I Tremble, They're Gonna Eat Me Alive

Yesterday I had the opportunity to go to a friend's house and check out her garden. Actually, it's not just her garden - she and a mutual friend tend to it. It's humongous.

And when I say "garden" I mean garden, as in nearly enough to feed two families -- which consist of 11 people total.


I'm totally stealing her tomato staking ideas.


Or, at least, I'm gonna make Aaron do it. After all, he is in charge of the veggies.







She also has teenagers, lot of 'em. Like, over two million. Or five. You pick. This one was exhausted from making gluten-free banana bread and a gluten-free blueberry cake.

Which? I can say? YUM.

After the garden tour, my friend's oldest (he's 14) decided to "entertain" us which was really horrible jokes and stories of his antics, like getting kicked out of his girlfriend's house and trying to insinuate I am old enough to have been in Grease (am NOT, by the way) and jumping on the back of my van and holding on while I drove around his neighborhood. Little does he know, I'm moving from teaching the three and four year-olds at "church" (which, by the way, all my friends now call their own churches church-with-out-quotation-marks, as well they should with all their Jesus love) to teaching his class of 12 to 14 year-olds.

And let the torture begin.

Hey, They Say That a Stitch in Time Saves Nine

"So, guess what I did today."

"What?"

"Dude, guess."

"I don't know. What?"

"I cleaned up downtown."

"You cleaned up downtown?"

"Yes."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. Because I have my annual vajayjay on Thursday."

"Wait a minute.. you cleaned up for your doctor?"

"Duh. I can't be going in there with her thinkin' I'm majoring in Forestry or something."

::blink::

"What?"

"It's just... but it's for me too, right?"

"NO. Not for you."

"Stupid OB, stealing all my thunder."

And You Get in Your Car and You Drive Real Far

Griffin started back at school, this week. Second grade. Have mercy.


He went two half days, which were more like let's fuck up your days, parents, because the public school system isn't asshole enough. So two half days were enough for Griffin to beg to drop out and go to blacksmithing school.

I had to point out that they probably won't teach String Theory.

Griffin said second grade wouldn't either.

I was SERVED by a seven year old.

Darwin went to Kindergarten Orientation.


"Kindergarten Orientation" is code for parents to fill out paperwork and kids to play with Legos. That gave him a stupendous false sense of reality. "Kindergarten is awesome! I get to play with Legos ALL THE TIME!"

On his first day of school, he was a wee bit shy until her met this little lady five minutes after arriving.


"I'm the Mack Daddy and the Daddy Mack."

I am, and will continue to be, SO ROYALLY FUCKED in regards to these boys and their charms.

So now both boys are in school all day. All day. ALL DAY. This means seven hours a day of pure, unadulterated FREEDOM for me. FOR SEVEN HOURS A DAY, FIVE DAYS A WEEK.

Obviously, you may not get it, but this means I can have a phone conversation uninterrupted, I can go to the bathroom and not have an audience, I can buy groceries without whining, CAN YOU HEAR THE ANGELS SING?!

It Seems I Don't Get Time Out Anymore

"Darwin? What are you doing?"


"I'm shielding Griffin's eyes from the sun. It's called TEAMWORK, Mom. GET THAT BATTLE DROID, GRIFF!"

You're Bangin' Your Head Again

"So do you think you managed to wash all the poison oak off?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'm much less itchy."

"Okay, good."

"Uh-oh..."

"Uh-oh?"

"Um... where I got into the oak I'm shiny..."

"Shiny?"

"Yeah, shiny."

"Um... did you get something like sap on you?"

"I don't know..."

"Is it sticky?"

"No, it's like stripper glitter and it's all over."

"Stripper glitter?"

"Does poison oak look like stripper glitter?"

"I don't think so... um, which soap did you use?"

"OHMYGOD I'M COVERED IN STRIPPER GLITTER! The poison oak is everywhere!"

"Aaron, WHAT SOAP did you use? Did you use the new soap? Or the regular soap?"

"...STRIPPER GLITTER..."

"WHAT SOAP DID YOU USE?"

"That doesn't matter, ohmygod, this is gonna be painful!"

"AARON. WHAT. SOAP. DID. YOU. USE?"

"Huh? Why?"

"My new soap makes you sparkle. Did you use that?"

"Oh, the stuff with minerals? Yeah, I used that."

"Well, that's why you're covered in stripper glitter. It's not poison oak, it's my soap."

"You mean, I'm suppose to sparkle?"

"Well, I don't sparkle when I use it, but you sure as hell do."

"So, it's not the poison oak? It's your soap that's got me covered in stripper glitter?"

"Yes."

"Oh, good. Whew. It's kinda pretty."

"Yes, your sparkles are very pretty."

Is Your Bed Made?

This weekend I was catching up with my feedreader and caught this great post and I thought, now there's something I can get behind.

I get it quite often, the whole "How do you do it all?" bidness of being a full-time work at home mom, kids on summer vacation, keeping on top of the house, making sure the dog doesn't piddle on the floor, husband constantly going on business trips, not rotting my kids' brains with too much Spongebob and all I got to say is I FAIL.

I FAIL A LOT.

I don't think - and I certainly don't hope - I come off as one of those people who has her shit together because I don't. I don't, I don't, I don't and I'm not about to give anyone (or my future self) some false identity of lo, life is grand and I gots my shit together.

I'm not a happy-ness blogger. I'm not a let's-linger-over-coffee-for-awhile person. I'm more of a choke-it-down-we-got-shit-to-do person. And no offense to anyone who is like that, rather in real life or on the internet (because, hey, I love reading blogs like that) but that's not me.

I haven't made my bed since I was in sixth grade.

I'm happy if I can remotely keep the bathroom clean (and I live with three boys).

We dig clean clothes out of laundry baskets.

I sweep the floors when my feet have big chunks of yuck on them - not before.

I make Aaron pick up Chipotle for dinner at least once a week.

I fall asleep if I'm not doing something with my hands.

My sewing area is (and has been for months) covered with the boys' school papers.

I haven't scrapbooked since... April? I think?

I rarely comment on my friends' posts. (BIG MASSIVE FAIL.)

I don't click over from the feedreader to read posts.

I still haven't unpacked from my trip over a week ago.

I have two car seats sitting in my living room because I have NO WHERE ELSE IN MY HOUSE TO PUT THEM.

I haven't downloaded pictures off my cameras IN WEEKS.

I'm quite certain I have kitchen counters somewhere, but just don't ask me where.

My garden exploded and I'm officially avoiding the mess.

My kids watch television.

Yes, there's quite a few things I do right (and I've officially become a workaholic) - I cook a lot for three people with outrageous allergies, we take an evening walk, I put work aside to interact with my kids (usually) but I most certainly do not have my shit together. Never have, likely never will.

And I'm okay with that.

Cut Me Right Back Down to Size

Saturday I woke up just a few hours after going to sleep. Hot, sweaty, pajama pants feeling tight. I walked around the hotel room, used the bathroom - wow, my stomach hurt. Maybe I'm hungry?

I got out a gluten-free muffin (packed from home, I brought over a dozen with me to Chicago), sat on the bed. Took a deep breathe and smelled the chocolate-chippy goodness.

And I ran to the bathroom and threw up.

Violent, choking, gasping for air throwing up and I knew it immediately - I was having an allergic reaction to dinner.

Fuck.

"Just a few hours, this is going to take just a few hours," I kept thinking to myself.

Throw up, rinse, repeat.

After an hour, my dear friend became insistent is there something I can do for you? "No, really. Am fine. Allergic reaction. I should be done in a couple of hours."

I filled the tub with hot water to calm the muscle spasms. I'm smart! This is totally gonna work! I'll stop throwing up! Laura, for the win!

Get in the tub. Relax for ten minutes, get half way out, throw up again. Finagle my upper body back into the tub. Lay back, relax for ten minutes. Climb half way out of the tub, throw up again.

Are you sure there's not something I can do for you? She asked through the bathroom door.

"Nope, just throwing up. I've been at it two hours, I'll be done soon! Go to sleep! Big day later!"

Rinse from the tub, dry off. Lay on the bed.

Are you sure there's not something I can... and I'm off and running back to the bathroom.

But this time, this time there's blood. Not streaks of it. A tennis ball glob of it. Fuck.

But me? Noooooo, I'm fine. Really. It's just an allergic reaction. My dinner had to have been contaminated (despite going to an Asian-themed chain that brags about their gluten-free menu). I've never had such a severe reaction - it would most certainly be over soon.

And then the pooping my pants began.

Literally.

"Um... I think I better call Ask A Nurse."

Don't you think you may need more than that?

"Nah, really. I'm sure they'll say I'm about done here."

So I called Ask A Nurse (a service I use at home A LOT), answered their questions, no, I can't stand up straight, yes, I've been throwing up for three hours. Blood? Well, there was that one glob the size of the tennis ball. Oh, AND I'M POOPING MY PANTS. But! It's just an allergic reaction!

"Ma'am? You need to call 911."

Sigh. "Fine. I'll take a cab."

By the time we get to ER, I'm over three hours into it - vomit, rinse, repeat. My throat is scratchy. My abs feel like they've done a thousand crunches while somebody used them as a punching bag. At least I haven't pooped my pants since we left the hotel room.

They get me back to a room, I get an IV and anti-nausea medicine. I lay back, "You can call Aaron now and tell him I'm fine." My friend dials the phone and, "Oh, shit. I have to throw up again." More anti-nausea medicine and it last ten minutes.

The tears finally start.

"How long have you been vomiting like this?"

"Um... four? Four-and-a-half hours now?"

"And you just came in now because?"

"It's just an allergic reaction."

The rest of the day is a fog - the gave me some amazingly good narcotics to knock me out - I recall an x-ray, having my bed sit in the hall of the ER for what felt like an eternity (which was all levels of embarrassing because not only was my bed parked in the hall and I'd occasionally vomit, I DIDN'T HAVE A SHIRT ON and the guy strung out on meth kept giving me the come-fuck-me eyes,) I overhead lots of talk about my heart.

Seven hours after arriving at the hospital, I was admitted into a room. I demanded that my friend go-go-go (although I completely appreciate the hair holding, the POOPING IN THE PANTS HAD COME BACK) and frankly, there's only so much humiliation one person should have to endure in a lifetime - let alone a single day.

The ER was convinced something was wrong with me - liver, gallbladder, appendix, something - just not food allergies. Oh no, it couldn't be food allergies.

The attending doctor visited, wanted my approval to run more test.

"It's an allergic reaction. My dinner last night had to have been contaminated with gluten."

"And why do you think it's that?"

"Because I am allergic to wheat and have Celiac - if it was wheat I would have broken out into hives. But the gluten doesn't hit me until it's in my intestines, and I didn't react until six hours after dinner."

"And why do you think it's dinner that did this to you?"

"Because everything else I've been eating I BROUGHT FROM HOME."

"Well, we think it's your gallbladder, your liver or your appendix. We'd like to run more tests."

"Look, it's an allergic reaction. But I'm not going to be the asshole who refuses medical treatment - if something else is wrong with me, by all means FIND IT."

So I got more narcotics and more tests. And let me tell you - you haven't lived until you've pooped on the CAT Scan table while magnets whirl over your inflated abdomen.

Meanwhile - back at the BlogHer Conference - my friends and coworkers were freaking out. And really, can you blame them? Who the fuck throws up a tennis ball blood clot?

I was convinced, positive, I was having an allergic reaction. Why couldn't they give me some anti-nausea medicine and pain relievers and send me on my way? I had places to go, people to see and was over 500 miles away from home.

Sunday morning I woke up - when I should have been on an airplane headed home - somewhat clear headed, not nauseated and very, very sore.

My test results came back.

The verdict?

My intestines were swollen to twice their size. Otherwise I'm in perfectly good health.

"Well, normally we'd attribute intestinal swelling to gastroenteritis - but that's usually 20%. I can't quite explain why yours is so severe."

"HELLO, I HAVE CELIAC DISEASE. I WAS HAVING AN ALLERGIC REACTION."

"I have never in my life seen a reaction this bad. But you're correct - that is the only plausible explanation of what happened to you."

Fuck yeah, it's what happened to me, I thought as I counted all the unexplainable needle holes up an down my arms.

And here's the thing - very few people take food allergies seriously. Not once did the doctors act like allergic reaction was remotely a plausible explanation of what I was going through. Gastroenteritis? Sure. That could explain it. Food poisoning? Absolutely, that could explain it too (we knew it was not that, thankfully, because I split my entire dinner with another friend - who has no gluten-intolerance problems). Liver shutting down? Hells yeah, it sounds like her liver is shutting down. Gallbladder problems? Absolutely.

Food allergies? Not plausible.

NOT PLAUSIBLE MY ASS.

According to the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases at the National Institutes of Health, food allergies account for approximately 150 deaths per year in the United States.

Deaths.

I cannot tell you how many times over the years I've heard ridiculous comments of "food allergies aren't real" "they are all in your head" "people make that up to get attention" and prior to this experience, I've laughed at people's ignorance in my head and done the best to educate people without sounding overbearing and rude.

But vomiting a glob of blood the size of a tennis ball? Yeah. I totally did that for attention. Because what better way to ruin my vacation-slash-business conference for myself and one of my best friends than to magically decide I'm feeling a little attention-neglected of late. Hey! I know! I'LL POOP MY PANTS UNCONTROLLABLY!

In case you can't tell, that's as polar-opposite of the kind of attention I'd like to receive.

But thanks for the offer, I super-appreciate it.

I'm not one of those people who expect others to accommodate her. When I'm invited to a party, I bring something I can eat. When my family travels, our van is more than halfway full of food. Even planning for this trip to Chicago, I researched local restaurants with gluten-free menus (all of which are chains, as they supposedly have higher standards) and took a suitcase full of food for me. I don't walk into a restaurant and say make this to accommodate me. I order off the gluten-free menu (and make sure the server knows it's GLUTEN FREE, AM ALLERGIC TO WHEAT). In a pinch, I'll call or walk in a restaurant and ask - not demand - if they can accommodate me. If not? Not a problem. I don't expect you to.

And I understand human error. I've had gluten sneak in before. It resulted in stomach cramps that lasted a couple of days and 12 hours of diarrhea (oh please, don't look at me like that - I already told you how much pooping in the pants was happening Saturday).

But to have something this severe? This horrible? Where the doctors were concerned about my three times too fast heart rate? This is just blatant disregard for their job.

After calling the restaurant yesterday and getting the information on how this food is provided by Corporate and how it's assembled the only explanation of what I experienced is that the cook used a dirty (previously containing gluten) pan to cook my dinner in. There is absolutely no other way that could happen.

And using such a pan is out of line for how that restaurant chain's kitchen is suppose to be ran. You can be your sweet ass the manager of the store - as well as corporate headquarters - is going to get a letter from me.

I was discharged from the hospital 30 hours after arriving. All because a cook was too damn lazy to do his job properly.

Food allergies aren't real? You sure about that?

My Heart Keeps Beating Like a Hammer

I'm leaving tomorrow, headed to Chicago for the BlogHer conference and all the important things in life are baring down on me.

Like, should I wear a wireless bra to go through security at the airport?

I ask because last year sister had her hands down my pants during my pat down. Because, you know, to keep my ladies up and perky, Mommy requires quite a bit of metal reinforcement. And apparently the security guard took this as an open invitation to discuss panty styles and fabrics. She liked lace thongs. I like cotton hipsters.

She complemented me on my hipsters.

Of course, I should have thought this was odd. But me? Noooooo. I laughed. Out loud. A lot.

It's what I do in the most inappropriate of times. Laugh.

It wasn't until I was in California last year when I realized security guards should not be putting their hands down your pants.

Huh.

So now I'm all aflutter - should I go into the airport with saggy boobs in a wireless bra in hopes of not being patted down again? Can I take my properly boobie-holder-upper bra in my carry-on luggage and put it on after security? Will the bra flag them as something odd and would they then rifle through my bag and pull out crazy contraption of a girl holder and display it in front of everyone there?

Help me, I don't know what to do about my boobies.

I Won't Believe in Heaven and Hell; No Saints, No Sinners, No Devil as Well

While watching a movie the other day...

"Mom? Is he in the God?"

"Huh?"

"Is he in the God? Or having a dream? Because he's in the clouds..."

"In the God?" ::pause:: "You mean, is he in heaven?"

"Yeah, that's what it's called - heaven. Is he in heaven?"

"What do you think?"

"Is that what happens when we die? Do we go in the Go-I mean, do we go to heaven?"

"What do you think Griffin?"

"I'm not sure. What do you think?"

"Well, some people think if you're good you go to heaven and if you're not good you go to hell."

"I'm not sure I like that idea. I wouldn't want to live in the clouds forever."

"Well, no one knows for sure what it's like but some people do think that is what it is."

"What do you think happens when we die Mom?"

"Well, I think when we die we rest. After a while, I think we come back as someone else. Maybe an animal. Maybe another person. Maybe on Earth, maybe on another plant."

"You mean, you get to live again?"

"Yeah, it's called reincarnation. You come back to learn more. That's what I think. Other people think differently."

"That's awesome. I want to think that too."

"Griffin, you can think however you want. It's up to you to make your own mind."

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"In your next life, can I boss you around? Because that would be AWESOME."

I Don't Believe it! There She Goes Again!

Earlier this week Aaron and I were watching a recorded episode of NOVA scienceNow (like 60 Minutes, but nerdy) and saw a segment featuring Luis von Ahn.

Now, if you don't know who Luis von Ahn is, he's a hot piece of nerd ass who developed Captcha - that highly obnoxious word verification bazilliony bloggers (present company included) use for to make sure their commenters are people, not computers.

But, you see, Luis (yes, we're on a first-name-basis, thanks) felt guilty (my words, not his) for the bazilliony of people using up time to put passwords into Captcha. And, couldn't they be doing more to push forward humanity? Couldn't something better come from all that time?

So, Luis developed reCaptcha (you know, with all this dropping of the "er" and replacing with the "aahhhh" sound, homeboy has to have a blog somewhere) - a system where instead of using one word verification, you use two.

Why two?

Because he's trying to fix old books that are being scanned and the computers can't figure out what the fuck the old books say, due to the age and inconsistencies of the old printing. So one word is the word verification to prove you are human, the second word is because they figure, hey - if you blog commenter can figure out one word, surely the second word would be correct. So you, dear blog commenter, are working for Luis von Ahn and his secret plot to make old books available to humanity.

Can you hear the Mwahahahahahaha from his office in New York?

Of course, and here's where it plays in that I'm a horribly obnoxious person, my first thought was - you mean? Only one word is the verification? So I can but in goddamnmotherfucker as one word and if it hits the jackpot then that is going to get uploaded into a 200 year old book? Seriously?

And can you see me hang my head in shame from here? Smartassery is not always a good trait to have, internets.

(You can view the video here; NOVA scienceNow is a mean bitch who doesn't allow embedding.)