Grab a chair and a couple of root beers...

I have discovered yet another of the consequences of my "lost summer."

I spent a good twenty minutes hauling multiple plastic containers out of my fridge and seriously grossing out over their contents before tossing them into the garbage. YUCK!!! Several of them seemed to have burgeoning populations of possible intelligence, because I swear some of them waved at me just before I chucked them in the trash. And I'm not even sure what half of the food was (I'm not sure I want to know, to tell you the truth!), because most of it was unlabeled, though I was rather horrified to discover a few that did have names and dates written across the top, by me back in June!.

*shudders*

Poor THO, trying so hard to keep up with everything while I was incapacitated. Though even when I'm my usual bouncy self, he doesn't label the leftovers before they go into the fridge. And he teases me about my habit of doing that, though he refuses to eat anything in a container that isn't labeled. Which might explain the amount of containers with nasty science experiments in my fridge!

See, a couple of years ago, I got tired of pulling out plastic containers of food in the fridge and having to go to THO and say, "What is this? How old is this? I mean, when did it go in the fridge/we last have this, etc, etc." And I also got tired of say, heating up a container of what I thought was spaghetti sauce for lunch, dumping it over freshly cooked noodles, and then discovering that it was Slow Jalopy (Sloppy Joe) sauce. Not bad, but a pretty nasty shock when you're expecting spaghetti sauce!

I had discovered by accident (because of the kids) that dry erase marker on plastic containers rubs off easily. So, I started keeping a dry erase marker in the cabinet, and every time I put away leftovers from dinner (or lunch), I slap the top on, then write something like, "Slow Jalopy, 08-25-09" on it, then pop it in the fridge. No more mystery, no more sniffing dubious contents and trying to guess what it is and if it's still edible.

The few tummy troubles we've ever had greatly decreased after I started doing that!

And though THO teases me about it mercilessly sometimes, saying I'm being all anal about it, or very obsessive compulsive... he refuses to eat anything that isn't labeled. *rolls eyes* This drives me nuts, as he refuses to label anything!!

In other news, I saw the doctor yesterday for my face to face. The node in my lung? Turns out it's on the right side, not the left. It might be scarring from the bouts of pneumonia I've gone through over the last three years, but they're not sure. What bothered my doctor, and she showed me the lab sheet, was that the radiologist who read the CT recommended I get another scan... in one to two years!! She said she wasn't comfortable with that, and wanted me to go in six months. The nodule is only half a centimeter now. If it's still half a centimeter in six months, very likely it's scar tissue. If not, well, we'll deal with that when it comes.

However, when I asked the results of the rest of my lab work, she blinked and went through my file, then said, "What lab work?" Then, before I could say anything, she went back to the day she'd ordered the CT scan and frowned. "Wait... where's the paperwork for your bloodwork?"

She had to hunt down the flaky nurse who had called me and make her look for it, then came back muttering under her breath about "three strikes being fucking over," and "that's it, no more," before she sat down and started looking it over. And then she boggled and said, "When did you last see the endocrinologist?"

"May," I said.

So she went to look at his report, and her boggle got bigger, and she frowned, and said, "Your TSH(thyroid stimulating hormone) was at 3.0 in May, which was a little high, but you were doing so well that he decided to keep it there. However, two weeks ago, your TSH dropped. Dramatically." And she pointed at it.

And I boggled. Because it said, "0.1."

What does that mean? It means... too much thyroid hormone, meaning something wonky is going on with my thyroid... again.

So, she decreased the dosage of my medication, and I am going to call the endocrinologist to get in A.S.A.P. to see what needs to be done.

Because I'm telling you, I am so friggin' tired of this. I mean, Tuesday, I went grocery shopping, and it was a big shop because, well, I've been sick and unable to do it all summer, right? So, I was basically playing catch-up, and went fully intending to do my usual lightning fast grocery shop. I had my list, I know where everything is in the store, no kids with me to slow me down, it's very much veni, vidi, vici, grocery-style!

But Tuesday... not so much. Tuesday, what usually takes me an hour and a half, tops, took me... nearly three hours. I barely had enough time when I was done to run home, throw all the cold stuff in the fridge, and race to pick up the kids. As it was, I was ten minutes late to pick up the Impossible Son, which upset him greatly. Not because he didn't think I was coming, because he knows I will always come get him, but because I hadn't called the school to send him a message about it. Which I always do if I am running late for any reason.

At least I had him and Miss Priss to help me put the rest of the groceries away after!

The irony in all this is that the Asthma Monster has been abnormally quiet since the near pneumonia in June, knock on wood, and on that front... I'm doing great! And my heart's been behaving well, too, which is... unusual, but hey, I'll roll with it! Now if we can just get the rest of me to cooperate, things will be just peachy!!

My last post yesterday was cryptic, I know, and I do apologize. It's just... I was rather thrown and, well, stumped.

I sort of needed a little time to ponder it and ... process it a bit, and I also needed a chance to talk with the Blonde Sister and sort of get her take on it.

Okay, so, y'all know I've been having health problems this summer. And I've been having tests up the wazoo, right? So, I had to have a CT run on Friday, which was why I was complaining about drinking barium (vile, nasty stuff, DO NOT WANT!!!).

Along with the persistent low grade fever I've been running all summer, and the fatigue, I've had this... discomfort... in my left side, right under my ribs. The doc thought it might be costochondritis, which is really just fancy talk for an inflammation of the cartilage in the ribs, usually from coughing (which I do because of my asthma). Thing is, I usually get costochondritis in my chest, or around my shoulder blades. A little Motrin and heat usually takes care of it pretty quick, and Auntie is comfortable again.

This is different. So, after some painful poking around on my left side (I swear, I thought she was shoving her hands up under my ribs, or a bayonet, perhaps), the doctor decided to send me for a CT scan. That was on Friday.

So, yesterday, after the doctor's office had closed, the nurse who usually has the job of calling everybody to let them know their test results called ME. Now, I always take her calls with a grain of salt, and I urge you guys to do the same. She says that all my tests came back normal, just fine, and the CT scan was normal and everything was peachy-keen and hunky-dory (my words, but it basically came out to the same) except... I have a nodule in the bottom of my left lung. Where I'm having the discomfort. But, it's not anything to worry about and the doctor will be sending me for another CT scan in six months to see if there are any changes. Nice talking to you, Auntie, bye now! Click.

Is it any wonder I was rather... well... gobsmacked yesterday?

I'm going to wait until 10 a.m., when the morning rush of calls has tapered off, and I'm going to call in and request that the doctor call me back to discuss my test results. In this case, I think I would rather get my news straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak, so I know which way to jump. You know, either sigh with relief and shake my head over the flaky nurse, or go ahead and get my panic attack over NOW so I can move on and get down to business.

I'm a little tired of being couch potato Auntie and would like to get back to being bouncy Auntie again, you know? This being sick thing sucks. Seriously.

So, I'm sitting here, working on a story, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice movement in the backyard. So I duck my head down to look under the edge of the blinds and... there's a dog.

It's not unusual to see a dog wandering around in our backyard. There's a hole in the back gate that, despite my best attempts to block it, somehow is always open (I suspect our children in this matter), and thus, must be irresistibly tempting to the canine species.

There's a Jack Russell who comes into our backyard regularly, trots around to sniff things out, then departs without so much as a flick of an eye at me if I come out to address him. There's an Aussie Shepherd from down the street that comes in at least once a month, but she's very shy of me, and will flee if I look like I'm coming out the back door. A chihuahua comes strutting in, takes a quick tour around the yard and struts back out every now and then. And a large, hairy, brown mixed breed makes occasional visits, as well as a small rag mop type dog.

This morning, it was a beagle, and I watched it for a few seconds, then went back to my writing, figuring that it, like all the other dogs, would find its way back out.

A little while later, I look out and... the beagle is romping happily through the remains of our drought and sun raddled garden, before heading toward the garden shed which I see with alarm is open. So, I got up, threw on some jeans and went out, because I figured Mr. Beagle had forgotten the way out.

I noticed something a little odd about Mr. Beagle, but it wasn't until he turned his right side toward me and I blinked. He only had three legs. One front leg was missing.

I sat on the porch and spoke to him, and he came lolloping happily toward me. Yes, that is the exact word to describe it, "lolloping," and I just invented it and am very proud of it! So, Mr. Beagle came lolloping happily toward me, sniffed me, decided I would do, and cemented that by flopping down in my lap. After a few rather hairy and damp moments, we went to the water spigot, and he refreshed himself while I got a look at his rabies tag and discovered that his human and I share the same vet clinic. So I called and asked, "Do you have a three legged male beagle as a client?" and read the number off his collar.

"Oh, yes, we do!" the receptionist said, laughing. "Oh, my, is he with you now?"

"Yes," I said while he drooled on my foot. "He's very tired and sort of flopped down on my porch."

"You're the fourth person this week to call about him! I'll just let his owner know and have him call you, if that's all right?"

Of course, it was all right, and do you know, the owner just lived about six blocks down from us? I was a little surprised when one a member of our fire and rescue crew drove up, but it was his beagle, and he called Mr. Beagle his three legged miracle, promised to tell me the story another time because he had to go back to the station.

No, he didn't skip off duty to come get his dog. Apparently, everyone at the station insisted he go get Mr. Beagle and bring him by, because they hadn't seen him in a while!!

We exchanged numbers, because we figured Mr. Beagle was probably going to be making a lot of "visits" here.

Three legged beagles... don't think I'll be surprised by anything that shows up in my backyard anymore!

An addendum at the end of softly_sweetly's post this morning made me laugh somewhat ruefully and think of something that is an everyday irritation around here.

Whenever I need a pen... I have no problem finding one. Seriously, there are pens and pencils all over the place here. What I have a problem with is finding one that works!

The bottom shelf of one of our kitchen cabinets has several jars filled with pencils and pens. Whenever I'm presented with a permission slip, or some form or other that needs to be signed, I open the cabinet and begin the process of finding some sort of writing implement that works or isn't broken. I kid you not, there have been times I have ended up signing a health form in crayon.

That's not even including the two drawers with pens and pencils, and the majority of those pens don't work, and the pencils are all broken. And yes, I have tried to throw the non-working pens out, but I have to be very sneaky about it. If I do it where the Husbandly One can see it, he immediately grabs it, frowns at it, scribbles on some paper with it, and throws it back in the drawer with a "I can get it to work, I just need a few minutes with it. I'll work on it later." And I'll go back a few days later to grab that same pen and it still doesn't work!!

Meaning I have to toss them when he isn't home.

One of these days, I'm going to get a wild hair and sharpen all the damn pencils, too. I mean, it's sad to want to sketch something, or write something down... and all the pencils have broken leads!! And even the mechanical pencils are... empty!!

Happens most often when I'm on the phone. If someone calls me, say from the soccer board, I have to write whatever they are telling me down or... I'll forget it. See, if I hear something, I tend to forget it, but if I read it, I'll remember it because... I remember everything I read.

Sad, isn't it?

So there I am, with plenty of paper, mind you, scrambling for a pen, pencil, anything to write down what I'm hearing, asking the caller to please wait a minute while I find something to write with because... nothing works. I have actually had to resort to carrying a little zippered pouch in my purse of working pens and pencils. And believe me, I guard my little pouch with a ferocity usually attributed to mother wolves protecting their cubs. I know the pens and pencils in my pouch work, and I am not parting with any of them, so get your dirty mitts OFF!!

Sad, sad, sad.

Of course, I have sharpened all the pencils before. Want to know what happened? I went back ten minutes later to grab a pencil, confident that I would find a fully sharpened, unbroken pencil lead... and pulled out a broken one. Why? Because my daughter had come in, taken all the sharpened pencils, and replaced them with all the broken ones that were in her room.

Then she wondered why I was sitting at the table with a handful of broken pencils, chin quivering and tears running down my face!!

Hmmmm... maybe today I'll go through all the pens and winnow out all the ones that aren't working. Tomorrow is trash day. If I bag 'em all up and toss them in the bin outside and put a few bags on top of it, THO will never know!! Unless the kids rat me out.

Guess that means I'll be baking cookies today.

Who, me? Bribe my kids??

You bet your bippy!!

*sigh* The things I do for a working pen!!

Took the kids to get their hair cut yesterday. Mr. Manzie's was so thick, a jungle expedition could get lost in there, and it was getting wild, cowlicks standing up everywhere, hair going where it wanted, especially in the back. Grandma's Crazy Cajun Hair gene had definitely struck again! In fact, I warned Sherri, our regular hair whacker, to be sure to comb through it before she used the buzz clippers on him, as it was sure to get hung up otherwise.

"Oh, it'll be fine!" she said with a grin. "His hair is so fine, it shouldn't tangle much."

*snort* Yeah. Right.

Five minutes later, she was combing through it. "I've never seen fine hair that was short tangle like that before!"

"You've been spoiled by my thinning hair," I said cheerfully. "Because mine used to be exactly like the Impossible Son's."

He wanted it short on the sides and spiky on top, and has asked me if he can get it high-lighted blue next time. *laughs* Of course, I said yes!

And, of course, I have pictures...

( Clicky and see! )
In other news, I finished my weasley_fest fic, had it betaed and sent in. Oh, what a relief to have that out of the way! Boy, that was a hard one to write, just because I kept approaching it from the wrong angle!! That and the constant interruptions! We'll probably have a discussion about giving Mama time to write (or she go explodey!) this weekend.

And the Husbandly One and I have come to the realization that we are going to have to rig a canopy for our vegetable garden. Some of our plants, like the pumpkins, just can't take the sun. Ten years ago, I had no trouble growing pumpkins in full sun during a drought, but now? They're wilting, even though they are getting watered regularly. We're not the only ones, either. There are a lot of folks out here who are rigging shade for their gardens, because they're burning up otherwise.

Last year, the corn and milo in the fields around town didn't burn up until July. They started turning to straw last week, and the corn hasn't even shown ears yet. The grass in our front and back yard is already gone, and only the gardens are showing any greenery, because that's where we put our water. Makes us wonder what we should put in the yard rather than grass. Well... maybe buffalo grass rather than St. Augustine, which takes insane amounts of water to keep green, and just isn't worth it.

So, all you folks who are getting too much rain are welcome to send it our way. We are dry, dry, dry!!

And now, off to the library!!

I love afternoons like this.

I'm sitting in my room and the windows and blinds are open. There's a lovely cool breeze blowing, just enough to offset the warmth of the day, which is still cool enough to be pleasant. The wind chimes on the porch are chiming softly, the cats are curled up on the foot of the bed, or drowsing on the window sills, the kids are giggling in the living room, and the music on the computer is on low, just barely loud enough to be heard. I can hear THO in the kitchen, moving around and talking to the kids...

*lolls in the laziness of it all...*

There are many imponderables in my life.

For instance, I had an armful of clean jeans, and walked into my son's bedroom to find him wrapping his doorknob with what I thought at first was masking tape, but turned out to be cloth bandaging tape.

"Um... why are you doing that?" I asked as he froze and stared up at me.

"I dunno," he said, and abruptly let go of the tape and went into the kitchen. He wasn't fleeing; he was walking with purpose. So I put his jeans away, and waited, and he came back with scissors, and carefully trimmed the long end off.

Okaaaaaaay...

And then there's this... our cats hate baths, right? But, whenever we take a shower, one or more of the cats hop in with us. Muta, especially, will sit between my feet and bat at the water drops with one paw, getting wet in the meantime. And when the Impossible Son takes a bath, Yuki and Calcifer sit on the edge, occassionaly dipping a paw in to try to catch his toys, while Muta lays on the floor next to the tub, not even twitching an ear when Mr. Manzie pours a cup of water over him. In fact, sometimes, he'll roll over onto his back so the boy can get that, too.

BUT THEY HATE TO TAKE BATHS!!!

I don't get it. I just don't get it!

When we were walking to the National Gallery last week, I watched a family ride by on bicycles, and suddenly turned to the Husbandly One and said, "You know, something just occurred to me."

"Oh, dear," he said. Yes, the man knows me all too well.

"On Gilligan's Island, you know how they'd make Gilligan ride this bicycle to charge up the radio batteries, or the lights for special occasions, etc?"

"Ye-e-s??" said THO carefully, looking somewhat worried.

"Where the heck did they get the bicycle? I mean, it was a small boat, only a 3 hour tour... where did they get the bike? Why would anyone even take a bike on a 3 hour tour... by boat???"

"Honey?" THO said, touching my arm with concern. "Do you need to eat? Getting a bit hypoglycemic?"

"And I still want to know where the hell Princess Leia got that dress she wore in the Ewok village in Return of the Jedi. I mean, she only had this small pack... where did it fit?? Really? When she was packing, did she see it and think, you know, this would be absolutely perfect to wear if I found myself in a village of knee-high teddy bear people dressed in suede."

"That's it, we're finding something for you to eat!"

And this concludes your tour into the Mind of Auntie. Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle, and keep your seatbelts on until the ride comes to a full stop. Thank you for choosing our tour, have a nice day, and come again!!

The Impossible Son is sick.  He woke the Husbandly One up Monday night, and oh, wasn't he hot?  102 degrees hot!  He wanted Mama, so the Husbandly One put him in bed with me, and I spent the rest of the night sweating and trying to sleep around a restless child.  His fever went' down, but he stayed restless, and I stayed awake.  He stayed home, and mostly curled up either on the couch or his crashpad (which is like this giant, roll-out cushion for the floor) watching TV or cuddling with the Triplikits.  

All this while I'm trying to get the house ready for a party on Saturday.  The Impertinent Daughter is turning 11 on Friday, and her party will be on Saturday.  We missed throwing a party for her last year, because we were in the middle of moving, and I think she'd have our guts for garters if we missed it again.

Anyhow, Mr. Manzie was much better today, so I thought he'd be fine for school tomorrow.  Yeah.  That's what I get for thinking.  I was making pizza for dinner, getting frustrated because I was having a rather difficult time with crust, and Himself says, "Mama, my head really hurts."

So I went in to check on him.  And oh, he was a Hot Little Tater!!  102.8 degrees of hot!!!  So, I got the Tylenol, and some water for him to drink, and sat and listened to him babble..."Mama, remember when I was in your tummy, and I jumped around all the time and my sister thought you had a kangarooinsideyouandisittrueyouusedtocallmeLittleRoo?" and on and on, ad infinitum.  It was good when the Tylenol kicked in and he slowly relaxed.  WHEW!!!  So, I'll be calling the doctor AGAIN, and probably taking him in this time.  And hoping it isn't massively contagious.

He slept in our bed again last night, and this time, he wanted Papa, so I went to sleep in Mr. Manzie's bed.  And I discovered two things.  One, our son is a very heavy sleeper.  Why do I say this?  Because the second thing I discovered is... he has a very noisy room!  I went in there and got into his comfy little bed, and thought, aaaahhhh, I can SLEEP now.

Ha!

Right!

First, the air conditioner came on.  The unit is just outside his room, and it's LOUD.  Okay, I adjusted to that.  However, that's when I noticed that odd... noise.  We've all heard it before for quite some time now.  This odd little purring rattle type noise that we thought was his clock radio.  It goes off every five minutes, on the dot.  I was exhausted and sleep-deprived already, and this just... I could not sleep.  Every time I started to drop off...whrrrrr... I'd wake up, frown, turn over, start to drop off and ...whrrrrr... I'd grab the pillow, pull it over my head, stuffing covers in my ears, think, "ah, at last!" and...whrrrrr....

It was maddening!  

And then... there were the birds.  Some sort of night bird that twittered and chirped ALL FRIGGIN' NIGHT!!!  A whole BUNCH of them, squawking, twittering, chirping, and just generally carrying on little bird conversations at the top of their tiny lungs.  I think I finally passed out from exhaustion around 4, only to be awakened by the Husbandly One at 6, because that's when I get up and start Mom Duty.

Maybe tonight, I should get a sleeping bag and go SLEEP IN THE CAR!!!

Anyhow, today, I was cleaning the Impossible Son's bedroom, and I finally found out what the whrrrrr noise was.  I was on the floor on my hands and knees, reaching under the bed, when the noise went off literally under my ear and I nearly launched into the ceiling!  I scrabbled back frantically, because that close, it sounded just like a rattlesnake!  And no, Auntie does not want to be near a rattlesnake, no, no, no!!!

It wasn't a rattlesnake.  It was a toy truck.  A radio control truck that was turned OFF, and the remote has long since gone the way of the dinosaur, disappearing into the mists of time.  The battery is obviously very low, and while it can activate, it can't get enough juice to roll the tires, so it just... purrs.  DEEE-STUR-BING!!!

Mr. Truck has gone to live in the laundry room, where he can freak out the cats.  They're USED to being freaked out.

Some days, I wonder why I even bother to watch TV.