What is it about getting older? It seems that the older I get, the more my body tries to mess with my mind. I have been dealing with “the curse” since I was twelve years old but for some reason, it seems that my PMS is getting worse. It’s almost like my body is trying to completely drive me insane just in time to throw me into menopause. I keep trying to blame it on birth control pills but I really believe that I’m going nuts and I think my Honey would agree. The following occurred last night. I sure hope he’s there when I go home today.
I started my “green pills” on Tuesday – Ladies, you know what that means. Yesterday I arrived home from work to my wonderful Honey, my beautiful Baby Girl, my lovely niece, Baby Girl’s best friend and our 3 dogs. On a normal day, this would be no big deal; I’m used to the chaotic life I lead. I come in and Honey and Diva are having an intense discussion about how Baby Girl can’t do her homework at school. From the den I hear Baby Girl arguing that it’s against the rules for her to do her homework at school. Crack Head 2 is rambling about how she didn’t have any homework and her kittens were learning tricks. Salty (the little dog) and Nugget (the medium dog) are barking and chasing each other and Snow (the big dog) is lying in the middle of the very small kitchen floor flat on his back.
Now, to set this up a little better you need to know a few things. Honey has always made sure that when I come home from work, I am allowed 10 minutes to myself. I am to go to the garage, patio, roof, etc. and take my smokes and the beverage of my choice. I don’t have to talk to any humans in the flesh or on the phone for at least 10 minutes – that’s the rule – his rule and I love him for it.
Back to yesterday. For whatever reason, PMS, severe mental defect, I’m just a big meanie, whatever, I stood there in the kitchen listening to all of this commotion and I couldn’t take it anymore. I yelled at Snow to get his tail out of my way, I yelled something at Salty and Nugget about breaking off their legs and beating them to death, I told Baby Girl to go her room and do her homework, I told CH 2 to go home and I told Diva and Honey to SHUT UP and quit aggravating Baby Girl. Suddenly the entire house was very quiet. I grabbed my smokes, a Diet Coke and my crossword puzzle and headed to the patio.
Now, I’ve completely shown my tail but dang it, I’m supposed to get 10 minutes! I’m sitting out there on the patio, in the 85 degree sun, in my BLACK shirt and jeans that I’d worn to work. I smoked one cigarette, worked three clues on my puzzle and was about to have a heat stroke. I decided to go in and change and possibly apologize to my family for being such a witch. I gathered up my stuff and headed to the back door……….it was locked! I knocked……….nothing. I knocked again………Nugget appears at the door, wags her tail and runs away. I knock again……..louder……..nothing. As I am walking around to the front of the house I am deciding that I am NOT going to apologize to these people. Yes, they are now “these people”.
I trip over the hose that never gets put away, pick up a towel that one of the Crack Heads had been using to dry off Lord knows what the day before, and get stopped by the neighbor. I stand there with my hands full of crap listening to my neighbor talk about how crappy HER life is for about 5 minutes. I finally make it to the front door and it is also locked. I ring the bell and low and behold, Baby Girl, Diva and Honey appear instantly – they weren’t dead after all! Better yet, they seem surprised to see me standing on the front porch with an armload of stuff. I push past them without saying a word. I make it to my bedroom, change my clothes, put on my fuzzy slippers and emerge feeling refreshed and calmer.
Now, used to when I had PMS, others noticed it but I never did. I notice it now and it’s scary. I apologized to my family for yelling and went back to the patio. Honey made dinner and he and I relaxed on the patio and ate together. Baby Girl opted to stay in the house and watch TV – yeah right, she’s no fool, she was trying to avoid me. Honey offered to take Baby Girl to practice and I thanked him sincerely. He is a wonderful man and I know I’m spoiled rotten at times but he says I deserve it so I’m not going to argue (at least not about that). I ate dinner and was once again calm.
After dinner, we adjourned to the den to watch a little TV before Baby Girl had to leave for practice. We snuggled up on the couch and I had the remote. I should be happy right? Wrong. The whole time I’m sitting there I’m thinking, “I am so angry”. I have no idea why I’m angry, I just am. Then it became like an argument between the voices in my head that went something like this:
Me: I am so angry
Me2: Why are you angry?
Me: I don’t know, I just am
Me2: Well that’s stupid
Me: Who are you calling stupid
Me2: I didn’t say YOU were stupid. Man, you’ve got PMS.
Me: Oh sure! If I’m angry, it must be PMS! Why are you bothering me?
Me2: Me bother you? You are bothering me. Why do you have to be such a haint?
Me: You just don’t understand! Just leave me alone!
Me2: FINE! I didn’t want to talk to you anyway!
Please remember, this is going on in my head while I am cuddled up on the couch with my Honey. He has done nothing, is laying there with me with his arms wrapped around me allowing me to control the TV. He looks up at me, smiles his beautiful smile and leans in to kiss me……….awwwww. My reaction to this is, “Could you move over a little, I am about to sweat to death.” God love him, he did!
By now it’s time for Baby Girl to leave for practice. Honey put his shoes on and kissed me goodbye and asked if I needed anything. “Nope, I’m good”, is my response and I tell him to be careful and I lock the door behind them. I retreat to the garage to smoke and watch TV. I flip for a while and settle on an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond. I quickly realize it is the episode where Ray’s wife is dealing with major PMS and going through these God awful mood swings. I find myself laughing out loud while the voices in my head roll their eyes and sign in exasperation.
Later, Honey and I went to pick Baby Girl up from practice. We rode home and talked about her practice. She told us all about her “cradles” which I think is where the throw her in the air and catch her like a basket – I don’t know. Anyway, we get home and it’s time for her to get ready for bed. I tell her to get her PJs on and get in the bed. I stand at her door while she is getting ready and talk some more about her day. She tells me that “Daddy is going to turn off my light” and starts to climb up her ladder. I say to her, in the most loving tone, “Baby Girl, you want to turn off your laps before you get in the bed”. She does and up she goes. I tell her I love her and will see her in the morning. I go back to the garage. Five minutes later, Honey joins me in the garage and tells me that Baby Girl is having some sort of breakdown because I was “rude to her”. WHAT!?!? Rude??? I don’t think so. I asked Honey what he said and he said he told her that I probably wasn’t trying to be rude and that it was no reason to cry. I agreed that was the proper response and shut up. What I wanted to do was march in there and explain the difference between a request for her not to run my utility bill into the clouds and being RUDE – but I didn’t.
Five minutes later, the garage door opens and there stands a squalling 7 year old, holding her head. I asked what was wrong and she goes into this very weepy story about how she had hit her head on one of the other girls’ shoulder when she was doing cradles and it really hurt and she couldn’t sleep and she needed Tylenol. Now, this is the first I’ve heard of this near fatal cradle head butting but for the sake of peace and quiet, I got up, told her to go wash her face and I would get the Tylenol. I brought her back her medicine and a glass of water, she takes the pills and SKIPS back to her room and up her ladder. “Goodnight Mama, see you in the morning” she sings from her loft. “Goodnight Baby Girl, I love you”.
The rest of the evening was uneventful except for the voices in my head.
Me: Kinda funny that I didn’t hear about the accident before.
Me2: Leave her alone, she’s just a kid.
Me: She’s just a kid that is trying to stall going to bed.
Me2: You did it when you were a kid.
Me: Who asked you anyway?
Me2: Fine. You don’t want my opinion, I’ll just shut up.
Me: Good. You get on my very last nerve.
Me2: I am you, you friggin idiot.
Me: Bite Me!
I wonder if Midol has a Schizophrenic Strength gel cap?
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Am I Drooling?
Ladies and Gentlemen, I have been threatened. My brother obviously doesn’t appreciate me telling stories of Sparky and his breast pump and has threatened to tell unbecoming stories about my youth. So, in order to save face, I shall beat him to the punch. The following is my rendition of my wisdom tooth extraction experience. Enjoy my pain.
Those of you whom have had your wisdom teeth pulled know that it is not a fun experience. I spent months in pain trying to convince myself that the 4 HUGE teeth in the back of my jaw would eventually straighten out and stop hurting. Wrong! My dentist took x-rays and informed me that my wisdom teeth were growing in sideways and would have to be pulled because, are you ready for this, MY mouth wasn’t big enough. I thought my mother was going to wet herself when she heard his words. Anyway, they scheduled me for oral surgery and I began to mentally prepare myself.
On the day of my appointment, I was pretty nervous. They gave me ½ a valium in the waiting room to calm me down. When they called my name, I was feeling fairly confident that I would not die and that I could possibly be interested in a valium addiction. I went back to the “operating” room and they explained the procedure. They were going to give me liquid valium to put me to sleep. YIPPEEE! Then they were going to extract my four wisdom teeth (code for rip them out of my head). After that, I would wake up in “recovery” and be sent home with a prescription for pain and instructions on how to care for my mouth. Sounds simple enough, bring on the valium!
They administered the anesthesia (code for good drugs) and told me to count backwards from 100. I counted, “100, 9…9” that was it. I assume that they then cut my wisdom teeth out – I wasn’t paying attention. Anyway, when I woke up, it turned out that “recovery” was a couch next to the back door, which is also where you exited the building. As it turns out, drunk people with swollen faces and bloody drool wandering through the waiting room isn’t very comforting to the other patients. So, my mother escorts (drags) me out the back door and puts me in the car. She gathers my prescription and my instructions and we were on our way.
Her intention was to take me home, put me in bed and go to Walgreens to pick up my prescription. My intention was to tag along with her and embarrass the crap out of her. As soon as we pulled out of the dentist’s parking lot, she starts reading the care instructions. #1 – leave packing in place for at least 4 hours. As she read, I began to remove the wads of gauze they had packed my jaws with because it was “sucking up my spit”. I am one of those people that can’t stand to even touch a dry paper towel to my tongue (I gag just typing this) so you can imagine what 11 feet of gauze was doing to me. Mother made me put the packing back in because “that’s what the instructions say”. Man, sometimes she really irritated me.
So, she then tells me her plan to take me home, I refuse. She tries to explain how much better it would be, I could lay down and get some rest, blah, blah, blah. Nope – I wanted to stay with her and I wasn’t taking no for an answer. We arrive at Walgreens and I stumble along beside my mother trying to carry on a drunken conversation while my jaws were packed with gauze. Ironically, my mother never responded to me. In fact, she seemed to be walking faster as if trying to get away from me. We get inside and she takes me to the magazine aisle and tells me to stand there and read while she gets my drugs.
I positioned myself about ¾ of an inch from the magazine rack and removed my gauze. I placed each bloody wad neatly along the edge of the rack and tried to focus on the cover of the latest issue of Hairstyles for African Americans – don’t ask it was the first thing I saw. Now remember, I’ve just had oral surgery and my entire face is swollen and numb. I looked down the aisle towards the pharmacy to “check on” Mother. She happened to be looking at me at that time so I felt inclined to ask her, in my loudest whisper (yeah, right), “AM I DROOLING?!?!?” She just looked at me like she didn’t know who I was so I repeated, a little louder this time, “AM I DROOLING?!?!”
About that time, the pharmacist called my name; she grabbed my drugs and headed my way. Meanwhile, I’d located a misplaced cassette tape holder mixed in with the magazines. It dawned on me that we needed a cassette tape holder and this one had to be purchased. I began explaining this to my mother before she reached me on the aisle, again in my delicate whisper. She finally reached me and snatched the cassette tape holder out of my hand, raked the bloody gauze off the rack into her pocket and headed to the check-out. We purchased the tape holder, my drugs and a copy of Hairstyles for African Americans I had smuggled to the register. We got in the car and went straight home.
For the next 3 days I slept. When I finally came out of my coma, my mother had a ball recounting how I had wandered around Walgreens with bloody drool all over my face looking like a drunken sow. She relished in telling each and every one of my friends how I was yelling “AM I DROOLING” at the top of my lungs in the middle of Walgreens. She took great joy in showing everyone my new cassette tape holder and the reading material I’d chosen while laughing her butt off about how retarded I looked – did I mention I was 18 years old when this occurred? I’m so grateful that I have the kind of mother that, in my hour of need, would ignore me in public and take pride in my humiliation. It is to her I owe my ability to laugh at the less fortunate and find humor in the pain of others. Thank you Mother, for instilling in me the kind of values I will need as a parent to laugh at my own children and embarrass them when the opportunity arises. You’re the best.
Those of you whom have had your wisdom teeth pulled know that it is not a fun experience. I spent months in pain trying to convince myself that the 4 HUGE teeth in the back of my jaw would eventually straighten out and stop hurting. Wrong! My dentist took x-rays and informed me that my wisdom teeth were growing in sideways and would have to be pulled because, are you ready for this, MY mouth wasn’t big enough. I thought my mother was going to wet herself when she heard his words. Anyway, they scheduled me for oral surgery and I began to mentally prepare myself.
On the day of my appointment, I was pretty nervous. They gave me ½ a valium in the waiting room to calm me down. When they called my name, I was feeling fairly confident that I would not die and that I could possibly be interested in a valium addiction. I went back to the “operating” room and they explained the procedure. They were going to give me liquid valium to put me to sleep. YIPPEEE! Then they were going to extract my four wisdom teeth (code for rip them out of my head). After that, I would wake up in “recovery” and be sent home with a prescription for pain and instructions on how to care for my mouth. Sounds simple enough, bring on the valium!
They administered the anesthesia (code for good drugs) and told me to count backwards from 100. I counted, “100, 9…9” that was it. I assume that they then cut my wisdom teeth out – I wasn’t paying attention. Anyway, when I woke up, it turned out that “recovery” was a couch next to the back door, which is also where you exited the building. As it turns out, drunk people with swollen faces and bloody drool wandering through the waiting room isn’t very comforting to the other patients. So, my mother escorts (drags) me out the back door and puts me in the car. She gathers my prescription and my instructions and we were on our way.
Her intention was to take me home, put me in bed and go to Walgreens to pick up my prescription. My intention was to tag along with her and embarrass the crap out of her. As soon as we pulled out of the dentist’s parking lot, she starts reading the care instructions. #1 – leave packing in place for at least 4 hours. As she read, I began to remove the wads of gauze they had packed my jaws with because it was “sucking up my spit”. I am one of those people that can’t stand to even touch a dry paper towel to my tongue (I gag just typing this) so you can imagine what 11 feet of gauze was doing to me. Mother made me put the packing back in because “that’s what the instructions say”. Man, sometimes she really irritated me.
So, she then tells me her plan to take me home, I refuse. She tries to explain how much better it would be, I could lay down and get some rest, blah, blah, blah. Nope – I wanted to stay with her and I wasn’t taking no for an answer. We arrive at Walgreens and I stumble along beside my mother trying to carry on a drunken conversation while my jaws were packed with gauze. Ironically, my mother never responded to me. In fact, she seemed to be walking faster as if trying to get away from me. We get inside and she takes me to the magazine aisle and tells me to stand there and read while she gets my drugs.
I positioned myself about ¾ of an inch from the magazine rack and removed my gauze. I placed each bloody wad neatly along the edge of the rack and tried to focus on the cover of the latest issue of Hairstyles for African Americans – don’t ask it was the first thing I saw. Now remember, I’ve just had oral surgery and my entire face is swollen and numb. I looked down the aisle towards the pharmacy to “check on” Mother. She happened to be looking at me at that time so I felt inclined to ask her, in my loudest whisper (yeah, right), “AM I DROOLING?!?!?” She just looked at me like she didn’t know who I was so I repeated, a little louder this time, “AM I DROOLING?!?!”
About that time, the pharmacist called my name; she grabbed my drugs and headed my way. Meanwhile, I’d located a misplaced cassette tape holder mixed in with the magazines. It dawned on me that we needed a cassette tape holder and this one had to be purchased. I began explaining this to my mother before she reached me on the aisle, again in my delicate whisper. She finally reached me and snatched the cassette tape holder out of my hand, raked the bloody gauze off the rack into her pocket and headed to the check-out. We purchased the tape holder, my drugs and a copy of Hairstyles for African Americans I had smuggled to the register. We got in the car and went straight home.
For the next 3 days I slept. When I finally came out of my coma, my mother had a ball recounting how I had wandered around Walgreens with bloody drool all over my face looking like a drunken sow. She relished in telling each and every one of my friends how I was yelling “AM I DROOLING” at the top of my lungs in the middle of Walgreens. She took great joy in showing everyone my new cassette tape holder and the reading material I’d chosen while laughing her butt off about how retarded I looked – did I mention I was 18 years old when this occurred? I’m so grateful that I have the kind of mother that, in my hour of need, would ignore me in public and take pride in my humiliation. It is to her I owe my ability to laugh at the less fortunate and find humor in the pain of others. Thank you Mother, for instilling in me the kind of values I will need as a parent to laugh at my own children and embarrass them when the opportunity arises. You’re the best.
Monday, May 09, 2005
No B.O For Baby Girl
So Baby Girl has started Cheerleading and I can already tell that this is going to be a life changing experience. She is making new friends, gaining self confidence, learning new things, becoming more coordinated and above all, is taking quite and interest in personal hygiene,
Now, don’t be fooled, I don’t mean she has decided that bathing 3 times a day is necessary. Heck, sometimes I still have to fight with her to take 1 shower a day. She has also not come to the conclusion that writing on herself, wearing mismatched clothes or tennis shoes without socks just aren’t “right”. No, at seven, she feels that it isn’t necessary to shower unless she is completely covered in filth and she should be allowed to put tattoos on her face the morning of picture day. She also feels that she needs deodorant.
Baby Girl came home from her first practice the other night and she was very excited to tell me about all she had learned. Now, she couldn’t remember her coaches name nor the two new cheers they had learned but, she did remember the most important thing, “Mama, I need deodorant for Cheerleading”. Not, my pits stink and I need to start wearing deodorant because I don’t want the other kids to laugh at me – nope – we need it for Cheerleading.
I innocently asked her why she thought she needed deodorant – big mistake. She put her hands on her hips, rolled her eyes and huffs, “Mama, I just need it, OK”. Again I asked, “Is there a reason you think you need deodorant?” Well, you would’ve thought that I had asked her if she started her period in front of her 1st boyfriend. Her response was, “Can you just buy me some deodorant and not make a big deal out of it.”
So I thought about it. I thought about what it was like to be a little girl. I remember shaving my legs the night before I started 1st grade because I couldn’t “go to school with hairy legs”. I remember what it was like trying to fit in, going through those awkward phases and just wanting to be like all of the other girls. I thought long and hard and decided that she was still too young to use deodorant. I mean, not only does she not have a legitimate need for it, but I don’t think she is responsible enough yet. I caught her carving a bar of soap with a wooden spoon the other day and she still can’t tell me why. Last week she and her best friend were “laying out” on towels in the street on the “beach” that had been created by dirt and sand that had washed to the end of the road. And last month, she decorated her ceiling by smearing colored suntan lotion on her hands and putting prints around her light fixture. So in my mind, she’s not quite ready.
Yesterday was Mother’s Day and Baby Girl and I always get out nails and toes done. The nail shop didn’t open until Noon so we ran in the Family Dollar to kill some time. The first thing she spots is Teen Spirit deodorant in a lovely berry blast scent. She begged for a while and explained how she couldn’t be the ONLY girl not wearing deodorant. I finally caved and we checked out. She was soooo proud. As soon as we got in the car, she was smearing her deodorant on her pits. I took pictures.
Now, I haven’t read the ingredients on the label yet but I am fairly certain that there is absolutely nothing contained in this product that will prevent BO. It is merely a tube of white stuff that smells oddly like the most awful flavor of Bubblicious bubble gum that I have every encountered. But, she was happy and it seems harmless so I will deal with it.
This morning, she got up, put on her robe and made her 1st appearance in the den………carrying her deodorant. I tried to explain to her that her hygiene products should stay in the bathroom and she only needs to apply deodorant once a day. She again rolled her eyes at me and informed me that she was going to keep it in her room so that “nobody will see it”. Obviously, deodorant is one of those things that every girl wants but doesn’t want anyone to know they use. I am so confused, I could understand if it were a “feminine” hygiene product but deodorant??
I guess that every girl has different hang-ups. Me, I wouldn’t purchase toilet paper until I moved into my first apartment and even then, I would go the store in the middle of the night. I went through a phase where I would buy shoes 2 sizes too big because I couldn’t stand for my toes to touch and to this day, I can’t stand for someone to touch my face when I have on makeup. Hopefully, my child won’t be as neurotic as me. Although with my luck, she will probably develop some kind of horrible rash on her arm pits from this strawberry flavored deodorant and grow up boycotting all manners of preventing BO. Oh great, I’m going to wind up being the mother of the only 22 year old “smelly girl” at Harvard.
Now, don’t be fooled, I don’t mean she has decided that bathing 3 times a day is necessary. Heck, sometimes I still have to fight with her to take 1 shower a day. She has also not come to the conclusion that writing on herself, wearing mismatched clothes or tennis shoes without socks just aren’t “right”. No, at seven, she feels that it isn’t necessary to shower unless she is completely covered in filth and she should be allowed to put tattoos on her face the morning of picture day. She also feels that she needs deodorant.
Baby Girl came home from her first practice the other night and she was very excited to tell me about all she had learned. Now, she couldn’t remember her coaches name nor the two new cheers they had learned but, she did remember the most important thing, “Mama, I need deodorant for Cheerleading”. Not, my pits stink and I need to start wearing deodorant because I don’t want the other kids to laugh at me – nope – we need it for Cheerleading.
I innocently asked her why she thought she needed deodorant – big mistake. She put her hands on her hips, rolled her eyes and huffs, “Mama, I just need it, OK”. Again I asked, “Is there a reason you think you need deodorant?” Well, you would’ve thought that I had asked her if she started her period in front of her 1st boyfriend. Her response was, “Can you just buy me some deodorant and not make a big deal out of it.”
So I thought about it. I thought about what it was like to be a little girl. I remember shaving my legs the night before I started 1st grade because I couldn’t “go to school with hairy legs”. I remember what it was like trying to fit in, going through those awkward phases and just wanting to be like all of the other girls. I thought long and hard and decided that she was still too young to use deodorant. I mean, not only does she not have a legitimate need for it, but I don’t think she is responsible enough yet. I caught her carving a bar of soap with a wooden spoon the other day and she still can’t tell me why. Last week she and her best friend were “laying out” on towels in the street on the “beach” that had been created by dirt and sand that had washed to the end of the road. And last month, she decorated her ceiling by smearing colored suntan lotion on her hands and putting prints around her light fixture. So in my mind, she’s not quite ready.
Yesterday was Mother’s Day and Baby Girl and I always get out nails and toes done. The nail shop didn’t open until Noon so we ran in the Family Dollar to kill some time. The first thing she spots is Teen Spirit deodorant in a lovely berry blast scent. She begged for a while and explained how she couldn’t be the ONLY girl not wearing deodorant. I finally caved and we checked out. She was soooo proud. As soon as we got in the car, she was smearing her deodorant on her pits. I took pictures.
Now, I haven’t read the ingredients on the label yet but I am fairly certain that there is absolutely nothing contained in this product that will prevent BO. It is merely a tube of white stuff that smells oddly like the most awful flavor of Bubblicious bubble gum that I have every encountered. But, she was happy and it seems harmless so I will deal with it.
This morning, she got up, put on her robe and made her 1st appearance in the den………carrying her deodorant. I tried to explain to her that her hygiene products should stay in the bathroom and she only needs to apply deodorant once a day. She again rolled her eyes at me and informed me that she was going to keep it in her room so that “nobody will see it”. Obviously, deodorant is one of those things that every girl wants but doesn’t want anyone to know they use. I am so confused, I could understand if it were a “feminine” hygiene product but deodorant??
I guess that every girl has different hang-ups. Me, I wouldn’t purchase toilet paper until I moved into my first apartment and even then, I would go the store in the middle of the night. I went through a phase where I would buy shoes 2 sizes too big because I couldn’t stand for my toes to touch and to this day, I can’t stand for someone to touch my face when I have on makeup. Hopefully, my child won’t be as neurotic as me. Although with my luck, she will probably develop some kind of horrible rash on her arm pits from this strawberry flavored deodorant and grow up boycotting all manners of preventing BO. Oh great, I’m going to wind up being the mother of the only 22 year old “smelly girl” at Harvard.
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