I Would Like My Pellet Now, Please

I finally got my paws on some H1N1 vaccine, and all I had to do was pimp myself out for science.

I'm participating in an H1N1 vaccine study which aims to prove that a smaller dose of vaccine, when administered along with a type of protein that helps the body build up its immune system, works just as well as a full dose. I don't know if I'm in the treatment or control group, but the P-Dawg assures me that I did get some amount of FDA approved H1N1 vaccine.

And all I had to do was sign a fifteen page release form, obtain a physical, take a pregnancy test, disclose what form of birth control I'm using, promise not to get knocked up in the next year, have three vials of blood drawn and swear to return every month for the next six months to have it drawn again, take my temperature every night for the next week, and agree to keep a "flu journal" in the event I get sick.

Plus, I get paid three hundred smackers for my trouble. Which won't help me when I'm dead, but will buy me several dinners out.

I got vaccinated yesterday morning, and last night I started worrying that I might die felt slightly achy.

"P-Dawg, I feel kind of crappy. How soon would a person know if she was coming down with Guillain-Barré Syndrome?"

"About two to six weeks, I guess. Are you planning on getting Guillain-Barré?"

I made him promise that if I didn't wake up the next morning, he'd burn my diaries and go through my blog to delete any swear words or references to my mother, and then I went up to bed.

This morning I feel fine. You can thank me next year, when there's enough vaccine to go around as a direct result of my selfless dedication to medical research.

(That, or lay flowers on my grave. No carnations, please.)

Frisky

I had to get a CT scan* today and even though I was very cooperative, it made me think fondly of the time when, six weeks into my first pregnancy, I refused to go through the airport metal detector.

It doesn't make much sense in retrospect, but I wasn't 100% clear on how those things worked. I was convinced that passing under the metal detector would somehow result in trauma to the unborn V-meister, and, like wine, caffeine, pain killers, hot baths, lunch meat, hair dye, lying on my stomach, and riding roller coasters, was to be avoided at all costs.

"Excuse me, but I'm pregnant?" I said to the security officer. "And I really don't think I should walk under that thing. It might not be safe at this critical stage of gestation, you know what I mean?"

He gave me a weary once over while I tried to pooch out my first trimester belly.

"Lady, I guarantee the metal detector won't hurt your baby, but if you want, you can have a manual search over there," he said, indicating a female security officer standing a few feet away.

I shuffled over.

"Hi! I'm six weeks pregnant and would like a manual weapons search, please."

The female security officer gave me a look that had, "Bitch, please" written all over it. As it happened, she was pregnant, too, and she passed under the metal detector like twenty times a day.

I gave her a look that plainly said, "Good luck with your three-headed baby." I wanted that manual weapons search, and I wanted it bad.

The two of us engaged in a little staredown, and then I had the distinct pleasure of getting frisked by a hugely pregnant, hormonal, and very pissed off airport security officer.

So, I saved the V-meister from being born with an extra toe, but later on I accidentally ate a hot dog and negated the whole damn thing.


*No cause for alarm. Even though I'm feeling much better now that the Q-Tip debris has been removed, my ENT wanted to get a look at my sinuses, which are still kind of wonky.

Party at the Pediatrician's

One of my most abhorred parental-type tasks is taking the kids to the pediatrician. (It's possible the pediatrician is not crazy about seeing me, either.)

I remember how much I hated going as a kid, how I'd all but start convulsing on the spot every time my mom would announce it was time for the yearly checkup, and I just want to spare the J-dog and V-meister the pain.

But I also want to spare them a lifetime of negative associations with doctors' offices and their own father's profession, so if you can ignore me while I wipe down the magazine table with my handy-dandy anti-bacterial cloths, I'll make a great show of being the very picture of maternal composure - like a soccer mom on a trivial errand! - even though my internal voice is screaming "ZOMG kids, let's get the H-E-double hockey stick outta here!"

I'm the mom who backs into the office without touching the doorknob. If the J-dog or V-meister so much as think about grazing a surface contaminated with critters of any kind (and aren't they all?), I'm up in there with my trial size bottle of Purell faster than you can say "Bubonic Plague."

So the V-meister had her yearly check-up today, where she was the epitome of pediatric health and decorum, answering all of Dr. W's questions clearly and succinctly, acing her hearing and vision tests, and enduring two mean booster shots (which she insisted on watching) with nary a flinch. My heart swelled inside of my chest cavity, popped right out onto the floor and bounced into the hallway.

But now that she's five and knows all, I had an internal debate on whether I should give her advanced warning about the shots that she would be getting. As a child, I remember Them springing shots on me without any advance notice, as if this would somehow lessen the blow, and I remember being positively incensed about it. Not only did it hurt like a mother, but it was the seventies, man, and they gave us those shots in the hiney. I'm not saying I wouldn't have carried on as though I were being skinned alive if they'd given me a heads up, I'm just sayin' "respect."

So just when the V-meister thought she was home free, I told her about the certain doom ahead. I said that yes, it would hurt for once second per shot and she could squeeze my arm and yell "Ouch!" as loudly as she wanted to.

And she said, "No thank you, I don't want any shots today," but acquiesced once I explained the cost-benefit involved in getting pinched in the arm a few times versus coming down with measles, mumps, or rubella. Plus, I was totally blocking the exit.

We both left today's appointment relatively unscathed. I'm glad I told the little V-meister she would be getting shots because it made it possible for her to look those bad boys in the eye and say, "Bring it, mofos."

But I'm not entirely certain that I've been forgiven, because she just came inside from raking leaves with her dad, set a bottle full of red winter berries down in front of me, and said, "Mama, I picked these poison berries for your birthday next year."

The Dental Hygienist Makes a Liar Out of Me

The Scene: Afternoon, the dentist's office. Having called in sick for her last two appointments, Rimarama has dragged herself in for her twice yearly cleaning.

Hygienist: "Wow, it's been awhile since we've seen you, Rima!"

Rimarama: "I know! I was sick!" (not really)

Hygienist, stabbing at patient's gums with pick axe: "Oh, I'm sorry! A little tender, there, huh?"

Rimarama: "No problem!" (UR killing me, betch)

Hygienist: "Bit of inflammation around the gums here."

Rimarama: "That's weird! I've been flossing religiously!" (Iz "never" a religionz?)

Hygienist: "Have you been using your electric toothbrush?"

Rimarama: "Yeah! It's great!" (as a toilet scrubber)

Hygienist: "Just make sure you brush for the full two minutes and really get in behind those molars, OK?"

Rimarama: "Absolutely!" (not)

Hygienist: "Well, that about wraps it up for today! Will you be needing a new brush and some floss?"

Rimarama: "Yes!" (no)

Hygienist: "See you in six months!"

Rimarama: "Okey-dokey!" (hell to the no)

It's Like Talking to a Wall

The P-Dawg had elective throat surgery on Friday.

(Who has elective THROAT surgery????)

It is supposed to greatly reduce snoring (awesome) and prevent sleep apnea. According to his surgeon, the P-Dawg is a classic example of someone who, without this cutting edge procedure, would likely end up bald and with a pot belly the size of Texas.

Did you know that people with sleep apnea tend to be overweight because lack of sleep actually produces a hormone of some sort that makes you hungry all the time? I just made up the bald part.

I think the surgeon also said something about Bingo and white socks with black sandals, but by this time I had already slipped him our insurance card and a roll of hundreds. SIGN HIM UP.

The P-Dawg, ever the optimist, was convinced he'd be back in the game in no time at all:

"It's no biggie, Rimster. They just shave off a bit of the soft palate, trim up the old uvula, maybe downsize the tongue by a notch or two. Easy peasy."

It didn't sound quite so innocuous to me.

"Shave off part of the soft palate? What is it, a block of Parmesan?"

But my attention quickly wandered.

"Ooooooooo! You said uvula!!!!!!!!!!!!" Har Har.

Anyway.

Now it's Sunday night and my poor P-Dawg is curled up on the couch, barely able to swallow the dew from the side of his Popsicle.

What's more, he can't talk and this is killing me.

I hope the surgery turns out to be worthwhile, because it sure doesn't look like a whole heck of a lot of fun from where I'm sitting. Please send P-Dawg soothing throat vibes. And don't ever let anyone with a knife near your soft palate. Just sayin'.

In other news, I found out today that the V-meister knows how to count to one hundred, and has for some time.

I heard her talking in her room a good half hour after bedtime and popped in to see what was up.

"Mama, I'm just lying here in my bed, counting to a hundred."

And I was all, "Oh, rilly?"

Because I totally didn't believe her.

But she can, and she did.

It makes me wonder what other skills my children might possess that I know nothing of.

What if the J-Dog is doing quantum physics in his head while playing Legos or launching peas off his high chair tray?

You just never know.