Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Dear TSA: Your mother is a whore

Dear TSA,

Listen, I know you are just doing your job, trying to keep us all safe while we fly the friendly skies ("friendly" being a relative term). I appreciate your efforts, I really do. But I have to tell you - you've gone overboard.

On Tuesday, April 27th, my daughter and I were scheduled to depart from Reagan National Airport. We had been on vacation and were returning home. First, we stood in line at security where a TSA employee spent ten solid minutes studying a passenger's passport before finally calling a supervisor. Then they both studied it for a while. I don't know what the problem was, but eventually they pulled the passenger aside and proceeded to screen others who were waiting in line.

After showing proof of ID and boarding passes, my daughter and I moved to the screening area. We dutifully took off our shoes and laid them in the plastic bins, and then I shoved our carry-ons and my purse onto the belt. Then we each passed through the metal detector. My daughter (age four) has flown many times and has given up on asking me why she has to take off her shoes, in as much as I've never been able to provide a satisfactory explanation. I had an even harder time understanding it when my daughter was four months old and I had to pry off her baby booties, per the TSA agent's request. The "request" consisted of the woman shouting: "Ma'am! Take off the baby's shoes!" When I told my dad about it he said, "Yeah, she definitely looks like a baby who wants to blow herself up for Allah."

But, back to the present. My child and I passed through the metal detector at Reagan National Airport without incident and waited on the other side for our gear. I had a sinking feeling as I watched her Spongebob Squarepants duffel bag start to emerge from the x-ray machine only to have the TSA employee reverse the belt and suck it back in. Ugh. She did the same with my bag. Awesome.

A dour-faced TSA employee took me aside and told me that our bags would need additional screening. I slipped my shoes on and followed him to the other screening area. He pointed at my daughter's Spongebob bag. "Any sharp objects or weapons in here?" Seriously? I shook my head.

He dug through her bag and found her DVD player. "This has to be screened separately," he said. "You were supposed to take it out of the bag."

The signs posted in the security area explicitly state that laptops must be removed. Not DVD players. This is at least the sixth time we've flown with a DVD player in that bag. No one cared about it on the way out to DC, but now all of a sudden it's a threat to national security.

He took the DVD player back to the x-ray machine for screening. "Barbie and the Island Princesses" was inside the player - I certainly hope that didn't arouse any suspicion. When he returned, he began digging through my carry-on bag. Now, I think it would be worth mentioning that as this was transpiring, another passenger was being screened right next to us. The TSA agents found a knife in his backpack. I mean to tell you this thing was a full-on dagger in a leather sheath. THAT is why you are there, TSA. Clearly, this was a dangerous weapon that had no place on an airplane in flight. It was a no-brainer.The man said he had packed it for a motorcycle trip and reluctantly agreed to surrender it.

Meanwhile, Mr. Crabby pulled a small Smithsonian bag out of my carry-on. Inside that bag was a souvenir I had purchased for my daughter just an hour earlier at the Museum of Natural History. It was a plastic cup with blue liquid sealed in the bottom. Tiny plastic dinosaurs floated around in the liquid. He frowned. "You can't have this on the plane."

"But, I just bought it," I replied. "I am sure it's less than three ounces!"

He explained that since the cup was sealed and the liquid couldn't be poured out, I was prohibited from taking it on board. It seems to me that this is precisely why I SHOULD have been able to take it on board. I mean, what would I have used to smash the cup open? A claw hammer? I told him that I thought it was beyond ridiculous to take a child's souvenir away and asked how I could go about filing a complaint. He directed me to his supervisor, who came over and gave me the same schpiel.

"You can't have snow globes or anything with liquid inside it," he told me. The supervisor then offered that I could go back to the ticket counter and see if they would be willing to pull my suitcase and put the cup in there. And pass through security again?! I'd rather eat glass.

And so, I surrendered the dangerous weapon I had attempted to bring on board. Allow me to add that I am not a cantankerous flyer. I dutifully put my lotion and hairspray in a one-quart baggie. I generally do not ask the flight attendants for anything. I even make a half-assed attempt to pay attention to the safety demonstration. I just try to be as innocuous and inconspicuous as possible when I fly. But seriously, this liquid thing? It's crazy.

After passing through security (sans souvenir cup), we stopped at a souvenir stand just a few yards past the screening area. Would you like to guess what they sell there, TSA? Snow globes. And lots of them.

So, after surrendering the cup, I bought my daughter this:

Yes, it is full of liquid. And glitter.

You can suck it, TSA.


A disgruntled passenger

Sunday, April 25, 2010

The Vacation Rolls On

The kid and I are having a great time. We celebrated her birthday (10 days early) on Friday night. The Spongebob Squarepants decor and cake just added that certain je ne sais quois to the festivities. Our family is somewhat spread out across the country, so it was fun to be able to celebrate her birthday with everyone (grandparents, great-grandmother, cousins, and aunt). She got two Zhu-Zhu pets from my parents, a Belle doll with sparkling horse, a Spongebob coloring book, $10, a Spongebob purse, and, because my sister apparently hates me and has always hated me: some Moon Sand (the messiest toy of all time; I know moms who burst into tears if you utter "moon" and "sand" in the same sentence). A and my nephew keep asking to play with the Moon Sand, and I just keep pretending I didn't hear them.

On Saturday afternoon, we took the three kids to see "Oceans" at the movie theater. It was pretty good, but probably no more remarkable than the BBC Planet Earth series. I got a little nervous about some of the "big thing eats smaller thing" sequences, but they did a nice job of minimizing the carnage. My daughter did have a look of mild horror as she watched birds swooping down and plucking newly-hatched sea turtles from the sand as they attempted to make their ill-fated journey to the sea. I did what any mom would do: I handed her a bag of M&M's to distract her.

I left my kid with my sister Saturday night and headed out with an old friend. On these shorter visits it is challenging to try to catch up with everyone I knew over the course of 25 years (prior to moving out of state), but I always try to see a friend or two when I'm in town. We went out to dinner and then hit a local Irish pub for some adult beverages. While I was gone, my sister treated her niece to a "spa night" and pained her fingernails and toenails. My nephew is lamenting the fact that he didn't get his nails painted, but that is a story for another day.

My sister had to attend a funeral today, so I took her kids plus my kid to a high school production of Alice in Wonderland. Her kids made it through, mine did not. A just does not have that kind of attention span (over 2 1/2 hours). They didn't allow food or drinks in the theater, so I could not even ply her with M&M's. She and I sat in the lobby while my niece and nephew watched the rest of the performance.

In other news, A has injured herself every day since we left home. She's going through band-aids like water. Somehow, she tore her fingernail right down to the nail bed (blood was involved, much to her delight). She will gladly (yet innocently) show anyone who asks the question, "Which finger did you hurt?"

Friday, April 23, 2010

No Car for You!

The kid and I arrived in the nation's capital as scheduled Wednesday night. It was fairly late by the time we boarded a shuttle and arrived at the rental car facility (although I should note that we were there at the time I had listed on the reservation). Our reservation was with Thrifty. I guess Dollar and Thrifty are the same company, because one lone employee was covering both rental counters. There was one guy ahead of me, so I waited in line while A ran laps around our luggage cart.

Off to my left, I noticed a man all in black. He had also been on the shuttle bus with us. He was speaking loudly on his cell phone. "Yeah, is this Thrifty? I'm at your rental counter and the man won't rent me a car. I gave him my reservation and he will not rent to me. So now I'm in DC with no car." He then repeated the same thing a few more times, pacing as he talked. I don't know what transpired before I got there, but I started to get a bit nervous that maybe Thrifty was out of cars or something.

Finally, it was my turn at the rental counter. I handed over my driver's license and credit card, and the Thrifty man asked me the usual litany of questions about insurance and gasoline. He looked up at me and said, "The man over there? He threw his driver's license at me and that's why he's not getting a car." I responded with a low, "Ohhhh." The Thrifty employee, a foreign-born man of color, seemed pretty pleasant to me, so I couldn't help but wish I had seen the exchange myself. He raised his arm and demonstrated how the man in black had tossed his driver's license across the desk. "No car for him," he said again. Suddenly, I realized I had the Soup Nazi of rental cars on my hands.

It was 11 p.m. and I had a nearly-delirious child on my hands. I needed a car and didn't want to leave anything to chance. I decided to pour it on pretty thick. Seriously, I made Pollyanna look like a boorish ass. "Wow, you didn't deserve that," I said. "Is this place open all night? Do you have to work really late?" I frowned a bit to show just how sympathetic I was.

"We are, but I'm leaving in two hours."

"Well, that's good. It must be hard to have to work so late," I responded.

A few minutes later, I had the keys to a wee Nissan in my hands. The man in black by then had approached Budget's counter. My guess is that he handed over his driver's license with all due respect.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Stuff I didn't know

Last night I had a dream that the kid and I were at a U2 concert. After the show was over, Bono personally invited my daughter back stage to meet the band. Not me, my four-year-old child. My conscious brain has already absorbed the fact that A is cooler than I am, but now my sub-conscious mind is aware of it as well. Awesome.

In other news, dandelion season is here again. The kid has actually asked me to stop in the middle of a busy road so that she could pick dandelions growing on the median (don't worry, I didn't go for it). I know a day will come when she'll realize that dandelions are essentially a weed and stop bringing them into the house in mass quantities every Spring. Sure, it's very sweet that she keeps picking them for me, but I don't want to be too sentimental about it here. She brings them in with virtually no stem but expects me to put them in water and cherish them for all time. When I do put them in water, they die quickly and I can tell from her disapproving look that she believes I must have done something to hasten their demise. She leaves clumps of them on the end table and then the puppy chews them up. Never has such a lowly flower found so many ways to be irritating. Perhaps dandelions have the perfect marketing agent: small children the world over.

While it's true that my daughter is unaware that dandelions are weeds, she is pretty confident about the rest of her knowledge. The other day we had this exchange:

Her: Mama, do you know what bowling balls are made out of?
Me: No, I sure don't. (No lie - I actually have no earthly idea)
Her (lifting her chin and taking on an air of smugness): Bowling balls are made out of coconuts.
Me: Actually, I don't think -
Her (cutting me off): Yes, that's what they are made of, alright. Coconuts.
Me: Okay, thanks for letting me know.

Man, I am just getting dumber by the minute. I'll be a complete imbecile by the time she's a teenager, no doubt.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Not a puppy - anything but that!

Most people adore puppies. What's not to love, right? The sweet, soft fur. The playful exuberance. The chubby little sausage body. Squeeeee

Rescue volunteers, by and large, reach "maximum puppy" by the end of their first year on the job, however. For those of us who open our homes to dogs that don't belong to us, we are accustomed to chewed chair legs, ruined carpets, and hacking coughs that keep us up all night. We do it for the love of the dog, but that doesn't mean we're masochists. Adult dogs are exponentially easier than puppies. Puppies, with their razor teeth, unpredictable bladders, and poor decision-making skills . . . the cuteness wears off pretty fast.

Therefore, when our rescue's event coordinator posts a message to our fostering Yahoogroup asking, "Who can take a puppy?" what she gets in response is a bunch of volunteers looking at their shoes or gazing skyward and whistling some nameless tune. We pretend to be distracted by a shiny object and hope she doesn't make eye contact with us.

So, how did I end up with a puppy, you ask? Well, as you may recall, my foster dog Tucker was not doing well. He did not respond to the many medications or the special diet he was on. He continued to suffer from relentless diarrhea (often bleeding as well). Last Sunday he was unable to hold it through the night and pooped all over my house. It wasn't his fault, of course. He's quite sick. A friend and fellow volunteer came forward and offered to trade her foster dog (a puppy) for Tucker. By this point we had decided that Tucker needs to be on the BARF (Bones and Raw Food) diet and as a vegetarian, this is tough for me. Kim has tile floors and doesn't mind handling raw meat. We think this is his last, best chance for a normal life.

I met Kim in a parking lot last Sunday night. I'm surprised she even came to a complete stop before unloading the puppy. She was practically giddy as she handed over the little beast. "Here's her food!" she exclaimed and then sped off before I could ask too many questions. A was with me and was beside herself at the prospect of having a puppy in the house. She begged to have Brandy in her lap on the way home. I scooped up the pooch and put her in A's lap. Brandy promptly began gnawing on my child. My child, in turn, burst into tears and said, "I don't want her to come by me ever again!"

We don't get a lot of puppies in rescue. Typically, if we get a puppy in rescue, it is because the dog has something wrong with her - usually deafness or a medical condition of some sort. Brandy, who is three months old, is neither deaf nor physically unsound. She was purchased by an older couple from a pet store (minor rant: why are people still buying from pet stores? argh!). They hung in there as long as they could before calling our intake coordinator. "We've made a terrible mistake," they confessed.

I had to chuckle as I reviewed the surrender form they had filled out and signed.

Why are you surrendering this dog? We're too old
Does the dog have any behavioral issues? WILD

In truth, Brandy is just a typical Boxer puppy. She was born on Christmas Day, but there is nothing holy about this pooch, let me tell you. We play a lot of "guess what's in the puppy's mouth?" around here. A partial list of items found in said mouth: a Barbie shoe, a headband, a bandanna, a plastic bead, multiple shoes, a throw rug and the most noteworthy of all: a bible. My daughter received a children's bible from her Godfather and apparently Brandy found it to be delectable. Interpret that however you wish.

The good news: I've already found a home for Brandy with an applicant who had been waiting patiently for a dog. I just need to have Brandy spayed next week and then she'll be headed to her new digs. She's cute and all, but I'll be more than happy to let her chew somebody else's shit now. And yes, I will come to a complete stop when I drop her off at her new home.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Sooooo Big!

You wouldn't believe what comes out of this kid, though.

After making it through much of the winter without catching a cold, I was hit pretty hard by a virus on Monday. Getting a cold would not be noteworthy except for the fact that I have asthma. Even a run-of-the-mill cold hits my immune system like a freight train (a wheezy, snot-filled train). As luck would have it, I had already made an appointment to see my asthma/allergy doctor this week. My asthma medications (maintenance inhaler plus rescue inhaler) had run out so I needed to go in for a check-up in order to receive new prescriptions. I picked up the kid from school on Tuesday and, since the law frowns on leaving small children home alone, I had to take her to the doctor's appointment with me.

As you may recall, I have a profound dislike for these appointments. The whole scene just irritates me to no end. Yes, they measured my height again. Why why why why? Is there even the remotest possibility that I will have grown or shrunk so much that it will affect the medications I'm prescribed? And of course they insisted on weighing me as well. I guess I can almost understand that one, though I still hate it. I stand there and look away while the nurse tap tap taps the slider on the scale. Then comes the questionnaire. Still have your cat? Yes. Do you encase your pillows in plastic? No. Same answers every time. I guess saving them in their system would be crazy. I mean, I'm 40 years old. If I were going to start doing anything in my life differently, wouldn't I be doing it by now?

The nurse took my vitals, complimented me on my blood pressure, and then left to summon Dr. W, who arrived shortly thereafter. A sat on the floor looking at some children's books. A few minutes into the exam, she became desperate to use the bathroom. I told her she'd need to wait. She carried on until finally Dr. W suggested that I go ahead and take her, and that he'd busy himself with dictating a chart while we were gone. So, I rushed the kid off to the ladies' room, which turned out to be a one-seater (no stalls).

"I have to poop, too," she said nonchalantly as she hopped up onto the potty. "Don't see it." (She has done this since she was toddler and it always cracks me up. Instead of "don't look at me" she says "don't see me!")

I do actually try not to look most of the time, but as she climbed off the toilet, I caught a glimpse. She had laid a neon green log in the potty at my allergist's office. "WHAT DID YOU EAT?!" I asked her. She just shrugged. Seriously, I need to keep a closer eye on my daughter's diet, I guess.

Anyway, getting back to the scale issue . . . I think I've all but given up on my six-week challenge. I continue to count points and exercise and all that jazz, but I can't seem to lose an ounce. This is baffling to me, because I used to be darned good at this weight loss business. I had steady losses from the time I joined Weight Watchers to the day I reached my goal weight. Sure, I fall off the wagon from time to time, but not to the extent that I should be this far off target. I have one theory, which is that some sort of hormone issue is at work. (TMI ahead) I went off the pill last July. I was experiencing a health issue that I thought might be related to the pill. My guess was wrong, but I stayed off the pill anyway. I can't bear children (and at 40, who wants to?), so I am not worried about getting pregnant. If anything, though, going off the pill should have caused a weight loss, not a gain. The fun part of the story is that now Aunt Flo arrives whenever the frock she feels like it. Sometimes she stays away for six weeks at a time, other months she shows up two weeks in a row (that hag).

Anyway, enough about that. I've got to go hork up a lung now.

Monday, April 12, 2010


I have to confess that I'm saddled with a bit o' melancholy lately. My friend Kevin died one year ago today. When I booked my upcoming trip to DC, I momentarily had the thought that I needed to let Kevin know I'll be in town. How I wish I could meet him for one last "girls' night out."

I did have a better-than-average weekend, despite the sad anniversary. On Saturday morning, P and I took the kid to a children's festival (or "festibul," if you prefer her pronunciation). This is an annual event, and we've taken her every year. The first year, she was just eleven months old and couldn't walk yet. Each year, she's able to do more and more of the activities. I suppose we only have so many years left before she announces that this particular festibul is "for babies," so we'll persist in taking her until then. One fact that has remained constant for the five years we've attended: she doesn't listen. She runs from one booth to another and assumes we'll catch up eventually. One of her favorite activities is to hang out with the local herp club and touch unfurry animals. I have to admit that I am, on some level, pretty proud of the fact that my daughter has no qualms about handling snakes. As long as she doesn't start speaking in tongues and drinking strychnine, I'm totally down with it.

Right after the festibul, I picked up my friend Stephanie and we went out of town for the weekend. We went to a resort about an hour northwest of where we live. Two moms - three kids + wine + old movies = a deeeeeeelightful weekend. We watched "Bull Durham" because, remarkably, neither of us had ever seen it. We also watched "Say Anything," which I had seen before. But, I'm always up for John Cusack, as I've probably made clear when I lapse into my Cusack reverie from time to time. We also shopped and enjoyed the perfect spring weather.

In other news, I no longer have my foster dog, Tucker. After trying several failed treatment paths, we (the rescue as a whole) decided to go for the BARF diet for Tucker. As a vegetarian, I have a tough time grinding up bones and stuff, so I passed him to a volunteer who is a carnivore and who has had good luck in treating colitis-ridden dogs in the past. What I ended up with instead of Tucker: a puppy (AKA "spawn of Satan"). She spends her spare time chewing my daughter's hair (while it is still attached to A's head), peeing on the rug, and gnawing on human flesh with the wee little daggers masquerading as teeth in her mouth. Oy, I'm getting too old for this schtuff.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Heidi Ho Neighbor!

We're on a "quoting Ned Flanders" kick at work. We have a new client with a similar name. Clearly, we take our amusement where we can get it.

As you've probably gathered if you've read my blog for a bit, I tend to be a planner. I have weekends planned out from now through Christmas. I know what I am wearing tomorrow and I know what my daughter is wearing tomorrow. I know what I will have for lunch not just tomorrow, but well into next week. Spontaneous I ain't.

That is why it was a bit of a shock, even to myself, that I decided on Tuesday that I will fly to DC on the 21st and bought the tickets about five minutes after that. Of course, I am taking my daughter along. We will be there a week before her birthday, so my sister and I quickly decided that we will have a little celebration and invite various family members. I could not wait to pick the kid up from school and tell her the good news.

It was raining, so I loaded her into the van before laying it on her. "Guess what?" I started. "You and I are going to fly to Virginia! We'll see Meemaw and Granddaddy and Great Grandma and your aunt and you cousins. And the best part of all is that we're going to have a birthday party for you!"

She looked at me through furrowed brow. "But, I won't be five yet. I won't be five until May 3rd." Kids. So damned literal about everything, eh?

"It's okay, " I explained. "It's okay to celebrate your birthday a week early. I just talked to Meemaw and she can't wait to see you and bring you some presents!"

"But . . ." Again with the furrowed brow. "I'm not five yet."

So anyway, I'm pretty excited. I haven't had a vacation for a while. I never really regret moving away from the DC area, but I do love to go back and visit.

In case you wondered, we are including A's dad in a birthday celebration closer to her actual birthday (after we return from our trip). We booked a "kidsuite" in a hotel that has a water park inside. She wants a Spongebob cake, which should be fairly easy to find. We're thinking of getting her a scooter for her birthday, despite her track record of having zero ability to balance.

Tonight we are going to a "spring prom" at the elementary school. I'd be more upbeat about this event if it hadn't snowed all day. This is somewhat unrelated, but I have to share the exchange I had with A after school today. I had stopped for gas after picking her up. As I was waiting for the tank to fill, I ducked back into the van to put my credit card away.

Her: What are you doing?
Me: Putting my credit card away. What are you doing? Thinking?
Her: No
Me: Really, there's nothing in your brain?
Her: Yes, it's full of jokes.
Me: Yeah? What else?
Her: Unicorns. Oh, and yellow fries. I love fries.

And here I thought she'd stumbled upon the meaning of life or something. That's it for now. Until next time . . . okely dokely do!

Monday, April 5, 2010

So about this six-week plan

Can I get a pass this week? I just cannot bring myself to step on the scale this morning. Some Easter-related bingeyness (that's a word, right?) I'll work harder this week. I'm starting to wonder if all the years of dieting have actually killed off my metabolism for good.

Because I feel inclined to give you some sort of gift after you took the trouble to pop in and check the status of my bodily expansion, I give you "Percussion Gun" by White Rabbits.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Hyperactive Easter

We had an enjoyable weekend, but there were moments that put us pretty close to the edge. There was the great Cadbury Mini-Egg spill of 2010, the near-overdose on Reese's peanut butter bunnies, and an afternoon of "stop crying and dye your eggs" drama. Too much candy makes A a reckless (and ill-tempered) girl.

I took the kid to an Easter egg hunt at our local wildlife sanctuary yesterday. I must say, it was extremely well organized. Participants had to be pre-registered and they capped attendance at 100. They did the math and figured out that each kid could find seven eggs. We started out in a small auditorium where we did craft projects while waiting for the hunt to get underway. There was a man in a chipmunk costume, and we were instructed to follow him out of the building and around the corner to a small unpaved road where the eggs were hidden (and by "hidden" I mean "laying in plain sight everywhere.") He walked to the far end of the woodsy lane and prepared to give the signal to start the hunt. I am assuming this will be the one and only time I say the following to my child:

"Do not do ANYTHING until the chipmunk tells you to!"

A found the requisite number of plastic eggs and we headed back inside to open the eggs and partake of a cookie. She grabbed a cup of orange-flavored something or other off the table and promptly spilled it, narrowly missing a volunteer who happened to be standing there. "Um, clean-up on aisle five?" I said to him, as meekly as I could manage.

After the egg hunt, we headed to the mall for lunch. I also wanted to look for some spring/summer tops for her. I don't know if the candy from the eggs was kicking in or what the problem was, but my daughter was so ill-behaved that I put her in time-out in the middle of a department store. She cried to beat the band and rolled around under a clearance rounder.

By the time we got home mid-afternoon, A's dad was back from the nerdfest. I asked him to set up the stuff to dye eggs. I had boiled a dozen eggs the night before. The kid "supervised" him and at one point decided to demonstrate the technique she planned to use in dyeing the eggs. The demonstration, which seemed to involve catapulting an egg into a coffee mug by flinging it from a spoon, resulted in cracked egg #1.

After the eggs were all dyed, A wanted to put some stickers on them. I handed her the stickers and went into the other room. P headed into the living room to watch TV. A few moments later, I heard a small thud, then a pair of size 9 toddler feet tapping across the kitchen floor, and then the garbage pail lid snapping back into place. I went back into the kitchen to investigate. "Did you break an egg?" I asked.

She shook her head no. "No, Mommy, I was sitting right here!" She was actually quite convincing. However, she forgot one minor detail: I can count to 11. And there were clearly 10 eggs left in the bowl.

Easter Sunday itself was pretty uneventful. We went to church and then enjoyed a brunch buffet. I hope restaurants appreciate the profit they make on vegetarians like me. They charge me $15.95 when all I can eat is some potatoes and a waffle. But still, I take what I can get. It was an extraordinary waffle, of course.

The kid was delighted to wear a pretty dress today, as well as the add-a-pearl necklace she got from her aunt and uncle when she was two. I found the dress on the clearance rack at the Carter's outlet (go me!) I also picked up a matching purse at Kohl's. You may wonder what a proper young lady carries in her purse these days. Well, I'll tell you: two empty plastic eggs, a deck of "Go Fish" cards, and a handful of Whoppers. Because you never know when the desire for Whoppers will overtake you or a Go Fish tournament might break out.

Friday, April 2, 2010

What's new, pussycat?

There's skinny and then there's skeletal

The week simultaneously flew by and dragged on at an excruciating pace. I had every intention of posting a blog entry earlier in the week but as my mother always said, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." It's a good thing I don't believe in hell, eh?

So to bring you up to speed . . . this week I've been fretting away about my new foster dog, Tucker. He was in my house for less than 24 hours before I had to hospitalize him. He has severe colitis of some type and has not had a solid poop since the day of his birth (he's 18 months old). I can deal with some diarrhea; it's the blood I'm less fond of. Tucker is very, very thin (because, as you can imagine, everything just passes through him and it's hard to absorb nutrients that way). I was less worried about my carpet than I was about his health, of course. I just want him to get well so that I can find him a forever home. My veterinarian has been trying various treatments, including a triple-course of antibiotics and a grain-free diet. She started him on a food comprised of . . . rabbit. I'm not even going to try to explain this one to my daughter. I can hear it now: "Tucker eats the Easter Bunny?"

My other challenge this week was to gather some songs, videos, and photos and send them to my friend Rachel. She is putting together a 5th birthday montage for my daughter's upcoming birthday. Although I'm handy with a computer in general (after working in web and software development for the past 14 years), the art of video editing continues to elude me. So, I conned Rachel into doing it for me. We've been friends since 1981, so I'm trying to keep my favor requests to one per decade. It took me a while to pull everything together, because I have more than one photo per day for every day my child has been alive. If that's not obnoxious, I don't know what is. I've never been one to videotape full events, but I have lots of little snippets taken here and there. We'll see if Rachel is still speaking to me after this.

The only other noteworthy event from this year (and "noteworthy" is stretching it a bit) was that I got A's hair cut. I was no longer able to get a comb through those Medusa curls, so I had a few inches cut off. As much as I absolutely adore her hair, I will be happy when the day comes that I can turn over the whole maintenance job to her. And I certainly hope that day comes sometime before she leaves for college.

In other news, Nerdy McNerdikins is going to a comic book convention out of town tomorrow so I'll have the kid for the day. I signed her up for an Easter egg hunt and whatnot. We'll also dye eggs at home. Perhaps this will be the year she finally figures out why, when you're done dyeing an egg, it's a bad idea to throw it full-force into the bowl with all the other eggs.