Daily Diatribes

I am the luckiest girl in the world!! I love you my multitude of commenters!! I am going to read each and every one of your blogs and comment. As soon as I cure cancer and end world hunger. Trust me guys, you’re on the list and I will get to you in due course. Pinky Promise!!

Now that Thanksgiving is over, we start the inevitable, horrific slide into Christmas. Most of the folks I know count Christmas as their favorite holiday. Their homes are already festooned with ribbons and garland. They braved the crowds yesterday to find the perfect gift for their shampoo girl. There are some hard core Christmaser’s out there.

Personally, I dread Christmas. I hate it with a passion. Not the sentiment behind it, just the attendant commercialism. I love Jesus as much as the next person (except for Peter, who is not Willow Tree, and who thinks I need a life…he obviously flunked Golden Rule 101) but that doesn’t mean I have to love Christmas too. Bah Humbug. I hate pulling out the decorations. I hate decorating the house. I hate knowing I spent two days to get it all perfect just so I can take it down again three weeks later. Bah Humbug.

My home is not festooned yet. Well, it’s festooned, but with empty diet coke cans and dust bunnies. I postpone festooning as long as I can because I HATE IT!! I wish I could afford to pay someone to festoon for me because it would be totally worth it! If any gay man is reading this and wants to donate his services, I would be happy to give him free reign. I’ll provide the Cosmos and the garland and you provide the festooning. I’ll drink, you decorate, and we’ll both be winners!!

And don’t even get me started on the Christmas lists. I have teenagers in my house. Gone are the days of innocence when my babies perched on Santa’s knee and sweetly lisped their desires for toy trucks and baby dolls. Oh no, we have evolved past that into full fledged retail greed. Here is a sampling of this year’s list, as lisped to me by 13 year old Marie Antoinette: “Mom, I don’t really need much, but I would like a Coach purse, you know the colorful kind with the big “C”’s all over it (retail $350); and I want a new phone and I think you should get me an I Phone because everyone at school has an I Phone and I’m the only one who doesn’t (retail $199 plus $25 monthly service); and I need a laptop and you should let me have an internet upstairs because I have to check my Facebook and Napoleon is ALWAYS on the computer (retail $600); and I want an I Pod Touch because they’re cool (retail $299); and I want a pair of Coach shoes (retail $125); and some clothes from American Eagle (retail $100 to $400); oh and please can I have a camera, a really colorful one (retail $150)???

Hmmmm, and people wonder why I hate Christmas? The butter and egg money aren’t going to cover Christmas this year. WT, can you put THAT on your blog?? Send money now so poor MA can have her heart’s desire for Christmas??? Needless to say, I laughed at her list in a very unkind way and I continue to snicker every time she brings it up. Coach purse my ass; I paid $15 for my purse at Kohl’s and I thought that was too much to spend!

Another reason to despise Christmas is all the preparation falls to me. Don’t think Hugo is one of those warm and fuzzy husbands who wants to tramp out into the snow with the children and cut down the perfect tree while imparting serious life lessons as he wields the hatchet on a helpless fir tree. No, Hugo is the husband who bitches and moans as I force him away from the television to drag our decrepit fake tree out of the attic and down the stairs. I have begged for a replacement tree for three years and have yet to win the battle. The tree sheds more needles than a real tree could EVER shed, but every year he tells me we can wait another year. He is nothing if not cheap.

If I’m really lucky and I’ve been a good girl all year, he MIGHT put the lights on for me. But that’s a big IF. Once the tree is up, he slinks back into the living room to watch the latest “Law and Order” marathon. I hate Dick Wolf and if I ever meet him, I will kick him right in the groin. Because he has stolen my husband from me with his endless “Law and Order” series. Bastard.

Ok, the tree is up, the lights are on (possibly) and now comes the decorating. Only we can’t have just regular decorations. No, Grandma has to give every family member a personal Hallmark ornament every year. We’ve been married for 17 years and Napoleon is on his 15th Christmas with us, so you do the ornament math. And each ornament has its own precious little box and must be carefully deboxed and hung on the tree. The whole process makes me want to dismember Santa with a toothpick and listen to him scream.

So yeah, I’m super juiced about Christmas. Can’t hardly wait. Really. And if you believe that, I have some WA MU stock to sell you! And I can give you a GREAT deal on it too!!

Happy Thanksgiving to all my readers. All of you. The five of you mean more to me than I can ever express in words and I am grateful you stop by occasionally and read this crap. Today we should all give thanks we live in a country where hardship for most of us means we might have to cut back on our trips to Starbucks. I don’t actually ever go to Starbucks because I am waaaaaaay too cheap to spend that much money on a hot drink in a styrofoam cup. I’ll be sacrificing my lunches out instead, but still, we are lucky. Yes the economy is not so hot right now, but history teaches us it will come back around. It always does.

Today marks the beginning of the annual Christmas panic. Would I be snide to say here that I am pretty much done with my shopping? A couple of trinkets to pick up for the goddess, some gift cards to buy and then I am finished with the whole damn thing. Yes, I do feel a wee bit superior to all the poor schleps who are going out tomorrow. You’ll save more money, but I have saved more sanity!

I know many of you are wondering what to get me for Christmas this year. I mean, what do you get the woman who has it all? I have a magic pancake maker. I have the silicone bakeware. We all know I murder chia pets, so that’s obviously out as a gift. So what do I want for Christmas, other than peace on earth and goodwill to men?

Well, it has bothered me for some time that I get very few comments on my blogs. I work hard, painstakingly crafting detailed and humorous posts about my children’s bowel movements and my infernal clumsiness. Day in and day out I blog, for no pay and frankly, for no recognition. The same six or seven people comment every time. Gina, Renee, Kiki, Allison, Lara, Buddha Girl, Equonoi and Joy, with the occasional comment from my dear Willow Tree and from Kathy. Well, and from Satan of course. I bet I am the only person in the blogosphere who can claim Satan as a regular reader. The rest of you? Total slackers!! Even Willow Tree, dear sweet man that he is, confided to me he does not understand why I get so few comments.

Willow Tree, for example, posts a blog entry about once every three weeks and he gets 40 to 50 comments every time. He is suffering from blog ennui, which is an all too unfortunate side effect of blogging. After you’ve been doing this for a couple of years, you find yourself running out of things to share. How many times can you post about the bag boy with Tourette’s before it stops being funny? (Actually, I always find that funny, but I am very politically incorrect!!!) I find myself starting a post, only to remember that I blogged about the very same topic two years ago. Blogging is DAMN hard work. It’s hard to keep it fresh and fun. And then I get NO COMMENTS???? I do this for love, not money. I want people raving about my wit, my comic genius, my sheer Brilliance!!!

So what do I want for Christmas??? MORE COMMENTS!!! It won’t cost you, my dear readers, anything except time. You must shamelessly promote me to your friends!! You must send links to my blog out across the world, telling people about my blog and begging them to comment. I will try to raise the quality of my blogging so you don’t look like a total idiot when your friends and relatives click on my blog, only to find me ruminating about the psychotic qualities of daffodils. I want a LOT of comments. I want 100 comments for Christmas. Let me qualify that: 100 comments from DIFFERENT people. Not you, signing in under 100 different names.

What are you waiting for? Get started!! Promote me!! Get me my 100 comments because it’s all I want!! I will work on the peace on earth thing and you guys handle the rest!! Alright, I gotta go work on the food now. Hope you all have a wonderful Turkey Day!!!

Do you have one of those friends who always has to outdo you? For example, if you complain that your finger hurts, she says “oh well that’s nothing, my whole HAND fell off yesterday” or if you have a virus she says “well, I had dengue fever last week, but it was only the 24 hour kind and my doctor says it’s a miracle I’m still here?” I have a friend like that and her name is Gina.

Shortly after penning my earlier post, I had the goddess call her grandmother. Soon my father in law appeared in his Chevrolet chariot and bore her away to the land of “whatever the goddess wants the goddess gets”. And I was left alone in peace. To celebrate our good fortune, Hugo and I decided to go out for dinner.

We went to Bonefish Grill, where I ordered a salad and grilled fish and rice, in honor of my recent cardiac woes. I figured I might as well get used to eating right, just in case I do have something wrong with me other than giant, saggy breast syndrome. I ate all my healthy dinner like a good girl, so as a treat, we ordered the chocolate creme brulee to share.

Right after we ordered, my phone rang. I reached into my purse to get it and I disconnected the call. Stupid phone has a stupid touch screen and I am always disconnecting calls, either when I pick it up or when I’m actually on the phone and my big, fat cheek hits the disconnect button. Anyway, I didn’t recognize the number. Normally, I would have ignored it, but I on a whim, I hit redial. “Hey, this is Jennifer,” I said when the other party answered.

“Hey this is the paramedics and we’re over here…” and he named the city where my mother in law lived. I was trying to process what he was saying and all I could think was that the damn goddess had done something to injure herself and ruin my evening. He kept talking and suddenly it started making sense. “We’re here with your friend and she wants you to come and get her daughter.” Ah, now I understood. It was my friend Gina, who is diabetic. Her blood sugar crashed and the paramedics had to be called. I told him I would call Joe and see what Joe needed me to do.

When I called, Joe was just arriving on the scene. He promised to call me back in a few minutes. Meanwhile, our dessert came. And dammit, I couldn’t enjoy it!! Don’t get me wrong, I ATE it, I just didn’t SAVOR it like I had planned to because I was worried about damn Gina. She’s always doing shit like this to me. She can’t be normal like me and just freak out and get it over with; no, she has to pass out at a gas station and 911 has to be called and my creme brulee has to be interrupted. Some friend.

As we were finishing the last bite, Joe called back and requested that we come and get the czarina. Sighing, I got up, Hugo paid the bill and we rushed to the rescue. I am always rescuing people. I am a knight in a white Suburban, swooping in to save the day. I need to write a blog about that one day. I have saved numerous people who have run out of gas, rescued a friend with a blown tire and of course, rescued Gina. I’m a freakin’ hero.

When we got to the gas station, we found the paramedics had gone and Gina sitting her in her car crying. I stomped over to her and said “Yeah, you SHOULD cry; I got rid of my kid and now I have to take your damn kid??? Thanks a lot!!! You owe me BIG!!!”

This had the desired effect of stopping her tears and we were able to get her home without further drama. The czarina came home with me and is here to stay until her mother has sufficiently recovered. Then she is going to get the czarina plus all three of my children. I figure it’s the least she can do for me after interrupting my date night!! Maybe I’ll throw in Lulu the idiot dog for good measure!!

T’was right before Thanksgiving and all through the house not a creature was stirring except for me!!! Friends and family will be coming over to eat with us and the dust bunnies must die. And where are my children in this equation? Currently, one is slurping up spaghettios with all the finesse of a toddler and two are tooling around the yard together in our vintage (ca 1975) golf cart. And the driver of the cart is in his pajamas.

Yes, it’s all merriment and mirth here in my Rockwellian suburb. I thought the little monsters would sleep late, but instead, they were all up and arguing by 8:00. I decided today was a great day to get the grocery list out of the way, so I ducked out, leaving Napoleon and the goddess in a heated battle over who would get to lick the icing cup from the Pillsbury cinnamon rolls. It warms my heart to see the Eagle Scout act so mature and responsible.

I wasn’t even gone five minutes before my phone rang. “Mooooommmmmyyyyy,” the goddess moaned tearfully, “Napoleon won’t let me lick the icing cup AND he called me a bad name!!!” I called her a bad name and told her not to call me again unless the house was on fire and maniacs with chainsaws were breaking down the doors.

I managed to drag my errand running out into three hours, but eventually I had to come home. Before I left, I had given them one job: clean the basement. They like to hang out down there, eating and watching movies. It’s disgusting. No one ever takes the trash out. No one ever picks up the empty popcorn bowls. Today it was going to all get done. Of course when I walked in, it had hardly been touched.

I got really mad and pulled the health card on them. Told them mommy was going to die. Told them all I wanted was for the basement to be cleaned before I died. Oh, and a really pretty pair of shoes to wear when I FREAKIN’ MEET JESUS TONIGHT!!! They were very contrite and they all trooped downstairs to clean. Almost immediately, the whining started.

With three kids, you never know how the alliances are going to play out. Usually, the older two are vying to see who can get the goddess on his or her side. Whoever has the goddess pretty much wields the power. Today, however, Napoleon and MA actually formed an alliance against the goddess. This almost never happens because they normally can’t get along enough to even breathe the same oxygen. But today they had it in for the goddess. I could hear her howling as I put the groceries away, but I ignored her and hummed a little louder and a lot more manically.

Inevitably, however, she came up to tattle. “Mooooommmmmmyyyyyyyy,” she moaned, “Napoleon yelled at me and said I was going to go to a BAD PLACE!!” I wanted to tell her we were already IN the bad place, but I refrained. Instead, I smiled at her and said “I’ll give you a job to do up here, how ’bout that?”

She thought it a splendid idea and so she unloaded the dishwasher while I finished putting away the food. Napoleon hollered up to see where she was and I told him what she was doing. “It’s ABOUT TIME she started doing some work around here!” he bellowed up and I could hear MA echoing the sentiment. They’re just miffed because I hired them both out to work fourteen hour days in the factory when they were four and the goddess still hasn’t started yet. But hey, I love her best!!

As I write this, I hear screaming outside. I look out the window and see the golf cart heading down the street with a deranged Napoleon at the wheel. I can see he is cackling madly. His hair is standing up and he is wearing bright yellow pajama pants with Mr. Potatoheads all over them. The goddess is running behind him, feet bare, golden hair streaming in the wind, screeching like a banshee because he won’t stop. Like Allison said, every day here is a stress test!
I hope you all have a safe and happy Thanksgiving! May the green bean casserole be plentiful (even if it does look exactly like booger casserole to me; you couldn’t pay me to touch the stuff) and the turkey not be undercooked!!

I am feeling a lot better today. The malaria seems to have gone into remission and the strep culture was negative. My neck is almost back to normal size and I can swallow without wanting to scream. All in all, I was cruising along in a pretty good mood until I got an email from Renee.: “I got your stress test back. I hate to say it, but there is an area that is worrisome for ischemia (low blood flow). Of course there is a but; it may just be “breast attenuation”. That’s medicalese for “your damn giant breast got in the way of a good picture”.

The good news is I’m not crazy. I KNEW there was something wrong with me!! The bad news is I’m not crazy and something is wrong with me!! It could just be I am well endowed. It could mean the guys in the stress lab loved me so much they want to see me again. Or it could be something more ominous. But what??

From the Mayo Clinic: Ischemia (is-KE’ me-ah) is a condition that occurs when blood flow and oxygen are kept from a particular part of the body. Cardiac ischemia is the name for this condition when the heart is the body part targeted. Ischemic heart disease is a term that covers heart issues caused by narrowing of the arteries. With arteries narrowed, less blood and oxygen are able to reach the heart muscle. This is also referred to as coronary artery disease and coronary heart disease and may ultimately lead to heart attack.

So I’m not worried at all, right? Wrong!! It takes nothing to freak me out!! Right now, I am hoping the DGB diagnosis is the correct one, DGB meaning Damn Giant Breast. DGB syndrome affects women across the world and can often lead to diagnoses of heart problems, when in fact, it is just the DGB inching over to obliterate the picture. As women age, the DGB tends to creep across the body, taking up more and more space, oozing its way into places it doesn’t belong. My name is Jennifer and I have DGB syndrome.

Actually, Pfizer is investigating an experimental treatment for DGB involving botulism spores and bull semen to see if DGB can be treated. A series of injections would halt the spread of the DGB and the underlying muscles would be frozen into a more upright position. Serious side effects may include: dizziness; shortness of breath; increased cup size; sudden intense sexual attraction to Holstein cows and long haired rockers; nausea; vomiting; and pregnancy. Consult your physician if you experience erect nipples lasting for longer than 24 hours. This treatment is not for everyone, including: women who are pregnant or nursing; women who wear less than a C cup size; and Holstein cows.

Anyway, I’m pretty much over it now. It doesn’t sound so bad. I need to exercise more (after I see the cardiologist) and probably take an aspirin a day. And probably, I need to stop worrying so much. Although that probably won’t happen until I stop breathing!! Which, hopefully, won’t be for a LONG, LONG time!!!

I like to stack up my medical events in one week to make ‘em really count. It wasn’t enough for me to have a stress test on Tuesday. Wednesday morning, I woke up with a sore throat. And by Wednesday night, I was in agony. I tossed and turned all night and into Thursday morning with the most painful sore throat I’ve ever had. Thursday morning found me in Dr. Renee’s office once again.

I walked into her office wearing two sweatshirts and wrapped up in a blanket. I was shaking I was so cold. The nurse checked my temperature and it was elevated, not entirely due to my layers of clothing. I was led back into an exam room and I huddled on the table trying to get warm. When Renee walked in, I greeted her with my diagnosis. “Hey, I either have Malaria or MRSA,” I said, teeth chattering.

Renee is not much one for thinking outside the box, so she merely ordered a strep test, which was negative. She’s soooooooo picky: ‘but you haven’t been to Africa Jennifer’ and ‘it’s not malaria season Jennifer’. Hmmmpphhhh!!! But she took pity on me, gave me some antibiotics and let me have a steroid shot, especially since I threatened to blog about her embarrassing incident. I have had more needles inserted in my body in the last week than in the last year!!! But I was grateful and I shuddered out of the office to get my prescription filled. I figured by Friday I’d be fine.

And I was feeling a bit better Friday, so I cleaned house. I had promised to take the undeserving MA and her little posse to see “Twilight”. For the uninitiated, this is based on a popular book about a girl and her chaste but damn hot love affair with a vampire who loves her but really wants to eat her just a little. I admit, I was hankering to see it myself. I killed myself cleaning house for the little ingrate, took a shower, prettied up and then picked them up at school. By this time, I was feeling pretty bad again, but I sat through the movie. Very entertaining to watch in a theater full of mostly pre pubescent little girls. When the characters kissed the first time there was not a sound in the theater. I could’ve yelled “FIRE” and no one would have moved because the fire was ONscreen!!

After the movie, the girls went to a party and I took some Advil PM and huddled into bed. And was still up most of the night, tossing in pain. By Saturday morning, I was convinced of the MRSA diagnosis. Had to be MRSA. I looked like I had a sock stuffed in each side of my neck, my glands were that swollen. I decided to spend the day on the couch watching football to see if I could overcome the foul bacteria. I pretty much stayed on the couch all day.

I even watched “Wheel of Fortune”. This show scares me. Pat Sajak and Vanna White have a deal with the devil because they have looked absolutely the same for twenty five years. And how can anyone stay so happy when her only job is turning letters over?? It’s a creepy show. And I’d never be able to clap for the other contestants if I wasn’t winning. I’d probably go nuts and shoot up the set or bash Pat with a chair.

I was talking to Nancy during the final puzzle and I thought I had it solved: —e - —t. “Give a shit,” I screamed at the screen. Ow. “Take a shit!!!! Have a shit!!!!!” Answer turned out to be ‘take a rest’ or something stupid like that. This would be why I’ve never tried out for Wheel. I’d never make it past the censors!!

I woke up at 6:30 this morning and I feel cautiously better. My back hurts from being on the couch for twenty four hours (I went ahead and slept there last night…why bother moving??) but my throat doesn’t seem to hurt quite as much. And I only have a small tube sock in the right side of my neck and a toddler sock in the left. It still hurts when I press the side of my neck, so I try not to press it. I’m smart that way!! I am going to church, we have a dinner afterward, then I’m coming home to convalesce again. More football on today!! And I have to get well so I can do my annual blog about gross Thanksgiving foods. Green bean casserole anyone???

Today I had to take a stress test. This is the kind of test at which I excel since I am a highly stressed individual. I didn’t have to cram for it because I am so good at being stressed. I passed with flying colors.

The test was necessary because every so often I have a freak out. I am coming to accept this as a basic part of my nature. I worry too much. I am a control freak. And I have a pathological inability to say “no” when asked to volunteer. Last night I was at a meeting and I’m not exaggerating when I say it took every ounce of willpower I possess to keep from volunteering to fill the secretary position. It would have been easier for me to resist Godiva triple chocolate cheesecake or a big ass diamond ring. My nature is to serve. My nature is to selflessly perform horrific, useless tasks no one else in their right mind would even consider. I am a masochist of the highest order.

Anyway, occasionally I reach a breaking point and I have a freak out. Last week I reached that point. I was out shopping with Hugo and we were discussing the holidays. He wanted to go away for the holiday. I wanted to stay home. He doesn’t like to stay home because then he feels he has to go to the office. I then worked up a huge head of steam and launched into an epic nag session about everything he has failed to do around the house for the last five years.

It was Olympic style nagging and I was really working my nag muscles. My hair was standing up, the veins in my neck were standing out and my heart started pumping furiously, trying to keep the blood flowing up to my jaw muscles. It was when I started berating him about the towel bars that should have been installed in our bathroom FOUR YEARS AGO that I started to feel funny. My head started to feel light and I felt disconnected from the situation. I felt as if I were drifting above myself, watching this harpy go at her husband. And I was on her side. I cheered from my vantage point high above myself. It was some damn good nagging.

When we went into Sam’s I had to go to the bathroom. It’s located near the pharmacy, so I decided to check my blood pressure since I was still feeling weird. I was horrified to see that it was 156/109. I checked it again, knowing how unreliable those cuffs are and it was even higher. That was it for me….freak out was complete. I called Dr. Renee immediately and wheedled my way into an immediate appointment.

I made Hugo drive me over to her office. Of course by the time we got there, my blood pressure was almost normal. But Renee loves me, and takes me seriously, despite my hypochondria, so she kindly consented to the EKG I ordered. Not only do I read WebMD, but I have watched every single episode of “House” and I am an excellent diagnostician, which is why she listens to me. I am going to print a certificate on my computer and go into practice for myself. But until I get my DEA number, I have to rely on Renee.

Well, the EKG did show a slight abnormality, so the good doctor sent me for a stress test. And gave me a bottle of Xanax. Which brings me to today. I had to be at the diagnostic center at the inhumane hour of 6:30 a.m. And for this particular test, the patient must be caffeine free for at least 48 hours. 6:30 a.m. and no caffeine is not a pretty picture. Plus I was anxious about the test. I had a stress test several years ago and it was, well, stressful. Of course, I was hospitalized (this was my last freak out) and completely run down, so the test was a nightmare. I was really dreading a repeat experience. I got there early and sat in the parking lot and stressed.

Finally I went inside, ready to get the damn thing behind me. I signed in, filled out my paperwork and I was led back to the torture chamber..er, exam room. This was to be the first of many encounters with Ed of Nuclear Med. Um, Renee forgot to mention to me I was having a NUCLEAR stress test, which explains why I almost fell off the chair when he approached me with a needle the size and thickness of a Number 2 pencil. He smiled at me cheerfully, as he tried to insert the needle into the side of my arm. “My goodness,” he murmured as he poked around, “you have some thick skin.” Oh that Ed…he does have a way with words.

After getting the catheter inserted and ensuring a sufficient amount of my blood had dripped out, he taped it off and led me to a waiting area. There I was greeted by Kevin, the nicest nurse ever. Kevin asked me a series of questions pertaining to my medical history and I gave mostly honest answers. As he was finishing up, another patient walked in and who should it be but my old friend Andrea!! Not Andrea H., Renee’s sister, who has offered me a sum of money if I relate a most embarrassing story about her sister in these pages, but another Andrea, one I hadn’t seen in a long time.

Suddenly the whole process became a lot more bearable. We sat in the waiting room and chatted as we drank vast amounts of water to force the radioactive stuff we had just been injected with into our hearts. I know that doesn’t sound like the wisest course of action, but it’s what Kevin said to do. As we were sitting, I asked Andrea if she thought it would be harmful that I had lied to Kevin about my weight.

“Hell no,” she said, “I took ten pounds off!!” Since I had only taken off five, I felt a lot better. There was another lady in the waiting room with us and she was jonesing for some caffeine. I thought my withdrawal was bad because I had a two day headache, but this chick was in bad shape. She was jittery and nervous, speaking rapidly and pacing around. “I only drink 2 or 3 diet Mountain Dews a day,” she told us. “But then I drink tea for the rest of the day. Oh and water, but I like to put those Crystal Light energy packets in it.” And then she wonders why she has heart problems???

Pretty soon, Ed from Nuclear Med came back to get me and the x-ray portion of our day started. For fourteen minutes, I had to lay perfectly still, my left arm stretched out above my head and my right hand tucked under my butt. As soon as he told me not to move a muscle, my nose and left shoulder blade started to itch. It was fourteen minutes of agony. In the room next to me, where the treadmill was, the caffeine freak had evidently had some sort of meltdown because I heard the nurse telling her reassuringly “no sweetie, it’s ok, people take swings at me all the time.” Just what the kind of test was this????? If they were trying to stress me out, they were certainly succeeding. And, just to really hurt me, Ed went out and came back in with his breakfast which he proceeded to eat as he scanned me. I was not allowed to eat before the test, so I thought that was a really nice, sadistic touch.

Finally, I was able to relax and scratch my nose. My left arm was almost useless and my right hand was dead asleep. Happily, it started tingling painfully as soon as I moved and it continued to throb for ten minutes. My brain tried to diagnose neuropathy, but I told it sternly to shut the hell up. My next stop was the monitoring room, where I was hooked up to a heart monitor. The nurse was very sweet and bore a rather uncanny resemblance to Sarah Palin, right down to the accent. I think she might have been Sarah Palin because Sarah is from Alaska and the nurse’s hands felt as if they had recently cupped an iceberg. Every time she attached a lead and touched me, I jumped.

Once I was hooked up, the cardiologist came in and asked me some questions. I told him Renee said I have ‘man cholesterol’ because my good cholesterol is low. He loved that description and is planning on stealing her line. Then it was off to the treadmill. By now, I was fast friends with everyone. They loved me. I mean I was working that room like a pro and they were eating it up!! I wanted to stay forever and hang out with these fun people. I got on the treadmill and knocked out eight minutes like a pro. I was hardly even breathing hard. When they switched it off I said “for an old fat lady, I’m in pretty good shape.” They howled. I’m telling you, I owned them.

Then it was back to Ed in Nuclear Med for the twelve minute x ray. He and I had a very serious discussion about local politics and about Barack Obama and how his administration might play out. When my test was done, I hopped off the table and in walked Andrea, so I stuck around her test as well and Ed and I continued our discussion. When Andrea was done, he turned to me, eyes glistening and said “you have really made this the most enjoyable morning. Thank you.” I was humbled and offered to sign an autograph for him, but he declined. I guess he didn’t want to make me uncomfortable. Such a sweetie.

With our tests behind us, Andrea and I went to Panera, where I loaded up on carbs and caffeine. Kevin said my EKG was perfect so I figured I might as well celebrate. So the upshot of all this is my heart is fine, my thyroid is fine and I’m apparently just crazy. I went by Renee’s office after breakfast and picked up a bag full of Lexapro. I guess as long as I’m crazy and medicated, I’ll be fine. Oh, and the Xanax? I haven’t even taken one. I figure it’s like Linus’s security blanket. I don’t have to have it, but it’s nice to know it’s there if I need it!!

Dinner time has become an exercise in trauma lately. The goddess is entering the ‘picky eater’ stage, something my other two managed to avoid. Possibly because when they were her age, I was not taking mood altering medications and they were frightened of me, and rightfully so!! Why do the parenting books blather on about children needing to be treated with respect and not intimidation? I find a good healthy dose of fear keeps the little buggers in line!!

Anyway, the goddess is, in most respects, a very good eater. She loves fruits and vegetables, would eat her weight in cooked cauliflower and orders her cheeseburgers all the way. It’s only when I cook dinner that the picky eater surfaces. I’m not a terrible cook, but most anything I make is greeted with “ewwwww I HATE THAT!!! I’M NOT EATING THAT!!!!” After a while, it wears on the nerves.

I have witnessed the following behavior in all of my family members: If I serve a chicken breast and a side of rice, everyone is happy. But things come to a screeching halt if I have the nerve, the unmitigated GALL, to combine the rice and chicken together. Then the entire family stares collectively at their plates as if I have served up rotting octopus legs smothered in cactus gravy. Plain food is fine, but GOD FORBID I should combine ingredients and make a casserole. Then no one eats.

My family’s reaction to lasagna would make an excellent case study for a budding psychiatrist. When the goddess was born, friends and neighbors brought us food. And for many, many, many people, lasagna is their signature dish. We got a lot of lasagna. So much lasagna, in fact, that the older children are now terrified of it. If the word is mentioned in their presence, their eyes roll back in their heads and they break out in a cold sweat. The goddess, on the other hand, loves lasagna with a frightening intensity and could tuck away half a pan by herself. Do you see how difficult it is to cook for these people??

Tonight, I made red beans and rice with sausage. I made it from a mix, but I browned the sausage in the pot, and then I sauteed celery, onion and garlic in the drippings. From there, I followed the directions on the box. It turned out pretty good, I thought, with my little personal touches elevating it from boxed crap to boxed crap with a tiny bit of flavor. Napoleon raved about it and ate a huge bowl. MA picked at it delicately but managed to suffer through her portion. The goddess spent an hour in her seat moaning about the injustice of being served such slop and demanding a bowl of cereal.

I am not great with rules, but one hard, fast rule in my house is ‘this ain’t a restaurant’!!! I make one dinner and if you can’t tolerate it, too bad for you. This is why my children all eat salads and fruits and other exotic foods like meatloaf. Eat what you’re served or die in my house.

The goddess, however, tests this rule constantly and with great gusto. She is unaccustomed to the word “no”. It just doesn’t fit into her lifestyle. So she whined and she carried on and generally made my life miserable. “please mommy, I can’t eat this, it’s too spicy mommy, I don’t like it, can’t I just have a sandwich please mommy, you’re so mean, I’m not eating this!!!!”

The goddess is an endurance whiner. She has staying power that would make an Olympic athlete green with envy. If whining was an Olympic sport, I would have already shipped her off to train with the best coaches. She would definitely be a contender for a Gold Medal in Olympic Whining. However, I was unmoved. “Certainly, you don’t have to eat this,” I told her in a friendly tone, “but you’re not getting anything else! So you may want to eat it!”

As her angst was escalating, Hugo arrived at home. Quickly, I grabbed my keys and told him I had to rush Napoleon off to choir practice, thus leaving him to deal with the Battle of the Red Beans and Rice. I gunned the engine and roared out of the garage, but I could still her whining. I’m not sure who won, but believe me, I took my time on the drive!!

It’s funny how talks in real life never quite happen the way they do on “The Cosby Show”. Cliff and Claire are so cool and calm, and they creatively manage to convey morals to their children without ever resorting to harping or lectures. I do not possess the same knack. I start out with a soft spoken “honey, we need to talk” and end up screaming “BECAUSE I SAID SO GODDAMMIT, THAT’S WHY!!!!!” I wonder if Bill Cosby offers in home training sessions?

My talk with MA went ok this afternoon. I asked her about the letters in a calm and sensible voice. She rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders and said “MOM, I DON’T like him at all!! I never even talk to him,” which effectively took the wind out of my sails. Apparently the letters were written to her during the summer and they have had no contact since then, except for the occasional text messaging which I am nipping in the bud. I hope they don’t turn this into a Romeo and Juliet thing because I’ll jump straight to the end and poison them both myself!!

I have decided having children is way too hard, so in the morning, we all leave for Nebraska. I am surrendering them to the state; let them worry about this shit!! Just think: I still have another daughter to raise. Yipppppeeeeee!!!!!!!!!! Going to drink now…..

I was cleaning MA’s bedroom today because she has a friend coming over tonight. Not cleaning so much as I was changing sheets and vacuuming. The room itself is actually somewhat startlingly clean considering who lives in it. I did suggest to the other mom she pack her daughter’s biohazard suit just in case.

I was changing the sheets when I made my discovery. I was tucking in the sheet and a cardboard envelope poked out from beneath the mattress. I was puzzled but truly, nothing in that bedroom startles me. I could find a turkey leg under her mattress and I wouldn’t be shocked. Curious, I opened it to see what was inside and I was immediately consumed with rage.

One of Napoleon’s creepy little friends has been sending her love letters. I have told this friend on several occasions, without mincing words, that she is too young for him. And honestly, he’s not a bad kid, but she could do better!!! The ick factor here is high!! He called just two weeks ago and wanted her to go to Homecoming with him. I told him to call back in two years. And then I find LOVE LETTERS???!!!!

I put them down for a few minutes to stew and to think through the implications. As I vacuumed, I ran through various scenarios that included: manacling her to a pole in the basement until she is 21; ripping the boy’s heart out and eating it while it is still warm and beating; contacting the Latin Mafia to see if I can get a contract on him; sending her to a cloistered convent to live with nuns; and other ideas too gruesome to share here.

I am pretty sure she doesn’t really like this boy that much. I think she’s flattered by the attention from a 10th grader. But when I picked the letters up again and read them thoroughly, I saw RED, as in the red of his blood pooling around my feet after I’ve ripped his tiny little gonads from his body. Because he said (direct quote) “I can’t wait to see you, you have such a sexy little body and I love your shortness…” May I take a moment here to veer into profanity and say if that little fucker ever uses the word sexy regarding my daughter I will personally rip him into shreds and feed the remains to Rocky the Bearded Dragon? Cause I will do it!!

I am trying to calm down and to quell my mutilation fantasies. My husband was actually calmer than me. He wants to establish a timeline for the letters to see how long it’s been since the creepy little bastard contacted her. What makes this whole thing even worse is NAPOLEON is the one passing the letters!! Even though we have told him that his friend is too old for MA and that we do not approve, has passed her these filthy notes right under our noses!!! Going to rip him to shreds too!!! Dumb shit.

I am open to suggestions here!! I would love some guidance from anyone who has older children or from anyone with legal expertise in the matters of homicide. It amazes me how enraged I am. But my daughter is truly beautiful. I can say that because she doesn’t look a bit like me and because enough people have told me how beautiful she is. She makes straight A’s and is in the honor society. She is a stellar athlete and a good person. She drives me nutty, but she is an amazing young woman and I am always proud of her. This kid is nice enough, but she can do better and she deserves better than some smarmy, pimply faced nut job who writes her icky love letters. Damn, I am PISSED OFF!!!

Ok, I am feeling a little bit better now. Truly, she hasn’t done anything wrong, except receive the letters. I plan on interrogating her this afternoon to make SURE she hasn’t done anything wrong. I am going to google “water board” to see if I can get a good deal on some used ones from Guantanamo. I am welcoming any and all input into this situation, especially input on how to destroy evidence and hide dead bodies!!