I probably should edit out parts of this, but I won't. I'll just say that I was pregnant and I was extremely bitchy. If my mother in law ever reads this, I'm sorry for being so ugly.
Dog Crap
Ok, here's my advice for the day... if the first thing you deal with in the morning is dog crap, just go back to bed. The rest of the day will be dog crap.
I used to like dogs. My family started becoming a family of dog lovers. The kind who enjoyed taking the puppy everywhere. I'm still waiting for the cutsy outfits, but they've refrained so far. However, being around 3-5 dogs at a time wore me down and I wasn't so fond of dogs. Then we moved here to live with the world's stupidest dog ever. I can't stand him. He stinks, he's annoying, he gets on my nerves and in my way. I no longer ever want a dog. Especially after this morning.
I guess someone forgot that dogs have to be let outside every so often. Preferrably at least once close to bedtime. I got up and as I got closer to the bathroom, I kept thinking... it sure does smell down here. And not the usual waste treatment facility smell we get oh so often living down river from it. Once I was in the bathroom I recognized the smell. Dog crap. I just wanted to go back to bed. Nothing smells like dog crap but dog crap. It wasn't visable so I knew where it must be and I just didn't want to have to deal with it. But I had to. I pulled back the shower curtain and there it was. In order for me to shower and get ready for work, I would have to clean up dog crap. And I did. Gagging and holding my nose the whole time. Pregnant women and dog crap... not a good mix. Bill tried to tell me it was probably the cat because if the cellar door is closed and he can't get to his box, he'll use the bathtub. I've owned a cat. There is a fairly large difference between cat crap and large dog crap. This was dog crap.
Despite my gut instinct that today was going to suck, I went to work. And it did suck. I had a migraine, I had to deal with the stupid New York doctor's office, we did secret santa (I hate secret santa) and I went home early. I slept for 2 hours and had suffocation dreams. I dont' know why I have suffocation dreams, but from time to time I do. Maybe I have sleep apnea... I don't know.
Anyway, when I got home I noticed that my mother-in-law had wrapped presents. And put them under the tree. OK. Before the tree was ever put up, we had pretty much agreed on two things... 1... the ornaments should be hung high, out of Olivia's reach... 2... the presents don't come out until Christmas morning. Well as soon as the decorated the tree I knew it was only a matter of time. She had the whole tree decorated and she was not going to leave the bottom bare and Olivia just would have to learn to leave it alone. I think it's mean to tempt a child and then yell at them. I think it's unfair and I really hope Olivia breaks every freaking ornament and decoration that my mother-in-law has insisted on leaving within her reach. Luckily, Olivia does not yet understand presents and really hasn't paid any attention to them. Yet.
I just don't understand why she INSISTS on making the house non-babyproof. Every effort I make to keep Olivia out of trouble is wiped out. I buy cabinet locks. She won't lock them. I tie up the entertainment center doors. She cuts the ties. I meantion tying up another cabinet... one she NEVER uses... she said "I would really like to be able to get into things around here." Well, I would like my child to not poison herself with cleaning chemicals or cut herself on the glass she's bound to break out of the cabinet.
It's time for more Tylenol.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Old journal post - 12/30/05
I just want to preface this by saying I edited some things out of this post. I knew that I was a complete heifer when I was pregnant with Isabelle, but that's an understatement. I was a hateful bitch, and on the off chance that someone I've insulted reads this, I've edited out the unnecessary bitchiness. I'm sure it's more entertaining with it in there, but sometimes we have to sacrifice entertainment for the sake of someone else's feelings.
What?!?
This weekend, we are going to New York (state, not city) to Bill's Grandma's house. She is having a Christmas dinner on Sunday. I'm not really excited about this, but it's one of those things you have to do. The good thing is that we are staying in a hotel this time. This is excellent. We only had two other options... his sister or his grandmother.
At his sister's house, we would have ended up babysitting my neices. When we discussed the trip last weekend, she offered her apartment and her children so she could go stay with her boyfriend. No thank you.
Let me tell you about the one and only time we stayed at his grandmother's house... We slept in her room because all the other rooms were full and she insisted on sleeping on the couch. As I crawled into bed, I noticed on my side of the room was a fire place and a pretty marble box inside the fireplace. It struck me as slightly strange looking, but I was tired and just went to bed. The next day, Bill's sister asked where we slept, and I told her. She laughed and said "how did you like sleeping next to my grandfather?" Huh? Well, aparently that pretty marble box was a pretty marble COFFIN containing his ashes and she keeps him IN THE FIREPLACE so her ashes can be added to the COFFIN when she dies. Yeah, I was creeped out and I won't sleep there again.
By the way, when we go visit NY in a week an a half, we are staying at his grandmother's house. Hopefully in a spare bedroom or something. LOL
What?!?
This weekend, we are going to New York (state, not city) to Bill's Grandma's house. She is having a Christmas dinner on Sunday. I'm not really excited about this, but it's one of those things you have to do. The good thing is that we are staying in a hotel this time. This is excellent. We only had two other options... his sister or his grandmother.
At his sister's house, we would have ended up babysitting my neices. When we discussed the trip last weekend, she offered her apartment and her children so she could go stay with her boyfriend. No thank you.
Let me tell you about the one and only time we stayed at his grandmother's house... We slept in her room because all the other rooms were full and she insisted on sleeping on the couch. As I crawled into bed, I noticed on my side of the room was a fire place and a pretty marble box inside the fireplace. It struck me as slightly strange looking, but I was tired and just went to bed. The next day, Bill's sister asked where we slept, and I told her. She laughed and said "how did you like sleeping next to my grandfather?" Huh? Well, aparently that pretty marble box was a pretty marble COFFIN containing his ashes and she keeps him IN THE FIREPLACE so her ashes can be added to the COFFIN when she dies. Yeah, I was creeped out and I won't sleep there again.
By the way, when we go visit NY in a week an a half, we are staying at his grandmother's house. Hopefully in a spare bedroom or something. LOL
Old journal post - 1/10/06
Phone calls at 7am
One of my "things" is that I don't like people to call me really early or really late. Not that I don't want to talk to you, it's my reserved "emergency call" time. No one calls with good news at 7 am. Today was no exception.
I heard the phone ring, and had no doubt who it was or what it was about. I was more upset that I had left my phone downstairs because the last thing I wanted to do was put my mother through more than she had to go through. I knew when the time came, she would want to just make the calls and be done. Normally I would be a little upset to get bad news via voice mail, but I can't really blame her. My grandmother passed away at 1:30 this morning.
It's so hard to describe how I feel. When my other grandmother died it was such a shock to me and I cried so hard that I inhaled my own hair and choked. The only time I've cried today is after finding out I had Olivia's appointment wrong and while reading my sister's blog. I really had let go of my grandmother years ago. We weren't allowed to see her for years. And this past spring when I finally did see her, I think that was when she was finally gone to me. She didn't look like my grandma, she didn't act like my grandma. She was just a very old, frail, confused lady. My grandma was always young for her age, strong, and sharp as a tack. I cried very hard after seeing her, and I think that is why I am not crying now. The little bit I have cried has been for my mother and grandfather.
When I called my mother back, I expected her to sound more upset. But she mentioned that with her being on Prozac, she's unable to break down. She wants to, she starts to, it never comes. She said it's OK though because she wanted to be strong for my grandpa.
I feel the worst for him. They were married over 50 years, almost 60 I believe. He had never lived alone before putting my grandma in a nursing home. He put up with all the difficult years, and probably would have kept her at home until the end if my mom hadn't convinced him to put her in a nursing home. I just can't imagine someone being with you almost every day of your life and then they're gone.
There isn't going to be a funeral. I know that's hard for a lot of people to understand. I didn't talk to my mom, again she got my voice mail, but I think I know why. For one, my grandparents were nto religious people. A religious ceremony would be the last thing she wanted. Plus, there would be 7 people. Anyone else would just be there for one of us, they wouldn't know her. Bill has never met her. I don't think Crystal's boyfriend ever met her. I doubt Trey would be taken out of school for it. Just my parents, my grandpa, my sisters and I, and my great aunt. She has no other family, she shunned any friends long ago when the Altzheimers began... that's all there is. It does feel strange that there won't be one. It's a final closure that won't be there. But most of us let go a while ago, and the two who were the closest to her decided a funeral wasn't necessary.
My grandmother, Mary Louise Landrum Follette, was around 85 years old. She was a nurse. She was 28 when she married my grandpa. She had one child, my mother. She was either 1/4 or 1/8 Cherokee and loved Native American jewelry. She was strict on us, almost a little scary to us, but we never doubted that she loved us. There are some strange parallels in my life and hers, and I think she noticed it and was proud of it. We were about the same age when we got married, about the same age when we had a baby. She was a strong, independent woman. I was told that the year I was born she was raped and had a nervous breakdown and that I never really knew my grandmother the way my mother did. Maybe someday I can see her again, young and happy, and get to know who she really was.
One of my "things" is that I don't like people to call me really early or really late. Not that I don't want to talk to you, it's my reserved "emergency call" time. No one calls with good news at 7 am. Today was no exception.
I heard the phone ring, and had no doubt who it was or what it was about. I was more upset that I had left my phone downstairs because the last thing I wanted to do was put my mother through more than she had to go through. I knew when the time came, she would want to just make the calls and be done. Normally I would be a little upset to get bad news via voice mail, but I can't really blame her. My grandmother passed away at 1:30 this morning.
It's so hard to describe how I feel. When my other grandmother died it was such a shock to me and I cried so hard that I inhaled my own hair and choked. The only time I've cried today is after finding out I had Olivia's appointment wrong and while reading my sister's blog. I really had let go of my grandmother years ago. We weren't allowed to see her for years. And this past spring when I finally did see her, I think that was when she was finally gone to me. She didn't look like my grandma, she didn't act like my grandma. She was just a very old, frail, confused lady. My grandma was always young for her age, strong, and sharp as a tack. I cried very hard after seeing her, and I think that is why I am not crying now. The little bit I have cried has been for my mother and grandfather.
When I called my mother back, I expected her to sound more upset. But she mentioned that with her being on Prozac, she's unable to break down. She wants to, she starts to, it never comes. She said it's OK though because she wanted to be strong for my grandpa.
I feel the worst for him. They were married over 50 years, almost 60 I believe. He had never lived alone before putting my grandma in a nursing home. He put up with all the difficult years, and probably would have kept her at home until the end if my mom hadn't convinced him to put her in a nursing home. I just can't imagine someone being with you almost every day of your life and then they're gone.
There isn't going to be a funeral. I know that's hard for a lot of people to understand. I didn't talk to my mom, again she got my voice mail, but I think I know why. For one, my grandparents were nto religious people. A religious ceremony would be the last thing she wanted. Plus, there would be 7 people. Anyone else would just be there for one of us, they wouldn't know her. Bill has never met her. I don't think Crystal's boyfriend ever met her. I doubt Trey would be taken out of school for it. Just my parents, my grandpa, my sisters and I, and my great aunt. She has no other family, she shunned any friends long ago when the Altzheimers began... that's all there is. It does feel strange that there won't be one. It's a final closure that won't be there. But most of us let go a while ago, and the two who were the closest to her decided a funeral wasn't necessary.
My grandmother, Mary Louise Landrum Follette, was around 85 years old. She was a nurse. She was 28 when she married my grandpa. She had one child, my mother. She was either 1/4 or 1/8 Cherokee and loved Native American jewelry. She was strict on us, almost a little scary to us, but we never doubted that she loved us. There are some strange parallels in my life and hers, and I think she noticed it and was proud of it. We were about the same age when we got married, about the same age when we had a baby. She was a strong, independent woman. I was told that the year I was born she was raped and had a nervous breakdown and that I never really knew my grandmother the way my mother did. Maybe someday I can see her again, young and happy, and get to know who she really was.
#45 & #46 - Order Isabelle's and Zoe's birth certificates
I know, I know, Izzy just turned 3. I should have had her birth certificate a LONG time ago. But I forgot. Then Zoe came along and I didn't see any huge need in it because I still didn't have Izzy's and had never needed it.
Well, sometimes making the intention to accomplish something is enough to set the wheels in motion for you to HAVE to do it. Kinda like when I said I wanted to have a physical this year and now I HAVE to go to the doctor for other reasons...
Bill got a packet in the mail. We were picked for an insurance audit. We have to provide documentation that we're married and our kids are our kids or they will drop us off of his insurance. And guess what I don't have? Birth certificates for not just one, but two of my kids. Luckily we have until the middle of July to provide the information. I got online Friday evening and ordered their birth certificates. I also made sure I could locate Olivia's and our marriage certificate.
So... check and check - two more items bite the dust!
Well, sometimes making the intention to accomplish something is enough to set the wheels in motion for you to HAVE to do it. Kinda like when I said I wanted to have a physical this year and now I HAVE to go to the doctor for other reasons...
Bill got a packet in the mail. We were picked for an insurance audit. We have to provide documentation that we're married and our kids are our kids or they will drop us off of his insurance. And guess what I don't have? Birth certificates for not just one, but two of my kids. Luckily we have until the middle of July to provide the information. I got online Friday evening and ordered their birth certificates. I also made sure I could locate Olivia's and our marriage certificate.
So... check and check - two more items bite the dust!
Friday, May 29, 2009
Old journal posts
Once upon a time I kept a blog on Yahoo 360. They're shutting it down and advised members to move their stuff (pack yo' shit and go!) before it's gone for good. So I'm moving the ones worth saving here for your entertainment.
Sunday July 16, 2006 - 09:55pm
PooPoo Head
Here's a story about why I will never put Olivia to bed in anything less than a onesie until she is fully potty trained...
We put her to bed about 8pm and shortly afterwards, she started getting upset. Normally we don't have a problem with her fussing a lot... she just goes to sleep. I had the baby, so Bill had to go see what was wrong. We have a convertible crib that has been converted to a toddler bed, but she won't stay put and we haven't stressed the issue yet, so the open side is turned against the wall so she can't get out. On occassion, she gets wedged between the wall and the bed so we figured that was her problem. (I know it's not the safest sounding situation, but she really is fine) I heard Bill say "that's just disgusting," and put Isabelle down to see what was going on. I walked in to find Olivia standing up in bed with Bill holding something to her head. He said "it's poop." Poop? In her hair? He had a huge peice of crap in a wad of toilet paper that was still matted to her hair.
I looked at her and she was still fully dressed for bed. How did she get poop in her hair? Well, both times she was put down for a nap today, she decided it was not a good time to wear a diaper. The first time, she had peed and Bill stripped the bed down to the waterproof pad and her pillow, cleaned her up and put her back to bed. The second time I looked at her pull-up and it was clean and dry so I put it back on her and put her back to bed. Apparently one of these times, she pooped without us noticing it and it was underneath the pillow or something. I don't know. I guess I should have done a more thorough investigation when I discovered her naked butt. I mean, she normally doesn't take her diaper/pull-up off for no reason.
At first I wondered why the hell he didn't just pull the poop out and I'd go wash her hair. Well, let me inform those of you who might not know, but poop does not slide easily out of your hair. It has a tendency to cling similar to bubble gum. I mean, at one point Bill suggested cutting it out of her hair, but that would have put a HUGE bald spot on her head not to mention she just has gorgeous hair and cutting it would be criminal.
So, using toilet paper, I pulled out what I could pull out. Gagging all the way. It was the strangest combination of being pissed off, disgusted, and wanting to laugh my ass off all at once. Then I put her in the tub, fully clothed, and washed her hair three times. She hates getting her hair washed and she cried and cried, but not once did she fight me. She knew what happened was not cool. She didn't want poop in her hair any more than I wanted to clean it.
Afterwards, I had Bill find a fine toothed comb for me because I was NOT using my hairbrush in her hair even if I had washed her hair a dozen times. I did this because her hair felt gritty. Last night we went to Tonya's house and Adam had given her a peanut butter sandwich. Chunky peanut butter. I combed tiny little peanut chunks out of her hair. THAT is disturbing my friend...
Sunday July 16, 2006 - 09:55pm
PooPoo Head
Here's a story about why I will never put Olivia to bed in anything less than a onesie until she is fully potty trained...
We put her to bed about 8pm and shortly afterwards, she started getting upset. Normally we don't have a problem with her fussing a lot... she just goes to sleep. I had the baby, so Bill had to go see what was wrong. We have a convertible crib that has been converted to a toddler bed, but she won't stay put and we haven't stressed the issue yet, so the open side is turned against the wall so she can't get out. On occassion, she gets wedged between the wall and the bed so we figured that was her problem. (I know it's not the safest sounding situation, but she really is fine) I heard Bill say "that's just disgusting," and put Isabelle down to see what was going on. I walked in to find Olivia standing up in bed with Bill holding something to her head. He said "it's poop." Poop? In her hair? He had a huge peice of crap in a wad of toilet paper that was still matted to her hair.
I looked at her and she was still fully dressed for bed. How did she get poop in her hair? Well, both times she was put down for a nap today, she decided it was not a good time to wear a diaper. The first time, she had peed and Bill stripped the bed down to the waterproof pad and her pillow, cleaned her up and put her back to bed. The second time I looked at her pull-up and it was clean and dry so I put it back on her and put her back to bed. Apparently one of these times, she pooped without us noticing it and it was underneath the pillow or something. I don't know. I guess I should have done a more thorough investigation when I discovered her naked butt. I mean, she normally doesn't take her diaper/pull-up off for no reason.
At first I wondered why the hell he didn't just pull the poop out and I'd go wash her hair. Well, let me inform those of you who might not know, but poop does not slide easily out of your hair. It has a tendency to cling similar to bubble gum. I mean, at one point Bill suggested cutting it out of her hair, but that would have put a HUGE bald spot on her head not to mention she just has gorgeous hair and cutting it would be criminal.
So, using toilet paper, I pulled out what I could pull out. Gagging all the way. It was the strangest combination of being pissed off, disgusted, and wanting to laugh my ass off all at once. Then I put her in the tub, fully clothed, and washed her hair three times. She hates getting her hair washed and she cried and cried, but not once did she fight me. She knew what happened was not cool. She didn't want poop in her hair any more than I wanted to clean it.
Afterwards, I had Bill find a fine toothed comb for me because I was NOT using my hairbrush in her hair even if I had washed her hair a dozen times. I did this because her hair felt gritty. Last night we went to Tonya's house and Adam had given her a peanut butter sandwich. Chunky peanut butter. I combed tiny little peanut chunks out of her hair. THAT is disturbing my friend...
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
A frightening followup to #81 - Donate blood
I'm mostly writing this because I need to just get it out of my head.
On Sunday, Bill walked in the house with Saturday's mail and handed me a letter from the American Red Cross. I thought that maybe since I didn't have a donor card that they were sending me one, although there was a tiny voice in the back of my head that said, "Jennifer, you know that this is too thick to be that."
I opened up the letter and began reading. After reading the line that said the screening they did on my blood came up with inconclusive results and I might have Hepatitis C, I stuffed the letter back in the envelope and walked off.
How? Who, what, when, where, how? Why me? What the fuck?
I wanted to throw up. But I went back and tried to read the letter in full. I really couldn't do much more than skim. It basically said that the initial screening was positive, but the subsequent, more thorough screening was negative. I most likely DO NOT have Hep C, but I need to see the doctor and get tested.
Well, I was putting off scheduling an appointment for a physical. Way to push me into that one!
I'm not letting myself freak out about it. For one, my appointment isn't until June 5 and that's over a week and a half away. If I dwell and fret and worry for that long I'll honestly make myself sick. For another, the letter said it was rare with the combination of results I had to actually be infected.
But it is still back there in my head... what if?
I've never really considered having something like that before. I've never before looked at the blue lines on the inside of my arm and thought, "the blood running through there could be lethal." If I were positive, when did it happen? Do they routinely screen for that when you are pregnant? Could I have infected my children? My husband? How do you tell people if you injure yourself to leave you alone so that they don't get infected? Would it make me really sick?
Those are just a few of the things that have run through my head.
Regardless of the results of the testing my doctor will do, I can no longer donate blood. They threw the blood I did donate away. In the whole "everything happens for a reason" scheme of things, I hope this was just God's way of nudging me to get that physical done a little sooner than my procrastinating self would have done otherwise.
On Sunday, Bill walked in the house with Saturday's mail and handed me a letter from the American Red Cross. I thought that maybe since I didn't have a donor card that they were sending me one, although there was a tiny voice in the back of my head that said, "Jennifer, you know that this is too thick to be that."
I opened up the letter and began reading. After reading the line that said the screening they did on my blood came up with inconclusive results and I might have Hepatitis C, I stuffed the letter back in the envelope and walked off.
How? Who, what, when, where, how? Why me? What the fuck?
I wanted to throw up. But I went back and tried to read the letter in full. I really couldn't do much more than skim. It basically said that the initial screening was positive, but the subsequent, more thorough screening was negative. I most likely DO NOT have Hep C, but I need to see the doctor and get tested.
Well, I was putting off scheduling an appointment for a physical. Way to push me into that one!
I'm not letting myself freak out about it. For one, my appointment isn't until June 5 and that's over a week and a half away. If I dwell and fret and worry for that long I'll honestly make myself sick. For another, the letter said it was rare with the combination of results I had to actually be infected.
But it is still back there in my head... what if?
I've never really considered having something like that before. I've never before looked at the blue lines on the inside of my arm and thought, "the blood running through there could be lethal." If I were positive, when did it happen? Do they routinely screen for that when you are pregnant? Could I have infected my children? My husband? How do you tell people if you injure yourself to leave you alone so that they don't get infected? Would it make me really sick?
Those are just a few of the things that have run through my head.
Regardless of the results of the testing my doctor will do, I can no longer donate blood. They threw the blood I did donate away. In the whole "everything happens for a reason" scheme of things, I hope this was just God's way of nudging me to get that physical done a little sooner than my procrastinating self would have done otherwise.
#87 - Reconnect with Sam
No, this is not marked off the list. Because I didn't actually connect with him, but I did see him today.
I met Sam when I was 16 after I changed school my sophomore year. I had a huge crush on him - he had long hair, was a musician and very smart, plus he had started a student Christian group at school. I had a friend that had a crush on him too, and I got caught in the middle as her messenger. He was so sweet trying to let her down easily, and in the process Sam and I became best friends. We would talk on the phone all the time and write notes to each other. I still had my enormous crush on him, but that's just how my adolescence went - I'd like a guy and then we'd become best friends and, well, there goes that...
Sam cut his hair off the summer before his Senior year (he was a year older than me) and I cried.
He called me one night and out of the blue told me that he sometimes thought about asking me out on a date. But he didn't want to mess up our friendship (of course). I sat there in shock after he hung up. I called him back and told him he should ask me out. So he did. He was my first honest-to-God boyfriend.
Sam lived with his dad, step-mom, and sister. He rarely ever talked about his mother. All I knew is that she lived in New York. After we started going out, he would tell me more about his mother every day. Exactly one week after he asked me out, after one date to go watch Scent of a Woman, he wrote me the most heartbreaking and beautiful letter I have ever read to this day. He told me about his mother's death. He said, "sometimes I think I love you and I want to tell you." Then he broke up with me.
Of course, I was devastated, but Sam was more than some teenage crush come true. He was my best friend, so there was no way that I was going to let that week destroy the friendship we had. And I didn't.... we moved on like it never happened.
Part of me thinks maybe he asked me out so that he had someone close to him to talk about his mother with. That was honestly the only true difference in that week. We never even kissed.
After he graduated, we kept in touch, but he went through some strange changes for a while. We would lose touch for a while, then all of a sudden - there he is again. He got into Scientology for a while, he was pretty aimless, living with his grandmother and delivering pizzas... He was so bright that it's kind of a shame, but I should know better than anyone that sometimes good grades in school don't always translate into a stellar jet-setting career.
The last time I saw him was shortly after I met Bill, almost 8 years ago. He came over and played guitar for me. Bill was horribly jealous, but it just wasn't like that. I love Sam, but it's not like that anymore. I stopped thinking he was THE ONE in high school. I do love him, but it's as a friend and like a brother, not romantic at all. Sam called me shortly before Bill and I got married, he delivered a pizza to my sister a couple of years ago and hugged her and said to give it to me, and that's the last I've known of him...
Until today.
After work, I was feeling lazy and I didn't have the right shoes to workout, so I skipped the gym. I drove to the fabric store instead. It's on the other side of town and I rarely go over that way and the whole way kept telling myself I didn't really have time for this, but still went. I stopped at a red light and there he was, walking up the other side of the road. It's been almost 8 years, but there is no doubt in my mind that it was him. But there was nothing I could do about it. My window is stuck and I can't roll it down. Even if I could, I was at a red light that was about to change - it's not like we could have talked. I just stared at him as he went by - he never looked my way to see me. I felt like beating on the window and screaming "Sam! Sam! Over here!"
But I'm happy. I saw Sam. I know he's OK at least.
I really believe that there are people in your life that you will never be finished with. Sam is so woven through my life that I truly believe that I'll see and talk to him again. It may be a few months from now or years from now, but we will eventually reconnect.
I met Sam when I was 16 after I changed school my sophomore year. I had a huge crush on him - he had long hair, was a musician and very smart, plus he had started a student Christian group at school. I had a friend that had a crush on him too, and I got caught in the middle as her messenger. He was so sweet trying to let her down easily, and in the process Sam and I became best friends. We would talk on the phone all the time and write notes to each other. I still had my enormous crush on him, but that's just how my adolescence went - I'd like a guy and then we'd become best friends and, well, there goes that...
Sam cut his hair off the summer before his Senior year (he was a year older than me) and I cried.
He called me one night and out of the blue told me that he sometimes thought about asking me out on a date. But he didn't want to mess up our friendship (of course). I sat there in shock after he hung up. I called him back and told him he should ask me out. So he did. He was my first honest-to-God boyfriend.
Sam lived with his dad, step-mom, and sister. He rarely ever talked about his mother. All I knew is that she lived in New York. After we started going out, he would tell me more about his mother every day. Exactly one week after he asked me out, after one date to go watch Scent of a Woman, he wrote me the most heartbreaking and beautiful letter I have ever read to this day. He told me about his mother's death. He said, "sometimes I think I love you and I want to tell you." Then he broke up with me.
Of course, I was devastated, but Sam was more than some teenage crush come true. He was my best friend, so there was no way that I was going to let that week destroy the friendship we had. And I didn't.... we moved on like it never happened.
Part of me thinks maybe he asked me out so that he had someone close to him to talk about his mother with. That was honestly the only true difference in that week. We never even kissed.
After he graduated, we kept in touch, but he went through some strange changes for a while. We would lose touch for a while, then all of a sudden - there he is again. He got into Scientology for a while, he was pretty aimless, living with his grandmother and delivering pizzas... He was so bright that it's kind of a shame, but I should know better than anyone that sometimes good grades in school don't always translate into a stellar jet-setting career.
The last time I saw him was shortly after I met Bill, almost 8 years ago. He came over and played guitar for me. Bill was horribly jealous, but it just wasn't like that. I love Sam, but it's not like that anymore. I stopped thinking he was THE ONE in high school. I do love him, but it's as a friend and like a brother, not romantic at all. Sam called me shortly before Bill and I got married, he delivered a pizza to my sister a couple of years ago and hugged her and said to give it to me, and that's the last I've known of him...
Until today.
After work, I was feeling lazy and I didn't have the right shoes to workout, so I skipped the gym. I drove to the fabric store instead. It's on the other side of town and I rarely go over that way and the whole way kept telling myself I didn't really have time for this, but still went. I stopped at a red light and there he was, walking up the other side of the road. It's been almost 8 years, but there is no doubt in my mind that it was him. But there was nothing I could do about it. My window is stuck and I can't roll it down. Even if I could, I was at a red light that was about to change - it's not like we could have talked. I just stared at him as he went by - he never looked my way to see me. I felt like beating on the window and screaming "Sam! Sam! Over here!"
But I'm happy. I saw Sam. I know he's OK at least.
I really believe that there are people in your life that you will never be finished with. Sam is so woven through my life that I truly believe that I'll see and talk to him again. It may be a few months from now or years from now, but we will eventually reconnect.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
#81 - Donate blood
This is just a friendly disclaimer that this blog might not be for the faint of heart. You've been warned.
I saw a notice the other day at work that the hospital next door was having a blood drive today, so I decided it was a good time to cross something off of my list. Now, I'm a HUGE fan of keeping my blood INSIDE of me, so I wasn't particularly looking forward to this. I hate needles. I know some people would argue that someone with as many tattoos as I have can't say that, but I say you're wrong. A tattoo is nothing like having a hollow spike driven into a vein. Nothing like it at all. Piercing might be more like it, but I've never been a big fan of piercing myself.
There were two bad parts to the process - the finger stick to check my iron and of course, inserting the dagger into my arm to drain my blood. I'll kind of give you the fact that it is ridiculous for me to be so squeemish about the finger stick - that is more like a tattoo (but not really), plus when I was pregnant and had gestational diabetes I had to do it multiple times a day (in addition to insulin injections). But I still hate it.
I was proud of myself, though. I normally can't look anywhere near the tubing and whatnot. They always drape the tubing over your arm and feeling this warm tube on my arm, knowing MY BLOOD is running through it creeps me out, but I did better. I even watched the bag fill up some. I guess a lot has changed since I gave blood last. It has to have been almost 10 years, and I have had 3 kids since then. I'm not quite as squeemish now. Bodily fluids aren't such a big deal now.
What freaks me out most is when they take the needle out. I held pressure on my arm and when the guy pulled the gauze back, blood came rushing back out - AAAAHHHHH! My worst blood donation nightmare - leaving and my arm starting to just gush blood. He told me to hold pressure on it some more and I'm surprised my arm isn't black and blue from the intense pressure I was giving it. He checked again and no more blood. Then I got my bandaid and a pretty red Coban wrap to hold the cotton ball in place. The instrucitons were to keep the Coban on for 1 hour and the bandaid for 5. It was more like 3 hours and 8 hours. Like I said - I am just convinced one day I'll leave and the hole will open back up and blood will just spurt out of my arm all over the place.
It didn't though. Taking the bandaid off was a bitch though. Owwww!
I saw a notice the other day at work that the hospital next door was having a blood drive today, so I decided it was a good time to cross something off of my list. Now, I'm a HUGE fan of keeping my blood INSIDE of me, so I wasn't particularly looking forward to this. I hate needles. I know some people would argue that someone with as many tattoos as I have can't say that, but I say you're wrong. A tattoo is nothing like having a hollow spike driven into a vein. Nothing like it at all. Piercing might be more like it, but I've never been a big fan of piercing myself.
There were two bad parts to the process - the finger stick to check my iron and of course, inserting the dagger into my arm to drain my blood. I'll kind of give you the fact that it is ridiculous for me to be so squeemish about the finger stick - that is more like a tattoo (but not really), plus when I was pregnant and had gestational diabetes I had to do it multiple times a day (in addition to insulin injections). But I still hate it.
I was proud of myself, though. I normally can't look anywhere near the tubing and whatnot. They always drape the tubing over your arm and feeling this warm tube on my arm, knowing MY BLOOD is running through it creeps me out, but I did better. I even watched the bag fill up some. I guess a lot has changed since I gave blood last. It has to have been almost 10 years, and I have had 3 kids since then. I'm not quite as squeemish now. Bodily fluids aren't such a big deal now.
What freaks me out most is when they take the needle out. I held pressure on my arm and when the guy pulled the gauze back, blood came rushing back out - AAAAHHHHH! My worst blood donation nightmare - leaving and my arm starting to just gush blood. He told me to hold pressure on it some more and I'm surprised my arm isn't black and blue from the intense pressure I was giving it. He checked again and no more blood. Then I got my bandaid and a pretty red Coban wrap to hold the cotton ball in place. The instrucitons were to keep the Coban on for 1 hour and the bandaid for 5. It was more like 3 hours and 8 hours. Like I said - I am just convinced one day I'll leave and the hole will open back up and blood will just spurt out of my arm all over the place.
It didn't though. Taking the bandaid off was a bitch though. Owwww!
Oh, never try to explain blood donation to a 4 year old. They will NOT understand and they WILL look at you like you just traumatized them for life.
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