No Cause for Alarm

My mother always qualifies bad news with a statement like, "Now, I want you to know that there is no cause for alarm, but . . . "

It is her heart's desire that, whenever possible, she not cause undue stress. Usually she'll go on to tell me that a family member is in the hospital, but regardless of whether they are awaiting an organ transplant or having their appendix removed, there is no cause for alarm. I'll bet even if she had firsthand knowledge of our imminent nuclear demise, my mom would say, "Rima, I don't want you to worry, but . . . you are going to die in fifteen seconds."

I got a call from my mom on Friday afternoon. There was no cause for alarm, but my dad was in the hospital. There was no cause for alarm, but he had gone to the doctor's after experiencing chest pain and the doctor had sent him straight to the cardio ICU. Also, he went by ambulance. They're about to do a heart catheterization - she'll call me back as soon as she knows something, there's no cause for alarm.

It turns out my dad had a heart attack, but he was very lucky - the blockage wasn't in any major arteries and he didn't need bypass surgery. In fact, my dad was insisting that he could have driven to the hospital himself. When I went to see him later that night, he was having dinner and looking very nearly like his usual spry self. By Sunday afternoon, he was pacing the halls with his IV pole in tow and wearing street clothes under his hospital gown to indicate discharge preparedness.

He's home now, feeling fine, and looking into heart healthy menu options he can live with. There was no cause for alarm. Except, of course, during those long hours on Friday afternoon when I started imagining a world without my father in it.

My, What Thick Corneas You Have

Last week, I went for a preliminary evaluation to see if I'm a candidate for laser eye surgery.

First they had me fill out a questionnaire explaining why I wanted it. I knew I couldn't write "I hate my f*ck#ng glasses," so instead I talked about how they interfered with my quality of life. My glasses are making me fat by impeding my ability to participate in contact and water sports! I live in fear of being trapped in a burning building if I had to escape quickly and couldn't locate them! Also, they make it difficult to watch TV while lying sideways on the couch.

Not five minutes after I'd handed in my essay (did they read it?), a technician invited me back for a battery of tests. I had made the first cut! For the next hour and a half, that technician poked and prodded me. She had me follow a pinprick of light with my eyes, took pictures from different angles, and shot puffs of air into my eyeballs at random intervals, then snickered when I recoiled. (Optometrists get their kicks from administering the glaucoma test, apparently.) But we had a rapport, the tech and I, and felt certain that by the end of our time together, she would present a glowing recommendation to the surgeon.

When I finally went in to meet him, the surgeon started in on the old "good news and bad news" speech, but I cut him off at the pass.

"Give it to me straight, doc."

"Well, you're a . . .reasonable candidate. I like the thickness of your corneas and your pupils dilate beautifully, but . . . [whips out thermal relief map of my eyeballs and furrows brow in concern] there is a bit of dryness I'd like to remedy before going forward," he confided, pointing his laser at some suspicious yellow areas.

He assured me that he'd performed the surgery with great success on many, many people with my exact profile, but since most peoples' eyes become more dry for up to a year afterwards, it's a good idea to "get a handle on the dry eye" before proceeding. Also, there is no way to tell for sure how much drier my eyes will become post surgery and whether or not the condition would be permanent. Still, I left with a prescription for Re$ta$i$ and a tentative surgery date in early June, which I plan on canceling at the last minute.

Then I went home and spent way too much time surfing Lasik message boards, reading posts about Lasik disasters from people with screen names like, "Keep Your Glasses" and "Lasik Ruined My Life." Who I'm assuming got the two-for-one special at Lasers-R-Us and not the Cleveland Clinic Cole Eye Center, but still. I find this "reasonable candidate" business disturbing.

What to do? And who will win: my vanity, or the Internet doomsayers?

The Tooth Fairy is an Irresponsible Slacker

After weeks of persistent nudging, the V-meister finally wiggled her first tooth free very early one morning last week. Very early.

Because the ragged little pearl was presented to me in bed a mere four hours after I had finally fallen asleep for the night, it was difficult to muster up the enthusiasm I'd always planned to display upon such a momentous occasion. My morning breath and I congratulated V-meister as heartily as we could, advised her to keep the tooth safe for the Fairy, and gave a brief lecture on the importance of going back to sleep.

The V-meister and her tooth climbed in beside me.

"Are you sure you don't want to put that tooth on the nightstand?" I urged, eyeing the impossibly tiny specimen my daughter held precariously between two fingers. No. The tooth would remain in V-meister's possession, and she would hand it off to the Fairy herself.

Soon it became apparent that the V-meister, who was trying to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible, was expecting the Tooth Fairy momentarily. Unfortunately, T.F. is union and her shift was over for the night. Also, she'd had a few glasses of wine with dinner and stayed up late watching the Colbert Report. The tooth fairy, I explained, would not be making her appearance just yet, but she would love it if the V-meister tried to lie in bed quietly until the alarm went off.

I rolled over and feigned a deep sleep. Moments later, there was a great rustling of sheets, followed by some scrabbling which robbed me of my covers. Irritated, I drew those covers back over my body in a rough, impatient manner, causing the tooth V-meister had inadvertently dropped somewhere in our king sized bed - and had been desperately trying to locate - to become airborne and land in an undisclosed location. And thus an earnest, yet futile early morning tooth search and recovery mission was launched while a hapless, grief-stricken V-meister looked on.

That evening, the V-meister went to bed toothless on several levels. We assured her that the Tooth Fairy, with her X-Ray vision, would be able to find V-meister's tooth wherever it may be. It was only after she had fallen asleep that P-Dawg finally located the renegade incisor on our bedroom floor. It was too late for V-meister to put it under her pillow, so P-Dawg placed it for safekeeping on top of our dresser, where it was accidentally disposed of during a vigorous dusting session the very next day.

Luckily, we were granted a chance at a do-over when a another tooth jumped ship three days later under our babysitter's watch. She had the foresight to immediately put it in a ziplock baggie and place it directly under V-meister's pillow at bedtime, where it was later spirited away without incident by Alert and Responsive Tooth Fairy.

P-Dawg says that in ten years time V-meister won't give a crap whether I saved her first tooth or not, but I still mourn the one that got away.

Can it Be the J-Dog's Three?

We celebrated the little J-dog's birthday this past weekend - he is three years old now and feels very strongly about things. Don't try to correct him, for example, when he insists that the Senior Transport vehicle in the next lane over is a SkooBus, or that those weeds in the median are not DayfaDales.

Things our newly minted three-year-old enjoys: talking to himself, singing at the top of his lungs, tormenting his sister, headbutting stuff, and being sinfully cute.



The V-meister was more excited about J-dog's birthday than the J-dog himself. She made him a gift back in early March and had it hidden in her closet all this time. It was so long ago, that I thought she'd forget all about it fo' sho, but on the big day, she ran excitedly up to her room and came down proudly bearing a cardboard box with a hand drawn card taped to the top. Inside, wrapped in a baby blanket, was an eyeball creature constructed from Kid Kinex pieces.


V-meister, helping to open the gift.

The J-dog was thrilled. He loves eyeballs. And it was heartwarming to see the V-meister display such tenderness toward her little brother. She's a good kid.


The bequeathing of Eyeball Creature. This picture doesn't quite capture the thrill.


Not sure what's going on in this one. An appendage re-insertion of some sort?

J-dog got a little stressed out when presented with his lit birthday cake, but was more than happy to eat it once all the singing/wishing/blowing formalities had been dispensed with. He is pictured here with his cake and best friend:


"OMGWTF"

One of his other birthday presents was a set of musical hand bells (if you are thinking of purchasing some for the three-year-old in your life, might I suggest that you not?) Although they are not being employed to make beautiful music, they do have some good uses.

Whenever I start obsessing about swine flu, the P-Dawg jangles the G chime directly into my ear. He's also taken to using bell therapy when one of the kids doesn't immediately respond to a request. You'd be surprised how hard it is to stay focused on despair or dawdle at bedtime when someone is all up in your face with a hand bell. And for what it's worth, the P-Dawg has told me it's not a pandemic until he says so.

Hell's Bells


P.S. I noticed that someone from Flippin, Arkansas visited my blog yesterday! I LOVE flippin' Arkansas!!!

I Am a Card Carrying Curmudgeon

I always thought a trip to the zoo meant shuffling obediently from one wildlife habitat to the next, whining about having to go to the bathroom, and begging for a Sno-Cone. But now they've made it all fun and stuff, with rides and jungle gyms and a Ben & Jerry's stand every twenty feet. I don't know where they put the elephants.

We went last week and instead of feigning interest in some impossibly far off and partially obscured animals, J-dog and V-meister spent the afternoon frolicking and running away from me in the labyrinth-like play area. There was a jungle gym, a five-hundred foot long tunnel slide, and a swamp with a mechanical alligator that would periodically lunge out of the water to give me a heart attack.

But I had driven across town, parked three time zones away, and spent a bazillion dollars for an EDUMACATIONAL FIELD TRIP. We were going to see some animals if it was the last thing we ever did.

We located the "African Savannah" habitat and while I made a great show of ooo-ing and ah-ing over some baby giraffes, the V-meister fiddled with the brakes on J-dog's stroller and asked if it was time for ice cream yet. We got Sno-Cones and ate them near the "Savannah". While my daughter was busy trying to jerry-rig a coin operated view-finder, a flesh and blood giraffe walked by right under her unsuspecting nose.

Before I knew it, it was time to go home.

But I remember when the zoo was a place where you went just to see some animals and maybe climb on the big boulder over by the primate house. The gift shop was nothing but a tiki hut where they sold T-shirts, bumper stickers, and the occasional troll pencil. I also remember a time when the childrens' section at my local library had more books than toys, and when my backyard entertainment consisted of a ball, some dirt, and my own spit. And I think there's something to be said for that.

I'll bet my local art museum is the only holdout without an interactive "kid zone," a place where you might actually get Tasered for climbing into a display. And I rather like that. Because I don't think we're doing our children any favors by manufacturing all of their fun.

I Don't See Dead People, But I Wish I Would

I subscribe to a daily writing prompt, but I never do it. Putting that much thought into what I'm going to say, rather than just writing about my supermarket trials and tribulations, causes nervous beads of sweat pop out all over my brow. Today's prompt, however, was to write about what I'd like to dream tonight, and I didn't have to think much about this one at all - I want to dream my grandmother. But I don't just want to dream about her, I . . . want her to visit.

There have been many reminders of the transiency of souls lately, in real life and on the Internet. Consequently, as I always do at times like these, I've been ruminating about the sweet hereafter. I like to think that I don't need hard, empirical evidence of an afterlife, but I often find myself seeking out hints. I've been devouring books - about people who've had experiences that help them believe, and about NDEs (Near Death Experiences), during which individuals claim to have physically died and gone, if only for a moment, to another place which confirmed (for them) that there is something more.

I think it's fascinating. And while I'm inclined to believe that some of these experiences are drug induced or fabrications, I think that many are authentic. And I get a little jealous. Because I've been waiting for a dead person to visit me for years. (Just kidding! But not really.) When I've really looked, I have picked up on signs that help me believe. There are things that have happened surrounding the deaths of my grandparents and uncle which, if I detailed them here for you, would seem inconsequential, but have proven mystical for me. Alas, I can't say that I've ever glimpsed anything truly otherwordly, and I just want a little peek beyond the Veil.

Have you ever felt the presence of a loved one who has died in a dream? Have you had any experiences that have given you good goosebumps? I'd like to hear about them.

I'll Take That as a Complement

I always wore glasses as a kid. And I'm fairly certain that my gargantuan, chablis-tinted plastic frames, coupled with a short, cross-gender haircut - which I liked to wear feathered and parted straight down the middle (not pictured) - were my main obstacles to social superstardom.

Ninth grade saw salvation and gradual peer acceptance in the form of contact lenses, the kind that would routinely pop out as I went about my daily business. Still, rooting around the bathroom floor searching for your contacts beat the hell out of getting stuffed into your locker by Frank Snodgrass.

Alas, my glasses reprieve was short lived. They served me well through high school and college, then all of a sudden*, I just couldn't wear them comfortably anymore. I haven't worn them regularly for over ten years now, and it really chaps my hide. Because even though I have a decent pair of virtually weightless Swiss specs that are the least obvious pair of glasses I've ever owned, they still give me a bit of a complex. Whatever! Things could be worse.

Every once in awhile, I'll put in my daily wear disposable contacts on the off chance that my dessicated, renegade eyeballs decide to cooperate, but it's usually only a matter of hours before I peel them off and flush them down the toilet in disgust. I had them in today, and as I was going through the supermarket checkout line, the cashier says to me:

"You have such a pretty face!"

Me (blushing): "Oh! Thanks!"

Cashier (recognizing me as a regular customer): "You usually wear glasses, don't you?"

Me: "Um, yeah. I have my contacts in today."

Cashier: "It makes a huge difference in your appearance."

Me: "Uh, thanks."

Cashier: "Just lovely."

Me: "Yeah, I'd wear them more often if they weren't so uncomfortable, you know what I mean?"

Cashier: "Such a pretty face . . . Hey, Carl! (to bagger) Take a look at this young lady, don't you think the contacts really make a difference?"

Carl: "Oh, yes! Very nice!"

Cashier: "She usually wears glasses."

Carl (contorting face in disapproval): "I see."

Cashier (shaking head): "You should wear your contacts more often. It's a shame."

Me: "Thank you."

Cashier: "No, really, I mean it."

Me: "Okay, thanks."

Cashier: "Have a nice day."

Then me and my beautiful visage hightailed it outta there before the stroke of noon, when I was scheduled to morph back into a bespectacled hag.


* Following a recurring, untreated case of conjunctivitis that may or may not have been triggered by poor contact lens hygiene habits.


"Beauty"


"Beast"

Refined, with a Hint of Ridiculous

We had some friends over for pizza and wine last weekend. In preparation for his former med school buddy and fellow wine enthusiast's visit, the P-Dawg purchased a host of gadgetry, including something called a "wine aerator" with a "de-sedimenting sleeve."

While we mothers buzzed around, breaking up toddler scuffles and cutting pizza into bite-sized pieces, the two men stood around our kitchen island sniffing, swirling, and sampling vintages. They marveled at the supreme filtration capacity of Dan's french pewter aerating and decanting funnel, and every once in awhile, one of them would gaze out the window and say in all seriousness, "This is nicely structured, though lightly acidic." Or, "This is compact, yet surprisingly supple." And, "I'm picking up some lavender with a hint of candy corn."

There was a large wine encyclopedia open on the counter, and the P-Dawg and his buddy would periodically access it for detailed information about the bouquet, maturation, and characteristics of the vintage being imbibed. A different type of glass was used for each selection sampled, and in between flights, the P-Dawg and his friend rinsed their empty goblets with palate cleansing sparkling water.

The two of them almost keeled over dead when I filled a glass that had previously contained zinfandel to the brim with pinot noir and gulped it down between brownie bites. "Yeah, this is pretty good!"

"Hey, how come you guys aren't having any dessert?" I demanded of the P-Dawg. "Betty Crocker an insult to your discriminating palate?"

"Maybe."

"Wine snob!"

The P-Dawg sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "If I were a wine snob, Rimarama, I would have done a blind tasting and de-salinated the goblets."

(Duh.)