Only Nola

I Got Nothin’ … Again

Well, not much to report here. Lots to talk about, but most of it would send certain family members into cardiac arrest, so we'll just skip the up-close-and-personal bits for now. I can only stand so much drama at a time, and I'm pretty much hitting maximum density (drama-wise... not me personally. My ass thanks you for your concern.) at the moment, so let's see what else I can come up with.

The cat has a new scratching post. Does that count?

He apparently likes it very much, if him rubbing himself frantically all over it is any indicator. I'm pretty sure that when the lights go out tonight? Things are going to get x-rated. I'm a little scared. And NOT getting between Mickey and that post. I think he'd gnaw off a leg. Mine.

We're busy planning Connor's birthday party these days. It's in two weeks. So far, we're trying to become poster children for Overcompensator's Anonymous. Connor's been through a lot. Never had a real party for his birthday. I mean, he kind of had one two years ago, but it was just a girlfriend of mine and her kids, whom he knew and all, but... it wasn't the same. It wasn't, you know, a large batch of annoying, loud, pushy ankle-biters on a screaming sugar high that he had invited himself. It was more of a 'God, I feel so bad for my son having been transplanted for the third time in a year and having NO real friends and who can I get to come over and bring their offspring so he doesn't feel totally like the hunchback of Notre Dame?' kind of thing. Well, this year? We're not having any of THAT. He's actually finally settled in to some kind of root system (albeit shallow) and made a few friends of his own. That he, amazingly enough, wants to invite OVER. The mind boggles. He's had such a hard time forming friendships... it just breaks my heart. He's such a good boy. *sighs* Anywaaaaaaaaaay... as I was saying. We're planning a complete blowout for his birthday. He has NO idea. We're hiring a clown/magician guy to come put on a show for the kids. (Yes, I'm well aware that clowns are the minions of Satan, but hey... what Mother is complete without at least one bout of childhood trauma in front of witnesses? And I'm just taking down the other parents' kids as a bonus. Nightmares for everyone! Woohoo!) We're also hiring a local event company to come over and set up one of those gigantic bounce house things so the kids can run amok and render each other unconscious. It'll be festive. Then, of course, there's cake and punch and whatnot. Can't let the day end without a healthy dose of diabetic shock. The kicker is going to be what we're getting him for a gift.

(...)

God. We're so torn. We had it all planned out, right? We were going to get him one of those damned Wii's. Do you KNOW how much those stupid things cost? Holy Jeebus. I mean, sure, compared to other game consoles, they're not that bad, but by the time you throw in an extra game to go with it, plus the additional controller, blah blah blah, you're talking about $375. If I could put numbers in all caps and repeat that, I so would. THREE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY FIVE FUCKING DOLLARS. There. That worked.

I almost sprain an eyeball when I just see that in TYPE.

But, really, he's such a good kid, and does so well in school and obeys me like he should 99% of the time and doesn't ask for much, sooooooo... I don't know. I'm having a hard time with this. I mean, shit, it's his first big party and the years have already been such a struggle for him, is it so terrible that I want to make this birthday just awesome beyond all comprehension? I KNOW there are other things I should do with the money. I KNOW. But he's my baby. Nathan, my 13 year old, is a great kid, and I love him dearly, but I don't have to worry about this with him because he lives with my ex and his wife (who is awesome, by the way. I've said that before on here, but I'll say it again. If my ex weren't so weird about the very thought of his wife and I getting along, we'd be thick as thieves. Remind me to smack him when I see him next.) and they make a very comfortable living, so Nathan hasn't had the same issues to deal with that Connor has. Nathan's always had a stable home and his material needs well met. Connor hasn't. A lot of it's been my own fault; bad decisions, bad luck, bad planning... and now I'm (somewhat) in a position to give him something that, hopefully, any kid would go nuts for, and even though it may not be the best fiscal move, I want this for him in the worst way. It's hard juggling 'smart' with 'want'. I want this to be amazing for him, and for him to finally have a birthday where he feels like he's the center of the universe. Every kid should have that at least once. Right before they grow up and the universe shits down their neck.

Did I say that out loud?

Anyway. That's what's going on now. I don't know if we'll do the Wii thing or maybe go for something slightly lower on the economic food chain, but at least I know his party will rock. Rock relative to an 8 year old, anyway. Pretty sure Keith Richards wouldn't say it rocked, but he's not invited anyway, so I'm just not going to care.

Those kids are going to pry me out of that bounce house over someone's cold, dead body.

Burn, Baby, Burn

FYI? Water parks are highly overrated.

Just thought I'd share.

Took Connor to White Water today. Big water amusement park in Branson, for those that don't keep track of such things. You know the ones... big wave pool, water slides, $3.00 frozen lemonades (that are almost entirely made up of sugar and water. Lovely.) as far as the eye can see... sounds just like heaven, doesn't it?

Bah.

First off, I have to ask what exactly people are... oh, wait! Before I forget! First I have to start off with a small bit of 'wtf?' that I dealt with at Target right before we left for Branson this morning. Fuck a segue.

So I'm in line at Target this morning, getting a mesh tote, suntan lotion, etc. (to avoid having to sell a kidney in order to buy them at the actual park.), and in front of me steps this woman (apparently the few items on the conveyor belt thingy that I thought belonged to the lady in front of me were actually this other woman's... she'd just left the items there to hold her place. I love it when they do that. Really.) with a child of about two and a half clinging to her neck like a tick. The aforementioned tick has, in her fat little paws, two bags of candy. M & M's and something else, maybe Skittles. I don't know. I can't be Type-A all the time, can I?

Oh, shut up.

Anyway. The woman begins bargaining with this little monster, trying to get her to let go of the candy so she can let the cashier scan it. The monster resists. The monster is now screaming (I'm pretty sure I'm deaf on my right side now) and thrashing about like she's hooked up to a car battery. The woman? Drops the subject. Yes, I said drops the subject. She lets the monster continue to hold her candy. Then the woman informs the monster that she can, in fact, only have one candy, not two. The monster? Having none of THAT shit, thank you very much. More thrashing and screaming ensues. The woman? Starts to put the child down, on its own two very capable legs. Oh, HELL naw! The legs come up, avoiding the floor like the plague, and the screams reach a decibel level heretofore unknown to man. The woman? Latches the monster back around her fucking neck. I, meanwhile, am fighting the desire to reach over and render them BOTH unconscious. The woman finally gets tired of being embarrassed, I guess, and, when the monster still refuses to let the cashier scan the candy, asks the monster if she'd like to just put it all back. The monster? Says yes. Goes over and puts both candies back. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face.

The effect of the candy ultimatum was ultimately ruined, needless to say, by the woman THEN telling the monster that she could pick out ONE candy, since she'd put her other two back. The child picked one, haughtily gave it to the cashier, and the world was allowed to go about its business with no more screeching.

(...)

I have not the words.

Seriously, though, you know I do. What in the name of all that's holy is ANY parent thinking to reward such bad behavior? If that were my child, not only would there be no candy involved, we'd be having that discussion again on what Dingoes do to babies.

WHAT?!?!?

Anyway. We got to White Water, where I was appalled to see a large number of women who either a) have no mirrors in their homes OR the store where they bought their bathing suits, or b) never gave any thought to the wisdom of bringing a child that can't even walk yet to a water park. A big invitation to a giant sunburn, a drastic mood swing (helloooooooooo, lack of nap!), and an injury lawsuit when your precious ends up clogging up the filter of the giant wave pool (infant can't walk... can't swim... but can do one hell of an impression of an anchor.), which is never as much fun as you'd think. Kids shouldn't be dragged to amusement parks until they're considerably older. Like old enough to pay rent. No, I kid, I kid. I think at least the age of five or six, because before that? They won't remember it as they get older, anyway, and there are too many things you just paid $50 to get in and use that they're not big enough to be allowed on. Take a four year old to Silver Dollar City. Go ahead. They can ride about 3 kiddie rides, and the rest? Good fuckin' luck. You just spent $50 to basically walk around, exhausted and bloated on $5 Cokes, all day long with about 15,000 other hot and cranky tourists.

Go you.

Well, other than having a lovely sunburn, that's about the extent of my news for the day. I don't mind the burn so much (it'll turn to tan! A lovely tan! It WILL! Oh, shut up.), as long as it doesn't peel with abandon. Actually, I kind of li... uh... nevermind.

Next week my 13 year old comes back from Arkansas. I'm sure I'll have all kinds of things to post about after that. And be asking for all kinds of sedatives.

I'm sleepy.

Schmuck

I had to take Connor to the urgent care clinic today. He'd been sick for the last few days, but it seemed to be mostly gone by early afternoon yesterday. Thursday and Friday were the really bad days. I had to stay home with him Friday, since a)he was too sick to go to daycare, and b)I'd been up with him since 2:45. That's A.M. As in, IN THE FREAKIN' MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. That being said, there was NO way I was going to make it to work after that. Not without a cattle prod. And possibly a backhoe.

But I digress...

So late this morning (well, actually more like right after lunch), out of nowhere Connor pops up with this horrible rash all over his body. And his face. I immediately shift straight into freak out mode. 'Cause I'm all cool like that. I'm calling nurse hotlines, calling friends who work in the medical industry, Googling 'Ebola'... you know, helpful stuff. Finally I get a nurse on the phone at one of the local urgent care clinics. I describe what's now covering my son, making him look like nothing so much as a Calamine lotion stockholder's wet dream. She tells me, effectively, to get his ass in pronto. She thinks it might be Strep.

Lovely.

So down we go. I won't go into the specifics (especially the part where I told my husband I was going to kneecap a three year old in the waiting room. WHAT?!?! They took the little bastard in to see the doctor before Connor, even though Connor was there first. And when my husband looked at me and explained that that had a policy that people were seen in the order of the severity of their medical issue, I responded, 'Gee, and he's so obviously a cripple that's bleeding out HIS EYES.' I then offered, out of the goodness of my heart, to make it very fair that they were taking the WALKING ON HIS OWN three year old, he WITH NO OBVIOUS INJURIES OF ANY KIND and no motor control issues as he SCREAMED FOR HIS GODDAMNED SIPPY CUP, before my son who was obviously about to expire from some rare and subtle form of the BLACK FUCKING PLAGUE... by breaking his wee little legs.

Again... WHAT?!?

Whatever. We finally make it back there, after they've taken EVERY OTHER LIFE FORM out of the waiting room (I'm not kidding. I'm pretty sure they took a POTTED PLANT back at one point. Assbags.), and Connor immediately sets about making friends with the nurse.

Ha.

Yeah, that was a joke. Somehow, she misplaced her both her sense of goddamned humor and her ability to discern between an 8 year old with limited abilities to calculate both tact and the proper time to apply sarcasm and an adult with the same issue. The adult you call a fuckwit or smack with a clipboard. The 8 year old you CUT SOME FUCKING SLACK. Connor and I did, of course, have a hard talk about the proper way to speak to an adult (i.e. respectfully, NOT with the goal of winning the Smartass of the Year crown and matching scepter), but regardless... she needs to pull the stick out of her ass. It's not like he called her a fat, dimwitted twat. Which she was. He simply jumped in (she was talking to me, at that moment, and not him) when she asked if his voice had been sounding any different the last few days... and said, "Does it sound like my voice is any different?" Now, this might not sound that bad. Kind of. But you had to have been there to see the accompanying eye roll. And you had to hear the tone of voice... the one that all but shouted that she was, indeed, a dimwitted twat.

*sighs*

Sooooooooo. I made him apologize to her for being rude. Also explained to him that if you're going to be sarcastic, it helps to know how to apply it. Asking someone who's never spoken to you before if your voice sounds any different only negates any sarcasm points you earned and replaces them with "You have no idea what you just said, do you?" points. Which are also, by the way? Much more embarrassing.

The doctor eventually came in. And he had the singular worst bedside manner of any doctor. Ever. In the WORLD. Possibly off planet, too, but I'm shakier on that one. All I know is the man was an ass. He barely acknowledged Connor was even there, much less spoke to him like he had anything to do with the situation at hand. Other than being THE SICK KID THAT BROUGHT US TO THE CLINIC IN THE FIRST FUCKING PLACE. (FYI, Doc? He's just eight, almost nine... NOT RETARDED) He decided, after about a minute of speaking to me, that Connor must have Strep. Understand, Connor had no fever (and hadn't in at least 24 hours), no cough... NADA. But it just HAD to be Strep. Fine. Ran the test and... negative. So where does Dr. Douchebag go from there? He starts throwing around terms like 'gone septic' and 'chem panels' and 'draw blood'. 'Cause nothing strikes fear into the heart of an 8 year old quite like the idea of a needle. Connor's expression when the doctor started using all these terms, and realized they applied TO HIM, would have been funny if it weren't for the fact it instantaneously made me want to rip that doctor's lips off... through his NOSTRILS. He starts yammering about wanting to run all these tests. Bear in mind, people, that Connor had NO symptoms other than the rash. No dehydration, no loss of appetite, no insomnia, no fever... yet, to listen to the genius doctor that was giving my kid heart palpitations? Connor was one step away from being a pet project at the CDC.

Asshat.

I inquired whether or not insurance would cover these tests. He acted like I'd just brought in my son who had an arm ripped off in a combine and I was complaining about the cost of a tourniquet. He said, and I quote... 'I don't practice insurance; I practice medicine.'

Well lahdeefuckingdah.

I informed him that, before agreeing to any tests, I'd prefer to know, at the very least, what they cost, since I may or may not be paying for them out of my pocket. I'm sure you all know that Connor is near and dear to my heart, and I'd pay ANYTHING if he were in need of care. But this all smelled fishy to me... like the doctor just wanted to send Connor off for (expensive) tests with no clue about whether or not he needed them. Not that I'm implying that the medical profession would ever just send someone for tests to make a buck.

(...)

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Well, he said he has no idea how much the tests cost. And no idea if insurance will cover it. He also says there's no one there that can tell me. He also gives me every snotty remark and bad attitude he can manage in the short time we're together. When I asked him to explain what he meant by 'septic', he looked at me like I just fell off the short bus and answered me with a non-answer that was no help whatsofuckingever. Hey, it's not an unreasonable question... all I know of septic, as it relates to humans, is what I see on House, and it's ALWAYS used in relation to people who are about to KEEL THE FUCK OVER. So yeah, I kind of want some CLARIFICATION, fuckwit! Which I never got, by the way.

Grrrrrrrr.

I decided to wait on the tests. Which is when the doctor informed me that the rash was, quite possibly, just 'a viral issue'. Squeeze me? Baking powder? Yeah. Turns out that when kids get sick with a virus (Gee, two days of fever and diarrhea... sound viral to you?), they can often present with... *insert drumroll here*... A RASH. And seeing as how he'd both read Connor's chart (or so I'm assuming. For all I know he just used it to wipe his ass) and heard me explain about Connor's illness over the last few days, I can't imagine what in all that's holy he was thinking by keeping this little 'viral issue' tidbit to himself. Other than hoping to sucker me into some bullshit tests that would have had me making friends with Household Bank all over again.

I'll keep an eye on Connor and if he's not better in the next two days, I'll take him to a pediatrician.

I'm also going to go back and kick that doctor square in the balls. And go after his nurse. WITH A SPORK.