Pukeville, USA

Welcome to Pukeville. Please enter at your own risk. 

After a fun weekend of entertaining house guests, my daughter woke up with severe abdominal pain.  It was a school day, and I am an awesome mother so I told my daughter it was probably just gas. She burped on demand thereby confirming my diagnosis. She did make a valiant plea to stay home from school, but since when did gas keep anyone from going to school?

She lasted all of 20 minutes at school before vomiting in front of the school nurse.
(I'm not officially blaming the house guests for the puke germs, but let's just say I don't plan to expose my children to their cousins again any time soon).  

When a child pukes it is foreshadowing of the end of days. That child will recover, but not before passing the puke germs to her sibling.  The sibling will begin vomiting that same day at dusk.  The house fills with a cacophony of puke sounds.

Two pukey kids means only one thing.

The puke train is headed towards the hubby and nothing is worse than a sick man.

Give me boils, typhoid fever, explosive diarrhea, or scabies, but please...PLEASE don't let my husband get sick.

He's such a good, decent, smart, handsome man... when he is well.
But...he is the wimpiest sick person.  I've talked with other ladies, and apparently this wimpy, sick man trait is quite common among spouses. They just crumble.

You can tell our house has turned into Pukeville, USA by the appearance of "buckets" on towels by all the beds.  For better or for worse, we don't actually use real buckets. No, we aren't classy.  Our puke buckets are actually our popcorn containers.

Did you just puke up a little yourself?

Yeah, it's totally pukey to use the same container to puke in as the one you fill with popcorn on "Family Movie Night."

Too much information?  Want to join us for movie night?

The clock is ticking here in Pukeville.
One puke, two puke, hubby puke?

10 Things I Learned After Surgery

Sometimes imagining a scenario is not the same thing as actually living an experience. 

My doctor, as well as perfect strangers, seemed to enjoy telling me about the pain and discomfort I would experience after foot surgery.  I, of course, thought I had a high tolerance for pain and would not suffer as everyone seemed to indicate.

I now know that I know nothing.  I am a total fool.

So in the spirit of enlightenment, I want to share the top 10 things I learned after foot surgery:

10.  When sick from the anesthesia, empty, plastic coffee containers are perfect containers to throw up in if you cannot make it to the toilet.  As an aside, my hubby likes to reuse our plastic coffee containers as popcorn bowls. Should he ever offer you popcorn in one of these containers, refuse the popcorn.  In all likelihood, I've vomited in that container.

9.  11 year old daughters are better caretakers than 9 year old sons.

8.   Narcotics are addicting, but not as addicting as being pampered by your 11 year old tween.

7.   My husband has an unusual desire to protect my liver. When awake and in pain at 2 AM, my husband tries to talk about the damage pain medication can cause my liver.  Well, he can just bite me council me with that knowledge in the light of day or after he has painful, bloody surgery on his dominate foot.

6.  Crutches can be used to hit things (are you reading this, hubby?)

5.  Taking a sponge bath is not as easy as it sounds.  After taking a sponge bath, one can become so exhausted and sweaty from the exertion that she needs another bath.

4. Adult potty chairs can make the difference between peeing in the potty and peeing your pants and/or floor.

3. The expression, "Paper cuts are the worst" is only said by people who haven't experienced the worst.

2.  A double dose of Advil is good.

1.  Percocet is better.

What I Wish My Kids Wore on the First Day of School

I simply don't think they make hazmat suits in kid sizes.
If so, I would have bought several on one of my 75 August trips to Target.

Every year.  Every darn year the same thing happens.

My children spend the entire school year carefully building up their immune systems.
They take every opportunity to touch snot, invisible germs, and unspecified slime.
They touch everything in their sight and then promptly stick their fingers in their mouths.

They are walking examples of how to test immune systems.  They practice this throughout the school year.  By May their immune systems are as tough as nails. The bubonic plague couldn't penetrate their systems (yes, I'm knocking on wood).

Summer comes and their immune systems are not tested.  They expose themselves to summer air, ocean breezes, and air conditioning. No exposure to viruses. None.  They are seemingly sequestered from any and all germs.  We must live in a bubble.  Their immune systems are essentially left vulnerable once again.

This is the perfect recipe for the onset of September's inevitable avalanche of return-to-school illnesses.

Is this happening in your house or is this a unique phenomenon in mine?

It starts with a phone call from the school.
Before you answer the phone, you stare at it and will it to stop ringing.
Your Jedi skills need work so, of course, the phone keeps ringing.
When you answer it, you hope against hope this call is about your need to sign some form, volunteer for some activity, or perhaps the school office just wants to see how you're doing. Yes, it's a ridiculous thought, but you can hope.

Instead you learn what you already knew when the phone rang.
You have a child who is vomiting in the school office.  They want you to come get your child.

Imagine that. They don't want vomiting children at school. Total bummer because you don't want vomiting children in your house.

Here's the thing about calls from the school telling you your child is sick:  the school wants you to act like a responsible adult, drop everything, pick up your germ magnet, and lovingly nurse it back to health.

Here's the thing about receiving calls from the school office telling you your child is barfing:  you momentarily consider acting like the school has the wrong number, you then realize this is ultimately the school's fault since clearly your child got sick there, and you want to immaturely shriek "finders keepers," and hang up the phone.

Once you realize the inevitable, and obediently retrieve your obviously ill child, you can focus on the one person to blame for this...your spouse  precautionary measures to keep sick child from contaminating others. This is, of course, a lost cause. Soon every child under your roof along with your spouse is either vomiting or producing amazingly viscous mucous.

Within days the children and your pathetic husband are nursed back to health, and you breath a sigh of relief...and then you sneeze...then your head starts hurting...then you ache all over...and then you know.

You know hazmat suits in kid sizes is a brilliant idea.

Are We There Yet?

Long road trips are a time for family members to reflect on just how much they hate long family road trips.

I could go on and on and on about our recent long road trip, but I'm willing to bet it's remarkably similar to every other family's long road trip.

Here is one sentence summing up our recent road trip:
A 10 hour road trip morphs into an ugly 12 hour adventure due to traffic, mother nature, emergency pee breaks, and one vomiting son.

Who can't relate to that, right?  Just your typical 12 hour journey to hell and back.  Woohoo! Are we there yet? Nope, only 11 more hours to go!

After miraculously surviving that experience, I prepared for my post road trip pity party.  You know what that includes, right?

You arrive home from the long road trip and immediately begin drowning in dirty laundry and unopened mail, while trying to figure out where that strange smell is coming from...What IS that smell?

Just prior to that fun experience, my sister helped me put it all in perspective.

She has three children between the ages of 2 and 7.  In addition to traffic and thunderstorms, I know her trip included emergency pee breaks, unstoppable "Are we there yet?" whining, and crying (most likely from her husband).

Upon arriving home to an obscene smell and 13 pounds of junk mail, I texted her to see if she had arrived home safely.

Here is our text message exchange:

Me:  You home yet?

Sis:  We left at 3:40 AM.  Only 4 more hours.  Got stuck in McDonalds because Ellery's fairies wouldn't come out of the bathroom.

Me:  Huh?

Sis:  Ellery's fairies wouldn't come out of bathroom stall. This is a true story!

Me:  That's hilarious!

Sis:  Yeah.  Freaking hysterical.

Sis:  Line full of peeps waiting to pee and I have a sobbing 4 year old talking about her missing fairies.  Someday this will be funny, right?

Me:  I assume the fairies finally cooperated?

Sis:  Only after I made a big deal about seeing glittery flutters on her palm.  We looked certifiable.

So, dear readers, until you find yourself hours from home in a tiny stall with a sobbing four year old who refuses to leave without her fairies, consider your road trip a complete breeze!

At least right up until you realize what's causing that smell.  Then all bets are off as you realize traffic and a vomiting son is nothing compared to the cause of that smell.

The Worst Job in the Whole Wide World

Question: What is the worst job in the whole wide world?

Answer: Driving around town picking up road kill.

"That's not a real job," you say.
"Really? 'Cause I had that job in college." I say back to you. Yep. Me.

Here's the thing about me. I hate being dirty. I hate blood, guts, and gore. I am basically a prissy chick. I mean that in the nicest way possible. In college I wasn't just a prissy chick. In college I was also a naive, stupid, prissy chick.

When I took the job, which was clearly not advertised as "Road Kill Picker-Upper," I was told I would need "gloves." Well, heavy duty work gloves are bulky and do not accentuate my slender dainty hands. No, I could not possibly hide my petite hands in big, masculine work gloves. Instead I bought a pair of garden gloves. Yep, garden gloves. As you are learning, I'm not exaggerating when I say I was stupid.

The job was attractive because it was a 9-5 Monday to Friday commitment. The job entailed working outside while perfecting my farmer's tan. If it rained, no one worked. That was the summer I learned it only rains on weekends.

I was not the only college student stupid enough to take this job bamboozled into taking this job. Nope, I had company. His name was Marcus, and he was always hung over. Always. I was the young, stupid, prissy chick and he was the young, stupid, hungover, college dude. Together we made quite the pair.

Not surprisingly, when a call came in about a large dead animal blocking a road, Marcus and I were always called upon. Always.

Hungover Marcus drives to the scene of death with his prissy chick side kick in tow. We were totally out of our element trying our best. The problem was, our best was really not all that great.

On particularly hot summer afternoons we smell the animal before we see it. Upon getting close to it, the stench is suffocating. I stop and pull out my garden gloves and rub strawberry Lip Smackers under my nose to mask the smell. Marcus openly mocks me initially, but by the end of the summer Marcus is smearing his face with my strawberry Lip Smackers, too. He, at least, has the good judgement to invest in real work gloves.

Perhaps it's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but even now when I drive by road kill I still think about the best way to move it. Road kill in pieces is always preferable because you just need to shovel it off the road. Road kill in one large piece, like a deer, is never a good thing.

I know you don't want the gory details, but I'm finding this therapeutic. Frankly, writing this saves me a $20 co-pay to a therapist. Don't read any further if you just ate a venison sandwich or if stories about dead deer cause you nightmares or night sweats.

I still remember one particular dead deer. Seriously, this happened 2 decades ago. I can't remember what I ate for lunch yesterday, but I remember a dead deer from 20 years ago.

There she is, sprawled across a two-lane country road. A man stands outside his home watching her and then watching us. Marcus and I approach. I pull my garden gloves from my back pocket. As we approach I see the deer's chest rise and then fall. I look at Marcus and tell him the deer is still alive. Marcus looks at me like I am a stupid, prissy, college chick.

None-the-less, we know we must move Ms. Deer from the 2 lane country road. We bend down. Marcus grabs the hind quarters and I grab the head. We lift her while groaning at her weight (I am also whimpering because I'm holding a deer's head). As we lift the deer, she literally rips into two parts and a flood of maggots and goo spill out. In utter shock and horror, I realize that what I thought was evidence of breathing was actually maggots moving within the dead deer body.

I have not been right since.

No amount of strawberry Lip Smackers can make that image go away.

The next time you see a Yahoo news story about the worst jobs on the planet, just remember it's all poppycock. The worst job in the whole wide world is picking up road kill.

And you thought you had a bad day at work!

10 Disgusting Things I've Said To My Children

Sometimes when I talk, I am amazed by what comes out of my mouth.
The following are true (oh, say it isn't so!) examples of things I have said to my children within the past year or two.

10. "Please get your feet off the dining room table."
Yes, my children are animals who think it is acceptable for any part of their body to be on the dining room table. Elbows on the table are the least of my worries.

9. "No, I didn't mean to get my hair cut to look like Justin Bieber."
Yes, I need a new hairdresser. It has finally grown out, but I still don't want to talk about it.

8. "Please don't put your feet in my face."
What is it about my kids and their stinky feet? Their feet are literally everywhere I wish they were not.

7. "Puke in your Happy Meal box."
One of my children gets car sick. Easily. On long road trips we occasionally run out of bags and have to make due with whatever random container exists in the car. Please learn from our mistakes. A Happy Meal box cannot contain vomit. It's a lousy alternative to an actual bag unless you want your car to smell like a mixture of chicken nugget and vomit. However, it's better to encourage the barfer to vomit in the Happy Meal box than your hands because trying to contain vomit in your cupped hands is both impossible and disgusting. I speak from experience here, people.

6. "If you make the cat throw-up, you're cleaning it up."
In fairness to the kids, I'm starting to think the cat has a very sensitive gag reflux.

5. "Yes, I do see the worms in your poop."
Gross! Pinworms are disgusting but blessedly easy to treat. I'm thinking of making everyone in this house take the tablets prophylactically. Maybe give them to the kids on a bi-weekly scheduled. I am, personally, tired of looking at poop. Wash your hands and keep your fingers out of your mouth and maybe I could retire from the poop inspection job I have grown to loathe.

4. "Please don't eat spaghetti with your fingers."
I would have thought this was obvious, but apparently in our home it needs stated. Utensils are not valued at our dining room table. (By now you should have real concerns about being a guest in our home. Feet on the table, kids eating spaghetti with their fingers, worms in our stool and likely on our hands. Yes, it's total mayhem which is why we limit dinner company to those who don't judge us and those who are up-to-date on all their shots.)

3. "Why did you shave off half your eyebrow?"
Why? And why shave it off the night before school picture day? Why, why, why?

2. & 1. "Why is your thumb gushing blood and why do you have box cutters in your bedroom?"
I'm counting this as two unbelievable things I've said. I blame my mother for this one. How was I to know the cute pink toolbox my mother got my daughter for Christmas had box cutters in it? How was I to know my daughter would use them at night (in the dark) to cut into the plastic container of tattoos my mother got her for Christmas? (Nothing says "Merry Christmas" like finding a faux tramp stamp on your daughter.) Why does a thumb wound produce sooooo much blood? Don't feel bad, Mom, the doctor says the scar will fade over time.

There you have it. Ten of the more disgusting things I've said to my children.
You should now feel pretty confident about your own parenting abilities.

Excuse me. I need to go inspect some more feces now.

You Call it a Water Park; I Call It A Bio-Hazard Experiment

My family recently returned from an overnight trip to a water park.

I am waiting to see what types of fungi sprout on our feet.

We arrived at the hotel on a Saturday afternoon and immediately made a beeline for the water park. It was a cold, drizzly February day outside, but inside the water park it was a humid 87 degrees. Ripe for growing all sorts of fungal goodness.

The smell of chlorine and the sound of screaming children filled the air.
We spent hours, and hours, and hours frolicking in the lazy river and climbing 10 flights of stairs so we could hurl ourselves down wet and wild slides. Oh what fun we had!

My fun started to wane as an algebra problem formed in my mind. Leave it to math to ruin my day.

Remember the following equation: if a = b; b = c; then c = a ?

Well, then follow this logic:

Daughter takes strand of her own wet hair and places it in her mouth.
Mom looks out across crowded water park full of children.
Mom reflects on how utterly void of children the restrooms seem to be.
Mom realizes (duh!) the water park's lazy river is actually the world's largest urinal.
Mom looks at daughter and knows with absolute certainty that daughter is sucking other children's urine out of her hair.

I suppress the urge to shriek, "Out! Out! Everyone out of here NOW!"
Instead, I look at my tween and calmly say, "Oh, Honey, don't suck your hair. Other kids may be peeing in the water which means your hair is dirty."

My tween looks at me like I am clueless.
She continues to suck on her urine-rich hair.

I throw up in my mouth, but I swallow it (vs. throwing up in the water so my daughter can later suck it up via her hair straws). That's love, people.

How much urine and other bodily fluids can one water park contain before no amount of chlorine can keep the water clear blue and mask the smell? I honestly think they are performing some sort of science experiment!

Meanwhile, hubby approaches coughing and claims the chlorine in the air is burning his eyes and scratching his throat. He continues coughing. My son approaches from another direction. He has slipped and his elbow is bleeding. I am certain this will result in an infection from the mixture of urine and bacteria that must exist on every surface. He will likely lose his arm as a result of the impending infection. On the plus side, it's his left elbow that's injured and he is right handed. I take comfort in this.

Of course, I say none of this to anyone because I don't want to induce panic.
I am, however, happy to be out of the water park petri dish experiment.

My kids cannot wait to go back!

The Cat Is Planning My Demise

His name is Bob and, at first glance, he seems innocent enough.

However, I have reason to believe he wants me dead, and I'm now convinced he has the skills necessary to accomplish this feat.

He was a stray cat who I rescued from a gas station parking lot over 15 years ago. He was malnourished and covered in fleas. Now he is fat and resentful.

He led a good life as head of our household until a few things didn't go his way.
We adopted two children and then we moved to a bigger house. After all of that trauma, we had the audacity to take in another stray cat.

Now he spends his days plotting various ways to kill me.

I know he is capable of murder. He's killed before. He's a serial cardinal killer. I'm sure his 'Most Wanted' poster is hanging in bird police stations across the neighborhood. He thinks nothing of killing an occasional baby rabbit or mole. He's absolutely ruthless.

He meows incessantly. No doubt following me around cursing cat obscenities that sound like simple "meows" to the human ear. He's tried tripping me on countless occasions, but he's not yet had much luck bringing me down. So now he's getting clever.

The morning started as any other morning. I awoke with a full bladder. I got out of bed and, without turning on a single light, I walked towards the bathroom. As I stepped into the bathroom, my morning took a turn for the worse.

In the darkness of the bathroom, my bare feet stepped in something wet and thick. I slipped across the bathroom floor and an "Ohhhhhhhhh nooooooooo!" escaped from my lips.

This woke my husband who came running. He flipped on the bathroom light, and we discovered I was standing in cat vomit. Lots of cat vomit.

The cat vomit (if you'll allow me to continue) was pink and chunky. It most closely resembled those summertime salads that are made with gelatin and marshmallows. Only the cat doesn't eat gelatin or marshmallows so I remain perplexed as to how he managed to produce such a consistency. I stood staring at it waiting to awake from this hideous dream.

The sensation of cat vomit between my toes brought me back to reality. I gingerly made my way to the shower leaving cat vomit footprints along the way.

I sanitized my feet as my husband cleaned up the crime scene.

Once you've stepped in an obscene amount of cat vomit, you look at life differently. Well, you certainly look at your cat differently.

Now when the children approach him with doll clothes, I am quick to rescue him. When they suggest creating a maze for him made out of cardboard boxes and duct tape, I redirect their creative impulses. He need only make eye contact with me for me to jump to his defense.

He may be a small fur ball, but his stomach can hold a shockingly large volume of pink chunks.

Should I slip, fall, bump my head or otherwise die of "suspicious" injuries, please let this serve as a notice to law enforcement that the cat is capable of anything.