Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
I began to panic and it was in no way rational. “Keep it together. Keep it together. I can’t go to jail. I don’t want to get tasered. I wouldn’t last one minute in jail. Keep it together.”
I rolled down my window and began looking for my insurance card. That’s when a voice boomed in my ear, “Good morning.”
Standing next to me was the police officer. I hadn’t heard or seen him approaching my car and his greeting startled me. What resulted was a long scream that didn’t cease until I clapped my hands over my mouth. Afraid to let my hands off my mouth, I talked through them. “I’ve never been pulled over.”
“Calm down. Everything’s ok,” he says. “I just need to see your license, proof of insurance and registration.”
Unfortunately for me, my current insurance card was at home on my desk. I told the officer that the insurance card I had in my wallet was two weeks expired and that the most recent one was at home. He told me that he could let me off with a warning for speeding but he had to issue me a citation for not having proof of insurance.
“I’ll be right back with your license,” he said as he began to walk away. Then, suddenly he stopped and looked back at me, “Is there anything I’m going to find when I look up your driver’s license?” he
Panic set in all over again. “Find? I have no idea. You’d know better than I would. What are the possibilities? I mean I’ve never been arrested, or anything. Well, ok, I know I said that I had never been pulled over before, but actually there was this one time when I went through a traffic stop that was set up on the highway. They just let me through though because I wasn’t drunk. And, ok…I did smoke pot twice in college, but I never got caught or anything and I’m really sorry.”
I could tell by his face that I had said too much. He started backing away and waving his hands a little. “No. That’s not what I meant. You just sit tight and I’ll be right back.” he said.
Great, I thought. Just great. I had spilled my guts for no reason. A couple of minutes later he returned with my citation and Luke and I headed back home to get my insurance card and change his diaper. While gathering my insurance information Luke fell and began to cry. That wasn’t unusual. Babies are unsteady. Babies fall. Babies cry. I couldn’t find a scratch on him so as soon as he calmed down we headed back out the door.
However, on the drive there, Luke became fussy. I realized it was eleven o’clock. He must be hungry, I thought. I decided I should go ahead and feed him so I swung the car into a drive through right across the street from Sam’s. Our destination was so close I could see it. We would grab a quick but to eat and be on our way. I turned around to hand Luke a chicken strip and I couldn’t believe my eyes. On his forehead, right between his eyes was a blue lump the size of a lemon. I did a quick pupil check which was normal, but decided to play it safe and take him to the doctor anyway.
The doctor was impressed with his horn, but ultimately diagnosed him with only a hematoma (aka big, ugly bruise). She said he would be just fine, other than a bad headache for a couple of days. By the time we got out of there it was noon, which meant it was time for Luke’s three hour nap. We headed home. Sam’s had evaded us, yet again.
When Luke woke up from his nap, my in-laws were there to pick him up for an overnight visit. Finally, time to do a little party planning. I decided to head out, yet again, to Sam’s and was elated to
have made it there and back in one piece.
Once home, I heated up a quesadilla (from Sam’s, of course) so I could snack while I got the house ready. Halfway into my dinner, however, I bit down on something really hard. What the hell? Is that a bone? I spit the object out and could see something small and white. It was a tooth, and not just any tooth, but a “lateral.” Laterals are normally located on each side of your front teeth…not your kitchen counter. What was supposed to be a permanent crown had just found a very inopportune time to become less than permanent.
Having had my teeth cleaned the week before, I knew my dentist was at Disney World with his family and wouldn’t be back for a week. Awesome. Hey Doc, say hey to Goofy for me because that’s who I f@!#$*%^ look like right now.
So there I was with a court date for not having proof of insurance, a baby with a horn, and an achy breaky smile. It had been a very bad day. However, to make a (really) long story short, I found another dentist the next morning who was willing to help me on a Saturday AND I didn’t have to change the wedding shower from a luau to a hoedown to match my teeth. In the end, I hosted the shower with my tooth intact and without having been tasered or going to jail.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
-- “Will you go downstairs and get me some popsicles?”
-- (Referring to a 60 year old car hop at Sonic.)
Brantley: She totally wanted me…
Me: (eye roll)
Brantley: …and I might just let her have it.
Me: Good. Hand me my corndog.
-- (Following my appointment at the allergist)
Brantley: Your ailments are really bringing me down.
Brantley: That’s what I said.
Me: Just so we’re clear, if I didn’t have this mold allergy you’d be sailing your yacht around the world or living it up at the Playboy mansion right now?
Brantley: Something like that.
Me: Well that’s a shame. I really suck.
Brantley: I know.
And my personal favorite,
-- “There’s some turds under the dining room table.”
And this is just one day’s worth!
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
· Why don’t they make showers that flush?
· Why don’t they make baby food in junk food flavors?
Dear Gerber, I am writing to request four new flavors – Fun-yuns, Hot wings, Fried catfish, and Mexi-ranch.
· Why don’t tampon companies write jokes on the outside of the wrappers?
It’s that time of the month and you’re in a dirty bathroom stall. To make matters worse, you have forgotten your Sharpie so you can’t even make grammatical corrections to the wall graffiti.
We’ve all been there and it sounds like this person could use a laugh more than ever.
You read, “What did one saggy boob say to the other saggy boob? If we don't get some support soon, people will think we're nuts!”
After laughing hysterically, you decide not to kill your boss, set your house on fire and drive off a cliff.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
“What a sweet baby. How old is he?” she asks.
“Thank you. He’s four months.”
“Well he’s certainly a cutie. I’m about to be a first time grandmother.”
“Oh, how exciting. Congratulations.”
Now the conversation would’ve been fine if it had ended here, but it didn’t.
“Yeah, my son got his girlfriend pregnant.”
I can feel the tension beginning to mount and somehow I know it’s about to go south. I hear the back door and look over to see Brantley escaping into the house. He has left me holding the bag…and his son.
She reaches down and grabs Luke hand. All I can think about while she plays with him is that she hasn’t washed her hands. She begins talking to him sweetly. It’s baby talk and she leans over into his face. He likes her and smiles back. Ok, maybe I was wrong. This isn’t bad at all.
“Peek a boo. Peek a boo!” she says.
Her baby talk continues. “The girl my son got pregnant was a stripper. She tried to have an abortion and we said, no you can’t. No you can’t. Peek a boo.”
I jump up. “Nap time! It’s way past his nap time and I’ve got to get him in bed before he gets fussy. Good luck with the grandbaby. Ok, bye.”
I walk inside and see Brantley sitting at the kitchen table. He's having a leisurely popsicle and watching tv. “She’s weird” he says.
“How would you know? You left us to the wolves out there. I want you to know that she was talking to your son about abortions.”
“Was she for or against?”
“That’s not the point, Brantley. One day, years from now, Luke will be in therapy recounting a repressed memory of a woman with dirty hands talking about strippers and abortions.”
Then through his blue popsicle stained teeth, Brantley imparts me with wisdom. “He’s going to find out about it at some point, Lori. We can’t keep him in a bubble. And we’ll probably ALL be in therapy one day.”
"That is perhaps the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!…except for the part about therapy. I think I need some right now!”
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Janelle has had many opportunities to seek revenge on me for this incident, but she never has. After Luke was born and I was incapacitated with medication, she could have easily smothered me with a pillow and blamed it on a drug interaction- but she didn't. That's love. So I say to you, Janelle: hugs, kisses and a big fat thank you!
Without further ado...
When we arrived at the Omni Hotel, there was, indeed, a wheelchair waiting for us, but it was missing one foot rest and completely rusted over. We pretended the chair was fine but, as we pushed her to the elevator, we heard the screeching serenade of the rusty wheels. It was bad enough that Janelle would be in the wheelchair, but now everyone would hear her before they saw her. She wasn’t discouraged, however, so we began the first leg of our mission.
It seemed to happen in slow motion and there was nothing I could do but stand there watching in horror. While clad in a dressy, black pants suit, her flight was less than effortless. Her blonde hair was swept back by the wind and her arms flailed at her sides. When she finally came to rest, Janelle found herself three lanes over, in the middle of Michigan Avenue with her head a mere six inches from the bumper of a cab. Her sisters immediately began pointing and broke into hysterical laughter while the cab driver shook his head at their insensitivity.
All I could do was think about how momentarily the traffic light would change, she would be run over and I would have to call my husband and tell him that I killed his mother. That was not how it was supposed to go. I had just made it into the club of acceptance and I show my gratitude by dumping my mother-in-law into the middle of a busy intersection.
Meanwhile, Janelle was trying to get up off the ground by herself because her sisters were incapacitated with laughter and I was frozen still. Then, as I had feared, the light changed. In an effort to avoid being run over myself, I instinctively backed out of the road still clutching the wheelchair. In doing so, I was oblivious to the fact that Janelle had gimped back over to me all by herself and was attempting to sit down in the chair. Thanks to my survival instinct I pulled the chair right out from under her and she landed yet again on the dirty Chicago asphalt.
Seeing Janelle laying in the road for the second time, her sisters quickly got their acts together and helped her back into the wheelchair. Shortly thereafter, I relinquished my wheelchair pushing duties and began my dissertation on apologetics. Thankfully there were only minor scrapes and bruises to add to her back injury and, although I’ll never live it down, I was quickly forgiven. This experience did, however, turn out to be a great litmus test regarding my new family. If your mother-in-law still loves you after you dump her in the road and leave her for dead then she's probably a keeper.
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Thursday, August 20, 2009
After talking to his doctor, she reassured us that we were doing everything right. She told us to keep her posted with any changes and to bring him to the office first thing Monday morning.
Upon examining him the next morning, the doctor diagnosed him with “Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease.”
We were given our marching orders and went on our way armed with, nothing actually, because with many viruses, there is nothing to do but wait. Not thrilled about beginning our weeklong quarantine, I decided to pass the time by chronicling our adventure.
Note: I have found the name of our diagnosis a bit cumbersome so I have taken to calling it “Mad Cow Disease”. It’s more fun to say.
Mad Cow – Day 1
We arrive home from doctor after hitting a drive thru for some lunch. I realize we are out of ketchup and almost cry. Neighbor, Molly, recognizes my sadness with her speidey sense and brings me said ketchup. Thanks, Molly.
Later, while I’m cooking dinner Luke opens the pantry door and rips off a shelf label. “What? Where’s your Dad going to put chips/crackers/snacks now Luke?!" Having just snapped at my one year old for wrecking my OCD, I place myself in time out.
Brantley gets home from work early and saves the day. He brings magic mouthwash for my sore throat. How nice, but what’s so magic about it? I take a swig. Abra cadabra, it tastes like crap.
Mad Cow – Day 2
It’s been almost twenty four hours since our solitary confinement began and I’m starting to crack under the pressure of cabin fever. I tell Brantley that I am well enough for a quick trip to the grocery store.
I go to Publix, where shopping really is a pleasure. I lick all the produce, cough on the sushi, get diarrhea and drive home. Mission accomplished…not really.
I attempt to cook supper but tire out during the making of a meatloaf. The phone rings. It’s Carrie and she has cooked supper for us. She makes comfort food and Luke eats a whole meal for the first time in three days. He belches in my face and laughs. Good times.
Mad Cow – Day 3
Brantley is off all day. Hooray! But, unfortunately he’s tired. He apparently sat on a stool too long and read too many Us Weekly’s yesterday at work. Now I’m being mean. It’s the Mad Cow Disease talking.
I take a Sharpie and scribble over “good” on my “Life is Good” t-shirt, replacing it with, “kinda crappy.” Brantley sees me taking a couple of unnecessary whiffs of the marker and gives me a dirty look. “I was just scratching my nose with it.” I tell him. I stomp off to the couch with marker on my nose. Time for a nap.
What will tomorrow bring?? Only time will tell.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
The following is an actual account of a recent conversation between the two of us.
Me: I’m going to do some work for a minute while you watch Luke.
Brantley: (With a smirk AND an eye roll, like a thirteen year old girl?) Yeah, ok.
Me: What’s that supposed to mean? Is something funny?
Brantley: No, nothing. Just make sure you buy yourself something nice on your next payday…whenever that is.
He had thrown down the gauntlet. It was on.
Me: Oh, cute. Real cute. You think you’re such a hot shot. You count pills for a living and you can’t even count by fives.
Brantley: I can count to a hundred by threes faster than you could by tens!
Me: You’re not even a real doctor.
I could smell the tears beginning to well up in his eyes. Eureka! I had found his Achilles heel.
Me, again: If I fell out dead on the floor you wouldn’t even know what to do.
Brantley: Sure I would. I’d file an insurance claim and buy a boat.
Me: Man, I wish we had a boat.
Brantley: Me too. We would be such bad asses.
Me: We could call it the S.S. Peesa Schmidt!
Brantley: I thought you wanted to name it the S.S. P.O.S.??
Me: Either one would work.
Brantley: You’re good at naming things.
Me: Thanks. I’m sorry I made fun of your counting method and said I wished you had never been conceived.
Brantley: You didn’t say that.
Me: But I thought it really hard.
And with that, the argument was over. Feeling somewhat victorious, I retired to my office to do “some work,” while Brantley and Luke read stories and played with puzzles.
Nothing seems to quench the flames of a fiery argument like a discussion over what to name our non-boat.
This may not be a day in the life of a typical freelance writer/stay at home mom, but it’s my little piece of heaven.
Don’t worry. I’m not going soft on you. We still have our seven year itch coming up and that will give me plenty to write about.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Paramedics had just brought me a sinister looking lad, reminiscent of Charles Manson. He was found passed out on the steps of the Ryman Auditorium and was bleeding from a minor head injury. I was told that while en route to the hospital he had become violent and had to be momentarily restrained.
The man lying before me on the stretcher was in his mid forties with long, fuzzy, brown hair and a beard to match. The few teeth he had were brown and resembled what we call "meth mouth". Being somewhat surprised at having a PYT for a nurse, he began making comments lewd enough to make a sailor blush. “I've never seen you here before,” he said.
Knowing that I needed to set boundaries with my patient I replied, “That’s a horrible pick up line and I don’t care what you have to say. Now let me see your head.”
“That’s what she said,” he spouted back.
Damn it! I had walked right in to that one. I went over to the computer and began charting while keeping an eye on my gentleman patient. Realizing he needed to raise the bar to illicit a shocking response on my part, he got creative. It took every ounce of restrain I could muster not to react to what my peripheral vision was witnessing. My smelly friend had just exposed himself and was waiting on me to turn and look, become embarrassed and run out of the room.
Calmly, I turned and looked at him, put my hands on my hips and said, “Hmm, looks like a penis, only smaller.” I then turned and walked out. I gave him a few minutes to regain his composure before going back in the room and, believe it or not, I had no trouble out of him for the rest of the night.
Don't mess with Nurse Ratched!
Sunday, August 9, 2009
My son, Luke, had just returned from a weeklong stay with his grandparents and he, Brantley and I were going out as a family. We decided to stop at a local restaurant for dinner and some live music. In addition to getting my boy back, I was rocking a new outfit and debuting my “Bumpits.” It was going to be a good night.
For those of you who don’t know, Bumpits is an “As seen on TV” plastic contraption that you put in your hair for extra volume. I had been skeptical at first, but the southern girl in me had to try it. It came as a set of three Bumpits- small, medium and large, depending on the size of the desired bump. After trying all three, I decided on the smallest one. The two larger ones created hair far bigger than I would ever need and would only be suitable at a country prom or perhaps a “really nice” car race.
So there I was enjoying some music and food with my family and chatting with acquaintances sitting nearby. In addition to rocking a new outfit and a stellar bump, I was being especially witty. I was throwing out one-liners left and right and people were cracking up. I was totally ON! Noticing a few people were staring at my hair, I gloated with the thought of their jealousy. It eventually got late and we headed home.
On my way up the stairs to my room I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and thought I saw something light up. After almost dismissing it, I decided to take a closer look. There before me was, not only exposed Bumpits, but also a half dead lightning bug that had become tangled in the mess of hair, hairspray and hard plastic. Those people hadn’t been laughing at my jokes after all. They were laughing at me and the blinking neon sign reading, “hey everybody, look at her Bumpits.” I might as well have had spinach in my teeth, toilet paper stuck to my shoe and the bottom of my skirt tucked in my panties.
After scolding Brantley for not calling it to my attention sooner (to which he replied, “it looks like it always does”) I decided to suck it up and let it go. I realized that this wasn’t important enough to get upset over and that’s the lesson I hope you take from this. Never take yourself too seriously and…oh screw that. Here’s the lesson: if you were at Uncle Bud’s last Saturday night and you laughed at me and the beacon of light shining off of my head, I know who you are AND it’s on!