April 2010

I’ve realized lately that this little blog of mine is pretty much an introspective, navel gazing experiment.   I tell you what I think, I tell you what I feel.  But do I really look deep inside me?    DO I? The answer is no.   And this week I realized there is only one way to do that.

X-RAY.

A few weeks ago, I realized that due to tremendous amounts of time spent on work and this blog, along with a craptastic insurance policy from my former employer, I had really gotten out of touch with what was going on in my body.    So in one fell swoop, I decided to change all that.

Monday started with a mammogram.   Hadn’t gotten the girls squished in a while, and it was time.   I went to the local hospital where I was greeted by Helga (I’m not kidding) the Mean Mammographer.   She looked a bit like this:

So Helga, who I assume was German based on her accent, and I got down to business without any sort of foreplay:

Helga:   Ve vill put your breassst into zis area.
TSM: Okay Helga, you know better than me, but I think it’s gonna look like a crepe in a minute.
Helga: **unamused and grabs TSM breast shoving it into crepe machine**
TSM: Wow, Helga…you are getting more action with the sisters than The Man has in the past week!
Helga: **Begins to stretch TSM breast out like play-doh.**
TSM: Um, wow, that sort of hurts.
Helga: **begins crepe compression of TSM breast**
TSM: Dude, seriously, you might need to buy me a drink at this point…
Helga: Now I vill finish by clamping ze machine down a little bit farzer so ve can get full image of ze breasssst.
TSM: OWIE OWIE OWIE OWWWW!!!!!!!
Helga: Zis is goot. Now ve vill do it eight more times. Don’t breathe.
TSM: **faints with crepe like breast still attached to crepe making machine**

When it was all over, I felt good about myself and I gave my girls a little hug each. It wasn’t really that bad and every single one of you ladies out there should get down to business and go see Helga because after all, she’s looking out for your breast interests. I’m serious. DO IT. You will love Helga after, even if she doesn’t buy you a drink.

But that wasn’t enough for me. Oh No. Today I had a dental appointment scheduled. Once again, I’ve been neglectful of my gums and my teeth due to hectic work schedule and aforementioned craptastic insurance. So off I went.

I get a little freaked out at the dentist, maybe even more so than by the mammographer. But this? Was different. I booked my appointment at a “Dental Spa”. Surrounded by soothing music as I made my entrance and a man who said, “Hello Mrs. TSM!!!”, I was immediately comforted. I met my hygenist, a lovely woman named Lori, who spoke to me in soft tones as she examined my mouth. She murmured a little. “Mmmm.” “Mmmm-hmmm.” All the while portraying an outer calm not seen since Mother Teresa. Then? She dropped the bomb.

“Yeah, you’re going to need a Root Planing”

Okay, for those of you not familiar with this little process? It hurts. A lot. Usually. However, at this Dental Spa, they used some magical numbing solution that didn’t require needles and used some type of high powered water (plus the nasty scrapey thing later, but at that point I just didn’t care due to aforementioned soothing music) and I emerged with sparkling teeth and somewhat healthy gums hours later. Also, my breath is now minty fresh in case you wanted to kiss me.

Looking forward to the next day, I realized I had scheduled my annual OB/GYN appointment.

…and I postponed it, because I? Have had enough for one week. I’ll deal with that end next week when I’m fully recovered from Helga and the Root Planing experiment of 2010.

Trust me though, I won’t be sharing notes from that little odyssey. I have at least a little bit of class.

Stop laughing.

Right now….

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Oh yes, the potential mud slide….

Mr. C  is a Boy Scout and wants nothing more than to become an Eagle Scout. I am so proud of him. His dedication to this, his willingness to embrace all that it entails? Well, it sort of blows my mind.

Except when it scares the hell out of me. Which it did this weekend.

Boy Scouts have the option to go on camp outs. The more camp outs they go on, the more badges they earn. The more badges they earn, the higher they advance.

Easy right?

Wrong.

This weekend involved yet another camp out. We’ve had a few, all of which were accompanied by blissfully beautiful weather. This weekend? Not so much.

The sky was angry when he left on Friday. I asked him (for about the millionth time) if he was REALLY SURE he wanted to go. No shame in backing out in the face of thunderstorms.

Except he didn’t, he would not be the one who chickened out.  It was all smooth sailing until 3:00 in the morning when I was awakened by a clap of thunder, lightening and deluge of rain that would have sent animals two by two to the Ark. I had no choice but to make sure The Man was awake too when I yelled out, “OH. MY. GOD!!! Our son is out in this mess!!! WAAAAA!!!!”

Turns out, men have a different view of camping it and roughing it out. He mumbled something about this toughening him up and the next thing I heard was ZZZZZZZZZ.

The next day looked okay, the sky was gray but we hoped that the worst of the weather had passed. After enduring that little incident in my previous post at the cheer competition, we happily ejected Miss G from the car (we did slow down before, we are awesome like that) for a sleepover and looked forward to our child free evening.

The night started with a casino party with some neighbors of ours. We love them and don’t get to go out with them often. A great time, and many cocktails were had by all. Many many cocktails.  And then we went home.

About :30 minutes after arriving home, the sky opened up and started vomiting gallons of rain.

GALLONS AND GALLONS OF RAIN.

At which point I curled up in the fetal position and started rocking back and forth thinking of my little man, roughing it in such conditions. So much for that fantastic child free evening, huh?   Even the man looked a little worried at this point but he just kept saying, “It’s good for him, it’ll toughen him up…”.  I have to say, even he didn’t sound convinced by the end of the night three hours later when I discovered that despite FDA warnings, mixing alcohol with half a Xanax is not a bad thing.   In fact, it’s a very very good thing indeed.  I slurred something at him and wandered off to bed proving once again, I am the single most romantic person in the history of ever.  And ever.

I slept fitfully through the night and woke up early, eagerly anticipating his return. Mr. C finally arrived around 1:00, slightly muddy and shaking from the cold. Look at that face….NOT HAPPY.

Sure, he looks slightly pregnant due to ten layers of clothing and not terribly muddy. If you need proof, look at the trailer:

That’s 100% mud on the flap and look at those coolers. And if you need further proof that he spent his weekend covered in mud, check out his hiking boots:

So the takeaway from it for me was this…he is one pampered little boy but when sent into some very rugged conditions he can hold his own.

And you should know, when he arrived home, he was greeted by a hot bath, fresh soap and towels and hot chocolate along with about one million hugs.

And he is never allowed to leave the house again.

The end.

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After a long week at work, you know what I like to do?

Spend the entire weekend freaking out about my kids, that’s what.

Saturday dawned with more promise than most weekends hold.   This Saturday was special because not one, but both of our children would be sleeping elsewhere that night.   I might add, this is as rare of an occurance as the eruption of the volcano in Iceland..and pretty much as promising.  Pun intended.

Friday night, Mr. C left for a campout with his Boy Scout troup.   The weather was questionable, and I had asked him if he was sure he really wanted to go, but he did…and off he went.    It was a quiet evening, spent shopping for Miss G’s First Communion dress which we found for the amazing price of $39.00.   (I KNOW.)    Discounted from $200.00, look at what we scored:

After that, it was off to dinner and early bed because she had not only a sleep-over, but the final cheer competition as well.

Easy peasy right?

Wrong.

Wake up to this face in the morning, and tell me you don’t fear for your life:

After numerous attempts to calm what appeared to be a rabid squirrel on her head, we were off to the last competition of the year.    We are pros at this at this point,  right?

Wrong.

My first WTF moment came during their routine.   Miss G did some odd little move at the end stunt and on the other side, her counterpart verrrrry slowwwwly slid into splits.  Not what I had seen in the past.   The second WTF moment came when she arrived in my arms after the competition sobbing with her caked on cheer makeup running down her chubby little cheeks.   I wondered if someone had been mean to her.   If she had hurt herself.   Why I had not used the prescribed waterproof mascara.

Yeah, about that.

Turns out she and her adorable friend on the other side had planned together to change the routine that their professional coaches had so thoughtfully choreographed.   Howevever…they chose not to share this little bit of information with their coaches and Miss G sort of forgot to tell her friend that the gig was off before they took the stage.    At this point, her coaches rightfully read her the riot act and I was left with an eight year old who resembled Courtney Love after a hard night out on the town.  

(PS:  No harsh words on the coaches…she deserved what she got that day.)

After taking her home and removing the rivers of mascara that had streamed down her cheeks, we dropped her off at her sleep-over.   This is where the fun begins, right?

Wrong.

I’m still exhausted from it all, so do me a favor and come back next time where I confess to you how I spent what should have been a romantic evening curled up in the fetal position thinking my son was involved in a horrific mud slide.

He wasn’t.

But you knew what you were getting into when you came here.

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So I’m starting to read all the reviews on the Oprah book and I think we might be twins. Well, I mean except for me not being a billionaire. And I don’t have a talk show. Or a magazine. Or a cable channel. And also, the question about what team she really plays for (not that it really matters…)

But I have to have the new book.

Must.

Have.

You know why? Two lines that keep getting quoted:

“Oprah does not walk…”
“Oprah does not do stairs…”

Seriously guys, I think we were separated at birth. Look….Oprah thinks so too!

I swear to God, that is a happy face…

Anyhoo, in light of the fact that Oprah does not walk or do stairs, I thought you might like a list of things that Stiletto (because I am totally important enough to have a one word name and also, speak in the third person) does not do.

Ready?  Let’s jump on it like Tom Cruise on Oprah’s  sofa!

• Stiletto does not do trash. (Well, I mean other than a couple of guys in college.)
• Stiletto does not do kitty litter.
• Stiletto also does not do kitty vomit.
• Stiletto does not do pet food.
• Stiletto does not drive on trips longer than an hour.
• Stiletto does not drive, period…as long as there is someone to drive her.    Greater D/FW is thankful for this fact.
• Stiletto does not do leftovers.  Unless it’s pizza.  And she is hungover.
• Stiletto does not do bugs.  Dead or otherwise.
• Stiletto does not do middle seats on planes.
• Stiletto does not talk to people on planes.
• Stiletto does not make eye contact on planes.
• Stiletto sometimes wears sunglasses on planes.
• Stiletto might be a bitch….onward…
• Stiletto does not drink cheap Scotch.  EVER.
• Stiletto does not drink cheap wine…unless of course that is all that is offered in which case, Stiletto will happily gulp it.
• Stiletto does not do gas station bathrooms.  Unless she has had a bunch of aforementioned cheap wine in which case, she gets her inner Brittney Spears on and goes for it.  But she always keeps her shoes on.
• But above all…Stiletto does not do clogged toilets…because this?  Is icky and she  cannot be a part of anything icky, toilet or otherwise.

Seriously, the list could go on and on….and on and on, but I’ll spare you a ten thousand word post.    You’ll thank me later, trust.

So tell me, what’s on your Oprah list?

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