The Busyness Continues

So the time saving initiative has taken a dark turn. See this other post for advice that might work if you are looking for successful time saving tips. The current post has only warnings.  Things seem to have gotten to, as physicists would say - critical mass. The other day, I was faced with a dilemma: what to do with the hair on my head. It was dirty but also in a significant amount of knots. As if tiny Christmas elves were bored (being that it is not yet time for Christmas busyness) and spent the night singing Christmas carols and tying individual strands of my hair into knots. I first considered wearing a hat - my go-to solution when my hair has become personified anger. But when I put on my favorite hat, I looked not only sickly pale but childish and angry so that I was a taller version of the scary twins in A Christmas Carol - Ignorance and Want. You know, the ones that hide in The Happy Ghost’s robe so that he is no longer happy but weird for keeping scary children in his robe.  So I discarded the hat but the time I had wasted contemplating why I looked like a character from a Charles Dickens’ story meant I had less time to wash it. Plus I didn’t want to waste time washing it  because I had to go to the gym later, and it seemed like a waste of my ever disappearing minutes to wash my hair and then have it dripping with sweat in just under 8 hours. So in order to save time, I tried to wash my hair without getting it too wet. I rubbed a bit of hand soap (yes shampoo makes more sense but I was rushing) on my fingers and lathered up the dirtiest parts. Then I stood at the sink trying to use my fingers to get the soap out. It did not work. In the five minutes this took (which is about how long it takes for me to wash my hair), I looked like I had decided that my hair might fall out, so I had better glue it to my scalp. I wore a hat that day. I still looked like the scary angry toddlers but I felt I was at least bringing a little trendiness to the character. I figured I would just need to tone down the angry face.

        This proved harder than anticipated as it is Spring now; so my woolen winter hat began to radiate heat down through my scalp which made me feel like I was spending the day inside the Happy Ghost's heated robe. It also made my forehead itch, so I kept angrily scratching at it and grimacing while talking to important people at work. But this is really not an excuse because in general I seem to be angry with many things: Fellow drivers; things I have to carry such as drink bottles; and strangers who combine their run with a trip to the supermarket. While with Liz the other day she got to witness my outburst as I threatened to punch a perfectly dressed young lady as she jogged into the store ahead of us to purchase some fruit. To my endless shame I had told Liz I was “a little grumpy today” to make it seem like an anomaly when in actuality I have been grumpy everyday and have no excuse to punch runners. But seriously, people that are that efficient make my skin feel too tight. First of all running to the supermarket wouldn't be a long enough work out and second how do you carry everything home? I realize I don't have very good hands but still. When have you ever gone to the supermarket for just one thing? I often go intending to get one thing and then end up carrying fifteen things like a circus performer - the clown one. Because everything just falls on the floor and other people have to pick it up and pile it on top of the balanced box of tampons for me while I laugh like it is normal for people to follow me around picking up my sundries. Yes I should get a basket, that's true, but those things are layered with a healthy slather of germs. The person before me could have had Ebola or just a cold but with all the ways the medical profession is trying to kill me, a common cold is like Ebola to me. So shut up. I am too grumpy and sick to use a basket.

Also the food situation has gotten worse. In order to save time I purchased (with Liz, at the supermarket after I had responded to all of her food ideas with a grunt or growl – I think she is still friends with me I haven’t had time to check…) some premade pumpkin soup - you know the kind that is like “this is just canned soup but we said it is organic and put it in a non-biodegradable bag so it seems better for you” soup. Not surprisingly it was tasteless - not bland but literally had no taste as if they had just put colored water in the fancy bag. So I began my process of “doctoring” the mush. What I ended up with tasted great when I had one spoonful so I served it. Turns out, what I had made was gravy. Which does taste delicious on its own, one mouthful at a time, but after two or three it’s not so nice. I didn’t bother to fix it because I was too tired and I like gravy. Al tried it and said it was good but only managed a few bites before gagging and asking what the lumpy bits were. I told him it was flour that I had tried to thicken it with. (I said this around another mouthful as I was too hungry to care.) He put his spoon down and said, “Maybe we could eat it with something else on another night and left his bowl on the table. I finished mine - I was hungry, don't judge me. I had to do an actual never-ending 8 kilometer work out not a happy jog around the block to the supermarket like some stupid person with her perfect smooth no-knot bouncy ponytail and her cute pink and white running outfit with her matching iPod thingy on her arm. I don’t know what Al ate. Luckily Amelia was fed by another parent who still takes care of her children. Even though I am sure she is just as busy taking all the children to one of the thousand soccer practices we all have to get to. Speaking of  which I have to go. I am late for the gym - I know this doesn't seem true but I have to get there while the quiz show is on to distract me; otherwise the hours I spend there make me so angry I start yelling at other patrons. This is real... it happened.

Too Busy to Blog

I seem to be busy. But like confused busy. It seems I am constantly moving but I am not accomplishing anything in particular. It’s like Amelia has hit age twelve and we are running along behind her (because she is way faster than us) throwing food and clothing at her like those marathon helpers in the Olympics. But none of the running counts toward my gym time so I have to run there as well which takes up more time.

In order to combat this, I have started some time saving initiatives:

1.     Instead of cleaning the tables, I just vacuum them when no one is looking - even the one with the table cloth. It can be tricky because it can get stuck. Also, you have to ignore the fact that  something small and/or expensive may be lost.

2.   I made this for breakfast and ate it - because throwing it out would waste time AND food, otherwise known as money. It was supposed to be eggs in a basket:

Here is an online version to compare it to:

3.   Amelia has taken to wearing her pyjamas under her school uniform to save time getting ready in the morning. While I was only made aware of this two days ago, when I saw her jammies peeking out the top of her pants, I fully endorse this and feel that she has embraced the time saving necessary to our lives right now. And I am also trying to figure out how I can incorporate it into my life. But I am quite fond of the fuzzy plaid jammies that cannot be used in place of pants and don't tend to fit under skirts or jeans very well.

4.   If you are taking notes for your own time saving efforts,   (I don't recommend the egg one, it was terrible; burnt butter in a recipe is not quite the same thing as actual burnt butter and bread.) I must warn you that this one can backfire as it did this morning. As a general rule, I feel that time saving techniques should NOT be applied to coffee making; no matter how late I am, I really must have my Manuka Brothers latte with extra foam. So in order to make this happen, I will often steam my milk while grinding my coffee. Now this normally is OK but the grinder is just far enough away that I can't watch the grinder and the milk at the same time. This is also normally fine except, today, I started trying to work out a problem with my thesis. Which required staring out the window because trees and birds and clouds help creativity. It was quite a while before I realized that scalding milk was pouring all over the counter and my coffee was ground too fine. Which meant that when I tried to make the espresso my machine almost exploded because it couldn't get the water through the tightly packed grounds which had not been brewed but turned into cement. So, time saving techniques should be done one at a time; don't try to fix your thesis while time-saving in some other area.

5. In order to save time I recorded the Olympics but I still don't have time to watch because ALL THE SOCCER and all the thesising. (This is a word - it has to be because it is what I spend my free time doing... and if it is not a word - THEN WHAT IS IT ALL FOR??!!) But I feel bad that I have not watched these athletes who trained so hard and stopped eating delicious food like Eggs Benedict and doughnuts for years! So I have taken to watching it in fast forward. Not only am I honouring their hard work and amazingness BUT they are even more amazing! Ping Pong players in fast forward make them look like they have invented the hopping-dancing-flinging-invisible ball sport! And watching the men's pommel horse in fast forward makes them look faster than a helicopter - which means they might be able to fly!

I have to go  - I'm late for something. I have no idea what it is or who it is with, I think I better just drive around the city soccer fields to see if I left my daughter there. Unless I am supposed to be teaching a class in which case the jammies should be reconsidered.

Winning?

I have to win. I feel like most days I am losing so, when I go to the gym, I have to win. Al says, this is ridiculous and tells me most days to “&%*# the gym.” (To be fair I usually say to him everyday how much I hate the gym - in a really whiny voice) But I can’t ^&*% the gym because I feel better after I go. Also when I am there, I can win. Now usually this works well because I am on the elliptical machine for so long I begin to wonder if I will be permanently attached.  Each time that people come and go to the treadmill beside me for ten or twenty minutes at a time, I win because I lasted longer than them. (I am sure they just go and do weights or something but I can’t do those so I assume they leave and, I win.) Occasionally, I am nearly finished with my workout and someone gets on the machine next to me and I have to keep going until they finish.

Recently I have been able to run a bit on the treadmill. After I do about twenty minutes on the elliptical, my joints are warm enough to pretend I am a normal person who runs. I have to be careful though because if I overdo it, I will be in more pain. But I feel like a rock star Olympic athlete when I run on the treadmill. (I have caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and, in reality, I look like a flailing monkey who has been strapped to the back of a racing horse. But I am hoping that this is just because the mirror is slightly behind and to my right – and glancing in any direction except for down or straight ahead results in near fatal tripping.)

The other day, I did my twenty minutes on the elliptical and was going to try for running a ten minute mile on the tread mill. But as I started up, this guy got on to the one next to me. And every time I put my speed up he put his up too - which meant I had to put my speed up and vise versa. (Apparently there are other people who have to win at the gym too.) So eventually I had mine up to 12 which for me is like the speed I could run if I was being chased by a murderer and my only escape was to run and jump onto a moving train. He got up to 16 which was - annoying. I got a text from Al saying he was waiting outside and had left Amelia at home alone. But I could not let this guy win – the guy who had come into the gym twenty minutes after me… Eventually, I started to go a bit blind and had to serpentine to stay on the speeding treadmill. I had to push emergency stop and ended up running in shame from the gym, stealing one of their cloth towels that we wipe down the equipment with.

I told myself my compulsion to win wasn’t much of a problem. But then, I needed some new running shoes because I got runners knee. I found this extremely exciting and told almost everyone I met that I now have runners knee. I know it seems odd to get excited about an injury but first of all, it has “runner” in the name so you can be like casually - ‘I’m a runner. Not only that, but I am so much a runner that I got a knee that only runners get!!’ Which is definitely winning; also it is fixable with a couple days rest and, in my case, some new running shoes. So unlike the other things that go wrong in my body, this one I am in control of!

Anyway, so I went to get some new shoes at the non-fancy sporting goods store that was having a sale. Unfortunately, next door was a proper running shoe store that works with you - taking video of your gait and other helpful things. Al said I should try in there first.  I told the salesman loudly that I have runner’s knee and I told him how far I run and he seemed impressed. (He may have been pretending in order to make a sale but I’d say it was a genuine confirmation that I am generally winning at running.) He took a video of me walking and said I had PERFECT alignment (No, I know I can’t technically take credit for alignment but it seemed like he was saying I was winning.) Then he brought out several pairs of shoes that did not work very well. Then he brought out the pair of shoes that cost two hundred and eighty dollars. They were perfect of course. So he had me run on the tread mill. They felt great.

Now I should have just gotten off the treadmill, thanked the man, and said I couldn’t afford the shoes. Instead, they felt so good I had to keep running and I really wanted to reach 1 kilometer. Because that was like winning. So I stayed on it, in my jeans, sweating and running at full speed flailing like a monkey so I could win (running against no one but the shoppers who were passing by on the busy Sunday in the mall.) Handed the now sweaty shoes back to him and said we would have to think about it over lunch. We then went next door to the original planned store found the same version of shoes I have been wearing for the last three years on sale (a little ) for 160 dollars (believe me in new Zealand this is a good price. As I tried them on, I said, ‘I can’t buy these because I already was a crazy person at that other store and I don’t want him to feel bad!’

 Instead of reassuring me, Al said, ‘I just saw the other sales person from that store, she was spying on you.’ Not only was this mean but it was true; she really was lurking around the store. Now I have the cheaper shoes but I can’t wear them because I feel guilty not only because I didn’t buy the sweaty expensive shoes but because these cheaper ones are really expensive!! Some may call this neurotic; I prefer, winning at being crazy.

Things I have learned while Al heals his broken leg Or There is no complaints department so you all have to listen… Sorry!

1.      My life is harder than I thought it was. I thought my life was medium hard - being unable to open things or being stuck on the couch or standing. But there are ways to make life work. For instance, chopping a carrot by just banging it against the counter - because knives are ridiculously shaped and can not be held...(By-the-way, I find dropping whole onions in spaghetti sauce is a delicious alternative to "finely diced". Also onion skins are a great source of fiber.) I resented being carried everywhere because I thought it made me seem weak. However, it turns out being stuck somewhere and having no one to carry you is worse. When Al first broke his leg, I rode a sense of accomplishment for about a week. Like see, I didn’t need anyone after all; I am a strong empowered feminist. (See this post for evidence of my amazingness.) And then it’s week two and I’m like, gee I’m so tired and its eight thirty. But it hurts too much to move – lemme just sit here for a bit. Then I’m like, gee its midnight and now I have become soldered to the couch. Maybe I could live here and someone could just throw a bottle of water at me every couple of days? I complain for a bit in my most whiny voice but no one can hear me or, if they do, I just get “I’m sorry” which is nice but does not help me get off the couch when my joints seem particularly keen on staying put.

2.      I am more prone to yelling at nice people than I once thought possible. A community nurse came to evaluate us as to what help we might need around the house; as she watched me hobble around the kitchen to get her a cup of tea (it was a particularly bad day for me) she wondered out loud why I don’t have this help all of the time. I yelled at her and said, “I don’t like to admit that there is anything wrong with me and that I can’t do simple things like change the sheets on the bed! AND I don’t even like having a handicap sticker!” I realize I live in a delusion but it is a delusion that keeps me sane – ignoring just how stupid my body is allows a slightly brighter outlook, on most days. Normally Al helps with this delusion by changing the sheets because I tell him it’s time to change the sheets. And then I tell him it’s time to clean the shower etc. I can get everything halfway done or everything at a height between waist and shoulders…anything that is not too heavy and doesn’t require functioning fingers… Then the things get done as a team but I get to share in the sense of accomplishment. However when he can’t do anything, it really becomes evident that I can’t do a damn thing. So I agreed to have the free help but did not apologize for yelling at the nice lady, because I like to pretend I am healthy.

3.      Just because someone says they are “sending help” does not mean help will arrive. Al and I push through the first week: I am hobbling, grabbing things with my club hands and turning Amelia into Cinderella. But the-day-of-the-cleaning lady arrives. I am gone so I get the report from Al for how it went because the house seems no cleaner than when I left it except that the beds are changed - which I appreciate because if I had done it, we would just be burrowing in a pile of sheets like nesting bunnies. He says,

“Well she didn’t get much done…”

“What, why?”

“Well she came twenty minutes late and left twenty minutes early so she didn’t really have enough time to do anything. Then there was the twenty minute discussion about English soccer….” Now to be fair we are pretty big on soccer in this house: games are watched. Star players are studied mostly by the small red headed girl working to sweep up the Cinders but with big dreams of making it to the soccer finals. (©Copyrights for future Disney movie reserved)

“Then she had to have a chat with me about her other clients. Then she left.”

“She didn’t dust?”

“No, I asked her to but she was very unimpressed by our dusting methods and refused.” (We use the vacuum with the small brush on the end.)

“She refused?”

Al shrugs his shoulders. “Yes.”

I go to the laundry room where she has brought in the clean sheets but they are covered with Al’s dirty clothes from the hospital.

“Did she wash the sheets?” I yell at Al.

“I think so. Why?”

“Because all your hospital clothes are on top of them.”

He hobbles out and we stare at the pile. Al trips on the way out putting weight on his broken leg, giving us both a heart attack. There are swear words yelled and muttered but we remind ourselves the government is paying for this service so we calm down and find our grateful place.

 I wash the laundry again.

The next week I am home so I get to see first-hand the soccer conversation which continues. She follows me into my room where I have head-phones in so I can get some work done and she talks loudly until I take them out. She spends a great deal of time turning a pillow around and around in her hand as if she is accomplishing something. And explains how much more impressive it was to be a writer in “Olden times” because all they had was a typewriter. I try not to be offended and agree it must have been difficult. I pop the head-phones back in but then she says loudly something else of which I only catch the last words “I take lollies (candy) off of children.” Then she laughs. I join her but I am not sure if stealing children’s lollies is her pastime or her mission in life and I am a little afraid of what she will do to me if I don't laugh.

We then ask her to please clean the shower because it is the one thing that really needs to be done and I really cannot do it myself. I mean I can spray bleach everywhere and then run away but it needs to be scrubbed. She is very offended because she says she did wash the shower last week. I say,

“I’m sure you did but it just needs to be done today as it is several shades of pink.”

 Then she says, “I can’t because you left your bathmat on the floor and you have to pick that up because I will NOT do that.” And then she takes me into the bathroom and demands that every time I have a shower I must spray it down so it is easier for her to clean. I apologize profusely, tell her I will definitely pre clean the shower daily for her, and then leave for my meeting. And as I am driving I wonder, why I am apologizing for not doing her job for her.  

After I go, Al asks her to please stop using her dirty cloths that she takes from house to house and bathroom to kitchen because, “Mel has no immune system. So we bought you these antibacterial wipes.’

She laughs and says, “No I’ll use my trusty cloths. It’s easier.”

Later, I wipe down all of the surfaces again with antibacterial wipes and my shower is still bright pink but in stripes so she must have rubbed her trusty cloths over it a couple of times. So now I just shower balanced on my heals so that most of my feet don't soak in toxic pink mold. I tell myself this is just a new form of Hot Yoga I can practice for free.

We try to remain grateful. But we are considering asking the government to pay our servant girl instead. She needs the funds for her soccer dreams.

What Doesn't Kill You

On the Monday before last, I walked into the gym for my normal work out. It has become rather boring because the range of things I can do to get my heart rate up is reduced to one single machine. I noticed however that they were running a spin class and inquired about pricing and wondered out loud if my knee, which as well as every other joint in my body, had been giving me hell, could take it. The golden God at the front desk responded with,

     ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, Melody!’ With a smile and a horrid wink that made want to poke him in the eye and say:

     ‘That didn’t kill you… did it make your eye stronger?’ I did not say this, however, and gave him the thumbs up sign with a grin on my face that may have looked more like an insane clown rather than a you-just-encouraged-me smile. But as I climbed on the dreaded elliptical machine that I have to torture my body with, so that for a few hours a day I can function at 80% normal capacity, I pondered his words. The pain I had been in over the last week was not killing me but was definitely not making me stronger… It was however making Alan stronger because he was carrying me everywhere slung over his shoulder like a continental soldier. (By the way what does that song even mean? Ears hanging so low you can throw them over the shoulder like a continental soldier. It’s bad syntax and, if not, rather rude to continental soldiers that may have had big ears. Here, I use the term as I picture heroic continental soldiers carrying their fallen comrade from danger. And this is how Al has been carrying me.) So I grizzled a little at the stupidity of the bronze God. Or more accurately played my angry workout music and pushed harder on those damn foot things until I nearly threw up. At which point I was unsure if I had proved my point or his… But then, It seemed, that we were to put this very clichéd line to the test.

     Alan and Amelia left to walk princess buttercup AKA Percy. About half an hour later I get a phone call.

     ‘Ummm Mom?’

     ‘What’s wrong?’

     ‘Ummm… Dad fell over and he can’t get up.’

     ‘What happened?’

     ‘Umm… the dogs ran him over.’

     ‘Put Dad on the phone.’

     ‘Hey Mel, I have to get off. I am waiting for the ambulance to call me back.’

      ‘What?’

     ‘I can’t walk. I tried but I can’t move so I called an ambulance.’

     ‘I can come get you.’

     ‘No. I am in the middle of nowhere and you can’t get me out. Meet Amelia at the skate park. I have to go.’

     The line goes dead. I drive to the skate park. The sun disappears taking the last shred of light with it. It is pitch black and I do not see Amelia anywhere so I start limping toward the wetlands where Alan is. Eventually I hear rustling and a red-faced, wide- eyed Amelia appears out of the bushes.

     ‘I ran all the way here. IN THE DARK!’

     ‘Where's Dad?’

     ‘Umm really far - or not that far- or just this way.’

     She heads back the way she came. We use the pathetic beam of light on my cell phone to navigate the uneven ground, me limping (remember Al is unavailable to carry me as was my habit) and Amelia trying to control Percy who just wants to get back to his dad. The cell phone rings.

     ‘Mel? The ambulance says they can’t come and get me.’

     ‘What?’

     ‘They are saying they are going to have to form a search party.’

     ‘What?’

     ‘I have to go they are having a nurse call me back to triage me.’

     ‘What?!’

     The line goes dead and I resume following Amelia who is being dragged along by Percy.

       When we have been wandering for about half an hour, we are passed by Al’s walking buddy.  (He has broken into and driven his four-wheel-drive into the gated swamp with the walking tracks) We breathe out in relief; now we can get a ride and find Al.

     He rolls down the window and says in his heavy Eastern European accent,

     ‘You need to go move your car. You parked in a bad place. Someone will hit it. I will go get Al. Search and rescue won’t be here for hours!’ Then he drives off. We stand there a moment and Amelia says quietly,

     ‘Umm why couldn’t he give us a ride?’

     ‘I’m not sure.’  I say  as we begin hike-limping out again. Eventually, because we are so slow, the SUV arrives again now with Alan in the truck and this time we are allowed a ride. We pile in and I get the full story of the collision.

     Percy and his best friend were running full speed at Alan who was momentarily distracted; they hit his knee forcing it back the wrong way. This sounds very bad and I am sure ligaments are torn and he needs to get to the hospital. I get my first look at the bulbous mass that is his knee when we catch up to the paramedics who have hiked in. Despite dispatch telling Alan they were not coming, they have traversed the wetlands with backboards and pillows and a wheelchair with the wheels the size of a five-year-olds bike training wheels. That honestly looks like the chairs they use to torture people with water boarding or in a mental institution: no arms and tiny wheels. They apparently didn’t get the message to give up…

     As they reach us they get a more urgent call and say that Al can go home if he wishes because nothing is broken. I am doubtful and say, 'I think I will take him to the hospital.'

     ‘Up to you,’ they say and drive off.

     When we arrive home, Alan collapses into bed and then refuses to go to the hospital. Our friends Liz and Tyson are begging us too (they can’t imagine how I will take care of him as they have frequently seen me being carried by the injured man.) And they are pretty sure the injury is worth the trip as I am. Al says he won’t need anything and he will be fine.

     ‘The lady said I will be much better in the morning.’ (He really liked the ambulance lady and decided, even though she had barely examined him, she knew EVERYTHING.)

      ‘I don’t think you will be! If you tore something you could be in really bad shape.’

     He refuses and, as it turns out, when you are severely injured, you do need things in the night. So, at two a.m.  I hobble around taking twenty minutes to get pills and water and yell at him that he should be at a hospital with nurses getting proper care. He demands to know why I am so mean and I respond with because I’m mad that you are being stupid. We have a restless night’s sleep .

     The next day, things get worse. We drive to his doctors which is also an urgent care clinic. The nurse practitioner says she has never seen a knee like that in twenty years.

     She sends us for X-rays and ultra sound. They can’t do the ultra sound there so we drive across town for the ultra sound and then back across town to get the results then race back across town to the emergency room (five minutes from where the ultra sound was) because, as I have been saying all along, the X-ray has shown (not the useless traveling ultrasound) he has managed to mutilate his knee and needs to see an orthopedic specialist.  This self important man takes one look at the knee and announces - Al  needs surgery. His femur has shoved into his tibia breaking the plateau and he needs bone grafts and plates. Al asks,

     ‘What happens if I don’t have it?’

     The doctor is a little confused by this question; because he is used to a world where, if he says you need surgery, you grab a scalpel and start operating on your own leg. After recovering from the shock, he says that Al needs it because it will heal better and other I-am-so-important-words.

     ‘Can I stay awake or do you have to put me out?’

     The doctor replies,’ Ummm what do you mean?’

     ‘I mean, can I just have a spinal?’

     ‘No.’ Then the doctor looks at me, I think to check if Al is sane. I take over – the poor doctor-man is in such shock…

     ‘Al you do not want to know or hear or remember what they are about to do to your leg.’

     The Doctor says, ‘Yes.’ And holds the paperwork out to Al.

     ‘Ok then.’ Al says signing.

     I race back the 50 minute drive to get Amelia from school and as we are preparing for the return journey I get this text

     I call to confirm that he has been put in the room with criminals and he says,

     ‘Yes the roommate is “attached” to the bed. Please don’t bring Amelia back here.’

     I confirm that the “emergency rush" surgery has been cancelled and  we say good night and head to bed.

     At four forty-five a.m. I hear the dissonant beeping of the dying battery in the smoke alarm. I lay in bed wondering if it will give up or if I can sleep through it. Half an hour later I realize I have no choice. I limp through the house collecting a step ladder and try to balance my non-functioning feet on each step. Then I reach up to the offending device and realize that you actually need working hands. As I have told you before, often my hands are more like stumps rather than functional appendages. So I am just poking at the damn thing with my stumps for about ten minutes until I get the battery out. For a few terrifying minutes the fire alarm complains and I wonder if we will be doomed to listen to its wailing all night but then it gives up.

     We navigate the next few days being bumped for more severe injuries, Alan barely eating because they keep almost taking him each day and driving back and forth to our rural home. Liz and Tyson feed me and Amelia food fit for restaurants and Friday arrives. He is third on the list and I can’t find cover for the class I am teaching that morning; so he tells me to go. While on the phone to my sister Michelle, I lock myself out of the house with no way in. I call our piece of *&^% landlord and ask if he has a key. He says, “yes, but not with him” and hangs up. I can get into the garage so I focus my intellect on the door that goes from there into the house thinking, it is the weak spot.

     I try first picking the lock with a safety pin this is not working which is strange; from my extensive love of movies and TV shows I had assumed I would be able to pick a lock with no training. Next, I take the hinges off the door (We need to pause here to acknowledge that I TOOK THE HINGES OFF THE DOOR. My inner spy has been unleashed!)  but it still won’t budge. Michelle has her husband Bryan call me and he does a series of visual demonstrations of how to break in to a locked door… from America… with patience and locking himself in a room and freeing himself multiple times so I can see. Paying attention to every little detail, telling me what is wrong with my knife (yes Al keeps knives in his tool box??) and repeatedly begging me to put the door back on the hinges so that he does not have to watch me being crushed when I succeed. Which he is confident I will. But I don’t have time; plus this is my only contribution to the effort. Finally, I find this knife.

     And drum roll (for real - if you have drums - go and roll them)   I finally do it and it turns out I am Bloody MacGyver! (note the disemboweled smoke alarm in the distance...)

     AND I am only 4 minutes late to my class - meanwhile Alan has been taken to surgery. I arrive at his room ten minutes before he is brought back.

     SO while I have many issues with Nietzsche my biggest one is with his “what doesn’t kill you” quote because right now we are weaker than we were two weeks ago and we nearly died. However I will admit that I did find my inner spy and as it turns out this inner spy is *&^%ing MacGyver!!!

On being a mom and an ex-nurse.

 

I loved being a nurse as many of you know. Since I was little, I used to be suspicious that I could save the world. My usual fantasy was that I actually saved the whole world in some sort of covert spy ops. But when I became a Neonatal Intensive Care nurse this need to save the world was satisfied on a daily basis in tiny little ways in tiny little bodies. I loved that when I left my shift I had made a difference in either my patients life, their families or both.  I had to give up nursing because my body is, let’s be honest, ridiculous… (Although, I keep trying because: screw you body - I will win!! And Al keeps carrying me from the car, after a shift, asking me to stop “winning”…) However just because I am not a practicing nurse it seems the mantras all my teachers were terrified I would forget are still ready and waiting in the most paranoid parts of my brain. This can be a problem when a friend says she has this slight ailment and you proceed to give her a "head to toe assessment" (mantra one) with asking questions she would be hesitant to tell her doctor and then declare she must get immediate medical attention because it is probably cancer. (To be fair I usually don’t say cancer out loud… that would be unprofessional. I just think cancer and try to get her freaked out enough to go but not cancer freaked out. Also it is usually not cancer…) And it also becomes a problem when an ex-nurse becomes a mom. Moms in general can be a bit neurotic (or maybe that’s just me?) but throw in some medical knowledge, with no medical equipment like MRI’s and blood tests at your fingertips, and you are just asking for trouble.

While visiting family just over Christmas Amelia got sick... REALLY sick really fast. We were out on a treasure hunt (so fun running around downtown Denver like real tourists!) when she started to look a little pale and started wandering a little like a  lost freshmen on the first day of school. She refused to quit though (because fun always comes before comfort… and going home would "ruin it for everyone") and powered through. When we had finished, freezing cold and tired but triumphant, Grandpa convinced everyone to come home and skip dinner out; her cousins were so sweet and agreed, so off home we went.

She collapses into bed and falls asleep. Now being at my parents’ house I have no way to take her temperature. Well, according to my mom she has an “excellent thermometer”… It is a strip of plastic from 1985 that you press against the forehead for 5 minutes and it heats up little colored dots to then give you a range. I.e. green dot means 101-103…which is quite the gap. Also you have to match the color. Sometimes its between a dirt brown and a vomit green and so you can't tell if you should go with the range 101-103 or 104-107. In other words high fever or eminent death. Mom loves the damn thing and when I was younger I did too - because I could use it to get out of work - because it almost always said I had a temperature! However now that I am a nurse, I refuse to use it despite her insistence that it works great. So I have no reliable way of taking Amelia’s temperature. I can tell its high just by feel and when I take her pulse it is 160 (resting heart rate for her age is 60 – 80) Now this is alarming and I begin freaking out texting Al on Skype wondering if I should rush her to the emergency room (he is back in New Zealand and does not answer… Why? Because Princess Buttercup needed a walk… I will introduce you to Princess Buttercup, AKA Percy,  in a later blog.)

It is now 11 o’clock at night. I give her Ibuprofen to get her temp down and, hopefully, her heart rate and proceed to check her pulse every five minutes (who am I kidding? Most times it is every 30 seconds and it takes me 30 seconds to take her pulse so I am basically scrunched under the top bunk hanging on to her wrist) to see if it is coming down. It comes down to 130 eventually and I keep checking wondering what the hell is wrong with her body until 1 am when I realize if I was a mom with no nursing background I would not have checked her pulse, been grateful she was asleep, and gone to bed.

Another side effect of being an ex-nurse is you have to be the calm one in the room telling the parent to calm the $%&* down (really nicely and with absolutely no swear words…). Except now I am both the parent and the nurse so the conversation goes: Her pulse is high because she is sick and still has a fever. Her body is doing what it should and you have gotten the pulse to come down. Then the parent says, but it is still too high! Then the nurse says, yes it is a little high but you need to calm down and get some sleep because if you stay up all night twisting into odd shapes to take her pulse without waking her up, you will be in bad shape tomorrow. Now GO to bed. This conversation takes another hour and I finally fall asleep at 2 am. Of course she is fine (well, REALLY sick but not sick enough to brave the superbugs at the hospital… we’ll get into that another time…) and gets better over the next few days.

Mantra two was: how to be calm in emergencies. I was fairly good at it. Sort of prided myself on it actually. Calm and level headed but fast - like a nurse should be. Apparently this was a façade… A few weeks after we arrived back in New Zealand Amelia had taken a shower. Now there is one poisonous spider here.  I have been told there is another one but I only ever see the White Tail; so I am suspicious that New Zealanders are lying to make them look tougher and have made up another one so that they can be more like Australians. Although, let’s be honest who wants to live in a place where like half of the nonhuman things can kill you?? Anyway Amelia gets out of the shower and comes out to the living room with this crawling up her arm

I proceed to scream. Not calmly get up and brush the poisonous spider off her arm for her, nope, just screaming - no words and waving my arms until she brushed it off screaming herself. Not only had I managed not to assist her but freak her out so much that she was shaking for ten minutes afterwards. So in summation, being a nurse was great. However, apparently I pick and choose what I apply to my mothering skills and I am only picking and choosing the most deranged parts. And now, rather than a "healthcare provider" I am more like someone who dressed up as a nurse for Halloween and  doesn't know it's over and not real...

Is it January? Ok but January 2015 not 2016... Right?

It feels like I sort of stumbled into 2016. Like I had been walking along a sidewalk humming to Sunny Side of the Street and then someone shoved me so I tripped and had to start running very fast for some reason. (Probably because you should run away from people who shove you so hard that you trip.) Or more like, I was walking along and a cloaked man whispered something in my ear (something important, and by way of explanation, but I couldn't hear it) and shoved me through a large old door with a very ornate handle where I time traveled ahead one year. These past few weeks have passed in a blur. There was fun with family, I vaguely remember through a haze of jet lag or (more likely) old person tired. There are plenty of things that happened to me that may be amusing… one day… peeing of pants… but not funny yet. There are other things too; but, it seems, I haven’t quite come to terms with my sudden intense intolerance of others nor am I willing to admit this to the public yet. I am still hoping it is just a phase and all my angry looks and ranting will disappear behind my trusty smile soon. If not, I can always do that angry blog I keep hinting at. 
So, January has come and gone in a fog and it appears things may be falling apart...

I went from this hair:

To this hair in just a couple of days

You should know this was me checking how I look in my phone as a guest was arriving... Also, when checking, I realized I had gone to visit my friend probably looking just like this. This was a week and a half after arriving back from Denver so I can't really blame anything but myself.
Then our attempt at cool oasis building went from this:



To this in four days:


Also Al bought this coconut one week ago... we still have no idea how to open it or what to do with it...


 

He says he bought it for nostalgia of his Papua New Guinea trip but I guess the "nostalgia" was not quite strong enough to conjure up the memories of how to open the damn thing.
So here's to 2016. Let's hope I can pull myself together in time for my birthday. However, it does not bode well as I was shocked to find I was turning a year older than I had thought all year. Apparently, at my last birthday, I stopped counting