Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Must Hold Off the Madness Before It Consumes Me

In addition to pricey soap use, I like this "in shower" moisturizer of late. I was running low so I bought some at the evil Walmart, while taking the Thanksgiving German guests shopping (they love the Walmart, for it's inexpensive deodorant and Saran Wrap . . . as do I, for that matter). Inadvertently, I left the moisturizer at Stately Wayne Manor and my mother kindly offered to drop it off at my house . . . since she is auditing the school district next door anyhow.

I talked to her tonight and she says that she put the moisturizer in my back doorway two days ago. I found it tonight . . . it's not that I think she's lying, but how did I step over a bottle of Oil of Olay moisturizer for two days without noticing or squishing it? Sure enough . . . found it in the doorway today when I got home. The squirrels must have borrowed it or something.

Was at school until 8:30 tonight. Was thanked by a parent for staying with her student until she picked them up . . . something that I just assumed was my job, maybe from the private school days where I would sit for an hour until someone was picked up. The parent tonight was very appreciative, which was so nice. But again, it's my job . . . I just can't abandon them in an empty school when we are working on the yearbook late.

So much madness . . . match.com is weirder and weirder. Got a wink tonight from someone with "3 or more children" and "they live at home" . . . thank goodness I don't answer "winks". Can't wait until the weekend. Except my truck's heater is broken and my brother is not going to be happy about taking it to get fixed. One of the downfalls about working at a dealership, your sister makes you take things to get fixed. My heat only works if you turn it ALL the way up and then it's too hot.

So just have to lie low for two more days. And thank goodness the squirrels have returned the moisturizer.

Monday, November 28, 2005

Obsessive Complusive Tree Control


Ha, Ha, Ha, there's a fake Christmas tree in my living room. It's color-coordinated. For now. Just like I would wish for when I was a child.

When I was a child, I always wanted a Christmas tree like they had in the store, especially Hudson's, all elegant and the same color. So unlike my Christmas tree at home with all the random priceless ornaments with all of the sentimential stuff because it was made by a three year old.

Now I have a Christmas tree with just blue and purple . . . though the star will just NOT stay straight. I can even add the bells that my mother bought for me for every Christmas when I was a child, because they are silver and will match.

It's so great to be an adult sometimes.

Sunday, November 27, 2005

O Christmas Tree, Part Deux

So did I mention that my original 1950's fake Christmas tree was from my Grandma B? The one with the Alzheimer's?

The Christmas tree had directions . . . I remember reading them when I was five. But they are long gone, probably still in the fruit cellar at my Grandmother's house. My mother brought the fake Christmas tree to my house, so it was in one place and not on three different floors. The post has different colored dots on it, which I assumed corresponded to the dots on the branches, until I had fourteen leftover yellow branches and no black or white dots. I called my mother for the third time, who was a bit exasperated at that point, and she just told me to put the damn thing together and not worry about the colors. I then discovered that I did not have enough branches for the amount of slots . . . but this time I didn't call, I just worked it out. I'm wondering where all the branches went? Did we lose a box of them? Did they just get wrecked over the years and thrown away? Did they burst into flame? It's not like they are small and can hide out under the couch. And who repainted them all yellow?

I am now working on the light problem. Because there is always a light problem.

Next year, 6ft. fake Xmas tree, prelit from Target, $29.99 . . .

Were fake trees flame retardant in 1953?

But the Great Pumpkin was Just Here, I Swear

Oh, Christmas tree . . .

So I think I am going to dig out the original 1950's fake Christmas tree from the basement and put it up tonight. Lights, ornaments, all in the picture window . . . the whole shebang. I also have Christmas (excuse me, "holiday" as not all of my planned recipients are Christian) cards that I may, in fact, get around to sending this year, but only because they are either mildly smutty or mean. Those of you on the list will have to comment about if that is really true.

Thanksgiving update: The turkey was awesome, thanks to my brother D. and Alton Brown. We had way too much food. I got to the end of "James and the Giant Peach", although Z. had wandered off by that point . . . I had forgotten that the peach ends up in NYC. My mother, sister and I spent just enough time together to get sick of each other. My father's German friends kept him very busy and gave me a reason to go to the mall on Black Friday because I certainly don't need any more stuff but there is no Abercrombie and Fitch in Germany.
Speaking of Black Friday and A&F, while we were in the store getting shirts for Mr. R's son, the music was so loud that even the saleperson had to shout "WHAT?!?" when my sister asked for another size in the color we were sent to get. Such a ridiculous store, but not as ridiculous as Ruehl, another store owned by A&F. Ruehl's marketing strategy includes: keeping the store as dark as possible, paying teenagers to "hang" outside the store, having no sign whatsoever so you have to guess if it's even a store or just a place were teenagers lean, and having no employees inside the store . . . so if you actually find something under $100 that you might want to purchase (after taking it to a light between two giant fake plants to actually see the product) you can't buy it. Totally way cool.

So things to be Thankful for: my family, all my friends, my nose still being on my face, my somewhat challenging (and somewhat annoying at times) employment, making enough money to have expensive soap and a Starbucks addiction, and being old enough that I don't HAVE to shop at any Abercrombie stores (Hollister, Ruehl, etc.) due to extreme peer pressure.

The above mentioned expensive soap, which I purchase at Bath and Body Works . . . this time I tried a new scent, "Fresh Vanilla", and have discovered that it reminds me of the smell of Play-doh. So I'm walking around smelling like Play-doh. Hopefully someone finds that to be sexy . . . but somehow I don't think so . . .

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Laughing in the Face of Domesticity

Let's face it . . . I did not follow in my mother's home ec-y becky footsteps. My sister received all the genes that are remotely interested in Martha Stewart. Cooking to me involves a box with the words "Lean Cuisine" printed on it, or better yet, it involves waitstaff and busboys.

But somehow, I got stuck with dessert this Thanksgiving. It's not my fault that my sister's boyfriend keeps blowing up her pies (something about not knowing what burner is on . . . ever . . . pyrex doesn't stand up to direct heat well and then there is molten pie and glass all over, physics, ain't it wonderful?). I can manage sweet potatoes. Arranging the marshmellows in intricate patterns somehow keeps my interest and the rest is just steaming and mashing.

So I'm making a pie. This does not involve steaming (the only thing I'm good at) or mashing (the other thing I can do, but I make a huge mess) and there is no arranging. My pie currently looks like this:

However it not even close to done cooking and it is midnight, so I may fall asleep and set the house on fire with it. I went to Whole Foods Market and ended up buying the apples for it because they were so pretty. Here are the apples:


And now my kitchen is a mess and I'm not done baking . . . I'm going to make pumpkin cupcakes in the morning. Of course, my kitchen is pretty much always a mess. Oh, and I now have to bake something else because I have all this stuff -- baking powder, flour, eggs, -- and I have to use them up before they go bad. So it's the amazing 70 dollar pie and pumpkin cupcakes. Would have been cheaper just to go with the "someplace with waitstaff" idea.


Oh and my hair is ORANGE to go with the pumpkin cupcakes . . . have to fix that tomorrow also.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

I Have Free Cats in Miami

You know you have good friends when they are willing to put you in your place once in a while. Every so often (okay, once every five minutes or so) I need to be checked. In the last few days, my friends have lived up to the challenge.

I tried to rib Princess (a.k.a. Maverick, as she now would prefer to be called) about Ohio State winning and I got a football lecture to end all football lectures. It was like she was trying to bore me to death with insults about Michigan State's poor coaching. I couldn't get away. And thus I was taught my lesson.

Now whenever I say something remotely . . . let's just say I'm distracted most of the time and have about seventeen thoughts going in my head at any given moment. Every so often something comes out of my mouth that no one but me (and possibly my family) could possibly understand. My friend M2 usually does a good job of translation but lately she's just been saying "That's going in the book . . . " I don't remember what it was yesterday. Today the comment that made M2's book entry was "I have free cats in Miami."

It all started with a conference that is located in Miami. There was discussion about how I couldn't go (no more sick days) but how I have a place to stay in Miami but you would have to like cats because my brother, he has, like, nine of them now so I can't really stay with him because I'm allergic to cats and that's just too many but if you like cats . . . I have free cats in Miami.

I'm not sure about the format of M2's book, if it's just a list of dumb things I say or if it's chapters of my freakishness. I hope I get a cut of the profits so I can stay home and paint.

I do have access to free cats in Miami. They would have to go to good homes, of course, and shipping would be extra.

Sunday, November 20, 2005

ACK! Breeders!

At the evil corporate crack . . . I mean coffee . . . dealer this afternoon, there were breeders in front of me in line. They came equipped with a stroller the size of an SUV and a three-year-old with absolutely no manners or self-control.

While I realize that three-year-olds are developmentally unable to have self-control, that's what there are parents for . . . but these breeders weren't parents, they simply saw themselves as creators, or money machines. So "princess scream", as I will now call her, is climbing into the cooler and throwing packages of milk on the floor while her creators stared at the Starbucks menu, plotting to order the most complicated things on the menu. They took such a long time that the efficient (I know, sometimes that happens at Starbucks) barista had already taken my order and was well into making it. I had trouble getting around the SUV stoller while they were deciding on the free cookie. At this point I just want to pay AND scream "It's a free cookie, you idiots, just take one!" but I stop myself.

I have to go around the SUV again to get my drink and Princess Scream is now screaming about the free cookie and then they figure out that they have forgotten all about the kid in the SUV stroller and maybe we should get him a cookie too? Don't you think we should get him a cookie? Excuse me? How do we get another cookie? Can we get another cookie?

Of course they ordered Princess Scream some sort of complicated drink also. They wander aimlessly, with the SUV stroller in the way as much as possible, until they manage to find a table, with no chairs. By this time, I am sitting, reading my paper, sucking down soy latte goodness. I have no need for two chairs, so I offer the chair to the breeder that is standing. What does he do? He gives the chair to Princess Scream, so she is the only one sitting. Her male creator is standing in the middle of an aisle, her female creator is on her knees on the floor but Princess Scream has a chair. Don't forget the SUV stroller blocking the aisle.

A kind gesture is a kind gesture. I gave up the chair to the male creator of Princess Scream and he had every right to do with it whatever he chose. However, someone is going to have to be Princess Scream's teacher one day. And I feel for them.

Ironically, I then read an article about a restaurant in Chicago that insists that parents keep control of their children. Evidently, it is causing quite a stir with a bunch of breeders protesting. I think it sounds like heaven.

Later, while shopping for underwear at Marshall Fields, a family is digging through the clearance lingerie while their three-year-old sings and plays with the underwires on the lowest rack. I don't want to shop for underwear with three-year-olds and I think it is very creepy that "Daddy" is looking for a thong for "Mommy" with the daughter in tow. Makes my skin crawl.

What ever happened to either babysitters . . . or parenting?

Friday, November 18, 2005

Now I Smell

Unfortunately, all the people I grew up with (and some that grew up with my parents), who listen to Bauhaus, still all smoke. A LOT. This was not so annoying when I was "one of them" but now I am not, so my brainwaves alternated between what Mr. Crabbypants would say ("kill them all now since they seem to want to die anyway") and wishing there was just a "smoking section" so they could all go there . . . which would not be near me . . . a smoking section in, say, Toledo.

They all wore the same outfits as they did in 1985, except for the couple that thought they were in the Matrix. At one point, I had to walk away because I was laughing too hard at the conversation I was eavesdropping in on and I didn't want them to notice. This man actually said "well, I don't mosh anymore . . . because well, you know, the . . . piercings" (with exaggerated hand gestures) and I thought "no, you don't 'mosh' anymore because you're too damn old and you would hurt yourself". And then I started laughing. And then his boyfriend started to notice that I was laughing.

We were all fat, including the lead singer (sorry bud) and at one point I noticed a woman resting her beer on her stomach, while standing . . . and she wasn't pregnant. At least I hope not because she was drinking a beer. Now I'm not svelte by any means . . . but come on, don't use your fat as a table.

I only knew three people in the whole place and was not talked to by anyone. One would think this would be my night to pick up people, but no such luck. Two of the familars were former students, one working security and the other working the T-shirt line. The other was this guy that keeps looking at my profile on match, who teaches in a nearby school district and knows who I am . . . he's a journalism teacher and I'm a yearbook teacher, we shared a bus once to a conference. I don't want to date him, by any means, but it seems like he could just call his buddy Ake and get my phone number instead of checking my profile once a week. People are so weird.

I now have to take a shower, as I smell like an ashtray. Amazing how sinus surgery takes away all your tolerance for second hand smoke. More on the concert later.

Peter Murphy isn't dead?

I am going to see Bauhaus tonight alone. While I would love to stay home and sulk about how I don't have any friends (at least any friends who want to go see Bauhaus . . . I do have wonderful friends), the guys in Bauhaus must be . . . let's see . . . about fifty or sixty by now. Plus all the wear and tear from the drugs. So I'm figuring that they won't tour again and this is my LAST CHANCE.

Bauhaus had broken up by the time I could drive, so I've never seen them. I've never been to Peter Murphy . . . never seen Love and Rockets. So this is it.

My brother pointed out (because I was calling him to see if it was totally lame to go by myself to a concert) that they are an "eighties has-been band" and that it would probably be totally lame. While I agree that it will either be wonderful, or ridiculously bad . . . I have to go. I'll stand in the back and try not to draw attention to myself or my "I'm here alone"-ness.

It's comforting that there are 89 other people who still want to see Bauhaus. 89 people is much easier to deal with than, say, 500. (I was assigned "general admission seat" 89, so I'm making an assumption, which I didn't buy because the service fee was more than at the door tickets) So 89 other freaks like me that want to see Petey propped up on the stage, singing "Terror Couple Kill Colonel" in Detroit one last time. I'm getting all misty.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Watch the luck.

I haven't had a random bleeding incident in a whole 24 hours.

Of course, I say this in print and I will have a nose bleed of all nose bleeds during ALIAS, just you watch. All this tempting of fate.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Oowwuch!

So I went to "Todd" this morning to have my "scars scraped", which sounds nicer than it actually is . . . as if that were possible. According to "Todd" and his fiber optic hose, the right side of my nose looks okay. Evidently the boney growth is gone and it is healing well. A little "debris" (it frightens me, so I didn't look) but otherwise the right side . . . it's going well. The left side of my nose is a whole other story.

I knew this, however, because of the random nose bleeds. They are not like the nose bleeds that I never got in elementary school. I didn't ever have a nose bleed until I was well into my . . . well . . . whatever, it was recent. Even when I might have broken my nose, all those times. The random nose bleed starts with a STREAM of blood that is very, very red. Arterial red. Bright red. As my friend remarked, it is very NEW blood. So bright red blood pours out of my nose, just like a horror show. This makes going back to work very interesting, especially with the whole biohazard panic.

The first time was at work, although after school. I sneezed and then it wouldn't stop. I had to drive home with tissue stuffed up my nose. Most of the time, you don't think about how other people can see you in your car. When you have a wad of tissue packed in your nose, you are suddenly very aware.

Next, I decided to go for a walk. Started with the blood streaming about half way to Starbucks, but after a week of this, I just held a tissue up to my nose and kept walking. Cleaned up in the bathroom of the Starbucks. I'm sure people assumed I'd been beat up or something. "Oh look honey, the battered person just washed up in the bathroom." I'm sure it was appetizing.

According to "Todd", the left side of my nose is still "a mess" with "scabs" and "swelling" and all that good stuff. He took out some of the stitches but left some intact, so I won't grow a hole in my septum. Thanks. He also scraped out some scar tissue in my sinus cavity so that it won't close up . . . I didn't know that "closing up" was an option, so I'm now a little paranoid.

Oh, and it hurts like hell. It fact it hurt so much last night that I woke up from the pain. So I'm back on the pain moderation. So now I have to go involuntarily pass out again.

The random bleeding may go on for "a while" according to "Todd". While I would like a more definitive answer . . . a while means that it will eventually stop. Everything else turned out well . . . and I was given the phone number to order my copy of the CT scans. Whhheeee! Back to work tomorrow.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

Space Connecticut

My brother D. and nephew Z. joined me in R.O. for Cuban sandwiches (can I put any more initials? C.S.s maybe?). During lunch, we got to talkin' about Z's parent teacher conferences . . . evidently school is not going as well as it could. This is not a new situation for Z, as last year he just seemed to drive his teacher crazy along with the other SEVENTEEN boys in his class (they wanted that lady to retire, didn't they?).

This year, Z is currently trying to convince his 2nd grade teacher that he is dumb. When you ask Z a question and he doesn't feel like answering, he replies, very convincingly, "I don't know?". Aunt Emily then replies, "That's crap." and he answers the question but sometimes he uses it as a stall tactic . . . sometimes he just doesn't feel like answering. But his teacher is assuming that he is being truthful in the not knowing anything. So she suggested a reading tutor and a math tutor.

It eventually came out that Z is only interested in the "fun" things at school, like, say, lunch, recess, writing books and colorin'. If the activity is deemed unfun, like math . . . well, Z does it as quickly as possible (and with the least amount of effort) so that we can get to the next thing . . . which is hopefully more fun. Makes perfect sense to me.

So I asked him if he wanted people to think he was a space cadet. He answered that he did not, in fact, want anyone to think he was a "Space Connecticut" but that they should hurry up and get to the fun stuff.

So for all you space connecticuts out there . . . I think school should hurry up and get to the fun parts too.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Craftsman boyfriend

So I'm off the pain moderators . . . which is totally by choice but still kind of sucks. I just was having trouble getting out of bed. Bad thing, not getting out of bed. A lot like being depressed, so we (me and the mouse in my pocket) had to cut out the depressants. It hurts . . . and now I CARE that it hurts.

"Todd" will take the stitches out next Wednesday. I look in the mirror and tell myself that "yeah, your nose IS straighter . . . " but I don't think my nose is really any straighter. I haven't had a random bleeding incident in a day, but that will probably change as soon as I get back to school and my blood pressure spikes.

It really feels like someone scraped out my left maxillary sinus with something sharp. Oh, yeah, someone did last week.

Taking a week off of the match.com. I changed my profile and it seems to be attracting . . . well . . . the profile of my ex-boyfriend from college, who was a tool. I mean I didn't see it at the time but he was really a tool. Ask anyone who knew me at the time. And if I need tools, I'll go to Sears and buy some. So someone needs to re-write my profile, pronto!

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

I had these up my nose

My splints have been removed and they were very careful not to let me see them, even though I know they look like this but with way, way, more blood. I almost asked for them but I don't think the nurses would have liked that.

I'm going back to work on Friday. Happy medium between my mother's desires and work's desires. Honestly, I feel crappy (though when has that ever stopped me from going to work?), woozy and I randomly bleed all over the place. It's the random bleeding that really is the problem.

According to "Todd", my ENT, it will be better now that the splints are out. But that was said right after he tried to suction more skin out of my sinus. So at this moment . . . it is NOT better, though I could smell some macaroni and cheese. Todd says everything very matter of factly . . . like, "Well . . . the reason you can't smell is you had splints blocking your nasal passages, plus those big clots (looks at chart) . . . oh, right, I did a left endosopy on your maxillary . . . well, that explains all the blood . . ." I love it when Todd forgets what he's done to my nose. Makes me feel like a person, not just an object in the Beaumont machine. Really.

I had a list of questions, because I was woozy and didn't want to forget, and that really annoyed poor Todd, who evidently just wanted to suck out my brain with that little stick he had. My aunt Leona was right though . . . I did want the TWO pain moderation pills . . . if not four. So I have to go see Todd again in a week and he did promise to suck more blood out then. I have some sutures up there too. Great. Uh-huh.

I'm still in pain . . . but the pain moderation pills just makes you not care. I'm in pain, I just don't care that I am in pain. Ah, a whole new attitude for me.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Wicked Cool Bruise

I want someone to come and take me for a walk. I hate sitting in the house for this long, even with the time compression of narcotics (excuse me . . . pain moderation, get it right). Today did fly by with the napping. There was intensive napping.

There was so much napping that I'm not sure how work is going to go on Wednesday . . . I tried a pain moderation free day today, which I thought would help with the dizziness. Turns out that I'm now still dizzy AND in pain, so that is just not going to work. We'll see what the doctor says tomorrow. My mother doesn't want me to go back until next week (or the week after) . . . and she made some good arguments: Schools are germ factories, I come into contact with way more people than in a usual office job, students are highly unpredictable and prone to bonking your nose, if I get an infection, it's really close to my brain, etc. But then the good arguements, and the momness of it, all made me cranky. I can't go to school if I'm still bleeding . . . I think that will be the rule for now.

The splints might be taken out tomorrow. I made the mistake (again talking to my mother) of looking up what the splints looked like on the internet and tomorrow will be a TWO pain moderation pill day for sure. My father is coming to take me to the doctor.

So this is what sucks . . . usually I don't mind being alone because if I don't want to be alone anymore I'll go to Target or Starbucks or the mall. But in experiencing the shopping trip of yesterday . . . I really did almost fall over. I had to stop and rest several times. I really HAD to hold on to the cart. So now I'm afraid to go out and about. I would love to go for a walk, just to move, but I'm afraid that I'll get halfway and have to stop, or worse . . . I'll just fall over. I'm also afraid that I'll make the bleeding worse and the goal is to STOP bleeding. Gotta stop with all the bleeding.

So I'm stuck in my house . . . full of bloody tissues and television is sooo dumb and the internet is full of scary stuff, like what the pieces of plastic in my nose look like and I can't focus enough to read anything but Martha Stewart and I'm done with knitting, plus it isn't a good gift if you've bled on it.

Okay, focus on the positive . . . I have a wicked cool bruise on my hand and I'll maybe get a copy of my CAT scans tomorrow. Oh, and I can sorta smell vanilla lotion . . . a little bit.

And you guys say I never look at the bright side.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Biohazard

So I left the house . . . I had to go buy more popscicles and Puffs since no one left any on the porch. No one really ran and hid their faces, though there was this toddler who was looking at me funny, but I think that was just because of the mouth breathing (or mouf breafing, as I now say it).

The newest pain extravanganza feels as though someone has slammed a fork through the roof of my mouth and just left the fork there. Oh, and I can feel the splints now. The store was okay as long as I held onto the cart . . . kind of like when I would bring my grandmother to the store, who really needed a walker, and I would prop her up with a cart. So I propped myself up on a cart and purchased popscicles.

I also bought the large pack of Clorox wipes, as I am one giant biohazard. I have managed to get my medications on a six hour schedule, so I will be involuntarily passing out in about 15 minutes. My pain meds have to be refilled at Beaumont, so I guess I will be exploring the hospital tomorrow . . . and they said people went back to work the next day. They so lied. Because the people I work with care that I'm coughing up blood and they don't want me to be at work like that. Gotta go get another wipe.

The Ones with NutraSweet

Thank you's to all who have called to make sure I am not dead. Post-surgery morning number three . . . I don't know how my cousins did all that mouth-breathing in the eighties. I have wicked chapped lips and my throat hurts like hell. Oh, and the occasional waves of nausea are great . . . really great . . .

I can't figure out what the nausea is from and I have to keep rinsing my nose out with saline, which is just about as fun as when you squirt water up your nose . . . because it is squirting water up your nose. No fun at all.

Bring popscicles. I'm running out. I like the no-sugar-added variety pack. And Puffs Plus with lotion. The doorbell still doesn't work so knock loudly.

Saturday, November 05, 2005

This won't be up for Long


Mmmm. . . facial surgery is fun and pretty.

Darn it!

My nose looks way cuter three times it's normal size . . . no, really, I'm not being sarcastic or anything. It's a little wider and it actually looks better. Maybe because the swelling evens it out or something.

A bit better right now . . . I'm at home. Got a cup of tea. Have all sorts of weird stuff in my nose and throat and I'm all shakey from the Darvocet. I haven't had any "pain moderation" in about six hours and may cut back to one pill. Right now, it feels like a really bad sinus infection as long as I don't move my nose. One "Samantha witch" twitch reminds me quick though. Hot showers help.

Not smelling anything isn't so bad. Not tasting anything sucks . . . it makes you think eating is a really good idea, until you get to the middle of the thing you are eating . . . and then you just kind of lose interest. Not being able to hear is not all that great either.

Take my contacts out and I only have the sense of touch . . . good thing that inservice I had the other day "taught" me that I have 43 other senses (ummm. . . . cough, cough, cough, bulls$%t).

Have a Tissue

So my mother invites me to her house . . . and she uses that "I'm your mother and I'm always right" voice when I hesitate and she says, " . . . well, you could stay here and relax, I suppose." Which really means pack your stuff and get in the car.

And that I did . . . so now I'm having a bucket of blood mixed with snot allergy attack from the damn cat and I really, really want to go home but am dosed on davocet and have no car. No escape. No escape from Stately Wayne Manor . . . or Witch Mountain for that matter.

And I itch all over. I'm hoping that is also a cat reaction but am having paranoia that it's the Kleflex or whatever heavy duty antibiotics that they have me on . . . I'm waiting for the blisters and the skin sluffing or what have you that happens when you have a bad reaction to antibiotics. Oh, and in my drug haze (did I just say drug haze? pain moderation . . . that's what I meant) I heard my mother wrong and thought I was only supposed to take one antibiotic pill a day, when I was supposed to take four a day. So this all could just be infection settling into my brain.

I can't sleep, but everyone else is asleep . . . so I'll just wait until my dad gets up at 8 a.m. and talk him into talking me home, with the lure of the Trader Joes dangling before him. Cheap wine, daddy, take me to Starbucks and then home and there is cheap wine. (he would call it inexpensive . . . 7.49 for Columbia Crest Twin Vines is a darn good deal) I can't even lie down for fear of drowning. And my face HURTS. And I still have to wear this nose diaper (my mother prefers "nose bra", just for the record) because of the oozing of blood.

I can't taste anything. I can't smell anything. I have to breathe through my mouth, which makes my tongue all dry and yucky. I have to use a sippy cup because using a glass just gets the gauze all wet. If I could taste anything my mouth would taste like, well, blood. I have all these weird scrapes in my mouth from the tubes, I guess. Oh, and I can't talk because you have to use your palate to talk . . . and I can feel the clots above my palate and well, I don't want to "disturb" them. So, yeah, day two . . . pretty miserable. At least I got my contacts in . . . wearing glasses pretty much sucked too.

I have to sneeze (darn cat . . . darn mom) but can't because my brains might fall out.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

The Horror . . . The Horror

Actually, it's not all that bad . . . I have a bone to pick with Beaumont again, but other than that I'm not in too much pain or anything. It's just the blood . . . all the blood. Massive amounts of blood everywhere. You know what they say about head wounds.

We had a bit of a confidentiality problem with my mother in the room . . . something about the male nurse saying "oh, and you quit smoking . . . that's good . . ." Now I'm sure my mother knew I smoked at one time, but we really did not need to be reminded of that this morning. Especially since it's not like I quit smoking last week, it was four years ago. We also shared that I was not pregnant. There was a lot of sharing. Too much sharing. And he could have just said "and you don't smoke" and gotten his answer.

The whole thing was surreal. Various RNs would come into the room and ask the same round of questions (except for Skippy "you quit smoking") and then they would check your answers . . . toward the end, after they checked my mouth for "dentures, loose teeth, caps or appliances" (toaster, in your mouth?) for the tenth time, I wondered outloud if we could skip a step and they could just check without asking. Since they were going to check anyhow.

So now I have this nose sling, that is attached to my ears, holding gauze against my nose . . . which has just stopped bleeding profusely. The clots down the back of my throat were the worst, followed closely by the blood dripping from the gauze because I was bleeding so much. My nose is now swollen to three times the size but you can't see it because of the nose diaper. Other than that, I feel okay. Look hideous, but feel okay.

Supposably, I have splints in my nose, but I can't feel them. I don't think I have any packing either, as I could breathe really well in the recovery room. I can't breathe now but boy, it was great in that recovery room. Turns out I really couldn't breathe out of the left side of my nose ever. So when you open that up . . . well, I think I was on an oxygen high or something. But again that was before the buckets of blood and the clots. Hideous . . . don't look at me, I'm hideous.

So if anyone wants to visit, bring a blindfold . . . or a mask. And popscicles. And a grande soy latte.

Probably be better if you just leave them on the porch and run though. Just saying. I have pictures . . . but I have to wait until I think they are funny . . . which is not quite yet. Maybe tomorrow though. They are hideous . . .

Paranoia IS Genetic

Having lived with my Grandmother for those years . . . every so often a Reichen trait would shine through the Alzheimer's fog. Mostly it was how she explained things happening in her world. "That girl that lives with me (which was me by the way), she comes in at night and STEALS my clothes . . . because she doesn't have anything nice to wear, you know. Her clothes are awful."

I did steal her clothes . . . to put them directly in the washer. We would laugh and laugh at the thought of me stealing my 89-pound grandmother's sweatsuits to wear out on the town.

But in the shower this morning, I had a very "Reichen girl" thought. In thinking about what to wear to surgery . . . since I have had all these phone calls and problems . . . I came to what shoes to wear. "Better not bring the ones with the orthodics. Someone could steal my shoes." slipped into my head out of nowhere. Then "I'd be out 400 dollars then" scooted by. The paranoid Reichen part of my brain was taking over.

The slightly more rational part of my brain knows that no one is interested in my shoes, let alone the inserts in my shoes (lovingly made by feet-loving gnomes in Ohio). But the rational part of my brain is weakened by a migrane (which I cannot take drugs for) and for want of a soy latte (that would help with the migrane for sure).

So you do live on through your offspring. I'm not sure that paranoia would be what my grandmother would pick to pass on(though I do have her creativity and strive toward her sense of fun). Scary that I might soon desire to make creative deserts such as chocolate jello . . . but that is for another entry.

No, I haven't had nose surgery yet . . . four more hours.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Pre-Surgery Consult Part II

So I was a bit stressed today, as I am leaving work for four whole days and a lot can get destroyed in that amount of time. So I prepped my students . . . giving them all the gory details, so they would, hopefully, feel sorry for me and behave. I know there are teachers who can leave and just let it go . . . I am not one of those teachers. So I give them all my email and lecture them on guest teacher etiquette. I leave 42 extra handouts. I have plan A, plan B and emergency plan C. I left the substitute an actual bin of stuff. Not a substitute folder . . . a BIN.

So in amongst this I get my surgery time call. I thought they were going to just tell me the time, so I answered the phone . . . "okay, 10:30 check-in . . . third floor to the right . . . waiting room . . . " and the special instructions begin. No metal, no jewelry, no pocketwatches, we might let you wear underwear but probably not . . .

So the lesson bin is done. I found my keys, right on the stairway door where I left them last night. The jewelry is all off. I still have to take a walk and I'm going to get Starbucks at midnight, darn it. What the heck, I'm going to be forced to sleep all day as it is . . . oh, and my mother decided not to spend the night, which is why I can write this instead of vacuuming underneath everything in my house. Yesterday, I was vacuuming like a maniac, moved my bed and everything. Tonight, not so much.

It's really simple . . . just going to break the inside of my nose, suck out some stuff and stick some splints in there. Happens every Monday and Thursday . . . I hear anyway.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Pre-surgery consult

So no makeup . . . but I can shower and wear deodorant . . . and brush my teeth, as long as I spit everything out . . . no nail polish either. So I guess I can smell good . . . just not look good?