Monthly Archive for October, 2012
YAY! I’m basically completely recovered from yesterday. Junior’s doing just fine too. YAY!
No Halloween costume for Junior this year now that he’s almost a big 16 year old. Plus, he’s oblivious to being dressed up for Halloween anyway, so I figured, why waste the energy.
But Mini Mock and Mockdog dressed up:
And I HANDCRAFTED this t-shirt to wear to work today:
I WAS THE INTERNET for Halloween.
The handcrafting thing was a big deal, because you know how NOT domestic I am, and this required IRONING. I am kind of in a perpetual state of amazement that I even own an iron, frankly. So this was a big deal.
But wait. It gets even better. When I got to work, we were having a Halloween pitch-in, and I was asked to help out, which I was glad to do, but then I was put on pancake making duty – the part where you have to scoop pancake goo and put it on a griddle and then turn them over at the right time and then know when they’re done. I was absolutely mortified, because I have never made pancakes in my entire life. So one of the nice ladies I work with showed me what to do, and you guys, I MADE A CRAPLOAD OF PANCAKES. And they were good and everything!
My co-workers seemed to be both puzzled and amused that I had such pride about this. But it was a BIG DEAL for me to be that domestic.
I can’t wait for Mr. Mock to read this, because I guarantee you when he does, he will look at me and say, “You made pancakes? I don’t even know you anymore.”
Anyway, now I’m home with trick or treat door opening duty, and Mr. Mock and Mini Mock and MockDog are out trick or treating in Bunny’s neighborhood. And you know what? It’s been a perfectly normal, nice, not sucky day today.
So, Junior Mock had to have another surgery today, to get the stent removed that was placed a couple weeks ago, and have another kidney stone removed, and have his stitches from the last surgery taken out.
I cannot express to you how utterly annoyed I am that it’s hospital policy that we have to arrive 2 hours before surgery, and for some reason in our case, 2.5 hours, but that’s what we were told. We were told to show up at 11am for surgery at 1.30pm. ANNOYING.
So at 10.15 this morning, the doc’s office calls and says, “Hey! We’re running ahead of schedule – so if you could come at 10.45 that would be great.” So I’m thinking YAY about them running ahead of schedule, and yes we’d be delighted to come 15 minutes earlier than planned.
So I get Junior loaded into the wheelchair van, and when we get there, we find absolutely NO parking spots. NONE. I drove around forever, and ended up having to park in two faraway spots because there were no handicapped spots available. And the two spots I parked in were forever far away from the entrance, and it was pelting freezing cold windy rain at us as I pushed him from the van to the doors, and there is nothing that pisses me off more than freezing cold windy pelty rain. HATE.
So we check in, get taken back to a
holding cell patient room, and begin the waiting process. The nurse came to tend to us pretty quickly, and just as quickly informed us that all of the operating rooms were running behind schedule. So I said, “But the doc’s office just called us and said they’re running AHEAD of schedule.” And she informs me that the DOCTOR is ahead of schedule, but because the ROOMS are not, then surgery is postponed until at least 2pm.
So I growl at her with my meanest tiger growl, and say, “Can you please explain to me why in the holy hell we are always told to show up here a bazillion hours in advance of when anything actually is DONE?” And she went to get her supervisor, probably on account of the growling, and her supervisor comes and is super nice and understanding, and informs me that in the future, I should just ignore the rules and come only ONE hour in advance, but not to tell anyone she told me that. Which is great, but doesn’t help TODAY.
Finally, they come and fetch him at 2.30ish. By this time, I’m sure he’s starving, because he hasn’t been fed since 6pm the night before, and I am positively FAMISHED, because we’ve been stuck in a waiting room since 10.45am. But because I’m alone at the hospital, I don’t really feel like I can leave to go to the cafeteria, so I just sit there while my stomach starts looking hungrily at nearby internal organs.
Surgery happens. The doc comes to tell me that it all went fine, except that they put ANOTHER STENT IN, on account of all the swelling they caused getting the stone out. So now there is a string hanging out of his weewee until next week, when they take THIS stent out. Sigh.
Still, Junior seemed completely delighted as always, and after a couple hours in recovery, they tell us we can go. It’s now around 5pm. The nurse stays with him as I go to fetch the van, and says she’ll meet me at the drive-up entrance. I go get the van and get pelted with more freezing cold rain. I pull up. I get out to get him loaded. She informs me I have a flat tire.
I call Mr. Mock, and the nurse calls security. Security comes to put air in the tire. Mr. Mock comes to drive the van and let me drive his car so that I’m not all freaked out about driving a van with a wonky tire. It takes us an hour to get home because people have no idea how to drive in freezing pelty rain.
I have never needed wine more than I needed it this evening.
Anyway, this day sucked. And now I’m going to bed. In the meantime, I would like to inform you that race walking is every bit as ridiculous as curling and sychronized swimming.
Daisy has been promising and promising and promising that she’s going to get goats, and she still doesn’t have any.
I find this completely unacceptable, especially considering that she told me if I brought a hairbrush and hairspray with me to the state dinner tonight since she was already on her way, she would buy me a pony. So I brought a brush and hairspray, and THERE WAS NO PONY.
No pony. No goats.
I am one of those people who absolutely LOATHES thunderstorms, so this whole Hurricane Sandy thing has me pretty freaked out. Mr. Mock is that guy who wants to be out on the deck watching lightning strikes and who thinks thunderstorms are awesome. I do not get this. They are NOT awesome. They are destructive jerks.
Far away rumbly storms are acceptable, but only if they are not coming closer to me. And soft pittery pattery rain showers are fine. But there is NOTHING, not a SINGLE REDEEMING THING, about real thunderstorms. All they do is flood things, and hail on things, and blow things around, and make power go away. I HATE THEM.
So, if you’re in Sandy’s way right now, just know that I really feel for you. But the horse dude thinks we’re all overreacting.
I love this.
It reminds me of how everything seems kinda bigger and more awesome when you’re a kid. Case in point. I remember being a kid and thinking going to Long John Silver’s to eat supper was like the BEST TREAT EVER, and I vividly remember how much I loved the crunchy fried batter, and hush puppies, and getting the paper pirate hat to wear as part of the kids’ meal.
Before Mr. Mock and I were married, but were living in sin about 13 years ago, there was a day when inexplicably, we both had a huge craving for Long John Silver’s. And it had been YEARS since either of us had eaten it, but it was one of those cravings that you could simply not deny, so Mr. Mock went to fetch LJS take-out, and we ate ourselves silly.
It was seriously only like 20 minutes later that we both felt a raging hatred for Long John Silver’s. We could literally see beads of oil surfacing on our skin – that is how greasy and disgusting the food is. And we REEKED. We just felt completely gross, and vowed to never eat there ever ever again.
Fast forward to this weekend. Grandma Mock informs us that she has coupons for Long John Silver’s, and since Mini Mock has a huge thing for pirates right now, and had never been there, she insists we should take him after going to the movies to see Frankenweenie this afternoon. All of a sudden, I get nostalgic for Long John Silver’s, recalling how much I loved it as a kid, and thinking it’d cruel to deny Mini Mock that experience of wearing the paper pirate hat and tasting crunchy fried batter and hush puppies. So I convince Mr. Mock we should go, and convince myself that it won’t be horrible the way it was 13 years ago.
To make a long story short, I was horribly woefully mistaken. When we went in, the floor was sticky, and the place smelled like oily greasy ooze. There is just no better way to describe the smell. We ordered up a kid’s meal, and an order of hush puppies, because that was all we could get ourselves to even THINK about eating there. Mini Mock didn’t like hush puppies, he didn’t like the crunchy fried batter, and he didn’t get a pirate hat.
We left after only about 20 minutes or so, but STILL smell the ooze on our clothes even 3 hours later.
NEVER EVER AGAIN will I let kid nostalgia rule over adult experience.
I know. You’re probably all, “WHY did you start letting her sleep in your bed?” And the answer is that I am POWERLESS against her sad brown eyes looking at me when I ask her to go into her den at night. She looks at me as if to say, “You mean it? You’re going to make me go into that cage thing while you are all snuggled in your warm fleece sheets?” And I’m FINISHED.
So yeah – she sleeps with us most nights now. At first, it was fine, because she’d settle in about mid way down the center of the bed, in between us, and we all had our own space and were all quite comfortable.
But lately, she’s insisting that she be higher up in the bed, near our pillows. That was ok, until the last couple of nights, when she has basically taken OVER my pillow, leaving me with just the edge of it, and waaaaaay too much distance between me and Mr. Mock.
Yesterday I got up from my teeny tiny fraction of the bed that Mockdog has left to me, and went to shower. When I came out, this is what I saw:
This is what our bed has become. It has become Mockdog’s bed, which she generously allows us to share small pieces of when it suits her.
An alert and astute mockdocker sent me a photograph which I completely dismissed as made up and fake, until curiosity got the better of me and I googled it.
“Googled what?” you might be thinking right now.
I googled, “Breast Milk Pendant,” you guys. And I got A LOT OF HITS. Including a link to one on etsy, which has SOLD.
I get being proud of being able to squeeze life-giving juice out of your own body. That is super cool. But the reason this chick makes boob juice pendants is as follows:
“Breastfeeding has changed my life, expanded my mind, and connected me to my boys in ways I could have never imagined. I am so very passionate about my children and amazed that my milk has helped them grow so beautifully. What an extraordinary power to MAKE MILK, and I woud do anything to preserve that forever. These beautiful pendants do just that, and last as a visual keepsake that you can pass to your children as they become parents. To see that precious milk bead preserved forever… it’s beautiful to me and I hope you agree.”
I’m sorry, but that is WACK.
An alert and astute mockdocker sent me this awesome video of a bluegrass band giving a concert, where at about the 1.30 minute mark, a random bird flies right onto the lead singer’s guitar. You have to watch to see what happens next. I’m not a huge bird fan, but this is AWESOME.