June 28, 2007

All Is Well

The King's bloodwork came back, and all is normal. Apparently, despite eating french fries nine time a day, he is healthy as a horse, and with a good blood glucose level to boot. Yay for him.

Now that that weight is off my shoulders, I can scootch off to the hospital for work this afternoon with a light heart.* Hopefully I won't kill anyone today.

* All those weight metaphors are kind of weird, aren't they?

June 25, 2007

Blood Work

The King and I went to a health and wellness fair this weekend (by accident--it was billed as a solstice festival), and there was a lady giving free blood sugar tests to screen for diabetes. She told us our sugar level should be between 80 and 100, given when we had last eaten. My test showed 89, just perfect.

The King's number was 302.

I called a friend of mine who has diabetes yesterday, trying not to panic. She said that with a number that insanely high, in someone who is healthy and has no other signs, it was probably a testing mistake. The King had some ice cream earlier in the day, and if he had any little smidgen of it on his finger where they drew the blood, it could have affected the result like that.

The King is supposed to go to sick call today and schedule a fasting blood test so we can make sure he's okay. In the meantime, I am just going to sit here and try to breathe slowly and deeply and not panic.

June 22, 2007

This Was Supposed to Be a Really Funny Story About a Naked, Demented, Old Guy, But Then He Died

I started volunteering at a local hospital as a nurses assistant on the Medical/Surgical ward. I want to be an RN and thought this would be a good experience. All I did the first day was paperwork, which sucked. But yesterday, I got to do real patient care! The nurse manager asked me to sit in the hallway in front of the doorway of a patient who likes to climb out of his bed, even though he's partially paralyzed and get help if he tried to get out of bed. They call it "sitting," because, well, that's what you do.

Naturally, about three seconds after the nurse left me alone, the guy, an 85-year-old man, started yelling and trying to pull himself up. I grabbed the nearest nurse and got her to calm him down. She did, and left. Then the guy sat up and saw me in the hallway. He yelled, "Come in here, hey, come here!" I didn't want to, but I felt weird just ignoring him. So in I go.

As I get to his bedside, he flings back the sheet, revealing his completely buck-ass naked 85-year-old self, and yells loud enough for the whole ward to hear, "Hey baby! Jump on, you're hot!"

Yeah. So that's how I got this really funny story for my blog about how a naked, demented, old guy wants to have sex with me.

Except that after I sat back down at my post, the guy calmed down. I thought he fell asleep, until a few minutes later when a nurse when to check on him. She shook him once, did a double-take, shook him again, then looked up at me and shouted, "CODE BLUE!"

It was just like ER. Two dozen nurses suddenly appeared, running into his room with carts and needles and stands. One of them jumped on his bed and I watched them pound on his chest over and over while another pushed about a gallon of something (atropine, I think, but I don't really know) into his IV port. They pumped and pumped away at him for almost an hour. It was insane. The half-dozen nursing students who were on the ward all took turns giving him CPR, which they were clearly terrified about. But it didn't work.

At 1:22 pm, he died. The head nurse asked, "Who do we notify?" The RN checked the chart and said quietly, "No one. He doesn't have any friends or family. We just call the coroner."

Sorry, Mr. Ethan. I'm sorry you died alone. I'm sorry the last words you ever spoke were embarrassing and dirty. I'm sorry I saw you take your last breath and didn't even know it. Maybe if I had known and told someone a few minutes earlier, they would have brought you back. I'm sorry you don't have any family. I'm just really, really sorry.

June 15, 2007

To the Babysitter Who Won't Go Home

You know the couple you're babysitting for, the two who just got home from celebrating their wedding anniversary with an incredibly romantic candlelit dinner and a walk on the sands of Waikiki in the moonlight? They don't want to hear about your new boyfriend. They don't want to hear about how you think Sanjaya never should have been on American Idol, and they don't want to know who you think is the prettiest America's Next Top Model. THEY WANT TO HAVE SEX. GO HOME!

March 19, 2007

Turn Left at the Polaris Missile

I was running an errand on Pearl Harbor last week, and I didn't know where the office I needed to visit was, so I called the King at work and asked him. Only in the military can you get directions like these:

"Come up Kamehameha Highway and turn in at the main gate. Stop at the gate so the armed guard can check your papers and search the car. Then go through the gate and turn right. About two blocks up, make a left at the thirty-foot-tall Polaris missile on the side of the road. Then drive until you see the three-story building with no windows, ten satellite dishes on top, and barbed wire all around it. Turn right after that building into the parking lot, go up to the third deck, and show the staff sergeant your ID. Don't worry, she's really nice."

March 15, 2007

Open Letter to an Animal Abuser

To the person who abandoned this dog on my street yesterday:

You are a miserable excuse for a human being. I can't think of awful-enough things to call you. Because there is a forest at the top of my hill where people go to shoot wild pigs, I suspect you are a hunter. When your dog didn't hunt well enough, you simply left him up there to starve to death.

You sick bastard. This photo really does not show the horrific extent of your dog's absolute emaciation. I've seen starved dogs before on Animal Cops and been pissed off, but seeing it in real life is a hundred times worse and absolutely sickening.

He is clearly someone's dog, not a stray. When I found him staggering down the street, I ran and grabbed our old dog's leash. Your dog clearly has been walked on a leash before and seems to understand a few commands. And despite his agony, he was sweet and good-natured. The Princess was almost falling out of her stroller to play with him, and he gamely wagged his tail and smiled at her and tried to lick her hand, although he was barely able to stand up.

Too bad I couldn't let her play with him, because not only did you let him starve, but he has a massive infestation of fleas and mange, and he was bleeding freely from several places on his body, where he scratched all his skin off to escape the agony.

I thought he would probably die last night, even though we fed him about ten pounds of food. But he managed to get through another night, so your dog is probably going to be euthanized today after the Humane Society comes to get him. I wish we could keep him, but we just don't have room. At least his death will be quick and painless, unlike the slow horror you sentenced him to.

I suspect you haven't missed many meals, you scumbag. I wish I could lock you up in a closet for a week or two with no food so you would have a tiny inkling of what this sweet, friendly animal has been going through.

Most sincerely,

March 09, 2007

I Do Have a Life Outside of Mommyhood

I got a new publishing client this week, a journal of drug research. To that end, I spent the week editing two articles for them. The first was on how giving the chicken-pox vaccine to 70-year-old men can help keep them from spreading herpes to their presumably 70-year-old sex partners.

The second was on a women who got a horrific, life-threatening infection from a vaginal cream.

Do I know how to party, or what?

March 01, 2007

I Feel Like I'm in a Japanese Game Show

The Princess hates vegetables. Vegetables are good for her. Therefore, I spend at least an hour a day begging someone who speaks no English to eat a freaking carrot.

February 16, 2007

Don't Catch the Poop

If your squirmy baby kicks her poopy diaper off the changing table, let it fall! Do NOT instinctively reach out to catch it before it hits the carpeting. Why?

Because no matter how many times you wash your hands after catching poop in them, they will never feel clean again. You can get new carpeting, but you can't get new hands.

February 02, 2007


The Princess is now old enough and coherent enough that we can actually communicate. We don't just exchange poop and dribble anymore, we actually talk to each other. It's wonderful. Here is an example of one of our conversations:

The Princess: Ma ma ma ma ma.

Me: [joyously] That's right, honey! I'm your Mama! Mama loves you, sweet girl! You're the sweetest, smartest, most wonderful girl in the whole world! I love you so much! Come give Mama a kissie!

The Princess: [wandering away to find someone less annoying]

Please Be Specific

If I send you a set of questions that you have to answer before your book can be published, and you tell me you'll have the answers to me on Monday, I assume that means "this Monday."

If in fact you mean, "three weeks from Monday, maybe, if I don't decide to take off on a spontaneous skiing weekend in Vail, thus completely disregarding your deadlines, extra printer charges for a rush job, the print schedule, and in fact, your entire life," please say so. Don't just say, "I'll have it to you Monday."

Birthday Girl

My girl turned one year old yesterday. I am stunned. Shocked, even. I don't really understand how this could happen. How can she have been on earth for an entire year? And how can I have been a parent for an entire year? Parents of one-year-olds are haggard, strange folk who drift up and down the mall, speaking to random strangers because they are so desparate for human companionship that does not involve the transfer of poop.*

In celebration of the Princess's birthday, I am going to break the anonymity that I carefully preserve on here (anonymity that is now mostly pointless because most of my readers now actually know me in person), and post pictures of her so you can see the transformation for yourselves.

Here is my girl on the day she was born:

And here she is now:

See? It's unbelievable. How did I make something so wonderful?

* Okay, yes, I have done that. But only once or twice.

January 23, 2007

Punk Isn't Dead

I've been trying to post for ages, but Blogger is being a butt again. However, its' back now, and so am I, and I've got the Next Big Thing for you. Check out the Dresden Dolls. Seriously, they're fantastic. They call themselves cabaret punk, and I don't know what that means, but I love it. Get their album.

They're probably most likely to make it big due to "Girl Anachronism," which really is a catchy and fun song--how can you not love a song with the lyrics, "Please excuse her for the day, it's just the way the medication makes her?"

Then there's the syncopated, hilarious, calliope beat of "Coin-Operated Boy" and the delightfully pedophiliac "Missed Me," which starts out, "If you kiss me, Mister, I might tell my sister."

Seriously, they're fabulous. Get their album, listen to it, and be cool for the first time since you bought those black, high-topped Reeboks with the two sets of pink and white laces in eighth grade.

January 17, 2007

Solid Waste

This weekend, we bought the Princess a baby-size potty. It makes realistic flushing sounds (if you consider a singing frog realistic). She has yet to put any actual pee in the potty, but she has put the following into it:

--My car keys
--My cell phone
--Her toy phone
--57 Little People
--Nine baby crackers

Thank God we don't have a puppy--I know we'd find him wedged into the potty next to three well-chewed Little People.

January 12, 2007

Proper Documentation Is Required

The King and I have a baby book for the Princess. It's big and pink, and it was the fanciest one I could find; it cost $80. We carefully fill in every one of her firsts, from her first step to her first bath to her first swallow of food that didn't come out of my over-taxed boobs. I seriously considered putting her first pee in the potty in there, but that seems like a step too far, even for me.

Yesterday, we were discussing our potential second child, and I said, "You know, we're going to be so busy--and so much more relaxed--the second kid's baby book is never going to get filled out. The kid's going to be like ten and he's going to find his completely blank book and say, 'Hey, what's up with this? Why didn't you fill this in?'"

The King said, "Yeah, and we're going to say, 'Hey, you can talk? When did that happen? Well, if you're so smart, fill it in yourself! You remember doing all that stuff, right? Here's a pen.'"

January 11, 2007

Crappy Things I Have Done to My Daughter Today

1. Scratched her face with my engagement ring.

2. Let her fall off the changing table onto her head.

3. Dropped a bar of soap on her head while getting it off a shelf.

Seriously, if she turns out to be mildly retarded, it's totally going to be my fault.

January 10, 2007

Gag-Inducingly Sweet Mommy-Blogging Moment

When I went in my daughter's room this morning to get her out of her crib, she looked up at me and said, "Ma-ma-ma?"

It's her first word.

I clearly win the prize for best parent ever, since she said my name first, despite the fact that during her first year of life I have let her:

Eat a Raid-filled millipede,

Pull a heavy stocking holder onto her forehead (she still has a mark),

Choke on a Band-Aid,

Stay in the car while I returned a movie, and

Taste vinegar, horseradish, and pickled ginger.

January 09, 2007

Ask a Stupid Question, Get a Stupid Answer

Because I have a singleton baby and not twins or triplets or anything hideous like that, I don't get a huge number of stupid questions from people, unlike these poor folks. And for the most part, I don't mind at all when people ask about the Princess. I'm fully aware that she's bald, and I understand that it's hard to tell if she's a girl. And really, who cares? If she is dressed in blue, green, yellow, or even some pink with other colors mixed in, I couldn't care less about the nineteen people a day who will ask me, "Is he a boy?"

But if my daughter is dressed entirely in pink, from head to foot, including a pink bow glued to her bald-assed head, and you still ask me, "Is he a boy?" I'm going to give you the look I reserve for people who blast their car stereos and those who take 47 items into the express lane at the grocery store.

And then there was the teenage girl who waited on me at the shoe store last week. All cracking gum and cheap lipstick, she looked at me and my all-pink-clad baby and said:

"What is it?"

Because I am basically a polite person, I did not answer:

--"A golf cart!"
--"An alien"
--"A lifelike toy I ordered off E-Bay--Doesn't her skin look touchably soft?"

Instead I just smiled, said "She's a girl," and mentally added, "You imbecile." Then I didn't tell her when she under-charged me by $10.

January 08, 2007

When I Grow Up

Many parents make predictions about what their children are going to do as adults based on things they do as babies. I am no exception. These are my current predictions for the Princess's future:

What She DoesWhat She Will Be
Opens the toilet and sticks her hand in it. After I have used it.Sewage maintenance technician
Picks up things and smashes them together.Quarry worker, or possibly professional wrestler
Stuffs all her Little People into the Little People dollhouse and then slams the door on them and holds it shut.Warden in a women's prison
Takes all her clothes off and dances when she hears music.Well, strippers make good money, right?

New Love

I have a new favorite blog, courtesy of Finslippy: Looky, Daddy. I love it not only because Looky, Daddy is hilarious and smart, but because he is possibly the only person who had a worse Christmas trip than I did. You knw the evil of trying to travel on a plane for 21 hours with a baby? He did it with twins. And an older daughter. That would be THREE. Three children on a plane. So he gets today's award for my new favorite, and for being the person I now think of when I think, "Well, it could be worse. I could be that guy." Congratulations, Looky Daddy.

January 06, 2007

Can You Say "FDIC Insured?"

I don't get a lot of opportunities to say that I think the federal government is fabulous and is doing a great job, but they definitely made my tax dollars worthwhile today.

After being gone for two weeks, I checked my bank balance today and found it $4,000 short. Hmm. I know we spent a lot on Christmas, but that seemed a bit extreme. Plus, all the charges were in New York, and sadly, I haven't had a chance to visit Manhatten in two years.

Turns out that someone got a copy of the King's debit card and had a lovely time at our expense. They spent about $2,000 at Duane Reade, which appears to be a cheap, tacky, New York-area pharmacy. Maybe they have a lot of medical expenses; who knows? Then, when the card worked so well for that, they made several trips to Target for Christmas gifts, and finished up with $1,100 in purchases at Best Buy. I'm thinking someone got themselves a nice, new computer for Christmas.

Luckily, the money is all insured and will be back in our account by Wednesday. Thank you, Uncle Sam! For once, you did something right.

And to whoever thought it was cool to steal from people at Christmas: Karma is going to kick your ass, jackhole.

January 05, 2007

I'm Back

To cap off our "vacation," our final flight home was delayed for three and a half hours, and when we finally arrived in Hawaii, we found that our stroller had been smushed into small pieces by Delta Airlines. Nice.

But now we're home, throwing out dead poinsettas (who gives someone with a baby a toxic plant for Christmas?), unpacking the Princess's ten thousand new toys, dusting off the old toys that she screamed bloody murder about when we tried to retire them, and doing nine loads of laundry.

I need to drum up some work to ensure that we can pay for the many dentist appointments I have scheduled (I need FOUR crowns. Four.), so I'm off to shill myself to the publishing companies who occasionally give me some work. Happy New Year, y'all!