You know what sucks?

You know what sucks?

When you go to McDonald’s at 12 noon and the drive-through line is insane.

You back up to be nice and let someone get through, when some woman 30 feet behind you lays on her horn as if you were blind, and might back into her.

Your reflexes take over and your arm and finger shoot up towards the back window flipping her the bird.

You then look to the left slightly, and see your five year old wide-eyed, staring at you wondering what is happening.

Oops.

“Mommy did a bad thing, just forget about it, honey.” I say quickly.

The woman parks in a space near your car as you wait in the incredibly slow line, staring at you the whole time as she goes around to the other side to let her kids out.

When we finally make it through the line, they have finally sent the manager out to direct traffic.

That sucks.

Church

I would like to preface this post with a small request. This is MY blog. Yes, I own it. Therefore, I am going to post MY thoughts, views, etc. I do not mean to offend or disrespect anyone with my writing. I also do not intend for someone to view my post as a personal invitation for them to push their views on me . As I’ve always said, if you don’t like what you read, move on to the next blog. Whew! Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.

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Even a blizzard couldn’t stop us from going there. No good Catholic misses a Christmas mass. I don’t ever go to church with my husband unless his parents are in town. This is a personal decision I made to try to make things easier for them.

When we walked into my husband’s newly constructed church, it was obvious to me the amount of money that had to be spent to construct it. The ceiling is enormous. There are hand paintings all over the walls. The walls are a yellowish color and the ceiling is painted dark blue. Pews face from all sides of the room so it must sit thousands. It feels cold and gaudy to me.

We sit down in the middle of a pew in the back and I stare at the faces around me. All different types of people surround us from middle class to the obviously upper class in their fur coats all decorated like a Christmas tree.

It is usually about this time I wish I had a Star of David around my neck so people would know I was different, even though I don’t practice my religion.

I am different than all of you, and I am proud to be different.

The service begins and everyone stands up and appears to know what to do and say except me, like a dance routine I was never taught.

Ten seconds pass, and I realize no one is sitting, but kneeling. I jab my husband in the side, and scoot slowly down the edge of the pew to kneel as he smiles at me and shakes his head as if to say don’t worry, it’s no big deal.

I like small old churches with massive mahogany doors, stained glass windows and wooden pews that smell like they’ve been freshly Pledged. I love the sound of church bells lofting through the air.

But I never feel as far away from “God” as I do when I sit inside one.

I feel “God” when I go on an early morning walk in autumn and feel the leaves crunching under my shoes, and a burst of sunlight coming through a few trees so bright you wish you had your sunglasses.

I feel “God’ surround me when I walk into the ocean and have the waves crash against me so hard I almost fall down and it makes me start laughing.

I feel “God” when I take my dog on a walk and hear silence but feel the connection between the two of us.

I feel “God” when I watch my daughter sleeping and listen to her breathe.

I do not feel “God” right now inside this church though. Where is it?

My daughter is getting agitated since the service is long. We stand up to sing, but since I don’t know the words,  I just mouth them. I feel her grab my hand and then she puts my hand inside my husband’s hand. I feel the roughness of his palms and the warmth of his fingers. I look down and see L smile, proud of herself for constructing our “handhold”.

I can kind of feel “God” in my heart now.

Mom Tantrum Commercial

My last post made me think about this. I love it!

A Lesson in Discipline

Flash back 7 years (2003)

“WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU!!!” the woman screamed at her child in the middle of the bread aisle at Walmart.

Her child cowered in fear as if she was going to reach over and smack him at any second.

I wasn’t privy to what induced such an intense outburst from this woman, but I was horrified that someone would talk to their child that way, especially in a public place.

What a monster, I thought. I will never talk to my child that way.

Flash forward 2 years (2005)

I had driven to Topeka for my first interview with the social worker (before L was with me). This was one of the requirements for adoption from China. One of the many questions asked were what my views were on disciplining a child.

“I don’t think it helps to scream at a child. Unless they are doing something life threatening like running in front of a car, it’s just pointless.” I said calmly with my hands crossed in my lap.

(The woman at the Walmart had entered my mind at that point.)

“I think it is better to try to talk to your child in a calm manner, and explain what the consequences of their behavior will be. If you yell at them, it is just a sign of losing control and that is no way to teach a child to act.”

The social worker wrote furiously as I continued on with my answer.

“I think  a child learns how to behave from the way you behave. If you want them to grow into a responsible, non-aggressive, thoughtful adult, you have to show them how to be one. I think children learn behaviors through our example more than anything.” I smiled inside so pleased with my answer.

Flash forward to last Friday, 12/18/2010

I was sick. Sicker than I have been in a long time. Fever, chills, you name it. I had forgotten that kindergartners were starting their vacations early for Christmas so were off on Friday. My plans to rest without interruption ruined.

Here’s a small taste of my day:

8am

I get to sleep very late, but wake up to a small human screaming “Mommy, I’m hungry! Get up!” I somehow muster the strength to crawl out of bed and fix breakfast for L.

8:45am

“Mommy! Can we go outside? I’m bored.”

“No honey, mommy doesn’t feel good and it’s so cold outside. Why don’t I put on some cartoons for you?”

“Okay,” she says, as she slumps down on the couch next to me.

“Mommy is just going to lay her head on this pillow for just a second, okay?”

8:55am

I startle awake and find L in the bathroom with a Q-tip.

“Did you stick that in your ear?” I asked.

“No, I just had a tickle in my ear” she replied, guilt all over her face.

“L, do not stick Q-tips in your ears. Do not stick anything in your ears ever,” I said thinking about how every morning I stick a Q-tip in my ear after my shower so far it probably touches my brain.

Perhaps I’ve been sending the wrong message?

9:00am

“Mommy, can I have a snack?”

“No L, you just had breakfast. Wait until 10am.”

“How long is that?”

“1 hour” I say, noticing the five Band-Aid wrappers scattered all over the floor.  (??)

9:30am

After playing a couple games of Connect Four with L, even though I know she has a horrible addiction to my iphone, I ask her if she would like to play a game on it so that I can rest my pounding head on the pillow that is calling my name for just a second. She grins with approval as she grabs it from my hands.

9:50am

I startle awake yet again, and look over at the dining room table to see L coloring.

“Mommy, I’m hungry. Can I have a snack?” (this phrase is usually repeated at least once an hour ever single day while awake, I kid you not. We even get asked for snacks IN THE MIDDLE OF DINNER.)

Through my delirium, I peer over at L and notice something is wrong. I stumble over in my weakened state and see clearly. The right side of her bangs have been cut off.

“What the.. did you cut your hair???!!!” I asked, hoping this was just the result of a horribly misplaced barrette.

“No….Oliver did it” she said sheepishly, looking at the tiny scissors laying on the table.

“L! How could you do this to your beautiful hair? What were you thinking?” I yelled as the tears started to roll down my face.

L then began to cry and ran into her room.

I called my sister frantically explaining what had happened.

“Why would she do this?” I asked in a panic.

“Well, don’t worry about. It could be worse. Remember when C. peed in the air vent? She laughed as she retold the story. “Oh, then the time when he stuck poop in the play kitchen freezer at Grandma’s? When I asked him why, his answer was, “I don’t know.”

“Okay, well I better go find her.”

“Don’t worry, it could have been a lot worse,” she quipped in before hanging up the phone.

I went in the room and hugged L, picked her up and carried her into the bathroom, setting her on the counter. I carefully cut the other chunk of bangs off the left side.

“Mommy, do you remember when you cut your hair?” she asked as her legs dangled off the bathroom counter.

I certainly did remember. I decided I wanted long bangs, and attempted to cut my own hair, resulting in having to go to my hairdresser Stella to fix my shoddy job. Now that I think about it, I’m sure L went with me to get it fixed. Oops, yet another bad example.

Flash forward to yesterday 12/21/09

I’ve now sort of gotten over the hair incident. Once again, Stella came to the rescue and evened her up on Saturday, even refusing to let me pay her a dime. Since I had L for the entire day, I decided to run some errands.

We stop in Price Shopper to get some groceries to prepare for our company coming this week to celebrate Christmas. I’m stressed and time is going by quickly with all the things I have to do before the in-laws get into town.

“L, get off the side of the cart. It is going to tip over and I really don’t want you to fall.”

She steps off, only to get back on 5 seconds later.

“L, I said to not stand on the cart. You are going to fall, and I really don’t want to sit in the emergency room all day with you.”

She steps off, only to get back on 10 seconds later.

“L, get off the cart. How many times is this now?” I say in my firm “I mean it” voice.

“Ummmm…3 times” she replies with a big grin.

She steps off, only to get back on 5 seconds later.

I quickly bend down to her level, putting my hands on her shoulders, “Stay off the cart or we are going to leave immediately, do you understand me?!” The words leave my mouth much louder than intended as I notice out of the corner of my eye a woman with three kids under the age of 4 harmoniously making their way through the store together. In fact, they looked like they were having fun. She caught my glance and quickly looked away.

I on the other hand, frazzled, annoyed, and at my wits end have turned into my worst nightmare. The crazy out of control woman in the middle of Walmart screaming at her kid.

We quickly check out and go home.

Later that night, after thinking about the past few days for a while, I went down to the basement to get into my files. There it was in black and white.The section in my adoption paperwork the social worker filled out.

Attitudes towards parenting:

“Amy believes that consistency, following through on consequences and discipline without screaming and nagging are all important principles. She is open to learning new parenting techniques and is currently in the process of reading about attachment issues, parenting, child discipline, etc.”

Oh sure. WhatEVER.

The morals of my story are:

1. Our children are like tiny mirrored sponges that soak up our weaknesses and bad behaviors only to reflect them back in our faces at the most inopportune times, so practice what you preach. Of course it’s important to remember something else. They also soak up the love we give to them. And from the reflection I’m seeing back, I’m doing good on that one.
2. Don’t take your kid grocery shopping.

Top 10 Reasons I Think I’m Getting Old.

I’ve been a little down in the dumps the past couple days. I just feel tired and old all the time. I decided to compile a list of what makes me feel this way. I came up with 10, not even including the long gray hair I found in the mirror the other day. I’m beginning to believe my feeling old is justified.

1. I bought a really expensive vacuum the other day, and I keep staring at it because it excites me.
2. When my husband and I went to the Power and Light District (a popular night spot in Kansas City), a man ran out to let us go in past the people waiting in line to show ID. (seriously. he RAN over to us.)
3. I linger in the aisle at Walmart reading the claims on the anti wrinkle packages, as if they may be true.
4. I started taking fish oil.
5. I get excited about things like changing the knobs on my kitchen cabinets.
6. When I look at people my age, I wonder, Do I look that old?
7. I have found I complain about a pain or discomfort on my body at least once a day.
8. I get excited if I go to bed early.
9. The thought of hanging out in a crowded bar makes me want to crawl into a fetal position.
10. If I don’t go to the bathroom in the morning after my coffee, it means my day may be ruined.

How about you guys??

Amylou on Writing

So, I’ve decided I really like to write stuff. It makes me happy and it makes me like myself better. That’s a good thing right??

I’ve had several people ask me why I am taking a writing class. To those people, I would reply, “Why do you run? Why do you take tennis lessons? Why do you cook? Why do you sit on your ass and do nothing?” I think that explains how I feel about that question.

Currently I’m taking a class on how to write memoir. It’s an online class that has turned out to be a lot more challenging than I could have ever imagined.

What I’ve found out is that writing is NOT easy. You may THINK you’re a good writer, but writing down things that keep people interested and wanting to follow is VERY hard. Even if you have the most exciting life ever lived, if you can’t write a good story, no one cares. And even if you are good at it, there are ten billion people better than you.

In other words, I will never get to quit being a pharmacist when my bestseller comes out.

Not gonna happen.

There are people out there that work their entire lives to be a writer and are 10 times better than the stuff on the bestseller lists, but can’t get published. Even if you get published, you could just be a one hit wonder. It’s a dog eat dog world. No, no book for me. I will just continue to torture my small audience right here where I can say whatever comes to mind.

The class lasts 10 weeks. We have different topics we cover including character development, plot, description, dialogue, point of view, setting/pacing, etc. Each week we receive an assignment. We also have to submit a bigger project we are working on to the whole class to critique. Mine is my adoption story. I have gotten fantastic advice not only from the teacher, but my classmates. I can’t wait to finally get the project done.

I’m finding as the weeks go on that I’m having more and more writer’s block. This week’s assignment unfortunately was turned in late due to the fact that I had no inspiration until this morning. The assignment was as follows:

Go to a public place and eavesdrop on a conversation. Write down as much of the conversation as possible while listening to your subjects. Try to record the conversation as close to verbatim as you can.

 Then, write a “doctored” account of this conversation, this time whittling down the dialogue so it reveals characters and conveys a dramatic situation with very few lines of dialogue. Turn in only the second version.

Now it would seem that this would be an easy thing to do for me. I always have thought of myself as kind of a nosy person. BUT, apparently I don’t eavesdrop on people too much. I tried really hard all week, and I kept forgetting. And if I do happen to listen to a conversation, like at work or something, I somehow manage to end up getting myself into the conversation (nosy, see!), which ruins my homework assignment of eavesdropping.

Today was an exception. L had a dental appointment, so I took her to lunch afterwards as First Watch, a popular breakfast food restaurant. It was impossible to ignore the table behind me. This was my actual assignment I turned in:

Sarah carefully stirred her tea as she pretended to act interested in Wanda’s details of her colonoscopy.

“I had to drink the entire container. It was absolutely horrible.” Her voice bellowed as she smacked on her scrambled eggs. “I ended up taking the gallon into the toilet with me since it was coming out quicker than I could get it in.”

“That sounds awful. I heard those bowel preps can be hard to go through.” Sarah responded with a soft voice, her eyes skimming the crowd of tables around them.

“Well, when I got in to see the doctor the next morning, he asked if I had taken everything. I told him I skipped the Miralax since I felt already cleaned out.” Wanda’s nasally voice became louder as the details poured out over their breakfast. “He was so upset! He said if you have to strain on the toilet at all, you are a constipated person, and you need to take the Miralax.”

Sarah’s head dropped down as if she was trying to hide herself from the tables surrounding them. It was bad enough she had to hear the details, did the entire restaurant?

“He saw a few polyps in my colon. They took some samples to do a biopsy. This way they can find out if I have cancer or something.”

A look of concern flushed over Sarah’s face, “I hope everything’s okay, Wanda.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’m fine. Don’t worry, honey.”Wanda set down her coffee cup, grabbing her napkin quickly to catch the dribble of coffee traveling down her chin.  “That darn stuff I had to drink though, it nearly killed me.”

The woman at the table behind them slid from the booth, helped her little girl zip up her coat. She started to walk past their table, but suddenly stopped and turned towards them.

“I hope your polyps turn out to be nothing.” She said directly to Wanda, with a look of disgust clearly evident on her face.

Sarah quickly looked down into her cup, and once again started to stir her tea.

“Oh my God, how rude!” Wanda barked out with a mouth full of toast and butter as the woman walked away.

“I know.” Sarah replied, with a shocked look trying to hide the smile she felt forming.

“Where was I? Oh, yes, I was going to tell you about my husband! His PSA is always high, so he had to go into the doctor last week to have his prostate checked….” Wanda droned on as Sarah’s concentration began to quickly fade.

Blah, blah, blah blah.

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Do I think this is my best work? Hell no. Does the dialogue sound realistic and help you SEE the people in your mind? That’s what I want to know from you.

(This was a true story, by the way.)

Confessions of an Afrin Addict

I have denied the signs and symptoms. I have lied to my family and friends. At some point in your life, you’ve got to decide that you can’t abuse your body in the ways you have grown accustomed. There comes a time when you have to say, enough is enough.

I tell my story not for your pity, but in the hopes that I can save just one human being from the same pain and suffering I have put myself and my family through.

I, my friends, am an Afrin addict.

I’ve been down this road before. You would think I would know better as a pharmacist. But, it took reducing my family doctor to tears to get me off the stuff the first time. One medrol pack and a bottle of Flonase later, I was free from it.

Food tasted better, life was easier. I didn’t have to take those “bathroom breaks” at work. I didn’t have to freak out if I forgot my bottle at home. There was no having to hide my dirty little secret.

But a couple years later, and here we are again. I had a head cold that started a week ago. I turned to my husband innocently and said, “Honey, can you run across the street and get me some Afrin? I can’t breathe and it’s driving me crazy. I’ll never be able to sleep.” Without hesitation (he doesn’t know my dark past) he went and got me some.

One hit, and I was in ecstasy. I could feel my nasal passages open up to the sweet smell of oxygen in the air. Oh my God, it was incredible.

But the feeling did not last. I soon became a slave to the 12 hour duration of action.

And now, here I am.  My re-bound nasal congestion is worse than ever. I can’t stop sneezing. Food has lost its taste due to the chemicals frying my sense of smell. I try to act normal, but my nose is always at the forefront of my mind.  I feel like the world’s biggest hypocrite as I enter orders for Afrin at the hospital with the automatic 3 day stop date required by our pharmacy and therapeutics committee. I am a fraud.

I must try to save myself. 

But first, I need another hit.

My Poor Husband

The first time I came over to my husband’s house was about 2 weeks after we started dating.  I was impressed to see a very nice 3 bedroom house, decorated professionally and kept extremely neat. No dishes in the sink, no clothes on the floor, and no dust. I would learn that it was always like this, even on surprise visits.

I on the other hand, have always been a slob. It didn’t help that I had been just become a parent to a toddler (who was into everything) for about a year before we met. This only added to the mess already present in my house. The disease even spread to my car.

Several months later, once things started to get serious, we spent more and more time at his home. I’d haul the kid and the dog with me so we could all watch movies down in his lovely man cave, big screen TV and all. It was just more fun there. It was also a lot cleaner!

I remember one day in particular, I took a shower in the guest bathroom down in the basement. L and my dog, Sydney were left in the careful hands of what was now my fiancé. I reached to turn off the water, and heard total chaos going on outside the locked door. I put on my clothes as fast as I could and threw open the door to see my fiancé with a roll of paper towel and a bucket,  bent over a large pile of dog shit right outside the door. L was running around the man cave yelling “Smelly, smelly, smelly!” as loud as she could while jumping from the couch to the chair and back again. By the look on his face, I could tell he was about to lose it. I tried quickly to think of something comforting to say.

“Just try to remember when we weren’t here! Remember when you were all alone!!” I blurted out, my hair dripping wet and my shirt on backwards.

He looked at me and cracked up laughing.

Here we are now two years later. His once white dining room chairs are scarred forever with L’s name in sharpie marker and spilled chocolate cocoa. His fine Italian leather sofas down in the man cave have been clawed by my cat. The left half of his closet (slowly inching its way over to his side) littered with my clothes and shoes. His once spotless bathroom counter cluttered with my hairdryer and makeup. What was once his office is now a little girl’s room covered in toys and clutter. (Notice Oliver isn’t even mentioned here.)

It makes me remember some words of wisdom my sister had when I decided to become a mother, “Good luck, you’ll never have anything nice again.”

One has to feel a little sorry for the guy.

The Dark Side of Me

As I sit here staring at the carpet we just had steam cleaned a little over two weeks ago, now covered in dog barf, I can’t help but feel slightly depressed today. One of the dogs, we aren’t absolutely sure which one yet, swallowed a chicken drumstick off the dining room table. My daughter was eating, turned her head, and *POOF* it was gone. We now wait helplessly after a trip to the vet with both dogs. It now looks as though it was probably Oliver after what I just witnessed in the back yard. Neither I, nor my stomach, are able to elaborate on the details at this time.

When I started this blog, I warned people that it was going to be my random thoughts. The thing you should know is there is a darker side to my thoughts. No one is ALWAYS happy. No one looks in the mirror every single day and says to themselves, “Gee, I’m just fabulous, aren’t I?”

And now, as I think back before this blog, when I was a nobody as I watch my subscriptions quadruple in size, from 1 to 4 subscribers, I worry about you, my fans, all 4 of you. What will you think of my dark side?

Will my postings upset you? Will you unsubscribe because one day you are offended by what I say?

Or will you stick with me, going through the good, bad, and the ugly, getting to know all my moods so well, that you are able to tell me what day my period is starting on?

I hopes it’s the latter, my friends. I really do. Because through the darkness, I promise the light shall shine through again. I will post funny, silly, light hearted things about my dogs and my adorable kid. And we shall be sad no more, until the next time, the darkness seeps back into my brain.

A Simple Prayer

I was talking to my sister, the nurse,  yesterday about the crazy night she’d had at work. She was working on the geriatric psychiatry unit. (No names or exact details were mentioned, so back off HIPAA.)

It is what inspired my post today.

Dear God,

It’s no secret that dementia runs rampant on one side of my family. I plan to accept whatever hand I was dealt in the genetic pool I was formed from. I’ve had some long and serious talks with my husband about our need for good long term health insurance for what I’m sure is to come. He’s a good man for sticking with me, knowing what he has to look forward to.

We all know what can happen.  Not only has my family had to experience it first hand, but four of us have worked for or are currently working in geriatric psychiatry.  I worked for four years as a nursing home consultant pharmacist and saw my share of horror stories.

First there are the screamers. I can remember walking into the nursing home for the first time as a bright eyed eager pharmacist and hear an old man yelling, “Help me! Help me! Help me!” over and over again.  I turned to the nursing staff at the desk with pleading eyes, “Why won’t you help him?” They rolled their eyes at me. My first thought was that they were thoughtless ,uncaring souls.  I soon began to realize after 8 hours of his continuous screaming, there was nothing that was going to help him.

Then there were the cussers. “F*&k you! You stupid little b*$#%!” the sweet little 102 year old lady cried out loudly to me as I reviewed her medications for drug interactions, proper dosing, and appropriateness. “You used to be a man didn’t you, you whore!” she screamed at me.

Gee Doc, better check a digoxin level, I’d hate for her to be sub-therapeutic.

The list goes on. Screamers, cussers, flashers, spitters, hitters, the “I lost my baby, please help me find it”-ers, etc.

God, I haven’t asked for much throughout the years. In fact, I let my husband do much of the talking for both of us. But I have a few minor requests.

1. When I start to fade and can’t remember day to day things, please don’t make me one of the ones listed above. I humbly request to be that quiet demented old lady who quietly mumbles things about her husband and smiles at small children when they walk by. Let me be the patient that the nurses want to have on their unit because I’m so pleasant and easy to take care of.
2. If I’m not aware of who my family is, at least don’t take away my ability to smell. I can’t imagine anything worse than not being able to tell if I stink or not.
3. Please make sure there is a large sticker across my chart that says, “Allergy to all antipsychotics”. I really don’t want to be chewing my tongue off at such a tender age.
4. Please make sure I am given an adequate supply of benzodiazepines to keep me from being afraid. I’m not picky. You choose, Xanax, Ativan, whatever.  Just make sure they are scheduled around the clock. If I can’t take oral meds, you could even do a Propofol drip. I hear they work pretty well.

One last thing God, if the above is too much to ask, just put me in a cabin in the middle of the forest by myself (with a big bottle of Xanax of course).