My Son, My Hero

My oldest son is Alex.

As I started typing this, he was in Sacramento, working to resolve a situation, that has lingered from his past....something he has mishandled, and trying to make it right. He is in recovery. A little over 13 months, clean and sober.

I don't know what the outcome will be, but I know this. Alex trusts God.

Yesterday, he came to me and described his situation, and I immediately said, "They can't do that! It's not fair!", and Alex said, "No, Mom. It was MY responsibility, and I should have handled it, to begin with".

This is amazing to me. He surprises me, almost every day, with his newfound insight, willingness to listen, and efforts to change.

Getting clean is hard. Getting REAL, is almost harder. It's like every day, a new situation presents itself to him, and he goes back to the basics. What does God say about this? What have I learned in recovery? What is MY role in this?

Most "normal" people don't do this, let alone, a recovering addict, who lived EIGHT years, in a world of self-centeredness, day to day survival, and absent from his loved ones. And, he WAS absent. He was there, at times, physically, but ALEX......the REAL Alex, was buried under his addiction, pain, and shame.

Alex has always been, how can I say this.......boisterous?.....kinda loud?....and, yes, even exhausting. He would do almost ANYTHING for a laugh.

**He was late for a high school class once, and so, somersaulted into the room.

**He rode his bike down our road, in just his boxers.

**He got off the school bus, and "mooned" the remaining students (and the bus driver, who was NOT amused), but when he got in trouble for it, he said "I don't know what the big deal was......it was only a 'half moon'".

**They made a video of campus security, following him around all day (at high school), set to the tune of "Bad Boys".

Anything to get a laugh (I don't know where he gets that;)

The other thing Alex could do is, get people, or should I say "manipulate" people into doing what he wanted, and they WOULD! I was always shocked at what he could get people to do for him.

THAT quality I knew would serve him well, if he directed it in a positive way.

We suspected that Alex had a substance abuse issue, (after high school, and not living at home), and I had told him, "when you're ready, we're here". So, in October of 2006, he finally came to us, said he had a problem, and wanted help. "At last", I thought, "now we'll be able to fix this".

I'm giving you the condensed version, but suffice it to say, that was only the beginning of a long journey......a long, heartbreaking journey, where just when we'd think he HAD to have hit his "bottom", he still had lower to go. It was painful to watch. It was painful to set those "tough love" boundaries, and STICK to them, and not everyone could.

Alex has always been a sensitive guy. Even as a child, he was compassionate, and really attuned to people, and their emotions. He's SMART. He's always had the ability to explain how he felt with "word pictures", and you would really GET what he meant.

We always openly talked about addiction (with my personal experience, but while that's part of the story, that's not the story I'm telling now), and he was fully aware that he had the propensity for it. That he had the "gene", or whatever it is, that makes some people "normies", and some people not. He swore up and down, he would NEVER do drugs, he would NEVER smoke, but as we all know, the best intentions........well, they just go flying out the window, when Addiction comes in, through the door.

To say that it's been a rough road for him, would be an understatement. To say that he is NOW, filled with joy, with trust in God, and using those leadership qualities, (that he possessed all along) would also be an understatement. Thank God for our church (GVCC), and Celebrate Recovery, which gave him a starting point, and continues to be a touchstone, in his life.

Alex is a leader. Alex is a sponsor, (for men that REALLY want to get clean), and will do anything to help somebody get & stay clean, or, as he does, as a leader in The Landing, try to share his story, and his experiences with younger teens (including his 13 year old brother, Sam), who might just be on the cusp of turning towards drugs, for the "lie of relief".

Today, Alex is just what I always imagined him to be......"A Man of God". A strong leader, and someone that people just love to be around, because he now has a joy "force field". You can almost, visibly SEE it!

He takes one day at a time, deals with one issue at a time, but doesn't "give in" (like he would have, in the past). He looks upward. He has the faith of a small child. He KNOWS that God will find a way, and he need not be anxious for anything.

He does what he's been taught to do. Every day.

He listens to others. Every day.

He makes amends. Every day.

He is putting all his trust in God. Every day.

This "recovery thing".......it's tenuous. But when you stay the course, and do what you KNOW you're supposed to do, EACH DAY, then you WILL be okay.

Alex is more than okay (today). He's awesome. He's the man that I KNEW was in there, and to see what he's doing, with his life, right now? Exciting

To see what his future will hold? Don't know, but suspect that it is beyond his wildest dreams, and that God will use him, in a mighty way.

Me? I'm just the "mom". I take that back.....I'm not JUST a mom. I get to be Alex's mom, and even though it was painful for awhile, the reward is, wait for it.......

I get to be Alex's mom.

I've Been Thinking About: My Self-Image

"You're too sensitive", I was recently told (again). Yes. I know this. I have total recall of every critical thing that has ever been said to me. I know what time of day it was, what I was wearing, and which direction the wind was blowing. Now, mind you, I have had plenty of positive feedback during my life, but my (borderline pathological) mind takes the criticism, mulls it over, flips it all around, analyzes it, then logs it as "accurate". Am I aware this is not what I'm supposed to do? Um, yes. And yet, this IS what I do.

Here's a sampling of some of the soundbites rolling around in my brain:

"Oh. That looks better on you than I thought, cuz you tend to be a little 'hippy'"

"You kind of have a trout nose"

"Are you pregnant, or have you just put on a lot of weight?"

"Your voice can be a little nasally, at times"

"You're too sensitive" (it bears repeating)

"You don't let go of things"

Those were just a few of the things that have been said to me by others. The things that I say to myself, are far worse. I have always struggled with body image. When I heard about a guy who had rigged up a way to "spy" on women in dressing rooms, I gasped, when I realized that I had actually been in THAT dressing room. However, I soon was convinced that I had actually provided him the equivalent of a "commercial break" (to go potty or grab a snack), because there is NO WAY he would want to observe me wriggling in and out of clothing.

I even apologized to my infant son, strapped into his little seat, waiting patiently for me to get out of the shower."Sorry", I said, "Don't worry.......not ALL women look like this". I have never felt okay about my body. I saw some video, shot in the late 80's, early 90's, and it took me a few minutes to realize the denim-clad rear end I was looking at, was ME. I wasn't fat! I looked pretty dang good, if I do say so myself! And yet.......I never thought I did. I even cut off the bottom of a picture of me, in a bathing suit & shorts, proudly holding up the first fish I ever caught (taken when I was in my late 20's), because my "legs looked gross".

I've always had designated areas that I considered "okay", but as I've aged, those areas have decreased. Also, I've had multiple abdominal surgeries (beginning at age 20), and about 18 months ago, had open heart surgery, so I have quite a few scars. My husband (a mortician), helpfully pointed out that if I had two scars from both shoulders towards the center chest scar, it would be "like an autopsy".

Back to the sensitive thing........there's the issue of getting my feelings hurt pretty easily, but there's also the "cry at the drop of a hat" thing. As a kid, my Dad would just throw a box of Kleenex in my direction, whenever he heard the theme music to "Little House on the Prairie". For some reason, the males I'm related to, find it hilarious that I am brought to tears so easily. If we are watching TV together, and it starts getting all touchy-feely, my kid starts sneeking peeks at me to see if I'm bawling yet. I am trying so hard NOT to cry, that I actually feel like my throat is closing up, and then eventually, it bursts out of me: a big intake of air, like I just surfaced from the bottom of the ocean, and then I'm off the cliff, sobbing, trying to explain WHY I'm sobbing, but they can't understand a word I'm saying.

I get emotional watching sporting events, anything that includes an American Flag, and even at work, when I see a family member being loving with their sick relative. Beautiful music makes me cry. Beautiful images make me cry. If somebody else tears up, then I tear up. I cry at church, pretty much on a regular basis, and know to NEVER be there without tissue.

I cried at the store once, because there was a "sad-looking" man, cried driving down the road, because I saw an extremely overweight boy sitting at a bus stop, and I was worried that he "didn't have any friends". I cried the Christmas after Princess Di died, because I was thinking of her "poor boys" (as an aside, this last thing happened in the middle of my husband and I wrapping presents. I started crying, and he looked up, startled, then I was able to say "Sad.Princess Di. The boys", and he completely understood). And once, shortly after my husband and I got married, we had my family over for dinner, and all of a sudden, I was just overcome with emotion, and ran out to the patio. My husband followed, wrapped me in his arms and said "You're happy, right?", and I was. Realizing that I FINALLY had the right man, the right relationship, and was experiencing true love. That bubble was burst pretty readily, because upon re-entering the house, my parents(who had also figured out why I was crying) were completely mocking me. My Mom was in my Dad's lap, fake crying and repeating "I'm so happy, I'm so happy". (Now, it should be clear to everyone why I'm the way I am).


I know that most people think I'm kind of cynical, sarcastic, and smart-alecky, but there's other parts to me. Good parts. I also realize that sometimes I use snarkiness and/or anger because that's easier than feeling the discomfort of being "unacceptable", or "not good enough". I know that to do that, to feel that, is against everything I've been taught about being created in "God's image". Who I am to assess His creation as being "not up to par". Wow. That's pretty arrogant when you put it like that. So, intellectually, I KNOW what the answer is. I KNOW that this vessel my soul occupies, is temporary. I KNOW that I am loved and accepted. But my humanness is constantly butting in, with those negative messages, and it's a daily battle within, that requires pretty consistent work (and prayer) to keep it from being my "reality".

I believe there's a reason for everything I am, and everything I've gone through. There's a reason for the things that have happened to my family and friends. There's a reason for EVERYTHING. I just don't always know what it is. In fact, MANY times I don't know, but it's okay, because thank God, it's not up to me. There's Somebody who oversees it all, and keeps me afloat, like loving water wings. So, if I start feeling "less than" or "not good enough", etc, etc, I know that message is not the RIGHT message. It's a lie, that I do not have to accept.

"Too sensitive?" Probably. But I don't necessarily think that's all bad.

Going to the "down there" doctor

Back home, after a visit to the doctor. Let me first state that, unlike many other areas of my medical care, I DO adhere to the annual visits to my OB/GYN. Well, this last time, there was a "slight abnormality", which necessitated a repeat exam. It's like, once a year is not enough fun for me, so what the heck, let's do it TWICE a year!

I've posted before about being in the exam room, hurriedly getting undressed and/or re-dressed, as if the building was on fire, never taking my eyes off the door handle, lest someone unexpectedly enters. I don't think I could move any faster if there was a gun to my head.

Let's talk about the waiting, though. The WAITING, in the exam room, wearing the paper towel gown and "lap mat". I spend the entire time, trying to strike just the right pose for when the Dr enters the room. It's not as easy as it sounds......I actually laughed out loud today, because I realized I looked less like "Totally-at-ease-with-this-and-couldn't-be-more-comfortable", and more like "COME HITHER". It really doesn't matter what look I'm going for, anyway, because I always end up clutching the Bounty-made gown so tightly, in my sweaty hands, that the gown essentially dissolves. I've also tried the super casual, swinging my feet, while we talk (pre-actual exam), but there's really not that much room to swing, so it looks like I'm seizing.

Then, when you lie down on the table, and the actual EXAM part starts, I always assume this "Oh my, ah've got the vaaapors" pose, (my arm thrown up, back of hand against the forehead) At least this time, I didn't blurt out "MY FRIEND KRISTEN RANKIN SAID TO SAY HELLO" right as the cold metal thing made contact. (She DID, in fact, ask me to say hello......there was just probably a more appropriate time to mention it)

Then there's the upper parts exam. Everything in my being is screaming "YOU'RE NOT MY HUSBAND", but I just lay there, compliantly, answering yes to every question: "Do you do self-exams?" "Do you KNOW your breasts" "Do you wish you were anywhere but here?" (Ok, I made up the last one)

This time was kind of unique, in that they were very busy, so the medical assistant took me to the room, said she'd be right back, and meanwhile "go ahead and just weigh yourself". HA! SCORE! I get to say whatever I want!!! But then, I considered the possibility that this was a trick, a ruse, a trap. That they would have me do it, then THEY would do it, and expose me for the liar that I am, and then I would be humiliated for all eter...........it's possible that I'm overdramatizing.....I do that sometimes.

In closing, let me just state for the record, I really like my "down there" doctor. He's the nicest guy EVER, and he delivered both of my sons (14 years apart!), and has been a big help to me over the years. It's not him, it's ME. I just have this weird thing about being upright and clothed when I talk to doctors. It just makes for a more even playing field. Which just gave me an idea! Would it be more comfortable if HE also was wearing a paper towel gown? Huh?!

On second thought......that's a really BAD idea.

I'm a Quitter

I'm missing something, in my genetic make-up. When the Lord was handing out crafting ability, maybe he used an "every other" type system. This is nothing new. I've spent my life, trying to do new things, going totally overboard, getting frustrated, then giving up (there's a lot of crying in there, too).

My parents used to give me a hard time, because I was always starting things, but "never finishing". (Thanks mom & dad, for the encouragement ;) Here's just a partial list, of things I've tried:

**Hooking my own rugs (sorry, I don't know any other way to say that). I gave up the hooking, because it made my fingers sore.

**Making candles. That's a distant memory, but pretty sure it involved burns of varying degrees.

**Coloring those posters, with all the number sections (you know, use this color in all the fives, this one in all the sixes). Never finished. Same with coloring books. Rarely finished an entire picture.

**Needlepoint. Boring.

**Seal-a-meal. Cook for the next six months, seal it in the thingy, and stock your freezer. Could never get all the air out, so no good seal.

**Scrapbooking. HA!

**Knitting: multiple attempts.

**Sewing: Took a class in high school. Too many disasters to recount, but one highlight was making a shirt for my dad, adding a special touch of embroidering to the pocket, which rendered it completely useless, since I sewed it shut. I ended up paying other students to do my projects. My sewing teacher, a "glass half-full kinda gal, signed my yearbook "To a persistent seamstress".

There's a couple of things I didn't quit. I wanted to play piano, so I taught myself to read music (not like, expertly, or anything), but if I wanted to play a particular song, I would make it happen. And, if you didn't know better, you might think I sounded halfway decent. That reminds me, though, I couldn't have a piano, as a kid, because my dad was military, and we moved a lot, and "we aren't gonna drag a damn piano" everywhere we go, so I used an old plastic Magnus chord organ to learn. Then, when I was 18, and had my first job, that's the first thing I bought: an old upright piano for $500.00. I still lived at home, and it was in my room. I had tons of music; lots of those books, with multiple songs. I would start playing, get bored with a song, and flip the page. My family says, they would hear a song start, be getting in the groove a little, and then SWISH,SWISH (pages flipping) on to another song.

I wanted to learn cardiac ultrasound, and I did it. Was a single mom, worked 12 hour shifts in Intensive Care, went to school at night, and did the externship on my days "off". Passed the boards, (that included PHYSICS, btw) so clearly, I CAN do some things.

Was always interested in cooking and baking. Talk about frustrating!! So many botched recipes, so many attempts at the SAME thing, until I could get it right, but I didn't quit. No lie, tried making fried chicken, no less than a dozen times, til I saw someone else doing it, and I noticed she didn't take the skin off. OH! OKAY! Thanks, MOM! My mom didn't like the skin (what up with that?), so she had always taken it off, when she cooked chicken, so I thought that's what EVERYBODY did. That's why the stinking breading never stuck! I also recall making spaghetti sauce, that simmered all day, but I had put the meatballs in, at the beginning, and by the end,they had soaked up all the sauce. Just a pot of big balls...no sauce.

So, what is this defect in my character, and why does it only rear it's ugly head seemingly, with artsy-craftsy things? Let's talk about the knitting.......I think my Knitting Mentor knew she was in trouble, when I looked at her blankly, in response to her inquiry "you CAN tie a slip knot, can't you?". She helped me get started. I had the dreaded first row ON. Then, well, we don't live in the same house, so she can't oversee every knitting attempt. She suggested looking "online" for helpful videos, but they are all so perky and annoying, PLUS I couldn't do slo-mo, and I just couldn't get it!

Tonight. Tonight was going to be the night. No one home, but me. A fire going...music...a little drizzly outside. Cozy, right? I got out the knitting. Tried the knotty/knobby yarn, that looked so dang pretty in the store. I can't get past the little knobs. It just made a mess. So....I moved on to another ball of less knobby yarn. Could not find the end of the yarn.COULD.NOT.FIND.THE.END. Pulled whole thing apart, finally finding the end, but guess what? It has knobs, too. They're smaller, yes, but I was still getting hung up. In sheer desperation, I returned to the original thing that my Knitting Mentor started me with. I KNEW that was right. I was going okay for a little while, but then noticed a loopy thing, that shouldn't be where it was, and then realized that, somehow, while pulling out some of the botched stitches, I ended up with the yarn coming out of the MIDDLE of the row. This is when the weeping started. (I'm sorry, Jen. I know you said there's "no crying in knitting"). As I said on FB, "It's yarn armageddon over here". A lot of carnage (or should I say "yarnage")

Had someone come to my front door, right then, they would've thought I just received news of someone's demise. I was a wreck. (Oh, who am I kidding.....I would not have answered the door....just done the GI crawl to get through the kitchen, and hide in the bedroom, as usual). Also, mixed in, with the wailing and gnashing of teeth, there may have been some "language" (just keepin it real).

I think it also needs to be said, that we have been duped by the media's depiction of "knitters/crocheters". They always look so serene. BUT, if necessary, they can carry on a conversation, discipline their children, or just gaze adoringly at their spouse, whilst creating some elaborate item, or just darning socks (I'm imagining Caroline Ingalls. If they had chewing gum, she could probably do that, too, simultaneously. Oh, wait....she probably MADE her own gum. GAH!)

Welp, that's it for me. I'm not starting any more projects, or learning any new things. I'm just going to go work, come home, go to bed, and repeat until I die. Just kidding........kinda.

Handsfree phone

Handsfree phone

Do NOT Touch my Bacon

I cooked some bacon this evening, and after I realized that my HUSBAND had taken some of it, it reminded me of an incident from my childhood. My dad was a colonel in the Air Force, and that involved a lot of social commitments, as well as the "whole risking your life" stuff. As we got older, my sister and I were home quite a bit, by ourselves. I'm thinking I was like 12? 13? years old, and my sister was three years younger, when THE INCIDENT occured.

On that occasion, I had also cooked bacon, and as she casually walked through the kitchen, she took a piece. SHE.TOOK.A.PIECE. I was filled with a murderous rage, I didn't even know existed within me. Immediately, realizing her "crime", she took off running, with me in hot pursuit. My mom had all these fancy schmancy, knick-knacky things all over the place, and some BIG brass candlesticks. Like five feet tall. They had big candles on them, and there was a tray, halfway down, where she had bunches of fake grapes displayed.

I hit my sister, with a flying tackle, that sent us both into one of those candlesticks, which drove it into the wall......leaving about a half inch "divet" in the sheetrock. Well, then, I went into damage control mode, wherein I alternately begged her not to "tell" or threatened further bodily harm, if she did. (This technique NEVER worked with my sister. Some people are born tattlers, and she be one. No matter what she promised, she cracked under the slightest pressure.) So, I finally got her to agree not to tell, then went to work on the wall. Somewhere, I had seen, or heard someone talk about using toothpaste, as a sort of caulking substitute, but we only had the gel kind. It wasn't like colored gel, but the consistency wasn't as paste-y, as I would've liked. So, I carefully filled the hole, re-positioned the candle, and put those dang grapes back in their tray.

My heart was pounding, when I heard my parent's car pull in the driveway, but I felt pretty confident that I had covered my tracks. My mom walked in, no lie, and said "what happened?". At that, my sister dissolved into tears, and spilled the beans about the whole story. I don't even remember what punishment I got.....probably grounded (that happened on a regular basis.......the grounding business, I mean. It might surprise you to know that I haven't always made the best decisions).

Other sibling stories, will necessitate an entire blog entry, but for now, it's all about the bacon. Several years ago, waiting for my mom to get out surgery, my dad, Scott (the aformentioned HUSBAND), and I were having breakfast in the hospital cafeteria. I was facing the part of the cafe where the cashier/server was working, and I'm ashamed to say she witnessed this event. Scott, sitting across from me, reached over and took a piece of bacon off my plate. The "witness" says that I got a look on my face, like "NO YOU DI'INT", (but times 100), and she started cracking up. She was the only one laughing, though, because I actually think that was the first time, my husband saw the "bacon face", and he drew back in fear.

This is what made it all the more puzzling that he would, tonight, think that it was a good idea to touch my bacon. AND, he tried to be sneaky about it, too, ......he just broke off the ends of a couple of pieces, and then plastered on his face, what he thought was "innocence". It didn't work. I KNOW my bacon, and I knew it had been altered.

I have some deal breaker issues for my relationships, and I'll just give you the top three:
1. Don't lie to me.
2. Don't cheat on me.
3. Don't touch my bacon.

Not necessarily in that order.

I Just Wanted to Take a Bath!

This past summer, we moved to a different home, which meant that now we only have two bathrooms, and unfortunately, the lone tub is situated in the "Sam/Guest" bathroom. This means that I rarely take a bath in there, because I KNOW that when he "cleans" it? A 12 year old boy? Well, it's probably not that clean. So, the other day, my husband went in there, and thoroughly cleaned it, so I knew that I had to jump at this narrow window of opportunity.

We went for a walk this afternoon, then out for sushi (that'll be another blog entry), and as we walk in the house, I remember "Hey, the bathtub is clean", so hurriedly go to the master bathroom to collect my bath items. I get into the other bathroom, and after about 3 minutes, figure out how to actually get the tub filling, then go back to retrieve a towel. Sam is standing in the hallway, outside the bathroom, with a weird look on his face. "What's wrong?", I say.
He replies "I have to poop".
Me: "So, poop. In the other bathroom".
Sam: "I don't want to".
Me: "Well, I don't want you to poop in HERE, right before I'm trying to take a bath"
Sam: "I don't want to go in your bathroom"
Me: "It's just a toilet. What difference does it make? You need to just GO in there, because I'm not gonna be able to RELAX, if I know you're out here WAITING TO POOP!"

At this point, my husband, enters the house, oblivious to this entire exchange, and I yell "SCOTT. MAKE SAM POOP!"
Scott: "Huh?"
Me: "He needs to poop, but doesn't want to go in our bathroom".
Scott (totally matter of factly) sighs, and says "Sam, just grab the plunger, and go on in there".

Feeling the matter to be resolved, I head back into the tub-filling bathroom. Then, knocking on the bathroom door.
Me: "What?"
Sam: "jdie kefoie dkiieo brumph"
Me: "What?!"
Sam: "DKIE EKHDH DJEHH BLAH BLAH BLAH"
Me: "SAM, I CANNOT HEAR YOU OVER THE FILLING TUB!"

So, I put my robe back on, open the door, and he says:
"Just so you know, sometimes you might think the door is locked, but it's not really, so just wanted to tell you that".
Me: "Were you going to try to come in here while I'm taking a bath?"
Sam "EW! NO!"
Me: "Okay, then. We're good. Thanks for the info".

By then, the tub is overfilling, and I'm kinda panicking (not being familiar with it, and all), and somehow, the shower head is partially on, so I'm getting sprayed all over my hair and robe. I FINALLY get it turned off, and get into the bath. Well, now, I just want this to be over.

I get out, gather my things, and head back to my room. Sam sees me, and follows me into our room.
Me: "Did you poop?"
Sam: "No. It went away. Why is your robe all wet?"

A Typical Evening with the Laytons

So, I come home from work (early shift today), and ask Scott & Sam, to go "on a walk" with me. They both agree. It goes pretty well, except for the nonstop trail deviations, onto the muddy shoulder (Sam, not Scott). Plus, when you're going uphill, and a kid is literally running circles around you, no breathlessness at all, it's kinda annoying.

So, we get done, and naturally(?) think "we want sushi", and head for our local sushi place. We order, and the waiter says "Wow....that's a lot of food". Okaaay. We're about to spend a fair amount of cash in here, and you just basically called us pigs.

The first platter comes, and it's the stupid sashimi that my husband insists on getting everytime (not a big fan). So, we all stare at the beautiful display (most of which will NOT be eaten), and await the arrival of our other food. Meanwhile, we begin to prepare our lil dishes of soy sauce w/wasabi. We remind Sam "you want to mix those well", but you know, we're ADULTS, and he's 12, so he's WAY smarter than us, so he just sticks a glob of wasabi......naked, un-soy-sauced, roll-less wasabi IN HIS MOUTH. Well, we missed the initial entry, but it soon became apparent that he was either having some sort of seizure, or his abdominal aorta just ruptured, because he starts writhing around in his seat, head down, sucking down Sprite like there's no tomorrow.

Because we're quick like that, we deduce from the scene, what has occured, but he's not talking. I'm not exactly sure WHAT he was doing, but it involved aforementioned writhing AND, possibly, weeping. So, like any good parent, I grab my iPhone & start taking pictures.(see "choking on a cupcake" on youtube for another example of my parenting skills).

At this point, unbeknownst to him, since his back was to the door, an ambulance has pulled in, and parked outside the sushi place. At some point of this little episode, I believe his head spun (think Linda Blair), and he glimpses the medic unit. "Wha?, he sputters, "why are THEY here". "I called them", I said. "I know you THINK I was taking pictures, but REALLY, I was summoning assistance for my ailing child." At this, he just rolls his eyes.

Sam finally settles down, and we move on to consume the ENTIRE, literal boat-load of sushi (we'll show that waiter guy!). He comes over and says "Now what, guys". I said "I just want to go to bed". The waiter chuckles, but Sam looks mortified and says "Can I have the car keys, please. I'll wait outside". Since I'm sure he would enjoy it, I went with him, and leave "dad" to pay the bill.

I get in the passenger side, and he's (trying) to get in the rear passenger door, and this huge black Mercedes just comes wheeling in, and poor Sam has to retreat, because this guy wasn't stopping. Turns out, it's an old guy (REALLY old), and his wife, and possibly his great-great-great grandchildren? (They were young). He throws open his door and it slams right into the side of our car. He walks to the front of our vehicle, seemingly unaware that I'm SITTING RIGHT THERE, and proceeds to closely exam the FRONT of our car. I guess when he saw my dangling fog light, and residual Bambi damage, he assumed "Welp, THESE people aren't going to be concerned by a door ding", and proceeds into restaurant.

You're probably wondering "Cherie, did you say anything?" No, I did not. Why? I was so freaking full of sushi, that just putting on the seatbelt almost caused an upchuck, so there was NO WAY that I could muster up the fortitude to enter into a confrontation, with an old, yet sprightly appearing, dude. So, when SCOTT gets to the car, we tell him what happened, and he goes to inspect, and says "Eh". Not sure exactly what THAT meant, but assumed no damage.

On the way home, (having seen a classmate with his "other" parents at the restaurant), we discussed how kids of divorced parents usually alternate spending time with each parent, and commented on the fact that Sam has never had to do that. "Your parents are still married", I said, and so "unfortunately we don't have that 'built-in break', when the kid goes off to the other parents". In retrospect, I could've chosen my words more carefully, but I figured he's not listening anyway.

He says "Really, Mom? Did you say unfortunately? Wow." (so, okay he WAS listening).

It's not my fault; I come from a long line of suboptimal parenting......I mean.....not BAD parenting......just the parenting style, wherein the children are there for your entertainment (and to empty the dishwasher). I cannot even BEGIN to tell you the things my dad did to torture us over the years (actually, I can....and I will, in another blog). And before anyone gets their knickers in a twist, Sam KNOWS that we are just teasing, and he gives as good as he gets, so I don't want to be seeing CPS on my caller ID. Just sayin...

Hands Free Navigation

On the surface, this sounds like an awesome gadget. You speak, and your vehicle responds appropriately. Except, when it doesn't. Honestly, I gave up a long time ago, trying to learn all the exact phrases I am supposed to use, e.g. "Fan speed up" is the preferred command, rather than "MAKE IT FREAKING COOLER!". So, you know, stuff like that.

However, because it's the LAW, I am forced to utilize the hands free phone system. and believe you me, we've nearly come to blows a time, or two, or eighty-five. Here's how it's SUPPOSED to work: you set up your phone list by speaking the name and the number, and the system "remembers" it, so all you have to do is flick the little switch on the steering wheel and say "Dial" (or "call"....you can say either. Isn't that user friendly?) whoever you want to call.It's supposed to recognize what you're saying. The following, is an example of how this goes:

Me: "Dial Scott"

Evil Vehicle: "Star. Continue to add numbers, or return to previous menu"

Me: "Call Scott" (changing it up a bit...maybe E.V. will understand that)

E.V. "Star. Continue to add numbers, or return to previous menu"

Me: "DIAL SCOTT!!!!!!"

E.V. "Pardon?"

Me: "CALL SCOTT!!!

E.V. "Do you wish to call (pause for drama) Mom & Dad?"

Me: "Did I SAY I want to call Mom & Dad?! No, I did NOT. I said CALL SCOTT!"

E.V. "Pardon?"

Me: "ARGHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

On numerous occasions, Sam was in the vehicle. We've had it since he was five. Early on, when I was still trying to work the handsfree navigation and/or the phone thing, he'd pipe up from the backseat, "Mommy? Are you mad at the car, or the phone?"

NOW, he just thinks it's hilarious, and dissolves into giggles everytime the system doesn't understand what I'm saying. When I get REALLY frustrated,(but still able to think clearly), I realize that, just perhaps, the TONE of my voice is throwing off the system. I mean, when I input the original names and numbers, I wasn't yelling them, so I purposely take a big breath, and very calmly, very sweetly, say "Dial Scott", to which it either responds "Star" or "Pardon".

By then, I don't WANT to call Scott anymore, heck, I don't even remember who Scott IS anymore.

A Quickie

So, just in CASE, somebody actually looks at this, I know I've been remiss in posting. It's not that I don't have material......believe me, I do. However, one of the problems with all this new technology, and having a spouse that is your "friend", and your "follower", and whatever the heck else it's called, is that he can SEE everything I post. See? He's even gonna SEE this!

My point is, that a LOT of the comments, "stati"(is that even a word?), or tweets, are kept bottled up inside me, because, well, I DO want to stay married. So, if you ARE interested in reading a new blog, I'm working on editing my thoughts, and hopefully, one will emerge soon.

Cherie & Scott go to Mayo

My husband, Scott, and I, recently traveled to Rochester, Minnesota, to the Mayo Clinic, for me to have heart surgery. It was a very interesting trip, so I DID take some notes while we were there, (at least, up until the time I was unconscious.) I just had a feeling that our trip might make for a good blog entry.

First of all, it was COLD, which is a big DUH, considering it was the dead of winter. Our flight was delayed, and we arrived at about 3:30 a.m. the morning that I needed to be at the clinic by 7:30 a.m., so we were pretty much zombies, that whole first day.

For those of you who don't know, Scott is very much a "chatter". He'll talk to anyone and everyone, and he ALWAYS seems to know people wherever we go, and he talks FOREVER. It shouldn't have been surprising, then, that he ran into a guy at the Sacramento airport, and had a nice long talk. That would've been fine, but the guy was on our flight, too, and ended up at the airport in Minneapolis/St.Paul, so he had to talk to him again, then. I was okay with that.....didn't really bother me. However, the next day, when we were at the Mayo Clinic, out of the corner of my eye, I swore I thought I saw him waving at somebody, and I seriously, almost knocked him down. Lucky for him, he was just scratching his head.

So, we made it to Mayo, and I spent the next several days being tortured with tests, but aside from that, we did have some fun, people watching, and walking around in the subways and skyways (you would never have to go outside, if you didn't want to). We ate in a couple of restaurants, and overall, the waiters/waitresses were very nice, but the first afternoon, not so much. This waitress seemed annoyed that we actually came to eat something, then REALLY annoyed that we drank the water in the juice-size glass she had given us. Um, I'm sorry. Is this NOT the land of 10,000 lakes?

Now, the fun really began. Got to have surgery. I will never forget the "angel" R.N. who took care of me that first night in ICU. She was right by my side, the whole night, and seemed to anticipate every (multiple) need. She also happened to look just like one of my friends from Placerville (shout out to Becky Bowman), and that made me feel even better :).

Funny thing.......evidently, most people wouldn't normally choose to have surgery during the Christmas holiday, so the place was kinda empty. It was just me, and about 14 other patients, on my floor, and they were all OLD. Okay, I take that back.....there were maybe two other patients who were under the age of 70, and I felt this weird obligation to acknowledge them, as we passed in the hallways. (You know, like Harley riders do that little subtle hand wave, as they pass another rider?)

The first day that I was moved out of Intensive Care, two doctors (the electrophysiologists),came into my room, to talk about the next procedure I would be having. Now, granted, I was heavily medicated, but the one guy sounded just like Elmer Fudd. No lie. This was confirmed by Scott. The Dr was very nice, and came to see me EVERY day, but it was painful. I kept praying he wouldn't have to use any words with the letter "R" in them. Fortunately, he was just a "fellow", and ended his rotation on the day I actually had my EP study and ablation, which was a relief, cuz I really couldn't get past the voice, and would not have been surprised AT ALL, if he had shown up in a red hunter's cap.

For you "30 Rock" fans, there was also a Dr who came in my room, and got on the computer at my bedside, and started peppering the nurse with all kinds of questions about "me". He looked and sounded JUST LIKE Dr. Spaceman. And to top it off, the questions he was asking didn't make any sense, and the nurse finally told him "You have the wrong patient up on the screen". He mumbled something, and quickly exited the room. Luckily, I never saw him again.

When you're in the hospital, you hear things that, out of context, sound very odd and inappropriate. I'm going to list some of the things we heard:
What they said:
1. "Do you have a preference where you want it?
2. "Is it flopping around as much?"
3. "Sorry, it slipped out"
4. "You have a nice annulus"
4.b "You have a gorgeous arch"


What they were referring to:
1. Where did I want my new I.V. line.
2. Did the line in my neck feel more stable.
3. Guy doing ultrasound "lost his place", while scanning my heart.
4. Referring to the structure that supports my mitral valve (during my cardiac ultrasound)
4.b Referring to my aortic arch (also, during my cardiac ultrasound)

(It should be noted that the last two comments were made by my Mayo cardiologist, who said them in complete seriousness. Being the immature person that I am, it took everything I had, to stifle my giggling).

Having open heart surgery was both horrifying, and amazing. It's so incredible that they can do what they do!

I have to say, that there's no way that I could've gotten through all of it without my husband. He was amazing. He saw, heard, and smelled things, that no one should, and yet, he never seemed (openly) repulsed and/or disgusted. He was always right there, and acted like there's nowhere else he'd rather be (okay, that may be a slight exaggeration, but you get the gist). It's possible that I may have been a little difficult/emotional/impatient/irritable/annoyed, but he, as always, exhibited kindness and patience (yes, I put this in writing), and I hope he knows how much I appreciate it.

The trip home went smoothly, and aside from a few minor complications, I am on the mend. Scott DOES claim that, the first night home, I insisted that he go "get the nurse" to tell her my heart was "beating funny", but I'm not sure that actually happened. I DID dream of a toddler in a red sequin dress who spoke like Thurston Howell III, but pretty sure that was medication induced.

While it's not something I would ever CHOOSE to go through again, Scott and I, were both, overwhelmed with all the love and support we received, from friends and family throughout this whole experience. Now, I'm looking forward to a full recovery, no more shortness of breath, and loads of energy. If you thought I was annoying before......just wait!

AT&T: you make me mad

Grocery Stores

Going to the grocery store is always an adventure. I already touched on the subject in my blog "Shopping Together is NOT a Good Idea", but this is more specific to grocery stores. It is ALWAYS better to shop without family members, unless you're prepared to take out a second mortgage on your house. You end up at the checkout, and for a moment, you think you might have the wrong cart, because there's stuff in there you don't recognize. A lot of it. The males in my family are very resourceful. They know how to strategically place items, so they're not seen until the moment the cashier scans them.

While we're on the subject of checking out, that brings to mind one of my other pet peeves. I DO NOT LIKE IT when the cashier comments on your purchases. Why would they even GO THERE? They don't have any clue who I am, and/or what I might be planning.
"Oh, I see you have a liter of vodka, roses, stationary, filled prescriptions for sleeping pills & tranquilizers, and straight razors. Looks like SOMEBODY is having a romantic evening!"

I have a secret wish. I would like to work in the dairy section of a grocery store. In the back. Behind the milk, etc. Wouldn't it be fun to mess with the customers. Hold on to items from behind, so they can't pull it off the shelf? Speak in a low, ominous voice, and say "Do you think that's the best idea?" or "Remember your cholesterol", or "What would Dr. Oz say?". Additionally, I could be a perky, helpful, disembodied voice; "Light sour cream is a good choice; less calories, virtually no difference in taste" or "Don't waste your money. Fat free cream cheese is hideous, unless you enjoy eating caulking, chalk, or Mylanta". Or, I could offer hints about the customer's appearance. "Was that really the best choice to wear in public?", or "Undergarments would help that top hang a little better" or "Do you "OWN a mirror?". You know, just being helpful, that's all.

I'm not good around the displays in grocery stores. Especially in the produce section. Who's idea was it to construct these Jenga-inspired towers of fruits and vegetables? More than once, I have attempted to extricate a potato, or (insert ANY item of your choosing, except cantaloupe. I hate cantaloupe), only to have 127 OTHER items topple off the display. And, they don't just fall off.....they fall off and ROLL, so you can't even make a quick getaway, cuz the cart can't get through the minefield of root vegetables you just created. It's not like I'm grabbing at the stack willy nilly. I put some thought into which tater to grab for, and it's ALWAYS WRONG.

It's not just produce, either. Once, during the holidays, there was an elaborate candle display, directly across from the in-store pharmacy, (where there is a perpetual line of disgruntled patients, or WITNESSES, as I like to call them), and I (carefully) chose a lovely candle for our mantle. Okay. They were rectangular in shape, so they seemed stable. They were not. Stable. The entire display came crashing down. It should be noted that my husband and son were with me when this occured. They WERE with me. When I looked up, hoping to see the reassuring, supportive faces of my loved ones, they had fled the scene. Honestly, I don't remember what happened after that. I think my mind repressed it, in an effort to protect me.

Last, but not least, I was shopping for supplies to do some baking. Baking is something that my family loves for me to do. Actually, there seems to be a direct correlation between me, in the kitchen, and the amount of love and affection I inspire. My husband is never more loving than when I'm cooking or baking. AND, if I have an apron on? The look on his face is reminiscent of our early dating days.....he REALLY, REALLY likes me when I have an apron on. I digress. Back to the baking supplies. I needed butterscotch chips for my oft-requested Oatmeal Scotchies. I found the chips. They were piled high, at the end of an aisle ("BIG HOLIDAY PROMOTION"!!). Do I even need to say it? You know what happened. However, what made this particularly awkward, was the fact that those little bags of chips are quite slippery. They DO NOT stack. I tried. They just kept sliding off. I have NO idea how they were stacked there, in the first place. I finally gave up, and threw all of them in my cart. We had to clean out two shelves of our pantry to house those dumb chips. Of course, my husband was ecstatic, cuz he thought I was actually going to make that many cookies. (He's still waiting).

I am weak in grocery stores. I have no self control or willpower. I am a sucker for "NEW!!" items. I AM a marketing dream come true. I buy things at eye level. I buy things at the ends of aisles. Even knowing that I am being duped, I cannot help myself. I KNOW that "Cookies & Cream", "Ice Cream Sandwich", "Chocolate Sundae", and "Oreo" flavors are EXACTLY THE SAME, but they slap a new name on it, and in my cart it goes! And cereals!!! I once had heart palpitations over a new creation "Rice Krispie Treat" cereal. And "Reese's" cereal? Forget about it! In the cart it goes!

Lest you think that I am totally without hope, or good nutrition, let me clarify that these are not everyday purchases. Normally, we mostly eat fresh fruits & vegetables, fish, lean meats.....you know, all the stuff on the "perimeter of the store", where you're supposed to buy the "good for you" stuff. Once in a while, though, I venture into the forbidden center aisles, and that's where the nutritional good intentions go out the window. Really. It's maybe, every third shopping trip, when something "bad" gets into the cart, or when there's anything "NEW!", which only happens.......well....um........okay....EVERY time.

Pregnancy

Today is my younger son's 11th birthday. As all parents say, I can hardly believe how quickly the time has passed. Anyhoo, that's what inspired today's blog.

I had my first son, Alex, when I was 26 years old. Pregnancy was easy (the birth, not so much), and recovery to my pre-pregnancy body was relatively easy. I used Jane Fonda's nazi boot camp videos (I don't think they were actually called that, but they should have been), and was back to "normal" in a couple months.

Fast forward 14 years, and I'm giving birth to my second son, Sam. NOT so easy. None of it. Including the "getting pregnant" part. Let me explain. I was older. Older than 26. By 14 years. (Don't make me say it, just do the math). But,I REALLY wanted to have a baby with Scott. I just really liked him, and it seemed like a good idea. He took some convincing, cuz his point was that our other kids were just about grown, and we could be "free". Alex wasn't crazy about the idea either.....he kinda liked being the only kid there. Well, as so often happens, I wore them both down, and ended up getting pregnant. By the way, this was "pre-privacy law" days, and the word had traveled throughout the hospital (where I work) that I was pregnant, before I even got back from the lab!

Sadly, though, we miscarried. When Alex found out, he felt bad. He knew I was sad, so in an effort to cheer me up, he told me, excitedly, one day, when I picked him up from school, "Mom! We're learning about the reproductive system, and the teacher said that women can get pregnant between the 12th and 15th day of their cycle,and today is March 14th, so you should try again! I'll go to bed early, and I'll turn my music on really loud, so you and Scott will have privacy". Apparently, his understanding was that ALL women, across the earth, are fertile on the exact same days.

At that point, I WAS ready to just stop trying. Everyone tells you "don't be obsessed", but how can you NOT be obsessed, when you have to take your temperature before you even get out of bed? Plus, I was having all these thoughts about how Scott's little reproductive guys were like little muscular dudes in Speedos, and my eggs were shriveled up little raisins, and the Speedo dudes were looking at each other, like "What? He wants us to what? Really?"

Scott said "I don't think that particular visual imagery is helping the situation".

Plus, talk about a buzzkill. If I took my temperature, and realized it was "time", I'd inform Scott that his services would be required, and it got to the point, where he acted like he was working a chain gang. Seriously, getting pregnant is hard work.

Well, I had all but given up hope, and BOOM, got pregnant (I know, I know, it's a cliche). It was Christmas Eve 1998, and we were just hangin out until time to go to church. Scott was playing his guitar, and for some reason, I felt compelled to take a pregnancy test. Okay. Truth. I had just read a Christmas newsletter, and someone that I dislike, had gushed on and on about "expecting". It ticked me off.....I was having thoughts like "Hey. How come this loser person can have a baby, and I can't?"(I'm paraphrasing). Soooo, that's what prompted the 'ol dipstick test.

Lo and behold, it came up POSITIVE! I ran out to grab Scott, screaming and dragging him into the bathroom. The look on his face was priceless, cuz he couldn't imagine what I was taking him to see!

So, naturally, we were a little nervous for the first three months, but everything went well. You know those women that get pregnant, and it's just like a little basketball in front of them? If you're not looking at them from the front, you don't even know they're pregnant? I HATE those women. I fell into the category of pregnancy-shows-in-the-rear first. On the plus side, one of my favorite parts of being pregnant, was not having to suck in the belly. You just let it all hang out, baby!

The day of delivery approached, and we were getting pretty excited. Unfortunately, my Dr. was planning to be out of town, so he decided to put me in the hospital and **WARNING: DISTASTEFUL PHRASE AHEAD** give me some medicine, and see if my "cervix was ripe" (I DID warn you).
Scott and I were psyched! We planned on an evening of fun and frivolity, hangin out in the beautiful birthing suite.....just as soon as those OTHER breeders vacated the premises. At last, we were moved into the luxury accomodations, but I wasn't feeling too good at that point. Having lots of back pain. Turned out, that was labor, and long story short, Sam was delivered that night via emergency C-Section. I didn't get to be awake for his birth, and when I did come to, they brought this little blond-haired baby to me, and I turned to Scott and said, "Are you positive this is the baby they took out of me?" (he was)

So, we had our little bundle of joy. He HAS been a joy. Oh sure, there's times when it would be nice to be free from the responsibility of a kid still at home, and Scott never misses the opportunity to say "you just HAD to have that kid, didn't you?". But on the other hand, sometimes, I say "You know, Sam, Daddy didn't want you", just so he knows that I love him THE most. JUST KIDDING. I would NEVER say that. Geez!

Well, now the reproductive ship has sailed, so we're just gonna enjoy this last kid til he moves on. Sam is aware, however, that having older parents means that he needs to make a REALLY good living, so he can buy us matching Rascal scooters for when we can no longer ambulate. I also requested that mine have more power than Scott's and I'll probably get that, because, after all, having Sam was my idea to begin with!

2 Year Olds Don't Travel Well

Awww, isn't he cute? Okay, so I just found this picture on my hard drive, and it took me right back to this trip. In September, 2001, we embarked on an ambitious road trip to visit family in Oregon and Washington. It seemed like a good idea, when we were planning it, but the reality of it was much different. I must digress for a moment, from the two year old, and say a word about the 37 year old male that traveled with us. We'll call him "Scott" (okay, okay, Scott is my husband and father to the 2 year old).

We'd planned this trip for weeks, nay, months, and are about to leave. We had it mapped out perfectly......just the right amount of time in the vehicle, interspersed with overnights in our timeshare condo, so suffice it to say, that we're on a SCHEDULE. Here's the scene: 2 year old (Sam) is strapped into his car seat, the portable VHS video player is wedged between the two front seats to provide entertainment to said 2 year old, wife (me) is wedged into her seat, and we're waiting. And, waiting. And, waiting. This might be a good time to mention that we wait for Scott A LOT (that's another story. It occurs to me that I have an endless supply of blogging material).

ANYHOO, finally I am forced to exit the vehicle and seek out my husband so we can BLOW THIS JOINT, and what is he doing? Frantically searching for his wallet. Again. He "thinks" he left it at work, so we drive to town, search his place of business, and do not find it. He keeps saying, "Let's just GO", but as I sweetly remind him, "YOU HAVE A CREDIT CARD IN THERE, AND WE NEED IT FOR OUR TRIP". Yes, I have the same credit card, but if we don't know where his wallet is, couldn't it be A) innocently sitting in a dark crevice or B)in the sweaty hands of a thief, filling gas tanks and buying electronics. If we can't find it, we need to cancel it!

I bet you know where this is going......we never found it, so had to call and cancel. Luckily, I still had a separate credit card, in my name, alone (WHAT? It was left over from pre-marriage. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it).

Back to the road trip. The toddler was hanging in there, at this point. We made it to Klamath Falls, Oregon, and spent the night, then left the next day for Bend, Oregon. That leg of the trip also went okaaaay, if you don't mind hearing the Tellytubbies say "Uh Oh", 8,000 times (the videos, remember? I know the Tellytubbies were weirdos, but if your kid likes 'em, you're watching 'em)

So, this is where the story gets serious, for just a moment. We were in Bend on Sept. 11, 2001. We woke up to the TV showing those horrific images in NYC, and I remember feeling like I just wanted to go home. It was so scary. Plus, we were heading to the Seattle area, which at that time, was being considered a "target". It's probably a blessing that we had to drive, because we didn't sit in front of a TV all day, seeing all that chaos and mayhem. We DID listen on the radio, but that wasn't as traumatic. Okay, serious part over.

What happened after 9/11? Remember? The country pulled together, and in a show of our united patriotism, everyone was displaying the flag. EVERYONE. EVERYWHERE. Why does this matter? Because Sam was captivated by the flags. He kept saying "Whassat? Whassat?", and you HAD to answer or he wouldn't stop. Wee little problem, though. He couldn't say "FLAG", it came out, "F**k". Yep, THAT four letter word, and amazingly, not only was his pronunciation dead on, he apparently enjoyed saying the word. So, say it, he did. OVER AND OVER. Oh, hello, nice elderly lady, sporting your flag sweater. Yes, this is our sweet child. Say "hi", sweet child. I don't have to spell it out, do I? He didn't say "hi". He pointed to her sweater, and said (you know).

Aside from his potty mouth, I have to say, he did pretty well, for quite awhile, on this marathon road trip, but then he started to lose his little toddler mind. At one point, he just started yelling. Not crying. Just yelling. So, I also yelled. That is when Scott looked over at me, like, "really?", but I kept on. Sam actually stopped, and he also looked at me, like, "really?", but, hey, it worked.

Then, there was the stretch of endless highway, where, out of sheer boredom, Sam began removing his clothing. No small feat, when you're strapped within in an inch of your life, in a car seat! He didn't JUST remove, though. As articles of clothing came off, he hurled them into the front seat, which I took to be an expression of displeasure (I'm quick like that). Luckily, his little chubby fingers couldn't get his Huggies undone, or this story could've taken a really ugly turn.

Kids are smart, too. They figure out pretty quickly, when the normal discipline regime has been abandoned by the parental units. You know how it is.....you're around other people, and you don't feel it's appropriate to scream, yank, or threaten their lives in front of witnes....I mean, strangers. So, Sam took full advantage, and became a mad man in the condo, in restaurants, at Great Grandpa's dinner table. At 2, he had perfected the ability to not look at me, therefore missing the steady GLARE directed at him. The one that says "I can't get at you right now, but believe me you, buddy, you're in for a world of hurt, when we get home."

When I look back, I am amazed that we even DID that trip. I don't recognize those people, who thought it would be "fun" to drive a toddler over three states. But, we made it home, in one piece. Sam is still with us, and other than the fact that he couldn't say "flag" correctly for THREE SOLID MONTHS, we completely recovered from our ordeal. Oh, by the way? To the Veterans who put on a pancake breakfast, with a large FLAG, prominently displayed? Sorry about that.

P.S. I just realized that I didn't finish the storyline of the lost wallet! Guess what? All along, it was in the toe of one of Scott's GIANT shoes. He had stuck it in there, as he carried stuff in the house, from his truck. Isn't that too funny? (not) He found it a couple days AFTER we got home, and to his credit, admitted it to me. I don't know why we're still married. I really don't.

Men & Women Were Not Meant to Share Beds

I don't believe that men and women are meant to share beds. Seriously, Ricky & Lucy had it right, although, I would take it a step further, and put those twin beds in separate rooms.

Ladies, if your husband doesn't snore, then count your blessings. I don't care if he's a cover-stealer, or a bed hog, there ain't nothin worse than a snorer. I'm not talking a little "light" snore.I'm talking a shake-your-bed, the-kids-can-hear-it-downstairs snore. In case you haven't guessed, I am married to such an individual. We'll call him "Scott".

On a couple of occasions, I was tempted to video tape him, so that all those females that think he's "so cute", could see what he looks like with his mouth all slack, and a line of spittle running down his chin.

And it's not just me that thinks he's over the top. I remember him going to a mens' camp with our church, and after that, the pastor told me that he had a "whole new respect" for me. Actually, from that point on, Scott was banned from their cabin. ACTUALLY, from that point on, they STOPPED having mens' camp altogether, but I'm sure that was just a coincidence.

Snoring isn't the only problem, though. "Scott" has no respect for pillows. I LOVE my pillows. They mean the world to me. I live by the motto "no pillow left behind". My husband (once) actually tossed some pillows ON THE FLOOR. You know what? I don't care if you can't get to the mattress for the pillows. The pillows have feelings, too! I have a system. Two pillows under the head, one pillow clutched to my abdomen, and one pillow ON my head (see "snoring" above).

The clutching pillow is something I learned after having abdominal surgery....it helps protect a fresh incision from, you know, splitting apart, etc. Now, it's just a security thing. I feel so protected. What do I have to protect myself from? I'm glad you asked....

Kicking, flailing, and other bed shenanigans. My husband works out, as in lifts weights. He has strong arms. Said arms do not feel good when they connect with my person. Nor do his giant feet. If he could rebut this (which he cannot, heehee), he would say that I AM the flailer, but methinks he's projecting.

Something else I don't get. How is it that he can get into bed, turn off the light, and FALL ASLEEP. Like, right away. That is soooo annoying! Especially, if we've been having a figh...., I mean "discussion", and he just drifts off to sleep without a care in the world, while I lay there seething, and plotting his death.

AND, of course, it goes without saying, that he NEVER heard our baby when he cried. Oh no, he slept straight through night terrors, projectile vomiting, and explosive diaper changes. He sleeps like a dead thing. I could be assaulted in the bed next to him, and he would never know it, until he woke up, and saw the chalk outline where my body WAS.

I'm assuming that on the few occasions when I WASN'T there, that he DID respond to our child, but that assumption is based solely on the fact that I never heard from CPS. It will probably come out in the counseling that our son will have in the future (some parents save for college, we're saving for counseling).

Lastly, what is the deal with making the bed? It is not hard. Really, it isn't. I make most of the bed before I ever get out (I will be happy to describe this technique, should anyone be interested), but that cannot be done unless there's no one else IN the bed. Since I have to get up at the unholy hour of 4am, Scott is always still in bed, therefore, it should fall to HIM, to make the bed, RIGHT? He does, sometimes, go on a "run" of bedmaking....sometimes lasting up to a week. I really love him during that week. I should say, I love him up until the moment he climbs back into bed and falls asleep, and starts........well, you know.

Road Trips

I grew up with a very distorted view of traveling via the automobile. My father was in the Air Force, and we moved many times over the years, usually, it seemed, across these United States.

My father had a singular purpose, and that was to make the trip in "record time". I know, I know, there are others who aspire to getting where they're going, as quickly as possible, but my Dad? He was a nut about it. One of his techniques for minimizing time lost when switching drivers, involved a tricky, death defying stunt, where my mother would scootch over as close as possible, on the bench seat, to my driving Dad, then he would start to slide towards the passenger seat. At this point, Mom would either be hovering over my Dad's lap, or may even, briefly, be sitting on his lap. Frequently, at this point, my mother would get the giggles, and could barely complete the maneuver. But, she ultimately would make it into the driver's seat, thereby achieving a change in drivers, WITHOUT STOPPING THE CAR. You must imagine two small girls in the back seat, eyes as big as dinner plates, watching this, and wondering if we were going to die in a fiery crash.

It probably goes without saying, that a stop for any bodily function, was out of the question. We had to limit our food and fluid intake for a couple days before the road trip, and then would only be given some form of nutrition if we started hallucinating.

I have, literally, been across the U.S., probably 6 - 9 times, but have no memory of any landmarks. As an adult, I got into an argument with my Dad, about whether or not, I had seen Hoover Dam. Turns out, my idea of "seeing it", and his idea......vastly different. The fact of the matter is, that we passed Hoover Dam at about 2:00 a.m., and Dad hollered (ala Chevy Chase in "Vacation"), "there's Hoover Dam, kids!". I don't even think I lifted my head off of the back seat, but, rather, glimpsed a freeway sign that said "Hoover Dam Exit".

Yep, those were the good old days......no seat belts necessary, thank you very much! Dad put some plywood over the back seat, thereby creating the equivalent of a full size mattress, and threw in pillows and blankets, so the kids could travel in comfort. Never mind, that the hasty application of brakes and/or or gas pedal sent us flying. What's a little bump on the head? Shake it off!

The really bad news about road trips, for me, was that I got extremely car sick. Seriously, even now, I can get car sick going down my driveway. A particularly bad experience involved my parents, my sister, and my three step brothers, all crammed into a full size sedan, careening up a mountain road on our way to go camping. Finally, I could hold it no longer, and begged for an "emergency stop". As we tumbled out of the car, I proceeded to hurl everything I had eaten for the two weeks prior, and THEN, all my siblings followed suit (apparently, vomiting is contagious).

As an adult, I find that I have inherited my father's tendency toward getting places, as quickly as possible, preferably via a little known shortcut. My Mom says that Dad and I are the only people she knows that come back from a trip to the airport, with weeds and burrs, sticking out from the wheel wells.

When I was about 30 years old, my Dad and I were driving together to Wyoming, and I was on a quest to make record time. He started seeing signs for "Fort Bridger", and started talking about how much he'd like to see it, how much historical significance it has, and how he probably won't have this "opportunity again". Are you kidding me? This is the same man who bypassed any and all historical landmarks, eating establishments, and rest stops, in his all consuming goal of beating his previous time! I pressed on, pretending not to hear, and eventually we approached the cutoff to Fort Bridger. Without slowing an iota, I called out "there's Fort Bridger, Dad!"

Shopping Together is Not a Good Idea

My husband and I cannot shop together. It always ends in tears and yelling, and that's just HIM. I finally got him to admit that he actually DOES like to shop. I do not. That is, to say, I don't like to walk around stores, endlessly, hemming and hawing, and weighing pros and cons, etc. I know what I want. I go in and get it. Scott likes to "think about it". He likes to peruse. He likes to compare. He likes to go to another store, see what they've got, then go BACK to the first store, before he can make up his mind.

Once, while he was shopping for suits, I almost hung myself with some silk ties I knotted together, but didn't, because I figured they'd make us pay for them. My friend, Robin, says that "Scott is a turtle, and you're a hare", and it's never more evident than when we're shopping.

In Costco once, we decided that we could each pick out one item for ourselves, as a little treat. We had a lot of shopping to do that day, and realized that we needed a second cart. Our son was still in a stroller, so Scott had put a few items on said stroller, and transferred those items to the second cart (or so I thought). We get done with this marathon shopping, and we're at the front of the store with two carts, and he announces that he is now ready to "look for his treat". What? You weren't looking as we were traversing the entire warehouse? I bit my tongue, and said, nicely "FINE. I'll be right here waiting, Darling".

Fifteen minutes pass. Then twenty minutes. I'm getting annoyed. I try to call him on his cell phone, but no answer. As I'm scanning the store, I see him, with the stroller, going up and down aisles, and it looks like he's looking for me. Why would he be looking for me? I was standing at the front of the store, with two carts. Where am I gonna go? PLUS, I've told him numerous times.......if we get separated in a store, head for the checkout. It's the equivalent of "hugging a tree", if you get lost in the woods.

Anyhoo, he's not coming, so I decide to go ahead and start checking out. I get completely through the checkout, and am standing, waiting....... and there he is! Hi Scott! Um, where have you been? He's annoyed, because I've already checked out, and he has his "treat",(that's yet to be paid for), oh, and by the way, he did NOT move all the items from the stroller to the cart, so there's quite a few items that have not been checked out. He gets all huffy with me, and rather dramatically, says "never mind" on his treat, and starts to exit the store. So, we have a stroller, and two carts, and we're seriously irritated at one another. We wrestle with everything all the way to the car, bickering the entire way, then I just start hurling items from the cart into the vehicle, which makes him madder, so he tells me to "just get into the car".

I get Sam into his car seat, and give him a sippy cup of juice, and we enjoy a few minutes of peace and quiet (well, except for my murmuring and grumbling) until Scott gets into the car. We both start telling the other what they did wrong, and all of a sudden, Sam flings his sippy cup from the back seat, and it beans Scott right in the back of his head. Hard. (It was really loud!). He drops his head, and perhaps loses consciousness for a moment, then starts moaning. Well, God forgive me, I completely lost it, and could not stop laughing. With the noise it made, and Scott's reaction, I felt like I could literally see the stars swirling around his head.

It was a long, quiet ride home.

THE SCALE

I have had a long, torturous relationship with THE SCALE. There's been a few (and by few, I mean, like, two) happy moments on THE SCALE, but mostly just mayhem and destruction. I can be feeling really slim.... really good.....smiling, even, but then.......THE SCALE reflects something horrifying, and it plunges me into despair.

Realizing my fixation with THE SCALE is not healthy, I even tried having my husband hide it from me, but then I proceeded to search my house, with all the fervor of a CSI team member, and then hid it from HIM, so he wouldn't know I found it.

What's even weirder is, the WAY I weigh. Our bathroom has a tile floor, and with slight adjustments, the scale will render slight variations in the number displayed. No lie, I have moved and weighed, no less than 15 times, trying to get the number that is least likely to make me hang myself. Additionally, I have found that when I step on the scale with my left foot FIRST, the number is lower. I know that seems crazy, but it's true. I'm not even going to get into all the techniques of weighing with one hand on the wall to "steady" myself, or standing on one leg, sucking in, or blowing out all my air, or any number of other strategies employed over the years.

Having said all of that, it makes it even more confounding what I did when I joined Weight Watchers with my mother. I had never done WW, and was not accustomed to the whole weighing in "semi-publicly" bit. One morning, I woke up really early, so had a bowl of cereal, did a few chores around the house, then went to pick up my mom to go to our Saturday morning meeting. On the trip in, I mentioned the fact that I had eaten something, to which my mom said, sweetly "WHAT??! ARE YOU CRAZY??!!! YOU DON'T EAT BEFORE YOU GET WEIGHED! YOU DON'T EVEN PUT LOTION ON!!! HAVE I TAUGHT YOU NOTHING?!" Wow. Wonder where I got my weight issues from?

Re: Weight Watchers. It was okaaaay. I just wasn't crazy about getting up early on my day off, and I resented the perkiness and condescending manner of the leader. I started just doing the weighing thing, then muttering something about an "emergency",can't stay for the meeting", but after the 5th time, they started to catch on. I couldn't take the guilt anymore, so I quit going.

One other thing about WW meetings. Okay, mine was in a strip mall, with WEIGHT WATCHERS on a huge, lit sign, AND there were no window coverings of any kind, so there we all were, perched (precariously, in some cases) on our folding chairs, for all the world to see! Plus, we had to walk in there! I'd rather someone think I was going to the liquor store (at 7:30 in the morning) and/or the cigarette store, than think I was going in to Weight Watchers! Why?! I'm weird! We've established that!

On that subject......one day, after the meeting, Mom and I were sitting in her car, deciding where to go eat (you know, since the weighing was over for another week!), and this guy pulls up next to us in an out of town construction vehicle. Our window was down, and he says "Excuse me, ladies. Do you know where the Wells Fargo Bank is in this town?" We told him, then he says "Thanks. Good luck at Weight Watchers!".

I was incensed! Fuming mad! How dare he think that we were there for Weight Watchers! Maybe we were going to the liquor store, or the dollar store, or the grocery outlet, but NO, he ASSUMED that we were going to Weight Watchers! Stupid, stupid, pig man! I mean, we could stand to lose a few pounds, but we weren't, like, bed-dwellers! THE NERVE! My mom interrupted my tirade, pointing, wordlessly, at my chest. There on my shirt, was my "Hi, My Name is Cherie", with "WEIGHT WATCHERS" in huge letters above it. Oh. Never mind.

I'm back to weighing in at home. Yes, it adds an extra 30 minutes to my morning routine, but it's worth it.

I picked the wrong career

If I worked for the state, or was in law enforcement, or firefighter, I could be retired now......that really ticks me off. Of course, those things never entered my head when I was in my 20's. Retirement? That's for OLD people!

So, here I am, at an age, I don't even like to THINK out loud (starts with a 5, ends with a 1), and I'm still working 40 hours per week, getting up at 4-freaking a.m. It sucks. I have to go to bed, like, right after dinner. If I was a morning news anchor, I might have to get up a teensy bit earlier, but I would essentially be doing what I do now; acting like I care. At least, I would get to wear nice clothes.

Okay, I'm not really serious when I say I don't care. I kinda care, and it might surprise you to know, that I'm actually pretty nice to my patients. The "nice" goes away, if the patient is a butthead, however. I'm not one of those "Let the patient treat you like crap, cuz they don't feel good" kind of people. My favorite is the patient who gets irritated at ME, because I'm waking them up to do a test that THEIR DOCTOR ordered. It's not like I got up this morning, and said to myself "Hmmm, who can I torture today" (well, I DO sometimes do that, but the answer is always "my husband") PLUS! HELLO?! You're the one who came to the hospital, for, presumably, a REASON.

By the way, on the subject of patients, and hospitals. For those that are not familiar with hospitals.....the telephones in the patient's rooms are actually right next to the bed on a bedside table. Soooo, if you are calling someone who is a patient, and they don't answer within, oh, about EIGHTEEN RINGS!, then they are either not in the room, or some other VERY GOOD reason why their phone is not being answered (like, perhaps,they are undergoing a bedside ultrasound examination that requires concentration and difficult positioning, and does not allow for the patient OR THE SONOGRAPHER to answer the phone). I fantasize about snatching up the phone on ring 19, and saying "REALLY?" But I don't, because a) it would require moving, and b) I might get fired.

Well, I guess that's enough for now. Trust me, there is plenty of material generated by my job.....we WILL re-visit this.