Mar 28, 2013

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

3/28/2013 — cori
Looking for the person who always says the wrong thing at the wrong time?  Look no further. You found her.  Some people have a knack for knowing the perfect little sentiment that needs to be said to cheer someone up, brighten their day or give them hope for the future.  I am not that person.  I envy those people.  Whenever I try to step out and be one of those people I inevitably utter the wrong string of words and give myself away as mis-speaker.  Idiot is another term that comes to mind.

There are ample instances in this blog alone of the multitude of times I say the wrong things to the wrong people at the wrong time and place.  Gavin apparently has been cataloging such events and was quick to remind me of the "FauxHawk" incident as well as the ever so lovely "Socially Inept" catastrophe.

I shall now divulge my latest run-in with my foot in my mouth.  It's always humbling.  I always feel bad.  Oh how I wish, just once, that I could think before I speak.  Or that I could remember to just 'smile and wave'.   Here's how it happened:

I was bringing dinner to a lady who is sick.  When I got to her apartment there were alot of people there.  I went and put her food in the kitchen and we talked for a bit.  She then introduced me to her extended family in her living room.  They were mentioning something to me about how nice it was of me to bring her food.  I was on my way out the door as these accolades were being hurled my way.  I was in panic mode.  I didn't know the proper response.  "Your Welcome" or "Thank You" seemed too smug sounding.  All I wanted was to quickly divert the attention away from me.  So I said (cringing and sighing here as I type),  "It was necessary.  She needs it." and then quickly slinked through the door opening to find safety and refuge in my car.


Stupid, stupid, stupid!!!

I have relived that 5 second reply over and over in my head and have found at least 20,567 responses that would have been more appropriate.  But then I wouldn't be "Queen of the Inappropriate Response" if I had used any one of those options, would I?

As I was relaying my social error of catastrophic proportions to Gavin he responded with, "That's okay, Mom.  I totally get it.  All you meant was that you didn't want them to thank you, that you were just doing what you thought was the right thing to do."  YES!  YES!  Thank you Gavin!  Thank you for sneaking into my brain and reading my thoughts.  Instead, I come across as an insensitive, self-righteous jerk who knows when it is necessary for very sick people to receive food because we all know very sick people cannot cook good.  Whatever.

What Happens At Dinner....Ends Up On The Blog

3/28/2013 — cori
Since most of my juicy tid-bits and life learning happens at the dinner table, everyone knows that what's said there never stays there.  It always eventually makes it's way onto my blog.  For good reason - I'd never remember it otherwise.

Take the other night for example, we are eating a delicious meal of Shanghai Noodles that Gavin whipped up for us.  He was feeling rather proud of his latest endeavor.  Granted, he started the whole cooking process 2 hours before we sat down to eat in order to read, re-read and read yet again the recipe.  He's currently on top of his little world.  This sparks a thought in his brain.

Actually, I'm not sure it's so much a thought as much as it is a recitation of an article he remembered reading sometime this past month.  I'd have a hard time explaining the gist of an article I read an hour ago to you.  Not Gavin.  He can literally remember word for word what he read, where he read it and then give you a detailed synopsis if you need it.

So dinner is winding down.  Apparently we're lacking for conversation, so Gavin decides to share "an interesting fact I had on my mind" that we might find intriguing, "Did you know that according to the laws of quantum physics small particles like an atom or an electron can exist in multiple realities or two places at the same time until they're observed or measured?"

Blank faces all around.

I look at him and say, "Honey, anytime a sentence starts with 'according to the laws of quantum physics' you're going to have to talk slower or you're going to lose me."  I then went on to explain that I'm a highly visual person and that in order to better understand what he is trying to convey, I need to write it down so I can see it and read over it a couple of times.  I run and get a pencil and paper (under the guise of trying to better understand it, but it in all honesty, I know the only reason I'm writing it down is so that I have it word for word so that I can blog about later).  I ask him if he can repeat it.  He does - exactly the same as the first time.  And again...I still can't wrap my brain around what he's saying.  It's too abstract.  I was under the impression that the older you get, the better able you are to think in abstract terms.  I might be the exception to that rule.

He repeats it multiple times.  Then says he has a better idea, "Why don't I just show you the article on my iPad (or what I lovingly refer to as his ILD - individual learning device)."  He quickly pulls up and goes directly to the article he has previously memorized.  The article starts with these words: The phenomenon known as the superposition principle....  Had I been the one to start reading this article, I would have stopped by the 7th word.  I fear this confession gives away my intellectual capacities (or lack thereof)... I'm just sayin.

Chuck & I feel the need to back up a bit and ask some more basic questions so we can genuinely try to understand why Gavin was intrigued by this...afterall, he took the time to share it with us, it must mean alot to him.  We don't want to belittle or joke about his interests just because they are above our ability to reason.  So we ask him, "Honey, so we can better understand this article, would you mind first explaining what exactly quantum physics is?  Pretend you're talking to kindergarteners.  Think...Quantum Physics for dummies."

"It's metaphysical physics, Mom."

"Oh.  Ok.  Continue."

"So, what I thought was cool was how antimatter....."

"Didn't we have a discussion about anitmatter/matter a while back?"  I'm trying to act smart by remembering a term of science that he used in my presence once.  I'm just trying to relate, people.

The conversation digressed from there.  We listened to the entire article and still understood nothing.  He, on the other hand, was engrossed and loving every minute of it.  Then, in the spirit of still trying to relate, I told him he should see if that one theoretical physicist, Michio Kaku, he really admires from the Science Channel has any videos on this subject.  I won bonus points for that one.

Gavin has never really committed to wanting to be anything specific, except a trashman.  But once he found this fascinating form of science you could see his eyes light up.  He told me, "Mom, I don't want to do all those experiments or build stuff, I just want to sit around thinking about it."  If that's not a theoretical physicist, I don't know what is.  Where he got the genes to think like this, do math like this and have the words and writing skills to explain all those thoughts organized so neatly in the database of his brain is beyond me.  I'm just thankful he still likes to share what he's learning with me, even if it's in a language I don't understand.  Everyone understands a smile and a nod - and I'm good at that!

Mar 25, 2013

Fun With Shapes

3/25/2013 — cori

Don't they look like they're having a blast?!  This is fun people.  Fun!  On this, the very first morning of the very first day of Spring Break, this is what my people choose to the shapes game.  I swear under oath that I in no way made any leading remarks or suggestions to do this.  They put their collective heads together and came up with it All. By. Them. Selves.  And they even asked me if I wanted to play.  A prouder Mom moment, I could not have.  This is the way to use you noggin kiddos!

We have been playing this particular game for years.  We all sit with our backs to one another facing the outside of the circle.  We each have the exact same type of pieces as well as the same number.  Then one of us is the narrator, if you will.  That person has to use words only to explain how to make the shape picture that they created.  We all have to follow the directions without looking at the narrator's   picture - thus the reason we all sit anti-socially with our backs to one another.  Then when the narrator has decided he/she is done with his descriptive narrative, he/she reveals the image.  Ours are all supposed to look like his/hers.  If they do...the narrator did a good job.  If they don't...the narrator needs a remedial course in public speaking and explanation giving.

And yes, we find this fun.  You can do it with blocks as well.  It's awesome practice in learning how to get your point across and explain things in a way people will understand.  It's rather comical to see how we can easily screw up such a simple exercise.  Some of the other images end up looking nothing like the original.  It's a great way to show the kids how easy it is for people to misinterpret what we say and how we all see and hear things differently.  It's not that person's fault for misunderstanding the narrator, it's the narrator who needs to better work on the communication.  

Mar 20, 2013

Not An "S" Day

3/20/2013 — cori
It's no secret by now that we try to abide by the "Sugar on only S days" rule.  But as I was making the kids' lunch today, I was feeling rather generous and a little anarchical and decided to ditch the rule, throw caution to the wind and give them 3 whole Rolos.  Technically, Wednesday does have an 's' in it, it just doesn't start with an 's'.  The rule is rather vague if you ask me.

Bennett was all grins when I picked him up from school and thanked me profusely for the three whole bite size pieces of candy I lovingly snuck into his lunch.    You would have thought I gave him an entire candy bar.  In his mind, I can imagine him thinking that he is a special child and I must love him extra much today to lavish such generosity upon him.

However, the moment my foot stepped across the threshold of my front door, Gavin greeted me with a nervous laugh and, "Hi Mom.  Um...thank you for giving me a sweet in my lunch and all...that was really nice of you, but I think you forgot about my strong opinions on mixing chocolate and caramel.  So I was wondering if I could refund them? I have them right here to give back to you."

Ever the factual child.   This was a strictly serious conversation.  He was not joking.  He totally wanted a candy refund.  If I was going to break our strict daily sugar intake quota rules, he was going to make the most of it and demand a candy he didn't have such strong opinions about.  Upon receiving the necessary 'ok' from me, he made quick use of his refund by cashing it in for a treat of a different, yet equally small variety.

How I let his 'strong opinions' slip my mind is beyond me.  He absolutely hates mixing chocolate and caramel.  This may be considered proof that he might be adopted because in my opinion that is one of the best mixings there is.  I can hold strong food opinions too.   I just don't always share them with people or expect them to remember them.

See what happens when you try to be nice and let people have sugar on a non-S-day?

Mar 19, 2013

A Horrible Irony

3/19/2013 — cori
Every afternoon after I pick up the kids from school but before I start making dinner, if there is time, I like to sit and read for a bit (20 minutes if I'm lucky).  During this time I like to have my happy snack.  But the horrible irony of the whole thing is that most of the time I'm reading a book about someone in a concentration camp.  How can I sit here and eat knowing the person in my book is malnourished?  This thought plagues me the whole time I'm reading.  How insensitive of a person can I be?  Yet I keep right on eating...who does this?

The line between book and reality is a thin one for me.

This brings up another point.  We like to discuss the books we're reading during dinner.  The other night I was explaining something about a person in a concentration camp when Bennett interrupts, "Mom, what is it with you and camping?  Why are you always reading books about camps?"

"Technically, I don't read books on 'camping'.  But yes, I do tend to read a lot of books about concentration camps, don't I.  There are many different types of camps my friend, concentration camps as in Nazi Germany, the Japanese internment camps in the U.S, and prisoner camps in North Korea...see, I have an ample supply of 'camp' books.  Thus, I have alot to share with you about what I'm learning."

Probably more than he was bargaining for, but I was at least able to justify and explain my seeming fixation on 'camp' books.  But there is nothing to explain why I eat when the people in my books can't. I will never be able to get past the guilt of that...but I will also not be able to stop eating my happy snack.

What a horrible irony.

Mar 17, 2013

Excuse Me

3/17/2013 — cori
I don't know what my problem is but I have a thing for saying "excuse me" a lot.  As in "pardon me, I need to squeeze past you" or "excuse me, I didn't mean to be in your way".  I have a thing for politeness.  But the way I use the phrase the most is, "Excuse me....I burped".  I say this without thinking, it's just escapes my mouth as quickly as the aforementioned burp.

Now you're probably thinking I burp alot.  That would not be the case.  It's just that when I do burp, politely under my breath with my mouth shut, I can't help but utter those words.  Even if I'm alone in the room.  I just have this innate sense of explaining why I asked to be excused.  I wouldn't want people wondering what it was I needed excusing from.  I like to explain myself.

So, the other night we're at the table eating dinner and I utter my famous last words, "excuse me...I burped" and apparently that hit Bennett's funny bone.  He couldn't stop laughing.  He's like, "Mom, why do you do that?" So with all seriousness I explain that I don't want people thinking I tooted, so I add the little addendum to the "excuse me".

Apparently that was even funnier because no-one can imagine a Mom (especially this one) ever tooting.  The only one of us who would ever need to use the phrase "excuse me...I tooted" would be Bennett and that would never happen.  He doesn't feel the need to be excused from those silent bombs.  So he's like, "So, you're saying I should say 'excuse me...I tooted' every time?"

"Yep.  That would be nice."

A fit of giggles ensues around the table.  "That's never going to happen, Mom."

"I know.  But I can always dream.  That would mean you would have to own it and I know you'll never do that."

So now the running joke in the house is to say "excuse me" every time someone coughs, clears their throat, hic-cups, sneezes or burps.  But you will never know who tooted. 

Mar 13, 2013

Hot Stuff

3/13/2013 — cori
Bennett gets easily embarrassed by how bright red his face gets when he plays sports.  He just can't help it, it's in his genes.  I was trying to comfort him about this fact one day when I told him, "Honey, don't worry about how red your face gets, it's in your genes.  You're just like Grandma.  You have her hot.....stuff."

You see, I wasn't exactly sure how to phrase what he had.  I didn't want to say he had Grandma's hot flashes cuz that is an entirely different animal.  And I'd already said "hot" so I had to finish with something.  "Stuff" was the only word that came to mind.  It's times like these that I wish I was one of those people who thought before they spoke.

All that to say, I was trying to encourage him that Grandma also gets very red in the face when she exerts herself physically as well.  Then he said, "Well, that's weird that it skipped a generation."  To which I replied, "It didn't.  I also have the hot stuff, Honey."  Then he's like, "Why have I never seen it?"  Good question.  I guess he never sees me physically exert myself.  Loser.

The next part will seem like I totally shifted gears and am telling a whole new story, which I am, but it ties together with the above story perfectly if you just read until the end.

So, after lunch, Bennett asks if he can have a sweet.  Remember, we try to only eat sweets on "S" days (which we fail miserably at).  He wants to know how many cookies he can have.  He normally phrases his question as, "So, can I have 1 or 4?"  I answer him with, "Honey, I think you're old enough to decide what is an adequate amount. You need to learn how to govern yourself.  I don't want you to turn into Grandpa." (all in jest - of course).

Here we need another explanation.  Grandpa is a self proclaimed "Cookie Monster" (as am I - another inherited genetic quality).  Ever since I was a little girl, if my Dad went to the store and bought a bag of cookies, he would finish them off that same day.  So if you wanted any you would have to eat them as soon as he opened the bag.  It got to the point that I would have to hide cookies in my room to eat at a later time if I didn't want Dad to find them.  Mom has confirmed these habits have extended into Dad's older years as well.   Sometimes Mom has to resort to hiding a bag of cookies if she wants to savor them over the next several days or weeks.  This is what I was warning Bennett about.  He needs to learn self restraint now or look what could happen to him.

Bennett told me, "Don't worry, Mom, I'm not like Grandpa, I'm like Grandma, I've got her hot stuff."

It's great having "Cookie Monster" and "Hot Stuff" for Grandparents!

Mar 11, 2013

Thoughts on Life

3/11/2013 — cori
I have been contemplating life at a much deeper level after finding out that two of my friends from Middle School and High School have recently died at such young ages.  I'm normally a very deep thinker anyways.  These are familiar waters for me.  I didn't know I could go any deeper.  But I did.  And now I have a few things to share from my time in the depths of recessive thinking.  It could be ugly.  It could be beautiful.  It could be scary.  It could be humbling.

Every person has a story.  We like to think our own is bigger or better; our hurts and failures worse than others; our successes and joys, better than everyone else's.  We look at others and think they couldn't possibly understand where we came from or what we did.  So we don't give them the chance and we judge them that they won't even accept us before we even give them a chance to decide for themselves.

What if we were more interested in other people's stories that we are in our own?  Wouldn't that be like putting others first?  Wouldn't that be like giving people the benefit of the doubt?  Wouldn't that take the power of pre-judging others out of our hands?  Wouldn't that put an end to being self-serving in our relationships?  Wouldn't that be love?

How many opportunities have I missed because I was more concerned with my own story than I was with truly trying to understand my neighbor's?   How many more people could I have befriended if I wasn't busy pre-judging what I thought people were thinking of me and opted out of the gift of a friend before I even gave the friendship a chance?

My deepest prayer as of late echos the words of St. Francis of Assisi:

Lord, grant that I may seek to comfort
rather than to be comforted; to understand
rather than be understood; to love
rather than be loved; for it is by 
forgetting self that one finds.

We are all connected to one another.  We need each other.  I need your story in my life.  You need mine.  Our weaknesses in our stories are the very things that cause us to be drawn to others' strengths and vice versa.  We were made to be a part of each other's story.  I like that.  I want more of that.  I feel even more whole and complete when my story interconnects with someone else.  It is beautiful.  It is a gift.

On the flip side, when our story has been hard, bad or painful we tend to let it either dictate our future or can choose to learn and grow from it.  You can't erase the hard parts of your story and you can't let them define you either.  Reliving the yuck parts of your story in your mind is like sitting in a cesspool and constantly rubbing the filth all over you and then wondering why you never get clean.  It does no good to stay there.  Moving on doesn't mean the yuck is not still a part of your story.  It does not negate it.   It does not make the wrongs right, but it does give you the freedom to grow and not let the yuck control you any longer.  Let the hardships of your story be foundations of love and mercy and grace in your life that you can in turn show others because you recognize the same hardship in theirs.  Our stories aren't for us.  They are for others.  This line of thinking totally reminds me of what Dennis Miller wrote in his book, "A Million Miles in a Thousand Years".

I read this quote today in a memoir of a Holocaust survivor.  I think it's quite apropos. 

No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear,
But, grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here.
- John Greenleaf Whittier, 1859

The second in my series of contemplations comes from the passage of time and parenthood.  I can't help but chuckle now as I think back to days gone by when the children were itt-bitty and needed all my attention, time, energy and everything else I had to give.  I thought those days would never end.  I remember when we first brought Gavin home, the reality of having to wake up around the clock to feed another human made me cringe and sink into despair.  The dying of self started immediately.   And it was painful and ugly.

Parenthood is the most genius plan.  How else can you get someone to voluntarily give up food, shelter, sleep, time, money and anything else this life has to offer for another human being?  How about make a little human in their image.    

I remember when the only thing I wanted was 5 minutes alone...was that too much to ask?  Five whole minutes to have a complete thought or feed myself instead of some little person or close my eyes for five minutes and not fear someone was going to run out into the street.  Those years of parenting young children are so physically and mentally draining.  But the training is not for them...that is secondary.  The training is for the parent. 

I love how God teaches us how to die to our self in increments...a little sleep here, a little time there, a little food here, a little space there.  After years and years of letting go of our 'stuff' it gets a little easier every time.  Now I don't care about getting 5 minutes to myself.  I can have all the time I want to myself, yet what I want now is to spend all my free time with my kids who no longer need me as desperately as they once did.  I look forward to serving them.  I look for ways to give more of myself.  Funny how that works.

I'm still learning.  All the time.

Mar 9, 2013

The Time Has Come

3/09/2013 — cori
I guess I never realized that your coolness factor is directly tied to the music you listen to (as well as the decibel level you listen at).  Once upon a time in the house, my music (at least according to the kids) used to be the coolest thing we could all be listening to.  I'd turn it up full blast while cleaning house or making dinner.  This became my children's default.  They think I'm normal, thus what I do is normal as is the music I listen to.  I know cool.

Not. Any. More.

I don't know when the day happened.  My kids never mentioned getting a memo.  But seemingly behind my back one day, they all conspired against me and made their own playlists!  Now after dinner chores are done to one of the kids playlists and not mine.  I feel old.  I feel jilted.  I feel betrayed.

I can't escape their music.  I thought kids liked head-phones and ear-buds.  Not mine.  They like to share.  Unfortunately, I don't want to share a song loop that only includes, "Eye of the Tiger", "Set Fire to the Rain",  "Firework", and "Sirius" over and over and over again.  It gets old...and not cool.

I'm young enough to still know the difference between cool and uncool, despite what my teenager says.  I'll try to relate to him by asking him who sings what song and he'll be all like, "Mom.  I liked that song last week but I took it off my playlist cuz it's getting so old and not cool anymore."  Oh.  How am I supposed to keep up?  How am I supposed to relate if songs go on and off playlists at warp speed.  More importantly, how am I supposed to stay 'cool'?

I could worry endlessly about all this or I could just accept the fact that the time has come.  I have officially lost the status of "The One Who Can Answer All Questions", "The One Who Has the Coolest Playlist" and "The Cooker of the Best Meals".  I can accept that.  If I can only keep one title, I would prefer it be, "The Finder of Best Deals".  Okay, scratch that...I need to hold two titles to still be happy; the second being, "Nertz Champion".  As long as I own those two, I guess succumbing to the fact that I no longer listen to cool music doesn't sting so bad.  But seriously, if they would just give my music one more try, they might just grow to love the 90's and early 2000's.

Mar 4, 2013

Let's Just Call Me 'Sensitive'

3/04/2013 — cori
Since I'm traveling to Haiti in just under 3 months, that means I need to get some travel shots.  You know, so I don't end up passing out or getting deathly sick while there.  But guess what?  I can do that just as good here too come to find out.  Here's the story:

I drive myself to the Doctor's office to get my vaccinations.  First mistake.  This is me we're talking about.  Something is bound to go wrong, awry or get deleted.  It starts off great.  My name is actually on the list.  So I take a seat in the waiting room and decide to practice my social skills.  Since I'm going on a trip by my self, it would be good to practice talking to strangers, striking up a conversation, honing up on my non-existent small talk skills.  If I can't talk to a captive audience while in this waiting room, then I have deeper problems than first suspected.

Surprisingly, I strike up a conversation with a kind man.  Granted, he didn't hear me the first time I tried to get his attention.  But on the second go around, he knew that the noise I call 'talking' was emanating from my direction and I was the only one sitting there.  So he appeased me by looking my way.   I cleared my throat and repeated my sentence yet again.  Imagine my social skills like a stick-shift car.  The first time you switch gears the car jerks and shakes alot and sometimes even stalls out and you need to restart again.  That's kind of like me.  But once you get the hang of shifting gears, watch out, you can't stop me.

We were so deep in conversation the guy didn't even hear the nurse call his name.  Our great time came to an abrupt stop too soon.  Thankfully, that empty space was soon filled with the nurse calling out my name next.  Time for shots.

This appointment started out lovely.  She didn't even weigh me!  I was thrilled.  I tried to wear the lightest weight clothes possible yet still enough to keep me warm on a 20 degree day.  Shorts, flip-flops (that I can easily step out of before getting on the scale) and a tank top were out of the question.  She started asking the usual questions and then gave me a 'consultation' (a.k.a "warning") about all the hazards of where I was going, what I could die from, and all the terrible things that could happen to me.

After feeling encouraged about my future travel plans, she has me hop up on the little table in the room and asks me which arm I want my shots in.  How should I know?  I expertly decide on two (which two I have no clue) on my left arm and one on my right.  She confirms my smart choice with an affirming smile.  She then tried making small talk with me.  We all know how I excel in that area.  All I have on my mind is trying to avoid the big needle full of a virus I don't ever want to have but am currently getting injected with.

The first two shots go off without a hitch.  Then comes the last one on my right arm.  As soon as the needle enters, my arm instantly goes numb and I feel a freezing liquid running through my veins.  I inform the nurse in a rather slow voice, " arm...just went numb.....".  And that was it.

I passed out cold.

When I came to I was lying on my back looking at the ceiling with this strange lady looking at me.  I had NO CLUE where I was.  I actually thought I was at home and was dreaming and wasn't sure if I should talk to the lady there because I wasn't sure if she was real or not.  But then my ceiling at home did not look like this.  Then I heard such loud noises in my ears I couldn't imagine where I was or what was going on.  And then, here's the clincher, I noticed my feet were on the table and my knees were bent.  That was the sign that I knew I was laying down and not sitting up.  So I decided to trust this stranger in my 'dreams' and tried out my voice, "Um...I'm laying down."

"Yeah.  Apparently you passed out."

"Um...where am I?"

"You're getting your shots at the Dr.'s office."

"Um...why am I sweating?  Oh no....I'm going to throw up!"

At which point she hands me the plastic c-shaped bowl that no human can possibly throw up into.  I cannot aim that well.  It is so small and narrow and c-shaped and pink.  I decide to hold it in. I'm good at living in a nauseous state anyways.  I proceed with my former line of questioning, " my arm supposed to be cold and numb?"

"Next time you get your booster shot in one month remind us to give you your shots while you're lying down.  Apparently you're extra sensitive."  Tell me something I don't know.  She then decides that a small can of fake orange juice will make me feel all better.  She asks me if it's common for me to pass out.  I think she was just trying to make sure I was cognizant and didn't loose too many brain cells.  So I tell her the story of the time I walked into a door frame while holding a book and passed out and then the other time when my migraine was so bad that as I was throwing up, I passed out (thankfully, Chuck caught me before I fell into the bathtub backwards).

She walks me out to the waiting room and tells me to stay there for the next 20 minutes.  Personally, I feel like I should stay for the next two hours.  My hands won't stop shaking, I'm extremely light-headed and rather dizzy at this point.  The next logical course of action would be to call Chuck.  I get on the phone and say, "Hi Babe. I passed out, but I'm okay now.  I might be here a while cuz I don't think I can drive for a very long time."  He asked something about coming to get me in a very calm voice but I told him no.  Seriously, that would mean leaving one car here and that would NOT be efficient.  I'm anything if not efficient.  He said that didn't really matter at this point, we could come back and get it but he would feel more comfortable driving me instead of following me as I drove my car into a pole and he was helpless to stop me from behind.  I'm so glad he did.  It's like he rescued me from falling into the bathtub all over again.  My hero.

It was decided by the nursing staff that they accidentally hit a nerve when injecting me with that treacherous third shot.  Thus the tingling sensation in my hand and numbness of my arm.  Nothing a good nap won't cure.  However, upon waking from my nap, I realize my arms are now full of lead.  I cannot push myself up into a sitting position.  I vaguely recall the nurse also saying something about possibly having sore arms.  That was an understatement!  How about possibly having non-functioning arms.  I was a sight to behold for a few days.

I can only imagine it gets better from here....the whole trip to Haiti thing, I mean.  I've gotten the passing out out of the way.  I'm sure I'll get violently ill once I start one of the preventative meds for malaria that I need to take before I leave (since I'm so sensitive and all).  So I'm thinking that while I'm there, all I'll suffer from is starvation, dehydration and exhaustion since I can't see myself eating any of the canned food I'm supposed to bring or remembering to brush my teeth with only filtered water or put in my water purification tablets.  And let's not even talk about the hee-bee-jee-bees I get when I go to a hotel.  I can't sleep very well on a bed that hundreds have slept on before me.  Plus, there's the whole can of lysol I prefer to spray over every suface in a hotel.  That might look a little weird to the Mission staff if I start spraying down all the bunks upon my immediate arrival.  But don't worry, I'll have my malaria pills and sleeping net, so I'll be good to go.  And then I have the back up insurance policy of my brother telling me that if anything goes wrong on my trip he'll swoop in and rescue me military style.

We can all rest easy now.  I'm just 'sensitive' -  that's all.

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