Adventures In Parenting: (Another) One I Never Saw Coming

A couple of months ago, while reading Allen Shawn's (excellent) book Wish I Could Be There: Notes From a Phobic Life, I came across this quote about parenting: "...I do know that dealing with growing children is like being in a batting cage with ball after ball being thrown at you. You hit the balls you can. Amazingly, the score gets kept for a very long time."


I get that--maybe a little too well. Sometimes it seems like not only is there ball after ball coming at me, but that most of them are curveballs or spitballs or...or...Well, you get the point.


The latest curveball is pretty minor league in the grander scheme of things (recent events in our extended family have taught me nothing if not to be grateful for the petty little parenting disasters I daily face), but I feel like a major league idiot for not seeing it coming.


Son-One has really been blossoming lately--he's been to more parties and events in the past month than in practically his entire four years of high school combined. He even went to the prom--which may not seem miraculous to anyone who doesn't know just how much Son-One takes after his social caterpillar mother, but trust me, it's miraculous, not loaves and fishes miraculous, but maybe the Red Sox finally winning the series miraculous. Maybe it's been brought on by the fact that he's suddenly realized that he's graduating soon and this will be his last opportunity to really spend some time with some of his classmates.

All good except when one of the classmates he wants to spend time with turns out to be Son-Two's ex girlfriend. (Yes, Son-Two snagged an older woman or, more accurately, she snagged him.)

Friday evening, Son-One told me he wanted to go camping Saturday night with AC, otherwise known as Son-Two's ex-girlfriend. Son-Two and AC were pretty serious, for the high school level, dating a good portion of Son-Two's sophomore and AC's junior year. They broke up, sort of messily, in February 2006. They maintained an on-again, off-again, just friends kind of thing--the kind of thing that's enough to give a mom heartburn trying to fight off the growing certainty that her son's feelings are being toyed with, intentionally or not.


In February or early March of this year, Son-Two started seeing a new girl, AW, right around the time that AC started cropping up more and more often in Son-One's conversation. Right around that time, Son-One came home one or two afternoons with AC's name (written in pen in her handwriting) on his arm. I raised an eyebrow but didn't say a word and I hadn't heard much mention of her since.

Until Friday. And he wants to go camping. With his brother's ex-girlfriend and his friend G and his girlfriend (who is friends with AC) and maybe a couple of other people and AC's parents will probably be there.

I can't help myself, I say it: "Are you planning on making out with your brother's ex-girlfriend?"

He looks a little sheepish--as though the thought has maybe occurred to him--and then assures me, "That would be too weird." He assures me it's a strictly friends kind of thing.

On Saturday, as the countdown for the trip begins, Son-One is rushing around the house gathering things and Son-Two shouts from the computer room, "Son-One's going camping?! Who's he going camping with?"

I look at Son-One, "You didn't tell him? You better get in there and tell him. I thought he already knew. I'm not telling him."

The telling was uneventful and Son-One came out with a Mom-you're-so-immature expression on his face and said, "Mom, I've known AC since we were in elementary school." What he meant, as was evident in his tone, was, "Duh! We're sophisticated high school seniors with a deep and meaningful friendship that we wouldn't taint by making out."

Apparently, the fact that his kid brother got there first means nothing, but the fact that he shared a cubby in kindergarten with the girl makes all the difference in the world.

Perfect Post For May: Getting Gotten

The characters in Which Brings Me To You* by Steve Almond and Julia Baggott discuss the importance and rarity of being truly understood. Jane writes to John: "I'm not afraid that I can't give love, fully, doors swung wide open. I'm afraid that I will not be really and truly, deeply understood...Aren't our souls--again, I apologize, but I don't have a better term--listing toward some kind of benediction, and what better benediction than love? And not some generic version of love store-bought in cans like those novelty gifts of Florida sunshine, maybe not love at all but just understanding--which the world rations and hoards."

Being understood at the deepest level is one of those feelings that can be tremendously comforting or tremendously terrifying, depending on your level of comfort with yourself at the moment. Like most of us (I hope), I've spent some time thinking about the people who "get" me and the people who just don't get me at all. (Not to mention the people I get and the people I will just never get no matter what.) Sometimes when I'm whining about how so-and-so just doesn't understand me or know me at all, it hits me that I've been instrumental in that person's failure to get to know me on a deeper level. We hide so much, even (maybe especially) in our closest relationships. Being understood is something I alternately crave deeply and fear even more deeply.

Nita over at Advanced Maternal Age has a husband, Bear, who "gets" her, at least part of the time, and in her post "the best Mother's Day present ever," what Bear gets about her involves books thus appealing both to the married-damn-near-twenty-years side of me and to the nose-stuck-so-deep-in-a-book-I-can't-see-daylight-side-of-me.

For a double-play of perfection, here's my button:


And, Nita, it's all yours.

Other winners at Suburban Turmoil and Petroville.

*Highly recommended, by the way.

Blog of Dreams?

A voice came to me in the night--it was just like Field of Dreams, without any of those pesky promises:

If you write it, they may or may not come--they might be busy or find you boring or their Internet access may be patchy at best. But if you do NOT write it, they definitely will not come.

This Is Your Brain. This Is Your Brain On Mother's Day.

Mid-way through Mother's Day Week, Masked Mom to customer on phone:

"Go ahead with your credit nard cumber."

Now I ask you, would you trust this person with your mother's flowers let alone your credit nard cumber?

Perfect Post for April

Sometimes the reason a post is perfect is as simple as it being something you could've written yourself. That's the case with this month's post "What Are You Afraid Of?" by Kenna Fearing over at Fear Not: On Company Time.

So, for saying so many things out loud that I've only said in my own little head, here's my button:



And, Kenna, it's all yours.

Other winners at Suburban Turmoil and Petroville.

Let's Make a Deal: An Open Letter to the Universe

Dear Universe:

If you will only let me win the lottery--and I don't even need the BIG, GRAND PRIZE jackpot, first or even second place would be just fine and would solve so many problems--I promise I will give generously to reputable charities and that I will do so anonymously because my goal wouldn't be gratitude and glory but to give back.

I promise I would spend the rest wisely--not go out and purchase five or six luxury SUVs or wall-sized big-screen TVs and I wouldn't buy fancy shoes and jewelry and go on trips around the world. No, I would purchase a modest house--not build one, thereby using fewer of our dwindling natural resources and I would set up trust funds for my kids' college. Hell, I wouldn't even quit my sorry ass job--at least not right away. Cranky Boss Lady needs me, after all and, though I often dread going there, I know in my heart that if I didn't have somewhere I had to be, I might never get out of bed except to move to the couch where I would spend the entire day, except for forays into the kitchen and the bathroom, which I would literally have to talk myself into.

In short, Universe, I would be the most responsible, mature lottery winner of all time. And while I know that money doesn't solve all problems, I do firmly believe that some of the problems we have would be easier to solve if there were just enough money so that we could stop worrying about money and spend more time and energy on the other problems that need solving. And I would, Universe, I so would--I'd be the Superhero of Non-monetary Problem-Solving. You've never seen anything like it, Universe.

And, yes, Universe, I know (perhaps too well) how pathetic it is that playing the lottery is currently my only financial strategy, but for a variety of reasons, it's all we've got at the moment. So could you please add that in to your calculations as well?

Thanks,
Masked Mom

Driving While Under The Influence (of Flatulence)

So I pick up the boys after their tennis match last night and I have to run in the store on the way home. As I am purchasing nutritious and inexpensive sustenance for these ungrateful brats, they are, um passing gas, breaking wind, whatever euphemism you want to use for filling my car with practically visible gaseous fumes. Apparently, they had stopped for burgers on the way home at a little burger stand a few miles from town. (As Son-Three said, to his own great amusement, "Now I know why they call it Rockburger.")

Seriously the smell was a wall that I had to push past to take the driver's seat. None of them had even opened a window, which I immediately did, gagging all the while. Nothing entertains them more than knowing they can make Mom puke. I'm backing out, still gagging when Son-Three says, "Mom do you think you should drive under the influence of flatulence?"

Between gags, I can't help laughing a little which only makes me gag more, making them laugh more. Then Son-Two says, accusingly, "Mom you told me 'flatulation' wasn't a word," reminding me of a conversation we'd had on the subject several months ago. (It's a running theme. Of course it is.)

I say, "Actually, when we talked about it before, I thought you were saying 'flagellation,' which is punishment, usually self-punishment, usually as a penance or in some other religious context. But I guess flatulation could be punishing someone else with your flatulence."

Sometimes it's so cerebral and intellectual around here I can barely stand it.

Random Cuteness

Other Kid, the little boy we used to babysit, is not so little anymore. He's a five year old in size 5 shoes and size 7 jeans--at five, he's only a few inches shorter than 12-year-old Daughter-Only. Even though he's not here forty-plus hours a week anymore, I still see him fairly regularly and still somehow am stunned by how quickly he's growing up.

In keeping with his size, age, and gender he works at being mini-macho and usually is too grown up to have his hand held by an actual grown up in public. He made an exception during a visit this afternoon while he and I were out for a walk. He was balancing on a curb and grabbed my hand to steady himself. Once he'd returned to the regular sidewalk, he didn't immediately let go of my hand. We walked along for another twenty feet or so, hand-in-hand.

Then Other Kid said, in a very matter-of-fact tone, "Let's not hold hands anymore. Someone might freak out if they see us. They might think we're married."

Virginia Tech

Greater minds than mine will probably have much more profound wisdom to offer on this subject, but here I am to try anyway.

First, of course, my heart goes out to all the friends and families whose lives have been touched and forever changed by this horrific event. It seems silly and inadequate to say so but it's sincere and really all any of us can offer at the moment.

Second, I had to stop watching the coverage last night because of the way the media is attacking the decisions of the university police--were the proper steps taken, was notification made in a timely fashion, etc, etc. I would be the absolute last person to say we should assume that people in power have done the best they can do and are always operating in our best interests--I know for a fact that that's often not the case. Furthermore, I believe it is not only our right as Americans, but our responsibility to question and even scrutinize the actions of the people in charge of protecting us. And if those people have failed through incompetence or deliberate negligence, I would be the first to say they should be held accountable.

But here's the thing: in this case, first and foremost, not all the information is available yet. There are facts that haven't yet been released that may play a part in our understanding of the decisions made by the campus police. They have stated that they thought the original shooting was an isolated "domestic situation" and that there was no threat posed to anyone else on campus. We now know that that wasn't the case, so it seems obvious to all of us in hindsight, after the fact, that they should've done more to stop additional violence. We know it happened, we make all our judgments based on the fact that it was going to happen. But the officers in charge didn't have this additional information--they had only what they had before them to make decisions about what steps to take.

When something as senseless and huge as this happens, it's only natural to want to make sense of it--to point fingers and assign blame. If we can figure out whose fault it is (besides the obvious choice of the shooter who apparently removed himself from the equation), perhaps we can keep it from happening again. It is much more comforting to assume incompetence or negligence on the part of campus security than to assume that a determined and disturbed individual will sometimes be capable of wreaking havoc no matter what defenses we engineer.

Perfect Post For March

For a long time, I've had a theory about regret--it's pointless. First because you can't change the past (you can't do or undo or do differently anything you've done or failed to do in the past) and, second because even if you could change the past, to do so would put everything in your present at risk. I believe strongly that our present is built of all the tiny moments that came before it and to change one moment might change everything--including all the things you wouldn't trade for anything.

The problem with theories is that they're so theoretical and when you're living life, especially as a parent with all the second-guessing that comes with the territory, regret is inevitable, it's an emotional reflex--and theories tend to fall a little flat in the face of all that reality.

Some days the gap between what I meant to do (and who I meant to be) and what I've actually managed to do seems like an unbridgeable chasm that stands between me and whatever possibilities are out there in my future. As miserable as it is to look around your life and feel that you've blown a million chances to do things better, faster, stronger, and just plain righter--to make all the "right" choices so that all the people counting on you could suffer a little less--there is some comfort to be found in knowing that we all face those feelings of failure.

Jules over at Dirty Feet and Lilywhite Intentions reminded me of that in her post "intentions fall to the floor." In just one short paragraph (and a few spare sentences), she cuts right to the heart of that sick feeling I've had in the pit of my stomach more and more often these days.

So for saying so much in so few words, here's my button:




And Jules, it's all yours.

Browse other winners from this month at Suburban Turmoil or Petroville. MommaK has set up a library of past winners so you can see a full year's worth of awards (and counting).

Considerable Redness and Swelling...*

I have delivered flower arrangements for eight years and during that time have encountered a number of hazardous conditions--icy steps, snarling dogs, knee-deep mud pits people pretend are driveways, half-naked old ladies (no lie, once we called to let this woman know that we would be there in half an hour to deliver a plant we had repotted for her and the seventy-three year old woman came to the door in just a T-shirt and panties (bringing "granny panties" to a whole new level). Worse, the door was at the bottom of a set of stairs that led into the kitchen and as she was too frail to carry the gigantic plant, I had no choice but to follow her up the steps with her jiggly, saggy, old-lady butt right in my face.), not to mention various hazards in funeral homes including wheeled casket stands that someone has forgotten to lock so when you go to put the casket spray on the whole thing lurches back and forth and you have a moment of panic in which you're absolutely certain that you're going to spill the dead guy and how the hell are you going to explain that one to your boss, the family of the dead guy and the already grumpy funeral home director.**

Despite all these hazards (for which, incidentally, I think I should get hazard pay, but of course I do not), I have only ever seriously injured myself once while on deliveries--the day I totaled Cranky Boss Lady's car (because, of course, nothing bad would happen to the shop van, it would happen to be the day the van was at the mechanic's getting new tires and I was driving CBL's personal vehicle, a fuschia Ford Escort, which I just don't think was a coincidence) until Wednesday.

Wednesday I was delivering to another little old lady--a great customer, who has money to blow and regularly does so at our shop. She's housebound though so we take everything to her. She has a little set of six or eight stairs leading up from her garage to her kitchen. I've probably been up and down those stairs a thousand times. On this particular day alone, I'd been up and down them four times. I had brought in all the spring wreaths and wicker baskets that she'd ordered and was getting ready to leave when she asked if she could see the arrangement she was sending to someone else. No problem, right?

I went out to get it--an artificial arrangement in a little metal airplane done in patriotic colors for a guy who just had surgery to fix a deviated septum-- and brought it up to her. She was delighted with it and I turned to leave with the arrangement in my hands and promptly stumbled at the top of the stairs--or more accurately stumbled all the way down the stairs, almost but not quite regaining my balance several times before falling forward at the bottom of the last step and landing on my face on the concrete garage floor.

I never let go of the arrangement! I skidded on my face because I was so intent on not dropping the arrangement. (Save the arrangement, save the world?) It hit me that every time I've started to slip on an icy sidewalk, I have held whatever arrangement I was carrying up in the air to protect it to the best of my ability--the same way I would hold a child I was carrying. Gosh, that's just sad.

Sadder yet is my face today--two days later the bruising is still coming to the surface, the swelling is settling and shifting, the brush burns are an icky brown color that looks like it's oozing even when it's not. As an added bonus, I'm sore everywhere--Hubby and I have been debating whether it's the landing or the trying to catch yourself that does that to every muscle in your body, but whatever side of the debate you come down on, you still can't get off the couch without creaking and groaning and whining and moaning.

I need a raise.

*In case no one else is as much of a geek as me: "considerable redness and swelling" is from the Dr. Scholl's Gel Inserts commercial. One of those "I'm gellin'" asinine commercials. This one the guy's "not yellin' even though there's considerable redness and swellin'" from some dippy waitress who spilled hot coffee on his leg.

**Granted, this only happened once, but one "I almost spilled the dead guy!" is enough.

Tune In Next Time When I Make Ronald McDonald Bawl Like A Baby...

I've been at the parenting thing for almost nineteen years now--you'd think by now they couldn't surprise me anymore, but somehow at the least expected moments, in the least expected places, they can still leave me speechless (snorting with hysterical laughter, but speechless).

The Scene: KFC drive-thru

Staticky Disembodied Voice: Welcome to KFC, can I take your order?

Masked Mom: Yes, I'd like a twelve piece bucket, please.

SDV: Would like you original recipe or extra crispy?

MM: Extra crispy, please.

SDV: (silence)

Son-Two (from the backseat with deadpan sincerity): Mom, do you think the Colonel's disappointed that you're not ordering original recipe?

Nose-Worm Update!!!!

(Masked Mom's Media Monday is on hiatus--but don't cry too hard. It will return with more pithy and pointless commentary as soon as things settle down a little around here.)

When last we saw the ...and-then-it-moved! nose-worm, it was at the hospital lab in a yogurt cup. The small-town hospital had no luck identifying it except to say that it wasn't a "common maggot."*

So off the little bugger (booger? bogger bugger?) went to Penn State where university minds went at it--and determined it was a carpet beetle larva. Apparently, little larva craweld up father-in-law's nostril while father-in-law slept.

The (almost) good news? It can't have been up there long because it was too "well-fed."

Yum.

*Actually this was originally reported to me as "human" maggot. I'm taking some liberty in assuming that someone somewhere lost something in the translation and that "common" is close enough to "human" to count but makes a whole lot more sense. Nevertheless, I'm afraid visions of a "human maggot" will be wriggling in my head all night.

The Odyssey

Over the weekend, Son-Two participated in his fifth Odyssey of the Mind competition. He's been an avid OMer since seventh grade--almost always on the "structure" team, whose goal is to produce a balsa wood structure (to specific criteria--criteria different and a little more difficult each year) capable of holding more weight than the next team's. This was no problem at this year's regional competition (which blessedly has been held in our own school for the past two years), since there was no other structure team in his division. They were guaranteed a place at the State competition just by virtue of showing up.

The guaranteed spot did nothing to dissuade any of the team from staying at school until nine or ten each night last week, putting the finishing touches on the structure as well as polishing their skit (another requirement). This year's skit had to include a "special effect." Son-Two's team chose to make one of the girls on the team disappear in a box created from plans they found on the Internet. The night before the competition, Son-Two was pretty sure the box was going to collapse on stage and humiliate them all. Instead, it worked perfectly--so perfectly in fact that the small crowd gasped and Son-Two's team was approached all afternoon by perfect strangers wanting to know how they'd done it.

Despite gasp-inspiring special effects, OM isn't really audience-friendly. The individual performances/tests are held in small classrooms throughout whatever school the competition's being held in--there is little or no seating and, in fact, even standing room is at a premium. The other part of the competition is "spontaneous" in which only the members of the team can even enter the room with the judges. After a (long) break for lunch, there is usually some sort of "entertainment" while the judges tabulate their scores and then there are the awards. There are often gaps of several hours between the different "events." Gaps spent aimlessly wandering the halls, an activity which I got plenty of in my own high school years, thanks very much.

The second or third year Son-Two was in OM, Daughter-Only was begging me for weeks before the competition to go along. I kept telling her she would be bored and that I didn't think it was a good idea. She kept begging and then she put together a six page packet explaining in words and pictures why it was so important to her to go. All incredibly well thought out and convincing. My favorite part, though, was when, in her opening paragraph, she referred to OM as Oblivion Minds. She was only eight or so at the time and I suppose it's just as impressive that she knew (and could spell) the word Oblivion as it would've been had she actually gotten it right.

I let her go and I can't help thinking it's significant that she hasn't asked to go again. I haven't gone the past two years either. Son-Two seems genuinely not to care whether I'm there or not--he's so over his mother showing up places...not to mention he'd barely get to see me anyway.

I'm kind of sorry I missed it this year, though. The marching band, who was in charge of the concession stand, burned some popcorn, setting off the smoke alarms and causing the building to be temporarily evacuated. I always miss the good stuff.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Daylight Saving Time

The negatives of Daylight Saving have been enumerated elsewhere (including by Masked Mom herself), but what I've yet to see articulated in any convincing fashion were the "positives" of Daylight Saving. That's probably because there are no positives or the ones that do exist aren't concrete or provable.

This year's Daylight Saving adjustment is all the more annoying and pointless because it's happening three weeks early, a change for which there are the same vague (and unsupported) explanations as for Daylight Saving in general. (And including the three-weeks early change in a bill called the Energy Policy Act of 2005 does nothing to convince me that it's going to have a provable positive effect...)

A friend and I were talking about the fact that having it come three weeks earlier is going to be a huge pain in the ass for computers and computer programs--not so much for us at home but for people in companies with more sophisticated programs that are auto-set to change the first weekend in April. At home, it's a matter of manually changing the computer clock twice--once this weekend and once again when it springs ahead all by itself, completely unaware of the Energy Policy Act of 2005, which I still see as kind of a pain in the ass especially since (again) there is no logical proven purpose to it.

Way worse than resetting the clocks on my computer and around the house is trying to recalibrate my internal clock--not to mention recalibrating my kids' internal clocks, which are always running behind in any case. Daughter-Only "forgot" to reset her clock last night and has to go in late to school today--don't worry I didn't fall for it--especially since their father calls all of them as a back up to their alarms (which "fail" regularly)--but she's late nonetheless since the argument we had over whether that was a valid excuse for oversleeping an hour took a considerable amount of time*.

It would be fantastic if the energy savings from this change were great enough to justify the energy we're expending to adjust to it.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Pointless.

*I would like to take this time to thank Daughter-Only for trying to get away with that excuse since it reminded me of the best ever "I forgot to change my clock" excuse, which was given by an assistant manager when I worked at Burger King, who claimed he was an hour late because he forgot to reset his clock--except that it was October and anyone with even a basic understanding of "falling back" would realize that if you really forgot to reset your clock in October, you'd have been an hour early instead of an hour late. Duh. The asst. mgr.'s name was Kirk, and we all called him Capt. Kirk to his face (pseudo-affectionately) and behind his back (completely mockingly). I once made the mistake of saluting him (he was a Capt, after all, and due a certain amount of respect) and he had a little fit about how "sarcastic" I was. My argument was that I wasn't sure how an action, rather than words, could be sarcastic. Of course, I was aware then (and even more so now that I have teenagers) that it's entirely possible to be sarcastic without saying a word, but it was worth playing dumb to see the color red poor Capt. Kirk's face turned. Hmmm, I think it just hit me (not for the first time) where Daughter-Only gets her knack for winning losing arguments.

Who Knew?

You know that "new car smell" that everyone raves about--that smell that's so sought after that there are actually air fresheners called "new car scent?" Turns out the inside of a brand new water heater has practically the same smell. All my hot water for the past two days has had that smell--it's sort of distracting to walk into the bathroom after someone's had a shower and have the whole room smell of "new car." But I guess there are worse things a bathroom could smell like, right?

On the subject of bathrooms--have I mentioned that Hubby always, always puts the seat down? Something else he's really good at? Putting in a water heater so we didn't have to call (and pay) a plumber.

He's my hero. (This week, anyway.)

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Signs of Spring

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Yum.

I meant for this post to be a true ode to the fantastically amazing only-available-this-time-of-year Cadbury Mini Eggs, but this week has been a kicker--Cranky Boss Lady, crankier than usual; customers more demanding than usual; water heater on the fritz and needing replaced just as the temperatures dipped back into the single digits; a friend having to have his wife removed from the house because of increasingly erratic behavior including drinking copious amounts of alcohol among many other things. So, Yum is gonna have to cover it.

Perfect Post for February

Blogs seem to come in two main varieties--snarky and sincere. Sure, there are the snarkily sincere hybrids and the sincerely snarky versions as well. But whatever the main subject of a blog--gossip, politics, family--they seem to fall on one side or the other.

Ocasionally while reading the sincere variety of blog, you'll come across a post so real and raw and open that it reminds you why you were drawn into the world of blogs to begin with. Kim's post, Round and round (again), was just that kind of post.

In a few short paragraphs, she captures the ups and downs and backs and forths of being the adult child of an alcoholic. So perfectly does she do this that even if you've never "been there", after you read her post, you'll feel you know exactly what it is to be there.

So, for your honesty and the courage to share, here's my button:



And Kim, it's all yours.

(Other winners at Suburban Turmoil and Petroville.)

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Anna Nicole

Masked Mom usually shies away from celebrity gossip--on the grounds that there is so much gossip to be indulged in about people I actually know that I just don't have the time and energy to indulge in gossip about total strangers. However, I can no longer avoid saying this here (though I've already said it elsewhere)--with all the drama surrounding the circumstances and repurcussions of Anna Nicole's death, the biggest mystery as far as I'm concerned remains why so many men would admit to having had sex with her*--even for the money. I just don't get it.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Baffling.


*I realize that some of the ones "admitting" having had sex with her may not actually have had sex with her and I've been trying to figure out whether I consider it worse to have claimed to have had sex with her when you didn't or to have admitted to having had it when you actually did. I have to say admitting it still comes out worse because you would've had to have had actual sex with Anna Nicole, who I'm pretty sure was the offspring of an alien and a blow-up doll.**

**I have no doubt that I'm going to Hell for saying mean things about a dead lady so don't feel the need to tell me how eternally damned I am, 'kay?

Please Let This Be The "Best" Story I Hear All Year...

Cranky Boss Lady's daughter was in the shop yesterday afternoon and started talking about her father-in-law, whose health is somewhat poor--he's diabetic with heart problems and a knee replacement surgery last year went horribly wrong and he's basically been suffering one infection after another for the past year. Before telling us the story that follows, she did warn us that it was "really, really gross" and I feel it's only fair to pass that warning along--this is a Blurt Alert, Code Red for anyone with a sensitive stomach or a really vivid imagination.

Most recently, the father-in-law has been fighting off (not so well) a sinus infection. They thought they had it beaten but he was still feeling a little discomfort so the ear, nose and throat guy went in (up?) to take a look and did find a small spot way up there that looked like "some kind of fungus." (It's always intimidating when those medical types bring out all that complicated terminology, isn't it?) Because of his other medical conditions, the father-in-law couldn't take the anti-fungal medication so they were basically in the wait and see mode.

Over the weekend, the father-in-law was sitting in his recliner in the living room when he sneezed. He opened the tissue, as instructed by the ENT guy to check the color and having made a mental note of it, he folded the tissue and set it on the table beside his chair and then...it moved!

When Cranky Boss Lady's daughter got to that part of the story, I shrieked like a cheerleader on a roller coaster. I'm not sure whether it was her delivery or the fact that I was only half-listening to the story to begin with and those words "it moved!" dragged me right into it.

In any case, the tissue moved and it was discovered that there was "some kind of worm" in the tissue--a worm that had only recently been inside the father-in-law's head. Mother-in-law came in with a clean yogurt container, dropped the tissue in and immediately transported the whole mess to the doctor for identification. It's been sent to a lab.

Prayers would be appreciated--for the father-in-law, but for me as well because I'm pretty sure if I hear a story "better" than this this year, I might never recover.