This Full House Archive

Category: Sick Days and Mondays Always Get Me Down

  • Planes, Migraines and Insensitive Asshats

    I don't often go away, heck it's a gosh-darned event just to be able to get out on a date night with my husband….but, when I do…I drink Dos Equis…PSYCH!!!…just kidding, I hate beer.

    Aaaaanyway, what was I saying?  

    (Looks up at ceiling, blows bangs out of eyes)

    Oh yeah, so this week I was traveling….as in, I physically got on an airplane and flew over several states….after double-dosing on Dramamine, of course….but, the last time I traveled….in an airplane, over several states…my youngest kid passes out while visiting Grandpa in the hospital…and, well, now maybe you know why I was seriously second-guessing my getting on an airplane….at all….let alone, tempting the powers of #FUBAR….right? 

    (Blank stare)

    Long story, short….NOTHING happened….UNTIL I sat down to have breakfast with Busy Mom (don't be jealous) and my cell phone rang.

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  • Wordless Wednesday: Delinquent Earns Another Reprieve

    Delinquent is the anti-lap cat, unless you are recovering from the migraine from
    hell and then he will make an exception, as long as you don't make a
    habit of it…YO!

    Delinquent Cat and Heather

    Also, he may or may not have figured out I'm still pissed at him for peeing all over the floor (AGAIN!) dumbass delinquent cat.

    Check out the new Wordless Wednesday HQ!!

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • The Walking Dead-ish

    I love a good old-fashioned ghost story:  stuff like The Sixth Sense, Woman in Black and Paranormal Activity can really get my adrenaline pumping and then I start hollering stuff like, "Oh, you do NOT want to go in there" and "Turn around, turn around, they are RIGHT BEHIND YOU, dammit"!

    Which is probably why it is a pretty good idea that I wait until these type of movies are released on DVD.

    I just get myself too involved in the storyline and, more often than not, would end up…you know…more dead-ish than not.

    Which is why I am not a BIG fan of zombie movies:  unless we're talking The Walking Dead and, well, "Turn around, turn around, they are RIGHT BEHIND YOU, dammit"!

    Alright, so maybe there are worse things to worry about than a Zombie Apocalypse and…YES!…real life is A LOT more scary (especially, if you have teens) unless we're talking The Walking Dead.

    "Turn around, turn around, they are RIGHT BEHIND YOU, dammit!"

    My husband, Garth and I watched the premiere of Season 3 last night and even my 13 year-old son was all, like, CHILL OUT MOM!

    "Oh, you do NOT want to go in there!"

    The really, REALLY scary thing about The Walking Dead — besides the fact that I would have totally made the same mistake, gone in through THAT door and…BAM!…instant zombie smorgasbord — is the realization that I could very easily be mistaken as…you know…being one of them:

    Zombified_wb20121015085042473338Glazed-over, zombie-like eyes — could be just a matter of excessive protein build-up or chronic progressive conjunctivitis, you're welcome.

    Loss of coherent speech — I live with 3 teens, enough said.

    Rate of physical decomposition has increased — you just wait until YOU turn 40-something, you little jerk.

    Walk with a slow, erratic and in an unusually lumbering way — dumbass sciatica, stupid herniated discs.

    Always hungry — friggin' ravenous even, stupid mid-life metabolism.

    Tendency to stumble over obstacles and through solid walls — which is a rather frequent and normal occurrence, when you're severely near-sided and have misplaced your glasses, again?!?

    Moral of the Story:  don't be hating on us zombies and, if you think THAT'S scary, you really should see my teens, first thing on a Monday morning.

    "Turn around, turn around, they are RIGHT BEHIND YOU, dammit"!

    TURNING!!!  WALL!!!  SLAM!!!  ZOMBIE SMORGASBORD!!!

    "Ughmath thughca, oohpih woonthid iiiiiith!"

    Translation:  dumbass sciatica, stupid herniated discs.

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • Working from home is not as easy as you may think

    The great thing about being self-employed:  hiring myself out as a freelancer gives me the opportunity to work on several projects, while being available to my family (sometimes ALL at once) and I am not committed to any one particular employer, long-term.

    The not so great thing about being self-employed:  I am not committed to any one particular employer, long-term.

    This week, I'm starting a new project that I am hoping will lead me closer to my goal for 2013:  long-term employment.

    Yeah, I'm totally banking on the Aztecs being wrong…DAMMIT!

    I'm looking at 2 kids in college by 2014, with 2 more out of high school before this decade is over and, well, enough said.

    Either way, as a self-employed-work-at-home type for the last 6 years, I've accustomed myself to working with and/or around other people's schedules.

    That said, my hours are about to increase substantially (YES, that is a REAL good thing!) so I decided to do a test run of a normal-ish work day:

    • Get up at 6:00 a.m.:  not a problem, since my bladder has been up for at least 2 hrs already.
    • Showered by 7 a.m.:  depending on which kid "forgot" to take their shower the night before.
    • Get online by 8 a.m.:   depending on which kid "missed" the bus (see previous bullet)!
    • Get through email by 9 a.m.:  hahahahahahahaha (stupid Facebook)!
    • Start logging hours by 10 a.m.:  I am officially on the clock, people!

    Except, I cleaned the house on Friday (as a last hurrah, if you will) and then decided to get in a quick session of yoga — considering the fact that I'll be sitting a lot more (I have a wicked writer's callus, in my midsection) not to mention, I actually also managed to find my one and only yoga DVD.

    "Soften your mind…"

    Check.

    "Soften your face…"

    Snort.  That's what SHE said.

    "OWWWW!!!!"

    Aaaaaaand, I hurt my already borked-up back transitioning between child's pose and downward-facing dog (I think) go figure.

    There I go again, hurting myself, trying to help myself.

    Moral of the Story:  Don't try this at home, after all, I am a professional dork!

    Perhaps I should have spent the rest of my work day in child's pose, but then I would have fallen asleep and, well, dumbass yoga.

    [sound of crickets chirping]

    If anyone needs me, I'll be upstairs nursing my already borked-up back and smell-testing a clean pair of pajamas for tomorrow, just in case.

    Thank goodness video-type conference calls are from the neck up, right?!?

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

  • So, My Kid Passes Out While Visiting Grandpa at the Hospital & Other Stories of You NEVER Know, You Know?

    Hope Lemure

    She's a sassy lemur.

    Sooooo, I'm in my dear, sweet friend Melisa's fancy-schmancy car headed to #BBSummit12, my husband  calls me on my cell phone and after 4 kids AND 20+ years of marriage — not to mention, having spent a good portion of my oldest daughter's college tuition on repair bills in just the last month or so — I sort of figured it wasn't good news.

    "Are you sitting down?"

    Also, Garth (not his real name) knows I'm a fainter.

    "I'm here in the hospital with Hope."

    My oldest daughter took Hope and picked up Grandma to visit Grandpa in the hospital (he was admitted the night before and recovering from pneumonia) and at first I was all, like, okaaaaaaay, aaaaaaand??????

    "Wait, okay, so why are YOU there again?"

    Long story, short (you're welcome!) here's a quick run down of the events prior to my getting on the plane:

    • Wednesday:  car breaks down on the way home from visiting my mom and dad (it was 99 degrees out at the time, just so you know).
    • Thursday:  drop car at shop, rent another car so I can get oldest daughter to and from work; yes she can drive, no not a rental; go figure.
    • Friday:  car won't be ready for a few days; so I go extend rental and pray for winning lottery numbers (yeah, right!)
    • Saturday/Sunday:  oldest kid is scheduled to work, on this particular weekend, go figure.
    • Monday:  pick-up car, drop off rental and get some edible food in the house in preparation for the zombie apocalypse (just kidding, sort of!)
    • Tuesday:  Take oldest daughter to work (I know, the car is fixed, but I'm so NOT a big fan of tempting fate) get my haircut (STAT!) pick oldest daughter up from work and then think about the possibility of packing early, because…you know…you NEVER know, right?
    • Wednesday:   happen to glance at calendar and realize that I have a couple of writing deadlines, HOLY CRAP, tomorrow and just knew I should have packed early.
    • Thursday:  son wakes up with a temperature of 103.5 (UGH, again?!?) pediatrician's office is closing early for vacation (we've been keeping her busy) so, we spend next 3 hours at urgent care (I am NOT EVEN kidding!) my butt still hurts.
    • Still Thursday:  get a call while at urgent care with my son that FIL was being admitted to hospital and consider packing early as being highly overrated.

    Now maybe you know why I was seriously second-guessing getting on a plane, the next day, or ever, in the first place, right? 

    Still.  My son was responding to the antibiotics and my FIL was recovering nicely (thank goodness!) so, I got packing and was super-relieved when my plane finally landed…you know…on the ground…the right way…with me STILL on it…and everything.

    "Hope took one look at Grandpa and passed out."

    Sooooo, my poor husband, Garth (not his real name) spent the next 7 hours with Hope, texting me updates and generally keeping me from going CRAZY with worry or convincing me NOT to take part in any activities involving the use of sharp objects and/or heavy machinery.

    "Remember when you passed out that one time taking Mama to the Hospital?"

    True story.  I rushed my mother to the hospital during a gallbladder attack, passed out in the bathroom, tore my head open and was admitted…at the same time she was…her for an emergency gallbladder surgery and me for a concussion.

    "Good thing we were BOTH in the hospital when it happened, right Mommy?!?"

    Yep…she's my kid, a'ight…and I'm seriously considering taping EVERYONE ELSE up in bubble wrap, while I'm at BlogHer, next month!

    Then maybe investing in a couple of sage sticks, cleansing the house with bleach (straight-up!) and perhaps even hiring an exorcist or something.  You know any?

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • At Our House, It’s Called a Blood Drive-By

    Teenager PostAs a mother of 3 teens, 1 kid in double-digits and Supreme Goddess of All Things Domestic (in my house, anyways) I feel it safe say that there is NOTHING worse than battling a foreign object, invading your child's body, that you canNOT see.

    3yo Heather:  Hey…wook…isn't that where you gave bwud, How-wee?

    Unless, you have to take said child to have their blood drawn and, well, game over dude!

    5yo Holly/How-wee:  I didn't give it…Heatherrrrr…THEY TOOK IT!

    Even years later, my two oldest daughters would play out this same conversation, every time we'd drive by the building, where they each got their "bwud tooken" and, well, How-wee…I mean…Holly will tell you…YES!..it was THAT traumatic.

    [pulls up sleeve]

    Me:  Dude…they won't take your blood here.

    I took my son to the doctor, yesterday.  Long story, short (you're welcome) he's got a nasty case of some sort of creeping crud she couldn't quite identify and, well, now it was his turn to have his "bwud tooken".

    Me: We have to go…you know…[whispers]…to that OTHER place.

    [eyes go wide]

    This is the kid that doesn't get sick.  He's only heard stories, from his oldest sisters, whenever we would drive by the place where they had their blood…you know…tooken.

    Receptionist:  Name?

    Me:  Glen  [whispering] he's never had his blood…tooken…I mean…taken.

    The receptionist just nodded her head and, thankfully, the place was empty. Except for this one kid, going ALL ape sh*t, and his sh*thead father:

    Kid, going ALL ape sh*t: BWAAAAAAAAH!!!! NOOOOOOOO!!!!  NOOOOOOOO!!!  NOOOOOOOO!!!

    His sh*thead father:  SHUDDUP!!!!  SHUDDUP!!!  SHUDDUP!!!

    So, my son and I just sat down and…you know…covered our ears.

    Medical Asst.:  Glen?

    It was funny to watch the receptionist's face, as he stood up and she handed my son a cup.  I swear, you could actually hear her neck muscles pop.

    Medical Asst.:  You can leave it on the bathroom sink and then go right into Room #1.

    [eyes go wide]

    Medical Asst.:  Oh relax, your friends probably hit you harder than this is gonna hurt!"

    Thank goodness for kind-hearted medical assistants, right?

    Glen:  Buuuuuut, no one said ANYTHING about peeing in a cup!

    [blink-blink-blink]

    Me:  Well, I didn't think it would be SUCH a big deal.

    [voice cracking]

    Glen:  Buuuuuut, it's a really small cup!

    Judging by the way the she was laughing…I guessed correctly…the medical assistant was a mother AND happened to have a teen boy at home…too.

    Stupid blood tests, dumbass creeping crud.

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

    FRESHLY-BREWED ELSEWHERE:  I'm over at PlaydatePlace.com this week, confessing not teaching my kids how to ride a bike. Also, sharing a recipe for Angel Food Cake that does NOT suck!

  • I do not have a pain-management problem, I have a pain problem and maybe a slight case of Trypanophobia.

    House

    Blog title inspired by House. Picture, just because.

    I had my second doctor’s appointment scheduled for today. 

    That is to say, I showed up when I was supposed to. 

    Just like last week. 

    Me and about a dozen other people (I think maybe I even recognized a few of them, could be they were still waiting, from last week) staring at Fox News.

    (HURL!)

    Me?  I watched the day float right on by and…you know…give me the finger.

    Now that I think on it some more, it’s sort of ironic, really:

    • We ALL had appointments
    • We ALL sought treatment for various neurological and/or spinal conditions
    • We ALL just sat there, way passed our appointed time(s)
    • Patiently listening for our respective names to be called
    • Shifting from one cheek, to the other
    • Or, in one guys case, shoulder blade
    • Came in an ambulance, wheeled in on a stretcher
    • He still complained
    • We were all, like, dude, at least you’re laying down
    • Shuddup

    Aaaand then, I swear, you could hear our collective spinally-impaired selves breath a heavy sigh of “WTH?!?” watching some other schmuck limp in ahead of us.

    Fast-forward 2 hours.

    “Elizabeth?”

    [cue choir of angels]

    “THAT’S ME, THAT’S ME!!!”

    Schmuck.

    Basically, the MRI confirmed what I already knew….my lower back…she is fubar.

    “You have substantially moderate damage to discs at L1 and L2.”

    In other words, less clinical like…my lower back, she is fubar…good news is, however, there are two options…other than surgery:

    Requiring either a) an undisclosed voltage of electrical current or b) a sharp implement, jammed deep into my spine.

    Ironically enough, they call it pain management.

    So, I’m considering my options (needle, electric current, skewered, or fried?) while washing the dishes (dish washer, she is broken too) when I hear: 

    “SCREEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAMMMMMM!!!!”

    It was my 13 year-old son.  I sent him upstairs for the laundry basket because, you know, my back, she is fubar. 

    Only it was more of a screechy sort of undulating:  “SCR-UHHHHHHHHH-EEEEEEEEECH!” because…you know…he’s 13 and his voice is changing…SNORT!

    [eyes go wide]

    Howwwwwever, I was much, much more, “WTH?!?” at the time, as the laundry basket comes flying down the stairs.

    “EYE-YEEEEEEE, MOM, COME HERE, QUICK!!!!”

    But…I…can’t…get…passed…the…

    “A BEEEEEEEE STUUUUUUUUUNG MEEEEEEEEE, EYE-YEEEEEEEE!!!!”

    …laundry…on…the…stairs…wait a minute…a bee…seriously?!?

    “Come on down Bud and I’ll look at it.”

    Now, I’m hearing heavy panting.

    “I…I…NO…YOU…COME…UPSTAIRS!!!!”

    Fast-forward 2 hours…just kidding…but, the bee was sitting on the laundry and he didn’t actually see where the bee went, after it popped him and, well, it took a while for him to come downstairs.

    “Wow, it popped you…twice!”

    Go figure, the only one in the house to ever get stung by a bee…5 times…would find the one bee…that got in the house.

    “Dude, calm down, it’s only a bee.”

    Mind you, as I’m scouring the floor, on my hands and knees, with a flash light, looking for the damned thing…beeeeecause:

    • The boy is nearly 6 feet tall
    • There is NO MORE ROOM in my bed
    • I have to get up at the buttcrack of dawn
    • To take my parents to the hospital, tomorrow morning
    • Mom’s arm, she is fubar
    • Dad’s back, she…I mean…he is fubar
    • Aaaaad my back hurts

    “FOUND IT!”

    [get that choir of angels back here, STAT!]

    “See, it doesn’t have it’s stinger and woulda died anyways.”

    I know, I know, the boy is 13.  Still, he’s been stung 5…no, wait…make it 7 times…can you blame him?

    I’m just happy he did not puke.

    “I…[sniff-sniff]…feel like…[cough]…someone jammed…[sniff-sniff]…a couple of needles into my body”

    [eyes go wide]

    Aaaaand, then I puked.  The End.

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • Don’t Laugh At Me, If I Go All Loopy: Find Me a Bathroom, Frappe, Piece of Cake, or Something!

    UntitledLike the weather, I'm a little foggy about what happened, last night.

    At the risk of TMI (you're welcome!) suffice it to so that even at the lowest possible dosages of Demerol, my system shuts down and, much to the surprise of everyone (most especially, my obstetrician) I fall asleep.

    Yep, right in the middle of giving birth…four times.

    So, to me, non-drowsy simply means:  will render you comatose for at least twenty-four hours AND anything stronger than ibuprofen…well…I go ALL loopy-like.

    Which, for someone who suffers from seasonal allergies AND chronic lower back pain (like I do, dammit) is SO not a good thing, but sort of funny, too.

    "AH…AH…AH…AHCHOO…OWWWWWWWW!…great, now I gotta go pee!"

    Unless, I sneeze and, well, it's all over (literally).

    So, when the cat scan for "the little kidney stone that could" came back and showed a herniated disc in my lower spine and signs of stenosis (triple bonus points!) I was all, like, grrrrrrrrrrrrrreat, where's the bathroom?

    I finally met with a neurosurgeon, this week (came highly recommended by two of my husband's clients, with similar diagnosis, who also happen to be under the age of 50) the surgeon insisted I get an MRI, like, now.

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  • Power of Positive Thinking, Richardless

    Um, yeah, about my last post, sorry about that.  Admitting that I sometimes experience dark feelings of angst and perhaps rely on other people's happiness, way too much, is not very conducive to engaging in an easy-breezy, go ahead take your shoes off and get comfortable, sort of conversation, right? 

    Also, not my typical writing style.

    I blame it on having been home-bound for the last few weeks, harboring a fugitive kidney stone (his name is Richard, Dick for short) then being slammed with a wicked head cold, just when I was really beginning to feel pretty good — especially, from the neck up.

    Compounded by consuming large amounts of mindless TV (stay away from Bravo, it's highly addictive!) while the children and my husband took turns tucking me into the couch, or bringing me fresh boxes of tissues and herbal tea.

    Then, it hit me like a ton of idioms:  I was suffering from a man cold and…just ask any woman and they'll tell you…that shitz is near fatal, you guys!

    So, last night I took my Nyquil (like a big girl) and said to myself…SELF!…you need to get rid of that shitz REAL FAST!

    I am very happy to report that Richard (Dick for short) has indeed left the building, my head is clearing up and I am a MUCH better woman for it.

    [incoming text message]

    "I think you got me you filthy animal."

    Good thing, seeing as I gave my husband my man cold.

    So, please, for the love of Garth (not his real name) take care of yourselves, have a fantastic weekend (yes, ALL 3 of you) and if anyone needs me I'll be upstairs pretending to be asleep.

    Until then I remain forever yours,

    Richardless

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

     

  • Maybe She Knows Something I Don’t Know

    Tulips

    What do you call the flower that grows between your nose and your chin?  Tulips.  Get it?  Sorry, watched way too much Little Bear when my kids were little-er.

    A friend of mine called me yesterday and this is where my father would insist that…NO!…I don't have friends, I just know people AND after having said that would laugh the hardest (yeah, good one, dad!)

    Aaaaanyway, her youngest and my youngest are best friends, as of yesterday, as far as I know, anyway (they're 10 year-old girls, enough said.)

    "I've been very worried about you."

    Long story, short (you're welcome!) she saw our two girls walking together after school and later asked her daughter, "I haven't seen Mrs. Thompson this week, how is she?"

    "I can't tell you."

    Her mother, as any mother would, wanted to know, you know, why the heck not?

    "It's a secret."

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