Checking In, Passing Out

Not every day can be as exciting as the tabloids, unless you are squeamish and faint around needles and blood. Then at least every doctors visit ends with an intense scary memory that you can almost actually remember...but not quite...because you aren't actually conscious.

I went to my second pregnancy check up and they informed me that they wanted to draw blood to look for the usual suspects:  blood type, anemia, HIV, et al. For them a routine ordeal, phoning it in. For me a blood stopping torture.

At my first appointment Skip was there and mentioned to the nurse that I have a tendency to pass out. The nurse fussed at me and said, "You should always tell people that so you don't fall to the floor." Skip then held my hand and blocked my sight and began our lamaze classes early, breathe in, breathe out. After 28 years you'd think I could manage that on my own. I can not.

This round I let Skip handle the magazine and I ventured to the doctors on my own. Foolish. As the nurse prepared me for the vampire moment, she went from vein to vein.

"Actually the first one you tried is the best," I said. "I have bad veins. I think it's to discourage drug use."

The nurse laughed and agreed with me, my right arm with the barely there blood rivers would get the prick. She went back to my right arm and prepped it. A little alcohol swab for sterilization. She gets the needle ready. I turn my head, focus on the wall clock and start chanting breathe, breathe, breathe.


"Oh! Let me just check your hand, maybe that would work better."

Breathe, breathe, breathe...WHERE IS MY MOTHER?!


My mom is a registered nurse and spent many years excusing me from school shots. She'd give them to me in the comfort and privacy of our home bathroom. She is amazing. Fast and calm and she also told me to breathe. Then as soon as the needle came out she'd lay me out gently on the cool counter top until color came back to my cheeks.

Now I was being forced to sit up straight (even when I mentioned this whole fetish I have for fainting the nurse still kept me in the chair, the previous nurse, a veteran, had me on a hospital bed ready for a quick lie). The nurse grabbed another alcohol swab and washed my original puncture sight on my right arm. I admit I was quite proud of myself. Normally I'm a shaking mess with tears streaming down my face before we even get to this point. This time I was rationally explaining my job. There just happened to be long pauses while I fought off the looming darkness in the corners of my eyes.

"Look at me! Over here! We're all done. How're you feeling? You okay?"

I nodded.

"Okay, I need you to keep telling me about your job."

Job...I had a job once...and I...do you hear ringing? The nurse's mouth continued to move and I think I answered, or at least nodded my head. I'm very agreeable in such moments. She slapped a cool damp cloth on my forehead. Ah, yes! I work with children who have autism and I'm going to school to get my masters.

What class am I taking? It's got stuuuuudents....and...law? A doctor walks in. She grabs a binder and starts fanning me. "DON'T CLOSE YOUR EYES! DO NOT close your eyes! Over here! LOOK!"

The ringing in my ears subsides a little but I'm pretty sure a monster covered in black fur is speaking to me. The nurse thrusts a cup of water in my hand and helps me hold it up to my mouth. I take a couple gulps and feel my head sway...

Eventually everything comes into focus and I understand what people are saying. I guess technically I didn't pass out, I fought through it as I have every time I get my blood drawn, but really how functional was I? The nurse and doctor gave me more water, examined my purse full of snacks and told me to sit in the waiting room. And then they checked on me to make sure I wasn't leaving and definitely was not trying to drive in such condition. So I ate dry cereal and sipped water until I got the okay to leave.

A pretty good excuse for missing an appointment with a client right?

I'm glad I survived and it's better than having your teacher catch you after you volunteer to have your blood sugar tested (yep, that happened), but they also gave me a note to get my tetnus shot and a flu shot:  Rounds two and three to come. In high school you can coerce your lab partner to prick their finger for a blood sample under the microscope for you:  In the real world there are no substitutes.

Silence is Rotten

I've been quiet and it's mostly because this whole pregnancy thing took over my brain. To be more exact it took over all functions of my body and my days have consisted of easing nausea with food, candy and drinks. And when those all failed I did the only respectable thing left-lots of McDreamy reruns on computer TV. That was one show I could convince Skip was in our best interest. Watching his look-a-like brought me closer to him, even when I refused to be touched.

Now that the worst of this has passed (fingers crossed) and I my energy levels inched past a sloth, I've got stories. Unfortunately I've also got my Roman Civilization and Law History class starting in five minutes. Here's a shorty to keep you laughing.

Skip and I had a dinner and movie date with our friends on Saturday. We ate some Greek food and settled in for a long western. Of course I brought snacks, of the sweet and salty variety and convinced a gorgeous little 4 year old to sit beside me. As we popped candy corn and peanuts into our mouths she looked up sweetly and smiled. Ahhh the bean inside my tummy should be so adorable. I took a small drink break and tried to pace myself with the goodies.

My pint-sized friend started to hand me candy corn. Apparently she did not like the defects missing the white top. I too like the white tops but am just as happy eating what she deemed weird. After a few I looked over at her prepared to address the importance of loving all candies, not just those that are perfect. She looked up at me and kindly said in her British accent, "I just eat the top parts and give them to you."

Sharing. It comes with spit.

A Boy and His Shirt

A couple months ago was some guy's birthday. Said guy received a beautiful flannel shirt, perfect for his week long camping adventure following the birthday celebrations. Some girl lovingly wrapped the flannel shirt and presented the guy with the present early on the morning of May 12th.

Some guy blinked and waivered between ecstatic jumping and forlorn crying. While the guy appreciated the thoughtful gift he could not be convinced that baby blue looked manly. The girl lost the debate and repackaged the shirt so it could be returned.

The guy camped without his flannel. The girl hung her head in despair. A birthday gone awry.

One week passed. Then another. The girl found a familiar package in the mailbox. She recognized the awkward tape job and saw her name peeking beneath a few labels. Inside the package was the rejected flannel shirt. A jumbled return brought the flannel home. The girl presented the present with hesitation and a solid compliment.

The guy conceded and wore the shirt to work.

Beautiful. Fantastic. Amazing. swooned his coworkers. Some guy went home that night and kissed his wife for the the best shirt of the year. Said guy abandoned his own sense of fashion for life, appointing the girl his personal shopper.

Miss Fire

Skip decided I needed a Daisy Red Ryder to improve my shooting stance, tone my arm muscles, and reign in my target spread. Apparently we like small scatters on the target, not holes in the neighbors garage.

Also, Skip wanted me to want to go skeet shooting. While I'm not opposed to shooting skeeters it seemed a little excessive and hard to do. I prefer bug spray. You laugh, but skeet shooting felt like trying to smack a mosquito. Awesome if you hit one, frustrating when you don't and it left an itch I couldn't scratch. I really did not like missing the skeet. The gun experts told me to lead the target and shoot when I couldn't see it. OH, and keep your head down, lean forward, stand on one leg, and sing the national anthem. I was trying not to tip over or drop the gun. Thanks guys.

That first trip out left me annoyed. I hit three by accident and the rest of the time shot blindly. I would have done just as well to have my eyes closed. The only thing I felt good about is my fast reflexes. Instead of taking time for things like aiming and breathing I yelled "pull" and and flicked the trigger. My coaches complained that I was shooting ahead of the target, when most beginners lag behind.

Enter Daisy. Skip determined I needed practice. He bought me the gun and a pack of ginger ale. We could quench our thirst and my queasy  stomach all in the name of target practice. I became a quick and accurate shot when the pop can was a mere 12 inches away. A natural. Then I learned an old western trick and made the pop can dance. As it flipped and turned my shot distance grew. Soon I was hitting at 80 percent and 16 foot distance.

This translated well over the weekend when I battled the skeet again. True to my style I fired quickly, but this time I heard a reassuring smack and ducked as the broken skeet sprayed around me. I even endured my first misfire in the middle of my round. While loading the case I drove a bullet into the ground. My sleuth of a husband determined there was no way possible I touched the trigger based on the two handed hold I need to load the bullet. The guys jumped a little, I jumped a lot, and then they welcomed me into the club of official gunsmen. If you haven't had a misfire, you haven't shot much. Or so they say. I say you're lucky.

Sweet Little Nothings

In case you wondered what it's like to live with and be loved by a writer, here it is:

And zoomed in...

And for those of you who don't read with mirrors I quote: "Love U so much, makes me sick!"

Girl Dating

For the record I have been on exactly two dates this week and my husband's out of town. Before he left he hooked me up on a semi-blind date with his co-worker. And I think he may have told another co-worker to have his wife call me. I feel like a sympathy project.

However, I enjoyed both nights out. Date one involved a 3-hour walk through a park and the historic district of Peoria. We dished on clothes, travel, pets and boys (or hers at least) and that's when I discovered one of those Aha! moments. Married people want to talk about dating drama because it's fun.

I always thought that the marrieds were bored or believed everyone should be just like them with their house, dog and 2.5 children. Now I realize that between work drama and work drama and work drama, it's nice to be swept up in the love affairs that daytime dramas envy. I will be taking applications for all single or dating girls in the area. You can gush about a new crush, first kiss, or stupid boy at any time. If you'd like dating advice I can Ann Landers you.

On to Date two. A friend and I met for dinner to plan a bachelorette party. We dined on sushi and schemed up new games (preview: Laney and a trip to Costa Rica inspired my idea for a high-fashion makeover game). Looking around the room I saw multiple girls out conspiring in groups of two. Sushi is the perfect place for a light dinner and you don't feel as awkward stuffing large uncuttable pieces of rice and raw fish into your mouth when it's another girl sitting across from you. They understand your mouth is small...well most of them do.

Girl dating is kinda fun, but I'm glad Skipper comes home tomorrow.

8 3/4

Inches that is. More specifically that's 8 3/4 inches lost, by me after an intense Houdini wrap and a mini facial.

Last week a coworker asked me if I wanted to go with for a body wrap. It was a special herbal concoction that would pull out all my toxins resulting in a slimmer version of my former self. If we went together we could get a free facial. Detox, facial and some girl spa time when my husband was out of town? Sure.

It didn't even matter that the whole thing sounded suspicious. Like why the promoting words were inches not pounds. Why it was for mere pennies (ok dollars, but in spa terms and cosmetics it translates to pennies). And, once we arrived, why only one door could be used, but there were three ramps and three doors. We tried every one too. Plus, she failed to tell me my measurements.

The mud mixture hailed from the great and glorious Dead Sea. The herbs were the unmentionable secret ingredient. The way I lost 8 3/4 inches? The intense mummification I endured for an hour. Spagirl wrapped me in multiple ace bandages tight enough for me to gasp. Tight enough that after I laid down for a couple of minutes I felt pins and needles pricking my foot. Then I felt my foot go numb and no amount of hitting or repositioning allowed relief or blood back to the appendage.

My mini-facial was pleasant but while trying to relax and enjoy it a sharp pain in my bound waist brought the gritty reality home. I was wrapped up in some fairly nice flowery clay by ace bandages looking like a leper of old in a decrepit mobile home. My body ached to be free and I toyed with the notion of ripping the bandages off and fleeing. It was just like turning 16 holding pliers up to my teeth trying to grasp my braces. Something had to be done.

"I'm going to get some warm towels and then I'll unwrap you."

Finally! I breathed in shallowly and twitched in anticipation.

She remeasured my various body points and happily announced the shaving of a 1/2 inch here and a full inch there until finally the inches lost totaled 8 3/4. I believe that for those two minutes I had lost those inches. I also believe that 5 minutes later when I gulped down a jug of water and took a full deep breath all 8 and 3/4 inches came back. The popping sounds in all my joints verified it.