Now, That's Showing Your Studly Side

"Hello?"

In the calmest voice you can imagine. "Hi Ally. Um, K took a pitch to the, uh, well, to his eye and well, he's okay, we're getting some ice for it. We've got him laying down here, but I just wanted you to know what was going on here."

My mind is weighing what I'm hearing. Is he telling me just so I know? Or does this require medical attention? Or do I need to go get him? "Okay, well is this something he's going to hang in there through, or do you think we should come down and get him?" I mean, if my kid took a ball to the noggin, maybe he shouldn't be driving a car.

Still with the uber calm voice. "Yeah. Yeah, I think it would be a good idea for him to go home. Yeah, I think that would be a good idea. It's pretty puffed up, but he's got the ice now."

Ohhhh-Kaaaay. Seriously, my son's coach is one awesome dude. It takes a lot to get him riled. And I mean A LOT. But he is a coach, and there are rules about head injuries and so forth. So I grab my husband and we drive down to the training center. I have no make up, my hair is a mess, I'm in yoga pants and some stupid t-shirt and fleece jacket. And I'm still trying to figure out from what he said how serious this is.

We walk in and the coach greets us halfway through the door. The assistant coach is leaning over my son, who is laid out on a bench, holding a giant ice pack on the side of his face. There is another dad standing there watching. I glance down and there are tears rolling down K's face. K is a catcher and gets nailed routinely. When it comes to baseball, he's one of the toughest kids I've ever seen. He will hold in all tears until reaching the safety of the car, and even then they are more out of frustration than pain.

"Okay, buddy, you better let Mom take a look," the coach says. And they slowly pull the ice away.

Holy shit. His eye is swollen shut. And he has the imprint of the stitches across his eyelid. There is blood in his nose. I've seen a lot of injuries, but when it's your child, there's just no turning off that mother reaction.

My biggest concern is less about head injury and more about whether there was impact to his actual eyeball. We took him home and made the decision to take him the ER for a freaking expensive visit that will all be applied to our enormously huge deductible. Urgent care is out because with a head injury, they want to have the options of MRI and CT available. Don't get me wrong, I would give up my house for my son's health.

By the time we hit an exam room, which was pretty quick I might add, I was pretty sure we were just there to be reassured that everything was fine. Then a tech came and gave him an eye exam - you know, cover one eye and read the smallest letters on the chart you can. He did his good eye first - the kid has superman vision. Then the injured eye. Oops, it was half what the other eye was. Oh and there was that comment he made about everything being sepia colored on that side. What?

And then he pulls a classic - the doctor is examining him in the darkened room, with the bright little lights on the eye examining machinery, and then she tips him back to paint some dye on his lower eyelid and starts touching all that swollen eyelid and..... he suddenly feels like he's going to pass out. Then he feels like he's going to throw up. While this could be symptoms of a head injury, it is also a symptom of being a male in my family. Ahem.

Long story made just slightly shorter - he's okay. No damage detected to his eye, his vision symptom is due to swelling. And thank goodness, we have a doctor who does not recommend CT unless absolutely indicated due to the fact that it's like 200 times the radiation of an x-ray being blasted at his brain. He's lucky, because he was turning away, so it likely was a glancing blow instead of full on impact. But she wants him to avoid sports for "a few days".  PROBLEM. High school baseball tryouts start tomorrow. And THAT coach is not so understanding. In fact, he's the world's biggest ass. The doctor agrees to just Monday off sports. However, the swelling has to come down for him to see clearly. And without being able to see clearly, he'll be lucky to be able to catch the ball, let alone hit the ball. Baseball is my son's love. It sits right above music. I'm pretty sure if push came to shove, it even sits above the girlfriend.

Sigh. It is so hard, at this current place in my life, not to scream Why us? Why us AGAIN? Because the shit storm just doesn't seem to want to stop. It's like the bad luck Gods are hovering over our lives. And I want them to keep their filthy hands off my kid and his dreams! Sigh.

But I am thankful that he is okay. I am thankful that he ER doctor was super nice and super thorough. And I just need to stay focused on that. I told him that he was now truly a stud, for sporting a seam imprint on his eyelid. But to please not ever do that again.

And in case you wonder what a stitched baseball seam inprint on an eyelid looks like, scroll down

Hey, the swelling had started coming down by the time I took this! He could actually slightly open it! (He's not very happy that I'm posting this - he says he looks awful. He must be feeling better.)

***Ally

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Simple Times. Simple Play.

Video games, cell phones, computers, internet, facebook, twitter, iPods.

How in the world did we ever entertain ourselves when we were kids?

This was a recipe for summer playtime in my world:

* A couple of plastic sand buckets from the drugstore. Plastic buckets could become new homes for snakes or caterpillars. Add some leaves, grass, a few sticks and one captured garter snake. Hours of entertainment. After all, we had to stay close or the snake would just slither away.

* A long rope and a rectangle of wood that Grandpa notched out on the ends. Anchored in the carport below the garage = a swing = hours of play. Contests, jump offs, foot prints left on the ceiling of the carport.

* A couple of acres of land, grass & weeds as tall as us kids and an apple tree. Of course, we didn't play in there. There were spiders and creepy critters in that tall grass. However, if we could press down a path through the grass to the apple tree, a path we didn't veer from, that tree was great for climbing. And with a flattened cardboard box, all that grass in late August was dry as hay and slippery when crushed, which meant using that cardboard as a sled down the bank of slippery August hay. Wheeeeeeee!

* A creek fed by underground springs under the horse pasture across the street, a steep bank, some blackberry bushes and a rope hung from a tree. Pure fun. We poured bubbles in the creek, crossed the creek by the rope swing and tunneled under the blackberry bushes. We were adventurers.

* A bike. Really. We rode bikes. All.The.Time.

* A go-cart with an engine that didn't work. Hey, you could still push that baby to the top of the hill and coast it back down!

* Sleeping bags on lawn chairs on the back deck = the perfect summer sleepover.

* Did I mention the blackberry bushes? If we picked enough, someone might make us a cobbler. 

Those were simpler times. Times of childhood imagination. Times of leaving the house in the morning, grabbing a peanut butter sandwich at whichever friend's house we were closest to at lunch time, and returning at dinner time. Times of simple play.

How did you entertain yourself as a child? How did you play?

***Ally
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I Wonder... and I'm Also A Little OCD

I had a couple of comments yesterday that planted seeds in my brain.

One was from Terri at Terri's Little Corner. We laughed about spending time "wondering about stuff". Time and energy that could likely be put to better use, but none-the-less, it's kinda fun to wonder.

The other was from Mommy Lisa at Mommy's Nest. She used to work in the hotel industry and has seen the disgusting, piggish side of people and what they do in, and to, hotel rooms first hand.

I mentioned yesterday that I used a pot from the kitchen of my hotel suite to ice my foot. In my defense, I washed the pot with hot soapy water when I was done. I had a legitimate injury that required icing, and the ice bucket was the world's smallest thimble of a thing. I'll also say, that while I did use a few dishes and utensils in that kitchen, I washed them both BEFORE and after eating off of them, because you never know just how disgusting the people before you were, and how clean the things actually are.

(By the way, both of these ladies are great bloggers and you should check them out if you haven't already.)

So these comments got me wondering. How do you treat your hotel room?

Here's what  housekeeping will find in my hotel room upon entering when I check out (because unless I've been there longer than three days, they won't have been in the room while I'm there):

* All dirty towels will be piled together either in the bathtub or on the tile bathroom floor. There will be NO wet towels on the furniture, bedding, carpeting or other.

* All used cups or glasses will be placed together near the sink or bar area. They will not be scattered throughout the hotel room.

* All trash will be IN the trash cans.

*All newspapers will be stacked together neatly near the trash can in hopes that the hotel actually has SOME kind of recycling in place.

* Hotel magazines and remote control will be stacked on the table.

Why? Partly because of my OCD tendencies, partly because I hate the thought that housekeeping would think I'M a complete slob.


And here's what typically happens when I initially enter the hotel room (more OCD):

* Initial check of the room commences.

* Remote control is wiped with Clorox disinfectant wipes. No one is allowed to touch it until it dries (do you know you need to let surfaces air dry after using those for full effect?). This is because, in my imagination, I wonder if the last dude that used the hotel room, sat there channel surfing while picking his nose and scratching his balls. I usually hit up light switches and door handles while I'm at it.

* All clothes that need hanging are hung. I can make a scarce few hangars go a long way by doubling tops and bottoms.

* The bedspread is folded back, along with the blanket, leaving the clean top sheet in place. Because no one needs to wonder what the couple who used the room last did on the bedspread when they found themselves alone in a hotel room with no children for the first time in years.

* Any throw pillows off sofas are declared off limits, because I might wonder if the guy who was channel surfing also has a drooling problem when he falls asleep watching the nightly news.

* Upon needing to use a cup or glass, a hot water and soap wash is performed first. This is due to the stupid Dateline exposé that played a couple of years ago with the hidden camera showing the housekeeping lady washing the cups by spraying her chemical laden CLEANING SPRAY in them and wiping them with her dirty rag. Thank you very much network television, because I don't have enough issues all by myself. Now I have to wonder if the cup actually went through a dishwasher. Besides, who knows if they touched the lip of the cup, let alone inside it, while transferring it to it's place... and how clean their hands or gloves were.

* Upon considering making the complimentary pot of coffee in the coffee maker in the morning, I reconsider and go looking for Starbucks. This is due to Lela's story of her flight attendant friend who claimed to wash her panties while traveling by putting them in the filter basket and running hot water through the coffee pot. Thank you Lela. I really needed that visual to wonder about while sipping my coffee.

Yes, I have issues. You now know more about me than I admit to people other than my family, who has to live through these little obsessions.

Seriously, how do you treat your hotel room?

***Ally
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Wednesday Wit

Random thoughts today. Funny texts between friends and those little daily occurrences that make you laugh. Or shake your head. Or roll your eyes.

Texting between friends:

Ally: My left boob is swollen & painful from PMS. Only the left. Nice. And ouch.
Lela: I feel your pain in my back.

Ally: Mardi Gras colors=prpl, grn, gold. Showed Cindy the purple & true gold craft paper for the posters. Her reply: you could use yellow. Guess she didn't like the gold.

Lela: Lovely green and red phlegm when I cough. ttyl.
Ally: CALL THE DOCTOR

Lela: Don't b jealous! Horseback riding and wine tasting on my birthday in Temecula. Scared! It's been 30 years!
Ally: I'm completely jealous! Fun!

Ally: Cleaning up my diet. No sugar starts today. One.day.at.a.time. You with me??? We can support each other...
Lela: I'm in. Death to sugar! Can we still drink?
Ally: Hell yes!

Ally: Crap. Period headache has set in. Took the last advil in purse. Rest in suitcase inaccessible. Cramps started. Am stuck on bus w/ bathroom scarier than plane.

Ally: I think I have SAD. Today is sunny and I could kiss strangers. Polar opposite of yesterday.
Lela: Don't kiss strangers!


And in other irrelevant pieces of life:

Last night my husband woke me up. He claims I was kicking him. Repeatedly. I told him his legs were just in the way.

As I type, the Weather Channel is on in the background. They are warning of snow for tomorrow. But as I turn my head around, the ground outside is white. Today. WTF? Oh, I guess that's hail, which also explains the constant tick, tick, tick against the windows.

Last but not least, I'm sure there is a wonderful scientific explanation for how an ice cube freezes this way, but I don't really care much. I just thought it was hilarious when I pulled this from my freezer in my hotel suite while in Canada last month. I can think of some vulgar things to say about it, but I'll let you use your own imaginations.  (I needed ice cubes to ice my foot. Which I did in a kitchen pot from the little kitchen in my suite. Which made me really wonder what other people had used the dishes and pots and pans for.... gross.)

***Ally
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RSVP's And The Politics Of Charity

Ever notice how PMS intensifies your opinion about anything? Well, it does for me anyway.

I have a pet peeve.

Only one, you ask? Okay, maybe two.

Let me back up. I belong to a guild. (In this case, guild = group of women that work to raise money to support two women's only transitional houses for women in recovery. We drink wine and have dessert at monthly meetings and do good in the world. It rocks.) Our guild is under the umbrella of another charitable organization. I'll not name them, as they are nationwide and I don't want to cause waves. Ahem.

The guild is having our 2nd annual fundraiser event, which is an awesome Mardi Gras party, with New Orleans style appetizers, no-host bar, short program and dancing. We have high ticket prices, which is our only fundraiser. In other words, people aren't expected to participate in raffles and auctions once they get there, they just buy an outrageously priced ticket and come enjoy a great evening in these dreary winter months. Of course, we take donations if anyone is throwing their checkbook around, but it's very low key.

Anydollars, first pet peeve: RSVP's. 

RSVP = literal (French) translation: répondez s'il vous plaît.
English translation: Pay attention to the date and respond as to whether or not you are going.
......rocket science, I know.

Yes, the RSVP date (Feb 14th) has come and gone. Many, many people have just not been heard from, despite the fact that all RSVP envelopes were PRE-ADDRESSED and PRE-STAMPED. And there was a box to check "no" if they weren't coming. And many people, who have said they ARE coming, still have not sent in their money and RSVP card.  My feeling is this, if you can't respond on time, then don't expect to put food in your mouth at the event, because if we didn't have you down as coming, then we didn't order you food. Better eat before you come. I know, call me a hard ass, but I have no patience for this because I think it is basic common courtesy. (Right there along side thank you's. Don't even get me started on that one. I sent Christmas gifts that haven't even been acknowledged yet.) Besides, this is a CHARITY event. We're not paying for extra food for people that might come, because that would cut into the money we raise for charity.

Second pet peeve, and this is where the politics come in. See, we are expected to comp some of the main people in the umbrella organization. We're not talking two or three, we're talking ten to twelve. I think it's ridiculous. I'm told it's good relations, because they support us. Yeah, well, we raise all our own money. Yes, the first year they spotted us seed money to get us going since they requested this guild be started in the first place, but we have been running on our own financially ever since. So at $45 in hard costs per person, if 10 of them go, that's $450 right off the top of our profits. We were fortunate to get a $2500 sponsor this year, so let's think of it this way - the first $500 of the sponsorship goes to good relations. The whole point of the fundraiser is to raise funds to help with the general operating fund, especially now when state and federal monies are being cut and their budget is shrinking. Personally? If I was on the receiving end of a comp-ed ticket to this event, I'd write a check anyway. By the way, yes, I pay the full ticket price for both my husband and I to go to the event that I am co-chairing. As do all the guild members. None of us attend on a "comp-ed" ticket.

While these really are pet peeves of mine, especially the RSVP thing *sigh*, talk to me in a week or so and I might not sound like such a hard ass. PMS will do that to me.

***Ally
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Call The Doctor

I have been sick for over two weeks.  Ally and I text and/or talk daily and after the first 7 days of me complaining of a sore throat she said, "Go to the doctor!"

"I will just wait it out.  What is the doctor going to do?"  I said in a whisper because it hurt to talk.

A couple more day passed.  I texted Ally that my phlegm was now green and red.

"CALL THE DOCTOR!"   her text yelled at me.

Finally, on day 15, I called the doctor's office. 

"What are your symptoms?"  asked the receptionist in a robotic voice.

"Well, you tell me if I should waste my time and make an appointment.  I have had a sore throat and nausea for two weeks and it won't seem to go away."  I said.

"You need to come in.  Can you make it in 45 minutes?"

Miracle, right?  No one gets an appointment on the day they call.  Anyway, I took a quick shower and gargled with mouthwash.  I thought for sure I would be quarantined with cholera or strep throat.

But it was worse.  Much worse.

The nurse took my vitals and I was left in the office to wait for the doctor.  After reading a few old People magazines the nurse returned waving an empty specimen cup.

"The doctor wants you to take a pregnancy test because you said your last period was in July."

"I said January."

The good news is I had a slight fever and was prescribed antibiotics.

At least I'm not pregnant.

-Lela

Can I just add that she really DID text me about the color of her PHLEGM.  And for the record - I am not one to rush to the doctor about every little thing, in fact I usually avoid it at all costs, but sore throats shouldn't last more than a couple of days, and there's nothing I hate more than a sore throat. So on day 7, yeah, I started telling her to CALL THE DOCTOR. 

That all said, I'm thinking since she doesn't look 7 months pregnant, couldn't they have just inquired further into why she hadn't had a period since LAST JULY before handing her the pee cup??? LOL
***Ally

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Housewife Algebra

My teenage son came home with a difficult algebra problem.  He is pretty smart in math, but didn't know the "formula" for this one:  Jane bought some styrofoam cups.  One package of 12 -  6 oz. cups cost blah.  Another package of 12 - 4 oz. cups cost blah-blah.    She purchased 10 packages of cups.  She spent a total of blabbity-blah.  How many of each package did she buy?

I put on my reading glasses.  I read the problem.  My son stood by rolling his eyes. 

"Well,"  I said.  "I know how to figure this out the "housewife" way, but I couldn't show my work on paper."

"Mom, just forget it.  I will ask the teacher at lunch tomorrow."

"Wait!" I pleaded, trying to remember what I learned in algebra over 30 years ago.  Then I did some quick estimating, rounding-up, and adding in my head.  "I would say that Jane bought 4 packages of  6 oz. cups and 6 packages of 4 oz. cups.

Then I checked my math.  Bingo, Baby.  Correct answer.

"Mom, that's called "guess and check" and my teacher won't accept it," he said, trying to let me down gently.  "I have to show my work."

He collected his math book and headed upstairs before I could lecture him on some "real life" algebra.

For example, if I am inviting 20 friends to my house for a party, how many bottles of wine do I purchase if the average person consumes 4 oz. of wine per half hour?  First, my friends drink way more than the average 8 ounces of wine per hour.  (See how I quickly figured out the hourly consumption in my head?)  Second, I would just buy 8 bottles plus some beer and vodka.  Besides, everyone knows that my friends would come to the party with a bottle of wine for the hostess.

Next example would be if I were going on a car trip and wanted to calculate my gas mileage.  Simple.  I would just push the gas mileage button on my dashboard and it would be displayed.

Rocket scientists are the only ones I can think of that would have to calculate the exact amount of rocket fuel used to go to the moon using algebra.  And show their work.

But even then, wouldn't they top off the fuel tank?

Just in case.

-Lela
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Does That Mouth Have A Filter?

I've mentioned before that I teach the business curriculum at a massage school. Classes are generally small, and very mixed in age. Students range in age from right out of high school to 40's or even 50's, and everything in between.

With those ages, dynamics can be interesting. Personalities can be interesting. In my current class I have a 19 year old who is... sweet, but sometimes naive... and sometimes just a plain idiot.

Take this week for instance. As we were sitting around a table discussing an assignment, she sat to my left. We only had half of the overhead florescent lights on, as they can be a bit industrial. I tell you this because I want you to consider shadows, friends.

Student: "Oh no! What did you do to your eye?"

Me: "Nothing, why?"

Student, talking louder and more animated: "You have a black eye!"

Me: "I really didn't do anything to my eye. I do have hereditary dark circles under my eyes. I probably rubbed my makeup off. I'm sure that's all it is." It was an evening class, I was tired and it was late! I tried to return to the assignment.

Student, speaking louder still: "It's REALLY dark. It totally looks like a black eye!"  

*blink blink*

Good Lord, child, do you not have any sense? Okay, I am not some sort of freak. Yes I have dark circles, but it's really not THAT bad.

Seriously, I think that somewhere around the time I said "hereditary dark circles", she would have SHUT HER MOUTH. But nooooo, she sat there with her fresh youth, staring at my eye (that wasn't that bad! It was shadows and smeared makeup, dammit!) I'm glad I don't have a big wart on my chin.

Maybe she'll grow a filter with age. Or maybe not.

***Ally

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It's All About Us, The Rule Breakers

Christina at Rant Rave Roll bestowed us with this award. (Okay, so it's at the bottom of the post - you'll see it when you get there. Be patient.)

Thank you Christina!

But here's the deal, (and this is a direct quote from Christina): "Like many other things in life, this award comes with strings attached. Rules. Stipulations. Conditions."

See, I hate rules and strings and conditions. I secretly want to be a rule breaker, even though I rarely am. So here's my chance.

Rule #1. Thank and link back the person that gave you the award. Okay, I'm not a total ogre. THIS I will do!  (done!) Check her out.

Rule #2. Share 8 things about yourself. Shit. I hate doing that. I can never think of anything that doesn't make people want to yawn and go click and read somewhere else. So, THIS is where we're going to change it up. After all, there are two of us writing this blog though one of us has had a string of computer problems in recent weeks, and the throat sickness from hell, that have left the other of us hanging out here in blog land fending for herself. Ahem. I'm going to tell you 8 things about Lela, and she'll do the same about me.

Lela (through Ally's eyes):
1. She once died her hair with purple Kool-Aid when we were in high school. Then we had soccer practice in the rain. I don't think I have to tell you what happened.
2. She is one of the most giving, generous people I know. She routinely gets involved with adopting a family at Thanksgiving and Christmas. She buys food for homeless people. She'll do anything for a friend, including hopping a plane to be at my side when I had a cancer scare a couple of years back. (Surgery revealed no cancer, thank goodness.)
3. She is NOT a helicopter mom, and believes in teaching her son to learn to fend for himself, and he's growing up strong, thoughtful and independent. Despite driving her crazy, as most teenagers will do.
4. A few of the things that drive her crazy about her teenage son make me laugh out loud. Because they are EXACTLY like her - or at least exactly like she was at his age. Hilarious!
5. She is highly creative. She sews - beautiful quilts, especially baby quilts using vintage material; paints - her work actually hangs in her house; scrapbooks; writes; decorates. You name it. And she's good at it. She really needs to have her own Etsy shop.
6. She sends me the most thoughtful, fun gifts. And except that one time she sent me a crocheted poncho it can be anything from a book, a shirt, a piece of jewelry, salted carmel - it is always something that fits not only my personality, but our friendship.
7. She shares with me a need for things to be logical, rational, non-dramatic, calm, reasonable, and NORMAL. Yes, this is where Two Normal Moms originated.
8. She really is the best friend a girl could have.

Ally (through Lela's eyes):
1.  Ally has the most beautiful, thick, naturally wavy/curly hair that she hates.   I would die for her hair.  She would (and does) fight it every day with flat irons, round brushes, and hair products.  Weirdo.
2.  Ally takes forever to get ready . . . because of her hair! 
3.  She is very smart and should have gone to med school.  I always call her before consulting a doctor.  I think she missed her calling. 
4.  She might deny this, but she is extremely organized and her house is always clean and beautifully decorated.  Of course she did all the decorating and painting, which she changes once a year!  If we lived in the same state we would probably own a house-flipping company.
5.  Ally is a great mom.  She is just a nicer person than I am and her son (my godson) is proof.  He has a sweet, kind spirit that only good parenting can instill. 
6.  She is the greenest person I know!  Recycle, reuse, and whatever the last thing is--she does it.  She makes the world a better place.
7.  She is in the best shape of her life and can rock a bikini.  If she wasn't my best friend I would hate her for taking up running in her 40's and loving it.  I hate to run.  It hurts and gives me a rash.  Ally has embraced it and I am proud (O.K, a little jealous) of her!
8.  She is just as crafty and creative as I am.  Her homemade Christmas cards and decorated cakes could have their own show on HGTV.  I know I am supposed to stop at #8, but I have to add that she is really more like a sister than a BFF and I love her.

Rule #3 Pass this award onto 8 bloggers. Screw it, I'm flat out breaking the rules and doesn't it feel GOOD. Look, if you are taking the time to read our blog, you are worthy of an award. Any award. So take it, it's yours. Seriously. We love you all. Let me know your doing it and I'll even link it and tweet it.

Rule #4 Contact those bloggers and tell them about their award. See Rule #3. That was easy.

***Ally & Lela
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Time To Unload

Tantrums, backhanded insults, hostility, sideways comments, more tantrums. All intermixed with proclamations of love and affection.

Time and time again, we have sat in wonderment, trying to figure out what just happened. Time and time again, we have beat our heads on the proverbial brick wall, wondering how her vision of reality is so skewed.

My rational brain can barely take it in. One of my many biggest faults? I try to be rational and reasonable to a fault - and I want everyone else to be. If they aren't, I'll likely try to explain it to them so they can have a grand 'Ah-Ha' moment, and join my rational world. Throw me into the mix with a passive-aggressive, bipolar, alcoholic, marijuana addict (yes, that's all one person) and there's a category 5 hurricane brewing in my brain.

After saying over and over that my sister-in-law is passive aggressive, and most definitely has a martyr complex, we actually looked up the PA disorder. While Diagnosing-By-Google can be quite dangerous, I admit I’m the first one to go there. We truly believe she has Passive-Aggressive Disorder, and some bipolar thrown in. Bah, who needs a degree. Yeah, yeah, professional help has been suggested. We're lucky she didn't chop off heads at the mere suggestion.

Unfortunately, my husband and his sister have lost both their parents in the last couple of years. This psychological trauma has pushed my SIL over the edge. And apparently, it’s a steep, steep drop. What was once somewhat tolerable is now completely intolerable.

As a bit of background, I will explain that my in-laws left their assets in a family trust, equally divided between my husband and SIL. That amounts to their house, a very modest IRA which has already been divided, and an investment account. Let me be clear, no one is getting rich here. There is no small fortune to fight over. No one will pay off their mortgage or quit their job. First, the house must be sold - it’s been on the market for almost a year, and once sold, the rest of the trust can be divided.

With spring around the corner, it was time again to lower the selling price of the house because the market in those parts is still falling like the inevitable drop of a boat over a waterfall. My husband sent SIL an email. There was some predictable back and forth where she initially responded irrationally, off the cuff, without thinking anything through, or completely reading his email, and him following up with calm, clear explanations of why they needed to proceed.

Right now you are wondering why they are emailing instead of talking on the phone, aren’t you? Well, that’s because when SIL doesn’t like a conversation, she hangs up on people. So phone calls that require real discussion must be done in writing. Fun times.

She eventually countered with an offer. Yes, an offer. She would agree to lower the price of the house if he would agree to keep the financial part of the trust intact for 20 years. Apparently she got the idea, or someone incorrectly told her, that if she didn’t collect disbursement on the trust, that any money in it would not count as her assets when they applied for federal financial aid for the kids for college. (She has two teenagers, we have one, all getting closer to that college age.)

Okay, let’s stop here. Let’s examine what she’s asking. She is 50 years old. She is in terrible shape and terrible health - I'm not saying she's about to die, but unless she makes changes in her lifestyle, she'll not likely see 75 in one piece. Think I'm exaggerating? She has already stated that she is sure she will get both diabetes and cancer and is waiting for both to happen. So she would like to leave the money untouched for 20 years, at which time, she will be 70. She is always in debt. On our side, my husband has not had full time work for over two years, after being laid off after 10+ years with his company. While we are financially secure for now, and we have no debt other than a mortgage, Heaven knows what the future will bring if this economy doesn't turn around. Savings won't last forever. Let me translate her proposed scenario: "Let's sell the house and leave what money there is untouched for 20 years with you and I financially tied together for what will feel like an effing eternity." I digress. Back to the story.

A real live phone call followed - at her request. When he asked why 20 years and not 5 or 10, she said she expected both of her girls to go to grad school (did I mention her youngest was in 8th grade??). He told her he couldn’t commit to 20 years, not knowing what the future would hold. She went off. Screaming ensued. Real screeching I could hear through the phone. She kept going on about how awful he was for not doing this for her, that he never did anything for her, that he was screwing his nieces financially for college, that she would make sure they knew that if he chose to make that decision, that his actions screamed loud and clear that his intention was to dismantle the trust as soon as possible. (Well she got that last part right, he can’t wait to cut financial ties with her.) She kept cutting him off, wouldn’t let him get a word in. Aaaand, then she hung up on him. Told you so.

It’s a good thing they live across the country from each other. I’d hate to think what would happen face to face.

We have researched and gotten much good advice on dealing with a passive-aggressive personality. Some of those tools are not to engage in battle; to be clear, direct and assertive yourself; to hold them accountable to their words and actions; and to put them on the spot by asking them for a possible solution to the problem. Oh, and never, ever expect an apology or expect them to have an ah-ha moment dammit, as the disorder prevents them from even seeing the situation, or their world, the same way you do.

So he tried it. First, he calmly explained that she must have gotten bad information (rather than all out telling her she was wrong), as they were required to report trusts as assets. He included a link to the instructions for filling out the financial aid paperwork that showed that very issue, as well as cut and pasted some wording from an article about the issue. He also told her that the only grants for grad school were not federally funded and not based on need, so it would be irrelevant during that part of the kids’ schooling. He may or may not have added that maybe she should consider just being grateful to her parents for the money left to her since it might come in handy for helping to send her kids to college.

Then he asked her to please refrain from attacking him, accusing him, threatening him, and using the sale of the house as a bargaining chip to get what she wants. After each one of these, he included her own words in quotes from her emails where she did each of these things. He did not tell her why her behavior was obnoxious and juvenile, but rather pointed it out directly and asked her not to do it again. Then he asked her to get back to the task at hand, which was deciding on a new price for the house.

And you know what? I think it kind of worked. Now it wasn’t quite that simple, she didn’t respond for a solid week. He had to send a follow up to ask if she had given some thought to the price, ignoring the rest of it, and the house discussion moved forward. She most certainly did not apologize - I would probably faint if that happened. But she was as pleasant as she knows how to be in their conversations moving forward. And she was reasonably agreeable when they had to move forward with paying for a small project that will hopefully make the house more appealing. (Ripping down some hideous wallpaper off one wall and closing off a door that was in the middle of the kitchen that led to a bathroom, creating a pantry instead.) Predictably, this project would have created all kinds of trouble normally, but coming on the heels of being called out on her bullshit, she wisely kept her mouth closed.

The thing is, this is not an isolated incident. This is how regular interaction goes with her. Two out of every three times, contact with her leads to explosions like this. I have no illusions that there won’t be more blow ups in our future. But possibly we have found some tools to help us deal with her. It’s exhausting to have to put so much effort, thought, planning and editing into a conversation. But it’s better than being sucked into her vortex of black ugliness.

(Let’s also keep in mind that I cleaned up the previous story for your benefit. I could fill a year’s worth of posts on the ridiculousness that are this woman’s actions and words, how she has ruined family vacations, or how she ruined her father's memorial service. I will add that she dislikes me greatly and resents the hell out of me. I have many, many stories to tell, I’m just afraid I’ll chase you all away if I tell them!)

Phew. Thanks for letting me unload. This stuff eats at my rational mind and being able to talk about it reduces the hurricane in my brain to a tropical storm. I promise something a little lighter tomorrow.

***Ally
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Addendum: And just this morning she emailed with a bunch of snippy, backhanded, poor-me, passive-aggressive remarks. Sigh. Here we go again. Do not engage, do not engage, do not engage...

Is It A Love Story?

How did you meet your significant other?

Me? I was introduced by a friend. They had some business together, and had become friends. She thought I should meet him, so we went on a "double date" of sorts.

I should say that I was 21 years old, living in Hawaii, having never gone "away" to college, since I'd lived at home. I had some wild oats to sow. And I had no desire for a serious boyfriend.

He was nice. Too nice. He held doors for me. Footed the bill. I thought it was obnoxious. Let me be clear, I was an idiot. I was poor and should have relished in someone footing the bill.

He continued flirting with me for the next nine months. Eventually I was worn down by a conversation about cooking. He was bragging about cooking something or other and I asked when he was going to cook for me? Of course, we all know we should be careful what we wish for. He offered to cook me dinner.

On the menu:
Homemade Margaritas
Wild Rice Stuffed Cornish Game Hens
Steamed Veggies

Yeah, he had me at "margarita".

We dated, fell in love. I insanely wanted to move back to Seattle (From Maui. What the hell was I thinking?). He moved with me. He proposed, we got married, had a baby.

Now we share dreams of sitting on our lanai in Maui when we are retired. Playing with our grandkids on the beach. Growing old together. Because he has my heart forever.

Happy Valentine's Day!

***Ally
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Dirty Little Secret

It's no secret that I enjoy watching T.V. in my "down time". 

down' time, n. 1.a time when you are are the only one home and don't feel like dusting the furniture, preparing a meal (for others), or folding laundry, ie. men's underwear with bacon strips in the crotch.

I especially love stories of human triumph, whether it be over losing 200 pounds or losing 200 extra stray cats.  My husband says watching all that T.V. is making me dumb but I ask you, dear bloggy-friends, how is NASCAR and "The Deadliest Catch" making him any smarter? 

All of the preceding information was the inspiration to a new game I thought of to play with my husband.  It went like this:

Me (to husband):  Okay, you  have to pick ONE.  Would you rather I be morbidly obese, a hoarder, or a drug addict?

Husband:  Well, if you were really fat you couldn't clean the house.

(To be fair, I was thinking of a regular obese person and he was thinking of one of those one-ton people stuck lying naked on a king-sized mattress all day with no sheets, yelling at their mothers to bring them a bucket of chicken and give them a sponge bath.  I am not making fun.  I saw that on the Discovery channel.)

Me:  I wouldn't be that fat.  I could still walk and do things.

Husband:  What drug would you do if you were a drug addict?  Smoke pot?

Me:  Smoke pot?  That is stupid.  No, I would be . . . a meth addict.

Husband:  Okay, a drug addict.  Then I would kick you out.

His reasoning being that if he kicked me out of the house for being a hoarder or morbidly obese he would look like an asshole. 

Me:  So it's all about you?  You would kick me out?  But it's still ME!

I don't remember what he said after that.  The "Biggest Loser" was starting.

-Lela
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Wordless Wednesday - Wish I Was There

Wait. I know, it's supposed to be wordless. I'm not very good at that. I have a small story to tell you, and I'm doing it here.

Yesterday was a looooong day. I was tired to begin with because I'd been up too late the night before. Because the day before had started early and ended way too late due to a meeting that went until 9:40pm. So back to yesterday - long day, pissy mood, self doubt, grumpy-ass. That was me. So after my tedious drive home, I exited the freeway at my exit and pulled up to the light. You know I was first at the light, because I missed the damn green light. Such was my day. So I sat there waiting for the light to cycle through, absently staring at the roadside hotel across the street. An Extended Stay America or something like that. I'm sure it's mostly truck drivers, as it's right at the edge of a warehouse district. So I'm staring and there's movement. The curtains are open in one of the rooms. Lights are on. A dude walks in front of the window. Then back again. Except... he's not walking.... he's... is he?... Oh yeah, he's DANCING. He is dancing up a little storm in that room. Dancing all around. Shakin' his groove thing. Moving his arms, swinging his hips.

That, my friends, was a GREAT ending to a long day!

***Ally
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Love Is...

Over at Road To Joy, Pamela did a post called Love is {family and friends}. I think she kinda has a thing for Valentine's Day - she IS head over heels in love with her husband and family, after all. Go ahead and check out her post, it'll make you smile.

Anyhearts, I asked if I could do a version over here and she gave me an enthusiastic "yes", so here it is:

Love is...

 Me and Hubs on a deserted beach on Maui. Just us. In our favorite place in the whole world.

Valentine's Day 2010 on Maui. Did I mention it was our favorite place in the whole world?

My "baby". Sigh. Not so much of a baby anymore!

Me, my sister and my nephew. I cherish the time we get together - hard when we are so many states apart!

Best Friends! Me & Lela in Palm Springs last Memorial Day

How can I not be in love with that face?

...or in love with both of them?

Crazy cousins, buying crazy drinks at a concert.

And the loving husband who hauled our asses 3 hours across the state so we could swoon over Dave Matthews all night.

You didn't think I could do a post about love without chocolate, did you? *wink*

Valentine's Day is just six days away... who do you love?

***Ally

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Recap & Request

My recap of the Super Bowl:

Pregame:

• Laptop ready. Projects ready to entertain myself with. Snacks out.

1st Quarter:

• This is fun. Twitter is ablaze. Horrified seeing Cameron Diaz hand feed Alex Rodriguez popcorn. Wow that went by fast!

2nd Quarter:

• Twitter's still humming. Waiting for half-time nachos (the real reason I'm even watching this game - nachos &  commercials)

Half Time:

• Entertaining our small crowd by reading the one-liners about Fergie's performance off twitter . Nachos!

3rd Quarter:

• Belly's full. Twitter's slowing down. Commercials are getting more stupid.

4th Quarter:

• Is it over yet? Eyes are getting heavy. Is Glee on yet? Who's playing in this game again?

And that sums up my exciting Superbowl Sunday. I can't help think about a tweet I read about one of the commercials - the money paid for that single commercial could have fed Africa. Oh, that and that there will be more youth Darth Vader costumes sold than Volkswagens. In case you missed it:

And my request for your help! I am co-chairing a fundraiser Mardi Gras party that includes a DJ & dancing. We need dance songs. Send me your best "gotta have it" song for getting people on the dance floor! Please?

***Ally
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What A Teen Posts On Facebook

Ever wondered what a teenager posts on Facebook? Your teenager? Your teenager's friends? Your future teenager?

As a good parent, I have access to my son's Facebook account. I periodically keep tabs on him, as well as my nieces. He knows it, and he doesn't care. Other than my oldest niece's sideways revelation about drinking on New Year's Eve, there's been nothing too shocking in any of theirs. Yet. Thank heavens.

But being that teenagers are "friends" with virtually everyone they know, whether they are real friends or not, there is some interesting reading going on!

There's sass: "Don't play games with a girl who can play em better ♥" Gotta admit, girl's got spunk.

Naive: " "Like" this and all your wishes will come true. This really works." Seriously, don't you have homework to do?

Sweet: "Truly great friends are hard to find, difficult to leave, and impossible to forget" Teenage girls are so sappy.

Teenage romance: "I love my boyfriend ♥" *eyeroll* Sweetheart, there's a 95% chance that in 6 months you will gag at the idea that you thought you loved him.

Trendy: "I love Jersey Shore :)" Really, just do your homework.

Brainy: "I PASSED AP BIO!!!"  Congrats. Clearly you DID your homework.

Honest: "I wish Facebook didn't get me distracted from homework so easily"  Yeah, me too.

Dramatic: "After two weeks I finally have my phone back. I can live again."  Hehe. Wonder what she did to get her phone taken away...

And then there one's I have no words for. Except, as you can see, I have plenty of words for them:

"fuck signing up for drivers ed 2morrow finally haha. just got to lvl 25 in the new zombie lvl. ranked 11,000 in the world cuz i have a life!!!"  I'm not so sure about that having a life thing, son.

"No School=Wake and bake + bake later today"  I'm sure this 16 year old aspires to be a pastry chef. Ahem.

"Just realized that some girls shouldn't wear yoga pants...." Mighty observant of you.

 "Fuck!!!!! im failing 3 classes!!!!! not gooood. i hate ceramics, science and math!!!"  Ceramics? You failed ceramics? How in the hell do you fail ceramics?

"damn went to school once this week and its already the weekend again!!! Damn good"  Duuuuude.

It all makes me realize two things: 1) You couldn't pay me to be a teenager again, and 2) I'm SO glad we didn't have Facebook when I was a kid!

***Ally
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I Signed Up! I'm In!

I see everyone talking about Bloggy Boot Camps, Blissdom, BlogHer, etc. and I always wish I could go or that there would be one near me.

Guess what? Bloggy Boot Camp in Seattle in June! I clicked "submit" and I'm officially signed up. I'm hoping Rachel at Totally Ovar It is going, too! We've connected on twitter and blogging and are hoping to meet up soon.

The bad news is that it is in June, and Lela is already scheduled to come up from Southern California in July. Bummer! I was hoping it would be when she could come, but not this time.

I'm excited, but I have no idea what to expect. Have any of you been to one? Better yet, is anyone else out there going?

***Ally
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24 Hour Clock

What's this 24 hour clock I speak of? I'm referring to what we commonly call "military time". Hospitals use it - keeps them from messing up patient dosages and treatments. Other than that? We don't call 5:00 happy hour 17:00, do we? Well, I don't. In fact in our family, those 5 o'clock cocktails are called "Fivesies". 

Here's the wording direct from Wikipedia (you don't have to read it, just skip down):

The 24-hour clock is a convention of time keeping in which the day runs from midnight to midnight and is divided into 24 hours, indicated by the hours passed since midnight, from 0 to 23. This system is the most commonly used time notation in the world today.^[1] The 12-hour clock is however still dominant in a handful of countries,^[1] particularly in Australia, Canada (except Quebec), India, the Philippines, Pakistan, the United Kingdom and the United States. In many countries, both time systems are used, although 12-hour time is mostly used in speech for ease of use, and 24 hour time is preferred in writing. The 24-hour notation is also popularly referred to as military time or astronomical time in the United States and Canada^[2]. In some parts of the world, it is called railway time or continental time. It is also the international standard notation of time (ISO 8601).^[3] In the practice of medicine, the 24-hour clock is generally used in documentation of care as it prevents any ambiguity as to when events occurred in a patient's medical history.

Let's just highlight, shall we?

The 24 Clock - "MOST COMMONLY USED TIME NOTATION IN THE WORLD TODAY".

Not here. Not in our neck of the woods. It says we're an exception here in the US. It also says Canada is an exception - but I found that to be not true, at least where I was. *See my post Monday about booking travel on a Canadian coach company*. Let's see... it also says it's an exception in the United Kingdom. Also not true, at least where we have relatives in England - they always stumble from saying time in 24 hour clock speak, like they are used to, to saying it in 12 hour clock speak, like we are used to for our benefit. Exception in the Philippines and Pakistan? India? Couldn't tell ya the whys or hows.

Then we have the metric system. I won't make you read the Wikipedia explanation. Ever wonder why your car has km/hr on the speedometer?  That's because we are the only dorks using miles/hour. Ever read a recipe that calls for a gram of something? Now how are you going to measure that out? Metrics has been the International System of Units since the 60's. You want to know who DOESN'T use the metric system? Ready? Burma, Liberia, aaaand... the USA. Ever wonder why you can't figure out how many liters of soda is a gallon? That's because they aren't the same measurement system! Why in the heck are we using two measurement systems in this country? Why are we one of THREE countries NOT using the metric system? Can you even find Burma or Liberia on a map?!

Okay, I admit it, this is a weird little pet peeve of mine. And it's not nearly as cut and dried as I make it sound, but still. For the most part, it's because my brain does not like to convert things back and forth. When I run a 5K, 10K, 50K (truth: I've never run a 50K but I'm trying to make a point), I hate having to say, "Now how many miles is that?" Yes, races are in K's, but we train in miles, we time in miles/hour. Dumb.

Sigh. I know it's my own little silly issue (trust me, I have many), but I sometimes can't resist jumping on my soapbox for a little exercise in free speech. LOL.

***Ally
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Entertainment At My Expense

"Reservation number?"

"I have a confirmation number, is that the same?"

"I need your 6 digit reservation number."

"6 digits? I have more than 6 digits." I start looking through my other papers to see if I have anything else.

"You should have a reservation number that was emailed to you." He walks away, whistling.

Where the hell is he going? Why can't he check my name, instead? I just looked at his list - all the names are there. What the hell is he doing? He leaves me standing there while he checks everyone else in and ignores me. He's whistling and singing stupid songs out loud. Clearly he wants me to feel like an idiot. I do, but I will never admit it. I hold my head up, realizing what I've done. I printed both my reservation confirmation, which acts as my receipt for tax purposes, and I printed the emailed reservation number - and then I unfortunately switched them and filed the email by mistake, bringing with me the confirmation. Why the frack is there two different ones anyway?!

He finally makes his way back to me with his overgrown beard and too long hair sticking out under his cap. "Did you find it?"

"No, I didn't find it, I don't have it." I stand my ground. I'm not letting this asshat make me feel stupid in front of all these people.

"Oh, I see what you did," he says. He leans over the confirmation I'm still holding, wields his stupid yellow highlighter, circling a paragraph on my paper and says, "See here? It says we'll email you a reservation number to bring with you."

"I see that. I printed the wrong one."

"Do you have your passport?"

"Of course I have my passport, I'm crossing the border." I hand it to him. He reads the numbers out loud with his sing-song, over loud voice.

"Okay, there you are." He hands it back. Finally, he takes my suitcase and puts it in the luggage compartment with the others.

And then? Then we get on the bus and he checks everyone's passport - the same group he's just checked in - against the same list he checked them in with, and hands us our customs form to fill out before we get to the border. And then he sings some more.

Over the next three and a half hours, he manages to talk down to everyone on the bus, and tries to play it off as friendly with his singing and whistling.

I'm sure that he deals with a fair amount of difficult people in his job. But I am not difficult. I simply have the wrong piece of paper. But I have a passport and a NAME that matches the fourth name on his freaking list. It's not rocket science. And it doesn't have to be any more difficult than he is making it.

Apparently this is how he entertains himself. At other people's expense.

For the record? On the return trip, a different driver was pleasant, friendly, nice and a sweetheart. It really doesn't have to be difficult.

***Ally
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