Oh Right, My Left Foot

Lookit! I have a matching set again!

Like so many of my life stories, the One About My Foot eventually resolved itself in a boring, drama-less manner. I know many (MANY) of you were convinced that it was, in fact, broken and I'd gotten a shit diagnosis, because there's no way a human foot should look...well, like a bloated zombie appendage from an Eli Roth film.

It was not broken. It turns out I tore two ligaments, one on either side of my foot. The outer ligament tore completely, which would account for the horrid popping sound and sensation I heard as I toppled over. That was a Level 3 sprain; the valedictorian of sprains; the kind that can fuck with you for life. Huzzah! The inner ligament (which I was informed is much harder to tear, and my doctor was basically like, "HOW DAFUQ?") only tore partially. A Level 2 sprain. Which: Pfft. The other side of my foot is not impressed. Sack up, ho. 

The initial swelling and bruising that I subjected y'all to was likely made worse by the fact that 1) I continued to hobble around on my foot in Vegas, because VEGAS and it's not like you can just order up a buffet via room service, and 2) I had to fly cross-country three days later and remain mostly trapped in my seat, unable to keep my foot fully elevated OR walk the aisle to get the blood circulating, as by then I was seriously unstable and regretting my decision to skip the Good Drugs. Hence: BAM. CORPSE FOOT. 

ProTip: Try to injure yourself at home next time, jackass. 

But! The good news is that everything is healing very, very nicely. I won't need surgery, and most of my range of motion has returned. 

(The day I flexed my feet outward and then realized that both feet could finally bend the same distance was the day I Burst Into Tears About My Foot, Look Honey, LOOK, Isn't It Beautiful, Oh God, I Need A Pedicure.) 

My foot doesn't really hurt anymore; it just feels...weak. Like it's kind of a punk-ass wuss that I can't fully count on yet to be there for me when I need it. Like on a flight of a stairs, or stepping out of a car. I wore the hospital-issued ankle brace to Williamsburg to keep it safe from accidental jams and twists on old-timey sidewalks and streets, and I've been taking daily walks around the neighborhood with the stroller and wear a lighter support...thing for that. (An ankle girdle? Footie spanxx? Maybe.)

Uneven surfaces and curbs still make me vaguely panicky, and I seriously FREAK OUT at the sight of anyone on TV wearing super-high platform heels now, since I can't stop waiting for them — like me — to take just one slightly wrong step and go down like a flailing sack o' fail. It's like footwear-related PTSD. I can't even look at red carpet fashion photos without fretting over everybody's ability to make it safely to and from the restroom later, once they've had some wine and get laid out by some uneven carpet padding. 

But it is getting stronger, and jokes aside, I really AM taking it seriously and doing my therapy exercises and wearing supportive flats and all that. My Mother's Day gift was a little home foot whirlpool spa so I can continue to soak and ice it IN STYLE. And COMFORT. Like a BOSS. Like a boss who is never, ever going to live this bout of klutziness down. 

Judging. Harshly.

Winning At Ankle Injuries, Except Really the Opposite of That

The ER doctor warned me that my ankle would take at least four to six weeks to heal, and even longer if I didn't:

1) Stay off it

2) Stretch and exercise it

3) Elevate it

4) Ice it

5) Ice it, then soak it

6) Repeat items 2-5 at least five times a day

The ER nurse added to my aftercare instructions by yelling "NO SHOES NO" at me when I asked whether I was supposed to wear the air cast over or under my shoe.

No shoes no. Okay then. So...socks? I'm supposed to walk around in public with only a sock to protect my feet from general ground filth? That's going to be a really, really gross sock.

At that point the nurse rolled her eyes at me in frustration because NO SHOES NO, BECAUSE NO WALKING NO EITHER. IT'S LIKE THE FIRST THING WE TOLD YOU, IDIOT.

You can imagine how well I've been able to follow the above instructions. As soon as I could bear to put weight on my foot, I damn well did so, because the crutches were a huge pain in the ass and the arm muscles. I maybe remembered to ice it once or twice a day. I usually made it about halfway up or down the stairs following the "proper" ankle-injury stair-walking protocol (up with the good, down with the bad, one stair at a time) before getting impatient and walking up normally. Every time I elevated it, someone would inevitably come along and sit on it, to the point that I felt too much like a vulnerable wounded animal to lie down on the couch with my foot propped up and would flinch and yelp in proactive fear every time my children approached me. 

Last Thursday my air cast disappeared into thin air (okay, into a drawer that I didn't think to check), but then boys had karate so I went commando without it. And I wore yes shoes yes.

So of course, my ankle remains solidly, pathetically borked. The skin looks much less zombiefied now, as the bruises continue to make their way through the rainbow kaleidoscope of fucked-up colors, but I'm still limping and feel reeeeeally unstable and wobbly without the ankle support. And yes, it still really goddamn hurts and I kind of regret not filling my prescription for Percoset from the ER because "getting hooked on prescription painkillers and then like, having a full-on meth spiral five minutes later like a PSA commercial" ranks surprisingly high on my list of Irrational Fears. I threw it away and took Advil instead.

I keep swearing that no, today, I MEAN IT THIS TIME, I'm going to keep off it all day and ice it and stretch it and be the best little injured person I can possibly be. I'm going to get this right and let it heal properly so I'm not that person who sprains her ankle every time she steps off a curb in a stiff breeze.

(As opposed to the person who sprains her ankle every time she wears stiletto platforms and has to like, walk across a carpeted room. Whatever. That's a completely different kind of person.)

This resolution usually lasts about 20 minutes or so, or however long it takes for something like this to happen:

Semi-related: OH DEAR GOD MELISSA MCCARTHY WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOING STOP STOP STOP I CAN'T EVEN WATCH THIS.

This Hobbit Be Mobbin'

In spite of...all that happening, I really had a terrifically wonderful time in Vegas. Jason and I successfully and repeatedly committed a good six out of the seven deadly sins — save for wrath, I think. Never really felt too wrath-y, except for that one moment where I thought I overheard a pack of drunk guys calling me a "hobbit" on my crutches and I was all, "EXCUSE ME, ARE YOU SERIOUS?"

And then they were all, "What? Nah! We said you were "mobbin' it" on those crutches cuz you were going so fast and shit."

And then I was all, "Oh, okay, sorry. It's just been kind of a long day."

And then they walked away and I was all, "Wait. Is "mobbin' it" even a thing? I am not sure that's a real thing."

Anyway, I still do not know if "mobbin' it" is or is not, in fact, a thing you can do on crutches, but I am entirely too busy to look it up on Urban Dictionary because of the whole post-vacation home suitcases children email work KABLOOEYNESS. (Which you KNOW is actually a thing.) 

I am mostly off the crutches now and can walk pretty well with just my ankle brace, Advil and frequent lie-downs with an ice pack. (Of course, my post-vacation exercise plans are still pretty limited to vigorous ankle rotations and this weird exercise where you trace an invisible alphabet with your toe. I'm getting pretty good at that one, though I still have to stop and sing the song at least once when I lose track of what comes after K.)

I would like to officially express my completely non-snarky, sincere gratitude to Southwest Airlines and the TSA folk at the Las Vegas airport for being incredibly kind and accommodating to me and Jason on Saturday, as I was D-R-E-A-D-I-N-G the thought of trying to navigate an airport on crutches, with a ton of luggage (because SHOES), and then a cross-country flight and another airport and gaaaahmoreAdvilplease. Instead, the whole experience was so darn nice and pleasant that I would actually highly recommend injuring yourself or one of your travel companions prior to your next flight. It makes air travel a breeze! Like in the olden days when you got free champagne, only with free wheelchairs and medical preboarding. 

And finally, in lieu of vacation photos (which I mostly forgot to take), here are some progress photos of my foot. I will put them after a jump-cut because they are (SPOILER ALERT) gross, which I guess SHOULD be a clue that maybe I shouldn't post them at all. Much like my repeated and dramatic falls SHOULD be a clue that maybe I shouldn't wear platform heels anymore. Hmm.

Okay, clearly I have a lot of life choices to go think about for awhile. I'm glad we had this talk. Click the link below to look at pictures of my foot. (BECAUSE NEVER! AND ALWAYS! I REFUSE TO GROW AS A PERSON!) I'll post some cute kid photos tomorrow as penance. 

What Happens In Vegas...

...is all fun and games until someone falls off her heels and tears a ligament in her foot. I know that's not actually how the slogan goes but YOU GET MY POINT.

It's not a particularly exciting installment in the (ongoing, endless) saga of Times Amy Fell Down, chapter four thousand and twelve. We were on our way to dinner and I tripped. I didn't even trip ON anything, like faux quainty cobblestone or a pile of money. There were no stairs. We were walking on nice, even carpet. I was completely sober. I simply cannot manage to walk and talk at the same time anymore, and down I randomly went, twisting my ankle all to bloody hell and taking my dainty wounded pride with it.

The restaurant hostess was kind enough to vacuum seal some ice in what appeared to be a sous vide bag and I balanced that on my foot during dinner, because nothing was going to stand in my way of stuffing my damn foodhole.

And thus fulfills my life-long dream of meeting Joël Robuchon, winner of ALL TEH MICHELIN STARS, while gritting my teeth in pain because my ice pack has fallen off. Bonus points for being barefoot at the time. 

After dinner, my foot had swollen up to an alarming size and was many shades of delicious purply bruise. I couldn't walk on it at all, though I did try because EMBARRASSING. Jason helped me hobble a few feet before security noticed the barefoot girl quietly and involuntarily sobbing and intervened. They gave me a wheelchair and I promised them that I would not sue them, I swear, the fall was the result of my own legendary dumbassity and nothing more. I sat at a kitty-cat themed slot machine and signed an incident report and then tried to tell jokes to my security escort/wheelchair pusher the whole way back our room for some reason. Like I needed him to think I was cool, because suuuuure.

Later, after elevating and icing my foot failed to bring down the swelling or the pain, I spent five hours at a Las Vegas emergency room and that was...well, that was pretty sobering and not at all funny. It was understaffed and overcrowded and the man next to me spent two hours rocking back and forth, picking at face scabs and trying to convince the nurse practioner that he "lost" the pain medicines he'd just been given at a different hospital. He did not seem to be alone in this particular complaint.

(Around hour four of our wait a nurse offered me an pain pill and I accepted it, but I tried not to seem too jazzed about it.)

The whole experience gets a zero stars, would not recommend. We got back to our hotel around 4:30 a.m., so I'm now at a level of jet lag/time zone confusion that I never thought was possible. I can see through space and time and clocks no longer exist. It's pretty trippy. Also maybe I need a nap. 

But hey! I did not break my foot, just like all the other times I did not break my foot. I tore a ligament, which is the dramatic way to say "it's just a really bad sprain." I get to spend the rest of my vacation on crutches and an air cast, doing...I don't know. Figuring out how to not walk all that much. Sitting down whenever possible. Finding restaurants that are not buffets.

Wild and crazy times in Vegas, man. Wild and crazzzzy times. 

Deodorant Wars: Go Home Deodorants, You Are Drunk

part one || part two || part three || part four || part five

MEANWHILE, ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SINK:

"Listen, Samuel Adams Alpine Spring, we need to talk. Are the rumors true?

"I'm afraid they are, fellow cheesily-named Seasonal Brew. I'm in love."

"Then it's time for you to decide. Are you a beer...

...or are you a deodorant?"

MEANWHILE, IN BETWEEN THE TWO SINKS:

"We can't keep meeting like this, Alpine! It's too risky. If my brothers ever found out..."

"But I need you, Suave Invisible Solid! I need you and your extra-effective 24-hour protection! You are my everlasting sunshine! Nothing can keep us apart!"

MEANWHILE, ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE OTHER SINK:

"We know what's going on. We know and it stops now. You've changed, Suave. You used to be so simple and gimmick free and powder fresh and now you and your boyfriend and non-properly hyphenated and redundant promises ARE TEARING THE ENTIRE COMMUNITY APART."

"Listen, Suave. I am the BOSS OF YOU. I just took the word "Matterhorn" and decided it was a SCENT. Cuz BAM. I smell like ICE, WIND & FREEDOM. The mountain-forest-water tableau on my label looks suspiciously similar to that six-pack's over there and I will NOT STAND FOR IT."

"NOTHING ABOUT ME MAKES A GODDAMN LICK OF SENSE. WTF IS A WOLFTHORN AND WHY DOES MY LABEL LOOK LIKE AN ED HARDY T-SHIRT? I AM CONFUSED AND ANGRY AND APPARENTLY NOT SLEEPING VERY WELL."

"Oh yeah? I smell like ANARCHY. Bow down, all you nonsensical bitches. Check my ingredients; I bet I'm like 14% bath salts or something."

"Usually I'm the laid-back peacemaker around here but those Alpine Spring dickbags are straight up copping my roll. I'm Tom's of Motherfucking Maine Motherfucking Mountain Spring so you best step off. Sheeeee-it."

"I...uh...well, I didn't draw the little across line on the A in my name! That's pretty badass, right? There's an extraneous plus sign in my name?  Right? God, I have no idea what I'm even doing here, honestly. Can't we just go bowling or something?"

*indecipherable grunting*

"Holy shit, y'all. I think the men's deodorant industrial complex has lost its damn mind. We're not even remotely funny anymore, even though that one over there claims to smell like ooh la la lavender."

"STFU, Degree Expert Protection Motion Sense Motion Activated Freshness Sexy Intrigue Invisible Solid. You are nothing more than a goddamn tube of word salad now and everyone knows it. EVERYONE."

MEANWHILE, BACK IN BETWEEN THE TWO SINKS:

IT'S AN ICY FRESH SCENT DANCE-OFF, Y'ALL.

"No, Matterhorn! I looooove him! He wants to marry me! We're going to be together! We're going to have babies that smell like pine needles and have labels like sunshine!" 

"So no one is gonna ask why there'a a six-pack of beer in the bathroom in the first place? How much pre-gaming does the bitch who lives here do, on average? Damn. I bet she's drunk right now."

*rabble rabble rabble rabble*

"NOOOOOOOOOO YOU KILLED HIM! ALPINE SPRING, COME BACK TO MEEEEEE!"

*hurls self to death*

~FIN~

EPILOGUE:

Turns out "Ice, Wind & Freedom" smells mostly like "Generic Men's Deodorant v.122.2329.2," while "Wolfthorn" smells like "Orange Creamsicle Lip Smackers." On the other hand, "Anarchy" smells like "The Worst, Seriously, I Almost Literally Vomited Just Now Because It's That Overpoweringly Bad, Oh My God."

Tom's of Motherfucking Maine Motherfucking Mountain Spring and Certain-Dri smell like Unscented.

Degree Clinical+ Clean smells like my husband, because that's the only one of these he uses or probably will ever use. So, great. Anybody want a free tube Orange Creamsicle Lip Smackers-scented deodorant? It's fucking hella manly. Gots wolves on it, and shit. 

Samuel Adams Alpine Spring tastes like a lager with some lemon juice added. Is just okay, but not bad, and will get you nicely tipsy especially if you day-drink it in the name of science blogging.

The Adventures of Superblogger & the Underpants of Mystery

Little boys (and some girls) and superheroes. I've heard it can be quite a thing. 

Noah never got "into" superheroes — we've burned through Star Wars, Star Trek, Harry Potter and Ninjago pretty bright and hard, but the traditional comic book heroes have never interested him all that much. He liked The Avengers. He liked it pretty okay. 

(Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, on the other hand... Which: OMG. I already had to live through years of every boy in my elementary school talking non-stop about those stupid turtles, and now you're telling me I have to relive it all over again with my own child? Haaaa, yeah, Michaelangelo sure does love pizza. It's crazy! Great to see so much character development has occurred over the past two decades.)

Ezra has never seen The Avengers. Or any movie or TV show involving Superman, Batman, Spiderman or any of the other major or minor mans. And yet an full-blown superhero obsession has emerged, either through peer pressure or osmosis or electromagnetic waves in the atmosphere.

It started with a Superman shirt, hastily plucked from a clearance pile at Old Navy because it was blue and Ezra was going through a fairly stubborn "I ONLY WEAR BLUE SHIRTS" phase at the time. Little did I know that I was simply ushering in the "I ONLY WEAR SUPERMAN SHIRTS" phase, which is a extra-difficult, migraine-inducing phase when THERE IS ONLY ONE SUPERMAN SHIRT. 

(The best is when he insists on wearing it under his karate jacket so he can pull it open to reveal the logo, like Superman does in the movies. Though I still don't understand how he knows to do that in the first place.)

Because I know absolutely nothing about children (but like to think that I do), I recently purchased a couple packages of superhero underpants for him, in hopes that he'd let me wash the stupid shirt more often if he could wear something else superhero-related. Because, you know, that won't backfire at all. Because the child who only owns one acceptable shirt is never going to suddenly be the child who only owns one acceptable pair of underpants. 

Except: Duh. Of course he will. 

I won't go into specifics as to how many days in a row Ezra may or may not have worn the same pair of Superman underwear before I noticed. Suffice to say: Too many. 

Luckily the underwear assortment came with other options. Eventually, Batman became acceptable. I showed him some pictures online of the Green Lantern and the Flash and got those pairs into the rotation as well. But then there was another pair, covered in yellow V's, that had me kind of stumped. And thus, were going completely unworn by Ezra because I could not supply the associated character name. Superheroes aren't really my forte to begin with, but I figured a quick Google search on the Justice League would reveal this other, less-well-known member.

Instead, I stumbled upon a honest-to-God UNDERPANTS-RELATED MYSTERY.

The most obvious choice (SHE SAYS LIKE SHE KNOWS THIS SHIT OR SOMETHING) for a fifth Justice League logo would be Aquaman. But I was clearly not looking at underwear covered in A's, which is what Google told me his logo looked like. These are clearly V's! And clearly bothering me more than they should! 

(Tangentially speaking, don't you think it's kind of a bummer that you can't buy V for Vendetta underpants in size 3T? With wee Guy Fawkes masks across the butt? Awww.) 

So I kept searching, finally looking around for the exact pack of underwear I'd purchased (and foolishly threw the packaging out before realizing that I might need to CONSULT IT FOR CLUES). The characters on the package were, alas, Superman, Batman, Green Lantern and the Flash, as if even the manufacturer was like...uhhhh, no idea. Hank designed these over lunch while blitzed out of his gourd, and he doesn't have phone privileges in rehab yet. 

Amazon reviews mentioned the Mystery V pair as well, joining in my parental bafflement. A+ underwear experience. Five stars. My kid loves them; doesn't poop in them; can anyone tell me who the heck the yellow Vs are for?

GODDAMN IT NOW I'M MAD. UNDERWEAR SHOULD NOT MAKE ME THINK THIS HARD.

Finally I somehow ended up on a random comic books forum, where a member had uploaded a photo of the underwear in question and asked the group for help identifying the logo. A minor war had ensued, with most members seeming to think that it was simply a poorly-rendered, half-assed Aquaman logo, while others said no, there was once a member of the Justice League named Volt, so this could be his logo, and then everything devolved from there into ZOMG DO YOU THINK THEY'RE BRINGING VOLT BACK IN THE NEW JUSTICE LEAGUE MOVIE? NO YOU IDIOT, THAT MOVIE ISN'T HAPPENING, IT GOT SHELVED, NO IT DIDN'T, YES IT DID, RABBLE RABBLE RABBLE.

And, you know, etc.

(I am not even kidding about any of that.)

And yes, at some point it did occur to me that I was sitting there, on the Internet, reading a strange message board conversation devoted to little boys' underwear styles. Ahhrrmm.

I thought maybe I could just tell Ezra that the "V" underwear stood for "Victoryman," because seriously. He's four. It's not like he can Wikipedia this shit yet. But that would have required me to let the issue go and move on with my life and stop caring so goddamn much about this. 

And we all know that wasn't going to happen. So back to Google it was. Maybe focus on image searches this time, while leaving the word "underwear" out of it. Maybe let's not get put on an FBI watch list over this. Maybe search for some of the other Justice League lineups? The old Super Friends cartoon, perhaps, that my next-door neighbor made me sit through on Saturday mornings because boy cartoons are stupid and you know we're watching My Little Pony after this, OH YES WE ARE?

BAM: 

DOUBLE BAM:

Look at Aquaman's belt. LOOK AT IT. 

*breathes*

*puts on sunglasses*

*YEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!*

I feel better now, yes. Thanks for asking. And no, I have zero intention of EVER checking the Google search terms that lead people to this entry, oh my God. 

PS. BECAUSE RELEVANT: 

Dispatches From the Living Room of Sodor, Part Two

(Because of course when I said "tomorrow" way back on Thursday you know I actually meant "Monday" because I love to cause confusion and delay and also toy with your semi-half-interested emotions. I wish I could express that all in charm bracelet form.)

After Noah got back into the track-building action, there was a brief shining renaissance in the new and improved Sodor. Once again, getting from Point A to Point B involved crossing over an insane number of bridges and lots of going in circles, but the people liked it that way.

They also seemed fine with the fact that "Point A" and "Point B' didn't really exist either, because going specific places is not the POINT. The POINT, of course, is to chugga-chugga around in endless loppy circles for no damn reason while the nearby giants squabble over the blue train and the red train and the green train and the OTHER blue train that's mine THAT'S MINE THAT'S MIIIIIIINE MOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM.

Of course, you're going to have to take my word for it about that renaissance, because by the time I returned to take pictures everything had promptly gone to shit once again.  

Floors are the new train table. 

A war had broken out between several competing track designers, apparently. 

"Hector!" James cries. "Why did I never profess my love for you, Hector? Now we are all derailed and it is forever too late."

"KEEP AWAY," Hector blasts. "I SHALL ONLY HURT YOU, FOR MY HEART IS BLACK AS THE COAL I CARRY."

"It's happening again," says Thomas. "I can't go through this again. I'm not going back in that storage bin again, man. I'm old and chipped and faded — I won't make it this time. I'm gonna use this miniature Lego blaster gun and...and..."

"Shit," says Thomas. "I've got no arms."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the track, it's...

DEATH PROOF II: THE ZOMBIE ROTISSERIE CHICKEN MINIVAN APOCALYPSE

Not even Sir Topham Hat was spared when the picnic basket contents mutated and went on a rampage. And that's why you don't picnic too close to Ye Olde Genetics Mill.

And for what? For a little bit of money. Lego money, that isn't even to fucking scale. 

I can't even begin to think of something clever to say about this one. There's an Ove Glove, a sippy cup and a visible plastic toilet. Some things are just to randomly weird, even for me. 

I will say that "James' Tender" is totally going to be the name of my adult contemporary death metal cover band, however. 

The Isle of Sodor has been granted refugee status and is presently allowed to stay above ground in the living room, provided it is properly stowed at the end of every adventure, because at least the children are playing with all this pricey bullshit again, right? Right. 

(I predict I will step on something pointy within the next day or two and promptly hurl the entire lot back into the basement. Sorry, Thomas.)

 

Dispatches From the Living Room of Sodor, Part One

But first, a WHAT DA FUQ IS THIS FAQ:

Q. WHAT DA FUQ IS THIS?

A. Once upon a time, back in 2007, I purchased a train table and some Thomas the Tank Engine sets for Noah. And then proceeded to go on a three-day bender of obsessive track building. You know, for "my kid." For his "benefit." In order to prove that I was not losing my mind at all, not even a little bit, I posed a bunch of trains and cars around the track and wrote a little photo-essay about them. The trains all cursed a lot and Sir Topham Hat was an alcoholic. 

Q. YOU'RE WEIRD.

A. Oh, you don't even KNOW, Janet. You don't even KNOW. From there, things got even weirder. Our train table started to become a catch-all surface for toy clutter, and Noah tended to bring other non-Thomas toys into his train play, like dinosaurs. I found this innocent bit of plaything dissonance to be HILARRRR and made up another story about it all. 

Q. OKAY. AND?

A. One time I built a monorail.

Q. WOW. AND?

A. And another time school got canceled for snow and things got even more baller. Baller beyond all good sense and reason.

Q. I THINK I'VE SEEN ENOUGH.

A. Oh yeah? Well, too bad, motherfucker. The people have spoken and they have asked for more Sodor. 

Q. NOOOOOOO.

A. YESSSSSSSS.

Q. DO YOUR KIDS EVEN PLAY WITH THOSE STUPID TRAINS ANYMORE?

A. Well. No. Noah moved on to Legos and Ezra never really got into Thomas. I packed up the tracks and trains at some point with the idea that the train table could become a Lego table but that didn't really happen. But! I have this whole new fresh kid now who seems to like choo-choos and doesn't even know we have Thomas trains, soooo....

Q. OH MY GOD, PLEASE TELL ME YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BUST OUT TOYS FOR YOUR CHILDREN TO PLAY WITH SOLELY TO GIVE YOURSELF SOME GODDAMN BLOG FODDER, YOU EXPLOITATIVE MONSTER. 

A. Meanwhile, in the Isle of Sodor...

Chaos rules the land, and has for quite some time.

The trains tried to warn the Sodorites that planes weren't as safe as railway travel and that a vintage Micro Machines airport from eBay was a bad idea, but nobody listened. "Look at how perfectly the drawings of lakes line up," the people said instead. "What are the fucking odds? That's kind of weird, right?"

So many planes crashed into the lake that they don't even sink anymore. They just pile up. And that dock isn't fooling anyone. 

They know who's still under there. 

That way, there be dragons. Don't go that way.

Eventually the trains and the Sodorites and even Sir Topham Hat packed up and fled the isle for probably the last time. If you ask why they'll just ask if you've ever read that Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs book.

So I guess it was something like that, then.

But! Then!

A new class!

A new chance!

Everything old was new again! Trains are awesome! Windmills are the new Elmo!

SOMEBODY even remembered how to make a circular track, HINT NOT CEIBA THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Things were actually going so well that Sodor's previous master civil engineer was brought back in and agreed to make everything even more awesome. 

(Though the planned track expansion out to the minivan lame-o's in the suburbs was quickly scrapped as not feasible, totally boring.)

Coming Up Tomorrow, Because This Is Long & Ridiculous Enough Already: Dispatches From the Living Room of Sodor, Part Two aka 28 Minutes Later aka Now I Remember Why I Never Brought the @#(&ing Trains Out Of the @#$&ing Basement Before

But Also:

Wut?

THAT'S WUT.

My Forceful Valentine

Yesterday was the 16th Valentine's Day Jason and I have spent together. Sixteenth. 

Shortly before our first Valentine's Day together, on our very first date, this happened:

You can read the full story behind this newspaper clipping here. Highly recommended reading, especially if you've never dug that far back (2005!) into my blog archives. I would love to say oh, isn't it funny how much I relied on CAPS LOCK and run-on sentences for humor back then, but that would probably spark some kind of existential "LOOK AT YOUR LIFE. LOOK AT YOUR CHOICES."-type crisis that I've been yammering on for over nine years and have still not managed to grow as a writer in the slightest, and it's only 11 am and thus too early to start drinking and hurling glasses at walls because I CAN'T QUIT YOU CAPS-LOOOOOOOOCCCCCKKKK.

Short version, though, for anybody who ain't got time for that: On our first date (that I did not realize was a date), Jason suggested we try to see the newly re-released version of the original Star Wars, even though he knew full well it would be sold out. (Thus "forcing" us to buy tickets for the following weekend, thus ensuring a second date, because that boy was smart.) On our way out of the theater we were randomly interviewed by a reporter about the sold-out showings and Star Wars mania in general. We cracked stupid jokes that sounded even stupider when printed in the paper, but the reporter asked if we were dating and I said "no" and Jason said "bwah?" and I said "ohhhhh." Then we made out in his car and lived happily ever after.

Anyway. We used to keep that newspaper clipping in a frame, but it was starting to yellow and fade so badly that I put it away at some point. I'd completely forgotten about this little bit of ephemera until yesterday. Jason had it reprinted on a Valentine's card for me:

Sixteen Valentine's Days and counting, and that boy still knows how to do them up right. 

(This card accompanied a small assortment of vintage L.E. Smith black amethyst vases, because OBVIOUSLY. I immediately freaked out and spent 40 minutes arranging flowers in them [BECAUSE AB CHAO] and then spent another 40 minutes on Google trying to figure out what decade they were from [1930s, possibly even late 1920s; good eye, husband!]. So all-in-all a pretty romantic evening by nobody's standards except mine.)

(I made Jason a card and bought him a book that includes a map of all the whorehouses in Phuket, Thailand, because I am also awesome and way romantic.)

This Is Me Not Writing About Being Sick; This Is Me Writing About Being an Idiot

I took a couple half-hearted stabs at blogging yesterday — probably out of some pseudoephedrine-fueled psychosis where I believed I could make being sick "funny" — but I kept coughing mid-sentence and losing my train of thought, so all my attempts fizzled out and either became First World Whinefests or kind of gross, full of overshare-y details like what it's like to blow your nose and have stuff come out your tear ducts.

(See? Aren't you glad I spared you that one?)

(Waaaaiiiiit...)

By late afternoon I decided I felt a little bit better and that leaving the house sounded like a nice idea. Putting on pants, even! The sun was shining! It was a beautiful day and I AM SO HOPPED UP ON ADVIL RIGHT NOW WHEEEE.

So I took Noah to karate. Minutes after we arrived, I realized my phone (and thus my sole source of entertainment, because no offense, Precious Child o' Mine, but watching the 3,204,280th game of karate dodgeball is no longer the thrill it once was) had died. I also realized that my child was coughing. And sneezing. And sniffling. Profusely. 

OH COME ON.

He'd been completely healthy all of five minutes prior in the car, but apparently managed to come down with cold #4,293 somewhere in the parking lot.

His symptoms were obvious enough that the other parents in the seats ahead of me were shifting around uncomfortably and side-eying each other, clearly trying to figure out who the hell brought the contagious diseased child to class. 

Now, a normal, thinking human being would probably just get her kid's attention and leave, since obviously a regrettable — yet easily correctable — mistake had been made.

But you know, I'd put on paaaaaants. 

So instead, I also turned around, like, who the hell? 

(Note: THIS IS WHY I DYE MY HAIR RED. PLAUSIBLE GENETIC DENIABILITY.)

Of course, this move would have been much smoother if I 1) hadn't been sitting in the back row, and 2) didn't start having a coughing fit right at that moment.

Being an expert in How To Adult, however, I had an escape plan ready to go before anybody could give me a dirty look: FAKE PHONE CALL.

My phone was dead, but I pulled it out, scowled at the imaginary called ID and pretended to answer it while getting up and heading out the door, like a POLITE cell phone user who was not at all the sort to show up and hack germs and parasites all over innocent people. 

Another mother and her child were just coming in as my fake phone call and I were exiting, and...I froze.

The obvious script "Oh hi yeah hang on I'm at karate let me step outside blah blah" flew out of my head, and I stood there blocking the door like an moron, with my mouth hanging open and my completely dead phone by my ear while this random woman stared at me, possibly wondering if I was having some kind of neurological incident.

"Oh hey..." I started, which only made the encounter more awkward, since NOW she probably thought I was talking to her instead of my fake phone call.

In a panic, yet committed to this stupid pointless charade that nobody else was probably even paying attention to until I went and turned it into a thing, I blurted out the first name that popped into my brain.

"...Beyoncé."

Yes.

Yeah.

Beyoncé.

SHE'S PROBABLY ASKING WHAT SONGS I THINK SHE SHOULD SING AT HALFTIME THIS WEEKEND, OR WHETHER OR NOT SHE SHOULD CLOTH DIAPER BLUE IVY. YOU KNOW, THE USUAL DRAMZ. 

At this point the other mother was clearly aware that she was wasting precious seconds on a crazy person and stepped aside so I could leave. Which I did. With my phone still glued to my ear, where it remained until I was fully out of view from the glass-fronted karate studio. Because BEYONCÉ. 

I wandered over to a coffee shop and ordered a Mortification Tea for myself and a cookie for Noah. Which I waved through the glass windows at the end of class as bait because don't make me go back in there. It's not safe. I can't be trusted. Put on your shoes and let's go, omg. 

The good news is that I actually am feeling better today! The bad news is that several of the boys are now sick with a completely different cold that I will probably get, and also that I have no idea whether the Destiny's Child reunion rumors are true or not. Dammit Bey, I thought we were close!