cool beans

Your Libra Drinking Style

“I’m jusht a social drinker,” you slur, “it’s jusht that I’m so damn social?” You love nothing more than to party, mingle and relate to everyone. Whether dipped in favor of Good Libra (with Insta-Friend device set to “on”) or heavier on the Evil Libra side (you are little instigators when bored), you can really work a room. Charming as you are, you are notoriously lacking in self-control. And this can get you into all sorts of trouble — including wearing their wobbly boots waaaay too early in the evening. You may end up flirting with you best friend’s sweetie or even blacking out the night’s events entirely. Oops!

Your Signature Cocktails

Aesthetic Libras like pretty, pouffy drinks like a pink lady or a brandy Alexander. That’s the influence of Venus, your ruling planet, which also gives you a horror of crudely named potions like Sex on the Beach. You’re fine with “normal” guzzles like apple martinis, but every Libra secretly just wants champagne… and lots of it.

Your Celebrity Drinking Buddies

Eminem, Simon Cowell, Avril Lavigne, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Usher, Gwen Stefani, Hillary Duff, and Will Smith.

Can you imagine how much fun it would be to drink with Gwen Stefani and Eminem at the same time? Bring.It.ON.*

(This, of course, is purely fantasy. I would never purposely accept an invitation to party with these two because I’m totally afraid of Eminem and I’m afraid that once drunk, I’d punch Gwen for recording the following bullshit that gets stuck in a loop in my brain every day. “This shit is bananas - B A N A N A S!” She desperately needs her boys back.)

Now that the surgery is over and I’m able to chew a little bit, there are only good things to look forward to for a while.

Tomorrow, The Man and I are taking a trip to The Big City to pick up his sister’s cast-off furniture. It’s in good shape and like furniture in good condition of any color, pattern, or size, it will look fabulous amidst the kid chaos in our living room. While we’re in The Big City, we’re going out for lunch. After almost two weeks of soup, yogurt and blenderized mac and cheese, I’m ready for food I can eat with a fork. As long as I don’t have to chew it too much, that is.

This week should be busy but fun. We need to make decorations for our 3rd of July celebration (we always get a head start). I want to fancify the garage and apricot trees in the tackiest handmade crafts ever! Hurray! There will also be cleaning. And by “cleaning” I mean “shoving all the clutter into boxes our children can sort through when we die because we never unpack a packed box because then the box would feel all empty inside.” Nobody likes a down-in-the-dumps box!

We have two baseball games during the week in the evening. And one tball game, which is always a hoot. My son turns 11 on Saturday and will no doubt spend the day trying to blow parts of his body off by holding onto fireworks too long. Sunday is the big shindig at our house. I’ve invited my good close friends, Bacardi and Cuervo.

Monday I’ll be in the hospital recovering from alcohol poisoning.

Then it’s back to work on Tuesday.

But it doesn’t end there! The following Monday I have a lunch date with a high school friend who is so funny, she makes me pee my pants just thinking about how funny she is. I can’t wait to wet myself in public. With strawberry pie.

Good times.

The Toddler woke me up at 6:30 this morning. I was very cranky about the early wake up call and stuck a bowl of Cookie Crisp (The Man had left the box on the counter, as always) and a bottle of water in his paws and plopped him in front of “Ehmo” which is Nemo, not Elmo. I tried to go back to bed, but it didn’t take long for him to realize where I went and he got back in bed and started using random remote controls to mess with the television in the bedroom. He had managed to cause it to do this “flip…….flip…..flip……flip” thing that I tried to ignore until he SAT ON MY HEAD in order to get more comfy.

So I’m UP! God! I’m up!

I feel like someone yanked out all my teeth, ran a box grater over my gums and then shoved my teeth back into my mouth.

That is all.

I had my wisdom teeth removed today. I got there about 9:15 and they took me back around 9:30 to get started. They told my sister it would take about an hour for the procedure and we left her waiting in the reception area. They got me hooked up to an IV and an automatic blood pressure cuff and stuck an oxygen tube in my nose. Let me tell you - those tubes are harder than they look on TV. The last thing I remember I was talking to one of the nurses about what she can do to increase her milk supply if she is desperate to take Sudafed (which can sometimes decrease milk production). One of the other nurses said something like, “You should be feeling too good to talk about oatmeal…” and that was it, really. The next thing I remember, I was waking up and the doctor was poking around and stitching things up. I was in and out, but remember thinking, “I made it. I can see my babies.” Because I’m retarded. And then I started CRYING. Because I’m Captain Retard. I was freezing, my arms were strapped to the chair and I couldn’t talk. I was shivering and no one was noticing, so I finally bent my knees and pulled my legs up toward my body and the doctor noticed and called for a blanket and patted my leg.

They got busy unhooking me from all the gadgets and encouraged me to stay awake. That’s when I noticed it was 11:00. Um, what happened to an hour? Hello? Once I was pretty much back from la-la land, the first thing I did was ask for a pen and paper. I had to finish my breastfeeding tips for the lactating nurse. Good grief. I am MASTER AND COMMANDER RETARD.

Then a nurse walked me out to my sister and they put me in the car. My sister had all the instructions and we’d been given a scrip for an antibiotic and a pain reliever. When the nurse said “antibiotic”, I got wild-eyed and started tracing circles in front of my hoo-ha and leaning toward my sister. The nurse looked concerned and confused but my sister said, “OH! You need…” and started making the circles with her hand, too, because she couldn’t think of “Diflucan”. The nurse said, “I’m glad you brought your sister to read your mind!” and then ran away, locked the office doors and called the police.

I LIKE the pain reliever they prescribed so I was happy. But then she said if that pain pill didn’t work to call in another prescription. I like that one even better so purposely did not fill it on our first trip to the store. I waited in the car while my sister picked up the meds and some soup, jello, yogurt and ice cream. We drove past the health food store later and, feeling guilty, I sighed and thought, “Well, everything there is crunchy.”

On the way home, she told me that they’d had some trouble with a couple teeth and that they weren’t able to use the dissolving sutures. That was a bummer because I was really starting to hurt and the gauze in my mouth was getting annoying and I really don’t want to go back. Ugh. Once home, we set up a TV tray by my bed and used a bean bag and pillows and an old sheet (to catch the bloody drool!) to make a homemade Craftmatic. I was supposed to take a pain reliever right away and I was supposed to eat before I did that. Of course, my face was still totally numb save for one small point on my upper lip and being forbidden to suck or slurp, I had a hard time getting Jello in my mouth. I even had to use my fingers to get my bottom lip tight against the cup to get some water in my face.

I rested and applied ice packs and realized that while the first pain reliever is fun if you’re not in any serious pain, it has some trouble cutting the mustard. So my sister called to have the Real Deal delivered. It arrived two hours before I could take it, so I took some Advil and commenced with the Moaning and Wincing and Pining for The Good Stuff.

I’m getting a bit better, but I look crappy. My entire face is very swollen and I have redness where the tightener thingie for the oxygen tubes sat under my chin(s). My upper right arm is bruised in long purple streaks from the Blood Pressure Cuff of Death, and tomorrow the swelling on my face will likely begin to bruise. The area just below my lower gums is already very bruised.

The doctor called around 9:00 or so tonight to check on me. He said my teeth were very difficult to remove because they were really impacted in the bone and because the roots were very curly. (If my hair was as curly as my tooth roots, you could call me Shirley Temple. God has a sick sense of humor.) Doc also said that to remove the entire root of one or two of the teeth, he would have risked damaging the nerve and that might have caused me permanent facial numbness. So I’ve got some chunks in there. He was very interested in how much numbness I still felt and where it was most numb, which kind of worried me. I think everything is okay. Hopefully it’s all just sore tomorrow. I hate numbness on top of the pain. He also said that because my teeth were in there so good (or bad, whatever), he put socket packs in each spot to prevent dry socket. That’s why I have sutures that have to be removed. I may have to have the socket packs replaced as well a few times over the next few weeks. Ur, no thanks! Gak!

I’m sore and can only talk a wee bit before it really starts smarting. My mom brought me pudding and a balloon and my dad sent a copy of today’s crossword puzzle. My sister stayed all day and cleaned my house and waited on me. I had to write to communicate most of the day and kept a pen and paper handy. I wish like crazy I had a laptop because I type so much faster than I write. I’m not supposed to lift anything so my babysitter is picking the kids up at 8:00 for me tomorrow. The Toddler is going to have a spaz attack over that for sure. He’s sad I can’t play and hold him much. I can only hold him on my lap until he gets wound up and that doesn’t take long.

Catching up…
Lately, I’ve been busy relaxing. After the whirlwind of activity in the last few months, it’s good to have some down time. I have visited the library more than once recently and read a book in four days. Granted, it was nothing heavy or ponderous, but it was a book without pictures nonetheless. In my car I’m enjoying listening to Hadassah: One Night With The King. I enjoy historical fiction from time to time because it gets me interested in reading non-fiction accounts of people and places I would otherwise find flat and uninteresting.

In addition to reading, I’m avoiding reality television (hurray!) by making lists of household projects I want to do. I have dreams of cleaning up my kitchen and de-cluttering and purging all its surfaces and cabinets.

Speaking of dreams…
Last night I dreamt I was carrying a baby for a couple I know. I have no dreams of being a surrogate mother because I know I would be lousy at it since you’re supposed to let the baby live with another woman after birth. I’d rather let my husband live with another woman than share my newborn baby. My deepest respects lie with those who have more generous hearts than mine. The strangest part of this dream was that the couple in question have several children already and seem to have the breeding thing worked out. Why was I their surrogate? I don’t know. Maybe she was tired? Perhaps she was too busy minding the other children to reproduce? Maybe I’m a crazy person who dreams crazy stuff?

Bingo.

Speaking of children…
My kids are having a hell of a time adapting to the summer schedule. Being a working mum means we all have to get up at about the same time we do during the school year. But it’s not fair to make everyone go to bed at 8:30 when the sun is still blazing away and the weather is good. So, they stay up late and I get up early to scrape them out of beds with a large snow shovel, flinging their limp little selves toward the car. They’ve also forgotten the chore list and TV Free Tuesdays are a thing of the past. We’d be living in a dump if I didn’t spend Saturdays barking commands and acting all scary. I really need a new bag of tricks.

The Toddler is clinging at daycare drop-off each morning. I had hoped that would stop when his siblings were dropped off at the same time, but it’s almost gotten worse. It’s wearing on me.

We visited a Build-A-Bear store this past weekend for my niece’s birthday. The kids all love their bears and Boby, Ashley and Boo* are quite at home here despite their nakeyness. Build-A-Bear fashions don’t come cheap, folks. If you plan to build a bear, you’ll need to save up. Much like you do for braces or college.

*The Toddler still nurses some and his word for nursing is “boo”. We’re slowly weaning and we named the bear “Boo” because that’s just too damn cute. He calls the bear “Boo Bear” which sounds like “boobie”. Perfect.

Lastly…
I’m having oral surgery tomorrow because I’m bored and I never have any fun. I need some excitement and general anesthesia sounds like a great vacation. Also, there will be pain pills. Hurray! Also on the agenda: bloody drool! It’s like a party, people.

This morning was challenging. The Toddler didn’t want to play with toys or even with me. He wouldn’t eat and didn’t want to drink. He just wanted to cling to me. He’s not sick, just clingy. I was not in a touchy-feely mood and wanted my space. It stinks being touched-out at 9:00 in the morning.

He didn’t have to cling if I was up and moving, so I started on the 12+ loads of laundry I should get done this weekend. It’s a nice enough day here - sunny, breezy, big puffy clouds teasing us with more rain. I decided I’d take my chances and I’m using the clothesline today. There is something very satisfying about looking out the kitchen window at laundry hanging on the line. It’s peaceful. And it smells so good when I go out to hang the next load.

While I was hanging the first two loads, The Toddler was outside with me. I had to herd him to the backyard a couple times, because he desperately wanted to play with the car parked in front of our house. Sigh. He’d brought a baseball out from the garage and I threw it for him to “fetch” a few times. That game didn’t last long, though, and he was at the neighbor’s gate, trying to get in to play on their trampoline. I hollered for him to come back and to stay out of their yard. He stood still, which was fine, but then I saw him inching his way toward the busy street at the back of our lot. I called to him and he giggled and ran right past the pine trees and toward the street. Cars were whizzing by and I knew none of them could see him for the trees. I called again and started running and heard him giggling madly as he danced closer to traffic. He was one step away from hopping off the curb when I swept him up. Of course, he thought Mommy running and screaming through the backyard was hilarious, and being scooped up like that was the prize. I fell on my knees, clutching him and petting him while hissing and crying in his ear.

Why is it that when my kids do things like this, I feel like they’re doing it to me? Like it’s some kind of attack or test? I hate that it feels that way.

We came inside and he went down for a nap. Because he needed one and because I needed him to have one. He was tired, too, and didn’t fight laying down. My older kids had finished their list of chores for the morning (honestly - WHAT do they do to this place when I’m away? GAH!) and were playing KISSOPOLY in the living room. Without fighting.

We just finished assembling mini pizzas made with english muffins. They loved putting them together. I’m worried my eldest put too many dried spices on his and will think they’re icky.

Very Mom said, “Please tell me your orange feet are the same reason I have orange feet.”

I don’t know why your feet are orange so I don’t know if this will make you feel better or worse, Very Mom. Please, have that barf bowl handy.

I tried on a rather pale green dress for my sister in-law’s wedding and panicked. See, I’m white like milk. I burst into flames in direct sunlight. The only way I get “tan” is when my freckles pop up and spread out and bump into each other.

I think you get it.

So, I did not want to be the oldest, fattest and palest bridesmaid. In this case, two out of three is bad enough. So, I did what any desperate and insane person would do two days before a big public event.

I went and had myself spray-painted. Duh.

When I called to make the appointment, the nice lady told me I should have it done twice in a row because the first time is like a base, see, and the second time makes the tan deep and gorgeous and stuff. Also, it’s $25 for one session and $45 for two sessions. That, my friends, is a BARGAIN. SOLD! Sign me up!

I went in on Thursday night and because I’d been feeling very dizzy all week, my sister drove me. Inside, there were two fancy looking ladies, one very thin and one - fed. When the fed lady stood up and said, “You’ve got me!”, my sister and I both exhaled and you could hear us thinking in unison, “Thank god it’s not the skinny one.”

Because we are shallow and mean. And we will eat you.

I climbed the stairs behind her and left my sister sitting alone in the waiting area, looking ill on my behalf. Upstairs, I walked into a room that was sage green around the edges, but Crayola Brown everywhere else. She left me alone in the room so I could undress…

UNDRESS. Next to naked, people. Are you getting this?

Let’s skip ahead. So, she sprayed me with an airbrushy thing and then I stood in front of a fan and contemplated my new leg color (I couldn’t really check out my arms because I would have left a paint crease in my neck.) It was crazy. Standing there, drying off my freshly painted blubber, wondering if I looked tan or if I just looked a little dirty. I looked at the little toe on my right foot and wondered if maybe I should rub it on the floor because it looked a little clumpy. But when I tried to bend, I realized I’d get a knee crease. Or, I could move this other way and make an ankle crease. I certainly couldn’t bend down because that would make creases you don’t want to know about.

I dressed and in a dizzy and panicky state, I searched the upstairs for a mirror but couldn’t find one that reassured me. So I returned to my sister and tried desperately to read her face when she first saw me. I kept glancing at her nervously as I wrote my check - for both appointments, mind you. I was in this for good now. Anyway, I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

I asked her, “Do I look tan or dirty?” She giggled, “Tan. No. REALLY! You look tan!” More giggling. I asked, “Do I look like C. Thomas Howell?” She said, “No.” But too quickly! I knew she knew what I meant!* Which could only mean that I did look like C. Thomas Howell and had mentally rehearsed her response should I ask that very question! Then she changed the subject.

The voices in my head were chattering furiously. “You’re a muppet!” “You look tan!” “You look like Pigpen!” “We should have dinner!” “I sweat a lot.” “Oops.” “You’ll be the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!” “He said BROWN! AHAHAHA!”

So, of course I kept my appointment the next morning.

And then panicked some more and emailed a friend and called a friend and made my sister come over and decided to scrub my skin off with sandpaper and Magic Erasers and then went to my hair stylist who said, “Oh, no. You totally look tan.”

Argh!

And I did look tan, I think. On my chest and back, especially. Those parts looked great and that’s what I was going for in the first place. My feet, however, were orange. They soaked up too much color and looked fakey. But that’s okay. The dress was long. Whew.

So, Very Mom, have you been spray painting yourself in your free time?

*If you know what I meant and can find a picture of what I’m talking about, please let me know. I have looked for 30 minutes and can’t find one and it’s making me cranky.