Easily ENTertained

Yesterday was Steele’s first appointment with a local ENT specialist. Our goal is to find the source of his chronic sinus problems and resolve the problem once and for all. We rarely visit doctors, mainly because I’m too impatient and I would rather be sick than lose my religion during the grueling waiting room process we are rarely sick.

I walked through the doors with a positive attitude, despite the 30 or so patients who had arrived before me, meeting my gaze with looks of defeat and gloom. I took my place in the waiting room and so it began...

30 minutes in… I decided to distract myself with some light reading. Steele and I flipped through a local magazine and poked fun at all the advertisements by local businesses. One of the ads we came across was this one.

Steele says, “I find it ironic that the addiction recovery center has weed for its logo.”

I must say, I sort of enjoy the fact that my nearly 15 year old son couldn’t identify marijuana even if it were labeled. Good sign…moving on.

1 hour in to waiting time and my left leg began to tingle. I must’ve switched positions 20 times with no success in preventing my butt from falling asleep. I tried to focus on something else to get my mind off of the current situation…not a good idea.

One lady was jamming out to Lady Gaga on her iPhone while her litter of unkempt children ran wild ripping up newspaper and snotting all over the furniture. Another sat snoring next to her over-grown child as he picked his nose and examined his findings (save it for the ENT buddy cause I didn’t need the show). An elderly man muttered complaints under his breath as his wife copied recipes from the Better Homes and Gardens magazine…

Dear God, please deliver me from waiting room hell…thank you.

1.5 hours in and the magic words rang out from the restricted area, “The doctor is ready to see you!” Yay! Our turn! Our turn! We were promptly escorted to a smaller room where we knew the wait would continue. Determined not to lose my mind or my temper, I began looking for things to entertain us. Steele began wildly spinning in his chair as I rifled through cabinets and drawers. Alcohol prep pads? Well don’t mind if I do! Those things are GREAT for cleaning surfaces and they’re sooo portable. Next drawer…

Steele: What in the WORLD is all that?!

Me: Those are the tools the doctor uses I guess

Steele: I don’t know where he thinks he’s gonna stick THAT thing, but wherever it is, I object.

Next drawer…Oh My Gosh…JACKPOT! It was a brand new, sleek and shiny temple touch thermometer! Oh how times have changed since I was a child and your temp was taken *ahem* elsewhere. Immediately we began playing with the device and I registered my very first tech savvy temp reading…

Me: 86.4 degrees…WHAT?! That can’t be right! I would be a cold stiff corpse. Try it again.

Steele: That’s not bad. It IS cold in this room

Me: I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to have a body temp below 97 or something

Steele: Here, let’s retry

Me: 86.4, 86.7, 84.5. Oh Lord it’s getting worse!

Steele: And that was the day mom discovered she was a zombie

A quick knock and the door began to open. I quickly tossed the defective gadget on the table next to me and greeted the doctor. During his exam, he asked if I had any questions…and for some reason only one thing came to mind.

Me: Well, what is the lowest body temperature you can have without your major organs shutting down and death occurring?

Stunned look from the nurse

Doctor: Without what? Are you planning on freezing yourself later?

Me: No, I was just curious. (Obviously I couldn’t explain the source of my curiosity without disclosing the fact that I had played with his broken toys)

Doctor: (laughing nervously now) Well, I’m not really sure to be honest.

Steele: Yeah mom, he’s just the ear, nose and throat doctor not a coroner.

Me: Oh well, I just thought it might be a common knowledge thing among doctors.

Doctor: Okay, do you have any questions regarding the treatment options?

Me: Yes. What were they again?

After discussing treatment plans with the doctor, I rose to shake his hand and our attention was drawn to the 3 alcohol prep packets that fell on the floor between us. I was all, “Umm, they’re really handy for cleaning surfaces.” And he’s all, “No big deal, everyone likes to take some home after visits.” And I’m all, “Like a good patient reward or something!” And he says, “Well in that case I’ll have to ask you to return yours.”

Ha ha Dr. Witty. Keep laughing at your own little jokes. We’re all VERY amused. I’m thinking about finding another ENT for future visits. I’m not sure we made the best impression on this one.

Won't YOU be my Neighbor?

So the other day my "special" dog Maggie decided to bolt through the front door into the neighborhood. It was trash day and there was a smorgasbord of rotten people food displayed at everyone’s curbside and ripe for the taking. My arms were full of shopping bags and I did not have time to act quickly enough to stop her escape. There she was, eyes widened with excitement, tongue waving in the wind, smiling from ear-to-ear as she rounded the front corner of the house and disappeared from my view.

I yell, “Steele!!! Maggie just took off! Hurry, run and catch her before she becomes road kill!” From the opposite end of the house I hear the quickening pace of bare feet thumping on our hardwood floors, then the front door slams, and silence.

Can you tell we have this drill pretty much under control? Yep, it happens every couple of months, and sporadically enough to warrant letting our guard down and trusting that her “wild” days are long past, only to be disappointed time and time again.

I take a deep breath and begin putting away my things, confident that my son will prevail in the battle of wit and dexterity that is no doubt occurring on my front lawn at this very moment. And, as expected, about five minutes later Steele walks in, Maggie cradled in his arms panting and licking him between grunts.

So I tell him, “Great job as usual, babe.” And he’s all, “Well, I met the new neighbors!”

Me: New neighbors?

Steele: Apparently there’s a new Arabic family moving in down the block. You know, the really conservative dressers with all the robes to cover everything but half their face?

Me: Yeah, how did you meet them? Were they walking around the block?

Steele: Not exactly. I was so caught up in catching Maggie, I didn’t notice where I was running. Maggie would stop running just long enough for me to get like two inches from her and then she would bolt in the other direction. So I finally outsmarted her and grabbed her and I was like, “Aha! Gotcha ya little stinker!” And then I looked up and I was pretty much face-to-face with our new neighbors. I was in their garage...while they were moving their things in...standing between them and their front door.

Me: Well, did you say ‘Hello, welcome to the neighborhood?’

Steele: Not exactly, I kinda just said “Sorry.  Excuse me. I was trying to catch my dog.”

It was at this moment that my son put Maggie down on the ground and I realized what had just transpired down the block. My 14 year old son, in his haste to save my dog from her own stupidity, ran out of the front door wearing nothing but Looney tunes lounge shorts and a look of determination.

Me: Well, did you say anything else?

Steele: The lady was trying not to laugh at me. I couldn’t blame her. It’s not every day you‘re welcomed to the neighborhood by a half-naked teenager chasing a retarded dog in circles in your front yard. But she was nice, she said ‘Nice to meet you.’ And I told her it was nice meeting her too. Then I left as fast as I could.

Me: Hmmm, maybe we should make them cookies one day soon.

Steele: Or maybe we should just avoid them from now on.

Welcome to the neighborhood!

My Comment Has More Likes Than Yours

Does anyone else find that Facebook has literally changed the way our generation interacts with one another? Sure, it has its good points, but what about the bad ones? And then there’s those “grey area” issues. I’d like to refer to these as the “ugly” because you really never know how that person will react to finding out what you did.  It's probably all a big conspiracy by large corporations to keep us all preoccupied with the minutiae of everyday life so that we don't recognize the diminishing quality of service and product they provide while the price point increases annually.  Especially tv sitcom production companies.  I mean, what's up with that people?  But I digress...here are my personal Facebook observations...

This picture makes me hungry for breakfast...I should Facebook about it.

The Good : Catch up with old friends from school The Bad: Meet up with said friends and discover you no longer have ANYTHING in common The Ugly: When you are talking to them in person, you have to be careful not to talk about something they didn’t actually tell you, but that you learned from Facebook stalking their profile.

The Good : Self Esteem boost from hundreds of birthday greetings The Bad: Feeling guilty for not logging on to FB on one of your friends birthdays and wishing them a happy birthday on the right day The Ugly: Facebooking a happy birthday remark that is a little more detailed than most of their wall comments instead of actually calling your cousin on their special day

The Good : The ability to sound more community and politically minded or “in the know” by copying repost statuses The Bad: Offending half of your friends by posting something a little edgy The Ugly: Finding out you reposted a hoax or propaganda

The Good : Keeping up with all of your “real life” friends The Bad: reading every insignificant detail of their daily life The Ugly: Having a conversation about every single insignificant detail because by the time you see each other, there’s nothing left to talk about

The Good : Being able to communicate effectively with a group of friends about your party, group meeting, or grand opening events The Bad: Someone shows up to the event whom you barely know or recognize and you have to pretend you are long lost friends The Ugly: Someone you actually KNOW sees the event info between mutual friend statuses and wonders why they were not invited to join

The Good : You can keep a great conversation going without interrupting your regular schedule The Bad: Any mutual friend can offer their two cents whenever they like The Ugly: You don’t really know how to wrap the convo up, so you just comment with “lol”

The Good : You don’t have to wait for your friend to get you the double prints of photos from your trip because once you are tagged, you have your copies The Bad: You do not get to prescreen the photos and weed out the uglies before you are tagged The Ugly: people tag you in photos completely unrelated to you so if you don’t catch it and your friends are looking through your photos, they find some chick who either looks like a porn star, phsyco or just a photo of a random planking monkey

The Good : An opportunistic outlet to speak your mind or rant about how you were wronged The Bad: Everyone who sees your rant quietly thinks you need to update your prescription and get over it The Ugly: You misspell half the words in your rant about how much smarter you are than the person who wronged you.

The Good : You always know what’s going on around town The Bad: you see your friend or sibling check in at the mall after turning down your request to help you with a project because they are at too sick to leave home The Ugly: You comment on their check in to ask about the new doctor’s office in the mall

I’d love to continue this all day, but I gotta go check my Facebook.  It seems that I have been looped in to a 3 month long Poke war with a friend who just doesn't know how to give up!!  No really, we don't know how to end it...it just keeps going!  So help a girl out and continue my list in comments below.

Say My Name, Say My Name

Okay, so I will begin by sharing this article from my local newspaper several weeks ago…Don’t worry, it’s short, sweet, and sure to draw a giggle or two.

“What's in a name? That very question made for an interesting segment on CNN on a recent Saturday morning titled, "What not to name your kids." I came across it skimming through Facebook while eating my breakfast.

The thread was about the segment, which I had just missed. I started reading the thread and some of the names that people actually put on their children and I could not stop laughing.

Some of them were just downright unbelievable. Two of them, although pronounced differently, are unprintable. (Hint: One starts with an "s," pronounced "shyteed"; the other starts with an "a," pronounced "a-sho-lay." Draw your own conclusions.)

There were names listed like Congratulashayla, Peppermint Koolaid, Crucifixio, Timber Rattler, Infiniti Alize, Chlamydia, Syphillis (pronounced Sah-phill-is) and Gonorheaa (pronounced Ga-nor-ia) (twins, and yes, the STDs), Cocaine and Marijuana (twins), ABCED (pronounced Absidee), Heaven Lee Roach, Swiss, Cheddar, Velveeta, Phurious (Furious), Nimrod, Lucifer, Porntip, Pimptarius, Ureal Lucky, Courvoisier, Vagina (pronounced Va-Gina), Clitours, Demon, Darealyst, Metallica, Shadynasty (pronounced Sha-Die-ness-tee), Myown, Earth Angel (a male), Female (pronounced Fem-molle), Violence, Militant, Tellis Zeelotus, Redd Ball, Left and Wright (twins), Man and Woman (brother and sister), Crown, Tequila, Pink Brown (a male), Zucchini, Tia-Jauna, Pepsi Nicola, Thunder Shadow, Nike Da'Pimp and Fila Da'Playa (brother and sister) and Candy Barr.

I know people want to give their children unique names, but there should be a point where common sense needs to really take hold.

Your children are stuck with these names until they are old enough to change them, if they so desire. Some of these children are going to have a rough enough life, why make it even harder?

Yeah, that name may be cute on a baby, but remember, that child does grow up. Just remember this comment one of my co-workers told me, that a friend told her: "You're not naming a child; you are naming an adult."

And in case some of you are wondering, the simple, classic names do still abide. Here are the top 10 baby names for 2010 from the Social Security Administration website: Girls, in order of ranking: Isabella, Sophia, Emma, Olivia, Ava, Emily, Abigail, Madison, Chloe and Mia. Boys, also in order of ranking: Jacob, Ethan, Michael, Jayden, William, Alexander, Noah, Daniel, Aiden and Anthony.

What's in a name? Depends on who named you. ---LeCrete Robinson is features editor of The Town Talk and www.thetowntalk.com.”

You may also see the full article here ~~> What's in a name? For some, it's 'what were they thinking?
Oh lord how I love this article! People! A name can make or break a person’s level of success in life. Don’t believe me? Just think about it a minute. Could you REALISTICALLY imagine the first female President of the United States having a name like Pepsi Nicola? Congratulashayla mom, you have just ruined your kid’s social life right from the start. And well done mom on the name Shadynasty (sha DIE nuh stee) it’s just so…well…ummm…shady nasty.

A Classy Place to Poo

This past weekend included a 6 hour road trip to Austin, Texas to drop Brandon off at camp for the next two weeks. For fun, I brought along my sister Annie and a friend whose identity will be kept anonymous to protect the reputation of the ashamed innocent.

A few hours into our trip, somewhere near Huntsville, we collectively decided there was a need for a pit stop. I was asking where we should stop in this small town and my friend chimes in with, “I don’t know I just need to poo.” So I’m all, “Okay look, there’s a Shell station. We can stop there.” And she emphatically rejects my suggestion by yelling, “No! The gas station is disgusting! I need a classy place to poo. “, So I’m like, “A CLASSY place to poo?” And she’s all, “You know, somewhere clean and spacious. Where I can relax and concentrate.”

Realizing now that she was absolutely serious, the other occupants of the car are throwing out suggestions through their laughter.

Annie: “How about that Golden Corral?”

Classy Poo: “That’s no good. It’s a restaurant. People are eating and they might smell it when you come out. It would ruin their meal.”

Brandon: “There’s an office building right there, they would have a bathroom.”

Classy Poo: “Oooooo Brookshires, that looks like a nice place.”

Me: “No, that is a grocery store…they probably don’t specialize in classy bathrooms or feng shui atmosphere.”

Classy Poo: “Oh okay, well just stop at that McDonalds on the left. We can go there.”

So we all file inside so my friend could take a dump for rest and relaxation, and as everyone gathered back at the car, Brandon comes out and says “I don’t know about ya’ll, but my classy bathroom had KKK scratched into the toilet lid.”

That's one classy gal on the door!

On the road again...

Do NOT Touch the Girl's Cookies!

Brandon is currently attending cotillion. For those of you who are not familiar with this program, it is one in which children (usually pre-teens or teenagers) attend classes where they learn patterned social dance or “ballroom style” dance (i.e. fox trot, waltz), in addition to learning gentlemanly\ladylike manners, etiquette, and formal dining. For those of you who are familiar with cotillion because you too were subjected to this humiliation as children…my son sends his sympathy. The students are “rewarded” for their efforts with two or three formal balls held in the fall, winter and spring.

So as I impatiently wait for Brandon to adorn himself with the suit I had purchased at the last minute before his first class, I began to wonder what exactly I had committed myself to as a parent. The responsibility begins as follows: spending an obnoxious amount of money on formal attire for a child who has grown 5 inches and 2 shoe sizes this year alone and will probably surpass that by Christmas, chauffeuring service to several 3-hour lessons, chaperoning 3 formal balls, purchasing proper attire for myself to wear to said formals, constant negotiation and threats directed to my uncooperative 11 year old, etc...etc…etc.

As I pondered the mess that I had gotten myself into, I glanced at the clock on the mantel and realized quickly that we were on the verge of being tardy (a violation of rule number 3 of the manual for proper etiquette). The obsessive compulsive in me, who is NEVER late for ANYTHING, began barking orders in the direction of the house from which faint grunts and grumbles were resonating. “I’m Coming!” he said in a voice of defeat.

Then there he was…emerging from the hallway… a stranger…a young man with whom I had not yet made acquaintance. Where was my little boy who used to let me call him “baby bear” and give him public displays of affection? Where was the child who would yell “Mommy, watch this!” from across the room and I would hold my breath in anticipation of another trip to the emergency room?

As I drove to the class I was suddenly saddened with my realization of how quickly time was passing by. My impromptu pity-party was abruptly halted when we arrived and Brandon told me to just “drop him off near the front”. Apparently having me watch while he was forced to dance awkwardly with random girls would only multiply the intensity of his embarrassment. As I loitered near the front entrance concocting a plan to spy on the class, I was joined by 15-20 other rejected parents with peaked curiosity. We devised a plan to come back 30 minutes early (by accident) in order to catch the last part of the class.

Once I returned, I found my place among the eager onlookers, poking my head ever-so-carefully around the corner of the room. There he was…Brandon was dancing with the tiniest little girl. Unfortunately, he was paying no attention to his dance partner at all. Instead, my son, along with several other boys, were snickering and whispering to their friends as they passed on the dance floor. Then I watched as the music ended and the children were all seated. The instructors muffled voice echoed from the speaker system. “Okay gentleman. It’s time to escort the ladies to the refreshment tables for cookies and punch. Remember to escort the lady on your RIGHT arm and hold the plate for her as she chooses her refreshments. Remember gentleman!! DO NOT…TOUCH…THE GIRLS’ COOKIES. The girls do not like it when the boys touch their cookies.”

It was at this moment that the crowd of adolescent boys began giggling and chattering amongst themselves. The instructor, apparently unaware of her double entendre, continued to guide the kids to the refreshment table, then dismissed them for the evening.
On the drive home, I inquired of my son as to what part of the evening he enjoyed most. The cookies, was of course, his absolute answer. It was then that I realized he was not so grown up after all…and when I tucked him into bed that night, his Scooby Doo pajamas confirmed my conclusion.