on the road again

[Thanks to those of you who've emailed/messaged re: my being MIA and the last post. It didn't occur to me that flying under the radar after ranting about anaphylaxis might raise a flag or two!]

A month in the life? Let's see. How about a list, because even though I'm present and accounted for, I do still have summer brain and this is just about all I can muster.

Skin funk is gone. Epipens are, as of yet, unused. Critters that swim in the sea are still an abomination.

The boy is registered to start school in August (September, maybe?) after enduring both pre-registration, registration, immunizations, and the third degree from the pediatrician in regards to my sanity ("Do you know what you're getting into?" said pediatrician after learning we'd be homeschooling. "Look! A rabbit!" said I as I began searching high and low for my bonnets, ankle-grazing frocks, and tossing out all my overpriced cosmetics all in one fell swoop).

A bird laid a couple eggs on our front porch two weeks ago. Last week? They hatched. Today? They flew the coop. I think I'd like to have the gestational period of a small wren. Not that I'm pregnant. Soooooo not; just reflecting. I suppose I should be glad that human gestation is, at least, not equivalent to that of, say, an African Elephant.

I think it's time the youngest ferret learned to use her litterbox. First, we need to get her to stop unloading in the bathtub. She now screams in abject horror each time she's placed in the tub because she fears the Abominable Fecal Log will once again manifest itself and threaten to consume her entire being. Unfortunately, we've yet to communicate successfully that it's her own backdoor from which the Abominable Fecal Log is exiting. Should be fun, no?

My mother is up to her old antics with mama drama, so silently and fearfully I wait. Last time, all I got was an eye twitch accompanied by mild to moderate hair loss. Seriously. That's all I'll say, but dude if you can spare a sedative or two (for her. Or me. Whatever.).

That's all. I may be absent for a bit longer (maybe not, though). I'm still reading, so please do as I say not as I do and keep writing. Later, people.

or not.

People, I've got nothing. Nothing but more hives. Three weeks, three specialists, a cocktail of drugs to "reduce" the inflammation (note: not actually remove, just reduce. Yeah. Thanks for that.). Since no one was quite sure what caused the initial reaction, it was rather out of sight and out of mind; then, I decided (or not, since I wasn't thinking about it at all) to eat two shrimp appetizers on Sunday. Monday morning met me with a face full of hives - think Will Smith's character on Hitch, and you'll have a pretty accurate picture of what I resemble. Only they don't go away in a scene or two like they do in the movies. Mine are real hangers-on.

I went to a new dermatologist in hopes of acquiring a Magic Pill to make the fugly go away, but all I got was a former local news reporter who kindly escorted me through the hospital. E and I always called him Birth Boy when we saw him on tv because his head was rather elongated like he'd just been, you know, birthed. I digress. Birth Boy was the highlight of my week as he most certainly didn't look like Birth Boy in real life, rather he was a hot. And Italian. And I took the fact that he scurried ahead to hold doors for me as a sign that he wanted to come home with me. I told this to E, with a bit of pride catching in my throat (or maybe it was anaphylaxis), that despite my shrimp-induced-sexiness Birth Boy thought I was smokin'. At which point he collapsed in hysterical, jolly laughter that no, Birth Boy probably just didn't want to touch the door handle after my diseased, smarmy hand had germed it all up with my flesh eating bacteria. Thank you for that; that is why I married you. Natch.

So, Birth Boy and hives aside, I'm waiting for this latest round of "How Ugly Are You!" to end so that I can resume my life of anonymity and quit this business of being the circus freak. Until that point comes, I'm laying low on the blog because I'm sure being tired of listening to this broken record is soooo last year. When I get new material (or at least a new epidermis), I'll be back. Enjoy some sun for me. And a shrimp or two.

patient

I have, among other things, a penchant for the dramatic. Any affliction that may befall me is the absolute worst affliction ever; it is, more often than not, so bad that I will likely never recover. If I have the flu, I can't imagine a future in which I do not have the flu. I will carry the influenza virus around my neck like my own little albatross until I cease to exist. The same would apply to this most recent allergic outbreak. I spent a good part of Sunday afternoon alternating between a drunken sleep (yay! Benedryl!) and a slobbering, crying mess because I couldn't visualize a future without crusty, peeling, blistering legs. Following the weekend, I've continued to mope about all week feeling sorry for myself and checking my legs every fifteen minutes to see if there was any change. I spent a good half hour sobbing about my new summer dresses that wouldn't see the light of day because I looked like a burn victim to anyone who would dare venture into my line of site from my perch on the sofa.

You would think I would relish anyone's interest in the state of my legs, but no. In fact, I felt my head explode into a thousand globules when my mother asked how I was doing (yes, she only asked once. Wonder why?). The act of constructing an answer that accurately conveyed that I was improving but was (and this is important) Not Better lest anyone think otherwise was all-consuming.

You would also think that considering the effort I put into nursing my own convalescence, I would do so for others. But, no. The Man Cold has nothing on me. Now that I've taken my last dose of steroids, and my legs are looking somewhat human again, I've nothing to fixate and obsess over. Not that I'm looking. But you know.

What's holding your interest these days? Besides my legs. Meeeeeeow.

shot.

That little sunburn I mentioned? Turned into a dermatological nightmare thanks to the added powers of both shellfish and sheets washed in what can only be described as old lady perfume. Two days after the burn, a tiny little patch of contact dermatitis (sun poisoning) developed on my chest. Two days after that, I noticed a few more itchy areas. We drove back a day early, and I dragged my sad self, after a thirteen-hour car trip, to the doctor's office to beg drugs. She gave me a steroid shot and told me it should be dramatically improved over the course of twenty-four hours as she handed me a script for quick dose steroids just in case. You know.

Twenty-four hours later? I am covered head-to-toe in hives. I've literally slept 4 hours in the last 48 hours. By head-to-toe hives, I mean there is not one square inch of my entire body that isn't swollen with red whelps and bumps - except my face (there is that, I suppose). Now what is the explanantion for this? Well, apparently, my train wreck of an immune system decided to raise a coup on the injection and bring out the big guns. I've started the oral meds (which, by the way, have a litany of much-needed side effects like, oh, I don't know, SLEEPLESSNESS. Why?), so let's just hope I don't go into anaphylaxis at this point. Vacation schmacation.

five o'clock somewhere

You know? Like here. One sunburn (me), two crabcakes (the ferrets), and full-on sunshine. Five o'clock, indeed.

We don't play with no stinking wittle ponies. Only cowboys for this girl.

Catching up on some light reading.

What was it I told you about playing on those stairs?!

Beachtime.

Oh, yeah, he's happy. As a clam.

mothers, marigolds, and margaritas

Well, kids, it's that time of year again! Mother's Day is rounding the bend on Sunday, and I? I'm getting the hell out of Dodge. That's right! It's time for Mother's Day Exodus 2009! Last year was our inaugural sojourn, and it was declared to be a yearly celebration of sanity and self-preservation. Don't misunderstand, I do love my mother. I do love that E has a mother (and I love that she's not mine). But Mother's Day? Has always been just this side of the eighth circle of Hell in terms of the in-laws.

Early into my relationship with the husband, his Mother (and, yes, that's mother with a capital M) mandated that the entire day, the entire day, be devoted to singing her high praises and neglecting anyone or anything that may compromise her seat of high distinction, including but not limited to my own mother). All four of her children, including one whose family lives out of state, were expected to be sitting beside her in church on Sunday morning. Not because she wanted to show off her accomplishments, her perfectly - er, seemingly - normal children.

No, it was because a hanging basket was on the line.

Not just any hanging basket, but the hanging basket awarded to the Mother with the Most Children Present at church that morning. I don't know if this is a common ceremony on Mother's Day in baptist churches, but I had never witnessed such treachery in my life. Multiple, endless categories in which mothers across the sanctuary pitted themselves and their children against one another to earn such illustrious titles as "Youngest Mother," "Oldest Mother," and the aforementioned "Mother with the Most Children Present" (not mother with the MOST children, but mother with the most children PRESENT, because heck, no, we aren't giving you these stinking pansies in a basket if you can't get 'em in church. You don't deserve this cheap basket of flowers, lady who birthed a cajillion children). Nevermind, the glaringly obvious torture this absurd display undoubtedly caused all those moms who lost babies and children or who couldn't have them. And all this in church, nonetheless (which is, of course, a discussion for another day on my own issues with "religion").

So two years of everyone gathering together to win Mother her flowers was all my sad soul could take. We decided we would, in fact, attend our church that Mother's Day and visit with Mother after services for lunch (my own mother would be attended to that evening). Mother was enraged and proceeded to call us herself and have all the other siblings call to plead her case for the hanging basket (Why! She's won the basket for eight years in row! Why are you doing this to US?!). Sunday morning was filled with more phone calls pleading her case ("But it's a basket! And I want it!"). We were resolute.

Thankfully, the next year she was unseated by a lovely woman several years her junior who, no doubt, has a covered porch overflowing with stinky, wilted geraniums that my mother-in-law sheds a silent tear for once a year.

This sideshow, coupled with the fact that I can now stake a claim (albeit a tiny one that the grandmothers seemingly allow to slip their minds) in the holiday, led to the inaugural Mother's Day Exodus of 2008.

I'm gathering novels, loading Ipods, checking expiration dates on sunscreen and setting my sights on a decidedly mother-less Mother's Day. We won't have a special dinner, there will be no bold exclamations of my magnificence, certainly there will be NO hanging baskets. There will be quiet evenings on the harbor, sand-filled bikini bottoms, and a bottomless bowl of oysters shared with those who matter most.

I hope all of you are able to find an escape to carve out time for yourselves to just be. To reflect and remember. Please hold close, those mothers whose precious babies aren't here with them; keep them close in heart and thought. Happy Mother's Day, truly, to all you amazing mamas that I can call friends.

point/counterpoint.

Back when I was teaching, Mondays were some sort of dark, omnipotent force that loomed over all my weekend joys. I knew that whatever pleasures I was enjoying outside of school would soon be overshadowed by my return to work on Monday morning. Since I've been staying home, though, Monday is almost as nice as Friday except it isn't Friday. Today was a Monday. A Monday that is still almost a Friday. Am I sounding befuddled yet? With no more ado, I bring you "Point/Counterpoint."

• The power was out this morning causing E to oversleep and cut it close to work.
• I was unaffected, dug deeper into the covers to finish my sleep, and had a fleeting thought of sympathy for him as he scurried off to work.

• The boy child awoke much earlier - screaming, nonetheless - than he should have because he had to pee (and at almost-five, still won't get out of bed until someone gets him out - which in itself could be a point/counterpoint...I digress.).
• He did not pee in the bed and I did not have to wash urine soaked sheets.

• I had to go to the grocery store with two sleep deprived, grumpy kids.
• It did not rain despite forecasts predicting that it would.

• The boy fell off the end of the buggy and injured his foot causing it to bleed.
• It wasn't my foot, and he no longer insists on riding the end of the cart.

• It's Monday.
• I could be teaching ninety hormonal, insolent, angry teenagers while waiting for the weekend.

The icing on the cake? They both still nap and are doing so now; small miracles and all. Happy Monday, y'all.

[For those of you - and there are a few of you that I know of - who've been following Matt Logelin's blog, he'll be on O.prah today if you want to check it out. It seems I always find out about these things after they're over, so here's your heads-up.]