Hip Blisters and Other Unattractive Afflictions

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have a new hobby.

 

My body, unbeknownst to my brain, has taken up the pastime of getting burned in old lady-ish ways.

 

I am typing this with my hands.

 

My right hand is happy, smooth and doing relatively well, as hands go. No aches, no complaints.

 

My left hand is covered with gray, peeling skin because I decided to open, directly onto the hand, a container of vegetables I was steaming.

 

My brain had no idea, of course. My brain is tired these days. A combination of new motherhood, a light case of insomnia and being in my thirties, most likely. Perhaps an occasional alcoholic drink too late in the day is to blame as well.

 

I think this time of weakness and distraction is why the body is able to sneak these autopilot-induced afflictions upon it. 

 

So I burned my hand steaming vegetables.

 

Such an elderly way to burn my hand. I might as well have burned it heating up cat food for the more finicky of my 25 cats. Or whilst ironing my lace doilies.

 

A few months ago, my thumb had the bubbles of 3^rd degree burns rippling across its shiny, red epidermis, thanks to a beef stew.

 

The best part being that I don’t eat beef stew. I can’t. I am actually tested-by-the-allergist allergic to red meat.

 

My husband and I were driving to Norman, Oklahoma to his alma mater to see an OU football game. His parents watched our son for us, so we made them a pot of beef stew in our crock pot to eat as a thank you.

 

(Flowers, schmowers. In the Midwest, we give BEEF as a thank you. Don’t worry about it. Mind your business.)

 

I managed to burn my thumb by pulling the lid off to give the gross stew a stir right before we left. I scooted the pot closer. It sloshed. My skin disintegrated and blistered.

 

Never mind that I had spent 20 minutes straightening my hair with a glowingly hot ceramic straightening iron before I did this. Nope. That would be an entirely too young way to burn myself.

 

My husband pointed out that he had matching burn scars on the very same thumb. We decided that was terribly romantic, in an Angelina and Billy Bob sort of way.

 

It hurt so bad, even wrapped in gauze with numbing ointment, that I was having trouble ignoring it on the way there. Once we arrived in Norman, I was forced to drink many beers. Just for the pain relief, mind you. Ahem.

 

Lest you think that maybe my body’s new hobby of getting burned in old lady-ish ways is merely a sign that I should stay out of the kitchen, I must tell you that I even managed to get burned in my own bed. This is where the old lady part comes in full force.

 

It’s cold here in the winter. I do not like the cold. There are few things I dislike more than being cold.

 

When I moved to Los Angeles in 2001, I said to myself, “Ahhhhh, Self. We found our open-minded people, we found our warm climate, we are home. Way to go, Self.” Inner high-five.

 

I was never coming back to this shit. I even sold all of my sweaters and winter clothes to the used clothing store on La Brea. Nope. Never gonna need those silly things again. Those ridiculous garments are for cold people.

 

Then I got knocked up, decided that I couldn’t imagine my kid not having a backyard and only parks full of homeless people and drug addicts to play in while growing up in a tiny apartment with his over-worked parents.

 

Damn. Back to the land of affordable housing and trees.

 

And cold. Don’t forget that part.

 

Sure wish I could get my chocolate brown shearling coat back from that store on La Brea. I loved that fucking coat.

 

This winter, I was occasionally driven to sleeping in my zip-up L.L. Bean fleece robe, like a giant, wizened and sun-damaged infant, floating in one of those larval-looking sleep sacks.

 

But as a lifelong naked sleeper, this made me crazy. My OCD (Quirks! They’re just QUIRKS!) absolutely would not allow pajamas, so I started putting a heating pad in my bed before I got in, to heat it up.

 

I would warm up my spot and crawl in bed to lie on top of the heating pad, feeling warmer than I had all damned day long. Like a cat in the window-streaming sun patch. Sometimes I would fall asleep on the heating pad. Ahhhh.

 

Until I burned my hip. Yes, my hip. My old lady hip.

 

At least I didn’t break it, right?

 

Right where the hip bone pokes out, I discovered a blister one day. It didn’t really hurt, so I’m kind of embarrassed to admit that I didn’t notice it immediately. I think I was putting on lotion and kind of went, “Huh? What’s this? Is it a bug bite? Eeeeew. It’s a blister!”

 

I hadn’t used the heating pad the night before, so it was on my hip at least a day before I realized it. It made me feel out-of-touch with my body, like one of those fat women who suddenly gives birth without realizing they’re pregnant.

 

Big nasty blister on my hip.

 

Yup. Try to control yourselves, fellas. I’m spoken for.

 

Maybe next time, for a grand finale in my series of creepy old lady burns, I’ll try to burn a bulging varicose vein. An elderly injury coup de grace.

 

It’s going to be fantastic.

 

Stop shuddering. You’ve seen worse.

 

 

I hope you’re having a lovely day, my friends.

A Vagina Full of Peeps and Other Touching Easter Tales

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

  

 

Yesterday, I made my husband pull the car over so I could grab a large pink Easter egg off the side of the road. He was annoyed and mildly repulsed by my impulse.

 

“I’m going to see you walking along the side of the road pushing a shopping cart someday, aren’t I?” he later asked me.

 

 

We spotted the egg on the way to his parents’ house for an Easter dinner gathering. Big, at least seven inches long, and pastel pink. I said, “I want to go back and get that egg!” He refused to stop the car.

 

I obsessed on the way into his parents’ house, “It might have had money inside, or a severed hand or something cool!” He rolled his eyes and we went in to greet his family, my son running ahead to assume doorbell pushing duties.

 

Hours later, when we left, I decided that if the egg was still there, I had to grab it. My curious brain would be going full-blast for the rest of the week if I didn’t find out if there was anything inside.

 

I do this a lot. It’s one of the more irritating facets of my personal brand of crazy; most of the time, I have endless questions galloping through my brain that must be answered. Must. Be. Answered.

 

I can’t merely observe life; my mind has to take it to the next level every time. I have to know why and how and who and when and where and the sociological implications of such, no matter how trivial the subject might seem. I have been told that I missed my calling as a forensic scientist. (Usually by someone trying to tell me in a very kind way that they want me to shut the hell up. But still. It counts.) 

 

For these reasons, Google is one of the best things ever invented, as far as I’m concerned. I call it the “SEE? I’m not crazy!” engine. (Example: “There WAS a television show in the seventies called Lucan about a guy raised by wolves! It ran for one year. SEE? I’m not crazy!”)

 

 

We pulled up to the stop sign turning out of the neighborhood; across the street sat the egg, nestled on the muddy embankment. Waiting for me. Why did the crazy lady cross the road? Such jokes whispered themselves mockingly inside my head.

 

“It’s probably just an old, deflated balloon,” sneered my husband.

 

“I saw seams! It’s not an old balloon, it’s plastic! I SAW SEAMS,” I snapped back.

 

I had to run in the rain, across a busy-ish street to get it, but I waited until all cars had passed and sprinted. I grabbed the big pink egg and raced back to the dry car.

 

Inside was a note that said: “Way to risk your safety and well-being for a stupid plastic egg, you moron.” I looked around for the cameras in anger.

 

Okay, no, just kidding. I thought that might be more exciting than the truth, but I cannot tell a lie. It was indeed a plastic egg, but not the kind that opens, the kind you might place in your front yard as an Easter decoration. Like, next to the plastic goose statue you change into festive holiday outfits. I was disappointed, of course, but at least there wasn’t a severed hand inside, right?

 

My husband said, “You probably just stole the calling card left behind by the Easter Killer.”

 

I laughed and replied in my best police officer voice, “Yeah, Sarge. We found this body in the woods near the side of the road… oh, the humanity. But we have no idea why the vagina was stuffed full of Peeps? Odd, that.”

 

Which might have been a little bit funny in a dark humor sort of way if I hadn’t spelled out the word vagina. Spelling out words kind of takes the punch out of a punchline, I have noticed since having a child.

 

But my son was in the back seat and I didn’t feel like trying to answer the “What is a vagina, Mommy?” question just yet. He immediately asked, “What are Peeps, Mommy?” so it was a good call.

 

We got home and put our son to bed, sweating, twitching and riding a sugar high that kept him up chattering and singing in his room for hours after we tucked him in. Ahhhh, holidays. Why are they all synonymous with sugar?

 

I scrubbed and disinfected the giant pink egg. I gave it to my son to play with this morning. He wasn’t very excited about it. I probably should have rolled it in candy.

 

 

I hope you had a hoppy Easter, my friends.

 

 

(Just deal with it. I will never call it anything but “Hoppy Easter” no matter what you say or how much you groan. It is so ridiculous, cute and awful to say this, that it circles back around to awesome in my head.)

 

(A girl in sixth grade who hated my guts often wore a shirt with bunnies on it that said: “You’re no bunny ‘til some bunny loves you!” and it also haunts me to this day.)

 

 

 

 

 

Spring Break 2009 Part Three

My cousin Laina lives in Phoenix. She and I were both pregnant for the first time, at the same time, which was a wonderful thing. We were able to whine about all of the bodily changes and pregnancy discomforts via email and it really helped to be able to talk to someone going through the exact same thing.

 

My due date was two months ahead of hers, almost to the day. We each went into labor on our due date and gave birth the day after our due date. What can we say? Elise and Miles are punctual kids. (Their names are also only one letter away from having all of the same letters. I just noticed that. Cool!)

 

This vacation marked the first time our children would meet each other and I was so excited about it.

Laina told my mom to let me know that Elise doesn’t like boys very much, so don’t take it personally if she didn’t like Miles immediately. I coached Miles in preparation for this by teaching him to say, “You’re pretty,” upon meeting Elise. I hoped this would warm her up to him. What girl doesn’t like to hear that, right?

We were at the zoo when they first met. I prompted him and he told her she was pretty. They got along great after a few minutes of getting used to each other. It was kind of amazing to me how quickly they seemed like pals and absolutely adorable watching them together.

Laina and I took the two of them over to look at some zoo animals while we waited to ride the train. Elise, whom I think is a little doll, reached out for Miles and they actually held hands for a minute. Laina and I squealed, and I got a few pictures of the extreme cuteness:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Can you stand it?

 

At the zoo, Miles rode his first big boy ride. It was a log ride, the kind that channels you around in a carved-out log boat that floats on water, culminating in a suspense-filled climb up a giant hill with a stomach-turning drop at the end.

Miles spotted the ride, and being the innocent creature that he is, didn’t even consider the tremendous drop involved. He begged and pleaded to go on it. “Please, Mommy? I want to go on the ride! Please?”

I refrained from telling him it was scary because I don’t want to pass my own fears on to him. I am not the roller coaster type. I try to pass it off as a strong case of survival instinct, but if I’m being honest with you, I’ll admit that I’m just a tremendous chicken. And laugh if you want, but I have a child now, so I have enough stress in my life to prematurely gray my hair without adding “sheer terror two hundred feet in the air” to the list.

Luckily for Miles, Grandpa is not a roller coaster ride chicken and volunteered to take him on it. What a good sport! You had to be 36 inches to ride this ride and Miles is 39, so they hopped into a log. Here’s a picture of them heading into the wet unknown:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Immediately after they took off, I was struck by a raging case of the What Have I Dones? That was my baby I just sent tumbling down a waterfall, after all. I raced over to the bottom of the drop at the end of the ride to capture the moment, and I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit that my hands were shaking so hard with fear for my child that I had trouble working the camera.

My dad said that when they got to the top of the big hill at the end, Miles wanted off the stupid log, like RIGHT NOW. It suddenly occurred to him that it was about to get scary. Toddlers don’t keep many thoughts to themselves, so I’d imagine the dialogue was pretty much like the one in my head that keeps me off of such rides. Poor kid. He really had no idea what he was in for.

Which makes it that much funnier. And heart-breaking. All at the same time. I was a swirling vortex of relief, dark humor, and sympathy as they got to the bottom of the ride and I saw my son’s unhappy little face:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Awwww. Look at that little lip sticking out.

 

The good news is that he was upset for about thirty seconds after he got off the ride and over it completely before we even made it to the aquarium to look at all of the cool ocean creatures.

We had a great time at the zoo and followed it with a pizza and pool party at my parents’ house.

At the pizza by the pool party, Elise and Miles swam, played and had a good time. Their pool antics together will be featured in my next blog. Get excited!

Spring Break 2009 Part Two

We spent the first day at my parents’ house settling in and relaxing by the pool. We decided a mellow rest of the day after the excitement of the airport and plane would be good for Miles, allow him to become acclimated with his new surroundings. He has somewhat limited experience dealing with new situations.

 

His daddy and I really try to give him a solid routine and a dependable (albeit boring) life, because we want him to feel confident and secure. Life can be unpredictable, hectic and crazy, and I want home to always be that safe place he can go to get away from the stress, no matter what age he might be.

 

So far this approach seems to be working. The separation anxiety child-rearing books warned me about seems to have skipped him almost completely. He is so confident, outgoing and friendly that he greets every stranger with a hello and a smile. He knows his parents “have his back” and I’m going to make sure he realizes this is for the rest of his life, not just until he turns eighteen. Parenthood is forever.

 

It probably doesn’t hurt that he has Mr. Entertainment (read: Mr. Ham) for a father and role model, but I’m also really amazed by how much biology has played a role, as far as my son’s personality goes.

One of the most shocking realizations for me as a parent is how much they are already born their own person. Pre-parenthood, in my college psychology classes, we childless twenty-somethings diligently debated Nature versus Nurture. We read our Child Psychology textbooks and thought we were so smart. Ha, I now say to childless twenty-something me. Ha.

I always imagined that when you raised a child, that meant you shaped them to be what you wanted—your version of a good person. Now that I actually have one, the reality seems to be that you just try to get to know whomever you win in the chromosomal lottery, and hope to teach them some manners, morals and common sense before they make their own way out into the world.

Don’t get me wrong, Miles has picked up so many words, phrases and habits from his parents. (Sometimes not even the ones we’d rather he didn’t!) We definitely influence him and teach him things. I’m just constantly amazed by how much my three-year-old is already his own person.

For example, his father is very much into sports and always has been, so we kind of assumed there would be an immediate interest. But Miles is much more into the creative stuff. He wants to do art projects, listen to and play music, sing, dance and he’s already learning to read. Much more intellectual and artistic than athletic. He has every type of toy involving a ball or a goal, so of course he wants a drum set, a guitar and an iPod more than anything. This may all change, of course, but it is so interesting to me that he already has such definite preferences.

Okay, time for one of my delightful, focus-attaining segues now… ahem… let’s see… here we go:

Speaking of learning to read, here is a picture of Miles reading books on his Grampa’s lap:

 

My little sister sculpted those horse models in the cabinet behind them.

 

Okay, so that segue was a little stiff. We’ll just stick to the rambling, disjointed show-and-tell format from here on out, yes?

The first thing we did the next day of vacation was go visit my sister Sommer’s house. She is an artist and an animal lover, so Miles was very eager to meet her and her pets. I’ve been telling him about his Aunt Sommer the artist who has horses, chickens and puppies his whole life, after all.

The first thing we did when we got there was pet the dogs and feed the chickens. Miles rolled around on the ground with one of the bigger puppies and nearly drowned from all the sloppy puppy kisses. We were yelling, “Stand up, Miles! Stand up!” because every time he got down on the ground, my sister’s 50-60 pound puppy (yes, puppy… still growing!) would roll around all over him and lick him. It was hilarious.

I regret not getting photos of this, but more than that, I regret not getting photos of Miles riding a horse for the first time. Doh! I was too busy walking on one side of him, prepared to pull him off if anything happened, as my sister walked on the other side, holding him and leading her very gentle mare. He went a few feet and then decided he’d had enough, but he was smiling and thrilled to ride his first horse as we pulled him off her back.

My sister had some baby chicks that had hatched in her incubator and a baby duck, so she let Miles hold the baby duck. It was ridiculously cute, and I remembered to get pictures:

 

Two cuties.

The tiny little duck beak was so adorable.

It had tiny little webbed duck feet too. I wanted to chew on them.

Awwwwwww.

 

Coming up next blog: Miles meets his adorable second-cousin Elise.

Hope you’re having a lovely day, and appreciate the self-control I just showed by not making some sort of “ducky day” pun. You’re welcome.