Category Archives: cringe

Pain in the Neck…

Standard
Pain in the Neck…

What’s new my friends, lots happening here. I’ll give it to you in bite size pieces, it’s a lot to chew on.

Rob & Laura Update

My nonagenarian friends are still on this side of the dirt which is a good thing. Dear Rob has had two TIAs (min-strokes) in the past 7 weeks and he is starting to slip cognitively. Laura lost her hearing aid which caused her great frustration until she finally relented and posted bail to get a new one (just under a thousand dollars and that was with the discount, YIKES). There was a lot of shoulder shrugging, exasperated sighs and general annoyance until that got resolved.

Rob’s family is originally from Virginia, last week he told me that when his grandfather was about 8 years old his family had a special guest over for tea, Robert E Lee (yes that one). Then we had an interesting discussion about the confederate flag, Civil War statues and reparations. Oddly enough that afternoon he got a call from a member of his Quaker Community that was eager to change the name of one of their member organizations currently known as the “Overseers”. Rob was hesitant to change the name and he referred to himself as a curmudgeon which is not how I see him at all. He was brought up in a different era, in a geographic area which has a complicated history. A lot of things have changed in his 95 years on the planet and it is refreshing to see someone remain adaptable this late in life.

Caring for them when I’m in physical pain myself is getting exhausting. I know that if I saw one of them about to fall, I would hurl my body in their direction to mitigate the damage likely to my own demise. It would be a visceral reaction and I doubt I could control it. So I have to find them some additional help while I recover, it’s hard to find another me.

Medical Update

I saw a surgeon this past Monday to review my MRI and discuss the options. My options are do nothing and put myself at risk of falling off a metaphorical cliff at some point…potentially losing balance and control of (coughs) bowels and micturition (new Scrabble word). My issue is progressive and will not improve with physical therapy, vitamins, a Chiropractor, voodoo, acupuncture, lavender oil, your cousin Stephanie’s smoothie blend or CBD oil. So surgery it is folks, Anterior Cervical Discectomy and Fusion in case you’re bored and want to Google that mess.  I “get her done” in early November.

I texted my twin brother to discuss it –

Me: Guess who has two thumbs and a new neck in her future – THIS gal.

Him: New neck???

Him: Get a giraffe one and freak people out

And this is one of a thousand reasons that I adore my brother. Then he immediately offered to drive twelve hours and care for me post op. Heart of gold that one.

Marital Bliss

The other night my husband hydroplaned on the way home from Newark, New Jersey Airport. He called me from a sketchy neighborhood to report the news. Bear in mind his car is a Tesla Model S with a Pennsylvania plate, he did not blend in. I told him I would get him so he could take all of his personal effects out of the car and wait to get it towed. It was an hour and a half for me to get there in windy conditions which caused me to have a death grip on the steering wheel for about 3 hours in the middle of the night.

Physically my husband was fine and I am incredibly grateful for that. That said, I’m going to blame his brazen stupidity on the way home on the the two 360’s he did on Route 78 which landed him facing the wrong way on a typically busy highway. He bitched about my driving on the way home at least three times. I was so pissed and in so much physical pain at the time all I could do was grunt, like a bull. Yes, I was in the left lane traveling at a safe speed. It was 1am with little traffic and a wind ban on the turnpike at the time.

aJ46TtKVwJy6XKCutsI_aU4FFu_gkNgeV5ge9WNBjSQ.png

The next day I bitched to my brother about the situation, via text.

Me: Something off about fetching your man from a sketch neighborhood in the middle of the night because he had a car accident AND then listening to him bitch about your driving all the way home while you are in INTENSE pain.

Him: Yikes. How many cars has he messed up and how many have you?

Me: 3 him, me 0

Him: That’s a pretty solid data set to support your argument.

Did I mention that I adore my brother?

 

Kids

Told the kids about my surgery and downplayed it as to not panic them. One kid asks how I am the other takes a different approach…

Kid 2: UGH, my foot fell asleep! (hobbles into kitchen)

Me: Bummer, that’s how my arm feels all the time now.

Kid 2: We get it mom, your arm hurts.

Me: Went to bed so I wouldn’t do anything rash it was 8pm.

For some reason that little exchange reminded me of Erma Bombeck’s tombstone which has “I Told You I Was Sick” on it.

 

659.jpg

Not sure whose tombstone this is but you get the point.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DMV

Standard
DMV

Hello my blogging friends, I have missed you. Nothing exotic happening here I just haven’t been able to steal time from other parts of my life to get a post up. I have some catching up to do…

My teens are off from school, that happened approximately 312 hours 37 seconds ago. I’m teaching one of them to drive, that’s fun. He’s a good driver for the most part, sometimes he takes turns like he’s in an electric go-kart. When we sent him for camp and winter league a few years ago, I didn’t think through the driving habits that were being downloaded into his brain at the time. I try not to gasp out loud or visibly wince, that’s been tricky. Now I make the sign of the cross and genuflect before I get in the passenger seat so that’s new.

The first official day of summer break I took my son and my mother to DMV. My mother and I needed to get photos for license renewal and my son needed his permit. Once again, I didn’t think this one through friends. We went on a Tuesday which apparently is the worst day to go (because of course it is). The DMV is closed on Sunday & Monday so Tuesday is the busiest day of the week and I can vouch for that.

My son was going to a different counter he was number 442. My mother and I were 195 and 196. As soon as we arrived, mom plopped her stuff on a chair that I found for her (the last chair, I had to race to beat a 90 year old to it and she almost got there first but I did a home base slide to secure it…I’m sure the walker slowed Ethel down). Anyhow, mom doesn’t even sit down she goes out to get some air (smoke). So I sit in her seat to hold it and ignore the dirty looks from Ethel and her friends from Sunnyside Eldercare. Mom comes back forty minutes later sipping from a large aromatic coffee cup and says “I guess I should have asked if you wanted one” as she reclaims the hard plastic throne.

90 minutes later we are starting to get to our place in line, 192 pops up on the display. Mom decides to get more air. I pointed to the display and reminded her that our numbers were almost up, she shrugged it off. “I’ll be back in a jiff” she smirks and she’s out the door before I can lift my jaw from the floor. Three minutes later, the numbers get to 194. The average wait time between clients has sped up from a 10 minute average to 90 seconds. My son’s line is also making progress with just a few people ahead of him. I send him out to do a quick Nannie search, he comes back sweaty and panicked, “I can’t find her”. OH FFS I think to myself and then my number gets called.

I am clearly distracted as I go through the process of license renewal. I steal side glances to see if mom has returned and wonder how much stalling I can do to buy her time. My brain goes blank, I give a pensive smile for the camera and do not take the time to check my hair or put on lipstick. I regret the lack of primping as soon as I see the image that will humiliate me for the next 4 years, sigh.

While I’m taking a shitty picture and contemplating the location of my mother, my son’s number is called. I slide from counter A to B and join him for the inquisition. The gentleman, Reggie, working the counter is a textbook definition of a disgruntled government employee. My son takes his paperwork out of his jean pocket which has been folded into a square. Reggie conjures his inner thespian and makes a dramatic display of unfolding the papers and mentions that he’ll need to “ern them”, which took me a second to mentally translate to iron.

I continue to smile and act pleasant while Reggie sighs heavily and gives off the I-want-to-end-it-all vibe that radiates off him like heat on asphalt in July. My son remains respectful, a little anxious, waiting for instructions. Reggie grunts and points to a row of computers which my son and I interpret as a cue to take the written test online.

I wait nearby and watch as Reggie makes the “I’m going to lunch” announcement. Announcement isn’t entirely accurate, it was more like a muttered statement that I happened to over hear. For a moment I get hopeful that perhaps a more charming individual will replace him and we will end this nightmare on a positive note.

I finally see my mother who has somehow managed to slip in just in time to hear her number. The boy finishes his test and stands next to me, I tell him about Reggie’s lunch break. Then I am hit with the sad realization that there will be no Reggie replacement and we need to wait for him to get back. I cry a little but only on the inside because I’m a winner, damn it.

We meet other Reggie castaways as the minutes tick by and we all come to the same conclusion, Reggie sucks. After about thirty five minutes our counterman is back and he begins his reign of disregard toward his line constituents. When it’s our turn he doesn’t say anything beyond, “here” as he shoves paperwork into my son’s hand and thank GAWD it included his permit. I make a mental note of how time moves differently at the DMV. For instance, 10 minutes at DMV is equivalent to 3 hours outside. I suspect it may be comparable to prison time, we managed to survive 27 hours in the joint.

How’s your summer going?

I Did Not Blend In

Standard
I Did Not Blend In

So this weekend was kind of interesting…I went to a bridal shower for the first time in about 15 years. Wow have things gotten out of hand.  The party had a “World Travel” theme complete with props, a DJ, trivia games about the couple and a sea of Spanx laden ladies. There were confetti airplanes, flowers made of maps, luggage tag favors and a custom hashtag for the couple, they went all in.

I’m casual by nature and practical in my approach to clothing. Sure I want to look good,  comfort goes a long way though. I knew that flats would be out of the question with this bunch so I stepped up my game with some neutral 3 inch heeled ankle boots. I probably got them at Marshalls for $29.99, that’s my way. They’re cute and they dress up jeans with the right top. I drove my sister in-law and we agreed on our style prior to the event. We were seriously under dressed. Not what you want to do when you prefer to blend into the scenery.

The venue was in Staten Island and it was gorgeous inside. Chandeliers, a water view, beautiful window treatments, it was stunning. We knew we were in trouble as soon as we walked in. The guests looked like they were at a formal wedding. These ladies brought their A game – sequins, ruffles, prints, red-soled shoes, high end all the way. Meanwhile, I’m rocking my new mom jeans which advertise their ability to “cover muffin top” (I wish I was kidding). I wanted to die but I was hungry and this place is known for good authentic Italian food. I decided I could die after I ate, I stand by that decision.

It was a buffet so naturally there was a line. As I was standing there in the most casual outfit within a three mile radius, I noticed the line of asses at the buffet. It was mesmerizing. All kinds of asses – big, little, wide, flat, pancakes and bubbles on display in all their glory. I respected their confidence, I veer too far in the other direction. I’d wear a mu-mu if it was socially acceptable. I’d alternate with gym clothes, easy peasy. *Sighs* imagines life in a mu-mu. 80ba22001c642d83f830130a50199dbe--simpsons-art-simpsons-funny.jpg

It wasn’t just asses on display, boobs were everywhere. It was 2pm and I saw side boob, is that the new norm because I thought side boob was reserved for after 8pm? The DJ kept encouraging people to dance, while bright sunlight streamed in. Maybe I’m old (OK old and under dressed) but I like to get my boogey on at night with an appropriate amount of darkness. I also prefer to dance with the hubs and this was a ladies only event. I’ll just say it now – “Get off my lawn!” Ahhh, that feels better.

To add insult to injury, I was having a sh*t hair day. I got it cut a week ago and I’m still adjusting to it, not good. These gals had all kinds of stuff going on with their hair, professionally coifed, extensions or a damn impressive ability to use appliances that have always eluded me mainly the curling iron. I wanted to spruce things up, I even borrowed a curling iron from my friend. Sadly I did not have time to practice because something came up with my kid during the time I had allotted for that trial run.

So to recap, sh*tty hair & mom jeans, I did not blend in. I was having an off day and I was surrounded by women that could be extras in a Sopranos reboot or a new variation of the Housewives enterprise. My SIL and I decided that we really need to take things up about 1,000 notches for the wedding. Some of the outfits at the bridal shower cost more than the book value of my 2010 Honda. I can’t even imagine what they will wear to the wedding. Have you ever found yourself over or under dressed?

Cheese for the Win!

Standard
Cheese for the Win!

I had to take Blanche to the vet today. For those that don’t know, Blanche is the made up name of my real dog. Things are top secret here at my blog and one can’t be too careful. Getting Blanche to go to the vet is a bit of an ordeal. The problems start when I try to get her in my car. Usually a couple of treats do the trick.

Me (Attempting fake enthusiasm, comes off like a Kindergarten teacher with a massive hangover): Come on Blanche you can do it!

Blanche: Nope

Me: Come on girl, there are two treats in here (holds up a treat, then pats the back of the SUV).

Blanche (yawns, turns head in opposite direction)

Me: Get in here!

Blanche (walks away)

Me (Mutters “bitch”, goes inside. Announces to the hubs that we are at DEFCON Level 3)

Hubs: Want me to get her in there? I can do it, want me to show you?

(For the record, my husband thinks he can do EVERYTHING better than me or anyone else. Most of the time he can, I’m just not interested in his 30 minute tutorial on the perfect inflection to coax the dog into my vehicle. We also have 12 minutes to get to an appointment which is 10 minutes away. So visualize your favorite meme for “Ain’t nobody got time for that!)

Me: No. I know how you do it and I can’t muster up the fake enthusiastic voice. I’m going in for cheese.

Blanche: Did someone say cheese?

Me: (Tosses cheese in the back of the SUV) Get your ass in the car.

Blanche: Alright

It should be noted that Blanche is a 90 pound mutt who turns into a kangaroo dog as soon as we pass the threshold at the vet’s office. I don’t mean one of those cute docile kangaroos that you can actually pet in Australia…no she turns into big red, the roo that will knock your teeth out and put you in a coma. She has a smile on her face the entire time and I’m just blocking the blows like I’m in the ring with Tyson circa 1986. I don’t come out of these visits unscathed, I’m scratched up and broke by the time we leave.

614239_poster_l

This is Big Red’s Tinder profile pic.

Fortunately there were no other animals in the waiting area when we arrived. I try to speak to the receptionist while my kangaroo-gorilla-dog bounces up and down like Tigger on cocaine. My eyes convey a cry for help and they usher us to the scale. I find this amusing because 1) It’s my least favorite part of going to the doctor myself. Does anyone like getting weighed in a public space? 2) Getting Blanche to stay still on the scale is worse than trying to get her in the car. It’s like threading a needle with overcooked spaghetti. After several attempts we agree on a number and get directed to an examination room.

Blanche proceeds to lose her ever loving mind in the room when it’s just the two of us. I can only image what the office staff thinks is happening in here. Furniture is being moved, the scraping sound of dog nails on the linoleum…I may have said calm your tits a little too loud. After an infinity a vet and a technician came in to administer her shots and do the exam.

My dog, crazy as she is, becomes surprisingly compliant during the exam. She doesn’t bark, growl or show any indication of her big red ways when there are witnesses. Leaving the staff to think I must enjoy rearranging office furniture while speaking curtly to my dog when no one else is in the room. She got her shots, threw some punches (at me) and we got out of there for the mere cost of a car payment.

IMG_7749.JPG

Blanche showing off her lady beard. She resembles a Dr. Seuss creation.

It Burns!

Standard
It Burns!

Midlife has a way of saying f*ck you on a daily basis. Today I woke up and the right side of my neck hurts, bad. Don’t know why, perhaps I slept on it wrong, angered the midlife Gawds, total mystery. I recently gave up sugar for Lent and I’m pretty sure I’ve gained weight (dafuq?). I’m not trying to stop the age train, I would like to slow it down.

If you’re like me, you still have kids at home and at least one elderly relative to check in on. Midlife is a balancing act on all fronts. Drifting away from our younger years and aware that things will likely deteriorate at some point. There’s a constant stream of advertising that comes your way via mail, telemarketing calls and those damn pop up ads that have a direct connection to my thoughts (Minority Report anyone?). The general message is you’re getting old, no need to look that way, we can fix it!

The messaging isn’t subtle. The day you turn 50 I guarantee AARP will send you something to acknowledge it and say “join us, we’re going to age gracefully with vigor like some Stepford midlifer”, it’s implied. Step off AARP, I’m not interested. In my brain I think I look 35, the mirror on the other hand, tells a different story. Today I went for another consultation to see about minimizing the bags that have taken up residency under my eyes. If you follow my blog (and thank you if you do), you may remember another recent consultation Work it (or Not)

I arrived at Les Crap of Zee Bull (not the actual name, it was equally French and fancy) eager to see what non surgical options could fix this mess. I was whisked upstairs to the waiting salon by a 20 something staff member. She did the obligatory model hand wave toward the refreshment table and promptly got me a questionnaire to fill out. I may have lied about my weight on the form, that is classified and it’s going to the grave with me. I filled out the form and waited.

While I was waiting I noticed a client who was sitting across the room with an ice pack on her face, she may have been writhing in pain or perhaps she had to pee. There was a water wall in front of me which made me think there was no way I could afford this place. I texted my friend Kristy about the water wall and she suggested that it was there to muffle the screams. She attended a prestigious university and studied science so maybe she’s on to something.

After a few minutes of listening to the melodious splash I had an urge to go. On the way to the bathroom I walked past a ginormous advertisement which proudly displayed several large photos of before and after ass pictures. In that moment I was grateful that I didn’t have an issue with my backside because the idea of having my before and after ass on display was a little too much to bare (intentional typo calm down grammar nerds).

Things didn’t improve in the bathroom. Everything was fine until I went to wash my hands. I got some soap and waved my hand under the faucet, nothing happened. I did the magic wand wave a few more times, approaching from different angles, adjusting the speed in the hopes that water would be released, nope. I looked at the faucet for clues, nothing emerged, it just stared back at me with a steely gaze, unyielding. There were no handles, no sensors, nothing obvious. After approximately 90 seconds of me waving hands frantically and muttering  “Oh for f*ck sake!” repeatedly, I figured it out. The cube at the top of the faucet pushed up to release water. I did have to chant (thanks for that tip Paul) and wiggle my ears while simultaneously applying enormous pressure in an upward motion to get it to work. Nevertheless, I emerged with an empty bladder and clean hands.

IMG_7743.JPG

Sure it looks simple enough. Trust me without the chanting, ear wiggling and upward motion, total desert.

A few minutes after that ridiculousness, I was ushered into an exam room by a pleasant middle aged woman with a stylish hair cut and cute glasses. Did I mention that I came from the gym so I was sweaty, potentially smelly, not even a hint of make up and my hair was dripping with sweat? My new friend put down a cloth barrier on the chair that I was later guided to sit on. I’d like to think they do that for all the clients….in retrospect, I’m not so sure. I was also told to remove my hat which was providing shelter for my sweaty pony tail so you know, sexy as hell.

She asked me why I was there and I told her. A few minutes later a nurse practitioner came in the room and asked the same questions I just answered. She gave me a hand held mirror to hold while she pressed on various parts of my face to demonstrate how fillers could possibly help. The lighting in there wasn’t doing me any favors, I felt like a vampire seeing the sun for the first time, it burns! Let’s just say the nurse was honest, brutally honest. The take away was “Honey, we can’t fix that. Go back to the surgeon or else you’ll waste gobs of money and be miserable.” So, that went well at least it was a free consultation – free of dignity, confidence, pride, ego, totally free. I may just get a stylish hair cut and some cute glasses.

 

 

Twit, Follow Me @thebrycewarden

Standard
Twit, Follow Me @thebrycewarden

Hello friends, I wanted you all to know that I have won a very prestigious award. No, no, it’s not one of those tag “you’re it” posts when I assign you homework. Those are fun and educational…this is from the Twitter. You know something is super important if there is a preceding “the”.

Now let’s be honest, I’m a lifelong card carrying Luddite, I do not embrace new technology. And by new, I mean any technological advances in the 21st century. My technical skills fall somewhere between infant and hard core Amish. Practically a blank slate over here.

It being early January, I am trying for the best version of myself. I’m not giving up eating so I had to find something…so let’s get better at the Twitter. Yesterday I engaged in a bit of banter and stumbled upon a contest for “fledglings” defined as Twitter accounts with less than two thousand followers. As it happens, I am slightly under that threshold, by slightly, I mean to say I am approximately 1,750 shy of 2,000 followers. So you know, a few shy (Warning Shameless Plug: please follow me @thebrycewarden and maybe tell your friends).

Anyhow these lovely people @The_Fledglings have weekly contests where you can comment with an original non-assholish tweet to throw your hat in the virtual ring. The idea is to grow your followers. Of course my first attempt at this was a fail because you know, Amish. I did a screenshot of my tweet and dropped it in the comments. The kind people informed me that I needed to drop a link and they even had a tutorial for idiots like me who need a tutor for Twitter. Twelve short hours later, I finally followed the rules and linked my tweet.

You guys…I’m a FLEDGLINGS WINNER! I am almost embarrassed at how happy this makes me, almost.

IMG_7553.PNG

 

Thanks for Asking

Standard
Thanks for Asking

The idea for this post came from the talented, fierce and very funny, Janelle Hanchett. Somehow she accepted my Facebook friend request a few years ago and by some miracle she hasn’t unfriended me yet. Anyhoo, Janelle posted a completely made up Q & A as supplemental material for her paperback. Of course it was funny because she’s awesome like that. And I discovered that we both like Ginger Beer (calm down it’s not actually beer, we’re sober gals). Here’s a link to her book and in full disclosure, I get nothing but good vibes for the mention. I’m Just Happy to Be Here

I read her Facebook post and thought, I can take that and turn it into a blog post because I’m apparently too lazy to write an actual book. So I’m going to one up my girl Janelle and have a fake book (kind of fake, actually it’s a partially finished book) to go along with my quasi fake book’s Q & A. I will refer to my imaginary interviewer as “Skip” and I will respond as Super Cringe.

Skip: Thanks for taking time from your world wide book tour to talk to me. Might I add that you look amazing and I’m a major fan (wink).

Super Cringe: My pleasure Skip. I had some time to kill before my private jet leaves for Copenhagen so why the hell not. Fire away Skipper.

Skip: Great let’s dive in…so where did you get the idea for Super Cringe?

Super Cringe: The idea sprang from a text exchange with my teen daughter who responded to one of my texts with Super Cringe there was also an Ewwww implied but not included in the text. I could hear the audible eye roll even though we were at least 12 miles apart, her eye roll game is really strong. I thought wouldn’t it be fun to create a character named Super Cringe.

Skip: So you decided to turn your daughter’s insult into the anti heroine Super Cringe, is that correct?

Super Cringe: B-I-N-G-O Skippy!

Skip: Wow, that’s kind of brilliant.

Super Cringe: Is it? I hadn’t really noticed but these books are flying off the shelf so….holds palms and head up toward sky with an exaggerated shrug-sigh.

Skip: How did you find the time to write Super Cringe? I hear you have a small business and that you volunteer regularly in addition to your family obligations.

Super Cringe: Oh Skippy, writers don’t “find” time to write, they steal it. Time isn’t hiding in-between couch cushions or stashed in a coat pocket that you forgot about. I had to sneak writing time in…15 minutes here, an hour there. I basically would ignore my children when they begged for food and/or attention, my husband and dog were neglected, that’s the writer’s way.

Skip: Aside from being on every major best-selling book list on earth, is there something else you wish to accomplish with this book?

Super Cringe: Of course Skipper…I mean being a best-selling globe trotting author is fantastic, it’s a dream come true. However, there are more important matters. I would love for this book to open a space where people can come together, see that they have more in common, find the sweet spot of humanity. World peace would be great….(whispers) f*cking world peace from Super Cringe (stares off for a minute, slowly nods head).

Skip: Um, Super Cringe, you with me…

Super Cringe: Apologies, I was just visualizing world peace. I also wouldn’t mind if this book got me back the body I had at 28 Skip, I mean that was a damn good year. And being able to eat whatever I wanted without consequence, pass the Oreos.

Skip: (Nervous laugh) So getting back to the book…it’s basically your life with some of the more cringe-worthy bits highlighted.

Super Cringe: That’s right Skip, I own my cringe.

Skip: Fascinating, do you have another book in you?

Super Cringe: Well I haven’t stopped my cringe-worthy ways so I suspect this may become a series. Stay tuned.

 

 

 

* Featured art is by Lisa McMillen of http://www.cicalisadesigns.com/

Eighth Grade, a Movie Review

Standard
Eighth Grade, a Movie Review

Tonight I went to see ‘Eighth Grade’ written and directed by Bo Burnham. I went with two eighth graders so naturally I was sitting in a completely different section of the theater by myself with my mom shield around me. No one got within 10 feet of me, the leg room was amazing and I didn’t have to share popcorn, not all bad.

This is a coming-of-age story in a modern setting. Social media, selfies, the isolation of adolescence are portrayed in a poignant and realistic manner. The movie follows the main character, Kayla (played masterfully by Elsie Fischer), through her last week of eighth grade.

A lot of territory is covered in this movie – the slippery slope of acting like you have more experience than you do, the panic of walking into a party, the social hierarchy of middle school, apologizing for things that aren’t your fault and the tension between parents and teens in this phase of life.

The movie is well done and some of the scenes are so realistic you will cringe. The one bit I had a hard time believing was how nice one high school character was portrayed. Another scene riled up the momma bear in me, opportunists are everywhere.

The part that bothered me most though was the active shooter drill and the shelter in place scenes. As a mother of two teens, that was a punch in the gut. Googling blow jobs, practicing on bananas, being around peers that act like assholes, that’s the normal stuff of adolescence, active shooter drills are a new sad necessity.

It was a great movie and provided a lot of opportunities for talking points (once the friend got dropped off). I recommend it for ages 13 and up, not appropriate for younger kids.

 

 

 

Photo credit: Copyright: <a href=’https://www.123rf.com/profile_thandra’>thandra / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

I Might Be Terrible

Standard
I Might Be Terrible

I’ve been doing cringe worthy crap my entire life. This week has been off the chart, here’s a recap:

Last night I was in a doctor’s office with my daughter. She needed to get an X-ray. I saw a close friend with her daughter also waiting for an appointment. Instead of just saying hi like a normal person. I go over and say “What are you in for?” because people love to announce their private medical concerns in a crowded waiting room. I might be terrible.

One evening at bedtime my daughter mentioned that she has fears of someone breaking in and killing everyone. She asked if I would run in and rescue her. I said, “Hell no, I’ll be running for my life. You’re smallish, hide in a closet, play possum, figure it out.” Now I’m wondering if we should just put her college fund toward therapy. Probably terrible.

A dear friend has been dealing with a kid with a foot injury. Her kid is pretty delicate so the pain tolerance level is – butterfly kisses chafe. One morning this week she was trapped in bed with her tween, afraid of waking her daughter if she moved. I don’t know how long she was pinned, arm going numb as her bladder begged to be emptied. Most parents have been held hostage in this way – desperate to escape, afraid to rouse the sleeping child.

The injury happened over the weekend and the effects lingered for several days. She kept her daughter home from school on Monday, concerned that she wouldn’t be able to use the bathroom without assistance. Later that day she sent me a picture of the balloon animals they made out of an excess of desperate boredom. I texted her…If your kid can make a G-D balloon dog she can pull up elastic pants, that’s all I’m sayin’. My friend insisted the issue was with putting weight on her injured foot, but still…moderately terrible.

balloon.png

This is the balloon animal my friend made. It appears to have some kind of balloon animal medical issue. I don’t know what it is exactly but my visceral reaction is concern for the balloon and my friend.

I was assisting an 80 year old client with bathing this week. Three minutes into the bath she mentioned that she felt an urge to go. I may have said “please don’t sh*t in the tub” repeatedly under my breath. She has really good hearing. Sh*t in the tub is a horror show so, probably not so terrible.

This weekend I accidentally took my son’s phone. Not too terrible, EXCEPT when he suggested that I might have accidentally picked it up and I immediately dismissed the idea. In fact my husband and I thought that perhaps our son was scared that he lost the phone and was desperate for a scapegoat. Then my husband and son searched the path of a walk they took the prior evening (the search took place in cold, rainy conditions because of course it did). Approximately an hour later the phone was found in my car. Clearly my son’s suspicions were proved correct. Moderately terrible, I apologized.

I was catching up with some volunteer work the other day. To be honest, I’ve wanted to “retire” from this particular project but the benefits are so good it’s hard to walk away. That’s a joke the benefits are a significant loss of personal time, a severe lack of appreciation and agita. I was emailing another volunteer and she was getting a bit testy with me. I decided to use the exchange as a writing prompt and somehow managed to send her a text with my observations which I intended to flesh out into a fictitious blog post. Bottom line is I hurt the other person’s feelings. So I’m terrible AND an idiot. I apologized, definitely terrible.

DarfZ-SUwAAcmgD.jpg

From this day forward, all the sh*t that goes sideways will be known as a writing prompt. What terrible cringey things have you done this week?

I leave you with this gem – How to Make a Balloon Poop Emoji –