Chomp!

It was like the perfect storm.

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A mother's moment of inattentiveness,

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burgeoning incisors,

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and a baby with a head cold . . . .

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Do you see where this is going?!

I sat down to nurse Max (who now has teeth on the top and bottom). We were all set up with his boppy, situated in the rocking chair, and just about to begin, when the this harrowing chain of events unfolded:

• Max opened wide
• I looked away to talk to Matt
• Max SNEEZED and CLAMPED down!

" GOOD LORD AND BUTTER ! "

(We are working on the coarse language around our house)

It's trying times like these when one must remember to "count your blessing." For instance, I am grateful to be living in this age of modern prosthesis.

The Changling

It seemed like years ago I placed my order for Girl Scout Cookies. When I learned they had at long last arrived I began daydreaming about that first glorious moment in which I would tear open my box of Samoas . . .




Ahh . . . the texture, the aroma, the crunch . . . the happiness!


But my Samoas never arrived.

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Instead, I had unwittingly purchased a box of Carmel deLites. Since the packaging looked identical, I presumed that the Girl Scouts just changed the product name.

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Sadly, I could not have been more wrong.

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The Carmel deLite (shown above) is, at best, a sad and miserable excuse for a Samoa.

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This goes far beyond a mere name change, this is not the same cookie but an unholy abomination before God and my own taste buds.

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I have done a little digging and it seems that there is a slow and evil encroachment of the Carmel deLite into Samoa territory. Carmel deLites are the carp of the Samoa pond -- an insidious fish of a cookie that is pushing out the more tasty indigenous species.

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This affects all of us, people. Sure, you may be able to purchase the Somoa in your neighborhood today, but next year you may not be so fortunate. Then, instead of a delicious Samoa, you will find a Carmel deLite staring back at you with it's soulless eye.

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First they came for the Thin Mints, and I did not speak out—because I was only lukewarm about the Thin Mints;

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Then they came for the Tagalongs, and I did not speak out—because I think the Tagalongs are kinda gross;

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Then they came for the Do-Si-Dos, and I did not speak out—because, to be frank, I don't know what the hell a Do-Si-Do is anyway;

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Then they came for the Trefoils, and I did not speak out—because, honestly, who orders Trefoils? Really?

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Then they came for the SAMOAS . . .

Suprise filling

I love the Cadbury Mini Eggs. I really do. It's just that I wish they didn't look quite so authentic.









Specifically, the white speckled ones that look remarkably like sparrow eggs.

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Years ago when my dad gently placed in my hand a white egg with chocolate colored speckles, I should have thought, "what a lovely little sparrow egg, I wonder where this came from?" What I actually thought was "Yum, a mini egg! I love these things."

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I will never forget that terrible crunch and the nauseous moment of realization that Cadbury Mini Eggs do not have runny, slimy cream filling.

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That was about ten years ago; I still gag a little every time I think about it.

Comparing Notes

Now that I am a mother, I find myself swapping stories with other mothers. I was talking to other women who also had their babies by C-section, and we were discussing the down-sides of the procedure.

One woman said the worst part was the unsightly scar.

Another said the worst part was not being able to get around very well after her kid was born.

I still maintain that the worst part wast that uncomfortable cone they made me wear to keep me from gnawing out my stitches.

more on toes

I have been called out on the fact that I have a disproportionate number of posts about toes (most recently there was this one and a while back I posted about my own toe saga and my subsequent investigation).

In response I look to the eloquent wisdom of Patty Tanager the Cady Manager, "big woop, wanna fight about it?"

So . . . I have another toe issue. Let me back up and lay the appropriate foundation for this riveting yarn.

Until a few weeks ago, I had never had a professional manicure or pedicure -- primarily because I know where to secure nail polish, and possess the technical know-how to use it. But my little sister was getting married, so I decided to join in on the girly-girl-pre-wedding festivities.

My manicure went off without incident. Sadly, I can't quite say the same about the pedicure. Once my fingernails were pink and shiny, I looked around the shop for some sort of chair or fancy ottoman which would serve as the manicurist's working surface while she polished up my toes, but nothing of the sort was to be found.

It turns out pedicure-furniture is for chumps.

The manicurist lifted my feet under the table, grabbed my heels, and put my feet on her lap. I'd by lying if I said I was completely comfortable at that point, but my discomfort shot off the charts when she wedged the foot she was not polishing smack-dab in her crotch.

Yikes.

I can only imagine the look of horror on my face once my heel registered the warmth emanating from her hooey. Was this a pedicure or a date?

So I must ask: Is this normal, or have I just been naïve to what goes on inside nail shops?

This is not an idle question. Please educate me. I need to determine whether I have undergone a typical pedicure experience, or if I am, in fact, the victim of sexual assault.

Thoughts? Crotch-mounted-pedicure the norm? I MUST KNOW.

The Hobo and the Hoagie

I finished up working late downtown the other night. I decided to run over to the sandwich shop across the street to grab some dinner before heading home. This is where my story ceases to be normal.

I got my food and was exiting the front door when a so-crazy-I-though-he-must-have-been-KIDDING gentleman blocked my egress and began to spew forth random words in my general direction.

I don’t know what the hell he was saying, but was waiting for the eventual request for money.

So he gets to the end of his gibber-spiel, and says “so maybe you can help me out … so I can buy some dinners or something.” I was kinda happy, because I had no cash to give him, should he have asked, so I said, “Sure! Let’s go back in and buy you a giant sandwich!”

The part that troubled me was that he found the offer to be agreeable enough that he made some barely audible comment about how NOW, he wouldn’t try to hurt me, or touch me, ‘er nuthin.

Why, thank you, for that, crazy-man!

While the crazy and I waited in line, he indicated to me that he is somewhat uncomfortable with the kid at the counter thinking that I was buying him food out of some charitable motivation . . . so could he please do the talking?

"Fair enough," I say, "order yourself silly. "

He orders 2 sandwiches: “one for me, and one for my girlfriend”

He orders 2 bags of chips: “one for me, and this here, my lady”

He orders 2 cokes. When asked if he preferred bottles or fountain drinks, he indicates that he would prefer bottles: “I like to get nice things for my woman.”

(swear to God, I would NOT make this up)

When he is done ordering -- which was tough considering all of the superfluous words and noises he threw in for good measure -- I gave the kid at the counter my bank card, signed the slip and gave him a hefty tip in consideration of the fact that he was going to have to deal with this guy after I left.

I don’t think I mentioned that throughout our encounter, my crazy companion kept whispering “I’m not gonna touch her . . . . I’m not gonna touch her …NO! ... not gonna touch her . . . not gonna touch her … not gonna …”

Anyhoo . . . I apprised him of the process by which he would take his seat, and that they would bring his food to him.

“Don’t you want to stay and eat your dinner?” he asked me.

I pointed to my own bag and said, “Thanks, but I think I’m set.”

“Well, at least take your Coke.”

So I did. And I thanked him for treating me.


While he was waiting inside the store for his food, I made record speed back to my car.

berries bunnies bassets and burns

It was kinda like "The Perfect Storm" only instead of working on a fishing rig, I was taking the dogs for a walk. But in all other respects . . . it was pretty much the same. Even before I walked out the front door, the stage was set for disaster.

I have two Basset Hounds. While Fred and Mae are short dogs, they are by no means small dogs. If you combine their respective poundage, they weigh more than I do.

The mulberry trees along our trail are loaded with berries. The fruit that has fallen to the ground has attracted hoards of rabbits.

A fun little fact about Bassets -- they were bred by Belgian Monks to hunt rabbits. Interesting, no?

So the dogs and I rounded a corner, and were standing on a dewy (and slippery) hill when the dogs spotted a half dozen rabbits feasting upon the berry bounty. The events that follow are still a bit of a blur, but here is what I do recall:

• Fred and Mae freeze and point.
• The rabbits spot the hounds.
• The rabbits scatter.
• The hounds bolt in opposite directions.
• Fred circles around behind me.
• I frantically race to untangle the twisted leashes.
• Fred knocks my feet out from under me, and races down the hill.
• SEARING PAIN behind my left knee!!!
• A steady stream of expletives unbefitting a young lady.

So I have some lovely bruising and a feisty rope burn adorning my thigh. I like it. Makes me look tough.

There was a lesson learned here. This is more than an idle warning.

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I must agree. Leg burning/cutting is most certainly NOT OK. If only I had been better informed before walking the dogs.

I will not get caught unprepared again, though. I've done a little research on the issue. Turns out that eye hazards and amputated fingers are also "NOT OK." I guess I got lucky ... this time.

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bilateral subungual haematoma

Everyone has skeletons in their closet. The truly unfortunate have skeletons on the web. I am worried that I may be one of those "truly unfortunate." I'm not talking about embarrassing and / or questionable photographs. No, no! What I have out there may be far, far worse.

Let me back up. I take occasional breaks from my sedentary lifestyle. During those breaks I will often go for a run as penance for my Cheetos habit.

A while back I bought some new running shoes that turned out to be a bad investment. My big toes bumped up against the end of the shoe, and after several miles my toes grew tender. However, by that time it was too late . . . purple bruises were starting to form beneath my toenails.

For the next few months I kept my blackened toes cloistered and hidden from public view. Ugh.

Then I had an appointment with a dermatologist . . . an evil dermatologist (perhaps with hazel eyes, I should have taken note). Even though I was not there for my wounded toes, the doc asked me to take my shoes off and hop up on the table.
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Doc to his Physicians Assistant: Wow! Would you take a look at these?!
PA: Yeesh!
Doc to PA: 'Spose she's a runner?

(I'm insulted on two levels: -1- because they are conversing as though I am not in the room; and -2- because I do not look fit enough to pass for a runner without some debate)

PA: Maybe ...
Me: Yes! Yes I do run.
Doc to PA: Go and grab the camera, and a blue back drop, would you?
PA: I'll be right back!
Me: Ummm . . . what exactly are we doing here?
Doc: What? Oh. Uh . . . it seems you have some bruising under your toenail.
Me: So I gathered.
Doc: And we're just going to take a few pictures of them . . . . (uninintelligible)
Me: Yeah, I got that. Now, why again. . .
PA: Ok, got the camera, do you want to shoot, or do you want me to do it?
Doc: I got it.

(A series of photos is taken of my toes. one of just the right . . . then just the left . . . then both at the same time -- I kinda got the feeling I was at some sort of toe wedding).

Doc: So . . . What brings you in today?
Me: What were those pictures for?
Doc: Let's go ahead and check you for moles!

What the hell?!! To this DAY, I still have no idea what became of my toes' glamour shots. However I fear the worst. I have not stopped combing the web for those photos since that creepy, creepy office visit.

If you come across the pictures of my feet, please let me know. They are adorable size 6 feet with dainty little toes -- two of which are black as night -- set against a blue backdrop. Photos may bear the following label:

"bilateral subungual haematoma."

I will pay top dollar for information leading to the whereabouts of my toe photos.

Thank you in advance for your assistance.


NOTE: while I'm sure the toe shown above is a very nice toe . . . it is not my toe.

Modern-Day Achilles

I am such an elegant young woman. Ask anyone who knows me. "A the paragon of grace and poise," they'll say.

So I was running slightly late for an appointment, which just means that my 15 minute to half-hour pad was getting trimmed down by some other work. I rushed to finish up, grabbed directions to where I needed to be going, and hopped in my car.

Here's where I really went wrong. I missed the turn that would take me to the interstate, and wound up having to navigate my way through downtown during lunch hour traffic. DAMNIT! I could see my schedule padding disappearing before my very eyes!

You should have heard the filthy string of profanity that spewed from my lady-like mouth as I came to a dead halt for 15 minutes in traffic! I should have written some of it down, really. Many phrase were sheer profane-artistry! Something about the construction worker in front of me making sweet, sweet love to one of those pylons blocking two lanes of traffic for no identifiable reason. I forget exactly what I was shouting. I may have blacked out for rage, I'm not sure.

Something did go my way though. You had better believe I made an utter mockery of the posted speed limit, and I did so without receiving a huge ticket (which I would have amply deserved).

I arrived in the parking lot of my destination at the exact minute that I was to be at my appointment. I figured if I could manage to make my appearance within the next 60 seconds I would be GOLDEN. However to make it on time required some running. That's OK though because I consider among my most marketable professional assets, the ability to run in heels.

I just wasn't expecting that crack in the sidewalk . . .




That's my shoe on the left.


To the right you will find its dismembered heel.







Sadly, this little incident set me back a few minutes.

So, in summary, despite my very best attempts . . . I was late.

Even so, you will be happy to know that I managed to pull together a degree of wobbly decorum. I stand (unevenly) before you, a modern-day Achilles.

The Slippery Soap

In update to my last posting, I just wanted to mention that my lack of coordination in the shower is not limited to complex cleansing products.

I have a gi-normous bar of goat's milk soap in the shower. It is treacherously slippery . . . and heavy.

My point? It caused a surprising amount of pain when I dropped that son of a bitch on my little toe this morning.

Some people fear the thought of their children placing them in a nursing home when they are elderly . . . I'm pretty sure I am just about ready right now.

Scrubbing Troubles

I've told this story to my friends before. Seeing as how only about 14 people have stopped by to peek at my humble little blog, chances are that YOU are one of those friends. (Thanks again for stopping by for the sole purpose of humoring your weird little friend). But there may be one, perhaps two, of you that have not already suffered through this story.

I have troubles in the morning. Cognitive issues. Turns out that I am (at best) functionally retarded in the morning. Yet it is this very time of day that I choose to drag a semi-sharp piece of steel from my ankles to my hips. An intelligent person would wait to be awake and alert before shaving their legs. I am not, however, an intelligent person.

So on the morning in question, I had just completed shaving my legs. Starting to wake up a little bit, I figured today would be a good morning to exfoliate my most recent layers of accumulated person-plaque. I started with my arms and shoulders, liberally applying the almond-grit-sea-salt concoction, scrubbing with a zelot's vigor.

Feeling smoothly satisfied with my upper body, I moved on to give my legs a thorough scrubbing with this stuff. I rubbed in the salty chardonnay scented grit-paste onto both legs and 4 1/2 seconds later . . . .

--BLINDING PAIN--

Sweet Jesus!!! WHAT HAVE I DONE !!! ???

I frantically tried to get this crap off of my freshly shaven legs, but succeeded only in spreading it to more tender areas! AHHHHHHHHH!!!!! Finally I managed to rinse off most of the offending scrub just before I passed out from pain . . .

. . .

. . . I regained consciousness some time later. Turned off the water. And ever-so-tenderly toweled myslf off with what I believe was the world's scratchiest towel (That Snuggle Bear is full of shit, by the way).

So . . . I'm doing a little better these days. And my skin is incredibly smooth! You'll have to just take my word for it though, no one is allowed to touch it. YOW!