This picture ought to give you a good idea of where I'm headed, but if not don't worry. I'll tell the whole sordid story soon enough.
Worst. Weekend. Ever.
On death and dying
Did anyone else watch Private Practice last night? I couldn't watch last week because of the dying kid (and I don't even have a kid - how do parents stand it?) but made the mistake of watching last night's episode today. WTF is with the repetitive emotional bullying? I mean, you'd have to be made of steel not to cry. It's Thursday night primetime, for goodness sake. Do we all really need to be sobbing messes on a Thursday night? So close to the end of the week? If we manage to make it through to the weekend don't we deserve to segway into Friday lightheartedly, without a giant dose of harsh reality and empty tear ducts?
Still, the storyline of the two doctors helping a cancer patient die reminds me of something really powerful, something I know I've said before. I hate death and dying - my mom, a critical care nurse, has always seemed a natural with it: she understands the balance of life and death and it doesn't freak her out - it's the order of the world. In order to live, we must also die. But I struggle to accept death gracefully. I hope that I continue to learn to appreciate it, because I believe that being there with someone, in death, is the most profound gift you can give and receive.
I say this because being with my Grandma in the moments before and as she died is hands down the most important thing I've ever done in my life. And the greatest gift I have from her - and I have so, so many - is that we shared her final journey, just as we shared all our travels in life.
Hot child in the... middle of nowhere
*Warning: Bob, don't read this post*
I love all things hot. Hot showers, boiling baths, fireplaces, heating pads. Crank it up - the warmer the better.
My MIL bought me hand and toe warmers for Christmas. They start heating up once exposed to air and stay hot for about six hours. Since it was -12 degrees yesterday, I used them. Once home, I took the hand warmers and stuck them in my bra.
Why let perfectly good, hot hand warmers go to waste when they'd only clocked an hour and still had about five good hours left in 'em? I needed something tight to put them in so they wouldn't slip. It doesn't make sense to keep my gloves on in the house, they flopped around in my socks, and quite frankly my thong is just too tiny or I wouldn've stuck 'em down there.
Hubs thought this was a little frightening. I don't see why. Well, maybe I do since they gave me a pretty violent case of heat rash. Still, I'd do it again. It's like drinking something warm, and the heat just radiates as it travels down your chest and into your belly. Only in this case, it radiates from your boobs.
Is that weird? Am I weird? Please advise. Here in Minnesota, I seem to have lost all sense of reason when it comes to things temperature-related.
A warning shot fired
Yesterday, Hero and I had a crisis. A genuine crisis. Like, for real. Bad things happened.
What bad things, you ask?
Hero got his ear stuck in the Swivel Sweeper.
If you'd walked through our front door while this was taking place, you'd think an atom bomb had detonated in the kitchen. The noises, the crashing of plastic on floor, the flashes of fur, the squealing in pain (Hero) and screaming in absolute horror (me), the biting, flailing, scratching, PANIC! My heart was hammering and my voice was shrill with fear and adrenaline and Hero was losing. His. Shit. Not literally. But figuratively, shit was lost.
I finally got him to stand still so I could hold him and the Swivel Sweeper at an angle where it wasn't pulling on his ear. He calmed. He stood as still as I've ever seen him stand, and I could feel his little heart beating away through his furry, heaving chest. I can only imagine what he was thinking: What the hell? I always bite that thing. What the hell just happened? What's HAPPENING?! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! My head! It has my head in it's evil teeth! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
"Hero, stay calm. Stay still. It's okay." I finally realized if I didn't keep my cool no one else would do it for me. I needed to be clear headed and figure out how to extract my traumatized dog from this anti-PETA instrument of torture. I reached for the cordless and called Hubs, instructing him to come home immediately. I can only imagine at first he thought I was kidding, when I told him our puppy was stuck in the Swivel Sweeper. It sounds funny enough, until you start to really think about it. But he didn't laugh. Dutiful husband that he is, he just said he would be there in minutes.
So with Hero standing stock still in my arms I began to investigate how exactly the Swivel Sweeper had a hold of his floppy ear. It turns out his ear had gotten sucked into one of the spinny brushes and gotten tangled around and around. It took about five minutes of very careful finagling (because I knew if I pulled on his fur he would freak out and jump out of my arms, dragging both himself and the Swivel Sweeper across the kitchen floor once again in their already rehearsed tango of terror) and then I was finally able to free him. With both ears still intact.
When Hubs got home I was still shaking. I couldn't believe how scary that was - how much of a blur it had been and how quickly everything had gone wrong. So wrong. I blame myself - Hero was trying to bite at the Swivel Sweeper (he's always hated that thing) and I didn't think anything bad would happen. I told him to stop, but I didn't pull him away from it or remove him from the room. It just hadn't occured to me that this was a dangerous situation.
Looking on the bright side, Hubs commented, "At least we know now to keep him in a different room when you vaccuum."
I feel nauseas just imaging how things could have been so much worse.
So I suppose I got off easy. Still, consider yourself warned. Dogs + Swivel Sweeper = big scary bad.
Home alone horrors
Are you wondering what would be the worst thing to do when your husband has left for Vegas for the weekend and you're home alone with a tendancy to get FREAKED THE HELL OUT? I'll tell you what not to do. Don't take a long hot bath and make the decision to shave your legs while you're in the tub. Don't get out of the tub and start to towel off without checking for nicks or cuts. Don't bleed all over the floor and the rug, so that when you look down all you see around you are bloody pools and streaks EVERYWHERE. Don't let your dog come into the bathroom with you, so that he licks your blood off the floor and then - when you scream in absolute horror about the RED DEATH SMEARED ALL OVER - looks up at you with a face full of bloody fluff!!! DON'T DO THAT - IT'S SERIOUSLY SCARY!
Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!
On the plus side, I can tell you one gal who doesn't have any need for anticoagulants.
