I’m so excited! My little girl is all grown up. ” 🎼 Girl, you’ll be a woman, soon…” horrid song but let it go as my lilac has bloomed!
*sniff, sniff* Oh, how I love a lilac!
Himself just did a load of laundry wearing nothing but garden-clogs. That might not sound so strange.
However! Our washing machine is in a shed entirely outside of the house. Yep, I got treated to him coming and going, stark naked in the rain (literally).
Our neighbours must be scarred for life – oh yes, they could easily look down from one room and see him in all his, ahem, glory! And they thought me in a bikini was bad!
Do you have someone who does crazy things to make you laugh, too?
(aren’t you glad this is a photo-free post?)
…is something I rarely do. But today I saw something so awesome I’d like to hop a plane to California just to try it.
I want this bit of frankenfood in my mouth right now. I don’t care how bad it is for me. I want it in my bellah. I want deep fried Cheeto smell all over my fingers. And orange teeth.
I haven’t had Mac and cheese in a couple of years, and I haven’t had a Cheeto in over a decade. If anyone deserves to eat this, it is me!
Here’s a taste-test video. Damn him, damn him to hell for getting a bite of comfort-food heaven (he might be going there already for saying ‘digging it’ so damn often).
I’m also annoyed that they spelled it n’ instead of ‘n. Burger King, fix that! I love you.
In keeping with the last post with a musical title.
Our next door neighbors have started to let their cat outside. She is spayed, and has a bell on her collar – both good things!
But man, she sure pisses my Spottie-Cat off! The dog doesn’t know what to think. Chase? Not chase? She usually picks ‘whining in just that high-pitched-note that makes Spiders want to scream.’
There isn’t any agony. I just couldn’t resist the pun!
I was sitting outside reading, and felt something on my bare foot. First instinct was to fling whatever it was off, but something made me look first.
And you wouldn’t be seeing these pictures if I hadn’t done my nails yesterday for a wedding. It’s officially spring when the rainbow toenail polish is on!
I think she needed a warm place to rest. I’m always warm!
She stayed about 10 minutes on my toe. I went back to my book. The next time I looked…
I don’t think I’ve ever reblogged one of my own posts before. But some unknow person was perusing my blog today, and found this. After a re-read, I’m pretty happy with it and want to share it again.
Hardly anyone reads the old crap, right? And yeah, I’m tagging this as humour for the wayI wrote it, and that fact I survived to laugh about it.
Content warning – lots of blood, and possibly sexual misconduct by a doctor.
This story is about the first time (that I know of) that I almost died.
“When I was 16, I kept getting colds and bronchitis all the time. It got annoying. So my parents and I talked it over and decided that I should finally have my tonsils out. I was sort of old for the surgery, but I have been a lot less prone to that sort of illness since having them out.
I don’t remember much about the surgery itself. I know they made me take my shirt off, and I clearly recall my surgeon saying to the others in the room as he moved the sheet down (why!?!?) to expose my chest, that I was “very mature.” That bothered me for years. I was ashamed to even speak about it. It felt like visual group rape. I’ve often wondered: did he/they give me a suggestion to not talk about it when I was all the way under the anaesthetic? Because after I told someone the first time, it got easier until it didn’t bother me any more.
What will bother me until the day I die is that not that he was a bit scuzzy and inappropriate, but that he cut too far down on the right side. Really, really far down. I have a pocket between my tongue and what should be throat-meat, but isn’t. Quite often, food that is small and hard gets stuck in there (peanuts and popcorn shells are the worst) and the only way to get it out is to fish it out with my index finger or suck it out while making vile-sounding slurping snotty noises. Thanks, doc.
I haven’t even gotten into the disgusting part yet. Honestly, it gets worse!
We were given a slip of paper with post-operation instructions. It said: ‘about a week after your surgery, the incision may open up and bleed. This is nothing to worry about if the amount of blood is a teacup or less.’
What the leaflet failed to mention is what to do if it was more than a teacup.
I have a mental picture of when it started: a combination of my actual view and a sort of distanced movie of where I was and what I was doing. I was outside, at the end of our driveway, right by one of the odd, light grey, cinderblock-and-concrete-stucco pillars that lined the road in front of our house. There was a small popcorn tree behind me, and I was facing toward our red-clay driveway. I was talking to one of the two beautiful, white long-haired cats that ‘belonged’ to a neighbour (my grandmother adopted one later, the other was a tom and went feral). I leaned over to pet the kitty, who had trotted across the street to see me, and suddenly I had a strange tickle in my throat.
I opened my mouth to talk to the kitty and blood sprayed on to the driveway.
I can no longer recall if I ran right inside, or gave myself a moment or two to figure out what was going on. I’m not prone to panic, and blood has never bothered me, so I’m guessing I didn’t scream for mom and run inside immediately. When I did go in, we found the leaflet and read it. One of us grabbed a smallish coffee cup (no tiny teacups in our house) and when I had filled that up, mom brought out a massive, three-quart, square Tupperware container from the cupboard. The very same one my sister and I had puked into for years when we were small and very sick. It was so deep there was little chance of splash-back, you see. Mom was practical like that.
Even better, this thing had measurements on the inside of the bowl so we could see just how much blood I was losing. The measurements were in quarts. We dumped in the coffee cup-full of blood, in the interest of accuracy. It had jelled already – perhaps due to the properties of saliva, perhaps that’s what blood does anyway – and it slopped into the bowl, keeping the shape of the cup. That was when I first realised that what was going on wasn’t “normal.”
The spray was at the very back of my throat (probably coming from the right where Dr. Inappropriate had cut too deep; it directed to the left). My mouth was constantly full, and I swallowed quite a lot without meaning to. That didn’t bother me, either. What did bother me is when it finally stopped, and I discovered that I had clots of blood everywhere inside my mouth – the worst were stuck in the top surfaces of my teeth the way potato chips do sometimes. I had to pick them out with my tongue, and swallow or spit.
The bleeding had stopped, so I grabbed the relevant Encyclopaedia Brittanica off the shelf to see how much blood someone of my age and size should have inside them. I’d lost almost a quart, according to the awesome Tupperware bowl. Brittanica said I should have about 4 quarts (a quart being about 950ml). Current Googling gives me a lower number.
In any case I was fine, it had stopped, no panic, and we’d all learned something interesting.
Then a short while later it opened up again. We rang the doctor, and he said to go to the hospital. I kept spitting into the container – good data for the hospital, right? Before we left, it had stopped again. I had closer to two quarts in the bowl, and I now knew that wasn’t a safe amount.
It was a small Florida town, and we had a (new at the time) hospital in town so the drive was short. I was fine, cheerful and chipper as I could be, and the bleeding had stopped again for the longest time yet. They decided I should to to another hospital in the next town over, and have Dr Inappropriate cauterise the area to stop the bleeding. They put me into an ambulance.
They strapped me down, as they do in ambulances apparently (this was my first and only experience inside of one). I started bleeding again on the way. I was tied down on my back, spraying blood at the back of my throat, not even able to talk because I would choke, and unable to sit up and spit it out. I always thought from movies that when a kid was in an ambulance a parent was allowed inside, too? Stupid movies. I remember feeling a bit of panic at that point, waving my arms as much as I could under the straps and gurgling for help. I swallowed a lot more blood before they let me up and I could spit. Into my mother’s bowl, still keeping track. I know I had lost over 2 quarts by then – over half my blood supply in a jellied square mass on my lap. That’s not counting the amount that I had swallowed.
By the way: ‘human’ vampires are bullshit. I know, for a fact, from this experience, that the human body can not digest fresh human blood. I will never forget what it looked and smelled like coming out the other end.
I might have gone a bit light-headed by the time I’d arrived at the other hospital for the cauterisation. I don’t remember anything else.
I know that my mom was irritated that she never got her awesome Tupperware bowl back, though.”
Someone had a bit of fun at work today. Being as it is April 1, it could have been anyone!
The target? Our recent health and safety rule to disallow using pallet trucks as skateboards in the warehouse. It is a bummer as skating around was so much fun! Oh well. We understand all the reasons why, and are being good about it.
Signs went up. I really want to know where the image came from!
But, um, it’s Ireland, and the word ride is used in…a unique way here. Suffice to say, you don’t offer someone a ride in your car. You offer them a lift. Otherwise the snickering drowns out the rest of your sentence.
Sex. It means having sex. Nearly always. I think you can still say ‘ride’ and not mean sex if you are talking about a vehicle with two wheels, like a push-bike, or a motorcycle, or a scooter (and didn’t I go all Irish there, with push-bike? It’s a damn bicycle).
In any case, a pallet truck technically has five or six wheels, so riding one puts it clearly into the giggle-zone. Maybe it’s because I’m a blow-in and was laughed at way too often in my first few years here; but after a decade here the new signs always give me a niggle of a giggle (a blow-in is someone from somewhere else, it might be the next county over, or the other side of the planet. It’s an affectionate term, but also reminds us blow-ins that we will never be local, ever).
So…back to the point and less of the Irish version of English: someone had fun with one of the signs. Can’t imagine who it was.
Happy April 1!
I supposedly have conjunctivitis, also known as pink eye. Being as my eyes have been itchy as hell since November, and no one else around me has it, I’m kinda doubtful about the diagnosis. It’s meant to be crazy contagious, my eyes never turned pink or red, and I didn’t have eye-boogies. Just a lot of itching!
In any case, I finally got sick of it (pun intended) and went to my GP.
With a list of other issues, of course. My bodily warranty ran out when I was 25. That’s when I started to need glasses, and discovered loads of other new and fun ways that a human body finds to break down. I’m a right wreck now that I’m about to be officially middle-aged.
After the checkup: I had blood taken, skin issues checked out and okayed, a 24-HR blood pressure monitor (results normal, and I’m dead surprised at that). I’m on my second course of antibiotics for a wheezy cough, an allergy pill (I don’t HAVE allergies!), big doses of anti-inflammatories for my back (deffo helping), and now steroids (!) for everything, basically.
I feel as though I’ve been to a vet instead of a human doctor, because a vet always seems to prescribe antibiotics and a steroid.
Did you know I really don’t care to take pills? Bwah-ha-haw! I’m good at it, but I prefer not to if I can. I’m now on…11 a day.
Back to the eye drops, which burn. They burn like I rubbed sand and cat-hair into my eyes and then dunked my face into lemon juice and bleach to rinse them out. It’s also thick and white and goopy and is so damn unnatural a thing to be deliberately putting into my eyes, I kind of didn’t do the twice a day every day for a week as I was supposed to do. It does help – but the cure is nearly as bad as the problem.
With all of this going on, I never looked at the package for the eye drops properly. When I did, I laughed out loud – in my loudest, unladylike squawk.
Fuc it, I’m falling apart but at least I still have the sense of humour of a nine year old and can laugh at these things. And fuc it, I better put these drops in now and try not to cry all over the iPad 🙂