OUR SON, BRIAN

Instead of boring you with tails of early toilet training trials or describing the empty rum bottles we found hidden on top of the pot shelves in his bedroom, we have decided to describe a decade of Brian and his sports follies.

In an effort to involve Brian in sports, we decided to start out with soccer, a popular team sport for youth in the 80’s. Brian was so cute running up and down the field – as a matter of fact, that’s about all he ever did – run with his team one way, then turn around and run with his team the other way. I don’t think he ever came in contact with the soccer ball, much less kick one – but he sure knew how to run back and forth.

Since soccer didn’t really seem to excite him, he expressed an interest in playing little league baseball. He even practiced with a big white plastic ball and huge red bat when we would go camping as a family. I think he got too used to the huge red bat, because when it was his turn to bat in little league, he swung more than he connected. His position in the field was out field – WAY out field. Not many balls would come his way, so he spent a lot of time studying the rocks on the ground and observing the bug trails as they left the field.

In middle school he begged to be on the wrestling team. I’m not sure why except maybe he felt real mean after he posed for his sport picture in his wrestling uniform. Either that or he had an illusion of taking his English teacher down and pinning her to the mat – forever. He did hold a wrestling record, however – never winning a match.

Brian was on the swim team one summer. That didn’t last the entire summer because he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror in his speedos. It was just too embarrassing for a very modest young man.

We would be remiss if we didn’t mention teaching Brian how to water ski. He had short little skis that were held together in the middle with a plastic strap to ensure his feet would stay together and not cause his legs to go into an awkward split. I don’t know who had more endurance, Brian or Daddy. HIT IT, pull a few feet, DOWN. HIT IT, pull a few feet, DOWN. The unique thing about Brian’s early water skiing is that he would not even put the skis on unless he was wearing his socks. Heaven forbid if he had lost his socks at Lake Powell like he did his Smurf shirt.

Brian finally found his sport in high school – golf. He was on the golf team, went to Junior Golf tournaments, and won several trophies. He even won most-valuable player one season. And, a moment I’m sure he is very proud of is when he beat Daddy one time at Moon Valley.

And just look at the sports he’s involved with now – wakeboarding, snowboarding, softball, kickball, NASCAR chaser, and champion pub crawler. What a guy.

SURGERY SUCKS

The pain started while I was teaching class.  Or I should say, my students were busy working on a project while I was curled up in a fetal position in the corner of the room.  At first I thought it was gas pain.  Then it got worse and all the normal things flashed in my brain – diverticulitis…kidney stones…appendix.  I remember a doctor telling my daughter that if you jump up and down and can’t stand the pain, it’s your appendix.  After class I went into the bathroom and jumped up and down.

Decision time: do I drive myself to the hospital or drive home and let my husband take me.  The juggling of too many vehicles left in a parking lot slipped into my organized mind, so I drove home.  Husband saw the look in my face, grabbed the keys, and off we went.  It reminded me a little of driving to the hospital before my son was born.

Admitting to the hospital went fairly quickly.  When I told them the pain was 15 on a 1-10 scale, they immediately wheeled me into Room ER13, just as the cooking channel appeared on the TV.  Then off I went to get a CAT scan – roll off the bed to a table – click – hold your breath – click, buzz – hold your breath - roll back on the bed – yikes!  When Dr. McGloomy came back in he told me it was a hernia – say Whaaaa?  That was the furthest thing from my mind.  Then the Dr. with no manners had the nerve to try to push this 5 inch bulge back into place.  The screams from my mouth gave him the clue it wasn’t going to work.  A sweet young nurse taped a needle in my arm and cooed, “You’re being admitted.”  Praise the Lord, cut me open.

I had my own room until after surgery, when they relocated me upstairs to room with a woman who had TVLAND on all day and all night.  Flashes of reruns of “The King of Queens” and “Everybody Loves Raymond” permeated the room.  The drugs started to kick in and I was content to just lie in bed, dozing off in la la land. My son came to visit and watched golf on my TV with my husband.  When he left he said, “Nice talking to you, Mom.”  Then the ugly nurse with the mole on her chin came in and forced me to walk around the nurses’ station.  A lot of expletives spewed forth from my lips until I was able to grasp a hold of my IV pole and shuffle, hunched over, down the hallway.

I was able to go home the day after surgery and knew I needed to drink a lot of fluids and eat.  So that’s what I did.  I was able to pee ok, but figured out I hadn’t had a bowel movement for 2 days when my abdomen started to bulge above my incision.  I found some laxatives and took those for 2 days.  Nothing.  Then, in the middle of the night, I felt it.  Oh goodie, I’m going to get some relief, so I sat on the toilet for an hour.  That’s long enough – I yelled at my husband at 4:00 in the morning that he needed to take me to the hospital so I could give birth to this bowling ball out of my rectum.  When I was admitted, the same doctor who was on call 4 days ago strolled in.  He probably thought, “Oh no, you again.”  “I’m baaack!!” I cried.  An x-ray showed that my intestines contained a line of 4 days’ worth of food packed into a 1 inch tube – oh look, there’s the turkey & green beans, the cheese crisp, the chicken noodle soup, and an Arby’s Ruben Sandwich.

Now, if you are over 50 and reading this, you will know exactly what I went through.  Anyone younger, be glad your mother didn’t subject you to…THE ENEMA!!  They told me it would be a few minutes while they got the enema from the pharmacy.  I think they had to wait until Walgreens opened, because an hour later the nurse with a pointy nose and chicken neck came in with her blue gloves, plastic bag, and long tube.  So this is the END of my shitty tail.  To sum it all up Surgery not only Sucks…it is the Shits.

Epilogue:  At 4 in the morning when I am in pain and it’s dark outside, no one gives a damn that I am in my night shirt and socks with treads.  It’s a different story leaving at 9:00 a.m. with a full waiting room.

Backseat Drivers

Whenever I drive my husband somewhere, he becomes the backseat driver. “You’re following too close.”  “Didn’t you see that car?”  “The light is going to change, slow down.”  “The street where you want to turn is coming up.”  In order to keep my cool and not slam on the breaks, propelling him through the windshield, I have made the decision to never operate the driver’s side of the car when husband is the passenger.  When he drives, I’ve mentioned a few times that I thought he was going the wrong way, and the retort is always, “Do you want to drive?”  That shuts me up. (However, we did start out for Sam’s Club one day and ended up at Costco.)

Husband has been replaced by Gladys Garmin, who sits on my dashboard instead of the seat next to me.  Gladys is guided by the stars so she displays her god-like superiority with every turn of the vehicle.  I recently went to a workshop about 20 miles from my home, so I decided to give Gladys a whirl to test her abilities.  I was a little unsure about the route she had in mind, because she was giving me the silent treatment, so I turned down I street I knew would get me to my destination.  Her grating little British voice screeched, “Recalculating!”  I’m surprised she didn’t yell, “You bitch, I didn’t tell you to turn yet!”

There are other occasions when Gladys has reprimanded my driving decisions.  Once I missed turning right in .4 miles, and she parroted in her computer voice like she was reciting her ABC’s, “MAKE A U TURN! MAKE A U TURN! MAKE A U TURN!”  Another time, in a strange town, I was trying to find a Wal-Mart.  Gladys and I both saw the Super Wal-Mart on the left, yet she had the gall to tell me to turn right.  Just so she wouldn’t yell at me, I turned right and went down a residential street where I made sure all the doors were securely locked.

Then there’s her “A better route is available” line.  Her “better route” is usually driving through brick walls that she can’t see from her satellite perch or along the south side of the railroad tracks, at night, in Cincinnati.  No thanks; I think I’ll stick to the Interstate.

I have finally made a decision that will lower my blood pressure and still get me to my destination - a hula doll on my dashboard and my dog in the passenger’s seat.  They aren’t going to tell me how to drive.

REMOTELY CHALLENGED

I used to have control over my life – and the TV in the living room.  All I had to do was push a button and instantly had 3 or 4 channels.  I could choose from nightly news, a family sitcom, or a Hallmark movie.

Next came cable – and a remote to go with it.  I was still able to push an on/off button and discovered the Animal Planet, Sesame Street for the kids, and a plethora of sports for the husband.

Then the husband wanted a satellite dish because he said we could watch movies at night – oh goodie, the same movie every night for a month, sometimes back to back.  Satellite gave us choices – out of 998 channels, 901 of them were infomercials – do I want to grill a chicken in 15 minutes or wash my face with grapefruit.  With satellite came another remote.  If the wrong button was pushed, I would end up with a little box that said “no signal” floating around the TV screen.  I never could get the two remotes straight, let alone push the right buttons. 

Several years ago the daughter gave us a DVD player – said she was bringing us into the 21^st Century.  Along with that came yet ANOTHER REMOTE.  That made 3 that we had to try to keep away from the dog.

For Christmas, the brother gave us a DVD movie to watch.  I was all ready to watch the movie, but forgot which buttons to push.  Armed with 2 remotes, my glasses, a magnifying glass, and a flashlight, for the life of me, I couldn’t get the movie on the TV screen.  I called tech support (the son) and he told me to press the input button several times – that did not work.  He even offered to help me if I would download FaceTime on my Mac so we could video chat.  Yeah, right!  I can’t figure out how to work a little 2 by 8 device – and he wants me to video chat. 

In walks the husband.  Men are born with a remote in each hand, and their superior attitude makes you believe they understand how all remotes work.  In reality, all they do is push buttons randomly until something appears on the screen, then smugly sit down, remotes armed and ready to channel surf.  What he really got was a TV screen covered with lists of acronyms, numbers, arrows, and snow.  After a few words with each other, he handed me the remotes and told me to figure it out as he walked out of the room.  I turned the TV off and read a book – at least I had control over turning the pages.

Shopping for Jeans

I recently went shopping with my daughter, a 30-something year old.  In keeping with the sister-hood oath of womanhood, I will not reveal her true age.  When she shops, she likes to shop the junior stores because she is a size 0, and there aren’t many stores that stock a size 0.  That is not a typo – you read it correctly – a 0.  I told her not to say that out loud because she would surely be attacked by all the Blimpo Barbies within hearing distance.  Sizes are supposed to be a numerical value, like 10 or 12 – 0 has no numeric value whatsoever.

Anyway, I accompanied my daughter to some junior stores at the mall, because I’m the Mom, and I buy clothes for my kid - even though I feel like a beached whale in the midst of young mermaids.  But, to pass the time, I find a few items to try on too.  Express is having a sale on jeans – buy one and get one for half price.  Such a deal, even though the price of one pair of jeans is the weekly food budget for my husband and me.  But, not wanting to pass up a special sale on jeans, I find the largest size they have and the sweet young clothing associate finds a dressing room for me – I think I heard her chuckle a little as she locked me in the 4 x 4 closet.  While in the little dressing room, I attempted to squeeze one of my thunder thighs into one leg of the jeans – then the next thigh.  The tricky part is snapping and zipping the low rise over my 2 pregnancies-bloated-stretch-marked belly.  The little dressing room is not wide enough for me to lie down, so I do a jumping up and down dance.  Finally, the jeans are painted on my body, the waist sitting about 4 inches below my belly button, but not low enough to tuck under my gut.  My devoting daughter says, “They look great on you, Mom!”  So, if I buy them I will have to make sure I don’t go anywhere where I will have to sit down, or bend over, or walk up stairs.  I’ll just stand there and think, “Look at me everyone, I’ve squeezed my granny-aged body into a pair of teeny-bopper jeans.”  But, hey, a sale is a sale, and we got her size 0 jeans for half price!!