So, in the course of about two weeks, my progeny each underwent their own medical procedures and at the end of all of it, I have to say I’m quite impressed by what these kids appear to be made of.
It started with my youngest – my baby girl who has, rather unfortunately, inherited all of those habits of mine which the Shadow has so ruthlessly tried to ferret out over the last two decades – with minimal success I hasten to add. She’s impulsive, headstrong and, if I may paraphrase Blackadder, has a pigheaded stubbornness and refusal to look facts in the face that will see her through. What she does have which will serve her in good stead, however, is her mothers’ lovely features. I genuinely feel bad for her future boyfriends.
Anyway, she took a tumble at school which required stitches just at the bottom and slightly underneath her chin – a place that if it leaves a little scar will endow her with just enough of a scar to be endearing and mysterious – easily visible, but not blatantly obvious – all in all an excellent scar as scars go. When getting stitched she didn’t cry or whimper or anything that I would do and when having them removed she described the process and ‘prickling’ – which is not anything like I would describe it but that could just be because I know swear words.
My son at the tender age of 10 was involved in dental surgery. You see, as a British born youth of a British mother, he is culturally predisposed to needing dental surgery – it’s like Americans are predisposed toward being, for the most part, culturally ignorant of every other country on the planet except their own. We must just accept these things and move on.
When I asked him about his surgery he said the following: “It was really cool, I think they must have hypnotized me or something because when I opened my eyes the doctor was standing over me snapping his fingers in front of my face…”
Uh….yeah….hypnotized. I’m going to file this away for reference because in about 6 or 7 years I expect him to use it as a code word when he calls me at 2 in the morning from a friend’s house in an addled state of mind from Drambui or some other heinous act of beverage selection saying, “dad, sorry I can’t make it home, Bob is hypnotizing us.”
Shadow then told me that when he was coming around he was trying to say something that was pretty much unintelligible due to the four wads of gauze shoved in the spaces where his teeth used to be. Turns out what he was saying was this: “Mom, I’ve got four feet!”
I’ve only been under the influence of medical sedatives once in my life and the reaction it gave me was to make me never want to be under the influence of medical sedatives again. That fact that he used the words, “cool,” “hypnotized,” and the phrase “I’ve got four feet” and sounded excited about the possibilities that could mean for track season, give me some cause for concern as you might imagine.
It is, however, quite comforting in many ways to know my kids, although made up of DNA from Shadow and myself are really becoming their own people – and are made of stronger stuff than the gelatinous mass either of their parents would become if confronted with the same circumstances.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
It's still a dumb word
This week I actually got to play an away-game. Well, it was an interview with a company that actually spent money to fly me from San Antonio to DC to take part in a 2-hour interview. I have no idea how that turned out, but I did learn a little something along the way – specifically, I like saying the word “manicure,” but not “pedicure” so much, and I think “mani-pedi” sounds ridiculous and is probably one of the last things in the world I would engage myself in.
I came this revelation, as has happened so often during my Texas exile, because Shadow suggested that before I go to the interview I get my nails done. If you’ve been paying the slightest bit of attention here for the last 20 months you should have registered by now that Shadow is often correct about these things and so I’ve grown to grudgingly accept that I should just try whatever it is and hope for the best.
As Shadow is acting as my job-search consultant these days and doing a tremendous job I might add, I found myself sitting awkwardly in front of an elderly Asian woman who spoke almost no words of English that I could understand. And while she made disgusted-sounding gurgling noises like she wanted to be ill at the site of my hands that have been untouched by trained professionals for more than 4 decades, I was left to smile that strange little “I-don’t-know-what-you’re-saying-but-I’ll-keep-smiling-anyway” smile and looking around the mostly vacant establishment.
My worst fear was realized when she brought out what looked like an orange juicer filled with sudsy water and made gestures toward it that indicated I should put my hand in. I recited in my head the following litany, “Please, God, don’t let this water be warm…”
As I did this she grabbed my other hand with roughly the patience you have with a four-year old who has repeatedly grabbed and used things at the same time that they are not supposed to grab and use at the same time – like honey, syrup and glitter.
So, with my arm twisted at precisely the angle that doctors use to purposely dislocate joints, she proceeded and I discovered that the nice thing about a manicure is that where you are likely not ambidextrous with those tiny little scissors, someone else does not have to be. And so for the first time ever, my nails were clean, trimmed, filed and buffed without the slightest trace of blood or the need for adhesive bandages or peroxide.
I was able to sit there and engage with the TV which was conveniently on a sports station. As the … I’m not sure what to call this woman, a nailer, I guess - had no direct communication link to me other than jerking my arm one way or another, I didn’t feel obligated to carry on the conversations that normally happen at barbers. She didn’t ask me how I’d like my nails (pointy like a talon); or if I wanted block or taper (like I give a damn what the back of my head looks like – I can’t see it!). She did her thing and I did mine.
And the lady sitting behind us, she did hers. Namely, she started to giggle.
My grand-matronly Asian friend looked up from my nails and I looked down from my TV and we both wordlessly said to each other with our eyes, “what the fu…” and we turned as one to the woman in the chair. She was getting a pedicure, which seemed mostly to involve her grimacing in an oddly blue-film kind of way at the young man giving her feet the kind of attention normally reserved for adolescent boys their first time out with a double clasp bra strap. And she just kept giggling. It was a far cry from the “When Harry Met Sally” scene in the restaurant, but she seemed to be enjoying herself immensely when she noticed us staring, and simply said, “it tickles.”
And so I sat, 10 minutes later, with my feet in a small pool of water getting the barnacles scrubbed off my heels and thinking, “mani-pedi” is still the stupidest word ever.
I came this revelation, as has happened so often during my Texas exile, because Shadow suggested that before I go to the interview I get my nails done. If you’ve been paying the slightest bit of attention here for the last 20 months you should have registered by now that Shadow is often correct about these things and so I’ve grown to grudgingly accept that I should just try whatever it is and hope for the best.
As Shadow is acting as my job-search consultant these days and doing a tremendous job I might add, I found myself sitting awkwardly in front of an elderly Asian woman who spoke almost no words of English that I could understand. And while she made disgusted-sounding gurgling noises like she wanted to be ill at the site of my hands that have been untouched by trained professionals for more than 4 decades, I was left to smile that strange little “I-don’t-know-what-you’re-saying-but-I’ll-keep-smiling-anyway” smile and looking around the mostly vacant establishment.
My worst fear was realized when she brought out what looked like an orange juicer filled with sudsy water and made gestures toward it that indicated I should put my hand in. I recited in my head the following litany, “Please, God, don’t let this water be warm…”
As I did this she grabbed my other hand with roughly the patience you have with a four-year old who has repeatedly grabbed and used things at the same time that they are not supposed to grab and use at the same time – like honey, syrup and glitter.
So, with my arm twisted at precisely the angle that doctors use to purposely dislocate joints, she proceeded and I discovered that the nice thing about a manicure is that where you are likely not ambidextrous with those tiny little scissors, someone else does not have to be. And so for the first time ever, my nails were clean, trimmed, filed and buffed without the slightest trace of blood or the need for adhesive bandages or peroxide.
I was able to sit there and engage with the TV which was conveniently on a sports station. As the … I’m not sure what to call this woman, a nailer, I guess - had no direct communication link to me other than jerking my arm one way or another, I didn’t feel obligated to carry on the conversations that normally happen at barbers. She didn’t ask me how I’d like my nails (pointy like a talon); or if I wanted block or taper (like I give a damn what the back of my head looks like – I can’t see it!). She did her thing and I did mine.
And the lady sitting behind us, she did hers. Namely, she started to giggle.
My grand-matronly Asian friend looked up from my nails and I looked down from my TV and we both wordlessly said to each other with our eyes, “what the fu…” and we turned as one to the woman in the chair. She was getting a pedicure, which seemed mostly to involve her grimacing in an oddly blue-film kind of way at the young man giving her feet the kind of attention normally reserved for adolescent boys their first time out with a double clasp bra strap. And she just kept giggling. It was a far cry from the “When Harry Met Sally” scene in the restaurant, but she seemed to be enjoying herself immensely when she noticed us staring, and simply said, “it tickles.”
And so I sat, 10 minutes later, with my feet in a small pool of water getting the barnacles scrubbed off my heels and thinking, “mani-pedi” is still the stupidest word ever.
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