the sidewalk like a pro, and rolls over on her back after wagging her butt because she's so happy to see you after a whole five-minutes of not seeing you.
Why? Why in the damned world are people so mean and nasty? I don't get it. She's the most awesome dog I've ever met and I'm not being biased here. I mean, I'm already biased for cats. I should be all She's OK but my Andy rocks your face off! And yet I'm not, because she's awesome.
But the best thing about having Macy as a member of our family? She ignores her crate, but the kids don't.
I think I'll turn their bedrooms into clothes closets and just buy them each a crate.
My name is Heather and I'm a dog-lover.
08 July 2011
WHAT?!? Are You Saying My Head is FAT?!?
I finally found out yesterday what the heck was inside my head.
But, before we get there, a little back story. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, then you need to watch the video here and then check out my Elephant Man look here.
Done? All caught up? Great.
So, I rolled into Dr. Smart-Ass's office with my mother and all three kids in tow. Ty-man was at work and Mom didn't want me going alone. She was afraid I would receive a bad diagnosis. Since she was to be my babysitter, all five of us loaded up and headed off to the doctor's office.
Allow me to say that my swelling has gone down (almost - just a smidge left) and I'm not so much of a freak show (physically). Dr. Smart-Ass was very pleased with how everything looked and felt. As he began cutting out the stitches, I mentioned that this was my first set of stitches ever and my first time having said stitches cut out of me. He replied that it was his first time, too.
(God, I'm really starting to love that man. I think I'd sign up for Botox just to hang out with him!)
Now, the news. What he pulled out of my head was a cavernous hemangioma.
(I can hear all of you now. A cave whosiwhats? Did he just say she's a fat-head? An airhead? WHA?)
Cavernous hemangioma. You can read some more on them here and here. Essentially what I had was a tangled knot of blood vessels. Did I have the red birthmark? No. Was it spongy? No. Actually, it was kind of hard. Dr. Smart-Ass said that it was larger than he thought and actually up underneath my muscle structure. What I think is that I've had this for most of my life and it finally, in the last few months, popped out from under the muscle, right below my temple, and I felt it. Had it grown larger I may have seen the reddish hue on my skin, it could have deformed my face, and surgery to remove it would have been more complicated as it would have bled. Profusely.
Lucky, kids. I'm damned lucky and thankful that what he took out wasn't anything worse.
The best part is that my right eyebrow is now misbehaving. The nerve that controls my eyebrow runs right in front of where the hemangioma was removed. That poor nerve had its butt kicked and because of that my right eyebrow won't go up as far as it should.
Turns out the freak show isn't too far gone after all. Oh, well. Maybe I can work that whole Spock thing at DragonCon more easily this year.
But, before we get there, a little back story. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, then you need to watch the video here and then check out my Elephant Man look here.
Done? All caught up? Great.
So, I rolled into Dr. Smart-Ass's office with my mother and all three kids in tow. Ty-man was at work and Mom didn't want me going alone. She was afraid I would receive a bad diagnosis. Since she was to be my babysitter, all five of us loaded up and headed off to the doctor's office.
Allow me to say that my swelling has gone down (almost - just a smidge left) and I'm not so much of a freak show (physically). Dr. Smart-Ass was very pleased with how everything looked and felt. As he began cutting out the stitches, I mentioned that this was my first set of stitches ever and my first time having said stitches cut out of me. He replied that it was his first time, too.
(God, I'm really starting to love that man. I think I'd sign up for Botox just to hang out with him!)
Now, the news. What he pulled out of my head was a cavernous hemangioma.
(I can hear all of you now. A cave whosiwhats? Did he just say she's a fat-head? An airhead? WHA?)
Cavernous hemangioma. You can read some more on them here and here. Essentially what I had was a tangled knot of blood vessels. Did I have the red birthmark? No. Was it spongy? No. Actually, it was kind of hard. Dr. Smart-Ass said that it was larger than he thought and actually up underneath my muscle structure. What I think is that I've had this for most of my life and it finally, in the last few months, popped out from under the muscle, right below my temple, and I felt it. Had it grown larger I may have seen the reddish hue on my skin, it could have deformed my face, and surgery to remove it would have been more complicated as it would have bled. Profusely.
Lucky, kids. I'm damned lucky and thankful that what he took out wasn't anything worse.
The best part is that my right eyebrow is now misbehaving. The nerve that controls my eyebrow runs right in front of where the hemangioma was removed. That poor nerve had its butt kicked and because of that my right eyebrow won't go up as far as it should.
Turns out the freak show isn't too far gone after all. Oh, well. Maybe I can work that whole Spock thing at DragonCon more easily this year.
01 July 2011
Dialog, Part 32
OR
NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WOULD BE SWELLING!?!?
OR
MY PLASTIC SURGEON IS SUCH A SMART-ASS
OR
HOLY CRAP!? I HAVE A PLASTIC SURGEON! I'M SO BEVERLY HILLS RIGHT NOW!
Me (in email to my doctor): Your assistant recommended that I email pictures to you of my post-surgery swelling since my surgery on Monday. I’ve never had this type of surgery before and I don’t want to be a Nervous Nelly, but I want to make sure nothing is going wrong. I’ve attached three pictures of my face, one of the incision. There is no redness, drainage, heat, or fever associated with the incision. Just excessive swelling. Is this normal and at what point will it subside? Thanks for your help! Heather
Dr. Smart-Ass: Heather, the lesion I removed was a lot deeper than I anticipated. Therefore, I'm not surprised you have the swelling you are experiencing. Rest assured, you should be fine and the swelling should get better soon. Keep your head elevated when you can and it should get better.
Me: Thanks so very much for your response. I'll hang in there and just wanted to make sure everything was fine. I'll just tell everyone I'm trying out for a remake of The Elephant Man. :)
Dr. Smart-Ass: You're a shoe in for the part. ;)
Seriously? My doctor ROCKS!
NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WOULD BE SWELLING!?!?
OR
MY PLASTIC SURGEON IS SUCH A SMART-ASS
OR
HOLY CRAP!? I HAVE A PLASTIC SURGEON! I'M SO BEVERLY HILLS RIGHT NOW!
Me (in email to my doctor): Your assistant recommended that I email pictures to you of my post-surgery swelling since my surgery on Monday. I’ve never had this type of surgery before and I don’t want to be a Nervous Nelly, but I want to make sure nothing is going wrong. I’ve attached three pictures of my face, one of the incision. There is no redness, drainage, heat, or fever associated with the incision. Just excessive swelling. Is this normal and at what point will it subside? Thanks for your help! Heather
Dr. Smart-Ass: Heather, the lesion I removed was a lot deeper than I anticipated. Therefore, I'm not surprised you have the swelling you are experiencing. Rest assured, you should be fine and the swelling should get better soon. Keep your head elevated when you can and it should get better.
Me: Thanks so very much for your response. I'll hang in there and just wanted to make sure everything was fine. I'll just tell everyone I'm trying out for a remake of The Elephant Man. :)
Dr. Smart-Ass: You're a shoe in for the part. ;)
Seriously? My doctor ROCKS!
29 June 2011
Hole in My Head
Yep! I'm back! Lord, help us all!
(PS If you can't see the above video, click here to watch it on YouTube. AND GET OFF THE CRACKBOOK!)
(PS If you can't see the above video, click here to watch it on YouTube. AND GET OFF THE CRACKBOOK!)
20 May 2011
Wide Open Spaces
When we first married, the Ty-man and I lived in a small apartment in Kennesaw. After listening to our neighbor pee in his toilet every morning, we decided we were finished with close quarters and we bought our first home in Cumming. Four months after saying I do we moved into the freedom of our land, our garage, our grass, our kitchen, our day lillies, our home.
We knew it wasn't permanent. That first house was to be our learning curve. We would figure out how to deal with busted pipes and a backyard full of kudzu and then, we would be ready for the big league. That first house was just that, it was a house, but it wasn't a home. We never painted the walls and we only hung up a few pictures and curtains in one room. We treated that house as our way station.
This house where I'm sitting right now is our home. We've lived here for almost 11 years and it's all ours. It's got paint, wallpaper, pictures, tchotchkes, and the laughter of children. It's all here and it's the reason why, when we moved here, we said This is ours.
And if I had an offer on the table and a pile of money in front of me, I'd leave it all in a heartbeat.
Four years ago, we transformed our ugly, down-hill, hard-packed-Georgia-clay backyard into a grassy oasis. In one corner of our newly-fenced and level, grassy yard, we created a play area that, two months later, housed a little plastic sandbox, picnic table, slide, and play house for our toddler kids. During the construction of this backyard, I was a new mom again. I had just given birth to J-man one month before construction began and trying to nap through all the noise was impossible. But, I was happy because we would finally have a safe place to play.
But our neighbor wasn't happy. I'm not talking about Jodi, I'm talking about the lady on the other side of us. We'll call her B (for bitter). She scowled, she grumbled, and she made our lives hell. When the Bobcat accidentally cut off her cable TV, Ty-man immediately scoured the neighborhood for a Comcast truck, found one, bribed the guy to fix the cable NOW, and gave B five movie gift cards for her entire family as recompense.
And for these last four years, B has refused to speak to us, wave, say "Hello" or communicate in any way. Oh, she'll complain about our imagined infractions to Jodi all day long, but she won't ring our doorbell to let us know about her problems with us. It's been four years of textbook passive-aggressive behavior and I can tell you unequivocally, honestly, and forthrightly that we've done nothing, NOTHING to her or hers.
Two days ago, we had a playset from this company delivered and constructed in the backyard. It is NOT visible from the road. It IS visible from B's front stoop. This means that when she goes into her house, she sees it. It's not in her yard. It's within our property boundaries, inside the fence of our backyard. And B has complained to our property management company. I also have it on very good faith that she is attempting to get the HOA Bully (who is still on the board) involved. She specifically asked for his involvement, knowing what I went through with him two years ago.
When I found out that last tidbit, I had a full-on panic/anxiety attack. On top of taking pot-shots at my kids (which, let's face it, that's what she's doing when she complains about a playset), she's attempting to make our lives hell FOR NOTHING. For absolutely nothing, for no reason whatsoever, simply because we exist, occupy the space next to her, have followed the rules, and have bent over backwards to be quiet, unobtrusive, nice neighbors, she wants to stir up old anxieties.
I'm at a loss. I don't know what to do. I'm pacing the house absolutely terrified that THAT MAN will be within feet of me and mine. I had to call the sheriff on his ass the last time I was near him and then I was worried the moment would end in violence. I don't go anywhere near his part of the neighborhood. There is this barrier of 1/4 mile of streets between our homes and that gives me solace. But to have this woman GIVE HIM PERMISSION to re-enter our lives has me in a panic.
I was never bullied as a child. I didn't experience my first bully until two years ago, at 37. It was, I think, as bad as if I had been bullied as a child. I don't want my children to see me reacting like this, but I can't help it.
Thank God for the Ty-man. He's handling this in a way I couldn't even fathom right now. All I want to do is curl up in bed with back issues of National Geographic and emerge when the smoke clears. He? Is taking care of business.
I'll be OK. This whole situation will be OK. It just has to be. But, seriously? Why? Why is she doing this? Because this playset is all about childhood laughter
wonder
and fond memories,
not anxiety, upset, and tears.
Seriously, if she pushes my buttons any further, I may just join a nudist/swinger group, install a jacuzzi where the playset currently resides, and REALLY piss her off with Thursday night orgies.
We knew it wasn't permanent. That first house was to be our learning curve. We would figure out how to deal with busted pipes and a backyard full of kudzu and then, we would be ready for the big league. That first house was just that, it was a house, but it wasn't a home. We never painted the walls and we only hung up a few pictures and curtains in one room. We treated that house as our way station.
This house where I'm sitting right now is our home. We've lived here for almost 11 years and it's all ours. It's got paint, wallpaper, pictures, tchotchkes, and the laughter of children. It's all here and it's the reason why, when we moved here, we said This is ours.
And if I had an offer on the table and a pile of money in front of me, I'd leave it all in a heartbeat.
Four years ago, we transformed our ugly, down-hill, hard-packed-Georgia-clay backyard into a grassy oasis. In one corner of our newly-fenced and level, grassy yard, we created a play area that, two months later, housed a little plastic sandbox, picnic table, slide, and play house for our toddler kids. During the construction of this backyard, I was a new mom again. I had just given birth to J-man one month before construction began and trying to nap through all the noise was impossible. But, I was happy because we would finally have a safe place to play.
But our neighbor wasn't happy. I'm not talking about Jodi, I'm talking about the lady on the other side of us. We'll call her B (for bitter). She scowled, she grumbled, and she made our lives hell. When the Bobcat accidentally cut off her cable TV, Ty-man immediately scoured the neighborhood for a Comcast truck, found one, bribed the guy to fix the cable NOW, and gave B five movie gift cards for her entire family as recompense.
And for these last four years, B has refused to speak to us, wave, say "Hello" or communicate in any way. Oh, she'll complain about our imagined infractions to Jodi all day long, but she won't ring our doorbell to let us know about her problems with us. It's been four years of textbook passive-aggressive behavior and I can tell you unequivocally, honestly, and forthrightly that we've done nothing, NOTHING to her or hers.
Two days ago, we had a playset from this company delivered and constructed in the backyard. It is NOT visible from the road. It IS visible from B's front stoop. This means that when she goes into her house, she sees it. It's not in her yard. It's within our property boundaries, inside the fence of our backyard. And B has complained to our property management company. I also have it on very good faith that she is attempting to get the HOA Bully (who is still on the board) involved. She specifically asked for his involvement, knowing what I went through with him two years ago.
When I found out that last tidbit, I had a full-on panic/anxiety attack. On top of taking pot-shots at my kids (which, let's face it, that's what she's doing when she complains about a playset), she's attempting to make our lives hell FOR NOTHING. For absolutely nothing, for no reason whatsoever, simply because we exist, occupy the space next to her, have followed the rules, and have bent over backwards to be quiet, unobtrusive, nice neighbors, she wants to stir up old anxieties.
I'm at a loss. I don't know what to do. I'm pacing the house absolutely terrified that THAT MAN will be within feet of me and mine. I had to call the sheriff on his ass the last time I was near him and then I was worried the moment would end in violence. I don't go anywhere near his part of the neighborhood. There is this barrier of 1/4 mile of streets between our homes and that gives me solace. But to have this woman GIVE HIM PERMISSION to re-enter our lives has me in a panic.
I was never bullied as a child. I didn't experience my first bully until two years ago, at 37. It was, I think, as bad as if I had been bullied as a child. I don't want my children to see me reacting like this, but I can't help it.
Thank God for the Ty-man. He's handling this in a way I couldn't even fathom right now. All I want to do is curl up in bed with back issues of National Geographic and emerge when the smoke clears. He? Is taking care of business.
I'll be OK. This whole situation will be OK. It just has to be. But, seriously? Why? Why is she doing this? Because this playset is all about childhood laughter
wonder
and fond memories,
not anxiety, upset, and tears.
Seriously, if she pushes my buttons any further, I may just join a nudist/swinger group, install a jacuzzi where the playset currently resides, and REALLY piss her off with Thursday night orgies.
26 April 2011
Easter Sexeh
I inherited my interest in photography from my Uncle Curtis. Sadly, I'm nowhere near the photographer he was, but I have fun with it. In particular, I love taking close-ups of flowers. If you dropped me off at the Atlanta Botanical Gardens, with a camera, I would probably never come out.
My in-laws have a beautiful piece of property in the north Georgia mountains and they have worked hard for the last eight years to turn that property into their mountain paradise. This time of year there are a plethora of flowers and whenever I'm there with my camera, I go crazy with the flower pictures.
After the kids' egg hunt, I took off for the driveway where I saw some beautiful, pink clematis blooming. (Aside: A former friend of mine always called it flowering clitoris. Now, whenever I see a clematis, I have to stop myself, put the proper word in my head, and not just sputter out WOW! That's a beautiful clitoris! I didn't know they came in blue?!)
Prettyclitoris clematis. Anyhoo, the Ty-man followed me, snagged the camera, and said OK. Get up against that wall and do the sexeh!
Me. Being sexy. It is for to laugh. So, I tried really hard. Can't you tell by the expression on my face that I'm trying to hold back the laughter?
Then? I lost it.
Serious belly-laughter ensued. I cannot be sexy without cracking my own shit up.
I managed to get in one more pose. A very skeptical, Am I bringing teh sexeh? pose.
It's hard to be sexy in Crocs and a skort, but hey, you do what you gotta do.
Thank God I found a rhododendron...
My in-laws have a beautiful piece of property in the north Georgia mountains and they have worked hard for the last eight years to turn that property into their mountain paradise. This time of year there are a plethora of flowers and whenever I'm there with my camera, I go crazy with the flower pictures.
After the kids' egg hunt, I took off for the driveway where I saw some beautiful, pink clematis blooming. (Aside: A former friend of mine always called it flowering clitoris. Now, whenever I see a clematis, I have to stop myself, put the proper word in my head, and not just sputter out WOW! That's a beautiful clitoris! I didn't know they came in blue?!)
Pretty
Me. Being sexy. It is for to laugh. So, I tried really hard. Can't you tell by the expression on my face that I'm trying to hold back the laughter?
Then? I lost it.
Serious belly-laughter ensued. I cannot be sexy without cracking my own shit up.
I managed to get in one more pose. A very skeptical, Am I bringing teh sexeh? pose.
It's hard to be sexy in Crocs and a skort, but hey, you do what you gotta do.
Thank God I found a rhododendron...
21 April 2011
Coal Miner's Granddaughter, Copyright
Dear Kate Middleton,
Quit hornin' in on my action!
Have I knocked on your door, demanding wear-time on that sapphire ring? NO!
Have I asked to kissy-face with your Prince? NO!
Then quit thinking you can be a Coal Miner's Granddaughter. You're actually a coal miner's great-granddaughter. How do I know this? Because I'm a nosy little shit and I like to know when people are Googling my boring-ass life. And lately? When people Google "Coal Miner's Granddaughter"? They come up with newspaper articles about you and your grandma. Your grandma who was a coal miner's daughter.
I mean, HELLO?, I'm not trying to bust in on your princess-to-be-someday-queen action. You don't see me walking around, posing with guys named William Wales, changing my name to Kate, professing a love of big blue rings and afternoon tea, so don't even go there. Do you think you can handle the awesomeness of being me? No, you can't. Case in point:
(Yes, Exposay.com, this is a photo of yours, pasted onto mine. Apologies.)
I am Coal Miner's Granddaughter. Not you. Got it?
Besides. You know if William even gets glimpse of this, he'll be all "Kate, who?":
(Sorry, Alastair Grant - WPA Pool/Getty, for making your awesome picture a nightmare.)
Now that we've got that cleared up... where's my damned invite?!?
Tell Harry to give me a call, 'kay?
Toodles!
Heather
Quit hornin' in on my action!
Have I knocked on your door, demanding wear-time on that sapphire ring? NO!
Have I asked to kissy-face with your Prince? NO!
Then quit thinking you can be a Coal Miner's Granddaughter. You're actually a coal miner's great-granddaughter. How do I know this? Because I'm a nosy little shit and I like to know when people are Googling my boring-ass life. And lately? When people Google "Coal Miner's Granddaughter"? They come up with newspaper articles about you and your grandma. Your grandma who was a coal miner's daughter.
I mean, HELLO?, I'm not trying to bust in on your princess-to-be-someday-queen action. You don't see me walking around, posing with guys named William Wales, changing my name to Kate, professing a love of big blue rings and afternoon tea, so don't even go there. Do you think you can handle the awesomeness of being me? No, you can't. Case in point:
(Yes, Exposay.com, this is a photo of yours, pasted onto mine. Apologies.)
I am Coal Miner's Granddaughter. Not you. Got it?
Besides. You know if William even gets glimpse of this, he'll be all "Kate, who?":
(Sorry, Alastair Grant - WPA Pool/Getty, for making your awesome picture a nightmare.)
Now that we've got that cleared up... where's my damned invite?!?
Tell Harry to give me a call, 'kay?
Toodles!
Heather
20 April 2011
And Then, I Farted.
Twice a week, I become this insane, possessed person. I throw on my gym clothes, fill up my water bottle, and snarl at anyone who gets in my way.
I'm going to Zumba, dammit.
I LOVE Zumba. For me, it's not just about the sweat or the exercise, it's mainly about the music and the dance.
Ah, the dance.
I love to dance. I danced in my bedroom as a kid, radio turned up as loud as it would go, my father banging on the door and yelling Turn that jungle music down! I danced in my dorm room all through college. I danced at sorority and frat parties. I danced like a maniac at Bell Bottoms, a popular Atlanta nightclub from the 1990s. I still dance in my kitchen. Zumba gives me the opportunity to release my inner ballet/hip hop/belly dancer.
Until this morning, Zumba has been free and awesome. I don't give a rat's ass what anyone thinks I look like. I shake my shimmy, have a great time, and let it all hang loose.
And then, I farted.
It happened in the middle of the class, at the height of our aerobic activity. My hips were hopping, belly was dancing, and my butt cheeks were squeezed tighter than the gates of Ft. Knox.
One of the more unpleasant side-effects of metformin (an insulin-controlling drug) is gas. Lots and lots of gas. Like, I sometimes feel that in a past life I was a hot air balloon. Normally, I try to hold it until I can walk away and cut loose in another part of the house/restaurant/grocery store/wherever where there is no one around. Not today. Oh, no. My gas was out of control
I cut loose right at the end of a song. And I'm pretty sure that the lady behind me crossed herself.
And Zumba in Woodstock will never again be the same.
I'm going to Zumba, dammit.
I LOVE Zumba. For me, it's not just about the sweat or the exercise, it's mainly about the music and the dance.
Ah, the dance.
I love to dance. I danced in my bedroom as a kid, radio turned up as loud as it would go, my father banging on the door and yelling Turn that jungle music down! I danced in my dorm room all through college. I danced at sorority and frat parties. I danced like a maniac at Bell Bottoms, a popular Atlanta nightclub from the 1990s. I still dance in my kitchen. Zumba gives me the opportunity to release my inner ballet/hip hop/belly dancer.
Until this morning, Zumba has been free and awesome. I don't give a rat's ass what anyone thinks I look like. I shake my shimmy, have a great time, and let it all hang loose.
And then, I farted.
It happened in the middle of the class, at the height of our aerobic activity. My hips were hopping, belly was dancing, and my butt cheeks were squeezed tighter than the gates of Ft. Knox.
One of the more unpleasant side-effects of metformin (an insulin-controlling drug) is gas. Lots and lots of gas. Like, I sometimes feel that in a past life I was a hot air balloon. Normally, I try to hold it until I can walk away and cut loose in another part of the house/restaurant/grocery store/wherever where there is no one around. Not today. Oh, no. My gas was out of control
I cut loose right at the end of a song. And I'm pretty sure that the lady behind me crossed herself.
And Zumba in Woodstock will never again be the same.
18 February 2011
Have You Ever...
Have you ever felt your head itch and reached through your hair to scratch and as you're blissfully scratching the head-itch, your fingernails hit a pimple you didn't know was there and in hitting the pimple, you inadvertently pop it, causing the pimple, and you, extreme discomfort to the point that your scalp feels like it's on fire and your whole body gets the owie-chills and when you try to part your hair and look in the mirror and find the zit so you can go EEEEWWWWWW!!!! NASTY!!!!! you actually end up wrenching out your back/shoulders, thereby ruining your afternoon?
I seem to have had one of those weeks.
T.G.I.F.
I seem to have had one of those weeks.
T.G.I.F.
10 December 2010
The Kids Chewed Through Our Internet Cable
OR
WEIRD SHIT BLOGGERS SAY TO EACH OTHER VIA EMAIL
From: Discombobulatingrant
To: Coal Miner's Granddaughter
Subject: Bad Blogger!
You're not posting, and that makes the Internet sad. Is it because you have too many kids? I think if you leave one by the curb on trash day, the city workers will pick it up and re-distribute it to childless couples. (note - I think it's good parenting not to assign roles to them when they're young, so that's why I use the more proper "it") Besides, if you have too many cats then you'll get labeled "crazy cat lady", so I'm assuming the same is true for children. Surely you don't want to be called crazy mom lady? Also, I may be starting my very own religion, and you can use the saved money otherwise wasted on food and clothing to donate.
- Yours in Booflakken,
Grant
P.S. return the youngest one. Odds are you couldn't have gotten that attached in so few years.
From: Coal Miner's Granddaughter
To: Discombobulatingrant
Subject: Re: Bad Blogger!
Actually, on the advice of my 12-year-old, cranky-ass cat who vomits entirely too much, I've dropped the kids off at a no-kill shelter. They should be placed in good homes unless the not being housebroken or still needing to be spayed and neutered is an issue. If that's the case, then they'll probably remain in those dog-sized crates with occasional outings to the dog-run until their 18th birthdays. At that point, they'll be turned loose on an unsuspecting society and state-sponsored welfare system.
Ah, the joys of parenthood.
P.S. My Internet has been down until today. Have no fear, there will be a post tomorrow consisting of this email pasted into my blog. I'll give you a byline. Pinky-swear.
WEIRD SHIT BLOGGERS SAY TO EACH OTHER VIA EMAIL
From: Discombobulatingrant
To: Coal Miner's Granddaughter
Subject: Bad Blogger!
You're not posting, and that makes the Internet sad. Is it because you have too many kids? I think if you leave one by the curb on trash day, the city workers will pick it up and re-distribute it to childless couples. (note - I think it's good parenting not to assign roles to them when they're young, so that's why I use the more proper "it") Besides, if you have too many cats then you'll get labeled "crazy cat lady", so I'm assuming the same is true for children. Surely you don't want to be called crazy mom lady? Also, I may be starting my very own religion, and you can use the saved money otherwise wasted on food and clothing to donate.
- Yours in Booflakken,
Grant
P.S. return the youngest one. Odds are you couldn't have gotten that attached in so few years.
From: Coal Miner's Granddaughter
To: Discombobulatingrant
Subject: Re: Bad Blogger!
Actually, on the advice of my 12-year-old, cranky-ass cat who vomits entirely too much, I've dropped the kids off at a no-kill shelter. They should be placed in good homes unless the not being housebroken or still needing to be spayed and neutered is an issue. If that's the case, then they'll probably remain in those dog-sized crates with occasional outings to the dog-run until their 18th birthdays. At that point, they'll be turned loose on an unsuspecting society and state-sponsored welfare system.
Ah, the joys of parenthood.
P.S. My Internet has been down until today. Have no fear, there will be a post tomorrow consisting of this email pasted into my blog. I'll give you a byline. Pinky-swear.
17 November 2010
My Apologies
If I haven't called you.
If I haven't invited you for coffee.
If I forgot to tell you about the funny sign I saw the other day.
If I didn't read your post.
If I didn't invite you to dinner.
If we haven't spoken in two months.
If I don't remember your favorite color.
If I forget to show you a funny picture of the kids.
Don't take it personally. I had no idea, when lying there pregnant with the twins, that motherhood would take so much of me. I didn't realize that my brain would be occupied with kids, KIDS, KIDS! That I would barely have any room to remember to shower or eat or blink, much less keep up with the world outside our four walls. I'm not ignoring you on purpose. I'm just trying to survive motherhood.
My most humble apologies.
If I haven't invited you for coffee.
If I forgot to tell you about the funny sign I saw the other day.
If I didn't read your post.
If I didn't invite you to dinner.
If we haven't spoken in two months.
If I don't remember your favorite color.
If I forget to show you a funny picture of the kids.
Don't take it personally. I had no idea, when lying there pregnant with the twins, that motherhood would take so much of me. I didn't realize that my brain would be occupied with kids, KIDS, KIDS! That I would barely have any room to remember to shower or eat or blink, much less keep up with the world outside our four walls. I'm not ignoring you on purpose. I'm just trying to survive motherhood.
My most humble apologies.
08 November 2010
I'm Famous!
Well, OK. Not really. I mean, you're not going to open up the paper this morning and witness my scary mug on the front page. Nay. I should have actually titled this I'm Famous in Ellijay! And Maybe Canton. And Possibly Jasper. Dude, I Rocked Gilmer County's Collective Mind! Actually, none of that happened. What truly went on was over a month ago, my paranormal group headed off for Blue Ridge, Georgia to participate in the Blue Ridge Ghost Tour (which, by the way, is a great tour and if you ever find yourself in Fannin County and need something to do, DO IT!). While there, a producer from ETCTV3 asked if we would mind being included in the Halloween special she was preparing for her channel. We said sure and my team shoved me out of line to the front. It was payback time.
See, last year, we were following during an investigation and were part of a late-night Atlanta news report. I made sure, during said investigation, to be behind somebody whenever the camera was around. I was determined to NOT be on TV. Yeah. This time, my team made sure there was no one for me to hide behind. I love you guys and I'll be stealing the batteries out of your KII meters at the next investigation. Hugs and kisses!
Here, in all my impromptu interview glory, is my attempt at cable access TV. Just shoot me.
(P.S. You may need to crank the volume. And FYI, the lady between my two interview segments is the owner of the Blue Ridge Ghost Tour, Kim.)
If you can't see the video above, click here to view on YouTube.
See, last year, we were following during an investigation and were part of a late-night Atlanta news report. I made sure, during said investigation, to be behind somebody whenever the camera was around. I was determined to NOT be on TV. Yeah. This time, my team made sure there was no one for me to hide behind. I love you guys and I'll be stealing the batteries out of your KII meters at the next investigation. Hugs and kisses!
Here, in all my impromptu interview glory, is my attempt at cable access TV. Just shoot me.
(P.S. You may need to crank the volume. And FYI, the lady between my two interview segments is the owner of the Blue Ridge Ghost Tour, Kim.)
If you can't see the video above, click here to view on YouTube.
30 September 2010
Trying Not to Look Back
For the past two days, I've watched my kids careen around the cul-de-sac on their tricycles. They giggle and pedal as fast as their short legs will allow. Both days, I've dealt with owies resulting from said careening and both times, said children were taking a corner while looking behind them. No matter how many times I look into their teary eyes and try to impart the importance of looking at where they're going not where they've been, they still look over their shoulders, giggling and unmindful of the dangers ahead.
While I'm trying to teach my young ones to always look ahead, I'm still looking back.
I've heard it oft repeated that if we don't learn from our mistakes, we will be doomed to repeat them. My problem is that I've learned from my mistakes and yet I repeat them over and over in my mind, going over every last embarrassing detail, until I just want to flay myself. I don't know why I constantly remind myself of those indiscretions, but I do. It's like this sick little hobby, to go over every detail of the specific moment when I opened my mouth and inserted my foot or when I hurt someone's feelings or broke a heart. And in looking behind me, I inadvertently trip over my feet here in the present. I miss what my child just said or glaze over during my husband's deconstruct of his day. I walk through the present, but I'm not really present, because I'm living over the worst moments of my past.
I just want to look straight ahead and quit peeking over my shoulder, because I'm so damned tired of bandaging up old owies that should have healed long ago.
While I'm trying to teach my young ones to always look ahead, I'm still looking back.
I've heard it oft repeated that if we don't learn from our mistakes, we will be doomed to repeat them. My problem is that I've learned from my mistakes and yet I repeat them over and over in my mind, going over every last embarrassing detail, until I just want to flay myself. I don't know why I constantly remind myself of those indiscretions, but I do. It's like this sick little hobby, to go over every detail of the specific moment when I opened my mouth and inserted my foot or when I hurt someone's feelings or broke a heart. And in looking behind me, I inadvertently trip over my feet here in the present. I miss what my child just said or glaze over during my husband's deconstruct of his day. I walk through the present, but I'm not really present, because I'm living over the worst moments of my past.
I just want to look straight ahead and quit peeking over my shoulder, because I'm so damned tired of bandaging up old owies that should have healed long ago.
18 August 2010
It's Not You, It's Me
Ever feel like something is wrong? Like the phones should be ringing, but all you hear are crickets chirping?
That the chirping crickets are just a sign that everyone has already jumped ship, something you should have done last week?
That you should be doing something other than the something you're doing right now? And that if you don't do that other something right now, the whole world is going to get flushed down the proverbial God-is-angry toilet?
That the other shoe just needs to drop already before you completely go bald?
That the shit's about to hit the fan but you have no idea why and who's doing the throwing and what it is they're pissed about?
That everyone seems to be against you and your ideals and your state of mind and you wonder why they don't just go to a movie instead of pestering you about shit that's none of their business?
Have you ever felt like that?
Me, too. Either I'm on a first-class seat to Hell in a hand basket or I forgot to pick up my prescription.
That the chirping crickets are just a sign that everyone has already jumped ship, something you should have done last week?
That you should be doing something other than the something you're doing right now? And that if you don't do that other something right now, the whole world is going to get flushed down the proverbial God-is-angry toilet?
That the other shoe just needs to drop already before you completely go bald?
That the shit's about to hit the fan but you have no idea why and who's doing the throwing and what it is they're pissed about?
That everyone seems to be against you and your ideals and your state of mind and you wonder why they don't just go to a movie instead of pestering you about shit that's none of their business?
Have you ever felt like that?
Me, too. Either I'm on a first-class seat to Hell in a hand basket or I forgot to pick up my prescription.
09 August 2010
HeatHer '10: Days 2 and 3
I have to say, HeatHer 2010 was an AWESOME time! What started out as a random text to Avitable turned into a fun weekend of tweeting and a welcome distraction from that other thing going on up in the Northeastern US.
For us, day 2 of HeatHer '10 started out with a "Dora/Diego" breakout session. As the conference attendees watched, I wondered - who really did explore it better? Dora, Diego, Lewis, or Clark?
Later, we slummed it with a non-blogger and enjoyed the "Lunch with Locals" during which everyone asks if your kids are triplets or if the boys are twins. You know, the usual nonsense:
Day 2 ended on a fun note with an interactive "Silly Faces" session:
Which, as you can see, was quickly followed by the "Clean up this mess!" session.
Day Three dawned waaaay too early. At HeatHer, the attendees aren't hung over, but they are woken up with little elbows to the throat as small children climb into bed with you and proceed to steal your mattress space! But that's OK, because this attendee took a drive in a 'Vette!
Don't tell Ty-man, but we sped on some back roads just a little. OK, maybe a lot! After the test drive, it was time for the "I'm Gonna Wash That Gray Right Outta My Hair" session.
By far, saying good-bye to the old-lady-gray was the best session of HeatHer '10!
It was an awesome time and I hope next year's HeatHer '11 will be even better! Maybe some of you could make it down to the Deep South for some craziness in person? Mmmmm?
06 August 2010
HeatHer '10: Day 1
The first day of HeatHer '10* was awesome! Three people used the #HeatHer10** hashtag on Twitter! Those three people were me, MrsRobbieD (who, by the way, has the trippiest Twitter homepage background), and Dave, and since I don't really count that means two other people participated! Woo hoo! You, my commenters, promised the following to make our conference awesome:
- Other HeatHer said she'd bring the margarita mix.
- Cissa Fireheart guaranteed some fire ants, sand, and napkins. The fire ants, of course, were saved for the HOA Bully's front yard.
- Lisa brought the poker chips and cards. Blackjack!
- Finn supplied half a Sephora store. HALF! I'll take the nail polish half, please!
- And Ms. Sybil Law? Well, she's hauled down the Clinique swag! Woo hoo!
Miss-Miss led a breakout session on how to properly color Dora the Explorer as a mermaid and the proper proportions of a starfish:
During this session, Dave decided to get creative with his crayons...
Later, Bubba hosted our first HeatHer '10 lunch. It was a poolside theme!
After lunch, J-man gave a keynote speech on snuggling and why we all need to do it more:
And Andy insisted on leading a session entitled Quadripeds: Why they need blogs, too!
Of course, we closed out the day with dinner. And at HeatHer '10? Breakfast is what's for dinner!
We've had a great first-day and hope you can all make it for Day 2 at THE MOST awesome blogging conference EVAH!
*Yes, I realize this is all a sad attempt to make it easier to swallow my voluntary absence from BlogHer '10. But, hey, anything to make the day fun, right? RIGHT?!?
** It's pronounced Heather, remember? It's not Heat-Her. Aw, forget it. ;)
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