MaryJanice Davidson's Blog, page 12
May 24, 2011
I cough up a random post from UNDEAD AND UNDERMINED
I'm fried, for no good reason...haven't thought up something to blog about since Mother's Day. Below, the cop-out I don't have to think about. From early on in UNDEAD AND UNDERMINED. Minor spoilers, so beware. Actually, beware anyway.
* * *
"Okay. I have to bring you up to speed. Okay? Sinclair?"
The king of the vampires was lying face-down on our bare mattress. Bare because in our doin'-it-like-monkeys frenzy, the sheets had been yanked and tattered, the pillows were in the bathtub, and at least two of the west windows were broken. The window guys downtown absolutely loved us. They've started giving us discounts.
"Hey! Are you listening?"
"Gummff ummf uhnn gunh." My husband was as loose and relaxed as I've ever seen him; I had, fairly effortlessly, marital-relationed him to death. (Almost.) He turned his head. "Allow me to enjoy the last of my post-coital coma, please."
"No time!"
"Why?" he mewled. Note the date and time, please, and not because of all the time traveling. I didn't think Sinclair could mewl. Kittens did that. Whiney-ex-wives. (Or whiney current wives.) Kids not getting their own way did that, grown women did that and ouch, when they made that shrill extended meeeeeewwwllll it felt like that icky ear worm from Wrath of Kahn drillin' down there.
Ech, I can hear Ricardo "Welcome to Fantasy Island" Montalban now from one of the least lame Star Trek movies: "Their young enter through the ears and wrap themselves around the cerebral cortex; this has the yucky effect of rendering the poor things big-time susceptible to yucky suggestion and as they grow, yuckier and yuckier, madness and death are waiting for them in all their yuckiness, gross."
Anyway. I hate that noise and didn't think my husband could make it. But he could. The things I learn when I return from time travel and Hell.
Huh. He was still talking.
"You are back, you are alive, you are beautiful (and sated, at least I hope), you know all—"
"All? You think I know all? Clearly I came back in time and found the wrong Sink Lair. I'm trapped in a weird parallel universe where you still talk all the time." Seemed like I spent half my afterlife waiting for him to take a breath so I could jump in. Also, vampires? Never need to take a breath. So you see what I've been dealing with.
"Phaugh, do not babble, due to your jaunts you know how we all came together in the recent past, because of the far past, and..." He trailed off. I waited. Knowing my husband, itd'b be profound and life-changing. It'd help me see a disaster as a not-so-terrible disaster, probably. It'd convince me I wasn't alone in a cruel world. It'd... "...mmzzzzz."
"Hey! Wake up!" I jabbed him in the bicep with my toe. Okay, I kicked him in the arm. He flopped bonelessly off the bed.
"I've missed your tender love play, Elizabeth," he groaned from the (ripped) carpet.
"We got stuff to do!" I was looming over him without looking right at him, which is quite a trick. I didn't want to gaze into those dark dark eyes, or eyeball his 'day-amn, that's a nice ab-pack' or play follow-the-treasure-trail, or anything else that would lead to another forty-five minutes of bringing down the re-sale value of the entire wing.
"We've got things to explain!" I explained. Loudly. "So you need to focus. And also stop being naked. At least we don't have to deal with gross ear worms from space—"
He blinked up at me. "Ah...what?"
"...but we've got other crap to wade through. Jessica wasn't pregnant when I left and I didn't know what a horse trough smelled like in Massachusetts and Minnesota. Whole planets have evolved between my ears!"
"What?" He sat up stiffly, like Frankenstein, a big gorgeous well-hung Frankenstein with big black eyes that were wide with alarm.
"Exactly. Shit. To. Do. Are you on board now, Frank—uh, Sinclair? House meeting, stat! To the smoothie machine, Robin!" I darted off the bed, sheets trailing like a cape. I was Wonder Woman, I was Power Girl, I was—
Sinclairenstein reached out, flash-quick, and whipped the sheets away. It was like an evil, sexy magic trick. "Darling, is it your intention to show the household the color of your nipples? And that you have not one, but two dimples on your—"
"Shut up. I'll get dressed. Never mind my dimples."
"Oh, I never do," he said, surging to his feet so quickly, if I'd blinked I'd have missed it. "I don't mind this one—"
"Hey!"
"—or this one."
"Yeeek!"
May 2, 2011
Addendum to Mom Kicking Ass
My dad read my blog a couple of days ago and called to remind me...not only did Mom win the turkey shoot (my fave line from one of the observers: "Where are the turkeys?") with her devastating bull's eye, but she out-shot all the firemen. And all the sheriff's deputies.
What's hilarious to me is that I knew that. I just completely forgot to put it in the blog. Kind of like my son was surprised I expected him to be surprised when I showed him his grandmother's 10-X. The moral of this touching, gunpowder-riddled story can be summed up thusly: in our family, get the shit done, or go home.
What's hilarious to me is that I knew that. I just completely forgot to put it in the blog. Kind of like my son was surprised I expected him to be surprised when I showed him his grandmother's 10-X. The moral of this touching, gunpowder-riddled story can be summed up thusly: in our family, get the shit done, or go home.
April 29, 2011
King Al's Consort Kicks Ass
So here comes my dry-eyed, non-sentimental Mother's Day blog.
The picture on my FaceBook page (posted on the Wall as well as on a Discussions tab) is a bullseye. It's a shot straight through the center ring of a target, what is sometimes referred to as the ten spot, or 10-X. Or, in our family, business as usual. The weapon used was a Smith & Wesson .22 target semi-auto. The distance was 25 yards. The shooter was my 64 year-old mom.
This is nothing new in our family. At all. And you'll notice my mom didn't dick around with a headshot, or a 5-spot. Nope. Straight between the eyes. I found this awesome. But it's okay if you find it terrifying. Sometimes they're the same!
I've told many fans that the characters from my parallel-universe Alaska series (The Royal Treatment, The Royal Pain, The Royal Mess) that the main characters from the House of Baranov aren't "based on" family members. They ARE my family members. Queen Daria died before the events of the first book (and no, I don't harbor a secret desire for my mom to succumb to a fiery, controversial death) but her presence is felt throughout the trilogy.
So is the patriarch's, King Alexander Baranov II, who rules the princes and princesses with an iron fist. Okay, a paper maiche fist. He's kind of a softy. But a fun character, and easy (bordering on effortless) to write about.
I can still remember watching my dad floss his teeth (we were in a museum or a library or a funeral or some weirdly inappropriate place), then groan as he carefully put the (used) floss in his shirt pocket.
"Jeez, Dad!" (It's amazing how many of my sentences start like that.) "Will you please throw that thing away?"
"Hell, no," he protested. "It's still good. And now it's right here in my pocket for when I need it."
"I'll buy you a new one," I begged. "I will buy you a carton of dental floss. I will buy stock in your name in Glide or Oral-B! Lots of stock! Lots of cartons! But please throw that away!"
"Your problem is, you think everybody's made of money."
"I DO NOT THINK EVERYONE'S MADE OF MONEY! I think everyone is entitled to a fresh, clean length of dental floss. That's what I think." Etc., etc. Although it was a short time in real life, in my head it lasted about three days. Actually, in my head, it's still going on.
So I had a new tic for King Al, and promptly put it in the book. What I wasn't prepared for was the fan mail: "Hey, that's a good idea! Dental floss always within arm's reach! Thanks, MJ."
Nooooooooooooooooooo! (No.)
Which brings me to my Mother's Day theme, in which I've included my dad so as not to have to do this again in June. My parents are bad at lots of things. To wit:
1) Throwing away used dental floss.
2) Missing targets while wielding a .22 pistol.
3) Retirement.
4) Normality.
5) Being bad at fishing.
6) Being bad at hunting.
7) Not breaking world records for sharp-shoot.
8) Not being super, strutting proud of my mom for same.
I'll cover the rest of the list some other time, but for this blog I'm only touching on a couple of them. You'll just have to wait to find out why my parents suck at retirement. And believe me, they do suck at it. Who retires and moves down south and then gets their EMT certification and go on ambulance runs at all hours of the day or night when they aren't running training sessions for the local fire department? THIS IS NOT RETIREMENT. I'm pretty sure it's the polar opposite. Ah, and here I said I wasn't going to go into it, yet I did. I'm such a liar...even to myself!
Flashback to when I was six. It was the weekend, so naturally we were at a silhouette tournament. Silhouettes are big heavy targets shaped like animals and made of iron, or something else that's super heavy (I forget, and I'm too lazy to look it up). People sign up for these tournaments from all over the state (and, when we'd go to Canadian tourneys, all over the country) and then plink away at the silhouettes until everybody decides they've sprayed enough ammo and hangs it up for the day. The person who knocks over the most silhouettes wins.
My parents were/are excellent shots and fishermen/women. They loved being outside shooting at heavy metal things or hooking trout for dinner or hollering "Git the little red son of a bitch!" while riding to the hounds. Okay, I made up that last one. Anyway, because we didn't have much money for baby-sitters (to this day I can count on two hands how often we had a sitter), my folks always brought my sister and I along to the local watering hole or up a tree stand or to tournaments. I can also count on two hands (okay, one hand) how often my folks left one of these tournaments empty-handed.
Which brings me to angry men and the world record for silhouette shooting. And my mom, of course. At one point in the tourney, one of the officials told my folks that my mother was only so many points away from breaking the world record. Sure, way to alleviate the pressure and help my mom to keep cool under relentless, soul-shriveling pressure. Thanks tons, Un-named Official.
So my mom bangs away (I can't tell you how much it disturbs me to have "mom" and "bangs" in the same sentence) and lo and behold, good-bye old world record, here's your hat and what's your hurry? Also: suck it, old record!
My second favorite part of the story is how my dad was easily ten times more excited than my mom was. For months: "Hey, Jim, how's your wife? Never mind, I only brought up yours to talk about mine. She broke a world record! Hey, June, glad I caught you before you went on medical leave: my wife broke a world record! I see you sneaking out, Dave. You're not going anywhere until I tell you about my wife, I don't care how close you are to insulin shock." He was thrilled. He told everybody. EVERYBODY. ("I know I was speeding, Officer, but did you know my wife broke a world record?") I literally believe he wouldn't have been any happier if he'd nailed the record himself. In fact, I'm sure of it. It's not nearly as fun, or socially acceptable, to brag about yourself as it is to brag about someone you love.
My favorite part of the story is this: two Grumpy Old Men (though since I was six, they could have been in their mid-twenties) stomped past my mom and grumbled, "Goddamned women should stay home where they belong."
Oh, blow me, Grumpy Old Men. Also: sticks and stones may break my bones but my mom TOTALLY KICKED YOUR ASS TODAY. (Technically, the world's ass.)
Which brings me to another parallel between the Baranovs and the real deal: as far as my sister and I were concerned, it was just another trophy. It went up on the wall with their zillions of other trophies. It was something else to be dusted. We were way more interested in the garter snake that chased us into the river (I can still see the hate in its tiny beady black eyes). Certainly mom's coup was nothing to dwell on, because there was always something new to tackle. Next weekend: fishing opener! Never mind world records; we've got to re-rig all these fishing poles! Yippee!
So when I saw the bullseye on my mom's FB page, I couldn't help think that the more things change, the more they kick ass. And I seem to be accidentally raising my kids to think the same way I do, because when I called their attention to the 10-X, they were puzzled, especially my son: "But, Mom, it's Grandma. What did you think would happen?"
All right, fine, but at least pretend to be awed and amazed, you little jerk. This is my dreadful legacy: kids who assume if their grandmother didn't nail the X, she was probably having a stroke at the time.
Hmm. On second thought, that's kind of cool. There are worse things than having children who assume a person can reach world record excellence if they just got down to it.
So, in summation: my mom shoots better than yourrrrr mom, nyah-nyah-nyah!
On the off chance one or both of those two Grumpy Old Men from way back are reading this blog and recognize themselves...I never forgot about you. But I bet you forgot about me. And that's okay. Because we all know who YOU'LL never forget if you live to be a thousand.
My mom.
So there.
The picture on my FaceBook page (posted on the Wall as well as on a Discussions tab) is a bullseye. It's a shot straight through the center ring of a target, what is sometimes referred to as the ten spot, or 10-X. Or, in our family, business as usual. The weapon used was a Smith & Wesson .22 target semi-auto. The distance was 25 yards. The shooter was my 64 year-old mom.
This is nothing new in our family. At all. And you'll notice my mom didn't dick around with a headshot, or a 5-spot. Nope. Straight between the eyes. I found this awesome. But it's okay if you find it terrifying. Sometimes they're the same!
I've told many fans that the characters from my parallel-universe Alaska series (The Royal Treatment, The Royal Pain, The Royal Mess) that the main characters from the House of Baranov aren't "based on" family members. They ARE my family members. Queen Daria died before the events of the first book (and no, I don't harbor a secret desire for my mom to succumb to a fiery, controversial death) but her presence is felt throughout the trilogy.
So is the patriarch's, King Alexander Baranov II, who rules the princes and princesses with an iron fist. Okay, a paper maiche fist. He's kind of a softy. But a fun character, and easy (bordering on effortless) to write about.
I can still remember watching my dad floss his teeth (we were in a museum or a library or a funeral or some weirdly inappropriate place), then groan as he carefully put the (used) floss in his shirt pocket.
"Jeez, Dad!" (It's amazing how many of my sentences start like that.) "Will you please throw that thing away?"
"Hell, no," he protested. "It's still good. And now it's right here in my pocket for when I need it."
"I'll buy you a new one," I begged. "I will buy you a carton of dental floss. I will buy stock in your name in Glide or Oral-B! Lots of stock! Lots of cartons! But please throw that away!"
"Your problem is, you think everybody's made of money."
"I DO NOT THINK EVERYONE'S MADE OF MONEY! I think everyone is entitled to a fresh, clean length of dental floss. That's what I think." Etc., etc. Although it was a short time in real life, in my head it lasted about three days. Actually, in my head, it's still going on.
So I had a new tic for King Al, and promptly put it in the book. What I wasn't prepared for was the fan mail: "Hey, that's a good idea! Dental floss always within arm's reach! Thanks, MJ."
Nooooooooooooooooooo! (No.)
Which brings me to my Mother's Day theme, in which I've included my dad so as not to have to do this again in June. My parents are bad at lots of things. To wit:
1) Throwing away used dental floss.
2) Missing targets while wielding a .22 pistol.
3) Retirement.
4) Normality.
5) Being bad at fishing.
6) Being bad at hunting.
7) Not breaking world records for sharp-shoot.
8) Not being super, strutting proud of my mom for same.
I'll cover the rest of the list some other time, but for this blog I'm only touching on a couple of them. You'll just have to wait to find out why my parents suck at retirement. And believe me, they do suck at it. Who retires and moves down south and then gets their EMT certification and go on ambulance runs at all hours of the day or night when they aren't running training sessions for the local fire department? THIS IS NOT RETIREMENT. I'm pretty sure it's the polar opposite. Ah, and here I said I wasn't going to go into it, yet I did. I'm such a liar...even to myself!
Flashback to when I was six. It was the weekend, so naturally we were at a silhouette tournament. Silhouettes are big heavy targets shaped like animals and made of iron, or something else that's super heavy (I forget, and I'm too lazy to look it up). People sign up for these tournaments from all over the state (and, when we'd go to Canadian tourneys, all over the country) and then plink away at the silhouettes until everybody decides they've sprayed enough ammo and hangs it up for the day. The person who knocks over the most silhouettes wins.
My parents were/are excellent shots and fishermen/women. They loved being outside shooting at heavy metal things or hooking trout for dinner or hollering "Git the little red son of a bitch!" while riding to the hounds. Okay, I made up that last one. Anyway, because we didn't have much money for baby-sitters (to this day I can count on two hands how often we had a sitter), my folks always brought my sister and I along to the local watering hole or up a tree stand or to tournaments. I can also count on two hands (okay, one hand) how often my folks left one of these tournaments empty-handed.
Which brings me to angry men and the world record for silhouette shooting. And my mom, of course. At one point in the tourney, one of the officials told my folks that my mother was only so many points away from breaking the world record. Sure, way to alleviate the pressure and help my mom to keep cool under relentless, soul-shriveling pressure. Thanks tons, Un-named Official.
So my mom bangs away (I can't tell you how much it disturbs me to have "mom" and "bangs" in the same sentence) and lo and behold, good-bye old world record, here's your hat and what's your hurry? Also: suck it, old record!
My second favorite part of the story is how my dad was easily ten times more excited than my mom was. For months: "Hey, Jim, how's your wife? Never mind, I only brought up yours to talk about mine. She broke a world record! Hey, June, glad I caught you before you went on medical leave: my wife broke a world record! I see you sneaking out, Dave. You're not going anywhere until I tell you about my wife, I don't care how close you are to insulin shock." He was thrilled. He told everybody. EVERYBODY. ("I know I was speeding, Officer, but did you know my wife broke a world record?") I literally believe he wouldn't have been any happier if he'd nailed the record himself. In fact, I'm sure of it. It's not nearly as fun, or socially acceptable, to brag about yourself as it is to brag about someone you love.
My favorite part of the story is this: two Grumpy Old Men (though since I was six, they could have been in their mid-twenties) stomped past my mom and grumbled, "Goddamned women should stay home where they belong."
Oh, blow me, Grumpy Old Men. Also: sticks and stones may break my bones but my mom TOTALLY KICKED YOUR ASS TODAY. (Technically, the world's ass.)
Which brings me to another parallel between the Baranovs and the real deal: as far as my sister and I were concerned, it was just another trophy. It went up on the wall with their zillions of other trophies. It was something else to be dusted. We were way more interested in the garter snake that chased us into the river (I can still see the hate in its tiny beady black eyes). Certainly mom's coup was nothing to dwell on, because there was always something new to tackle. Next weekend: fishing opener! Never mind world records; we've got to re-rig all these fishing poles! Yippee!
So when I saw the bullseye on my mom's FB page, I couldn't help think that the more things change, the more they kick ass. And I seem to be accidentally raising my kids to think the same way I do, because when I called their attention to the 10-X, they were puzzled, especially my son: "But, Mom, it's Grandma. What did you think would happen?"
All right, fine, but at least pretend to be awed and amazed, you little jerk. This is my dreadful legacy: kids who assume if their grandmother didn't nail the X, she was probably having a stroke at the time.
Hmm. On second thought, that's kind of cool. There are worse things than having children who assume a person can reach world record excellence if they just got down to it.
So, in summation: my mom shoots better than yourrrrr mom, nyah-nyah-nyah!
On the off chance one or both of those two Grumpy Old Men from way back are reading this blog and recognize themselves...I never forgot about you. But I bet you forgot about me. And that's okay. Because we all know who YOU'LL never forget if you live to be a thousand.
My mom.
So there.
April 12, 2011
I Give Away Bodily Fluids
Lately I've started collecting, and then giving away, my precious precious bodily fluids. Okay, the Red Cross is actually doing the collecting and the distributing, but I'm definitely part of the process. Maybe even an integral part! (Maybe.) Today was the second time I had ever donated platelets, and do not ask me what platelets are; what am I, Doogie Howser?
True story, though: one of the donors asked his nurse how many pints of blood are in a person, and she didn't know. So she was all, "Hmm, good question. Fellow nurses and assorted health care professionals? Anybody know how many pints of blood are in a body?" And I was all, "Um, concern number one, why do you want to know, exactly? Also, concern number two, you're an RN. Why don't you know? Don't take this the wrong way, Red Cross, but I'm starting to get a little nervous. Not to mention, now I'm wondering how many stupid pints of O-neg goodness are in my stupid body. Dammit! That's gonna bug me all morning. Does anyone know? Bueller?"
But I'm getting ahead of myself, as I often do except when I never do. This whole thing started when my husband/nemesis/writing partner/arch enemy/stud/sweetie noticed there was something wrong with our living room couch. Specifically, I was always on it. Being a writer is swell for many, many reasons, one of which is that staying home and setting my own hours gives me time to work on my agoraphobia. Unfortunately, my husband had this silly-ass idea that I was becoming a shut-in. To which I replied: What have you got against shut-ins, you judgemental bastard? Huh? What'd a shut-in ever do to you? Huh?
So I started looking for an activity that would get me out of the house a few hours a week, that didn't bore me to death, or remind me of any of my SDJs, and wasn't too long a drive, and didn't give me migraines. Or food poisoning (do not ask). Or rubella. Also, it'd be really super great if it was an activity where strangers told me how terrific I was.
Behold: the Red Cross! Specifically, platelet donations. You can donate platelets every seven days, as opposed to only being able to donate whole blood every few weeks. People aren't as quick to donate platelets because it takes a couple of hours, and you're not allowed to move your arms. They suck the delicious delicious O-neg goodness out of one arm, run it through a centrifuge ("Wheeee!"), then put the bodily fluids, minus platelets, back into me via the other arm. Then they give me cookies. And sometimes a Coke. And then a sticker! I have, like, zero complaints about any of this. Where else could I literally LIE ON MY ASS FOR TWO HOURS, get complimented on my heroism and general awesomeness, and then get cookies? Yeah, exactly. Nowhere. Okay, maybe the plastic surgery clinic. But that was a much longer drive.
And, even though I'm O-neg, I get an A-positive for donating (yeah, you read that right; it was a terrible joke but I went for it anyway). Apparently a donor has to have a minimum platelet count of around 150,000 to be allowed to donate, and I have over 400,000. What can I say? I like to pack spares of everything: toothbrushes. Granny underpants. Blood.
Anyway, I'm so friggin' good at this that I'm a triple yield donor. Which sounds like grand prize winner to me: "And now, our Triple Yield Donor, fresh from the trailer park slums, MaryJanice Davidson!" Zow. So instead of selflessly yet awesomely donating for one person, three different patients can drink my yummy platelets. Or whatever the hell they do with the platelets. Platelets on the rocks? Platelets casseroles? Whatever they do, I got lots and lots to help 'em do it.
Really, the only downside is the two hour immobilization. I found out that meant you can't turn the pages of your book. Or scratch your nose. Or scratch your nose. Or scratch your nose. The nurses, though, they'll turn your book pages. And, I'm so sorry to actually know this, they'll rub your itchy nose for you, too. Which swamps me with guilt like you can't imagine. These intelligent dedicated people did not go to college in order to wipe my nose. God forbid I needed to take a...you know what? I'm just gonna stop right there.
They also feed you Tums with calcium. They do this because occasionally people have a minor reaction to the procedure. Guess what the minor reaction is? Go on, guess. No, really, I'll wait. Okay: it's...facial itching! Yep, they plunge needles into the inside of your elbows, strap all sorts of tubing to you, then command you to stay put and not to move your arms and, oh, by the way, you might experience some facial itching which for some reason is helped by eating Tums. So here you go: fruit flavored Tums!
That's really the worst part, the arm thing. And the Red Cross knows it's a bit of a pain in the ass, so they do what they can to make donating as enjoyable as possible (see above: Coke and cookies). So they have wireless Wi-Fi, and DVD players, and TVs, and headphones and, of course, very nice nurses who tell you how terrific you are.
Oh, and the blankets! That's the best part. They have an entire oven filled with warm blankets! Okay, it's not an oven, but it sure looks like one, and it's filled with warm blankets. And they have heating pads for your ankles. And warmers for your hands. So they poke you, immobilize you, and then tuck you in with warm blankets after scratching your nose and reading you Pat The Bunny. No, wait, I was the one reading about my old pal Pat. I swear, I was having huge flashbacks to the awesome kindergarten naps of my childhood. No, of course I didn't doze off. Why would I doze off? Okay, maybe I dozed a teeny bit. I'm not made of stone, people! Warm blankets!
The first time I donated, I thoughtlessly brought a Batman graphic novel to read. So I couldn't turn my own pages, and it was only taking me about eight seconds to read a page because of all the pretty pictures. And I felt sooooo bad asking the nurse to come over every eight seconds to turn the page for me. Memo to me: bring dense books to the Red Cross: Gone with the Wind. It. The Encyclopedia Britannica.
What I find especially hilarious is that I bruise like a peach; I always have. If you sneeze on me (and don't you dare), I bruise. So you should see the monster tracks these IVs leave in my arms. They don't hurt a bit, of course, but they look sort of terrifying. They give me the look of someone up to no good of any kind. So, my normal look, except with bruises.
Today while I was waiting to get stabbed I was reading about some of the patients who needed platelets. Leukemia patients, little kids going through chemo, people recovering from organ transplants...like that. All kinds of people need platelets, and the Red Cross has to get them from somewhere. And...I dunno. It didn't seem like such a big thing to ask. What was so bad about taking two hours a week and wrapping up in warm blankets and getting tucked in and taking a nap and getting your nose scratched and then going back home to your family? Nothing I can think of.
After I finished donating the first time, I gave it some thought. And I figured it breaks down to this: two hours out of my very very blessed life to help someone recover from cancer. Or a kidney transplant. Or whatever...they get the platelets. And then they can get back to their families as I could go back to mine, full of cookies and feeling good.
A bargain, really.
True story, though: one of the donors asked his nurse how many pints of blood are in a person, and she didn't know. So she was all, "Hmm, good question. Fellow nurses and assorted health care professionals? Anybody know how many pints of blood are in a body?" And I was all, "Um, concern number one, why do you want to know, exactly? Also, concern number two, you're an RN. Why don't you know? Don't take this the wrong way, Red Cross, but I'm starting to get a little nervous. Not to mention, now I'm wondering how many stupid pints of O-neg goodness are in my stupid body. Dammit! That's gonna bug me all morning. Does anyone know? Bueller?"
But I'm getting ahead of myself, as I often do except when I never do. This whole thing started when my husband/nemesis/writing partner/arch enemy/stud/sweetie noticed there was something wrong with our living room couch. Specifically, I was always on it. Being a writer is swell for many, many reasons, one of which is that staying home and setting my own hours gives me time to work on my agoraphobia. Unfortunately, my husband had this silly-ass idea that I was becoming a shut-in. To which I replied: What have you got against shut-ins, you judgemental bastard? Huh? What'd a shut-in ever do to you? Huh?
So I started looking for an activity that would get me out of the house a few hours a week, that didn't bore me to death, or remind me of any of my SDJs, and wasn't too long a drive, and didn't give me migraines. Or food poisoning (do not ask). Or rubella. Also, it'd be really super great if it was an activity where strangers told me how terrific I was.
Behold: the Red Cross! Specifically, platelet donations. You can donate platelets every seven days, as opposed to only being able to donate whole blood every few weeks. People aren't as quick to donate platelets because it takes a couple of hours, and you're not allowed to move your arms. They suck the delicious delicious O-neg goodness out of one arm, run it through a centrifuge ("Wheeee!"), then put the bodily fluids, minus platelets, back into me via the other arm. Then they give me cookies. And sometimes a Coke. And then a sticker! I have, like, zero complaints about any of this. Where else could I literally LIE ON MY ASS FOR TWO HOURS, get complimented on my heroism and general awesomeness, and then get cookies? Yeah, exactly. Nowhere. Okay, maybe the plastic surgery clinic. But that was a much longer drive.
And, even though I'm O-neg, I get an A-positive for donating (yeah, you read that right; it was a terrible joke but I went for it anyway). Apparently a donor has to have a minimum platelet count of around 150,000 to be allowed to donate, and I have over 400,000. What can I say? I like to pack spares of everything: toothbrushes. Granny underpants. Blood.
Anyway, I'm so friggin' good at this that I'm a triple yield donor. Which sounds like grand prize winner to me: "And now, our Triple Yield Donor, fresh from the trailer park slums, MaryJanice Davidson!" Zow. So instead of selflessly yet awesomely donating for one person, three different patients can drink my yummy platelets. Or whatever the hell they do with the platelets. Platelets on the rocks? Platelets casseroles? Whatever they do, I got lots and lots to help 'em do it.
Really, the only downside is the two hour immobilization. I found out that meant you can't turn the pages of your book. Or scratch your nose. Or scratch your nose. Or scratch your nose. The nurses, though, they'll turn your book pages. And, I'm so sorry to actually know this, they'll rub your itchy nose for you, too. Which swamps me with guilt like you can't imagine. These intelligent dedicated people did not go to college in order to wipe my nose. God forbid I needed to take a...you know what? I'm just gonna stop right there.
They also feed you Tums with calcium. They do this because occasionally people have a minor reaction to the procedure. Guess what the minor reaction is? Go on, guess. No, really, I'll wait. Okay: it's...facial itching! Yep, they plunge needles into the inside of your elbows, strap all sorts of tubing to you, then command you to stay put and not to move your arms and, oh, by the way, you might experience some facial itching which for some reason is helped by eating Tums. So here you go: fruit flavored Tums!
That's really the worst part, the arm thing. And the Red Cross knows it's a bit of a pain in the ass, so they do what they can to make donating as enjoyable as possible (see above: Coke and cookies). So they have wireless Wi-Fi, and DVD players, and TVs, and headphones and, of course, very nice nurses who tell you how terrific you are.
Oh, and the blankets! That's the best part. They have an entire oven filled with warm blankets! Okay, it's not an oven, but it sure looks like one, and it's filled with warm blankets. And they have heating pads for your ankles. And warmers for your hands. So they poke you, immobilize you, and then tuck you in with warm blankets after scratching your nose and reading you Pat The Bunny. No, wait, I was the one reading about my old pal Pat. I swear, I was having huge flashbacks to the awesome kindergarten naps of my childhood. No, of course I didn't doze off. Why would I doze off? Okay, maybe I dozed a teeny bit. I'm not made of stone, people! Warm blankets!
The first time I donated, I thoughtlessly brought a Batman graphic novel to read. So I couldn't turn my own pages, and it was only taking me about eight seconds to read a page because of all the pretty pictures. And I felt sooooo bad asking the nurse to come over every eight seconds to turn the page for me. Memo to me: bring dense books to the Red Cross: Gone with the Wind. It. The Encyclopedia Britannica.
What I find especially hilarious is that I bruise like a peach; I always have. If you sneeze on me (and don't you dare), I bruise. So you should see the monster tracks these IVs leave in my arms. They don't hurt a bit, of course, but they look sort of terrifying. They give me the look of someone up to no good of any kind. So, my normal look, except with bruises.
Today while I was waiting to get stabbed I was reading about some of the patients who needed platelets. Leukemia patients, little kids going through chemo, people recovering from organ transplants...like that. All kinds of people need platelets, and the Red Cross has to get them from somewhere. And...I dunno. It didn't seem like such a big thing to ask. What was so bad about taking two hours a week and wrapping up in warm blankets and getting tucked in and taking a nap and getting your nose scratched and then going back home to your family? Nothing I can think of.
After I finished donating the first time, I gave it some thought. And I figured it breaks down to this: two hours out of my very very blessed life to help someone recover from cancer. Or a kidney transplant. Or whatever...they get the platelets. And then they can get back to their families as I could go back to mine, full of cookies and feeling good.
A bargain, really.
April 4, 2011
I Anticipate Romantic Times
I'm off to Los Angeles tomorrow for the 2011 Romantic Times Convention. This should be excellent good fun, for me at least. I love RT. I need a couple of months to recover from it, but it's still a good time, every time. And readers do a good imitation of not being horrified upon meeting me, which is always nice. I'll be doing a couple of workshops and lurking in several more, and I'm also being rewarded for a year of bad behavior, which RT is calling a Career Achievement Award. Say it with me: woo-hoo!
March 17, 2011
I Invade New Jersey (by invitation!)
So I'm off to the CREATE SOMETHING MAGICAL conference hosted by New Jersey's Liberty States Fiction Writers in Iselin, NJ. I'm teaching a workshop (so they tell me) and giving the keynote speech (probably). But, as with all out-of-town trips I take, I have a secret agenda.
I wanna see the Cake Boss! Specifically, I'd like a peek inside Carlo's Bakery which, according to my spies at MapQuest, is only nineteen miles from the conference hotel. Nineteen miles between where I lay my head and clouds of frosting! How can I get the twain to meet? Surely I can fool someone into taking me over there before my flight home. "Um, I think my hotel is over there, next to that bakery with the huge line in front of it." And no, before you ask, I do not feel guilty; they're writers. They're used to punishment and despair.
We watch Cake Boss pretty frequently at our house. And, also, I write pretty frequently at our house. Now it's time to combine the two. Sure, I couldn't buy anything unless I gobbled it on the spot...I don't think delicate creams and pastries would travel well on Delta. Rocks don't travel well on Delta, and don't ask me how I know that. Maybe I could ship something? Or just shoplift? Yeah, that's the ticket. I'll conceal a three layer spongecake with chocolate buttercream filling under my coat. Or possibly in my purse. There's not much I wouldn't do for chocolate buttercream. My purse would understand. My purse wants me to be happy, dammit.
So! Now you know my sinister weekend plans. Hope to see some of you in New Jersey this weekend. When I'm not thinking about cake, I'll probably be talking about writing. And maybe even making eye contact with the occasional conference goer...I dunno. I haven't planned that far ahead yet. Can't seem to get visions of sugar plums (or the Cake Boss equivalent) out of my head.
Mmmm...buttercream...
I wanna see the Cake Boss! Specifically, I'd like a peek inside Carlo's Bakery which, according to my spies at MapQuest, is only nineteen miles from the conference hotel. Nineteen miles between where I lay my head and clouds of frosting! How can I get the twain to meet? Surely I can fool someone into taking me over there before my flight home. "Um, I think my hotel is over there, next to that bakery with the huge line in front of it." And no, before you ask, I do not feel guilty; they're writers. They're used to punishment and despair.
We watch Cake Boss pretty frequently at our house. And, also, I write pretty frequently at our house. Now it's time to combine the two. Sure, I couldn't buy anything unless I gobbled it on the spot...I don't think delicate creams and pastries would travel well on Delta. Rocks don't travel well on Delta, and don't ask me how I know that. Maybe I could ship something? Or just shoplift? Yeah, that's the ticket. I'll conceal a three layer spongecake with chocolate buttercream filling under my coat. Or possibly in my purse. There's not much I wouldn't do for chocolate buttercream. My purse would understand. My purse wants me to be happy, dammit.
So! Now you know my sinister weekend plans. Hope to see some of you in New Jersey this weekend. When I'm not thinking about cake, I'll probably be talking about writing. And maybe even making eye contact with the occasional conference goer...I dunno. I haven't planned that far ahead yet. Can't seem to get visions of sugar plums (or the Cake Boss equivalent) out of my head.
Mmmm...buttercream...
February 19, 2011
I Triumph Over My Nemesis
You know that part in the first Indiana Jones movie when Indy shouts, "I hate snakes, Jock! I hate 'em!" Yeah, that's me. Except substitute bats for snakes. Bats have always freaked me out. Yeah, yeah, they're so wonderful because they eat gobs of bugs...so? That's why the devil invented Raid. And bigger bugs. And spiders. And winter.
I think it's the way they swoop dizzily near my hair. And eyes. And the way they trick me into thinking they're barn swallows until they eep-eep-eep their radar at me and swoop dizzily near my hair. I don't like that. I hate snakes, Jock! I hate 'em!
So when I had to face one down an hour ago, by myself, I had no idea which of us was going to come out on top. I had to stand fast, though, and face my fears. My nap depended on it. So did my lunch, come to think of it; who can eat when there's a flying rat eep-eep-eeping near their chicken sandwich? Not this gal.
I had to defeat el diablo alone because I'd gone ahead of the rest of the family to open up our cabin. Tony and the kids would be along pretty quick, but I wanted to get there first to do a little grocery shopping, air the place out, make sure the heater worked, face down my ancient nemesis...the usual stuff. I wasn't sure when my ancient nemesis had moved in, but I knew when the thing was moving OUT, by God.
I'd just cranked Panic Switch by the Silverspun Pickups (hilarious irony...not!), then noticed the swooping. I was surprised; we'd had a couple of field mice try to move in, but never any birds. Aw, isn't that cute? It found a way in so it could keep warm, poor thing, and who could blame it? The poor thing's lucky not to be frozen, the weather had been so cold lately, it's almost a shame that I have to OH MY GOD IT'S A FUCKING BAT.
I hate bats, Jock! I hate 'em!
Every kind thought I'd had toward the hideous fucking thing when I thought it was a disoriented barn swallow was blotted out by my rage and hatred. How dare that disgusting filthy thing fly into our cabin, it should have stayed out in the dreadful sub-zero weather and frozen because I want it to DIE, DIE, DIE.
I had no idea what to do, except burst into furious tears and maybe, I dunno, open a window? Could I do both? Yes! Today I found out I can weep and swing open windows at the same time. The things I learn in the middle of the woods.
Okay. What do I do? Tony and the kids would be along soon, and I wanted to make homemade spaghetti sauce that could simmer on the stove and be ready to eat anytime. That in itself would take a while...all that exhausting work of preparing sauce, the five minutes of browning Italian sausage and all the trouble I'd have to go to in order to open those containers of pre-cleaned-and-sliced peppers and onions, and the hard work of opening a couple of cans of tomato sauce and dumping everything into one pot, and then the brutal stirring and endless time it will take to put the burner on Low so I could let everything simmer while I went to take a nap...brutal. So I needed to get started right away. My nap wasn't gonna take itself.
Chase it out? I cranked Panic Switch (that's when the irony of the song hit me); that would disorient it, right? It worked on my kids, anyway...when they had Panic Switch on they sure seemed disoriented. They couldn't hear me call them to do chores, either.
The Internet! Oh, Internet, once again you will make my life easier. I should have never doubted you, Internet. We were meant to be together. So I Googled "How do I get a bat out of my house?" and up popped several on-line ads and articles.
Huh! There are actual bat-removing companies, or services, I guess is the right word. You can just randomly call their number and be all, "Yeah, can you come and perform your bat services in my house?" Except the closest one was not anywhere near where I was. They were probably for big companies. Like Malt O'Meal in Northfield, if their company was suddenly infested with bats, they could call the Bat Removal Guys and get it all taken care of. But from where I was, it would have been more like someone calling to ask, "Yeah, I'm in the middle of the woods and there are TONS of mosquitoes out here. Can you come get rid of them?" It seemed not so much a problem as one of the (few, I'll admit) downsides of country life.
Okay, I wasn't calling in the pros. Another option would be to wait for my husband. We could team up like a couple of super heroes to defeat our arch enemy, like we did when I had to call Terminex to get rid of the boxelder bugs and then he followed up and wrote the check. Didn't see that coming, did you, boxelder bugs? See you in HELL, boxelder bugs! (Hmm. Bugs. Bats. And me. No, I do NOT see the common denominator, back off.) Two heads were (almost always) better than one, and I wouldn't have to deal with this crap by myself.
But my nap! I mean, the sauce. I promised I'd have a nice supper waiting for them. Well, supper at least; I hadn't guaranteed it would be nice, or even edible. So I wanted to get started on that, but I couldn't open a can of tomato sauce with that thing flying around. It made everything harder and scarier. And harder!
Plus, there was something a little 1950's housewife-ish about waiting for the Man of the House to come home and solve my little infestation problem. "Hello, dear, how was your day? Do you like my 1950's era dress, apron, and pearls? Isn't this just the perfect outfit for vacuuming? Here's a martini just the way you like it and oh, if you get a moment, dear, will you please GET RID OF THIS FUCKING BAT?" Um...no.
I guess I could do what some readers suggest I do now and again: ask myself what would Betsy do? What would Fred or Jennifer Scales or King Al or Cadence do? If I could think up some zany adventure for one of those guys, I could realize it's irrelevant because THEY ARE NOT REAL AND THE FUCKING BAT IS.
The solution was semi-obvious: I'd get rid of the bat myself. Well, me and our dog. Our old, old dog who we sometimes nudge with a toe to make sure she hasn't died in her sleep. Yep. The team supreme, that was us. I foresaw no complications of any kind. The next item the Internet came up with was an article: HOW TO GET A BAT OUT OF YOUR HOUSE, from www.howtodothings.com. Wow, great! No gray area there; it was exactly what I was looking for. So I clicked on it. Then was annoyed to see the sub-title: Safely, Quickly, and Humanely. I hadn't signed on for at least two of those. But there wasn't an article sub-titled Bloodily, Quickly, and As Inhumanely As Any Action Taken In The History Of The Bat/Human Conflict. So I was stuck with the lame 'safe quick humane' option.
Step one: Stay calm, don't panic. I was off to a terrible start since I was not calm, and couldn't be more panicked if the bat had been spraying napalm at me. I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm down. The nap. Think of the nap. The long, sweet, bat-free nap.
Step two: Close all doors. Ideally I could do that and corral the bat. Except the stupid cabin was on the stupid loft floor plan so essentially, three-quarters of the place was all one big room. One big tall room. As Liz Lemon would say, "Come on, Internet, give a girl a break." In fact, if I opened all the doors maybe the stupid thing would fly out. So I did the opposite of step two.
Step three: Put your pets in a separate room and close the door. Great. So the dog would be no help to me. At all. I had to stick the dog somewhere else and carry on the death-feud alone. Well, bats do carry rabies. I'd feel bad if the thing bit the dog *and* me and we both went foaming, barking mad and had to be Old Yellered. Our dog loves us; she's a good old gal and I didn't want her to get hurt. So the part of the house I could shut her inside, I did. I gave her a Chewnola to keep her busy while the bat and I fought for the freedom of Middle Earth.
Step four: Turn on the lights. This would disorient the bat. Um, there are no curtains in here, and no blinds. Anywhere. I have to wear sunglasses when I want to read in the living room. Turning on lights won't make it any brighter in here. But it *will* waste resources. Who wrote this stupid article, anyway? Anyway, I ignored step four, too.
Step five: Wait for the bat to roost. Oh. Wait for it to get comfy, relax, put up its little ratty bat feet and, oh, I don't know, TAKE A NAP? Nice to know someone's gonna be well-rested. Apparently the bat would want to cling onto something (eww! eww! eww!) and then quietly hang upside down (eww!). The thing getting all comfy (eww!) is for some reason all part of the Death Plan. Fine.
Step six: Get a hand towel and (optional) rubber gloves. Okay, in what universe would gloves be optional? If I'd been able to get my hands on a suit of medieval armor, I would have. Optional. Gah. And I grabbed one of the big bath towels out of the bathroom, which my husband would absolutely hate. He doesn't even like our kids to use them, never mind stray disease-carrying feral rabid bats. But I wanted something big to toss over the thing, and we were out of parachute canopies.
Step seven: Carefully place the towel over the bat. But the thing was still flying around the big room. When it stopped it would quickly take off again. It wasn't roosting. I figured I'd be relieved it wasn't getting ready to go sleepy-time, but it just pissed me off. Why was this online article ruining my life?
That's when I realized...the bat, when it wasn't swooping, was in the part of the house we call the bell tower. Our cabin was once an old church. So it's got this cool little room at the very top where we put a telescope. The stairs to the bell tower are so steep they're almost like a ladder...climbing up them is okay but when you climb down, it's safer to go down backwards, like a ladder. We've had this place over a year and I've gone up there less than a dozen times. Really steep.
But...there was a tiny balcony up there. And because of that, there was a sliding door up there as well.
That's where the stupid thing had made it's home. All I had to do would be to climb those dizzying steep steps, fumble around with one hand while shielding my head with my other arm, grab the handle, flip the lock, and slide the door (and the screen door) all the way open, so I could then trap the thing with a towel and push it outside. Have I mentioned the bell tower is about four feet wide? And that I was alone? Except for a dog I had put away in another part of the cabin? And that the bat was up there? And that I hate bats?
I could feel my blood pressure amp up as I realized: this would be simple (simple, not easy...big diff) and would only take a minute and there was no one else here to do it and it's the best way to get rid of this thing and the longer I try to think of another plan the longer the bat will be in here with me.
So I went back to my laptop and re-read the article. Nope, no one had changed the article or added another step or put in a "Just for MJD, here's whatcha gotta do and don't worry, you can get it out of your house without going near it" section. No, getting rid of the bat would be simple, but only if I stepped up.
Dammit! Fine. I went to the closet and pulled out my gigantic parka. My gigantic parka was blaze-orange, because when I'm tromping around in the woods in the fall I don't like to get shot at. "What is that, Dad, a bear? My god, is it some kind of hideous disgusting bear that has mutated and turned into something no man should ever have to face? Quick! Give me your shotgun...oh, wait, the hideous thing is wearing a blaze-orange parka. And walking upright. And speaking English to us. Put the gun away. Well, at least take the safety off."
So, yeah, the parka made me look gigantically orange (and also kept me warm in the winter), and when I put it on and zip it up I look like an orange Michelin Man, so it was perfect. It had a hood, too! And there were gloves in the pocket.
Armed with one of my husband's favorite towels, I slowly mounted the ladder. Oh, but first I flipped the light switch for the tower. And since the tower was almost all windows, and it was noon, it didn't make a damned bit of difference. But I'm a stickler for following every single step written in any online article about bats, so I obeyed.
As I slooooowly got to the top, I could see the bat. It was on the floor in the corner. There wasn't anything for it to (eww!) cling to, so it came to the highest place it could and just...hung out on the floor? Bad enough I'm infested with bats, but lazy bats? Jeez. Way to phone it in, bat.
Step eight: Talk softly to him. What? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Talk softly...I don't even do that for my kids. Whom I love. Talk softly? "Okay, you disgusting flying friggin' rat, I'm using my inside voice so you won't notice I am repulsed, and terrified of you. See how softly I'm talking even as my entire body vibrates with pure blazing hatred? See how I'm a gigantic blaze orange bundle of loathing and revulsion?"
Besides hissing hate-filled threats, I'm half-heartedly shielding myself with the towel while hanging onto the ladder with my other hand as I carefully climb. No worries, though; if I slip the dog will break my fall unless I shut her away in another room...oh. Right. What would King Al say if he was here? "Hey, dumbass. Don't slip."
Good advice. So, here was step seven, take two: Carefully place the towel over the bat. As I got to the top, I took a better grip and tossed the towel...right over the bat! Hey, I did it! And eew!
Step eight, take two: Talk softly to him. He is frightened (making it TWO mammals in the bell tower who were scared shitless and wondering just when everything in their lives went horribly horribly wrong) and will make buzzing noises. That is his echolocator.
Hey, step eight was right! The thing--not too big a bat, as I'd noticed earlier, it was about the size of a barn swallow. Anyway, once the towel flopped onto it (or was gently-yet-heroically tossed by a gigantic blaze-orange heroine) it did start to buzz. I wondered what his echolocator was telling him. "You're trapped under one of the man of the houses's favorite towels, and their new fabric softener is terrific."
Step nine: Wrap the towel around his body and gently pull him off the curtain. I had the bat, and the towel, but no curtain and nothing to pull him off of. He was still on the floor, buzzing softly under the navy blue towel I'd gotten at Bed, Bath and Beyond (on sale! though they're always having a sale) that my husband doesn't even like to let the kids use.
Step ten: Take him outdoors. Yay, step ten! I fumbled for, and found, the lock on the sliding door up there, flipped it, then got the door open (while keeping a careful eye on the buzzing navy towel), then unlocked and opened the screen door. Then I was able to step back (it was tougher than I thought to do all that from a cringing, subservient position). Fly! Be free! Fly, you disgusting fucking thing, get the hell out of here and go straight back to whatever pit spawned--oh, right, the towel.
Though steps one through nine had been pretty grueling, I had a bit of energy and strength of will for step ten. I sort of guided/pushed/eased the towel toward, then out, the door.
Step eleven: Open the towel and wait for him to fly off. Wait for him? Oh, sure. I'll just hang out up here in the bell tower until the thing decides to go look for a new person to terrorize. I've got all sorts of time to--oh, wait, there it goes. Huh. Bye, bat.
Step twelve: The bat will not 'turn on you' or attack in any way. He's just glad to be free.
Oh, really? He's not seething with hatred after I opened random doors, shut a dog away, blasted loud music, threw a towel on him, softly hissed death threats at him, then unceremoniously bundled him out the door, removed the Towel of Confinement, and exposed him to blazing sunlight and freezing temperatures? Are you telling me this hasn't gotten personal?
Huh. There he goes. I guess it wasn't personal. All right! Time to get back to work. I'm on a schedule here. My nap won't take itself, right?
I think it's the way they swoop dizzily near my hair. And eyes. And the way they trick me into thinking they're barn swallows until they eep-eep-eep their radar at me and swoop dizzily near my hair. I don't like that. I hate snakes, Jock! I hate 'em!
So when I had to face one down an hour ago, by myself, I had no idea which of us was going to come out on top. I had to stand fast, though, and face my fears. My nap depended on it. So did my lunch, come to think of it; who can eat when there's a flying rat eep-eep-eeping near their chicken sandwich? Not this gal.
I had to defeat el diablo alone because I'd gone ahead of the rest of the family to open up our cabin. Tony and the kids would be along pretty quick, but I wanted to get there first to do a little grocery shopping, air the place out, make sure the heater worked, face down my ancient nemesis...the usual stuff. I wasn't sure when my ancient nemesis had moved in, but I knew when the thing was moving OUT, by God.
I'd just cranked Panic Switch by the Silverspun Pickups (hilarious irony...not!), then noticed the swooping. I was surprised; we'd had a couple of field mice try to move in, but never any birds. Aw, isn't that cute? It found a way in so it could keep warm, poor thing, and who could blame it? The poor thing's lucky not to be frozen, the weather had been so cold lately, it's almost a shame that I have to OH MY GOD IT'S A FUCKING BAT.
I hate bats, Jock! I hate 'em!
Every kind thought I'd had toward the hideous fucking thing when I thought it was a disoriented barn swallow was blotted out by my rage and hatred. How dare that disgusting filthy thing fly into our cabin, it should have stayed out in the dreadful sub-zero weather and frozen because I want it to DIE, DIE, DIE.
I had no idea what to do, except burst into furious tears and maybe, I dunno, open a window? Could I do both? Yes! Today I found out I can weep and swing open windows at the same time. The things I learn in the middle of the woods.
Okay. What do I do? Tony and the kids would be along soon, and I wanted to make homemade spaghetti sauce that could simmer on the stove and be ready to eat anytime. That in itself would take a while...all that exhausting work of preparing sauce, the five minutes of browning Italian sausage and all the trouble I'd have to go to in order to open those containers of pre-cleaned-and-sliced peppers and onions, and the hard work of opening a couple of cans of tomato sauce and dumping everything into one pot, and then the brutal stirring and endless time it will take to put the burner on Low so I could let everything simmer while I went to take a nap...brutal. So I needed to get started right away. My nap wasn't gonna take itself.
Chase it out? I cranked Panic Switch (that's when the irony of the song hit me); that would disorient it, right? It worked on my kids, anyway...when they had Panic Switch on they sure seemed disoriented. They couldn't hear me call them to do chores, either.
The Internet! Oh, Internet, once again you will make my life easier. I should have never doubted you, Internet. We were meant to be together. So I Googled "How do I get a bat out of my house?" and up popped several on-line ads and articles.
Huh! There are actual bat-removing companies, or services, I guess is the right word. You can just randomly call their number and be all, "Yeah, can you come and perform your bat services in my house?" Except the closest one was not anywhere near where I was. They were probably for big companies. Like Malt O'Meal in Northfield, if their company was suddenly infested with bats, they could call the Bat Removal Guys and get it all taken care of. But from where I was, it would have been more like someone calling to ask, "Yeah, I'm in the middle of the woods and there are TONS of mosquitoes out here. Can you come get rid of them?" It seemed not so much a problem as one of the (few, I'll admit) downsides of country life.
Okay, I wasn't calling in the pros. Another option would be to wait for my husband. We could team up like a couple of super heroes to defeat our arch enemy, like we did when I had to call Terminex to get rid of the boxelder bugs and then he followed up and wrote the check. Didn't see that coming, did you, boxelder bugs? See you in HELL, boxelder bugs! (Hmm. Bugs. Bats. And me. No, I do NOT see the common denominator, back off.) Two heads were (almost always) better than one, and I wouldn't have to deal with this crap by myself.
But my nap! I mean, the sauce. I promised I'd have a nice supper waiting for them. Well, supper at least; I hadn't guaranteed it would be nice, or even edible. So I wanted to get started on that, but I couldn't open a can of tomato sauce with that thing flying around. It made everything harder and scarier. And harder!
Plus, there was something a little 1950's housewife-ish about waiting for the Man of the House to come home and solve my little infestation problem. "Hello, dear, how was your day? Do you like my 1950's era dress, apron, and pearls? Isn't this just the perfect outfit for vacuuming? Here's a martini just the way you like it and oh, if you get a moment, dear, will you please GET RID OF THIS FUCKING BAT?" Um...no.
I guess I could do what some readers suggest I do now and again: ask myself what would Betsy do? What would Fred or Jennifer Scales or King Al or Cadence do? If I could think up some zany adventure for one of those guys, I could realize it's irrelevant because THEY ARE NOT REAL AND THE FUCKING BAT IS.
The solution was semi-obvious: I'd get rid of the bat myself. Well, me and our dog. Our old, old dog who we sometimes nudge with a toe to make sure she hasn't died in her sleep. Yep. The team supreme, that was us. I foresaw no complications of any kind. The next item the Internet came up with was an article: HOW TO GET A BAT OUT OF YOUR HOUSE, from www.howtodothings.com. Wow, great! No gray area there; it was exactly what I was looking for. So I clicked on it. Then was annoyed to see the sub-title: Safely, Quickly, and Humanely. I hadn't signed on for at least two of those. But there wasn't an article sub-titled Bloodily, Quickly, and As Inhumanely As Any Action Taken In The History Of The Bat/Human Conflict. So I was stuck with the lame 'safe quick humane' option.
Step one: Stay calm, don't panic. I was off to a terrible start since I was not calm, and couldn't be more panicked if the bat had been spraying napalm at me. I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm down. The nap. Think of the nap. The long, sweet, bat-free nap.
Step two: Close all doors. Ideally I could do that and corral the bat. Except the stupid cabin was on the stupid loft floor plan so essentially, three-quarters of the place was all one big room. One big tall room. As Liz Lemon would say, "Come on, Internet, give a girl a break." In fact, if I opened all the doors maybe the stupid thing would fly out. So I did the opposite of step two.
Step three: Put your pets in a separate room and close the door. Great. So the dog would be no help to me. At all. I had to stick the dog somewhere else and carry on the death-feud alone. Well, bats do carry rabies. I'd feel bad if the thing bit the dog *and* me and we both went foaming, barking mad and had to be Old Yellered. Our dog loves us; she's a good old gal and I didn't want her to get hurt. So the part of the house I could shut her inside, I did. I gave her a Chewnola to keep her busy while the bat and I fought for the freedom of Middle Earth.
Step four: Turn on the lights. This would disorient the bat. Um, there are no curtains in here, and no blinds. Anywhere. I have to wear sunglasses when I want to read in the living room. Turning on lights won't make it any brighter in here. But it *will* waste resources. Who wrote this stupid article, anyway? Anyway, I ignored step four, too.
Step five: Wait for the bat to roost. Oh. Wait for it to get comfy, relax, put up its little ratty bat feet and, oh, I don't know, TAKE A NAP? Nice to know someone's gonna be well-rested. Apparently the bat would want to cling onto something (eww! eww! eww!) and then quietly hang upside down (eww!). The thing getting all comfy (eww!) is for some reason all part of the Death Plan. Fine.
Step six: Get a hand towel and (optional) rubber gloves. Okay, in what universe would gloves be optional? If I'd been able to get my hands on a suit of medieval armor, I would have. Optional. Gah. And I grabbed one of the big bath towels out of the bathroom, which my husband would absolutely hate. He doesn't even like our kids to use them, never mind stray disease-carrying feral rabid bats. But I wanted something big to toss over the thing, and we were out of parachute canopies.
Step seven: Carefully place the towel over the bat. But the thing was still flying around the big room. When it stopped it would quickly take off again. It wasn't roosting. I figured I'd be relieved it wasn't getting ready to go sleepy-time, but it just pissed me off. Why was this online article ruining my life?
That's when I realized...the bat, when it wasn't swooping, was in the part of the house we call the bell tower. Our cabin was once an old church. So it's got this cool little room at the very top where we put a telescope. The stairs to the bell tower are so steep they're almost like a ladder...climbing up them is okay but when you climb down, it's safer to go down backwards, like a ladder. We've had this place over a year and I've gone up there less than a dozen times. Really steep.
But...there was a tiny balcony up there. And because of that, there was a sliding door up there as well.
That's where the stupid thing had made it's home. All I had to do would be to climb those dizzying steep steps, fumble around with one hand while shielding my head with my other arm, grab the handle, flip the lock, and slide the door (and the screen door) all the way open, so I could then trap the thing with a towel and push it outside. Have I mentioned the bell tower is about four feet wide? And that I was alone? Except for a dog I had put away in another part of the cabin? And that the bat was up there? And that I hate bats?
I could feel my blood pressure amp up as I realized: this would be simple (simple, not easy...big diff) and would only take a minute and there was no one else here to do it and it's the best way to get rid of this thing and the longer I try to think of another plan the longer the bat will be in here with me.
So I went back to my laptop and re-read the article. Nope, no one had changed the article or added another step or put in a "Just for MJD, here's whatcha gotta do and don't worry, you can get it out of your house without going near it" section. No, getting rid of the bat would be simple, but only if I stepped up.
Dammit! Fine. I went to the closet and pulled out my gigantic parka. My gigantic parka was blaze-orange, because when I'm tromping around in the woods in the fall I don't like to get shot at. "What is that, Dad, a bear? My god, is it some kind of hideous disgusting bear that has mutated and turned into something no man should ever have to face? Quick! Give me your shotgun...oh, wait, the hideous thing is wearing a blaze-orange parka. And walking upright. And speaking English to us. Put the gun away. Well, at least take the safety off."
So, yeah, the parka made me look gigantically orange (and also kept me warm in the winter), and when I put it on and zip it up I look like an orange Michelin Man, so it was perfect. It had a hood, too! And there were gloves in the pocket.
Armed with one of my husband's favorite towels, I slowly mounted the ladder. Oh, but first I flipped the light switch for the tower. And since the tower was almost all windows, and it was noon, it didn't make a damned bit of difference. But I'm a stickler for following every single step written in any online article about bats, so I obeyed.
As I slooooowly got to the top, I could see the bat. It was on the floor in the corner. There wasn't anything for it to (eww!) cling to, so it came to the highest place it could and just...hung out on the floor? Bad enough I'm infested with bats, but lazy bats? Jeez. Way to phone it in, bat.
Step eight: Talk softly to him. What? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Talk softly...I don't even do that for my kids. Whom I love. Talk softly? "Okay, you disgusting flying friggin' rat, I'm using my inside voice so you won't notice I am repulsed, and terrified of you. See how softly I'm talking even as my entire body vibrates with pure blazing hatred? See how I'm a gigantic blaze orange bundle of loathing and revulsion?"
Besides hissing hate-filled threats, I'm half-heartedly shielding myself with the towel while hanging onto the ladder with my other hand as I carefully climb. No worries, though; if I slip the dog will break my fall unless I shut her away in another room...oh. Right. What would King Al say if he was here? "Hey, dumbass. Don't slip."
Good advice. So, here was step seven, take two: Carefully place the towel over the bat. As I got to the top, I took a better grip and tossed the towel...right over the bat! Hey, I did it! And eew!
Step eight, take two: Talk softly to him. He is frightened (making it TWO mammals in the bell tower who were scared shitless and wondering just when everything in their lives went horribly horribly wrong) and will make buzzing noises. That is his echolocator.
Hey, step eight was right! The thing--not too big a bat, as I'd noticed earlier, it was about the size of a barn swallow. Anyway, once the towel flopped onto it (or was gently-yet-heroically tossed by a gigantic blaze-orange heroine) it did start to buzz. I wondered what his echolocator was telling him. "You're trapped under one of the man of the houses's favorite towels, and their new fabric softener is terrific."
Step nine: Wrap the towel around his body and gently pull him off the curtain. I had the bat, and the towel, but no curtain and nothing to pull him off of. He was still on the floor, buzzing softly under the navy blue towel I'd gotten at Bed, Bath and Beyond (on sale! though they're always having a sale) that my husband doesn't even like to let the kids use.
Step ten: Take him outdoors. Yay, step ten! I fumbled for, and found, the lock on the sliding door up there, flipped it, then got the door open (while keeping a careful eye on the buzzing navy towel), then unlocked and opened the screen door. Then I was able to step back (it was tougher than I thought to do all that from a cringing, subservient position). Fly! Be free! Fly, you disgusting fucking thing, get the hell out of here and go straight back to whatever pit spawned--oh, right, the towel.
Though steps one through nine had been pretty grueling, I had a bit of energy and strength of will for step ten. I sort of guided/pushed/eased the towel toward, then out, the door.
Step eleven: Open the towel and wait for him to fly off. Wait for him? Oh, sure. I'll just hang out up here in the bell tower until the thing decides to go look for a new person to terrorize. I've got all sorts of time to--oh, wait, there it goes. Huh. Bye, bat.
Step twelve: The bat will not 'turn on you' or attack in any way. He's just glad to be free.
Oh, really? He's not seething with hatred after I opened random doors, shut a dog away, blasted loud music, threw a towel on him, softly hissed death threats at him, then unceremoniously bundled him out the door, removed the Towel of Confinement, and exposed him to blazing sunlight and freezing temperatures? Are you telling me this hasn't gotten personal?
Huh. There he goes. I guess it wasn't personal. All right! Time to get back to work. I'm on a schedule here. My nap won't take itself, right?
February 13, 2011
A Best-Seller Who Sponges Up Barf
Yesterday morning, when my son threw up Frosted Flakes all over the kitchen floor, he had no interest in my books. He didn't care how I thought up Betsy, and had even less interest in where I got all my zany ideas. He didn't care about the new book cover for YOURS MINE AND OURS, and he didn't care about the new cover for the paperback release of ME MYSELF AND WHY. Really, all he seemed to care about was warning me ("Mom, I'm going to be sick!") and apologizing ("I'm sorry, Mom...blllurrrggghh!"). Oh, and throwing up. He cared about that. Can you believe it? Some people are so self-involved.
Okay, sure, he was clearly a bit ("Okay, hon, I'm going to turn you around and aim you at the kitchen sink.") under the weather ("Okay, now I'm going to aim you at the other kitchen sink.") maybe. Still, there's such a thing as manners. ("Could you please stay in that hunched-over position while I do a hilarious rant on why it sucks that we're out of paper towels?") There's such a thing as knowing you're not the center of the attention all the time. ("Here, hold this Target bag while I find a small garbage can that isn't disgusting enough to make you puke when you aren't sick.")
In all seriousness, I felt pretty bad for the little guy. Nobody likes throwing up, but in addition to feeling miserable, he was also mortified ("I'm really sorry, Mom."). He's always been like that...when he was really little he was more upset by the mess than by the fact that his stomach was attempting to escape by hammering the Eject button.
I've been doing some interviews lately via e-mail, and a question I've been getting a lot is "what do your kids think about having a best-selling author as a mom?", or "is it hard juggling your family life with your writing life?"...like that. And the answer is, it's not hard at all. It's actually pretty simple. I'm a mom first. Everything else gets shoehorned in. If I don't like it, I never should have had sex. Tough, but fair.
So, my son. The poor kid...I didn't have a warning because he didn't get one, either. One minute he was gobbling Frosted Flakes (which he has now sworn off for life), the next: "Mom, I'm gonna be sick!" "That's fine, honey, just remember to tell her mom thank y--wait. What?" "Blurrrggghhh!"
I leaped to my feet (better late than etcetera) and rushed to his side. Well, gingerly tip-toed to his side (did I mention he missed the garbage can by about nine feet? hey, now my kitchen floor will get washed twice this season!). When it appeared he was done, I gently put my hands on his back and turned him 180 degrees.
"Okay, I'm--" "Blurrrggghhh!""--gonna put your over--""Blurrrgghhh!""--to the kitchen sink--""Blurrrggghhh!""--and, okay, now to--""Blurrrggghhh!""--the sink with the garbage disposal.""Blurrrggghhh!"
I began to feel like he was a gun and I was aiming him. A gun that fired bullets of barf. Oh, where was a book critic when I needed one?
"Your last book was puerile and derivative." "Oh yeah? Get 'em, boy!" "Blurrrgghhh!" "And there's plenty more where that came from, asshat. I just fed him a ton of ice cream. Reap what you have sown, bitch!"
(I have a complex and rewarding fantasy life.)
Finally I got him hunched over the right sink. Oh, and in addition to his patented Barf Bullets were frequent apologies. Sorry. Sorry about that, Mom. I'm really sorry. Sorry, Mom. Hey, Mom, this will be the second time this season we've washed the floor! (Me: "We?")
I'd left the interview (for a French website...UNDEAD AND UNWED is debuting in France this month) and come on the run when my kid gave me the "look out below!" warning. So the question ("Describe a typical day at work") was unanswered. And once I'd helped my son to bed ('to sofa' would be more accurate) I thought about it some more.
So! A typical day in the glamorous life of an international best selling author: start with the alarm going off at 6:45 a.m. and me cursing it bitterly. Though at first it was "why is my alarm--hey, all right, it's Saturday, I can sleep...dammit!" Speech meet for the other kid. They like to assemble just as dawn breaks...the speech team is like a flock of snow geese, waiting for sunrise so they can fly off and honk at each other as they cruise for the best field to eat and poop in.
Ah, but not this morning...we get to the school to find out the speech coach broke her leg just hours ago. No speech meet. "You mean we didn't have to get up at this hour of...dammit!" Return with eldest. Stare longingly at couch...but when I'm up, I'm up. Work on YOURS MINE AND OURS. Take a break to answer questions for a French website. Be alerted youngest is feeling perhaps a tiny bit sick to his stomach. Help him throw up in multiple spots, not just one. Put Barf Boy to bed. Sponge up puke.
Find time to gobble toast with Nutella (hey, I need the energy boost). Like most moms I know, the fact that I was elbow-deep in barf not ten minutes ago is no deterrent to me eating breakfast. In fact, my meals are a lot like the rations soldiers get in combat...you never know when you'll be under enemy fire again ("Bluuurrrggh!") so you eat when you can. Or if you're like me, you gobble when you can. Oh, Nutella, I love you. You're the only one who understands me.
Call kid's friend...so sorry, my son is riding the Barf Barge, he can't come over and play. My kid realizes that not only is he missing out on a play-date, he's also out of Lazer Tag this evening. "Why couldn't I be this sick yesterday?" he fretted from the couch. "I could have stayed home and missed school yesterday and felt fine today. Why did I get sick TODAY?" I sympathized ("Tough luck, chumley."), then gently explained that this sort of thing happens from time to time and it's best to accept that ("Suck it up, kiddo.").
I remember I'm trying a new pasta recipe tonight, and not just any pasta recipe...a cream-based sauce. I can't think of anything worse to feed a sick kid, unless it's syrup of Ipecac. "Then what should I eat?" I explain that he may have one tiny, bite-sized, plain piece of chicken breast and two small macaroni noodles, no sauce. Maybe. If he's feeling better at suppertime. Probably.
"Maybe you should make two different suppers," he suggested. Two suppers? Why, sure! And while I'm at it I'll mop two kitchen floors, go to two different drug stores for ginger ale, and marry a second man so I can have two different husbands. Yes, two men stomping around the house because their sock drawer is empty. Two men who, when they ask "did anybody finish that load of towels?" really mean "did you finish that load of towels?". Bliss.
Work on book some more, then take a break and check on kid, who asks to read the Calvin and Hobbes collection. It consists of three volumes, each of which weighs about a thousand pounds. I lug it over to him and check for fever. Nope, nothing, he's fine (relatively speaking). I send the other kid to (one) drugstore for ginger ale and water. Back to the book I go.
Almost before I can believe it, it's six o'clock in the evening. Yikes. Last time I checked the clock was eleven hours ago. No wonder I'm tired. I need a Milky Way, stat. Don't judge; it's a blood sugar issue. I indulge, then brush my teeth so as not to taunt the sick kid with my delicious chocolaty Milky Way breath.
He's fallen asleep, or been crushed beneath the weight of Vol. 2 of the Calvin and Hobbes collection. I carefully remove the open book from his chest. It was such a big book it looked like a paper mouth, stretched wide and trying to eat him in his sleep.
He wakes up. He tells me he feels better. He thanks me. "I'm really sorry you had to clean up all that barf." I tell him it was no big deal; that he was simply obeying the Rule of Three Bs: if it's not Blood, a Burn, or Barf, don't bug me. And that he'd never be in trouble for following the Bs, or getting sick.
"This stuff happens every day," I tell him. "It's not the end of the world. It's not even that interesting.""Then I'm really glad today is over." He sits up, kisses me on the cheek. Sinks back and yawns. "I'm really lucky your job lets you pick your own hours."
No.
I'm the lucky one. Barf-stained shirt and all.
Okay, sure, he was clearly a bit ("Okay, hon, I'm going to turn you around and aim you at the kitchen sink.") under the weather ("Okay, now I'm going to aim you at the other kitchen sink.") maybe. Still, there's such a thing as manners. ("Could you please stay in that hunched-over position while I do a hilarious rant on why it sucks that we're out of paper towels?") There's such a thing as knowing you're not the center of the attention all the time. ("Here, hold this Target bag while I find a small garbage can that isn't disgusting enough to make you puke when you aren't sick.")
In all seriousness, I felt pretty bad for the little guy. Nobody likes throwing up, but in addition to feeling miserable, he was also mortified ("I'm really sorry, Mom."). He's always been like that...when he was really little he was more upset by the mess than by the fact that his stomach was attempting to escape by hammering the Eject button.
I've been doing some interviews lately via e-mail, and a question I've been getting a lot is "what do your kids think about having a best-selling author as a mom?", or "is it hard juggling your family life with your writing life?"...like that. And the answer is, it's not hard at all. It's actually pretty simple. I'm a mom first. Everything else gets shoehorned in. If I don't like it, I never should have had sex. Tough, but fair.
So, my son. The poor kid...I didn't have a warning because he didn't get one, either. One minute he was gobbling Frosted Flakes (which he has now sworn off for life), the next: "Mom, I'm gonna be sick!" "That's fine, honey, just remember to tell her mom thank y--wait. What?" "Blurrrggghhh!"
I leaped to my feet (better late than etcetera) and rushed to his side. Well, gingerly tip-toed to his side (did I mention he missed the garbage can by about nine feet? hey, now my kitchen floor will get washed twice this season!). When it appeared he was done, I gently put my hands on his back and turned him 180 degrees.
"Okay, I'm--" "Blurrrggghhh!""--gonna put your over--""Blurrrgghhh!""--to the kitchen sink--""Blurrrggghhh!""--and, okay, now to--""Blurrrggghhh!""--the sink with the garbage disposal.""Blurrrggghhh!"
I began to feel like he was a gun and I was aiming him. A gun that fired bullets of barf. Oh, where was a book critic when I needed one?
"Your last book was puerile and derivative." "Oh yeah? Get 'em, boy!" "Blurrrgghhh!" "And there's plenty more where that came from, asshat. I just fed him a ton of ice cream. Reap what you have sown, bitch!"
(I have a complex and rewarding fantasy life.)
Finally I got him hunched over the right sink. Oh, and in addition to his patented Barf Bullets were frequent apologies. Sorry. Sorry about that, Mom. I'm really sorry. Sorry, Mom. Hey, Mom, this will be the second time this season we've washed the floor! (Me: "We?")
I'd left the interview (for a French website...UNDEAD AND UNWED is debuting in France this month) and come on the run when my kid gave me the "look out below!" warning. So the question ("Describe a typical day at work") was unanswered. And once I'd helped my son to bed ('to sofa' would be more accurate) I thought about it some more.
So! A typical day in the glamorous life of an international best selling author: start with the alarm going off at 6:45 a.m. and me cursing it bitterly. Though at first it was "why is my alarm--hey, all right, it's Saturday, I can sleep...dammit!" Speech meet for the other kid. They like to assemble just as dawn breaks...the speech team is like a flock of snow geese, waiting for sunrise so they can fly off and honk at each other as they cruise for the best field to eat and poop in.
Ah, but not this morning...we get to the school to find out the speech coach broke her leg just hours ago. No speech meet. "You mean we didn't have to get up at this hour of...dammit!" Return with eldest. Stare longingly at couch...but when I'm up, I'm up. Work on YOURS MINE AND OURS. Take a break to answer questions for a French website. Be alerted youngest is feeling perhaps a tiny bit sick to his stomach. Help him throw up in multiple spots, not just one. Put Barf Boy to bed. Sponge up puke.
Find time to gobble toast with Nutella (hey, I need the energy boost). Like most moms I know, the fact that I was elbow-deep in barf not ten minutes ago is no deterrent to me eating breakfast. In fact, my meals are a lot like the rations soldiers get in combat...you never know when you'll be under enemy fire again ("Bluuurrrggh!") so you eat when you can. Or if you're like me, you gobble when you can. Oh, Nutella, I love you. You're the only one who understands me.
Call kid's friend...so sorry, my son is riding the Barf Barge, he can't come over and play. My kid realizes that not only is he missing out on a play-date, he's also out of Lazer Tag this evening. "Why couldn't I be this sick yesterday?" he fretted from the couch. "I could have stayed home and missed school yesterday and felt fine today. Why did I get sick TODAY?" I sympathized ("Tough luck, chumley."), then gently explained that this sort of thing happens from time to time and it's best to accept that ("Suck it up, kiddo.").
I remember I'm trying a new pasta recipe tonight, and not just any pasta recipe...a cream-based sauce. I can't think of anything worse to feed a sick kid, unless it's syrup of Ipecac. "Then what should I eat?" I explain that he may have one tiny, bite-sized, plain piece of chicken breast and two small macaroni noodles, no sauce. Maybe. If he's feeling better at suppertime. Probably.
"Maybe you should make two different suppers," he suggested. Two suppers? Why, sure! And while I'm at it I'll mop two kitchen floors, go to two different drug stores for ginger ale, and marry a second man so I can have two different husbands. Yes, two men stomping around the house because their sock drawer is empty. Two men who, when they ask "did anybody finish that load of towels?" really mean "did you finish that load of towels?". Bliss.
Work on book some more, then take a break and check on kid, who asks to read the Calvin and Hobbes collection. It consists of three volumes, each of which weighs about a thousand pounds. I lug it over to him and check for fever. Nope, nothing, he's fine (relatively speaking). I send the other kid to (one) drugstore for ginger ale and water. Back to the book I go.
Almost before I can believe it, it's six o'clock in the evening. Yikes. Last time I checked the clock was eleven hours ago. No wonder I'm tired. I need a Milky Way, stat. Don't judge; it's a blood sugar issue. I indulge, then brush my teeth so as not to taunt the sick kid with my delicious chocolaty Milky Way breath.
He's fallen asleep, or been crushed beneath the weight of Vol. 2 of the Calvin and Hobbes collection. I carefully remove the open book from his chest. It was such a big book it looked like a paper mouth, stretched wide and trying to eat him in his sleep.
He wakes up. He tells me he feels better. He thanks me. "I'm really sorry you had to clean up all that barf." I tell him it was no big deal; that he was simply obeying the Rule of Three Bs: if it's not Blood, a Burn, or Barf, don't bug me. And that he'd never be in trouble for following the Bs, or getting sick.
"This stuff happens every day," I tell him. "It's not the end of the world. It's not even that interesting.""Then I'm really glad today is over." He sits up, kisses me on the cheek. Sinks back and yawns. "I'm really lucky your job lets you pick your own hours."
No.
I'm the lucky one. Barf-stained shirt and all.
January 30, 2011
I Am Stupid, Stupid, Stupid, Then Undeservedly Fortunate
So, a minor car accident today. An excellent precautionary tale: don't be stupid while you're driving. A moral we can all relate to.
The irony was, I wasn't on the phone, I wasn't texting. I hate texting...I don't even like to do it from the passenger seat. Anyway, wasn't doin' it. Wasn't talking to a friend on the phone, wasn't checking my eyeliner in the mirror. What I was doing was glancing down for half a second to see what song was coming up. I wasn't even touching the thing, just..."Hey, here comes Kei$ha's--whoooooooa!"
Yep, half a second of lapsed concentration was all it took. Good-bye, perfectly dry pavement with perfectly fine driving conditions, hello, ditch full of snow. Hello-but-now-must-leave narrowly-missed telephone pole.
There was silence while I realized what happened and then, as the strains of Kei$ha's latest annoying song (she bugs me, but I listen anyway) filled the car ("Comin' out your lips with your blah-blah-blah, zip your lips like a padlock") followed by my shriek: "Idiot!" Not Kei$ha. Me. Well. Mostly me.
I mean, jeez. I've been driving how many years now? Never mind. But it's been a lot. Too many years without an accident (my Ford trying to punch through my temple last month doesn't count; I wasn't actually driving) amounts to stupid complacency behind the wheel. Ho-hum, what's the next song coming down the pipe and isn't it great not being in a snow-filled ditch? Oh, wait...
So there I was, in the middle of nowhere, tire-deep in a ditch that hadn't shown green grass for four months. The car was running; everything seemed to work, I felt fine. Pissed, but fine. I was pretty sure I didn't need a cop, or even a tow truck...just someone to yank me out of the ditch. Unfortunately, I didn't have a "come yank me out of the ditch" button on my phone, so I called my husband and got his voicemail.
"Hi, don't worry, but I've been in a horrendous car accident and don't remember who you are. Once I get the blood mopped up I'll start to hike...somewhere. Don't wait up. Also, are those wolves howling in the distance? I think I'll try to make some new friends." Okay, not really, but that could have been fun. It was more like, "Yeah, I did an incredibly stupid thing and am now in the ditch, NOT HURT, just embarrassed, and I'm gonna call 9-1-1 for a tow, don't worry, I'm fine, I'll see you soon so don't worry. Also, there might be wolves after...never mind."
Then I called 911. Maybe it should have been the other way around but...I dunno. I wasn't hurt. I wasn't gonna freeze to death (I had over half a tank of gas, and there were houses within walking distance...not to mention cars passing and slowing to make sure I was okay). So I thought of Tony first, then the cops.
As I hit 9 and 1, a car driven by a teenage boy slowed and pulled across from me. He hit his window, so I hit mine. "Are you okay?" he asked, anxiously waving a cell phone at me. "Sure, just suffering from major blonde-itis," I said, pointing to my highlights. He cracked up and drove off.
Got through to 9-1-1: "911 Emergency, how can I help you?"
"Yeah, my name's MaryJanice Davidson and I've gone into the ditch. I'm fine. The car's fine. I don't need a cop. I'm not hurt. PLEASE don't roll fire or ambulance. I just need a tow truck. Actually I don't even need that. Just a good yank. Um, on my car."
"Where are you?"
"I dunno." (I didn't. I was on a minor highway in the middle of the Minnesota countryside with farms everywhere and no street signs for miles.) "Come on, you know where I am, right? In the movies you always know. Isn't your computer, like, triangulating me?"
"You don't know where you are? Did you hit your head?"
What, because I couldn't rattle off the longitude and latitude I was gushing blood from a head wound? "I'm on Highway 95," I sighed, "between Hastings and St. Paul. But I don't need an ambulance or a fire truck or really even a cop, but if you have to send one I won't complain. To your face."
"This is Washington County 911," she told me. "You need Dakota County 911."
"Well, what number do I call?" I snapped. "911? Because that's the number I already--"
"Transferring." She must have loved the chance to cut me off. I would have loved to cut me off. I was being kind of bitchy. I was raised better, too. But I was also raised to drive better, and look how that turned out.
"911 Emergency, how can I help you?"
"Yeah, I've--"
"Transfer from Washington County," the operator who loved to interrupt interrupted.
I didn't say anything.
"Hello?" the new operator asked.
"Oh, it's my turn now. Okay. Uh, my name's MaryJanice Davidson and I've gone into the ditch. I'm not hurt. The car's fine. I don't need an ambulance. Nothing's on fire. I'm not on fire. I just need a tow. Or a good yank."
"Where are you?"
Jesus. We just established that I'm an idiot who can't drive and doesn't know where she is. How long was all this going to take? I still had grocery shopping to do.
"I'm on Highway 95 between Hastings and St. Paul. I'm not on fire. I don't need an ambulance. Please don't roll fire and rescue," I begged. Daughter and granddaughter of firefighters and rescue personnel, I didn't want to drag someone away from their warm house and family on a Sunday because I wanted to know what Kei$ha song was coming next. It would have been so wrong. "I just need a tow truck, maybe." Whew! That seemed to take longer in my head...
"You're not hurt?"
"Only my pride. No I am not hurt!" I almost-shouted, wanting there to be no gray area whatsoever between she and me.
"What are you driving?"
Hey, good question! "A gray Ford Escape that..." Already tried to kill me, I almost said, then thought better of it. Who needed a trip to the Psych Ward? All I wanted was a snow shovel. And possibly cocoa.
"Okay, because we've had reports of a tan van in the ditch right about where you are."
"Well." I shrugged. "Witnesses."
"Actually, that's pretty good for witnesses," she laughed. "But they're calling in that you're hurt."
"I'm not hurt. I'm fine. This is not me being brave. I hate brave. This is me unhurt. Not hurt!"
"So you're not hurt?"
"Right. I just need a yank."
"Well, you should be talking to the State Police."
"Seriously?" I sighed. "So, what number would I call for that?"
"911," she said cheerfully. "But I'll transfer."
Thank goodness. I'd hate to call 911 again, and get the wrong 911 again.
"911 Emergency, can I help you?"
This time I was smart. This time I stayed quiet while the 911 operator told the 911 operator, "Transfer from Dakota County."
So I went through the whole thing again. But while I was doing that, two pickup trucks pulled over. Each driver hopped out and came over to me. "It looks like I've got a couple of Good Samaritans pulling over," I told the operator. Then, to the first driver to reach me, "Hi, I'm okay, I just need a yank."
"Yeah, I've got a 25-footer," Good Samaritan #1 says in the mysterious language known to Midwesterners who live in the country.
"D'you mind?"I asked, which was a dumb question, because he'd pulled over and gotten out, probably not to say "I could, but I won't...nyah-nyah!" and then roar off in a cloud of snow and Camel cigarettes.
So he and the other drive started pulling things out and poking around my tires, and I said to the operator, "It looks like they're going to give it a go. So probably you don't have to send anybody."
"Okay," she replied, "how about this? How about, after they get you out, you call me back?"
"Uh...call you back where?"
"9-1-1."
Oh, sure. Like I was falling for that again. "That way," she was saying, "we'll know you're okay."
"Good idea," I agreed. "For all I know, they could both be serial killers and this is part of their sinister plan to get their hands on a blonde marching band mom."
"Right," the operator said without the slightest trace of mirth. Killjoy.
It took my saviors about two minutes to get the job done. During which a Sheriff's car pulled up (argh! not one of those three operators listened to me). So he directed traffic and I obediently put it in Neutral, Drive, etc. as they instructed and in about two minutes I was back on the highway.
I got out, shook the first one's hand and thanked him, and then had to run to catch the second one, who'd already packed all his Good Samaritan Gear away and was climbing into his cab to zoom off to help other morons in other ditches. "Don't you dare leave until I shake your hand," I said and, bemused, he obeyed. "Thank you so much. I'm really grateful you stopped to help." He mumbled "yrr mmcmm" and off he went.
That's when the fire truck and the ambulance pulled up. "God DAMN it!"
I stomped up to the cop. "I said I was okay! I told all three of those operators I wasn't hurt! Go away," I begged the fire truck, waving frantically. "Oh please go AWAY! Thank you for coming. Now leave!"
Gah. They obeyed (the sheriff). The Good Samaritans were gone. Fire and Rescue were (thank God) gone. Then the sheriff turned to me and says, "Unfortunately, we're not done yet."
"No doubt," I said. "I was a moron and drove off the road, costing the county all sorts of money and aggravation in telephone calls alone. I don't even want to think what it costs to gas up a fire truck and send it out to wherever-the-hell-we-are. Also, could you not ever tell my dad about any of this?"
He stared, then laughed. "At least you're not hurt."
"At least I'm not hurt," I agreed, and then lightened the hell up. There are worse things than living in a country where all sorts of people insist on helping you in spite of yourself.
At least, that's what all the rescue personnel kept telling me.
The irony was, I wasn't on the phone, I wasn't texting. I hate texting...I don't even like to do it from the passenger seat. Anyway, wasn't doin' it. Wasn't talking to a friend on the phone, wasn't checking my eyeliner in the mirror. What I was doing was glancing down for half a second to see what song was coming up. I wasn't even touching the thing, just..."Hey, here comes Kei$ha's--whoooooooa!"
Yep, half a second of lapsed concentration was all it took. Good-bye, perfectly dry pavement with perfectly fine driving conditions, hello, ditch full of snow. Hello-but-now-must-leave narrowly-missed telephone pole.
There was silence while I realized what happened and then, as the strains of Kei$ha's latest annoying song (she bugs me, but I listen anyway) filled the car ("Comin' out your lips with your blah-blah-blah, zip your lips like a padlock") followed by my shriek: "Idiot!" Not Kei$ha. Me. Well. Mostly me.
I mean, jeez. I've been driving how many years now? Never mind. But it's been a lot. Too many years without an accident (my Ford trying to punch through my temple last month doesn't count; I wasn't actually driving) amounts to stupid complacency behind the wheel. Ho-hum, what's the next song coming down the pipe and isn't it great not being in a snow-filled ditch? Oh, wait...
So there I was, in the middle of nowhere, tire-deep in a ditch that hadn't shown green grass for four months. The car was running; everything seemed to work, I felt fine. Pissed, but fine. I was pretty sure I didn't need a cop, or even a tow truck...just someone to yank me out of the ditch. Unfortunately, I didn't have a "come yank me out of the ditch" button on my phone, so I called my husband and got his voicemail.
"Hi, don't worry, but I've been in a horrendous car accident and don't remember who you are. Once I get the blood mopped up I'll start to hike...somewhere. Don't wait up. Also, are those wolves howling in the distance? I think I'll try to make some new friends." Okay, not really, but that could have been fun. It was more like, "Yeah, I did an incredibly stupid thing and am now in the ditch, NOT HURT, just embarrassed, and I'm gonna call 9-1-1 for a tow, don't worry, I'm fine, I'll see you soon so don't worry. Also, there might be wolves after...never mind."
Then I called 911. Maybe it should have been the other way around but...I dunno. I wasn't hurt. I wasn't gonna freeze to death (I had over half a tank of gas, and there were houses within walking distance...not to mention cars passing and slowing to make sure I was okay). So I thought of Tony first, then the cops.
As I hit 9 and 1, a car driven by a teenage boy slowed and pulled across from me. He hit his window, so I hit mine. "Are you okay?" he asked, anxiously waving a cell phone at me. "Sure, just suffering from major blonde-itis," I said, pointing to my highlights. He cracked up and drove off.
Got through to 9-1-1: "911 Emergency, how can I help you?"
"Yeah, my name's MaryJanice Davidson and I've gone into the ditch. I'm fine. The car's fine. I don't need a cop. I'm not hurt. PLEASE don't roll fire or ambulance. I just need a tow truck. Actually I don't even need that. Just a good yank. Um, on my car."
"Where are you?"
"I dunno." (I didn't. I was on a minor highway in the middle of the Minnesota countryside with farms everywhere and no street signs for miles.) "Come on, you know where I am, right? In the movies you always know. Isn't your computer, like, triangulating me?"
"You don't know where you are? Did you hit your head?"
What, because I couldn't rattle off the longitude and latitude I was gushing blood from a head wound? "I'm on Highway 95," I sighed, "between Hastings and St. Paul. But I don't need an ambulance or a fire truck or really even a cop, but if you have to send one I won't complain. To your face."
"This is Washington County 911," she told me. "You need Dakota County 911."
"Well, what number do I call?" I snapped. "911? Because that's the number I already--"
"Transferring." She must have loved the chance to cut me off. I would have loved to cut me off. I was being kind of bitchy. I was raised better, too. But I was also raised to drive better, and look how that turned out.
"911 Emergency, how can I help you?"
"Yeah, I've--"
"Transfer from Washington County," the operator who loved to interrupt interrupted.
I didn't say anything.
"Hello?" the new operator asked.
"Oh, it's my turn now. Okay. Uh, my name's MaryJanice Davidson and I've gone into the ditch. I'm not hurt. The car's fine. I don't need an ambulance. Nothing's on fire. I'm not on fire. I just need a tow. Or a good yank."
"Where are you?"
Jesus. We just established that I'm an idiot who can't drive and doesn't know where she is. How long was all this going to take? I still had grocery shopping to do.
"I'm on Highway 95 between Hastings and St. Paul. I'm not on fire. I don't need an ambulance. Please don't roll fire and rescue," I begged. Daughter and granddaughter of firefighters and rescue personnel, I didn't want to drag someone away from their warm house and family on a Sunday because I wanted to know what Kei$ha song was coming next. It would have been so wrong. "I just need a tow truck, maybe." Whew! That seemed to take longer in my head...
"You're not hurt?"
"Only my pride. No I am not hurt!" I almost-shouted, wanting there to be no gray area whatsoever between she and me.
"What are you driving?"
Hey, good question! "A gray Ford Escape that..." Already tried to kill me, I almost said, then thought better of it. Who needed a trip to the Psych Ward? All I wanted was a snow shovel. And possibly cocoa.
"Okay, because we've had reports of a tan van in the ditch right about where you are."
"Well." I shrugged. "Witnesses."
"Actually, that's pretty good for witnesses," she laughed. "But they're calling in that you're hurt."
"I'm not hurt. I'm fine. This is not me being brave. I hate brave. This is me unhurt. Not hurt!"
"So you're not hurt?"
"Right. I just need a yank."
"Well, you should be talking to the State Police."
"Seriously?" I sighed. "So, what number would I call for that?"
"911," she said cheerfully. "But I'll transfer."
Thank goodness. I'd hate to call 911 again, and get the wrong 911 again.
"911 Emergency, can I help you?"
This time I was smart. This time I stayed quiet while the 911 operator told the 911 operator, "Transfer from Dakota County."
So I went through the whole thing again. But while I was doing that, two pickup trucks pulled over. Each driver hopped out and came over to me. "It looks like I've got a couple of Good Samaritans pulling over," I told the operator. Then, to the first driver to reach me, "Hi, I'm okay, I just need a yank."
"Yeah, I've got a 25-footer," Good Samaritan #1 says in the mysterious language known to Midwesterners who live in the country.
"D'you mind?"I asked, which was a dumb question, because he'd pulled over and gotten out, probably not to say "I could, but I won't...nyah-nyah!" and then roar off in a cloud of snow and Camel cigarettes.
So he and the other drive started pulling things out and poking around my tires, and I said to the operator, "It looks like they're going to give it a go. So probably you don't have to send anybody."
"Okay," she replied, "how about this? How about, after they get you out, you call me back?"
"Uh...call you back where?"
"9-1-1."
Oh, sure. Like I was falling for that again. "That way," she was saying, "we'll know you're okay."
"Good idea," I agreed. "For all I know, they could both be serial killers and this is part of their sinister plan to get their hands on a blonde marching band mom."
"Right," the operator said without the slightest trace of mirth. Killjoy.
It took my saviors about two minutes to get the job done. During which a Sheriff's car pulled up (argh! not one of those three operators listened to me). So he directed traffic and I obediently put it in Neutral, Drive, etc. as they instructed and in about two minutes I was back on the highway.
I got out, shook the first one's hand and thanked him, and then had to run to catch the second one, who'd already packed all his Good Samaritan Gear away and was climbing into his cab to zoom off to help other morons in other ditches. "Don't you dare leave until I shake your hand," I said and, bemused, he obeyed. "Thank you so much. I'm really grateful you stopped to help." He mumbled "yrr mmcmm" and off he went.
That's when the fire truck and the ambulance pulled up. "God DAMN it!"
I stomped up to the cop. "I said I was okay! I told all three of those operators I wasn't hurt! Go away," I begged the fire truck, waving frantically. "Oh please go AWAY! Thank you for coming. Now leave!"
Gah. They obeyed (the sheriff). The Good Samaritans were gone. Fire and Rescue were (thank God) gone. Then the sheriff turned to me and says, "Unfortunately, we're not done yet."
"No doubt," I said. "I was a moron and drove off the road, costing the county all sorts of money and aggravation in telephone calls alone. I don't even want to think what it costs to gas up a fire truck and send it out to wherever-the-hell-we-are. Also, could you not ever tell my dad about any of this?"
He stared, then laughed. "At least you're not hurt."
"At least I'm not hurt," I agreed, and then lightened the hell up. There are worse things than living in a country where all sorts of people insist on helping you in spite of yourself.
At least, that's what all the rescue personnel kept telling me.
January 22, 2011
I Am A Lizard
Now and again I get the urge to get off my big white butt and hit the gym and boy, do I hate when I get that urge. My natural habitat is the living room couch, where I graze contentedly on chips, gum, and in a pinch, couch candy. (Couch candy = you lift up the cushions and...you know what? This is disGUSting. Never mind.)
I have never believed no pain no gain, and have no interest in pushing myself to the limit, ever (if you don't believe me, check out one of my books). Nor do I want to feel the burn. Feel the burn, what are they, crazy? I was taught burns are bad. I was taught not to seek out burns. Being in a gym and feeling burned is pretty much my idea of the seventh circle of hell. (If you don't believe me, check out my big white butt.)
(Random reader: "Why, MJ? Why are you making me picture that first thing in the morning? I trusted you!" "Yeah, well, win some, lose some.")
But now and then, I feel a searing pain in my left arm followed by numbness, so I throw out my hot dog stuff with bacon (the Badog!) and spend an hour or so looking for my so-called athletic shoes. Then I venture into sub-zero temps, start my car, curse my car, scrape my car, curse my car more, curse myself for leaving the couch, curse the gym, curse my mother, curse my butt, curse the Badog, curse my car more...really, the whole ordeal...it's just exhausting.
My local YMCA is pretty great, if you're into that stuff: terrific staff, the place is spotless, smells pretty good (like clean pools), there are plenty of machines...and they constantly play the Food Network on their TVs.
Why? Why would you do that, YMCA? Why would you make me watch my beloved Ina Garten whip up coconut cupcakes when I'm trying to behave responsibly? I'm following your rules. I've never peed in your pool. I don't eat soft serve ice cream on the treadmill anymore. I don't coax employees to set up the treadmills in a "Here It Goes Again" video situation. But despite my obedience, now I have to look at pictures of, and think about, Braised Beef Tips.
Also, I don't sweat. I mean, obviously I do. But not enough to ever have to wipe down any machine I'm trapped in, be it the treadmill (where's my food pellet? shouldn't I be chasing a food pellet?), the stationery bike (which I like to call Having A Heart Attack While Sitting Down), or the stairs I have to climb in order to use the Stairmaster. Yeah. You read that right. Irony, you are the cruelest of mistresses.
I don't sweat, like I said, but the same can't be said of everyone. In fact, some people are sweat machines. You just have to wave a chili pepper at them and their forehead and chest instantly looks like the running Nile. Hey, I don't care, just don't flaunt your sweat and tight butt at me, that's all I ask. Everyone has to wipe down the machine when they're done, in case an errant drop of sweat or some soft serve ice cream splatters on the machine.
But it's all worth it to be healthy, right? Yeah, I don't agree, either. Regardless, I labored, lizard-like, while listening to the Tom Jones version of "Burning Down the House", Korn's version of "Kidnap the Sandy Claws", and Annie Lennox's "Little Bird". And, okay, I'm ashamed, but also Kanye's "Monster". I know, he's a dick. He's his own biggest fan and picking on Taylor Swift is right up there with throwing acid at puppies. It hurts me to say even one nice thing about him, but the guy can occasionally come up with pretty cool songs when he's not focusing his energy on being an asshat.
Despite the music, I was the only dry person in a sea of sponges. Except for my drool (stupid Food Network!). But I obediently did my thirty minutes ("They catch you?" "Yeah." "How long you in for?" "Thirty minutes."), then wiped off the non-existent sweat, took one more peek at the Food Network (Cornmeal Fried Onion Rings), snagged a Snickers from the machine, got my stuff, and headed out to get groceries. Weirdly, I mostly bought cornmeal, pudding, cupcakes, beef tips, and onions.
Hey, it's all about being healthy, right?
I have never believed no pain no gain, and have no interest in pushing myself to the limit, ever (if you don't believe me, check out one of my books). Nor do I want to feel the burn. Feel the burn, what are they, crazy? I was taught burns are bad. I was taught not to seek out burns. Being in a gym and feeling burned is pretty much my idea of the seventh circle of hell. (If you don't believe me, check out my big white butt.)
(Random reader: "Why, MJ? Why are you making me picture that first thing in the morning? I trusted you!" "Yeah, well, win some, lose some.")
But now and then, I feel a searing pain in my left arm followed by numbness, so I throw out my hot dog stuff with bacon (the Badog!) and spend an hour or so looking for my so-called athletic shoes. Then I venture into sub-zero temps, start my car, curse my car, scrape my car, curse my car more, curse myself for leaving the couch, curse the gym, curse my mother, curse my butt, curse the Badog, curse my car more...really, the whole ordeal...it's just exhausting.
My local YMCA is pretty great, if you're into that stuff: terrific staff, the place is spotless, smells pretty good (like clean pools), there are plenty of machines...and they constantly play the Food Network on their TVs.
Why? Why would you do that, YMCA? Why would you make me watch my beloved Ina Garten whip up coconut cupcakes when I'm trying to behave responsibly? I'm following your rules. I've never peed in your pool. I don't eat soft serve ice cream on the treadmill anymore. I don't coax employees to set up the treadmills in a "Here It Goes Again" video situation. But despite my obedience, now I have to look at pictures of, and think about, Braised Beef Tips.
Also, I don't sweat. I mean, obviously I do. But not enough to ever have to wipe down any machine I'm trapped in, be it the treadmill (where's my food pellet? shouldn't I be chasing a food pellet?), the stationery bike (which I like to call Having A Heart Attack While Sitting Down), or the stairs I have to climb in order to use the Stairmaster. Yeah. You read that right. Irony, you are the cruelest of mistresses.
I don't sweat, like I said, but the same can't be said of everyone. In fact, some people are sweat machines. You just have to wave a chili pepper at them and their forehead and chest instantly looks like the running Nile. Hey, I don't care, just don't flaunt your sweat and tight butt at me, that's all I ask. Everyone has to wipe down the machine when they're done, in case an errant drop of sweat or some soft serve ice cream splatters on the machine.
But it's all worth it to be healthy, right? Yeah, I don't agree, either. Regardless, I labored, lizard-like, while listening to the Tom Jones version of "Burning Down the House", Korn's version of "Kidnap the Sandy Claws", and Annie Lennox's "Little Bird". And, okay, I'm ashamed, but also Kanye's "Monster". I know, he's a dick. He's his own biggest fan and picking on Taylor Swift is right up there with throwing acid at puppies. It hurts me to say even one nice thing about him, but the guy can occasionally come up with pretty cool songs when he's not focusing his energy on being an asshat.
Despite the music, I was the only dry person in a sea of sponges. Except for my drool (stupid Food Network!). But I obediently did my thirty minutes ("They catch you?" "Yeah." "How long you in for?" "Thirty minutes."), then wiped off the non-existent sweat, took one more peek at the Food Network (Cornmeal Fried Onion Rings), snagged a Snickers from the machine, got my stuff, and headed out to get groceries. Weirdly, I mostly bought cornmeal, pudding, cupcakes, beef tips, and onions.
Hey, it's all about being healthy, right?
