Monday, August 21, 2017

The One With The Eclipse, The Special Olive & Junior The Second

I should explain a little background before sharing the enlightened and educational texts between me and my brilliant progeny.

1.  Last week Lexi brought home paperwork to fill out for school. It looked like this:

See where it asks for "generation (i.e. JR, II)?" When Lexi filled it out, she wrote "JR II" in that box, thinking it meant she was a junior (in high school) and in the 11th grade. Since then we've been calling her Lexington Anne Meehan Junior the Second because we're kind and supportive that way.

2.  The reference to "my special Olive" is from the movie Ella Enchanted where the mom introduces her daughters as "My precious Hattie and my um, special Olive," indicating her more stupid daughter. Because we're an affectionate and encouraging bunch, we refer to each other as special Olive whenever someone is acting stupid.

3. Yaya is my mom who has a habit of warning me and my sister of impending doom because we (mostly me) can be kind of stupid at times.

For your reading enjoyment - (Yes, I fully expect you guys to cringe at the magnitude of stupidity and nonsense as you read.)
























Sunday, August 20, 2017

Thanks For The Memories!

On Friday, June 29, 2007 I wrote my first blog post. It's been ten years. TEN YEARS of blogging! I've written 1692 blog posts. A lot has changed in that time. When I first started, I was a stay-at-home mom to 6 young kids who liked to paint the TV with yogurt, color the dog with markers, smear diaper cream on the carpet, give each other impromptu haircuts, and make messes of epic proportions. I was married and lived in a nice town on the outskirts of Chicago. I blogged almost every day and had nearly 10,000 daily readers. My kids were the following ages:

Austin - 12
Savannah - 11
Jackson - 8
Lexington - 6
Clayton - 3
Brooklyn - 1


Now my kids are:

Austin - 22 and expecting his first child in October
Savannah - 21 and in her third year of college
Jackson - 19 working and trying to find a good direction
Lexington - 16 and driving, a junior in high school
Clayton - 13 and in 8th grade
Brooklyn - 11 and in 6th grade

Here are pictures of the kids from when I first started blogging, right before we moved to Florida in 2011, and now.











Little did I know, when I first started blogging, that the silliness I shared online would garner me interviews on TV, radio, newspapers, and magazines, would open opportunities to work with companies on sponsored posts and product giveaways, and would award me a 2 book deal with Simon & Schuster.

video

But most importantly, little did I know that the every-day, mundane stuff of life that I shared online would inspire others. That has been the greatest gift to come of this little venture.

And of course, now I have an online journal of the past ten years. I wrote about birthdays and holidays, vacations and camping trips, broken bones, stitches, and surgeries. I wrote about the nice things my kids have done, and I wrote about the naughty things too. I've chronicled the messes. Oh dear Lord, the messes. (But here's a pro tip for you moms of young kids. Don't worry about the messes. Embrace the messes. I would give anything to go back in time and have to deal with spilled milk, crayon on the walls, and names scratched into the side of my van as opposed to peer pressure, drugs, sex, driving lessons, part time jobs, and geometry homework!) I've written about my attempts at home maintenance, being a single mom, and trying to date. I've written about hard times like losing my house and struggling financially, and mental health hospitalizations and addiction issues. I've written about happy times. And I've written about funny things like, well, most of the things I've written about have been funny if you look at them through the right lenses (they don't need to be ISO certified either.)






Thanks to you, my readers, for an amazing 10 years! And here's to 10 more!

Monday, August 7, 2017

A Heaping Helping Of Spam

I love getting comments on my blog. Wait, let me rephrase that. I love getting comments from actual people who actually read my blog, and who leave comments that pertain to said blog. I'm less fond of the spam comments I receive. And the spam comments are plentiful! For every legit comment, I probably get 10+ spam ones. In the midst of mindlessly deleting them yesterday, I thought I'd share a few here. You know, just to spread the joy. You're welcome.


Hello.This article was extremely fascinating, particularly since I was investigating for thoughts on this issue last Saturday. on The "My Air Conditioning is Broken and it's 90 Degrees" Sale


So you're telling me you were investigating how to buy a copy of my book to help me pay for repairs to my broken air conditioner? What an oddly specific investigation on your part, and how fortuitous for me.

In my mind not fairly when it comes to pace and fit however I even have high hopes Adidas will address this quickly. on Save the Monopoly Dog!


Yes, yes, I think I speak for us all when I say I hope Adidas will address the issue of which Monopoly piece to save when the game is redesigned. Years ago.

Asking questions are truly nice thing if you are not understanding something entirely, however this article gives pleasant understanding yet. on You Are Not Alone


I am not understanding. I am definitely not understanding.

I read this piece of writing fully regarding the comparison of latest and earlier technologies, it's amazing article. on Save the Monopoly Dog!

I don't think you did indeed "read this piece of writing fully" as it is not comparing technologies, but informing readers that Monopoly was retiring a token, and urging readers to vote for the token they wanted to save.

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You're going to be back incessantly? Oh happy day!

Hi, just wanted to mention, I liked this post. It was funny. Keep on posting! on You Are Not Alone

Yes, yes, I was aiming for humor while talking about the horrors of drug addiction.

What i do not realize is actually how you are now not really a lot more smartly-liked than you might be right now. You're so intelligent. You realize therefore significantly with regards to this subject, made me personally imagine it from a lot of various angles. Its like women and men aren't involved until it's something to accomplish with Girl gaga! Your personal stuffs outstanding. Always handle it up! on The "My Air Conditioning is Broken and it's 90 Degrees" Sale

I don't know whether to be insulted that I'm not really a lot more smartly-liked, or to be flattered that my personal stuffs is outstanding. 

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Although that does sound tempting, I've met my quota of hyperlink exchange contracts this month.

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Google translate fails for $400, Alex.

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I'm so glad I could help you realize your goal of getting a good night's sleep despite your bedwetting issues.

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Wait what? They still have Myspace???

Yes! Finally something about Child Obesity. on You Are Not Alone



Or, you know, drug addiction. Close. Very close.


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Saturday, August 5, 2017

You Are Not Alone

Startled out of sleep by a loud noise, I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. A persistent knocking at my front door had thoughts racing through my head. Everyone was home asleep. Who could be knocking in the middle of the night? What's going on? I climbed out of bed and crept toward the stairs where I peeked around the corner, trying to glimpse who was outside my front door so late at night. Through the window I saw a police officer standing there. A million scenarios that would elicit a visit from a police officer in the wee hours flipped through my mind. None of them were good. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I quickly grabbed a robe and descended the stairs, dread pounding through me with every step.

"Ms. Meehan?" the officer asked.

"Yes," I answered hesitantly.

"We have Jackson." He quickly added, "Don't worry, he's okay; he isn't hurt or anything. But we need you to come get him." 

Wait what? My sleep-fogged brain tried to process what he was saying. They have Jackson? But Jackson's in his room asleep. 

"He and another boy were caught at the park in possession of marijuana."

My brain still hadn't caught up to what he was saying, but I was sure he was making a mistake. My son doesn't do drugs. My son is in bed sleeping. Isn't he?

In a daze, I retreated to my room, threw on some clothes and met the police officer back outside. I hopped in my car and followed him to the park where I found my son sitting on the curb in the parking lot. I honestly don't remember what I said to him or what he said to me. Everything is a bit of a blur. I recall the police officers telling me that Jackson was completely respectful and compliant, and I remember thinking - So what? He's supposed to be respectful and cooperative. That doesn't change the fact that he has drugs. And I didn't even know he had sneaked out of the house.

The police officers didn't arrest him. They issued a civil citation instead. I remember thinking that Jackson was lucky to be given this chance. The officers explained that Jackson would need to complete some tasks like community service and drug tests, and if he successfully completed each job assigned to him, and didn't get in any other trouble for anything else then this infraction wouldn't go on his record. 

This happened almost 2 years ago. Not coincidentally, it was about the same time I stopped blogging. Jackson is incarcerated right now. For the third time since then. And I'm done being silent about it. There's such a stigma attached to addiction. You can't talk about it without being judged. Strangers form opinions without understanding the problem. Well-meaning friends say insensitive things. Acquaintances feign concern simply to get the latest gossip. I wanted to avoid all of that as much as possible.

BUT for every person who says something ignorant because they don't understand, there's someone else out there going through the same thing, and thinking they're all alone. Addiction is isolating. It shouldn't be. You're not alone. I know how much addiction sucks. I know how much if affects not only the addict, but everyone around him. I know how addiction looks to an outsider who believes - All he has to do is stop. It's as simple as that. I know how as a parent of someone struggling with addiction you are consumed by guilt, uncertainty, anger, helplessness, compassion, and frustration. I know how it feels to be at war with yourself about how far to go in helping your child. I know what it's like to build up walls and the need to detach for your own self-preservation. I know what it's like to beat yourself up with What ifs - What if I hadn't gotten divorced? What if I hadn't moved? I know what it's like to field ignorant comments from people. I know what it's like to cry through Al-Anon meetings. I know what it's like to pretend like everything's okay while inside your heart is shattering, and I know what it's like to shove all your emotions down deep so you can appear strong for your other kids. I know what it's like to wonder where your kid is, if he's still sleeping outside somewhere, if he's alive. I know what it's like to see him being taken away in an ambulance, barely coherent because of an overdose. I know what it's like to be threatened by him while he's under the influence. I know what it's like to see him being lead into a courtroom, dressed in a jumpsuit stamped with Orange County Corrections, his hands cuffed and chained around his waist.

And I know I don't want to be silent about it anymore. Because if I'm going through this and feeling isolated, I know there are others out there dealing with the same struggles and feeling the same way. And you are NOT alone.





Thursday, July 27, 2017

How Many Writers Does It Take To Change A Lightbulb?

I noticed my tail light was burned out last week. I have never replaced a light on any car I've ever owned. But heck, I fixed my washing machine twice, my dryer, my disposal, my sink, and my toilet all by myself (and I only sawed through one pair of jeans in the process) so I should be able to handle this, right?

I was feeling pretty proud of myself for knowing to stop at an auto parts store for a new bulb. I walked in and was greeted by a guy behind the counter.

"Hi. One of the back lights in my car burned out. I need a replacement bulb, please," I stated confidently.

"Sure thing. What kind of car, ma'am?"


"It's a Toyota Sienna. It's a Toyota Sienna LE," I added for good measure, and to show off the amazing breadth of my automotive knowledge.

"Okay, what year is it?" he inquire as he typed my information into his computer.

"Ummm," I stammered, feeling a little less proud. "Umm, hang on just a second," I said in a small voice as I tried to nonchalantly back out of the store as if he wouldn't realize I was leaving if I walked backwards.

I hit the door then quick turned around and trotted over to my car. Yes, I trotted. Because even embarrassing situations like this don't call for running.

I opened my car door and called to Lexi who was waiting in the car with Clay and Brooklyn, "Quick! Open the glove compartment and tell me what year this is! No, it's on a paper. No, not that paper! Look over there. It should say on the registration. Yes, that one! 2006? Good!" I closed the door sauntered back to the store.

"It's a 2006," I declared.

"Great. Is it the tail light or the brake light?"

"Uhhhh . . . It's um, in the back. On the driver's side. It's red. I think. Or is the bulb plain and the plastic thingy that goes over it red? Hmmm, I totally never thought about that  . . ."

He looked at me like this.

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"I don't know," I admitted sheepishly, slowly backing away to the door again.

Shaking his head, he followed me around the counter. "Let's go see."

I led him to my minivan. My van that was rocking. I didn't sense any seismic activity in the area so I correctly assumed it was probably a bad idea to have left the kids in there. I opened the door to the 3 kids bouncing around like they were on hippity hops while Alan Walker's Alone blasted through the speakers at ear shattering decibels (or at least the highest decibels available on a minivan.)

The guy's eyes widened as he took in the scene. I just shrugged. 

"Drive the car into the shade over there so I can see which one is burned out," he instructed as he pointed to a parking spot under a tree. "Now step on the brakes." He looked at the back of the van and informed me it was the brake light that was out, then he returned to the shop.

Armed with my new lightbulb, I drove home, opened the back of my van, looked at the bolts holding the plastic thing in place, and realized I didn't have any tools to remove it. I posted a picture of the bolts and asked for suggestions on Facebook. As always, I got myriad suggestions that overwhelmed me so I looked around my tool box and found the nut driver (still can't believe that's an actual thing) I had to buy when I fixed my washing machine so I tried to use that. I was pretty sure it was the right tool, but it was too small for these screw/bolt/nut things. I didn't want to spend money on more tools when it could be better used for lipgloss or cute purses, or you know, rent, but I also didn't want to spend money on a traffic ticket for having a burned out light so I went to Ace to get a different size nut driver.

When I entered Ace, I didn't sense all the employees making hasty retreats like my presence usually instigates. I think living in an apartment now and not needing to do any home repairs myself has eliminated my trips to Ace for the past year so the employees had probably let down their guards. (Now the maintenance guys at my apartment, on the other hand . . .)

Anyway, I found a nut driver in a size that I figured might work based on my scientific method of eyeballing it, then I flagged down an older gentleman, showed him my find, and asked, "Do you think this might work to take off the bolt thingies on the back of my car so I can replace my brake light?"

"Well, I dunno, darlin'. Let's take a look," he drawled as he walked out to my car, tool in hand. [Sidenote: I usually detest it when guys address me as darling, pretty lady, honey, etc. It makes me throw up in my mouth a little. But somehow, old Southern guys who move as fast as Tim Conway's old man character are exempt, I guess. I only find it mildly irritating with them.]


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Anyway, I'll spare you the details of the next 30-some minutes, but this gentleman went back and forth from my car to the store 4 times while trying to find the correct tool. He ended up presenting me with the exact same 10mm nut driver I had picked up when I first walked in. See? (My eyeballing method may not be scientific, but it works!) He kindly offered to change it for me, but alas I had left the bulb at home. 

The next day, before picking up my friend Cindy and leaving for the beach, I decided to tackle the light bulb changing project. (I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere.) Before I started, I had the brilliant idea to see if Cindy's husband had a tool I could borrow so I could return the one I just bought and feel better by not having to spend money on some stupid thing I'd likely never use again. Why I didn't think of this in the first place is because I'm old and frazzled and don't always use my head.

When I got to Cindy's, her husband changed the bulb for me. I'm pretty sure he just didn't want me messing around with his tools, and really, who could blame him?

So the moral of the story is: know what year your vehicle is  learn how to do simple car maintenance  keep some basic tools on hand  find a guy (or gal, DeeAnne) who can fix stuff and do whatever it takes to befriend him/her!

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Words With Friends (With A Side Of Nausea)

When I was in kindergarten, there was a book fair at my school. I, being the huge dork that I am, begged my mom to buy me a dictionary. A dictionary. Just what every 5 year old asks for, right? Well, my mom said no at the time and I accepted that. She was proud because I didn't throw a fit in front of my teacher and my classmates upon hearing her "no" so she later went back and bought the dictionary for me. I remember being so surprised when I opened it for my birthday! While other kids wanted pet rocks, Weebles, or Stretch Armstrong dolls (What can I say? It was 1975,) I was happy with my book filled with all of those words and meanings. All those words!

Fast forward to December of 2009 when I discovered Words With Friends, a phone app that lets you play a Scrabble-like game with friends or random opponents. How awesome is that, right? Scrabble at my fingertips anytime, anywhere, and other people willing to play with me!

When I first started playing, next to my name, there was a little yellow tile with an M on it. M for mom2my6pack which was  my username. I played against 3 or 4 people and it usually took me about a week to finish a game because both my opponent and I would play pretty slowly, taking only a couple turns a day. 

This summer, however, I realized I could upload an actual picture for the little icon next to my name. I used this one. In changing my picture, I inadvertently did a social experiment. 

If you aren't familiar, at the top of the app there's a row of pictures that denote opponents you can challenge to a game. Every day since I changed that picture about a month ago, I have received a couple game requests to the point that I now have 35 games going! I went for EIGHT YEARS with maybe 3 or 4 games going with the same couple opponents at any given time to 35 different games overnight. Would you like to know how many of those 35 games were started by guys? THIRTY-THREE! 

The game also has a chat option so you can talk to your opponent as you play. In the past my conversations have included phrases like these:

Nice move.

Good job.
Thank you!
Ugh, I have all vowels!
Good game!
Want to play again?

Occasionally, the conversations got more in depth like this:

How's it going?
What's the weather like there?
Having a nice weekend?
I'm fine.

But since changing my picture, the conversations have run along different lines. Now don't get me wrong, there are a couple guys (both married and single) who have completely normal, respectable, platonic chats when we play. But the overwhelming majority of these guys are under the impression that Words With Friends is a free dating site. Their conversations are about as wonderful as the messages I get on dating sites. If you want to read about how wonderful those are, check out THIS POST

Exhibit A (Names have been blocked out to protect the stupid, clueless, and generally disgusting because I'm too nice.)



Surprisingly, he resigned when I didn't engage with him.
-------------------------------------------------
Exhibit B (He had just gotten through telling me that he's 28, and married with a 9 month old.)


 Shockingly this guy also resigned when I didn't continue the conversation.
----------------------------------------------------------
 Exhibit C  (It started off okay with him saying hello and asking me where I live to which he replied . . .)



And we're done here.
--------------------------------------------------


Exhibit D (He started by saying that judging by my profile, he anticipated a good game, but didn't . . .


Goodbye.
---------------------------------------------------

Exhibit E


"Doll???" Why? Why why WHY??? Why do you people say things that will inevitably give me an eye rolling injury?
----------------------------------------------------------

Exhibit F


I don't even know how to respond to something like this. Thankfully he resigned, sparing me the need to file a restraining order.

"Principessa, just let me see your feet! I need to draw your feet!"

What I want to know is - what on earth are these guys trying to get out of this? Do they realize how rare it is to even find someone who lives in the same state, let alone anywhere near their city? I play with opponents as far away as Australia! Are they just looking for someone with whom to trade pictures? Why do they have to bring this ridiculousness to my beloved word game? Couldn't they just find sites like FootFetishes.com or CreepyGuys.com or IHaveNothingBetterToDoThanRuinPerfectlyGoodWordGames.com?

And yes, I could change my picture back to an M. I could change it to a picture of a piece of toast. Would that avoid most of the unwanted attention? The previous 8 years of no attention would suggest the answer is yes. But why can't a person just make words, score points, and go about their day without some guy hitting on them? The anonymity of the internet makes otherwise normal people go stupid, I think. Seemingly normal adults who probably wouldn't approach a woman in public and say, Hey doll, you're hot. Want a picture of my junk? have no qualms about doing it online. It really makes me wonder about the future of society (not to mention pushes me one step closer to instituting my Cat Plan.)









Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Back In My Day . . .

Codi (Austin's girlfriend of 5 years who is expecting in October) texted me today, asking if I'd like to go with her to a baby store. Heck yeah! So I picked her up and we hit Babies R Us. I haven't been in a Babies R Us in years, but believe me, I put in many, many hours shopping there back in the day.

You know how I've been saying that I'm thrilled to have a grandbaby to cuddle, but I'm not quite on board with the concept of being a grandmother? I mean, when I hear the word grandma, I think of a woman with her white hair in a bun, a shawl draped around her frail shoulders, sitting in a rocking chair. And then I think - Oh great, now I'll have to wear an apron when I bake and learn how to knit, and start all my stories with "Back in my day . . ." And I'll have to start adopting cats and then accidentally put the cat food into my lime Jello molds . . . (Sometimes my thinking gets away from me.)


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It's actually already started. As we walked around the store and Codi scanned items to add to her registry, I found myself saying, "Back in my day, they didn't have Babies R Us when I was pregnant with Austin. I had to register at Toys R Us. And they didn't have handy little scanners either. Noooo, I had to write down the SKU # for every product. On real paper. With a pen. And relatives couldn't look up my registry online. Because there was no online!" As I was talking, my brain was screaming at me to shut up.

So we walked around and gushed over the assortment of adorable pink, ruffly baby girl clothes. Codi marveled at the sheer size of the store, and I scoffed at those darn newfangled baby products because back in my day we didn't need diaper wipe warmers and my kids' butts fared just fine. I tried to bite my tongue and not say too much because things change, people move with the times, and, not knowing what Codi likes or wants on her registry, I didn't want to insult or alienate her. When she asked for my opinion, I gave it to her, and other times I tried not to roll my eyes too much.

Now, don't get me wrong, some modifications in baby products are improvements. Car seats, for example, have come a long way in a relatively short time, and are much safer now than they were a generation ago. Some items out there are beneficial and I kind of wish I'd had them back when my kids were babies. But others . . . Well, others are just ridiculous wastes of money, in my opinion.

I took a couple pictures of products I can't believe are out there. If Codi's back hadn't started hurting, I'm sure I could've found a dozen more before leaving. Now don't go get insulted if you have these things. You do what you gotta do to take care of your baby. But I'm an old (almost) grandma so I can say what I want and you can't talk back to your elders. I'm pretty sure those are the rules.


Here we have a whirlpool, bubbling spa, and shower tub. For about $60, your baby can bathe in ultimate luxury. I ask you, what 2 month old doesn't need her own whirlpool bath? 







It's the Ritzy Wrap! Okay, I admit when I first looked at this, I thought it went around mom's arm so she wouldn't get sore carrying an infant car seat. Crazy, right? But as I started writing this, I realized that it actually goes around the handle of the baby car seat and it can be easily removed to double as a changing mat. The fact that it's multi-functional makes me think it's a little less ridiculous than when I first saw it. Still, I wore those arm bruises and indentations as a badge of honor. Honor, I tell ya! Kids these days have it so easy.


Here's a battery operated formula mixer for those who find simply shaking a bottle for a couple seconds too much work. Perfect for people who like to buy lots of batteries!





Here we have an invaluable tool for potty training. A potty seat that looks like a full size toilet, takes up a bunch of room, and will only be useful for a few months!





image: Walmart.com


Oh good grief! A training urinal? What the??? Clearly, a parent of a boy did not invent this little gem because why would you invite the opportunity for your toddler to pee even more places in your house?


It's the Keurig for babies. Mixes formula with the right temperature water for baby's bottle. Because doing it the old fashioned way is just, well, old fashioned. But be careful, in your sleep deprived haze that you don't accidentally give baby a bottle of coffee while you sit down to a nice cup of Similac.


There are others out there too. The potty seat that comes with a holder for your iPad, the baby knee pads for crawlers, the bottle holder. What head-shaking things have you seen on the market?

Friday, July 7, 2017

How To Talk To Teens (It CAN Be Done!)

I think communication is essential especially when it comes to your tweens and teens. It's ever so important to keep those lines of communication open.  I want to know what's going on in my kids' lives.  I want them to feel comfortable coming to me with their problems, joys, concerns, and questions.  But, let's face it, parents and teens/tweens are not always on the same page.  Sometimes we're not even in the same galaxy when it comes to communicating.  So, I've comprised a list of 10 things you can do to improve communication between you and your teens.

1.  Don't ask them stupid questions.  According to my kids, this includes asking them, "How was school?" the minute they walk in the door.  I know we've been programmed to do this (much like preparing a variety of vegetables even though we know darn well our kids are never going to eat Brussels Sprouts.)  It's in the parenting manual so we do it, but it's pointless and we'll never get an answer beyond, "okay", "boring", or just a plain ole grunt. Ask open-ended questions to get them talking more in depth.

2.  If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.  A few weeks ago, I got a text from my daughter asking me if she could go to her friend's house.  Not unusual, right?  However, my daughter was sitting 5 feet away from me when she texted her request.  You could burst into a speech about how you didn't even have cell phones when you were a teen.  Only important people like the president had a mobile phone and it was the size of a microwave oven.  And maybe doctors had pagers and when their pager buzzed, they had to find a PAY PHONE to return a call.  But I've tried this technique and it's surprisingly ineffective.  I was met with blank stares from my teens who are now certain I grew up when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Instead, text your daughter back with something like "LOL!  That's pretty funny.  Now go clean your room." In fact, here's a handy guide to important texting lingo.
DYH - Do your homework
SBYS - Stop bugging your sister
CYR - Clean your room
GHN! - Get home now
GHNOEYGUTSC! - Get home now or else you're grounded until the second coming!
It's okay to communicate via text with your teens/tweens, but save the texting for the unimportant stuff. When it really matters, talk in person.

3.  Don't minimize what your teen/tween is talking about.  If you make light of a situation that is genuinely stressing your teen, you're not showing consideration and your teen is not likely to come to you with future problems.  So when your tween is completely distraught because both she and her best friend wore the same shirt to school ON THE SAME DAY, avoid telling her that she's being ridiculous.  Instead, listen with compassion (and maybe return those cute matching outfits you just got for her and her sister.)

4.  Don't try to act all cool and use your kids' lingo. Your kids don't think you're cool. There's nothing you can do to change this. They will never think you're cool. Accept it. Speak to them like you're their parent, not like the kid who sits next to them in geometry. 



5.  If you want them to actually listen to you, tell them that you heard it from a YouTuber. For example, let's say you want your teen to clean his room before Hazmat has to come in and quarantine your domain. Just tell him, "Olan Rogers just did a story about the importance of cleaning your rooms. It was hil-ar-i-ous!" When they doubt your sincerity, and they will, just make up something like, "Yeah, bummer you missed it. He had to take the video down because all of the traffic and comments. He couldn't keep up with it. All these teens writing to thank him for inspiring them to clean their rooms before families of ocelots started hibernating under their rancid gym shorts, and parents thanking him because after their kids cleaned their rooms, they acquired an entire restaurant's worth of dishes, cups, and utensils they thought had been lost. Seriously, kids love YouTube stars.

6.  Use humor. I'm not saying to act like a stand-up and tell a bunch of jokes that your teen will undoubtedly think are lame. But use humor as an ice breaker to get your teen to relax and open up. This is especially effective if it's self-deprecating humor. Admitting to something stupid you did as a teen, and being open with your shortcomings makes you more relatable and approachable.  


7.  Don't be a know-it-all. Much like in #6, admitting to shortcomings is a good way to open doors of communication. Remember that, despite the fact that you have years of experience and wisdom on your teens, you don't know everything. I mean, really, who fixed your computer, set up your TV, and showed you how to use Snapchat? Yeah. Teens aren't stupid, and shouldn't be looked down upon and treated as such. (Although you do have permission to laugh when one of them does something worthy of AFV.)


8. Stop talking. Remember, talking is only a small part of communicating. You also have to listen. If you need to put duct tape over your mouth, do it. Take time to listen. And then take some more time to think about your answer. Put yourself in your teen's shoes for a moment and remember how much it sucked to be a teenager (acne, math homework, your crush who likes someone else, curfews, demanding teachers, clueless parents.) Then you can respond. And don't talk too much. Think Twitter - put your answer in 140 characters or less. Or well, maybe not quite 140 characters, but brevity is your friend. Or your kids will tune out.


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9.  Make sure there are no distractions when you need to have a serious talk. Speaking with your teen about sex, drugs, and peer pressure doesn't work as well when you're fielding phone calls, your teen is texting, or their younger siblings are running in and out of the room wearing Batman costumes, fighting with lightsabers, and arguing about Legos. Trust me on this one. If you need to have a serious talk, bring your teen along on an errand. When you're in the car, you have a captive audience. Mwaaa haaa haaa.

10.  Talk early, talk often! Don't wait until your kids are teens to start having conversations. Talk to your kids! Have light conversations regularly. If your kids are used to talking to you about the mundane stuff that goes on every day, it'll be much easier to bring up the more serious topics later. So, all those hours you've feigned interest in those endless Minecraft and Pokemon stories - they had a purpose after all! If your kids know you're interested in Creepers, Endermen, and Bulbasaurs, they'll know they can come to you with more important subjects.


If you have a hard time thinking of things to talk about, you're in luck. Click THIS LINK to be entered in a drawing for Family Table Topics. When I was at BlogHer last month, I received Table Topics and thought I'd pass it along to a reader. 


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Tuesday, July 4, 2017

The One Where I Throw Up at CVS

I awoke in the middle of the night with what I thought was horrible heartburn/indigestion. In a sleepy haze, I grabbed a couple Tums, turned over and promptly went back to sleep. When I woke up in the morning, I still felt crappy and now had pain in my lower abdomen. Well crap, this can't be good, I thought. It feels like diverticulitis. 

via GIPHY


I employed my M.O. which is to ignore it until it goes away. It didn't go away. In fact It got worse.

So I headed to the hospital. I was going to go to the only one I've found down here that doesn't suck in Dr. Phillips, but my friend suggested I try this hospital that is much closer to me in Clermont. Knowing I'd have to sit in tourist traffic on I-4 to get to the decent hospital, and knowing that traffic would be especially awful now that Universal has built an enormous volcano in Orlando and everyone has to slow down and gawk at it, I agreed to try the closer one. (NOTE: Savannah works at Volcano Bay and loves it and I've only heard good things about the park, but seriously, no one can drive by without slamming on their brakes because, oh look, it's a water park. In Florida. How unusual.)


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But I digress. So after being in pain all day, I gave up and drove to the close hospital, and hobbled to the door, doubled over in pain. Once inside the ER entrance, a security guard had me walk through a metal detector while she went through my purse. Now, living here in Orlando, capital of theme parks, I've had my bag gone through a thousand times. Usually, the procedure works like this - the guard, bored out of his skull and wishing he was literally anywhere but there, takes his little bag-searching-stick and apathetically pokes it in the general vicinity of your purse. Ta da! All searched and secure. This security guard, however, went to The Intrusive School of Security because she unzipped every compartment, looked in every pocket, opened my little makeup bag, inadvertently (so she claimed) dumped out my container of coupons and business cards (because you never know when someone might be hiding a firearm among the business cards) and took a good 3-4 minutes scrutinizing the contents of my purse.

After passing inspection, I walked to the registration desk, filled out the paperwork, then took a seat amongst thirty or so people waiting to be seen. Half of them were wearing cowboy boots. One old man was having a loud conversation on his phone, in the middle of the waiting room, with his buddy about their next gun club meeting. I overheard one young man say at least 7 times how he was just beginning to make a fish salad (sounds gross even when you're not having intestinal pain) when he got the call that his mom was in the hospital so he drove 150 miles an hour (is that even possible?) to get there. One man wearing steel-toed boots, shorts, and a tank top proudly stretched his phone charger across the waiting room and announced to (someone, everyone, no one in particular, himself?) that he had a 20 foot long cord and he'll never need to buy another one again. I'm pretty sure I saw this guy there:


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I sat folded in half, concentrating on not passing out from the pain while listening to people I thought only existed on TV. At some point, I was taken back to triage where one nurse sat, texting on her phone and the other nurse asked me the usual questions - when did the pain start, on a scale of 1-10 how bad is the pain, blah blah blah. Then she asked if there was a chance I was pregnant. I told her no. She responded with, "How do you know? Did your husband have a vasectomy?" I blinked a couple times while I tried to process what she'd said. When I was certain she'd really said what I thought she'd said, I finally responded. "First off, I'm not married, you presumptuous bleep. And I'm telling you there is no way on earth I could possibly be pregnant." I was exceptionally proud of myself for not throat-punching her and instead just giving the slightest hint of an eye roll because seriously??!

After waiting for TWO hours, I was finally led back to a room. As I walked, I started crying because the pain had gotten out of control. A nice nurse saw me, came in right away, helped me change into a gown, got me set up with an IV, and got a doctor to order nausea and pain meds. Unfortunately it was time for the shift change and she left soon after she got me settled. The next few hours are blurry because they drugged me up with morphine and I do not do well with narcotics. 

A PA came in and asked me a few questions. "Where is your pain?"
"Lower abdomen."
"On the left side?
"Nope, all across my lower abdomen."

"Diverticulitis pain is typically on the left."
"So I've heard. Every single time I've had it. When the pain was across my entire abdomen."

"Do you have your appendix?"
I mean, I understand that the medical team has to rule out other possibilities, but if it looks like a duck . . . and the patient tells you it's a stinkin' duck, maybe that's where you should start. So I had a CT of my abdomen. When the technician tried to inject the contrast, she had a hard time and my IV got all wonky. Finally, the PA came in and seemingly grudgingly admitted that I was right and I do indeed have diverticulitis again. 

They tried to give me some antibiotics through my IV line, but since it had gotten all wonky (technical medical term for not working), a nurse who looked like Rashida Jones from The Office had to start another one. 

I never saw a doctor, I didn't really get any discharge instructions on what I should (or really shouldn't) be eating, what medications I was being prescribed and how to take them, or when to follow up. Honestly, after SEVEN hours, I just wanted to leave. I didn't even care at that point. It wasn't until I stopped at CVS on the way home that I realized I was only prescribed a pain medication and one antibiotic, and not the 2 different antibiotics I've been prescribed every other time. I hadn't been prescribed any anti-nausea medicine either, but I thankfully have some left from my last bout. As I made my way toward the door of CVS, a wave of nausea hit me. Before I got to the door, I began gagging, completely creeping out the other customers (and who could blame them?) When I hit the parking lot, my lunch (of hot tea) hit the pavement. I made it to my car where I continued retching. And then I started crying because 1. You guys know how much I hate vomit! And 2. I was feeling sorry for myself because it sucks not having someone to take care of you.

What I learned:
1. It is worth the drive to Dr. Phillips.
2. A lot of rednecks apparently live in Clermont.
3. Some nurses are nicer than others.
4. There a thing called fish salad. I really don't need to learn more about this.
5. Never break down and have popcorn, even if it IS Garrett's.
6. The empty-your-bowels and consume nothing more than clear liquids for days is a great weight-loss tool. Or well, it's not really great, but it does garner a great loss.
7. If I never call the gastroenterologist to follow up, I won't need another colonoscopy or surgery.
8. I still HATE throwing up.

Saturday, July 1, 2017

The One With The Wax

I have made it to the ripe ole age of 47 without ever having a massage, a facial, hair blow-out, waxing, eye brow shaping, basically anything spa-related. Except pedicures. I've had a few of those. I love them! In fact, when I become rich and famous, I shall get one every day. But I digress. I've never been to any sort of spa. Mainly because I just haven't had the disposable income to do so, but also because I'm completely intimidated by the idea. In fact, a couple years ago, I got a spa gift certificate for Christmas from an agency for whom I'd done some writing, and I gave it away. I was too scared to go to a spa. I know, I know, I have issues.

A couple months ago, I got a certificate, from a rep who came to my school, to use on a package at a place called Enlighten Med Spa. The certificate was good for a hydrafacial, a fat reduction ultrasound treatment, a body wrap, and either 5 units of Botox, a skin tightening session, or a Swedish massage. Another coworker and I finally made appointments to go.

I had an appointment with my hematologist in the morning, but my facial appointment was for an hour and a half after my doctor's appointment, and the spa was only 5 miles away. No problem. Especially since I was just going in to get my finger pricked to check my INR (the joys of being on blood thinners for life.) However, because doctor's offices don't understand the concept of an appointment (You know how to take the reservation appointment, but you don't know how to keep the reservation appointment, and really the keeping of the reservation appointment is the most important part of the reservation appointment.) they didn't call me back to a room until an hour after my scheduled time. The nurse, who I've never seen before, fiddled around with the machine for a good 5 minutes while I stood there, trying really hard not to roll my eyes. Then he stabbed my finger so far to the side, he practically hit my nail. Shockingly, it didn't bleed enough to get a drop on the test strip. You know, because nails don't bleed. So he tried again with another finger and once again, he poked the side of my finger. (I think he learned you should prick the finger off to the side a little to reduce pain, but he took it to the extreme.) I resisted the urge to shout, "Oh for crying out loud, give it to me! I'll do it!" and instead offered a blank face (truly the best I could do) as he attempted to squeeze a drop of blood on the tester.

After my appointment, I rushed to the spa and arrived a good 20 minutes late. Yay me. Thankfully, the staff was really nice and understanding. After filling out paperwork, I was shown to a little waiting room, complete with ambient lighting, a tranquil water fountain, soothing music, and chaise lounges with pillows. The receptionist showed me a coffee maker, a pitcher of lemon water and a container of paraffin wax. She told me to help myself and relax until it was my turn. My friend had shown up on time and was already in the process of getting her facial so I poured myself a glass of water and walked around the little room admiring the lights and the water element. I eyed the container of wax. Curious, I walked over and removed the lid. The container held several inches of melted paraffin. I glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then I gingerly dipped a finger in to test how hot it was. It was warm and gooey. Niiiice. Thinking ahead, I removed my rings and dropped them into my purse before plunging my hand in, up to my wrist. I sunk my other hand into the warm, melted wax, then removed them. You know how I was smart and removed my rings before submersing my hands in wax? Unfortunately, I didn't have the foresight to also removed my bracelets and hair tie. They're still encased in wax, preserved forever. Or until I pick it all off.

I turned from the wax container and looked around the room, my hands held up as if I'd just scrubbed in for surgery. Now what? What am I supposed to do? In front of the basin of wax were several clear plastic bags. Am I supposed to put these on my hands? Maybe they're for something else entirely. I searched the walls for a poster of step-by-step wax instructions for dummies. Nothing. Maybe the bags were used to dispose of the wax after you picked it off? I desperately looked around again, hunting for some answer as to what I was supposed to do now. I kept having flashbacks of Joey dipping his fingers in the hot wax when he got his eyebrow (singular) done.



Finally, I gave up and started rubbing my hands together, paraffin peeling off into a giant ball of wax. I picked stray chunks off my nails and squished them into the growing orb in my hand. Great, now I have this great glob of wax and I still don't know what to do with it. As I searched for a garbage can, my eyes fell on the little plastic bags again. Like Indiana Jones stealing the idol, I quickly snatched a bag lest anyone catch me which would startle me, causing me to drop the ball of wax, making it roll down the hallway. I deposited the glob of wax in the bag, shoved it in my purse, sat down with my little cup of lemon water, legs crossed, a mask of innocence plastered to my face just as my friend and the technician, beautician, facialist, whatever they're called, came out. Who me? Fine, fine. Just sitting here, patiently waiting. Not touching anything I shouldn't. Ahem.

Shortly, I was lead back to a little room also with dim lighting, a comfy bed-like table with pillows and blankets. I removed my shoes, lay back, and let the nice young girl go to work. She massaged a series of concoctions on my face, cleansing, exfoliating, moisturizing. Then she used some sort of vacuum-like machine that sucked my face off. Okay, it didn't really. It was very gentle suction and felt kind of good as she moved the instrument over my face, sucking junk out of my pores.

As she was doing this, she commented, "You have really good skin. It's nice and smooth."


"What is your skin care regimen?" she inquired.

"Um, I fall asleep with my makeup on 9 times out of 10 and then I wash it off in the shower in the morning and reapply."

Apparently this is not the typical answer she receives. I suppose women who can afford to go to this spa probably use actual cleanser and moisturizer on their faces every day. She instructed my friend to make me go get some makeup removing wipes at least. When she'd finished with the sucky thing, she waved a light saber of some sort over my face. I really don't remember what it was for, but I didn't really care. I was lying down relaxing and no kids were fighting in the background. She could've been rubbing salsa on my face and shining a flashlight over it for all I cared.

When I finished, the receptionist brought us mimosas which we enjoyed while scheduling our next appointment for the fat reduction and wellness wrap. I just can't wait for that one. :/


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