Thursday, January 04, 2007
Thursday (late) 13 - Potpourrhea
My mom pronounces "potpourri" as "potpourrhea," which rhymes with "diarrhea," which, if you chop up 13 brain snippets and swirl them all together in your post, could be construed as "blog potpourrhea."
13. I have learned that the source of my eye misery is most likely not dust, the bane of my existence, but protein build-up on my contact lenses: Giant Papillary Conjunctivitis (GPC), a type of allergic reaction, usually to protein deposits on contact lenses. Basically, the optometrist flipped my eyelids up like kids do on the school playground and found lots of white bumps, to which she guardedly reacted, "Oh myyyyy." Therefore, I have now been OK'd for daily disposables, which will be in January 8th.
Exhibit A: Sad, allergy eye Exhibit B: Happy Eye, even though 44 yrs. old with crow's feet
12. The bane of my mom's existence is her hair, or lack thereof. Lately, she has been on a hairpiece kick, which means, she's not sure she wants one, but is in research mode. This includes more "legwork" than that of a private eye, and it also includes me. We have gone to two places and are headed to one Saturday called, "The Wiggery." Catchy name. The thing is, she doesn't need a hairpiece, but she works so hard at fluffing it up to make her hair appear thicker that her hair has become like a spiteful conjoined twin that she constantly disciplines in private so that it will behave in public. But once in public, everyone compliments her conjoined, evil twin. She smiles at the compliments but secretly hates the twin and would like to strangle it. I am working to bring peace between my mom and her hair. This is a battle older than the Middle East Conflict.
11. Yesterday I went back to work after two weeks' vacation. I had 539 emails.
10. Some of those messages were SPAM, but not all. My daughter and I like to keep track of the best SPAM names sent to us. My all-time favorite is Scooter Sousa. He sounds like a character on a kids' TV show, a scooter-riding sousaphone player.
09. A typical message on my voice mail at work: [static, static, noise, dropping receiver kind of noise, static] "Uh, who is this? [pause] Uh, is this 180? [pause] Could you tell me if you have a bus to my neighborhood? I need a ride. [pause] I was just wondering. [pause] Call me." [click]
08. My mean thought-response: "I'll check with Santa or Jesus to find out your name and what neighborhood you live in, and I'll research the church's phone records to retrieve your number and call you back. I'm all over this; don't worry--there may be 100,000 kids in this city, but I'm gonna find you, doggone it."
07. Hypothetical but typical parental response of above caller: "I hate that church. They are not friendly and would not give my kid a ride when I made him call to ask for one. What kind of youth program hates kids? I'll tell you: a cult. Hypocrites!"
06. My dog is tiny. She poops little Tootsie Rolls and pees little spots, but pees a lot. Today my son's friend came to pick him up. The visitor patted this--big mistake--submissive, cowering little dog. She produced a puddle, and before I could say, "No!" she immediately ran under a kitchen chair into the corner of the room and stood there like people used to punish kids.
05. I have not heard from my daughter who is still in Mexico. Why is my child torturing me? Why doesn't she email or call? Even when I was in Kazakhstan, of all places, at least once I had access to the Internet. That was the other side of the planet, for Pete's sake. Would it be so hard to shoot off the message: "I'm alive and have not drunk the water, been kidnapped, gotten sunburned, landed in a Mexican jail, or eaten too many tamales. Although I have managed sufficiently here, I have not been totally OK without you; I still need you a little bit in my life, Mother, goodbye."
04. I am reading too many southern bloggers and am now hearing your voices in my head when I write, but it doesn't translate well into my Yankee vernacular: "I'm just sayin' . . . y'all won't believe . . . I can hear. your. pregnant. pauses. . . You know I love me some good ... chili with macaroni in it."
03. Yesterday I decided on the spur of the moment, because that's just so much my personality, to make a new recipe purported on the bag to be simple and fast. I haven't been enduring Rachael Ray's honking for years for nothing; I was ready. Almost. It called for: canned chicken, frozen mixed vegetables, brown gravy mix, and biscuit topping (supposed to be a chicken pot pie sort of thing). I almost had the ingredients. I made substitutions: Thawed and boiled chicken (not exactly a fast process), California mixed vegs, not the little cubed ones, white instead of brown gravy mix, and stuffing instead of biscuits on top. Well, necessity is the mother of invention. And this was the mother of badly improvised dishes.
02. I decided to go ahead and go to the grocery today, since I'm all out of substitutions now. First on my list: bats. I decided to by baseball bats for my kids. Not for sport but for emergency exits from bedroom windows should there be a fire. We have an elaborate secrity/fire alarm system, but I just keep imagining them going to their doors and seeing smoke under and feeling hot door knobs . . . so they're getting bats. "Merry late Christmas. Don't die."
01. My son has declared that he would like to attend the same private university as the daughter who is in Me-hee-co. Great university. Expensive university. Sometimes you think, "Is it really worth it?" On one of his forms, a question was, "What do you hope to achieve at your A.U. experience?" What a loaded question, and a tough one for a boy who answers most questions with, "I can bench press that." He said, "I want to attain a b.s. degree in athletic training to prepare me for a graduate degree in physical therapy, and I want to mature spiritually at A.U." My mother's heart leapt for joy. He's going. I have happy eyes, behind the dollar signs.