Austin is SO My Son!

Austin texted our family group chat a couple days ago and told us about his day. As I read the account of his morning, I kept thinking - this sounds so familiar. Why does this sound familiar? Oh yeah! Because it sounds exactly like something that would've happened to me, and it sounds just like I would have described it. He is SO my son. I asked him if I could share it here. 

Austin works in the bakery at Publix. He starts work before the sun is up. I would never be able to function on his schedule at all. I'd have stuff like this happen to me daily if I was required to start work at 4:00am!
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So to start my day I went over to the deli department to turn on the fryers so I could use them later. Strangely, they were all unplugged. As I’m squatting down and trying to maneuver around, my pants get a huge rip in the back of my inner thigh. I thought maybe I could use duct tape to fix it. We don’t carry any duct tape. So I grab some heavy duty packing tape. I head to the restroom to try to fix my pants. I set my pants on the counter portion of the sink in the handicap stall. It triggers the sensor and water pours on the crotch area of my pants. Then I find out that the tape doesn’t actually stick to fabric. I then had to just wrap it around in a sweaty tape mess.

What do you think? He could totally ghost write for me, right?

Trying To Be Everywhere At Once And Not Hit Too Many People With My Butt

single mom's brain on any given day

Here's a little math word problem for you. Part A:  If you are at work a half an hour away and Lexi has to be to work at 3:00, Brooklyn has a doctor's appointment at 3:15, and Clay needs to be picked up from his friend's house by 3:00 and then dropped off at the school, you need to pick up a prescription, and you need to mail a book ordered on your Etsy site before the post office closes, how long will it take you to have a nervous breakdown? Part B:  How many glasses of wine will it take to de-stress at the end of the evening?

Here's another one. If Lexi has to be to work at 6:00 and Brooklyn has to be to cheer at 6:00 and Clay has to be to marching band at 6:00, how long will it be until you invent a cloning machine or teleportation device?

With the school year starting next week, the fun of juggling my kids' activities has commenced. Because I'm a single mom, it can be daunting. But because I'm a single mom, I got this! Because that's what single parents do. We're nothing if not master jugglers.

So I'm at a parent meeting for marching band and I'm looking at my watch. I don't actually wear a watch. I have a watch. I have a couple watches. I'm not sure when I stopped wearing them though. I probably stopped wearing a watch when I first got a smart phone. Truly, without my phone, I'd never have a clue what time it is. I also wouldn't ever be able to call anyone. I remember my phone number from when I was a kid. I remember my  high school best friend's parent's phone number. I have no idea what my kids' or parents' phone numbers are now. None. 

I actually looked at my phone to see the time. I don't know why I didn't just write that in the first place. Or use the handy backspace button to change it. Especially when all of this has absolutely nothing to do with my story. I'm beginning to understand why mom used to tell me I had "diarrhea of the mouth" when I was younger.

Anyhoo. So I looked at my phone and realized this was running longer than I'd expected. Both Brooklyn and Lexi would need to be picked up soon. Lexi could hang out at work until I could get there. But Brooklyn's coaches couldn't leave the football field until I'd gotten her and I didn't want to be "that mom." You know, the one who thinks having their kid in a sport equals free babysitting. 

The parent meeting ended and the band assembled in the gym because it was raining. Because it's Florida. And it rains every. single. day. As the front ensemble played what they'd learned in band camp, I frantically texted other parents on Brooklyn's team. Until I realized she didn't have her key and no one was home so even if someone could drop her off, she'd be standing out in the rain until I got home.

The front ensemble concluded their performance and the color guard started. I watched the girls twirl their flags while surreptitiously glancing at the time ticking away on my phone. A running dialogue marched through my brain. Twirl faster. I might be able to make it in time. I'm not going to make it in time. Twirl faster. 

The girls finally finished and the teacher introduced the battery who began to perform. As the drums pounded out a rhythm, I looked at my phone again. Maybe if they're really fast, I can still make it. As long as no one has to wait too long for me to get there . . . Maybe . . . Play faster!

They wrapped up and the winds began to play. I considered finding a metronome app and playing it as loudly as I could at a faster time to speed things along, but A: they were already playing at 160 beats a minute and I didn't want anyone to pass out from playing any faster. And B: no one would've even heard my metronome app over the one the band teacher was playing. And C: that's crazy-person behavior and I really try to downplay the crazy when in public.

I texted Austin and begged him to get the girls so I didn't have to try to maneuver my way out of the packed bleachers in the middle of their performance because crab-walking along the bleachers while smacking people in the face with my big butt didn't sound like fun. And driving in the rain to pick up the girls only to have to turn right around and get Clay and drive back again also didn't sound like fun, partly because I need a new exhaust and you can hear my van from approximately 6 1/2 miles away. I mean, it's super-classy and not at all embarrassing, but still. Then I texted the girls to inform them that I was stuck at the school and Austin was going to pick them up.

When the event ended and Clay and I got into the car, he asked me if I'd recorded it. 

"I'm sorry, Clay. I didn't. I was busy looking for a metronome app."

"What?"

"I said - I was busy texting people, trying to find someone to pick up the girls since this band thing ran longer than I thought it would. I was listening and you guys sounded really awesome! I can't wait to see the whole show put together out on the field where you can march too! But yeah, I was doing some rapid-fire texting, trying to coordinate rides for everyone. Sorry. I did get this mediocre picture of you and your girlfriend though."

Thus is the single mom's life. Running from place to place, trying not to hit people with her butt, and saying, "Sorry" because no matter how hard she tries, she never quite hits the mark. But she tries, and I say that's what counts.

The One In Which I Sweat, Bleed, And Waste Paramedics' Time

I'm on these two diabolical antibiotics for my recent bout of diverticulitis. They make me feel like garbage. I'm dizzy, nauseated, and it perpetually tastes like I've been sucking on a handful of change that's been rolling around in the back of my van. Plus I'm on Coumadin (blood thinners) for life because of my clotting disorder and history of blood clots. And the thing about Coumadin is that everything, everything affects it - medicines you take, food you eat or drink, being sick, everything.

So at school today I got a nosebleed out of nowhere. That indicates to me that my blood may be too thin. It doesn't stop bleeding for some time so I walk to the front office, holding a bloody tissue to my face. The health assistant, the registrar, and the bookkeeper see me, freak out a little, tell me I look like crap, and threaten to call an ambulance. Despite my protests that you don't call an ambulance for a nosebleed, and that antibiotics are the reason I look and feel awful, they continue to beg my permission to call an ambulance so they can ogle the cute paramedics express concern for my well-being. Finally, thinking that maybe the paramedics could check my PT/INR (blood test to check how thin my blood is from the Coumadin), I relent. Well, that and the fact that I was sweating and dizzy and feeling pretty horrible.

So the paramedics arrive, and much to the delight of my co-workers, they're both attractive guys. Fabulous. I explain that I was in the hospital last week and that the antibiotics I'm on are the reason I feel like a shriveled sausage casing filled with the muck that clogs your shower drain.

The one medic agrees that yes, Flagyl is of the devil and will make you feel awful. The other guy gets to work checking my blood sugar, strapping a blood pressure cuff around my arm, and applying stickers to my legs, arms, stomach, chest, face, scalp, and big toe. I'm mortified as he's sticking these leads to my skin because I'm sweating like crazy. My back is stuck to the chair with sweat. Through my shirt. Super classy.


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In the end, it was determined that I was sweaty and disgusting, but I'd live. I started heading back to my classroom as the health assistant came to the determination that she must play matchmaker. 

"What's your number, Dawn? I'm going to give it to that paramedic."
"No."
"Come on. I'm going out there," she said as she grabbed a sticky note and a pen.
"Um still no."
"I'm giving him your number," she trailed off as she headed toward the door.
"What is wrong with you?! No!"

I like to think she's a good-hearted person who just suffers from mental illness.

She actually walked out the door toward the ambulance, so I turned on my heel and headed to my class, confident that she didn't actually have my number. I was wrong. So there's a random paramedic in Orlando who probably thinks that the old, fat, sweaty woman who can't handle antibiotics actually asked the health assistant to give him her number.

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I thought about throat-punching her, but my school has this thing where they frown upon physical violence in the workplace. Plus, if I crushed her trachea, they'd probably call the ambulance back and well, I think I suffered enough embarrassment for one day.

Riding Down A River Of Questions

My phone has been acting all wonky lately and I figure it's only a matter of time until it completely dies so tonight I downloaded over 4000 pictures to my computer. As I was going through and deleting some of them, I ran across the screen shots I took of this conversation between my kids right before spring break. 

[Handy information:  Savannah worked at a water park called Volcano Bay at the time. Austin works at Publix (a grocery store.) Jackson works at a BBQ place. The hand emoji is Austin raising his hand to ask a stupid question. And lastly, they're all insane.]

In the end, we all did get to go to Volcano Bay and Austin did not, in fact wear a Speedo.

The One With The Pain, The Stupid Doctor, And The Beans

Tuesday night I went to bed with some pain in my abdomen, thinking it was just a little gas. Every time I began to doze, the pain awakened me. By the time my alarm went off in the morning, I was wide awake, in horrible pain, running a fever, and fully aware that I was suffering from another bout of diverticulitis. My sixth bout of diverticulitis.

Still, I like to live in complete denial of medical issues so I waited a few hours, convinced that, through sheer willpower, I could stave off an infection. My rising temperature and my inability to stand up straight said otherwise, so around 1:00, I headed to the hospital. Because I believe the medical care down here will kill you is subpar like I wrote in my blog post HERE, I debated where to go. There's only one hospital in Central Florida that I've visited and have not hated with a burning passion, so one would think that I would go to that hospital. But I did not.

Now, I have a reason for this! A perfectly good reason! And that reason makes total sense! Hear me out! I didn't go to the not-horrible good hospital because the emergency department in Winter Garden doesn't have any rooms; it's just an emergency facility. So I came up with the brilliant plan of going there because I knew they couldn't admit me; they'd have to send me on my merry way with a couple prescriptions for antibiotics! That idea was foolproof! Only I didn't take into account the possibility that they'd transfer me to another Florida Hospital.


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A white cell count over 20,000, a fever, and a CT scan showing extensive inflammation earned me a fun little ambulance ride to a larger hospital. The paramedics who transported me were all nice and friendly, but none of them looked like this:

When the hospital sends me a survey about my experience, I have some things to say about that.

A surgeon was called in for consultation. His assessment is that I will continue to have attacks and if I do nothing, it's just a game of Russian roulette until my intestines explode and I need emergency surgery. Although they could have done the surgery while I was in the hospital, the surgeon said I'd be better off waiting 4 to 6 weeks until the infection and inflammation were under control. By waiting, according the surgeon, there's less of a chance of needing a colostomy. I thought that was a great suggestion because it combines two things I love: procrastinating and not pooping in a bag.

I will say that everyone, from the ladies who registered me to the nurses and the CT tech, in the Florida Hospital in Winter Garden was nice. They were concerned with keeping my pain and nausea controlled, and making sure I was comfortable. The doctor was friendly, compassionate, had a sense of humor, and checked on me more than once while I waited.  And I will say that the Florida Hospital in Apopka where I was transferred was nice. My room was big and clean. But seriously, with all the advances in hospitals, you'd think they would've realized the beds suck! You'd think that maybe they could've come up with something a little more comfortable. Like a slab of concrete. Or a bed of nails. But the nurses who cared for me were nice and compassionate. They always asked if there was anything they could do for me.

However . . .

Late Wednesday night they took me for an MRI. I asked why they needed it since the CT scan had shown them what they needed to know. I was told, "Just to get a better look." Okay. As it turns out, I learned the next day, they wanted a better look at a mass they'd seen on my liver in the CT. If anyone had bothered to tell me this, I could've let them know that I was already aware of the mass and had already had an MRI like a year ago, and already knew it was a benign hemangioma. But thanks for bumping up my bill, guys. Appreciate it.

On Thursday evening, I was allowed some clear liquids. The surgeon takes a look at the clear liquid diet sitting mostly untouched on my tray and says that I shouldn't be eating or drinking anything at all for another couple days. Okay. TMI alert - Infection in your colon + strong antibiotics = massive diarrhea. Or well, I guess not massive exactly if you haven't eaten for 2 days, but still. In the middle of the night I had a little um, accident. (It takes a while to get out of bed when you're hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV!) I cleaned up and was changing into a new pair of underwear when a male tech walked in. Yeah. I have super-lucky timing that way. He was concerned my heart monitor had come off, so in the dark, before I had even finished pulling up my undies with one hand because my other hand had a death grip on my IV pole so I didn't fall over from overwhelming dizziness, he grabbed my hospital gown, pulling it out from my neck as he messed around with the leads on my chest. Awkward. He didn't even buy me dinner. 

On Friday, the PA from surgery told me I could try a liquid diet. About 2 seconds after she left my room, someone came in with a tray of spaghetti and meatballs, grapes, and milk. I told her I couldn't eat that because I was on clear liquids. She argued with me that no, I'm on a regular diet. Ummm no. I literally just talked to the doctor! She didn't believe me, but agreed to bring me a new tray with vegetable broth and tea anyway. No sooner did she bring me a new tray than the nurse came in telling me I'm on a regular diet and I'm ready to be discharged.


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Then a person, who I can only surmise was Frank Abagnale Jr. impersonating a doctor, came in and told me I couldn't leave until I could eat a regular diet. When I asked him, "Why?" he didn't have an answer. Since he had apparently never encountered someone with diverticulitis, even though it's a very common problem, I enlightened him a bit. "Listen buddy! I have had this SIX times. And EVERY time, I have been discharged from the hospital on a clear liquid or perhaps a bland brat diet. I will not be able to eat SPAGHETTI AND MEATBALLS for some time!" (There is much debate on what kind of diet can prevent diverticular disease and/or flare-ups of diverticulitis, but everyone agrees that when you're healing from an infection, you need a bland, low-fiber diet for a couple weeks.)

He left and I burst into tears because that's what I do. I missed Clay's band concert on Thursday night and I was stuck there missing his 8th grade dance. I felt awful that my Littles had been left to their own devices for what felt like a week and a half. I felt sorry for myself because being a single mom when you're sick sucks. No one to take care of me. No one to take care of my kids. But I've got to say that Lexi is the awesomest! She took care of Clay and Brooklyn. She bought them dinner and made them go to bed before 2:00AM. She brought me clothes and toiletries and came to visit me every day. I'm so grateful for her help!

Anyway, while I was bawling, the nurse supervisor person came in and talked to me. I expressed my frustration that no one seemed to be on the same page, and I just want to go home. I shouldn't be expected to eat a regular diet in order to leave. I asked why on earth would they bring me spaghetti and meatballs. Why not just plain noodles or mashed potatoes or white rice or a piece of bread? She was sympathetic and said she'd do her best to get me discharged that night. She came back in with some mashed potatoes and said if I tolerated my dinner I could go home. Those were the best mashed potatoes ever!

Want to know what they brought me for dinner?

Corn. And black beans. Because everyone knows how easy it is to digest corn and beans. The perfect food for a person healing from a vicious intestinal infection.


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I didn't eat it, of course. I left anyway. (Thank you Austin and Codi for picking me up!) I'm home and the pain is much, much better, however the nausea and dizziness from the evil antibiotics is in full force. And I guess I'll be scheduling surgery for this summer which is good timing since I won't have to take time off from the school at least. But I'm still not looking forward to it for oh, so many reasons, not the least of which is the colonoscopy-like prep.

I Made Healthline's 2018 List of Best Single Mom Blogs!

I got this email yesterday while I was in the hospital. It definitely brought a little cheer to me!


Hi Dawn, 

Healthline would like to congratulate you on making our list of Best Single Mom Blogs for 2018!  

We carefully selected each blog based on the quality of content, the frequency of posts, and a connection to their community. We feel Because I Said So! And other tales (Mom2My6Pack) specifically earned this accolade by using your wit and humor to build not only a fantastic and authentic parenting resource but a hilarious read as well. 

We’re excited to showcase Because I Said So! And other tales (Mom2My6Pack) on Healthline and help empower users with Single Mom. Keep up your amazing work! 

In health, 
Lauren

Check out the whole list here!

20 Ways Florida Will Kill You

I went to the dermatologist last week because my arms have been itching for nearly a year. I know, I know, I'm super-expedient in taking care of health problems as soon as they arise. The dermatologist's assessment? I have PMLE (polymorphous light eruption.) In layman's terms: I'm allergic to the sun. It's a good thing I live in Florida. The Sunshine State. 

This news just made me think - Well there's yet another way this state is going to kill me. And this state will kill you at some point which really makes you wonder why on earth people continue to move here. As far as I can tell, the main only reason is "for the weather." But let me tell you a little secret. The weather sucks! From April through October the temperature ranges from the-surface-of-the-sun hot to the-devil's-attic hot with the kind of humidity that feels like you have a wet blanket fresh from the dryer over your face. So the "good weather" people move here for is really basically 3 weeks of moderate weather during the winter. When you look at those facts, it seems pretty silly to stay in a state that will kill you 20 different ways just for the reward of a couple nice weeks of weather in December. 

I know you're probably asking - How will Florida kill me, Dawn? Isn't that a tad bit dramatic? 

Let me tell you. 

1.  DRIVING

photo: Creative Commons

Driving is about the most dangerous thing you can do in Florida. When I first moved here, I was shocked to find that my car insurance had doubled. DOUBLED. No lie. It didn't take me long to figure out why. Florida has the 5th highest insurance rate in the nation. I-4, the highway that runs east and west through central Florida was named the most dangerous road in the nation. Not in the state. In the entire country. Although Driver's Education was a graduation requirement where we lived in Illinois, it isn't even offered at the high schools around here. So you have idiots teaching the youth of Florida how to drive. It's a never-ending vicious circle of stupidity. 

People who live here like to blame it on senior citizens and tourists, and I'm sure they play a part, but the real problem is the entitled people, and the idiots, and this state has an overflowing abundance of both. Floridians don't feel the need to wait for their turn at a 4-way stop. Some of them don't even know what a 4-way stop is! They also see nothing wrong with throwing it in reverse when they realize they're on the wrong exit ramp. Making u-turns from the far right lane is perfectly acceptable to these people. And let's not forget all the jaywalkers because really, who has time to walk those extra couple feet to cross at the crosswalk? I mean, the cars will stop for them, right? Florida has the second highest number of pedestrian deaths. And lastly, Florida is number one in motorcycle deaths. Yay, Florida! Congratulations on those accomplishments. 

2.  LIGHTNING

photo: Dawn Meehan

Florida also wins the award for the most lightning strikes per square mile with an average of 24.7. There were 463 fatalities from 1959-2011, more than any other state. Perfectly understandable why people move here FOR THE WEATHER, right? 

3.  HURRICANES

photo: Dawn Meehan

Which brings us to the next thing that will kill you. Experts are predicting another active hurricane season for 2018. I, for one, am not looking forward to this. Hurricane Irma hitting last year was the scariest thing I've ever gone through. (And keep in mind, I've taught 4 kids how to drive!) I honestly don't know what the worst part of that experience was: fighting with strangers for the last can of clam chowder on the shelves at Publix, waiting in line for gasoline, the uprooted trees outside my apartment, or being enclosed in a small bathroom with a farting teenager while waiting out the storm. 

4.  SINKHOLES

photo: Creative Commons

Being comprised of porous limestone, Florida has always had sinkholes, but since Hurricane Irma, sinkholes have increased exponentially. It would probably suck if you came home after work only to find your house 12 feet below ground. Although I suppose it might be okay if a sinkhole swallowed your workplace . . . 

5.  WILDFIRES

photo: Creative Commons

When people move here for the amazing weather, they don't realize that part of that amazingness is rain every single day during the spring, summer, and fall, followed by not a single drop of rain all winter. The result is death-by-lightning in the summer (see number 2), and uncontrollable wild fires during the winter and early spring. When the fires reduce visibility on nearby roads, they're shut down causing more death-by-traffic problems (see number 1.) 

6.  HEAT

photo: Creative Commons

Since moving to Florida my most time-consuming hobby is complaining about the heat. This interest truly does take up a good part of my every day. If the heat (or being allergic to the sun :::eyeroll:::) doesn't kill me, I'm bound to eventually be knocked off by someone who doesn't appreciate my new hobby of incessantly complaining about the heatwaves coming off the pavement, my hair which has frizzed to Hagrid-sized volume, or the fact that sweat is covering every inch of my body. 

7.  TORNADOES

photo: Creative Commons

When I think about tornadoes, I think about Kansas, but Florida is number 3 in the country for tornadoes. The reason the kids and I hung out in the bathroom during Hurricane Irma was mostly because of all the tornadoes that touched down as the hurricane ripped through. And incidentally, basements are pretty much non-existent in Florida what with the average altitude being 6 feet about sea level. A basement in Florida would pretty quickly turn into an indoor swimming pool so there's no safe place to hide from these beasts. 

8.  RIP CURRENTS

photo: Creative Commons

I love the beach. It's my favorite thing about Florida. But the beach may be more dangerous than the weather. Every year, rip currents kill more people than thunderstorms, hurricanes, and tornadoes combined. 

9.  JELLYFISH

photo: Dawn Meehan

My kids and I have all been stung by jellyfish. A few months ago, some of us got stuck with creatures called Sea Butterflies. Seriously. Sea Butterflies. It sounds like something from SpongeBob, but nope they're real and they look and feel like little slivers of fiberglass jabbing in your skin. Man-of-Wars wash up on Florida beaches all the time and although they look like pretty blue balloons, they HURT. 

10.  SHARKS

photo: Creative Commons

You know what other category Florida is number one in? That's right - shark attacks! And I'm not entirely convinced that number 7 (tornadoes) and number 10 (shark attacks) won't combine to make a Sharknado one day. 

11.  ALLIGATORS

photo: Dawn Meehan

You know when you walk out to your car in the morning, coffee in hand, ready to begin your commute to work, but you can't actually get IN your car because an alligator is blocking your path? No? Well, you obviously don't live in Florida then. You would probably call this scenario crazy. Floridians just call it Monday. 

12. FALLING FISH

photo: Dawn Meehan

A couple week ago I was sitting at the football field, watching my girls' cheer practice, and minding my own business when a fish fell from the sky. Let me say that one more time. A fish. Fell. From the sky. And not just any fish, but a needlefish. Now there may not be any records of a cheer mom having her brain impaled by a needlefish launched by a hawk, but I have no doubt it could happen. 

13.  NAEGLERIA FOWLERI

photo: Creative Commons

You may think it's a smart idea to avoid oceans what with their rip currents, jellyfish, and sharks, and head to a lake instead. You'd be wrong. Every year, people in Florida die from this brain-eating amoeba that thrives in warm fresh water. (I suspect many more survive with only part of their brains eaten away. That would help  explain number 1 on this list.) 

14.  SPIDERS

photo: Dawn Meehan

This is a picture of an actual Black Widow that had stupidly thought to make her home on my lanai. The picture was taken after it had been bombarded with a series of bug spray, bleach cleaner, hairspray, fire, and a size 13 shoe. (You can never be too careful.) I recommend you read the whole story here. 

15.  SNAKES

photo: Creative Commons

According to my sources, of the over 50 species of snakes in Florida, only 6 of them are venomous. Well, that certainly makes me heave a sigh of relief! (Roughly translated from sarcasm to English, that means, Who cares??? It's a snake! A SNAKE! Does it matter if it's venomous? No, it does not! If I see one, I will be making tracks like a triathlete on crack!) Oh, and don't forget that we also have ginormous Burmese pythons in the Everglades as well. 

16.  RED ANTS

photo: Creative Commons

You know that scene in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull where the bad guy is carried away by an army of red ants? I remember seeing this movie in the theater and laughing my head off because it was just so ludicrous. And then I moved to Florida. It could happen. 

17.  COCKROACHES

photo: Dawn Meehan

So maybe there aren't any deaths by cockroaches on record, but on more than one occasion, I have nearly caused a 5 car pile-up because a cockroach crawled across my foot while driving. One time, I pulled over, jumped out of the car, and did a little freak-out dance in the middle of the street. Don't judge. The cockroaches down here are the size of Golden Retrievers. 

18.  ASSORTED CREATURES

photo: Creative Commons

In this state we have bears, panthers, Sandhill cranes that are as tall as Big Bird, armadillos, and vultures by the dozen. It's like living in Jurassic Park. 

19.  MEDICAL CARE

photo: Creative Commons

If a doctor can't get a job anywhere else, he goes to Florida where he can work an hour a day and spend the rest of the time on the golf course. Since living here in Florida, a doctor told my son he had HIV. He doesn't. They mixed up the tests. Two different doctors on two different trips to the ER missed the blood clot in my leg until it traveled to my lung. Another doctor told us my son needed immediate surgery on his broken knee cap. Nope. If you really need medical care while in Florida, I suggest you hop a plane to literally anywhere else. Hmmm, now that I think about it, has anyone actually heard of a sun allergy? Questioning my dermatologist's diagnosis . . . 

20.  FLORIDA MAN

photo: Creative Commons

One day, several years ago, my kids were watching a show on TV called I Almost Got Away With It. Every time I walked into the room, I caught the narrator talking about how the crime took place in Florida or how the criminal escaped to Florida. After several hours of this I Almost Got Away With It marathon, I asked my kids, "Is this a special Florida edition?" to which they replied, "No." Nope. It just so happens that every news story that makes you wonder What the hell? starts with "A man from Florida . . ." Or "A Florida man . . ." Or sometimes, "A woman from Florida . . ." For example: A man from Florida tries to marry a squirrel because he says it looks like Beyonce. Florida man tries to wrap a flamingo around his neck like a scarf when temperatures plummet to 72 degrees. 

But hey, let's not forget about those 3 glorious weeks of nice weather in December. I mean, that's worth being attacked by sharks, being impaled by a fish falling from the sky, and having Florida man eat your face off, right?

Awkwardness Level: Expert

So we have a new teacher here at work. He's cute. Now, I haven't actually met him. I haven't talked to him for reasons forthcoming. He could have the personality of toast, he could chew with his mouth open, or he could be a Sox fan. I have no way of knowing. He's likely many (read as twenty) years younger than me. I'm not infatuated with him. I don't know him. And even if I did, I realistically would probably not actually be interested in him. But he's cute. Therefore I cannot talk to him like a sensible, relatively sane adult. I don't know why this is a thing, but trust me - it most definitely is.

The first time I saw him, I ignored him. As I write this I realize that is psychotic behavior. At the time, it seemed like a perfectly sensible thing to do. Instead of simply saying hi and introducing myself, welcoming him to the school, or even just offering a friendly smile, I ignored him. That might have been okay. I mean, if I had just left it at that, he probably would've assumed that I'm an introvert. Or a jerk. Which would be fine. But nooo. Nope, I did not indeed leave it at that. Instead of leaving it like that, I spewed a nonsensical stream of mouth diarrhea to another coworker standing nearby. I stuttered on about paramedics in a story that was neither relevant, nor comprehensible. As I was babbling, my brain was begging me to shut up. "Stop talking! Stop talking! Oh for love of all that is holy, STOP TALKING!" But my mouth wasn't getting the message. When I'd finally exhausted my seemingly endless supply of words, I was met with awkward silence and looks that clearly indicated the general consensus from everyone within hearing range was that I'm mentally unstable.

I ran into the new guy again yesterday. Instead of saying hello like a normal person, or even putting my head down and walking quickly away, I tried to make conversation. Because I don't learn from past mistakes.

While having what could only be described as the lamest conversation in the history of the spoken word, I walked into a door. I literally walked. Into. A. Door.

Don't worry. The whole smashing my face against the window of the door was actually a good thing. It ended the painful conversation that went like this -

"It's hot out today." (I'm excellent at stating the obvious)
"I was at the beach yesterday and it was nice. But it's hot today." (RE-stating the obvious just in case he didn't fully grasp my level of awkwardness the first time.)
"But my sister sent me a picture of snow. I mean, it snowed in Chicago and my sister sent me a picture of it because she lives there in Chicago where it snowed in April today."

You'd walk into a door to escape that too.

The One In Which I Dye Everything But My Hair Blue

After Hurricane Irma, when we had no power and were off school for a week, I got bored so I had the brilliant idea to chop off all my hair because I do stupid things why not? I immediately regretted my impulsive decision and cried. A lot. Last night when I got home from work I contemplated what I should do with my Friday evening: meet some friends for a drink, watch a movie, write, read. Oh, I know, I'll dye my hair blue! Because again, I do stupid things why not?

I got this product.

The fact it's called Splat should have been a tip-off to how this whole venture would turn out. And now I understand that there is a very good reason why this product is on clearance. 

I opened the box and looked for the directions. The directions weren't in the box. The directions were the box.

Despite the box urging me to STOP and follow the directions, I figured - Eh, I've been coloring my hair for over 10 years. Who needs directions? To that end, I donned the enclosed protective gloves, opened the bottle and started squirting it on my head. It was pretty runny and it dripped on my foot. And the floor. And my shirt. And the sink. And the countertop. And my forehead. And my ears. And my neck. Wait, let me rephrase this. I'll list the places the dye did not get. 
1.  Inside the toilet. 
That's all. 

But I didn't think it was any big deal. I let the errant drops spill where they may like I always do. As soon as I stopped applying the color, I started wiping up the spills like I always do. But the dye did not wipe away like it always does. No siree. It instantly stained everything a bright Avatar blue.

The directions said to leave the color on for 30-60 minutes. I set my timer for 45 minutes because what could go wrong if I split the difference and went for the average amount of time, right? While I waited for the the dye to do its magic, I set to work scrubbing the color from every conceivable surface in my bathroom as well as my head, ears, and neck.

When the timer went off, I hopped in the shower and started rinsing. Oh my good gravy, the blue! THE BLUE! It was EVERYWHERE! It looked like I was bathing with a gallon of Ty-D-Bol! Do they still make that stuff? Do you know what I'm talking about? That cleaner that turns your toilet water blue? After thoroughly rinsing my hair, I washed it. Then rinsed it. Then repeated. Again. After 3 washes, rivulets of blue inkiness were still cascading down my body, puddling in a swirling blue pool at my feet. I glanced around the shower to find the walls and curtain splattered with blue. My hand was solid blue.

It reminded me of when Bert's hand turned purple and Ernie "fixed" it by putting mittens and a hat and scarf on Bert. That's it! I can wear gloves and a hat, I thought, only slightly maniacally. So what that I live in Florida where it's currently 85 degrees. This can work!



After I bled blue onto the towels, my pajamas, and possibly the couch, I unwrapped the towel from my head to assess the damage see if my hair had turned out like the model on the box of dye.

Nailed it.

Into the Tunnel of Darkness: My Colonoscopy

After having two bouts of diverticulitis in less than a year, my doctor urged me to get a colonoscopy. At the mere mention of the word colonoscopy, my butt cheeks involuntarily clenched. From what I'd heard, I knew that colonoscopies were only slightly worse than being stretched on the rack, getting buried alive, or taking your kids grocery shopping. I decided to make an appointment, but the whole "diarrhea of epic proportions and a camera shoved up my butt" thing held me back. After procrastinating for the maximum allowable time, I finally picked up the phone. (The maximum allowable time is different for men and women. Since I'm a woman and therefore not a big baby, I could only procrastinate for a year. Men can procrastinate for more than 10 years.)

When I had my consultation, the nurse explained the procedure and gave me a couple different options to prepare for the test. Prepare for the test. This is where the deception starts. In my world, prepare for the test means study and memorize how to conjugate irregular verbs in Spanish. But that's not the kind of preparations or tests they're talking about.

One of the options she gave me was to drink some concoction called GoLytely. Go lightly. Well, that sounds nice. It's the name of Audrey Hepburn's lovable character in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Lightly. Go lightly. It sounds nice and calm. Deception number two.

The first two choices she gave me entailed drinking some sort of vile liquid. I knew I wouldn't be able to get down, let alone keep down, any kind of disgusting drink. I had flashbacks to the many glucose tolerance tests I've taken while pregnant. Take my word on this, the technicians do not like it when you throw up on them. I asked the nurse, "Do you have a third choice? How about an xray? A blood test? Anything less um, icky?"

She said, "Well, since you're young and healthy, you could take pills instead, but we'd need to do bloodwork first to make sure your kidney function is okay. And if you opt for the pills, you need to take 32 of them and you'll need to drink 8 ounces of water every time you take the pills."

"Water I can handle," I said, relieved I wouldn't have to drink any foul fluid. Sign me up!"

So, the day before my colonoscopy comes and I begin my prep.

4:00 PM – I’ve had nothing but water all day, figuring the less in, the less out. I swallow the first 4 pills that I'm pretty sure are actually those little salt pellets you use in your water softener. I down my 8 ounces of water and wait, poised outside the bathroom door, ready to make a dash. I’m not sure how long it will take before I begin to experience the, um effects. Fearing it will happen instantaneously, I refuse to move from my post next to the toilet.

4:15PM – I feel fine and prepare to take my next 4 pills, followed by an additional 8 ounces of water. Waiting is scary. How long will it take to kick in, I wonder. Will I really be locked in the bathroom for the rest of the evening or had my friends and family exaggerated when they spoke of their experiences?

4:30PM – As I look at the clock and prepare to swallow my next four pills, I begin to feel some bubbling and gurgling in my tummy. For those of you who are new to the whole colonoscopy experience, take heed. That bubbling means – Get your butt on the toilet NOW!

4:35PM – I grab my book and head for the toilet. I can't help thinking of the Seinfeld episode when George takes a book into the bathroom with him, is forced to buy it, then the book is flagged so George can't return it. I wonder how many library books have undergone the colonoscopy prep. Then I think it’s probably better not to ponder that. (This was not a library book. I promise.) I decide this isn't too bad. I’ve had worse gastrointestinal viruses in my life.

4:45PM – I finish my business and wash my hands. As I take my next 4 pills, it hits me again. And by hits me, I mean, I not only do not have time to dry my hands, but I very nearly don't have time to pull down my pants. Oh. My. Gosh. I had no idea my body could hold that much. I see things I ate when I was five years old come out. All the partially digested pieces of grape Hubba Bubba I'd swallowed when the teacher caught me with gum in high school came out.

5:00PM – I manage to choke down pills 17-20 and pray for death wonder when the "effects" will let up. My legs are numb from sitting on the toilet. Great, I think, I'll get up and have to crawl out of the bathroom and heaven forbid the urge hit me again because there is no way I'll be able to get back to the toilet on these rubber legs. I wonder if my kids will be scarred for life if they find me lying in a pool of "effects" on the bathroom floor. I make a mental note to start saving for their therapy just in case.

7:00PM I leave the safety of the bathroom. It doesn't last long. But now I can manage to go 5 - 10 minutes between effects (effects sounds so much nicer than explosive diarrhea, doesn't it?).

8:00PM – At this point, my colon is clean enough to eat off, not that I recommend eating off colons or anything. However, those 20 salt pills didn't get the message that my colon is empty; they're still working. Since there's nothing left in my entire digestive system, my internal organs liquify and come running out instead. I've only consumed about half a gallon of water, but somehow, once in my body, that 64 ounces turned into 87 gallons.

8:30PM – You know how babies get diaper rash after having poop on their butts for a period of time? Yeah, well six and a half hours into my preparations, my butt actually burst into flames. It’s okay though, the veritable Niagara Falls that continued to flood from my body doused the fire. For the moment anyway.

9:00PM – I nearly vomit as I try to choke down the next 4 pills. Then I wonder what on earth these pills are going to do to me. I'm empty. I’m afraid if I take the final 8 pills, what’s left of my body will drain out my butt and nothing will remain of me except my earrings.

12:00AM – The hollow shell of skin that used to be me gives up, crawls to bed, and passes out, knowing I won’t need the bathroom for the next 5 weeks because there’s absolutely nothing left in me.

10:30AM – I arrive at the doctor’s office and take a seat in the waiting room.

11:00AM – I consider slapping the person sitting next to me, popping her gum, and talking loudly on her cell phone.

11:30AM – They finally call me back to a room and ask me a litany of questions.
“Is there any chance you’re pregnant?” I laugh so hard, I snort.
“Do you wear glasses or contacts?” No.
“Do you have dentures?” No.
“Do you have a hearing aid?” What?
“Do you have a hearing aid?” What?
“Do you have a hearing aid?” I decide this nurse doesn’t have a sense of humor and give up.
She has me change into a hospital gown so they can have easier access to violate me, and starts an IV.

12:00PM – I’m wheeled into the room where the magic happens. I look around for the buttcam and see some ominous-looking tubes. The anesthesiologist comes in and takes my blood pressure. It’s 612/438. “Are you nervous?” he asks. “No”, I reply, “I do this every couple weeks for fun.” The nurse tells me to turn onto my side (you know, for easy access), and the anesthesiologist injects his drugs into my IV. The last thing I remember is hearing Secrets by One Republic playing in the room, and thinking it’s a good thing they aren’t playing Baby Got Back.

12:30PM – A mean nurse is trying to get me to wake up. Apparently, she’s been trying for a while because she seems impatient and frustrated that I won’t open my eyes. I want to tell her to go away and let me sleep. I’m a single mom to six kids, for crying out loud. I need this rest! But I can’t wake up enough to form the words. I feel the need to pass gas and think to heck with being a lady. I'm afraid if I hold back I'll likely explode. At some point, the doctor came in and told me that although I have diverticulosis, it isn’t too bad and there are no polyps or any other scary things in there. Then he tells me I don't need to come back until I'm 50. I've got 8 years and 1 month to prepare for my next preparation.





So folks, the moral of this story is - just do it! Make the appointment and do it! Yeah, the preparation sucks, but look on the bright side, you'll lose a few pounds, have something to blog about, and will be able to put your mind at ease about colon cancer. Colorectal cancer is one of those things that's curable if it's caught in time. Suffering through stage 4 colorectal cancer is much, much worse than a colonoscopy. Oh yeah, and buy some diaper wipes and maybe even some Desitin for your prep. A butt on fire is not a happy butt.