Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Update

So much excitement in the last few weeks, including, but not limited to all four kids and Jon coming down with the flu. The highlight of this episode was Drama Queen throwing up over the edge of the top bunk of her bed, soaking with vomit the AP History application that has been causing us so much grief. Isn't that a beautiful symmetry? She also liberally splashed Miss G's sheets and vocabulary book and probably Miss G herself who was in bed at the time. Several other textbooks scattered on the floor near the bed probably wear invisible puke splashes but surely our school district has a "don't ask don't tell" policy about that sort of thing. Mr. McP, another top bunk denizen, also threw up in his bed. There is a lesson here, surely. But I don't want to be one of those moms who has nothing better to blog about than her children's vomit.

Things got less amusing when Drama Queen developed pneumonia. That was not a fun day, particularly getting her prescriptions filled. I had to wait in the sort of line that extends so far down the laxative aisle that you can't even see the pharmacy counter and you spend your time worrying that you're not even in the pharmacy line at all but are just milling around with a bunch of people who have rectal issues. Eventually, however, it was my turn. The clerk went to look for my prescriptions. They had been faxed in three hours previously. Of course they weren't there. Why should I expect a pharmacy with a stupid motto like "for all the ways you care" to be able to fill two simple scripts within three hours? The clerk began thumbing through a bible-sized stack of faxes next to the phone. She thumbed and she thumbed and she thumbed while I fumed and I fumed and I fumed and finally found mine near the bottom. Twenty minutes, she said, so I left.

Jon returned to the pharmacy twenty minutes later and when he got home, we realized that while he had paid for both scripts, they had neglected to give him one of them. At that point I felt a primal scream was appropriate.


In other news an 8th grade picture of me surfaced on facebook. It was not put there by me.

Here is the picture. I'm in the bottom row. The only girl. I had do-it-yourself bangs and braces. I suspect my barrettes matched my sweater. Apparently, fair isle sweaters were the thing that year.




Then there was the message in the cheese. I was baking pizza and one of them came out of the oven with the word "fin" spelled out in strands of burned mozzarella, thus.



"Fin" is French for "end" which my French-taking children decided meant an omen that I should not bake any more pizzas that night. But I had one more round of dough! I ignored the warning and what do you think happened? The pepperoni and cheese slid off the pizza and onto the pizza stone, forcing me to put my bare hand into a 550-degree oven in order to fix the mess, thus.



Those weird strands in the air are my hair.

The next time cheese speaks to me, I will heed it.

And finally, for those craving some bunny cuteness:





Saturday, February 07, 2009

Taking a break

I think I am going to take a brief sabbatical from the internets. School is insanely busy and there's all kinds of craziness at home now too. For example, now is the time for applications for AP classes and Drama Queen is freaking out and needs my help with her essays. Like I have time to help her formulate an essay about who had a greater influence on modern Europe: Napoleon or Marx? She's planning on AP history, AP English and AP art (because she will probably major in art in college.) She's going into her junior year. They have a different AP English and history for seniors plus she'll probably take AP calculus and maybe an AP science when she's a senior. I would say the hell with AP history and its admission essays, but Charlottesville High School has idiotically eliminated honors history from the curriculum for juniors, so if she doesn't take AP, she'd be lumped with the "advanced" group, who have in turn been mixed with the "general" group which means if she doesn't get into AP, she might as well not take history at all. I am heartily sick of the intense anxiety that comes of trying to help your child's chances of getting into a good college.

My first real clinicals are this week and I am freaking out with nervousness about it. I need to do a lot more preparation because I have never before taken care of sick children or women in labor/post-partum. The drugs are different, the assessments are different, I may have to do procedures I haven't tried since skills lab a year ago.

Dear readers, take care and I will start writing again in a few weeks when my life is back in control.

Sunday, February 01, 2009

Flight

Today I spent more on a single purchase than I ever have before in my entire life. Except for the day we closed on our house. I bought our tickets to Rome. Six tickets to Rome, to be exact.

Our trip to Rome is going ahead. I've already rented an apartment, a lovely, centrally located apartment, and not the ugly slipcover apartment. Now, with the tickets purchased, this trip is pretty much a fait accompli.

I've been looking at tickets since before Christmas. I don't like to fly, so I don't do it very often. In fact, I'm embarrassed to confess that I haven't been on a plane since before 2001. That was when my uncle died suddenly and I insisted I could drive to the funeral and Jon had to all but kidnap me and force me onto a plane. I recall him dialing the airline to buy my ticket while I sat in a chair and cried.

So anyway, in choosing flights, I'd been checking the safety records of the airlines I was considering. There was a Swissair flight I was attracted to, because the Swiss seem to be an efficient and reliable and safe sort of people (I know, Swissair Flight 111. Shut up.), but that flight turned out not to work for us.

In the end, I decided that what I really want is an airline that distributes Ativan with the drinks. Is that unreasonable? Then I had a better idea. You know the oxygen masks? What if they delivered nitrous oxide instead of oxygen? Wouldn't that be fun? Because if you're going to die in a fiery crash, shouldn't you have the option of anesthetizing yourself? I think I deserve a prize for that idea.

Here is what I ask of you, dear readers. Fearful fliers: How do you cope? Confident fliers: Why are you so confident?