Birthday Week: Day 2

So, Day 2 of Birthday Week.

Why isn't it mandatory for every company to give their employees vacation the week of their birthdays? My brother just accepted a job where they give you the day off. I think that's great. Don't all companies know I we expect some sort of special treatment on the day we were born?

To make matters worse, I have my annual review on my actual birthday. It's scheduled for only a half hour. Not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. How long does it take to say, "You're fired," really? But, surely they wouldn't fire me on my birthday, right? Maybe they think I'm so awesome and don't have anything to talk to me about except my (substantial) raise?

It's my party, I can fantasize if I want to.

But, I don't want to think about that. I'm already nervous enough.

I've been battling the good with the bad when it comes to my birthday for years. When I was younger, there were 5 or so years where someone we knew died on or near my birthday. Talk about a reality check.

Life and death. Yin and yang.

Ditching school on my 18th birthday with a friend who shared the same birthday? Good.

My roommates getting me a stripper for my 21st birthday? Bad. Funny? Sure. But, hairy baaaad.

Good thing about your birthday - the police tend to not give you tickets on your birthday
Bad thing about your birthday - spending the afternoon at the DMV
Good thing - yellow cake with chocolate frosting
Bad thing - not getting carded when you buy a 6-pack
Good thing - you typically get out of doing things you don't want to do
Bad thing - using the saying, "In my day..."
Good thing - yellow cake with chocolate frosting

So, you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have...

And now I have that song in my head. Bad.

Birthday Week has begun

So, it's Birthday Week.

I'll admit, I'm one of those people who loves her birthday. And hates it. It's a big deal to me, I want it to be a big deal to others, but then I get embarrassed/slightly angry whenever anyone makes a big deal about it.  And even angrier if they don't.

I'm well aware that it's annoying.

But, I've decided to embrace my birthday. If I want to make a big deal about it, I will. And my friends and family can either play along or not.

So, my sister and I have implemented Birthday Week. Because is a day really enough? Mostly, it gives me a (better) excuse to do fun things for myself (rather than the usual pure selfishness)... oh fine, it doesn't. If the "entire week devoted to me" doesn't scream selfishness, I'm not sure what does.

Today, I started off the day by getting a skin biopsy. Happy birthday to me! It kind of sucked, actually. Now that the day is ending, my arm is starting to hurt.

Sigh. If it's not my head, it's my arm. Where's that Vicodin?

But, the day improved. My mom and I took the boys to the nature center. It's essentially one big room with some fish, snakes and other reptiles. And outside, there are birds. It takes about 10 minutes to get through the whole place, but it really makes the boys happy, so we go. Fairly often.

After that, we had to get ice cream. Of course. We've gone for ice cream every day twice in the last week. I blame it on PMS the nicer weather. It made sense that we went every single day when I was pregnant, because it wasn't for me, it was for the baby. Plus, we walked (once) to get it. But now? I have no excuse. We have to drive and, you know, put on shoes and stuff. And, it's getting bad now that the boys think getting ice cream is part of dinner. We have to stop.

And THEN, the boys and I had a play date with a friend. So, we dropped off my mom and met my friend and her 3 children. I'm not very experienced with play dates. Are you supposed to organize activities for the children to do? Are you supposed to let the children run amok while you and the other mother drink margaritas? I'll tell ya, that second option seems like much more fun.

But, sadly, that's not what we did. And, gratefully, we didn't do the first option, either. The children ran amok while my friend and I gossiped. Gossiping is almost as good as drinking margaritas, so I was just as entertained as the children. It was hard to get the boys to leave, especially when I told them we had to run to the grocery store.

Was I smoking crack? We were running on no naps and the sugar high from the ice cream was wearing off. There was no way we were going to get through the grocery store alive. So, I decided, in the spirit of Birthday Week (and because I want my children to live), we were having chicken nuggets for dinner and came home instead. Look up Mother of the Year, people, and you'll find my picture.

It was a long day. And, aside from the beginning, a nice way to start Birthday Week. Coming up this week: some shopping, a pedicure with a friend and a happy hour with work people.

Yay Birthday Week!

Where the money's at (finale)

So, I went back to my BFF on Monday to have my stitches removed. I'll tell ya, nothing has been like my first experience with this place. I know what happens... they hook you at your first meeting, and, like everything else, they slowly let you down by bringing you back to reality. I should always always know better.

Not that I don't find something new to experience and amuse myself (and my sister via text) with... and then write about... at every encounter. And Monday was no exception. The told me at my surgery that, after they removed my sutures, I was going to receive a complimentary skin consultation. Complimentary! Now that's what I've been looking for!

They made me wait. Again. (You know, I don't have a bladder problem, but I swear I have to pee every time I go there. I can't figure it out. Maybe it's the couches?)

Aaanyway. While I waited, I decided to investigate the waiting room a little more thoroughly. Previously, I've only had time to look at (and not remember, obviously) the color of the furniture. This time, I had plenty of time to peruse the many props throughout the waiting area.

Time magazine? Check. Cleveland magazine (really?)? Check. Coffee table books? Check. Check. Check.

Names of said books?
An Owner's Manual for Inner and Outer Beauty (I could be paraphrasing here)
You Staying Young. The Owner's Manual for Extending Your Warranty.
Some Liz Taylor book about diamonds (naturally).

Oh man, I love this place. So much material. So little time.

Just as I was getting ready to learn how to extend my warranty, my metrosexual nurse (he's back!) took me back to an exam room. Yay! I was going to get my skin consultation. He was going to tell me how to make my skin more elastic without surgery. He was going to save me from old age.

Yeah. Not so much.

He put me under an ultraviolet light and allowed me to look into a mirror. I could've done without the mirror. Let me tell you, ultraviolet light is unforgiving. I looked dead. And bruised. At the same time. He explained what the different colors meant. Most of it stood for sun damage. I find that interesting since I'm the person who never gets a tan. I noticed 3 microscopic (no bigger than the head of a pin) bright white dots on my face.

Those dots? Perfect skin. Oh, of course.

At any rate, he gave me some complimentary (!) cream, the stitches came out without issue, and I finished my antibiotic on Tuesday.

Do you know I've been on antibiotics for... when was Easter? Yes, before Easter. I have had enough. I'm ready to drink again. And with birthday week coming up, it couldn't have happened at a better time. Let the good times roll!

Out with the old, in with the... old, but it's been a few months, so it's like new again

So, over the weekend, I made the big decision to pack away our winter gear and unpack the summer stuff. It was a bold move as we live in Cleveland and it doesn't get warm in Cleveland until July. But, I decided to throw caution to the wind and hope for the best. It was either that or I was going shopping for new clothes.

Switching out your wardrobe is like getting new clothes, but cheaper.

My mom, the crazy cleaner, got me started. My laundry room/mud room makes her crazy. There are about 100 coats and 200 pairs of shoes (mostly men's tennis shoes - honestly, how many pairs of tennis shoes does a man need?) (okay, I'll admit this is coming from the woman who has 7 3 black cardigan sweaters, but I swear, they are all different) in there at all times. There are times you can't make your way through the room without tripping over something (and landing on someone who has tripped over something else). But you have 100 coats that have fallen to the floor (or another person) to break your fall, so what's the big deal?

Okay, fine. It was a mess. So, my mother took over. She shoved all the winter coats at me to throw into the washer. She organized my laundry dividers. She washed the floor (I love this woman). I washed and packed away all the winter coats, hats, gloves, and scarves and brought out all the spring outerwear. There may still be 100 coats in there, but they're much thinner. We can finally walk through that room!

This got me motivated. Once that room was finished, I decided it was time for the Quarterly Clean. Sure, I spend a good deal of time cleaning the house, but only do a big clean a few times a year. So, I spent most of Saturday and Sunday washing windows and counters and baseboards and floors. I swept and mopped and vacuumed. I did laundry. I probably used half of the world's supply of water this weekend. I moved furniture. Heavy furniture. My arms are still sore. But it was worth it.

Because the best part is that with the spring clean, I put all my winter clothes away. I get very excited at the prospect of spring, and more importantly, summer. I long for days where it's too hot to breathe.

For someone who spends most of her day freezing her ass off, it's nice to finally have feeling in her extremities. I have a heater in my cubicle at work because, no matter what time of year it is, it is only 50 degrees in the office. And the crazy men I work with complain that it is so HOT in there. I almost came to blows with one co-worker last summer. I swore if he turned the thermostat down again, he would lose a finger. So, yeah. I'm cold a lot. And to not feel cold is a great feeling.

Also? I have really cute spring/summer clothing. My sister once told me that my wardrobe consisted of black... and black. With a little gray thrown in for good measure. But that's my winter gear. My summer clothes? A pastel paradise. It's glorious to look into my closet and see a rainbow of happiness in there. So, going into my closet makes me happy. Even if it'll still be months before I can wear half of that stuff.

But hey, the house is clean. Or it was anyway. I do have a husband, 2 boys and a cat, after all.

I didn't really stand a chance.

How Dr. House and I are alike

1. We can both diagnose strange diseases. Autoimmune? Infection? Environmental?
2. We like to play mind games with the people who work for us (okay, not really).
3. We like our Vicodin.

Okay, fine. I only took a Vicodin 3 times. And it kicked Tylenol's scrawny impotent ass.

I could see how people become addicted. You know, if I wasn't so afraid of it.

Where the money's at (revisited)

So, I went back to the plastic surgeon on Friday to check the progress of TOM. Boy, my memory sucks.

I didn't get his office right at all. His couches aren't red, they're green. With purple chairs to accent. It wasn't as dimmed as I remembered, either. And definitely no candles or complimentary mimosa and Botox. What a letdown.

The metrosexual nurse practitioner was replaced by an ordinary-looking girl. She was wearing black hose with her black flats. Not exactly what you see on the cool people at a club.

Me? Not impressed.

She took me into the patient room. And my awesome leather patient chair? Had paper over it. Like any old doctor's office. My memory may suck, but I swear there was no paper on the chair last time. So disappointed. She did use the cool tablet thing, though, so I was relieved to find TOM wasn't making me hallucinate.

Anyway, she typed some things up and left me alone to read the many pamphlets around the room. I'm starting to wonder if they leave you alone with all these ads so you will beg the plastic surgeon to make you "pixel perfect" or to tell you about Laser360 or to let you take the Dysport challenge for frown lines. I kind of wish he could do something about my eyes. I thought I had read a pamphlet (from across the room) about mammary gel (you know, like the gland?), but it turns out after further scrutiny, it was actually memory gel.

Hmm, now that I think about it, I probably should have read that one.

After a long wait (seriously, this was nothing at all like my first appointment), he showed up. And, by the way, while I was waiting, would it have killed him to have a nail technician on standby to give me a manicure? Or a polish change? At the very least, leave nail polish remover and a nail file on the counter? What kind of operation is he running here?

What was I saying? Oh yeah. He came in and (cue the angels singing), he wanted to schedule my surgery for Monday. Oh, happy day! I was in love with him again. I wondered if he was married. I then thought of all the free procedures I could get if I was his girlfriend. And I told my sister I could get her free stuff, too! But then figured he and his metrosexual nurse were probably gay. Otherwise, they wouldn't be going clubbing on their lunch hour. Sigh.

So, today, I went in for my procedure. I didn't know what to expect. He had probably told me on Friday, but I was too busy wondering if he was gay to pay attention. Turns out this was like a surgery. I had to change into a gown, wear paper shoes and a paper hairnet thing. I was taken into another room where 5 masked people in scrubs were waiting.

Wait, what? I thought this was just a minor break-up between TOM and me? Was I in the wrong room? I saw my cute plastic surgeon, who looked even cuter in scrubs, and began to panic. My palms started to sweat. I was in an operating room. The fact that Santana was playing in the background was not at all comforting.

They were all very nice to me. I tend to make jokes when I'm nervous, so they were all laughing. Probably not a good thing when working on my head. You know, with the jerking and all. The surgical site was cleaned and prepped. My doctor numbed me up, took the thing out in less than 10 minutes, and left. I was cleaned up and sent on my way. Yes, it really was that simple.

And now, here I sit, with an ice pack wrapped around my head. The numbing is starting to wear off, which sucks.

Good thing they gave me a prescription for Vicodin.

To quote Ice Cube, "It Was a Good Day"

So, today is Mother's Day. I've been a mother for over 5 years now. Not an expert, but I can change a diaper with the best of them. It's the greatest, hardest, most rewarding and frustrating job I've ever had. My 2 boys can make me laugh and cry, at the same time, all day every day. They are the best things to ever happen to me.

Today started out just like any other day. My 2-year-old woke me up by yelling "MOMMMMAAAAYYY" (that's what it sounds like anyway) from his crib at 7:30. But, unlike the other days of the week, my wonderful husband got him so I could sleep in. Score!

I came downstairs to find presents, coffee, and my favorite bagels waiting for me. I received homemade Mother's Day cards, iTunes gift cards (which is still the greatest gift you can ever get me), and a charm for my bracelet. Was it my birthday? Or am I dying? I'm not saying I don't appreciate Mother's Day. But, I would've been happy with just a homemade card (and iTunes gift card, if I'm honest), so this was a nice surprise.

I promised my mother we'd go to church today. It was all she wanted for Mother's Day, so I figured it was the least we could do. Church went off without a hitch (read: without my boys yelling, fighting with their cousin and/or running up and down the aisle). At one point, my 2-year-old pointed up at the picture of Jesus and my mother informed him that it was Jesus, to which he responded, "Yeah, I like him." Honestly, that could've gone either way with a 2-year-old, so I'm glad he chose to like Jesus (there were people around us, listening, after all).

After the service, we all filed out of the church. When my mother is around, no one else exists for the boys (until my sister is home, of course). So, truth be told, I tend to pay less attention because they're with my mother and I know they're safe if they're with my mother.

Until today.

We were ready to leave, doing a head count, when we realized no one had my 2-year-old. He's never very far away, even when he does wander off, so I didn't panic at first. But, there were a lot of people filing out of the church and he very easily could have been shuffled out with the crowd. He wasn't anywhere around us.

This is the hard part of being a mother. Fear. Pain. Loss. It was a small feeling at first. We were at church, after all - bad things don't happen at church. But then my mind wandered. I pictured some crazy lady who had just lost a baby, taking my sweet little boy (I have watched too many Lifetime movies, obviously). I quickly walked down the hallway towards the reception hall. I had a death grip on my 5-year-old, even though he knows better to run from me.

Nothing.

He wasn't where I thought I'd find him and my heart? Was beating a little faster at this point.

Finally, I came to another hallway, where I found him. Sweet relief. And heartbreak. He was more terrified than I was. He had his arms wrapped around himself, crying. Some nice older lady was trying to talk to him, but he's 2. He doesn't even know his last name, much less that his mother's name is anything other than "Mommy" (or "MOMMMMAAAAYYY" for that matter). I scooped him up, suffocated him, and promptly told him to never do that to me again. And he was probably thinking, "ME do that to YOU? You're the one who left ME, crazy woman!"

Anyway, even after all that, I am grateful to be a mother. It's nice to have a day created special for mothers, but for me, every day I have my boys is special to me.

Even when they scare the crap out of me.