Saturday, May 14, 2005
Ah, Friday the 13th. I love superstitions, they're fascinating... and there's something about being born on the 13th that makes me feel invincible to this one. Most of the time, I have good luck on those days, but this time, not so much.
Work was OK, and my daily trip to the chiropractor was fine, too. Ah, have I mentioned I slipped and fell in a puddle of water in the kitchen at work? Yes, sprained my back, it turns out. Luckily one of our rabidly loyal regulars is a chiropractor, and between workman's comp and bartering, I'm in there every day getting twisted and pulled and rolled around. I'm feeling better. And taller, LOL. And hopefully I'll get the all clear to get back in the gym 100% soon. [What's this "just cardio" crap? I get plenty of cardio every night with Rusty, thank you!]
DD had a slumber party to attend this weekend, so there was significant childcare juggling to be done in order for her to attend (if only Shitfoot lived in the same city, things would be a lot easier). So I had to drive them the full way to his house, an hour away. Except that here in town, a major storm was rolling through, and by the time we got to HIS town, it would be smack in the height of rush hour. So I rushed out of work a few minutes early, picked up DS at daycare, who informed me I ruined his day by getting him early because I made him miss ice cream. "Friday is Ice Cream Day, Mom!!" I promise him I'll buy him an ice cream, and he's satisfied. I rush to the gas station to gas up, buy the ice cream (a Drumstick, a childhood favorite), and then rush to DD's school to get into line to pick her up. While we wait, I unwrap the Drumstick for DS. He asks me to "help him" by eating off the chocolate. "I'm not fond of chocolate, you know.", he reminds me. He nibbles timidly at it, and I take it from him and lick the melting parts before it drips and makes a mess in my car every few minutes. After he's eaten about 3 tablespoons of ice cream, he asks me to eat the rest of the ice cream so he can eat the cone. Note for my Diet Diary: today's lunch: 4/5ths of a Nestle Drumstick. I dutifully empty the cone and hand it to him. He curls his lip and says, "No thanks." It's time to get back into our seats and move the car up in line, though, so before I can lecture him about wasting food, I toss the cone into the plastic bag in the passenger's seat for garbage, strap him back in and off we go. We get DD (who, by the way, has absolutely nothing to say about yesterday's incident, nor does she report any turbulence resulting from my brief chat with her teacher about it behind DD's back), rush home and get their bags packed while I change clothes. I check my watch and it's later than I'd hoped already, so I hustle them out the door without taking the time to make them clean their rooms. By now it's pouring outside, and flashes of lightening are intermittently drawing cautious comments from the back seat. I decide to take a small shortcut of 18 miles on the state highway instead of driving straight out to the interstate... in the rain I'd have to drive slow anyway, might as well save a couple of miles while I'm at it. After only one mile, I'm cut off by a dump truck full of dirt driving 40 miles per hour. Luckily the rain stopped almost immediately afterward, so he began speeding up to 50, still under the limit, but better than 40, right? It turns out 50 is just fast enough for the wind to begin knocking bits of mud and rocks out of his truck and onto my windshield while the tires kick up that annoying cloud of mist from the wet roads, reducing visiblity to pretty much nothing. We inch along the highway til we finally reach the interestate. I get a good 20 miles in on the interstate without incident before the air conditioner freezes up. It makes plenty of noise, and a slow steady trickle of cool air eakes out of the vents, but it's not cutting it. We have to roll down the windows. No matter, we have to slow down, as there's a wreck on the bridge where we need to exit and we're only driving about 25 miles per hour now anyway. So for approximately 20 minutes, we inch along the ramps and curves while traffic in the next lane whizzes past us at 70+MPH. It's noisy, hot and humid, and I've about lost my patience, but I'm keeping it to myself. Suddenly I notice DS is whining. I assume he and his sister have begin arguing over toys in the back seat. The whining turns to crying. "What's going on back there?" "blahblahblah!" "WHAT??? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!" "I SAID, he thinks he's going to THROW UP!!" Great. We're still 12 miles out, and I'm stuck with nowhere to pull over. I grab that plastic bag ("Oh thank GOD I had that there!") and hand it behind me, "Use this, buddy."
bbbbblllleeeeeeeeuuuugggggggggghhhhhh!
Good thing the traffic noise drowned most of that out. But there was no denying it only seconds later when the smell hit me. I have a very weak stomach for such things, and was beginning to worry that I'd be joining him soon if we didn't get out of the car. He's full-on crying now that the vomitting has stopped. I hand him some napkins from the glove compartment (who's got room for maps and car manuals??). "He got it on his jacket, Mom!" "Just leave it where it is, we'll take it into Daddy's and he'll wash it." "No, he's WEARING his jacket." Why is he wearing a JACKET when it's 85 degrees in here?? No freaking wonder he puked. I grab my cell phone, dial their father, and hand the phone to DD. "Make sure he's at home, and let him know your brother is sick."
We finally arrive at Shitfoot's. He meets us in the parking lot and gingerly helps DS out of the car. I clean up the backseat, thankful that the bag was effective and there is little evidence of our incident, only dirty napkins and papers. "Hey, want to go out to dinner?" he asks.
Luckily, I had to get back to work.
Work was OK, and my daily trip to the chiropractor was fine, too. Ah, have I mentioned I slipped and fell in a puddle of water in the kitchen at work? Yes, sprained my back, it turns out. Luckily one of our rabidly loyal regulars is a chiropractor, and between workman's comp and bartering, I'm in there every day getting twisted and pulled and rolled around. I'm feeling better. And taller, LOL. And hopefully I'll get the all clear to get back in the gym 100% soon. [What's this "just cardio" crap? I get plenty of cardio every night with Rusty, thank you!]
DD had a slumber party to attend this weekend, so there was significant childcare juggling to be done in order for her to attend (if only Shitfoot lived in the same city, things would be a lot easier). So I had to drive them the full way to his house, an hour away. Except that here in town, a major storm was rolling through, and by the time we got to HIS town, it would be smack in the height of rush hour. So I rushed out of work a few minutes early, picked up DS at daycare, who informed me I ruined his day by getting him early because I made him miss ice cream. "Friday is Ice Cream Day, Mom!!" I promise him I'll buy him an ice cream, and he's satisfied. I rush to the gas station to gas up, buy the ice cream (a Drumstick, a childhood favorite), and then rush to DD's school to get into line to pick her up. While we wait, I unwrap the Drumstick for DS. He asks me to "help him" by eating off the chocolate. "I'm not fond of chocolate, you know.", he reminds me. He nibbles timidly at it, and I take it from him and lick the melting parts before it drips and makes a mess in my car every few minutes. After he's eaten about 3 tablespoons of ice cream, he asks me to eat the rest of the ice cream so he can eat the cone. Note for my Diet Diary: today's lunch: 4/5ths of a Nestle Drumstick. I dutifully empty the cone and hand it to him. He curls his lip and says, "No thanks." It's time to get back into our seats and move the car up in line, though, so before I can lecture him about wasting food, I toss the cone into the plastic bag in the passenger's seat for garbage, strap him back in and off we go. We get DD (who, by the way, has absolutely nothing to say about yesterday's incident, nor does she report any turbulence resulting from my brief chat with her teacher about it behind DD's back), rush home and get their bags packed while I change clothes. I check my watch and it's later than I'd hoped already, so I hustle them out the door without taking the time to make them clean their rooms. By now it's pouring outside, and flashes of lightening are intermittently drawing cautious comments from the back seat. I decide to take a small shortcut of 18 miles on the state highway instead of driving straight out to the interstate... in the rain I'd have to drive slow anyway, might as well save a couple of miles while I'm at it. After only one mile, I'm cut off by a dump truck full of dirt driving 40 miles per hour. Luckily the rain stopped almost immediately afterward, so he began speeding up to 50, still under the limit, but better than 40, right? It turns out 50 is just fast enough for the wind to begin knocking bits of mud and rocks out of his truck and onto my windshield while the tires kick up that annoying cloud of mist from the wet roads, reducing visiblity to pretty much nothing. We inch along the highway til we finally reach the interestate. I get a good 20 miles in on the interstate without incident before the air conditioner freezes up. It makes plenty of noise, and a slow steady trickle of cool air eakes out of the vents, but it's not cutting it. We have to roll down the windows. No matter, we have to slow down, as there's a wreck on the bridge where we need to exit and we're only driving about 25 miles per hour now anyway. So for approximately 20 minutes, we inch along the ramps and curves while traffic in the next lane whizzes past us at 70+MPH. It's noisy, hot and humid, and I've about lost my patience, but I'm keeping it to myself. Suddenly I notice DS is whining. I assume he and his sister have begin arguing over toys in the back seat. The whining turns to crying. "What's going on back there?" "blahblahblah!" "WHAT??? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!" "I SAID, he thinks he's going to THROW UP!!" Great. We're still 12 miles out, and I'm stuck with nowhere to pull over. I grab that plastic bag ("Oh thank GOD I had that there!") and hand it behind me, "Use this, buddy."
bbbbblllleeeeeeeeuuuugggggggggghhhhhh!
Good thing the traffic noise drowned most of that out. But there was no denying it only seconds later when the smell hit me. I have a very weak stomach for such things, and was beginning to worry that I'd be joining him soon if we didn't get out of the car. He's full-on crying now that the vomitting has stopped. I hand him some napkins from the glove compartment (who's got room for maps and car manuals??). "He got it on his jacket, Mom!" "Just leave it where it is, we'll take it into Daddy's and he'll wash it." "No, he's WEARING his jacket." Why is he wearing a JACKET when it's 85 degrees in here?? No freaking wonder he puked. I grab my cell phone, dial their father, and hand the phone to DD. "Make sure he's at home, and let him know your brother is sick."
We finally arrive at Shitfoot's. He meets us in the parking lot and gingerly helps DS out of the car. I clean up the backseat, thankful that the bag was effective and there is little evidence of our incident, only dirty napkins and papers. "Hey, want to go out to dinner?" he asks.
Luckily, I had to get back to work.
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