Bidet to You, Too!

So, I wrote this whole post about how I’m almost done with my first course at Harvard, and I think I’m getting an A. I am so excited, proud and just so darn yay-ing over here, that the post was boring. I can hardly believe it’s me when I think about it too much. Bryon keeps telling me it’s obvious. I’m like, “umm, is it?”

 

Well, the post wasn’t boring to me. But, nonetheless. I’m sad for the class to be over, and a bit nervous for Fall semester because I’ll have two classes, and I don’t think I can take my first professor again. She conflicts with another class I have to take, of which there is only one offering. She is the most patient, energetic, kind and knowledgeable person I’ve met in a long time. I had hesitations going into this, and I’m glad I took the risk. The decision was made on a whim one day, but I’m so glad that I didn’t back out.

Not the greatest cat pic of the week, but I think it speaks to the gist of the week…Rachel’s school stuff spread all over the bed, while I work, Bear ignoring it and trying to get a treat, Homer watching in the background (judgmentally).

Not the greatest cat pic of the week, but I think it speaks to the gist of the week…Rachel’s school stuff spread all over the bed, while I work, Bear ignoring it and trying to get a treat, Homer watching in the background (judgmentally).

 

The only good thing about this semester ending, is that you get to be rid of that one student in every class that annoys you. The one who seems to have stumbled their way into the course, but isn’t sure how they got there. Somehow, they manage to continuously show up, driving everyone else crazy with questions totally out of left field, usually syllabus-related, in the middle of lectures. Because it’s an online course, I know I was particularly grateful that, by week four she’d figured out how to use the mute/unmute button when talk. It was a blessing to us all, because someone in her household was fond of using the blender, far more often than is normal for a three-hour period.

 

I’m sure she’s a lovely person in her everyday life. I’m just not sure I’ll miss her in this environment. It’s funny how different environments color your perception of people, isn’t it? Honestly, my favorite part about the online component of this class, is that this particular person has her camera set up in her dining room, and she has all her papers, and miscellaneous books (of which there aren’t any required for this course) organized in piles all over her dining room table, and chairs. So, every time someone talks, or the professor talks, she gets up (from her rocking chair!) walks over to the table, and digs through papers, finds something (I have no idea what!) and is satisfied. Hey, whatever works though, right? To be a fly in her mind, for just a few minutes would be ever-so-fascinating. Truthfully, to be a fly in anyone’s mind would be fascinating.

 

Or…scary. Flies are always getting smacked.

 

Look at me, I said I wasn’t going to keep writing about my class, and then I went and did it again for another full page. Jeesh, I must need to get some of it out! There. I did. When it’s all over with, I’ll give you all the full low-down, and my grade (hopefully, an A, fingers crossed).


See that above….that’s the back to business line!


What I thought about telling you about instead, today, was that we made a weird investment a few weeks ago.

 

Drumroll.

 

A bidet attachment! Bet you didn’t see that coming!  

 

I think it was the third or fourth day after my surgery, and I was whimpering and crying, in pure agony and exhaustion. Bryon didn’t know what to do. When I’m in pure pain, he’s probably at his most adorable, because he wants to help, so badly, but simply can’t. He looks like how I imagine Henny Penny must look, when the sky is falling. He gets a look in his eyes that just screams, “I’ll do ANYTHING! Just tell me!”

 

If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. I fall more in love with him every day, but on those days, it’s double so. He reminds me that he’s always going to be there when it’s tough; but not just there, there. His whole heart is breaking with mine. It’s truly something to have that in your corner, in a marriage.

 

So, as I’m whimpering in the bathroom, because it’s so hard to go to the bathroom with your foot up, and to wipe effectively; I know, it’s a lot to imagine, but bear with me; he says,

“I know I can’t take your pain, but what can I do. I’ll do anything.”

 

Swoon ladies, he’s mine.

 

I feel like this is getting a little too sappy with love-bug-bites about my husband. So, how about I tell you something less than charming about him to even it out? He has to sleep with a massive two-piece mouth-guard, specially fitted to his mouth from the doctor, to keep his jaw in-line to help keep him from snoring. Note that I said help, not keep him from snoring. He still snores. He also uses the snore strips, and lots of swift kicks in the shin from his wife. Either way, it’s not super sexy.

 

I said, “You know what I want? I want a bidet. It’s too hard to wipe right now and get everything.” Gross, I know. It’s not romantic, but when you have been together this long, and he’s sitting on the floor, holding my leg on his shoulder while I poop, the romance is that he’s holding my leg while I poop.

 

Oh! Didn’t I mention, because the stool kind of hurt my ankle, when he could, he’d rush into the bathroom, and hold my foot on his shoulder, regardless of what number I was doing. True love, folks. True love. Devotion, and true love. He’d sit there, even in the middle of the night, as he fell asleep against the wall, while I went to the bathroom, with my leg propped on his shoulder.

 

So, off he went to Home Depot to find a bidet attachment for our toilet. AND, a new toilet seat! When we moved into our house, our master bathroom (which is hideous!) had this weird toilet seat that was about 7/8 the size of the toilet, and slightly crooked. In my bathroom meltdown scene, I also asked for an appropriately-sized, non-crooked toilet seat.

I told you our bathroom was UGLY. This is the entire thing, too. A stall shower, with lemon-yellow tile. The best part is that someone actively chose this, RECENTLY! the tiles are in the basement. The man who owns this house is a single dude, who has no woman to stop him from making bad decisions, clearly. He didn’t replace things like the fixtures and the lighting, which I didn’t take photos of, but imagine 1965, and so old the aren’t even rated for ground fault. Oh, and the best part of the whole bathroom is that there was ONE towel hanger when we moved in. ONE. So, we had to hang a second one, right below it, so we could both have towels to shower with, hence the towel, hanging nearly to the floor, covering the toilet paper dispenser. I can’t reach the one that is above it, because it’s almost the height of the ceiling! This is the weirdest master bathroom that I’ve ever lived in, for sure!  P.S. I know that towel next to my husband’s sink looks dirty. It’s not. I swear. It’s stained. I used it to wipe of a charcoal mask…bad Rachel.  P.P.S. OH! I almost forgot, I am pretty sure the owner must be a smoker, but ONLY smoked in the bedroom, because no matter how many times we wash the walls, the bathroom walls “bleed.” it’s the only way I can describe it. An orange-ish, reddish dripping ick is always dripping down the walls. I’d say our house is haunted, but it’s only the bathroom, and it looks more like filth than anything else. It’s so gross. It seems like it’s something pulled from the paint, or under-layers of paint, when activated by steam, and it’s like old nicotine. It’s…just…gross. We’ve given up cleaning it up more than once a month or so, because it’s just impossible to keep up with!

I told you our bathroom was UGLY. This is the entire thing, too. A stall shower, with lemon-yellow tile. The best part is that someone actively chose this, RECENTLY! the tiles are in the basement. The man who owns this house is a single dude, who has no woman to stop him from making bad decisions, clearly. He didn’t replace things like the fixtures and the lighting, which I didn’t take photos of, but imagine 1965, and so old the aren’t even rated for ground fault. Oh, and the best part of the whole bathroom is that there was ONE towel hanger when we moved in. ONE. So, we had to hang a second one, right below it, so we could both have towels to shower with, hence the towel, hanging nearly to the floor, covering the toilet paper dispenser. I can’t reach the one that is above it, because it’s almost the height of the ceiling! This is the weirdest master bathroom that I’ve ever lived in, for sure!

P.S. I know that towel next to my husband’s sink looks dirty. It’s not. I swear. It’s stained. I used it to wipe of a charcoal mask…bad Rachel.

P.P.S. OH! I almost forgot, I am pretty sure the owner must be a smoker, but ONLY smoked in the bedroom, because no matter how many times we wash the walls, the bathroom walls “bleed.” it’s the only way I can describe it. An orange-ish, reddish dripping ick is always dripping down the walls. I’d say our house is haunted, but it’s only the bathroom, and it looks more like filth than anything else. It’s so gross. It seems like it’s something pulled from the paint, or under-layers of paint, when activated by steam, and it’s like old nicotine. It’s…just…gross. We’ve given up cleaning it up more than once a month or so, because it’s just impossible to keep up with!

 

Mr. Fix-It, fixed it. It has been more glorious than I can even imagine to sit on an appropriately-sized toilet seat. You sort of take those things for granted when they aren’t there!

 

But the bidet! I had read about these things, or seen them advertised, and thought that they seemed kind of neat, but not given them much thought until I was having trouble wiping. Yep, letting it all hang out, details-wise.

Nice and compact….hardly even notice it, and easy to reach, easy to use, and just plain awesome.

Nice and compact….hardly even notice it, and easy to reach, easy to use, and just plain awesome.

 

Oh, my Triscuits and Vegan Cheese! You’ve got to try this out!

I’m living in the south, once again - and once again, not by choice - thought I’d try out being colorful. Go get one. They are amazing! Ours pulls water right from the tank, so the water is cold, which let’s call “refreshing.” But, it has a few settings: some kind of misty shower setting and a more direct spray. You can also adjust the water pressure. Although, even at its fullest pressure, you aren’t going to be spitting it out of your mouth. Get it? It’s quite snazzy for something that went on in under an hour.

 

We learned pretty quickly that toilet paper isn’t enough to dry one’s tushie of the copious amounts of water that a bidet gets on your bootie. And, one of the great reasons to get one is to save a bit of toilet paper. I suggest investing in handful of towels that are expressly for bidet use. The fun part is choosing fun towel patterns that you know will be just for your butt. I found some really absorbent ones on Amazon that were inexpensive. And, they had pretty patterns, likely put on with super-toxic thread, or something terrible.  

The link for the product is here…they are awesome:  Poopie-Butt Towels

The link for the product is here…they are awesome: Poopie-Butt Towels

Since you’ll be drying, in theory, a clean behind, these should remain clean, and only have to be washed when you wash your towels, not creating a hindrance of laundry. It feels weird to share bidet towels, so Bryon and I each have our own. Collin’s on his own with his own bidet-less bathroom; but, since his bathroom looks like the Sunoco station when no one is on cleaning duty, I don’t feel one bit badly about that.

Towels on hooks for Bryon, Rachel and none for little Collin…oh well. if he’s dying to use it, he can. But, he never asks. The one time he did, we practically had to mop the bathroom afterward, as he sprayed the entire room. Not sure how little French kids get the hang of it. Didn’t Mark Twain say something about how bright the kids in France were, that even the little ones could speak French? Something like that is to be said about the bidet then too :)

Towels on hooks for Bryon, Rachel and none for little Collin…oh well. if he’s dying to use it, he can. But, he never asks. The one time he did, we practically had to mop the bathroom afterward, as he sprayed the entire room. Not sure how little French kids get the hang of it. Didn’t Mark Twain say something about how bright the kids in France were, that even the little ones could speak French? Something like that is to be said about the bidet then too :)

 

I’m not going to lie, we’ve each had an incident where we were sure we were all clean and shiny and when we went to pat dry…whoops! Needed to replace the towel. I’m nothing if not honest with you! And, we all know, especially my chronic pain warriors, that if we are on opiates for any length of time, that this thing is going to be a wondrously amazing gift! And…everybody poops! That’s why there are spare towels and detergent in this world. It all works out, “in the end.” Ba-dum-bum!

Because we rent, we obviously don’t put a lot of, or any, permanent, changes into a home, so we couldn’t do anything super spiffy. But, this works perfectly, and we get to take it with us when we leave! We take our shower heads with us too! Something about rentals screams shitty shower heads! Why? Why wouldn’t you put a decent shower head in a house? The kind that you can take down and do a decent spray and wash with? I will never understand this. The longer we are in, the more I look forward to our forever home…which I know is still many years out. Still, the list of things I imagine for it is expanding by the mile! Now, Bidet is added to that list..even if it’s tank attached.

How to Humiliate Yourself at a Tattoo Shop

I did this thing, on Saturday.

My new clover - because Crimson and Clover is my jam

My new clover - because Crimson and Clover is my jam

I’d been meaning to do it for a while. I’ve put it off more than once because it’s kind of a big step to get your first visible tattoo. I guess you can often see my back tattoo peeking out of my clothes, but I can’t see it. I can see my peacock one coming out of my dresses, but it’s barely. This was different.

 

It wouldn’t have been a story without it being embarrassing or weird in some way though, right?

 

My artist was super cool, chill and relaxed, which was awesome. And, I loved the shop I went to. So far, I have had an artist I really loved, a shop I really liked (mostly), and now both. Perfect. This place didn’t play super loud music, which was so nice. I know that makes me sound like a stick in the mud; but tattoo shops tend to have the music so loud that it’s almost painful. When you are sitting there for hours on end, and you can’t even have a conversation with the dude who is stabbing you in the body, it’s both awkward and physically uncomfortable. Plus, this place had private spaces, with doors! Doors to hide body parts! Once you’ve had your entire side exposed to third street in Redondo Beach, you’ll appreciate the small pleasure this affords the forty-year old woman who may not have anything to hide…but wants to.

 

I may have mentioned in the past, that I have a chronic illness, no? Haha, right? And, that when this illness flares, I still occasionally need to take opiate pain relievers? This is relatively rare, but when I do need to take them, it really messes with my digestive system, thanks to bile salt diarrhea, a side-effect from gall bladder surgery years ago. I have to take special medicine for that too, so that I don’t immediately expel everything I eat, within instants of eating it, directly through the back entrance. It’s such a joy. But, being overly blocked from opiates, and double-blocked from those meds is a recipe for disaster. Obviously, this is a delicate balance.

 

About two weeks ago, I had a headache. I don’t even remember how many, enough that I felt better over the course of the few days it lasted. It wasn’t a ton, but it wasn’t one or two. It always takes 2-3 days of a steady dose. All it takes is looking at them though, and I am backed up! Thankfully, my system was back on track without the assistance of any laxatives or intervention. UN-thankfully, it got back on track the day before my tattoo appointment, and it announced its reintroduction to the world with lots and lots of gas.

 

So. Much. Gas.

 

If there were appropriate words to describe this smell to you, I would. But, let’s just be accurate, and maybe that will be description enough. A person’s bowel hasn’t moved for two weeks. Nothing. Not a peep has been heard. Not even a little guy has sneaked past the gate. So, it’s two-week’s-worth of old food, and old stool that got caught up behind the guard; all of it has just been sitting there festering. That’s what it smells like. It’s not an eau du toilette.

 

I had to be there at 2 pm. By 2 pm, I’d lost about 8 lbs. and gone down a full pants size. No kidding. Does everyone’s belly stretch this much? I was hoping that I was “done,” by the time I got to the shop, and had done everything I could to assure it to be so, without “stopping” the whole process back up again. Balance, people. Balance! Soooo delicate!

 

I’d stopped eating by 10 am. I was barely drinking. By the way, this is excellent advice for getting a tattoo. Go in starving and dehydrated. You definitely won’t pass out. Totally ignore me. If this were my first tattoo, I would be a total idiot. Even for my fifth, I was a total idiot.

 

Anyway, I was doing fine. I was nearly finished, when we started chatting about what the rest of his day looked like. Apparently, they’d had a Halloween special, wherein he’d been doing black cats for $40. His whole day was little black cats. I thought it was cute. We’d had such a chill and cool session, he said he’d do one really quick, if I wanted.

 

Sure. Why not?

 

“Because, you are a ticking time bomb, woman!” says my belly.

 

So, my arm’s all done, and while he’s setting up for the cutest black cat ever, I swing by the bathroom to pee. I’m still feeling totally fine, but as soon as I made room for the gas to move down by emptying my bladder, apparently, all bets were off. I farted myself out of the bathroom, and hoped no one would go in after me. Yep, I stunk up the bathroom at the tattoo shop. How classy of me.

 

In my infinite wisdom, I’d chosen my thigh for my cat, and worn overalls to the shop. In my defense, I didn’t know I’d have to take them off, but I also could’ve chosen somewhere else for the cat. Still, the minute, and I do mean the instant I pulled them down and my artist got near my thigh, the world’s tiniest but stinkiest fart escaped. Don’t think I wasn’t trying so hard to hold it in that I was visibly sweating. To his credit, he pretended nothing happened, and I died on the floor.

 

If there’s a God, he decided that wasn’t enough torture for me. He felt that this was an amusing little play he’d created, and wanted to see it play out a little longer. So, while my ass was stuck in this dude’s face for the next half an hour, he forced my stomach to cramp, over and over again. My poor but cheeks worked harder than they’ve ever worked before. I felt horrible.

 

Literally. I was afraid I would die of holding it in. If ever there were a possibility of that happening, it was that day. And, I kept picturing the moment that I couldn’t hold it any longer, when it just burst out. The artist would be startled by the sonic boom, the lines would go crazy on my tattoo. He’d pass out and die from the stench. I’d die the thousand deaths of humiliation. We’d be found by housekeeping days later, the smell still lingering. The horror.

 

Then, it occurred to me: this dude’s face is so close to my ass right now that he can visibly see when I’m clenching, and when I’m relaxed. Please, oh please, let him think I’m clenching because he’s hurting me. Oh, the humiliation of that moment.

 

When it came time to pay, I texted Bryon about the tip he thought I should leave. I ended up tipping him almost 40%. I justified it because he was cool, did a good job, and I want to have a good artist to back to…and, because I farted in his face. Anyone’s face who I fart in, deserves a good tip. I think I’ll probably still go back to him next time. I figure the amazing tip will overshadow the fart memory, right?

 

How to Be a Shit Mom: Lesson 1

I keep forgetting to post about this insanely embarrassing, and ridiculously hilarious episode that happened, well, several weeks ago now. I’m always good for a humiliating tidbit, right? I’ve been lax on the blog of late. I’ll try harder!

My son, as we all know, has autism. This means that he relates to the world in a way that is different than you or I might. Like any other kid, just when you think you have something figured out about him though, he goes and pulls something out of his sleeve and says, “Just kidding! You know nothing! NOTHING!”

Oh, and also, it feels like Collin likes to add, with an imagined evil cackle, "You fools!" just to make us feel even less like we are on top of the whole master-of-anything parenting game. Autism has a way of making you, as a parent, feel like not only are you behind the 8-ball, but that you have no idea where the 8-ball is, that maybe there is no 8-ball, that maybe your child is playing pool, and you are playing shuffle board, or perhaps they ate the pool balls.

For example, a traditional trait of autism is that they tend see the world a very rule-based way. Of course, this doesn’t mean all people with autism do this, just that many do. Collin is very typical in this way, as far as this trait.

He tends to establish, and follow, literally thousands of seemingly arbitrary rules, especially ones that he makes up himself. Once we can figure out what rules he’s established for a situation, we can usually help work with whatever is happening in his head. Often, a seemingly confusing refusal to cooperate may be tied to a rule that he's established in his head that we just haven't figured out, or that he hasn't been able to communicate to us.

We can also usually help control undesirable behaviors, like elopement (a fancy word for running away, that is associated with autism) with rules, which his little brain very much wants to follow. It’s a perk that the autism gods give us parents, in exchange for life-long “tantrums,” affectionately called “melt-downs.”

Anyway, Collin loves climbing. He always has. When we lived in Alabama when Bryon did SOS, and Collin was about 15 months old, he was like a Spider Monkey, climbing to the top of the big kid play structures. I stopped caring about the eye rolls from the helicopter moms who thought I should keep him on the ground, which was impossible anyway. The kid was made of suction cup feet and Velcro hands. I don’t think I could’ve knocked him down if I tried. It would’ve been like peeling a price tag off a vase without Goo Gone.

We have a tree in our backyard that is very, for lack of a better word, branchy. It’s especially climb-worthy because we have shitty lawn maintenance service here at Tierra Vista properties. Well, that's not super clear. TVC has a lawn maintenance contract with an outside provider, that takes approximately 2-3 days to mow a set of lawns that could be mowed in one day; but for tree services, they rely on their regular crew, or on additional contracts, which means you have to call management and make a request.

We’ve had half a dozen trees fall this year, in our neighborhood, due to disease, and the maintenance crew that I spoke to about it was very alarmed when they finally came to check out our trees (after six calls to the management to force an inspection). His cries of protest to the management about needing to cut trees before they fall went on deaf ears, because in the management’s opinion, the cost/benefit analysis was simple: it’s cheaper to clean up the mess in the event of a maybe-fall, than to pay for the definite mess of a no-fall. Hmmm….Logic?

I digress.

Back to the branchy tree.

My branchy tree. The window it's up against is my bedroom window. I was clearly sound asleep! And, when I got outside, my son was ABOVE the roof! ABOVE the roof! I almost threw up when I saw him. He was in that bushy part at the top, nearly invisible.

My branchy tree. The window it's up against is my bedroom window. I was clearly sound asleep! And, when I got outside, my son was ABOVE the roof! ABOVE the roof! I almost threw up when I saw him. He was in that bushy part at the top, nearly invisible.

We have a very branchy tree, full of sucker growth. The maintenance manager recommended a serious trim, and said within several years, the tree would fall on the house, being pulled in too many directions. This is a super climb-worthy tree for a Spider Monkey. This means that we have had to establish some rules about how far a boy can climb, without supervision. Unfortunately, this is a vague thing to establish for a little boy, who despite a desire to follow rules, is also equally ruled by Mr. Hyde, who is encouraging him to just “do whatever he wants.” In this case, join Icarus near the sun. So, our rule: climb only to “here,” when we aren’t outside with you, was very easy to ignore, or in Collin’s words, “forget,” or "not understand," or "have a hard time seeing from the ground." 

I was asleep in the house because I’m a negligent mother and I don’t care about my child.

Wait, no. That’s not right.

I was asleep because I had a migraine and I wished for the sweet release of death that never comes with a migraine. I was dressed in footie pajamas, a robe, and two-day old, unwashed hair. I looked so, so pretty. Collin decided to go play in our backyard, and only our backyard, as when I’m not feeling well, he gets the tiny range of about ten feet from our house. Back to that “negligent parent” part, yes?

I don't generally care too much about what people think of what I'm wearing. Wednesday is Wonder Woman Wednesday, for example; I wore this same outfit yesterday to a neurologist's appointment. But, pj's to have my kid rescued from a tree was a little bit pushing the envelope of good decorum.

I don't generally care too much about what people think of what I'm wearing. Wednesday is Wonder Woman Wednesday, for example; I wore this same outfit yesterday to a neurologist's appointment. But, pj's to have my kid rescued from a tree was a little bit pushing the envelope of good decorum.

He’d asked if he was allowed to climb the tree, which happens to be directly outside my bedroom window, where I was lying down. This seems like a no-brainer permission, right? I told him he could go play, but to, of course, remember the rules about height.

“Of course, Mommy.” Famous last words.

An indistinct amount of time later, I hear my neighbor knocking on my back door, saying that the police are here and that my son is stuck in a tree.

Like a kitten.

The police.

What. The. Fuck.

So, I scramble outside. In my pajamas. Normally, I don’t care about that so much. I've watered plants in my jammies, gotten the mail, read a book on my patio. Whatever. But this felt a little different. Right now, I’m scrambling outside in my pajamas to greet a policeman, who is rescuing my feral child, from a tree. I was, a bit, well, embarrassed. I felt like I should have complimented my ensemble with a Coors Light and maybe a Parliament.

The very next day. Showered. Wet hair, but nonetheless, still clean and dressed. Just in case the cop who helped me sees this. See! I do get dressed....sometimes! I swear!

The very next day. Showered. Wet hair, but nonetheless, still clean and dressed. Just in case the cop who helped me sees this. See! I do get dressed....sometimes! I swear!

After some explanations to the police about why I was in pajamas, given with some nervous laughter, and, spoken over my child, who explained that he’d been yelling for me for “a while” (shut up, Collin! Seriously!), we determined that we needed a ladder to retrieve him. The policeman and I carried my ladder from the garage, rescued my child, and we sheepishly went into the house. The "rescue" part is anticlimactic. Sorry.

And that, my friends, is why Collin is not allowed to climb trees anymore.

New Rule.

So, that is how you embarrass yourself in front of your neighborhood, and how you teach your son not to reach too far beyond his station, all the same time.

Whoever Smelt It Dealt It

When I am having a bad day, it’s easy to have a lazy day. It’s easy to fall into the trap of the black hole of the Internet, and read non-important stuff. Like this amazing article about a sweet couple who shared a fart-secret for twenty-five years.

But, it reminded me of a similar story that happened to me, that I thought would be fun to share with my loyal readers and friends, and remind us all that we are equal in the eyes of the gastrointestinal gods. Folks, we all fart. They all stink. And, it’s okay.

Years ago, before I had my amazing husband, I had a pretty decent boyfriend. We were together many years, and I was happy. I wasn’t a great girlfriend because I was pretty immature, and despite being a nice girl, I didn’t know how to be a true partner to someone else. I was needy and lonely, and living in an abusive family, and I didn’t know how to be myself yet. In short, I was twenty.

But, on one of our early dates, we went to a carnival at, what I think, was my sister’s junior high, but I might be mis-remembering the location. All I know was that there was one of those blow-up bouncy castles near some of the games. I distinctly remember the motor, and the humming sound. Thank god for the humming sound, because it was gloriously loud enough to muffle the indigestion.

As my tummy rumbled, and I strained like the dickens to hold back the deluge of gas that was pressing at the gates. I knew it was going to be a losing battle; so, I let those babies rip, and prayed that the ensuing explosion would be both silent and scentless. It was neither. I could feel the rattle, and I’m surprised the energy didn’t propel me across the room. But, that fantastic bounce-house motor masked the rumble.

I had a preschool teacher once, who let some gas go, when she thought we were all settled down at nap-time. Not a rule-follower, I was wide awake, of course, and I’d rolled over and saw her do the walk-and-fart, as she passed by my cot. The image of her linen pants, literally bubbling up around her behind, which was lined up with my eye-level is burned in my memory. It’s always made me wonder how many people are keyed into my butt, not because of my glorious ass, but because I might have had cheese that day. I always think of her when I fart in public, and I’m sure I did then, because I wonder if someone “noticed” the bumpy pants. I’m sure that day was like a pants bubble explosion.

The relief that the sound was masked was only momentary, because the smell only took seconds to waft across the entire area. People in a ten-foot radius were looking at one another, and might as well have been screaming, “Gas! Gas! Gas!” This wasn’t a mere fart. People were mumbling to one another about food spoilage at the cafeteria window. Someone in a line two stalls over said something about the smell. It. Was. Bad.

I was mortified.

Did this new man of mine know?

I looked over, and he said, “I think that bounce-house motor is malfunctioning. What do you think? It smells weird.”

“Yeah. I think so too.” If I could whistle, which I can’t, I’d have done that slick thing that you do when you whistle like you’re getting away with something. But, then again, my boyfriend thought my ass smelled like a malfunctioning motor. Strangers, twenty-feet away thought it.

Then, once it had been said aloud, the discussion spread. It wasn’t just him and I that agreed the motor was malfunctioning, the people behind us in line agreed. Then, the people behind them agreed, and so on. Soon, it was an assertion. Thereafter, the people working the bounce-house were checking the motor.

And, why wouldn’t they check the motor? Whatever was causing my gas wasn’t clearing up with one breaking of wind. I was tooting away to my heart’s content, now that I had a cover-story, which certainly wasn’t improving the smell. Alas, there was nothing wrong with the motor, which shocked them, as the smell was pretty rancid for a functioning motor. Hmm, what could it be, then?

Whelp, we’d better go home, I thought. My cover’s about to be blown. So, we did. I didn’t want to hang out at a sketchy junior high fair with a bounce-house that may or may not be functioning properly, with a motor that may or may not blow at any time. My only concern now was making it home without farting in the car, and leaving the same, identifying smell behind me. Just twenty more minutes or so, and I was home-free.

Ah, fart-lies, the basis of any good relationship.

Not to worry, I told him later, and he thought it was one of the funniest things he ever heard. A girl’s fart that was so bad that it cleared a junior high gym? Not too shabby, really. It’s a damn good story for the books, if you ask me. I’ve not had one like that in years. Maybe it’s the plant-based diet now that makes for less stank?

Lessons From This Flare

Chronic illness comes with random “rewards” and things you don’t really think of. There’s lots of bits and bobs that you don’t imagine, that become a really big part of your life, when being sick becomes the biggest part of your life. Here’s a few silly little bits that I’ve noticed in the last few days.

“Random” Increases in the Credit Card Bill - During a Flare

When I have a pain flare, that crashes me in bed, or on the couch, I live in the world vicariously through Amazon, Anthropologie and Ulta (primarily, but not exclusively, of course). In other words, I imagine what I would wear, how I would wear my makeup, what fancy soap I might wash with, if I showered, and what I might read or do, if I moved more than a centimeter. I don’t actually use any of these items for weeks beyond the flare, but I damn well buy them, in anticipation.  

Most recently, I bought this thing. It’s a bit out of my comfort zone, but I’ve wanted to dare a wrap/kimono/poncho-type sweater thing for a while. I’ve given up on the idea that I’m too short, or too anything to wear clothes I’ve longed to wear. I’ve been watching the sales for one, and poof, finally hit a good one, at the right time. You always know you are getting something good when the model looks ambivalent, or even annoyed to be wearing the product. Bryon loves my sales-watching. It got me a $499 coat this year for Christmas for less than $150. I wouldn’t be able to dress the way I do without hawk-eyed sale-watching. The Anthropologie sale rack and I are very well-acquainted.

Photo is a screenshot courtesy of Antrho. Obviously, I didn't take that. I won't be that tall. But, i can wear boots like that. And, I can un-comb my hair.

Photo is a screenshot courtesy of Antrho. Obviously, I didn't take that. I won't be that tall. But, i can wear boots like that. And, I can un-comb my hair.

Thank goodness for a husband who tolerates my habit of pretending to be normal when I’m sick, and therefore spending very non-pretend money on presents for myself. When I’m not in a flare, I spend like a normal person; actually, I spend less, so it averages out.  They should make a rewards card that doubles points when you spend insane amounts, all at once, and then zero amounts later. In other words, I want rewards for being me, because I’m special. I’m a snowflake, dammit.

I was looking for a cute picture of a snowflake, and the Google machine gave me this. I couldn't resist.

I was looking for a cute picture of a snowflake, and the Google machine gave me this. I couldn't resist.

I guess I’ll have to make do with the Ulta rewards I’ve earned, so far, this year. I’m saving it for my next flare, so I can go bananas on randomly colored eye-liner that I’m only just getting brave enough to wear beyond the boundaries of my hallway.

The Appointment Line

The military health system is take-the-good-with-the bad.

And then you have....Tricare? Doesn't have a good ring.

And then you have....Tricare? Doesn't have a good ring.

We don’t have to worry about the ACA being repealed because the Cheeto-Elect hasn’t written a policy that covers self-tanner, prostitutes, golden showers and syphilis-prevention, but not abortions, or birth control, because damn, that’s amoral! Who am I kidding? He can’t write! But seriously, I'm so grateful for military healthcare, because we don't have to worry about it.

Anyway, the worst part, and I kid you not, this truly is the worst part of Tricare (at the moment), so I have nothing to really complain about, is that Tricare thinks it saves money to remind patients that they have pending referrals. An automated line calls you every three days with a recorded message, telling you that “the patient born on XX/XX/XXXX has an active referral and should make an appointment.” Because I have approximately a million specialists and two million referrals, I get calls every day (because they are staggered). Because Collin has approximately half a million specialists, he gets calls every other day. Ironically, their efficient system has no stop-gap measure to notify itself that the appointments have been made. It’s a very specific type of persistent telemarketer.

Guilt Over Random and Specific Things

I watched an interview with a millennial star, a young Justin Bieber-ish-Clone (I’m so old!) who thinks they are the shit because they do movies, make music, and are also trying to change the world, one Tweet at a time. He made me feel terrible because he talked primarily about how if we all just stopped using straws, we could eliminate some staggering amount of garbage, in landfills, every year.

The specificity that it was straws made me feel like the shittiest person in the world because, well, I use a lot of straws. Tilting my head backward, to drink hurts. “Oh, but Rachel,” you say, “you have an excuse, it’s okay.” But, do I? I feel like when we know we could do something in a gentler way, none of us has an excuse to do something in the worst way. That goes for anything from using too much trash, to simply being nicer to one another. Open a door, hand a pan-handler your change, thank your waitress, be kind.

With a severe lack of appetite, I barely eat as it is, so I drink a lot of smoothies. Know what doesn’t go down a regular straw very well? Smoothies. Bryon found these amazing, massive, use-extra-plastic smoothie straws! They are even more wasteful, but also even more awesome. The whole idea is so plaguing to me, I think of it all the time. So, I wash straws and reuse them for days.

What’s my point? When you are sick and have a lot of time on your hands, you both have the time and the energy to wash straws, and to care about washing them. You become vexed by stupid stuff, and then wondering if it isn’t stupid after all; in the long run, it’s the small stuff that adds up to changing the world. Damn straws!

While writing this, to add some links though, I found these. Stainless steel, reusable straws. Guess whose Amazon Prime account got some more activity today?

Bryon is very excited about something else we get to hand-wash with a special brush. It recalls us to the days of Doc Browns baby bottles with the countless pieces and the itty-bitty brush. Shudder.

Bryon is very excited about something else we get to hand-wash with a special brush. It recalls us to the days of Doc Browns baby bottles with the countless pieces and the itty-bitty brush. Shudder.

Yep, got some. I even got some smoothie-sized ones.

Apparently, the no-straw thing is a big deal for the National Park Service, too. I always knew it was a no-straw zone, but learning more every day. Phew, you learn a lot when you’ve got time to care about things like straws. See, what I mean. Being sick comes with both, for lack of a better word, punishments, and perks.

Other Random, Disconnected Sick People “Perks” From This Flare

  • Sun Glare on the TV, but you can’t move because of pain, to either shut the drapes, or change angles. Alas, until the sun reaches its peak, half the television might as well be in shadow. Such a “first-world,” problem, a term I hate. A problem is a problem.  

 

  • I found a new perfume that I love from free-with-purchase Ulta samples. Taking “French” showers because both I stink, and my pajamas stink from lack of showering helps force you into the sample bags. Daisy, by Marc Jacobs. If you are curious, it doesn’t smell good when your son uses all of your samples, all at once, several sprays each. He did it about five days ago, and the bathroom still stinks. What’s the problem here? Daisy was over $80. It was a better deal to buy the gift set. Oh well, another present for me! I’m too old for drugstore perfume, right?

 

  • Running out Netflix shows. Theoretically, this is impossible; but, the reality is that indecisiveness is the actual problem, so I scroll, and scroll, until exhausted, I just stop on the first thing I see. Did you know that there is a whole section devoted to weird sex habits of the English? I didn’t. It was an accidental discovery on an incredibly misleading title. Now, Netflix thinks I’m a pervert, with a very specific interest in the sex lives of middle-aged Brits.

 

  • I’m home so often, that I can distinctly tell when someone has made a home, or auto-improvement that is “noisy.” For example, the mini-van down the street, has installed a very loud, and very piercing backup beeper, just in case its ever involved in a, well, there’s no way to finish that sentence logically. It’s a MINI-van. It doesn’t need a backup beeper. That’s insane. This is how I imagine the conversation about getting it installed going:

 

Female of Household: There’s lots of kids in this neighborhood, dear. I think a beeper would be a good idea.
Male of Household: Don’t you think it’s overkill?
Female: No...because....
Male (knowing he’ll lose anyway): Yes, dear
  • I’ve learned that Loki truly does like to lick your face. And your hands. And your eyes. And, he thinks he can fit his head in your mouth. To what end, I have no idea, but he’s determined to do it, every time I yawn, which with muscle spasms, happens a lot. I’m not sure what he hopes to find in there, but he’s a black cat, so maybe he’s looking for his soul. I should clarify that it’s really only my face, hands and eyes he’s interested in. We’ve bonded, which I can’t say that I hate. I love those darn animals, except that he likes to do his soul-searching at 4 am.
Ugh. I'm smitten. He can do whatever he wants and I forgive him. Look at that little widdle face.

Ugh. I'm smitten. He can do whatever he wants and I forgive him. Look at that little widdle face.

  • My pajama radius has expanded to, pretty much, anywhere. And, it doesn’t matter what kind of pajamas I’m wearing. I used to put sweat pants on, if I were getting in the car, leaving the house, letting the dog out, or getting the mail. Now, I don’t care. I drive Collin to and from school in footie pajamas and a robe. I stand on my patio that way with Daphne. This flare broke me for good. Considering lots of my pajamas have hoods and tails, because they are adorable, you’ve got to be pretty confident in your game to let that radius expand. “Why yes kindly neighbor, I am wearing a kitty tail. What of it?” My radius is only getting bigger. For “How I Met Your Mother Fans,” I’m thinking this is similar to the underpants radius rules, which still stand firm, for me, at shower to closet.
Urban dictionary , keeping all of us old people from sounding like fuddy-duddies with the youths.

Urban dictionary, keeping all of us old people from sounding like fuddy-duddies with the youths.