Fluid Pudding

The last time we spoke, I was getting ready to prepare for Friday’s colonoscopy.

I prepared. I also had the good sense to send the girls out of the house on Thursday evening. When you’re 8 and 10 and unable to drive a car, the last place you want to be is trapped in a house with a parent who is chugging Gatorade mixed with Miralax. Thus it was, and so they went.

Jeff and I left our house for the hospital on Friday morning at 6:00. When we arrived, we were handed a buzzer.

Nurse (to Jeff): The buzzer will go off once when we’re ready to prep her for the procedure. It will go off again when she’s in the procedure room. It will go off a third time when you’re able to visit her in the recovery room.

We sat down and noticed that the number on the buzzer corresponded with a color coded screen.

Me: Look. My box is white. Does that mean I’m hungry for a doughnut? Because I’m hungry for a doughnut.

Jeff: Look at 87. He’s red. That means his blazing hot wings are ready.

With that, the buzzer went off for the first time.

Jeff: WELCOME TO THE TERROR DOME!!!

Long story shortened. The nurse took me back, asked me a bunch of questions, stuck an IV into my wrist, gave me a warm blanket, and told me to take it easy.

As I was taking it easy, I heard her greeting the woman in the next room. She started the same set of questions.

Nurse: Do you know why you’re here today?

Lady Next Door (LND): For a colonoscopy.

Nurse: Did you drink all of the prep mix?

LND: I didn’t.

Nurse: Oh. Okay. Did you refrain from eating solid foods yesterday?

LND: No. I had cereal for breakfast and some crackers last night.

Nurse: Oh. Okay. Have you had anything by mouth since midnight last night?

LND: Yes. I drank some coffee this morning.

Wrong answer, wrong answer, wrong answer. I suddenly felt very superior for drinking, refraining, and keeping my mouth closed after midnight.

Let’s skip ahead. I met the anesthesiologist. They wheeled me back to the procedure room. I rolled over onto my left side. I drifted into the most wonderful Propofol-induced sleep. The doctor piped me. I woke up.

Me: Have you talked to the girls?

Jeff: Yep. I texted Meredith just a few minutes ago.

Me: Good.

(Thirty seconds pass.)

Me: Have you talked to the girls?

Jeff: Um, yep. I just told you that.

Me: So you talked to them? To the girls? Have you talked to the girls?

Because Jeff is patient and Jeff is kind and Jeff does not envy and Jeff does not boast and Jeff is not proud, Jeff drove me straight from the hospital to a doughnut joint and then allowed me to shove a vanilla long john into my face while he ran into Starbucks and picked up a chai for me.

And we all lived happily ever after.

And I will NEVER miss an opportunity to put weird faces on my colon photos.

So, what’s that white thing on my colon? I don’t know! BUT, it’s normal.

Bonus: It is a rare delight to catch a glimpse of the elusive Colon Farrell. Luckily, my doctor is a wizard with the colonoscope and was able to capture a quick photo before Mr. Farrell disappeared behind my cecum.

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I spent most of January organizing our kitchen. It’s a year-long organization project, and the end goal is to put the house on the market before 2015. (February is bedroom month. Bedroom month is going to be tricky. I believe basement month is in March. I will cry more than once during basement month.)

It appears that we have two cabinets in our kitchen that are not square or rectangular. They are more like heptagonal trapeziums with all sorts of weird angles that don’t hold a can of beans or a box of couscous. These cabinets are useless to me because I have no idea what to put in them. These cabinets actually ruined my day yesterday because NOTHING is the shape of a heptagonal trapezium. Late last night I shoved a rusty sifter into my heptagonal trapezium, and it was just as distressing as it sounds.

Ah, but #lazyjournal is NOT distressing. People are actually doing it and tagging it on Facebook and Instagram and on their websites, and feel free to join us. Do you want me to share my Lazy Journal entries here, too? Let me know. I’ll share them today, but I’ll plan on NOT sharing them in the future unless you’re interested.

Also, last Tuesday I had all of my annual bloodwork drawn, and I believe my vein exploded in my arm (I’m a clencher). This morning it looked like this.

If it’s still there in a week, I’m going to return to my tattoo place.

I hope your weekend was a good one. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Let’s talk about that whole single sentence journal thing. I’ve heard from a few people who told me that Gretchen Rubin talks about a One Sentence Journal in The Happiness Project.

She started hers to build on the idea that happy times from the past can make you happy in the future. I’m starting mine because I’m lazy, but I really enjoy sitting down with a blank page and a pen. She types hers on the computer. Mine will always be handwritten, but I plan on sharing it on Instagram. She has really great hair and I think I want to be friends with her. My hair barely exists and I’m much more charming on the computer than I am in real life. I could live on bean burritos and snickerdoodles. I may have to have a colonoscopy in a few weeks. The two previous sentences may (or may not) be related.

Anyway, because the hashtag #onesentencejournal is taken by Happiness Project enthusiasts, I say we just forget about hashtags. (Honestly, don’t get me started on hashtags. I once found myself all bent over in a closet and one of the reasons why had to do with hashtags (and my lack of spine).)

So, anyway, although the official start date is February 1, I’ve been warming up.

If you’re joining us and posting your stuff online, please share the address. If it takes less than fifteen minutes to accomplish, I’ll create a sidebar link list of our blurb journals. Wait. Blurb Journal. Hashtag Blurb Journal?! What just happened? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Ten years ago, I got up every morning and wrote three pages in a journal. It was a time to puke my head out onto paper before getting started with the day, and I always loved the results.

I’ve been trying to get back into keeping a written journal for years, but I’ve always failed.

This afternoon I picked up a sketch pad and decided to write down a sentence that summarized the day. (Please know that my definition of sentence is loose. It can hold two periods. And can be capitalized. Burgers don’t have to look like burgers.)

Anyway, because the whole thing took less than two minutes and I was able to play with the pen Jeff gave me for Christmas (I love that stinking pen) and now the day is documented, it occurred to me that I should be doing this Every Day. One (or two) sentence journal entries. No need for elaboration.

Would you care to join me? Take a week to find a notebook and/or pen, and we’ll get this thing going on February 1st. Maybe we’ll even create a hashtag for it. We deserve a hashtag, right?

#singlesentencejournal #quickiejournal #keepitquickjournal ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

On January 20, 2012, Meredith finished her school spelling bee in the third place position. The word that took her down? Defiantly.

On January 31, 2013, Meredith tied for the position of first runner-up. The word that took her down? Evaluate.

This year Meredith once again won her class bee, making her eligible for the school bee. Once again, she studied her butt off to prepare. Once again, before leaving the house I grabbed a hot tea and a notebook to keep me busy so that I wouldn’t fidget, cry, or chew off my own arm during the assembly.

I arrived at the school at 1:50, and the spelling bee was scheduled to begin at 2:15. At around 2:00, the participants arrived, drew their order numbers, and took their seats. Meredith was lucky number four, and I would show you the photo of the kids lined up, but I didn’t have model release forms with me, and I have a funny feeling that a photo with Meredith and nine “hidden” children wouldn’t stir up much excitement.

Here. Wait.

Moderator: Meredith, your word is Gorgon.

Meredith: GeeOhAreGeeOhEn. Gorgon.

Moderator: That is correct.

Now wait a second. In case you didn’t follow that first link at the top of the page, look at how much Meredith has grown since her first appearance at the school spelling bee.

Oh, my heart and songs from Fiddler on the Roof and in ten years she’ll be 20 and my hair is so gray and my neck is starting to look like a gobbler neck and my ankles are the same size as my knees and every other sentiment that involves somehow saving time in a bottle, Jim Croce.

Anyway.

After Gorgon, which was a Round Five word, the other participants started dropping fairly quickly. Meredith hung in there with words like Infringe and Disarray and Vouch and Bolide and Forbidden.

When it got down to the final two participants, Meredith was given the word Vitriolic.

She spelled it correctly.

Moderator: Fourth Grade Boy, your word is Pontiff.

Fourth Grade Boy: Pontiff. P-O-N-T-I-F. Pontif.

Moderator: I’m sorry, but Pontiff is spelled P-O-N-T-I-F-F. If Meredith spells the next word correctly, she will win the spelling bee.

Meredith approached the microphone.

Moderator: Meredith, your word is Piety.

Meredith (without hesitation because she’s cool like that): Piety. PeeEyeEeeTeeWhy. Piety.

At that point, I grabbed my tea and started chugging it while writing PIETY! in my tiny notebook and my eyes welled up and I was clapping by slapping my legs and when did I lose all of my coolness? Because, honestly: It’s all gone. All of it.

(By the way, today is National Pie Day, and Meredith won the spelling bee with piety. I love that. Because I love pie. (And piety isn’t so shabby, either.))

Because the Puddings tend to celebrate all of our accomplishments with some sort of burrito or another, this evening we braved the freezing temperatures and burritoed it up. And burritoed is not a word. Until now.

When we last spoke, I mentioned that I wanted to pick the girls up from school and take them to Disney World. This was just my way of telling you that I was about to pick the girls up from school and take them to Disney World. Jeff was there for a sales meeting, and because the girls had a four day weekend, hooking up in Orlando made sense.

David Sedaris has taught me a lot of things, but one of the most memorable is this: No one wants to hear about your travel stories. No one wants to know that our flight was delayed to the extent that we were going to miss our connecting flight, meaning we would be at least a day late to Orlando. No one wants to hear that I had to pick the girls up earlier than I wanted and that we had to run like jerks who run through the airport and blashen blashen blashen ofdiuvhdvfkneipr98yshoa.

When we arrived in Orlando on Thursday night, Jeff picked us up from the airport and broke the news to the girls that they would be sharing a bed during the first night of the trip. To Harper, it suddenly didn’t matter that we were in Orlando. It didn’t matter that Jeff had a huge stack of snacks waiting for us in the hotel room. What mattered is this: Apparently, Meredith is a kicker. A KICKER.

(When Meredith was in kindergarten, the art teacher wrote her name on the back of one of her projects. Instead of writing “Meredith” she wrote “Meredlo”. It’s Harper’s favorite misspelling EVER, and sleeping with Meredlo is not hashtag how Harper does.)

I shared a bed with Meredlo on Thursday, and there was no kicking. The End.

Because the temperature was below freezing in St. Louis this morning and because freezing St. Louis people don’t want to hear about Florida, I’ll keep this short.

On Friday, we went to the Magic Kingdom, and the sky was amazing.

(Please know that castle cleaning crews were cleaning the castle and I really needed them to move the crane so I could take some decent photos, but they wouldn’t. So I didn’t. I did, however, almost get run over by at least 3,291 strollers that carried children who should have been walking. Let me just say this: If you have a child who is over the age of four and that child is perfectly capable of walking, please don’t rent a stroller. Your eight year old may be tired and cranky, but that doesn’t mean she needs wheels. There are other kids (and adults, for that matter) who need the stroller/wheelchair space. Don’t take up more room than you need. Someone please change the subject because I could go on and on about this and I’m starting to not like myself.)

On Friday evening we went to the new hotel, and it was a place where no one had to share a bed unless they wanted to.

Saturday was for Universal Studios, and Hogwarts was breathtaking.

My only recommendation? Buy ONE butterbeer. There is a good chance that the thought of butterbeer is much better than the actual butterbeer. And maybe you’re the only person in your party who really likes the butterbeer so you end up drinking most of the butterbeer because you don’t want to waste money and then you end up feeling really sick. Like, so sick that you are unable to go on rides because the thought of vomiting in public terrifies you. I’m 43. I know.

On Sunday, we went to an outlet mall and purchased absolutely nothing and then we went back to the hotel where Jeff and the girls swam and I watched the end of one of the Twilight movies and worked on a cardigan. That evening we went to Downtown Disney and ate at the Rainforest Cafe. Also, I made out with a statue.

Here’s the thing. If you give me a statue, there’s a good chance that I’ll make out with it. It’s hashtag how I do.

On Monday we checked out of the hotel and drove to Cocoa Beach to spend some time with the Atlantic Ocean.

At 6:40 we jumped on a plane and flew back home. After we went to bed, it began to snow. School was canceled. I cleaned out a cabinet and a closet, made fake steak veggie burritos, and set up an appointment with a new dentist.

(Edited to add: Thanks to Beth’s curiosity, I did some research and I now know that the statue with whom I was making out is a statue of Patrick Kavanagh, a colorful Irish poet who died of bronchitis in 1967. The statue is outside of Raglan Road, an Irish pub named after one of Kavanagh’s poems. Thanks, Beth!) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Everything on this week’s calendar would make you yawn: Piano at 6:00. PTO meeting (not going). Check-in at 4:20. NH after 4:30. Note for girls. No school. PAC (can’t go). Kitty litter. Pup treats. Parking. 6:00 Oz?

It looks like Jeff is out of town for a few days, which means I’m not going to cook anything that can’t be flipped directly from the freezer into the oven. Similarly, because a week without the possibility of Jeff coming home is a struggle, I tend to reward myself for every tiny accomplishment. Laundry finished? Pedicure! Sink cleared and cleaned? Molasses puff!

Everyone who knows me on more than one platform knows that I finished my striped scarf. I’m wearing it today for the first time, and it shows off my gullet quite well.

(I just used the internet to see if gullet is gullet or gullett, and one site describes the gullet as an invagination. I’m almost looking forward to the next time I get all red-faced and impossible while choking on popcorn just so I can boast of an invagination abomination.)

Speaking of corn (because we WERE), this morning after the pedicure (I really wasn’t kidding about the pedicure. Also, please know that I’m speaking of edible corn and dear Lord let’s not talk about how some people want to talk about feet and corn in the same sentence. Wait. I’ll be right back. I need to go shake my head and vomit.) the woman who had touched my feet (I know. I don’t want to talk about it.) asked if I wanted a manicure. When I told her that I’ll wait until the spring (this is a common “putting it off” statement for me), she got up, walked over to her station, and started eating corn on the cob. This is not the first time I’ve seen the employees at this particular place snacking on corn on the cob. I can’t even imagine how I would have to reward myself after touching someone’s feet, but I’m assuming it would take a lot more than corn on the cob. (Please know that I’m a good tipper at the nail salon. Please also know that if we had a cleaning lady, I would clean my house before she came over. I do the same dance before a pedicure.) Can we change the subject?

On the day that Jeff left for his business trip, Meredith asked me to wedge an apple for her. When she was full but still had a wedge left, she asked if she should throw it away. I told her to put it in the microwave and I would find it later and eat it like a nice apple surprise. I just now reached into the microwave to warm up some coffee (invagination caffeination!) and I found one of her wedges from this morning. Such a nice apple surprise. Suddenly, I want to pick the girls up from school and take them to Disney World. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Do you remember a few years back when I posted that photo and then I said something like, “Ha ha ha! Dogs and their owners really DO start favoring one another!!! HA HA HA!!!” What I didn’t realize is that I was tossing all kinds of foreshadowing your way.

This morning we took Scout back to the vet for her corneal ulcer. (After receiving nearly a foot of snow on Sunday, today was the first day we could leave the house.) Anyway, the ulcer isn’t getting any worse, but it’s also not getting any better. This means the next step was to draw blood, spin it in a centrifuge, and then create a serum out of platelet-rich plasma for us to drop into her eye four times each day.

(She’s a happy girl despite the fact that she has EYE PAIN. With that said, she’s smart enough to know that eye pain equals cheesy scrambled eggs for breakfast. Lemons into lemonade and how can you NOT make cheesy eggs for that face and so forth.)

We left the house at 8:45 and returned home at around noon and I won’t even tell you the story about how I should have been happy that the plow came by but it was impossible to be happy because the plow left a 35-foot mountain of snow in front of our driveway and I’m already scared of driving in the snow because of an accident I saw when I was 20 (trailer came unhitched from the car in front of me on an icy bridge and I had to swerve to not be hit by it and it scared the crap out of me (mostly figuratively) and the PTSD is always poking me when I have to deal with snow on the roads) and I tried to “jump” the mountain (I’m exaggerating on the height of the mountain, by the way) and my car got stuck less than two feet up the driveway so I sent Scout and the girls inside and I proceeded to shovel and shovel with snot running out of my face and bad words streaming out of my mouth (F word! S word! Such a classy shoveler!) and shortly after I shoveled myself loose and maneuvered the car into the garage ANOTHER PLOW CAME BY AND LEFT ANOTHER MOUNTAIN and I said I wasn’t going to tell you this story!

Let’s take a break and focus on the breathing.

Okay. So, I came inside and decided to clean the syringe that we’ll be using to extract Scout’s plasma out of the vial to drop into her eyes. (The vet tech showed me how to work the syringe when she applied Scout’s first drop.) Anyway, because I work on medical textbooks in my spare time, I tend to suffer from grandiose delusions when it comes to performing medical tasks. I know the vet tech told me to be careful when removing the needle from the syringe. I know she told me to squeeze the cap to create a suction that will keep the needle protected. I KNOW. I still grabbed the thing completely incorrectly and the cap jerked off and I stuck myself with the needle that was coated in Scout’s plasma.

Yes. That’s what I said. I stuck myself with a dirty needle.

According to the veterinarian, this happens all the time, and I don’t need to be worried unless I start feeling weird.

“Don’t worry unless you start feeling weird.”

And then I suppose it’s time to worry.

Scout and I are blood sisters.

(I just ran outside and sniffed a tree.)

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