Griswold's Bouquet

Okay, so I was thinking of this today for no particular reason. It isn't the day of the week, the season, or anything else for that matter. I just randomly thought of it and laughed. I laughed because Clark Griswold loves me. If you don't know who that is, then you have an assignment for this week: go to any video store or Netflix and rent National Lampoon's Vacation. It may be that you're too young to know. Either that or you have had your head crammed up your own arse for about 25 years or so.

But anyway...

Clark Griswold loves me. Lemme explain.

It was a hot summer day and I was at the midpoint in respiratory school. I was actually trying to cram as many of my premedicine requirements in as possible that summer while on break from my respiratory classes, and was enrolled in more chemistry classes than one should ever take simultaneoulsy. General, organic, blah, blah, blah. John was coming to pick me up that day, as he had my car. It wasn't a special day or anything. Just a run-of-the-mill, this-sucks-that-I-have-class-today kind of day. I would've rather been by the pool. Or on the lake. Or inside my air-conditioned house, in comfy sweats, with the thermostat set on 50 degrees and blissfully pretending it's winter. But nope. Chemistry.

So I get out of class and John isn't there yet. I hate that. If you are going to keep my car, don't make me wait on you to pick me up. I don't care if I get finished an hour early. If you have my car, it is your job to telepathically know that and be there. So I'm pissy. And hot. And carrying about 500 lbs. of texts. I don't know how long I waited on him that day, but in my mind it seems like 2 hours, though it was probably more like 10 minutes. And up rolls John in our car.

I'm gearing myself up, getting ready to let him have it because I'm a dragon-lady. I fling open the car door and suddenly I am speechless because in the passenger seat, there is the most gorgeous arrangement of peach roses I have ever seen. I should stop here and tell you that peach roses are my absolute fave. They have to be the true peach. Not pale pink or orange-ish white. Peach. And so on that note, they can be kind of hard to find. And I love them.

So John finds peach roses and buys me a bouquet arranged in a vase, trimmed with this gorgeous sage-colored ribbon. And completely surprises me. And so I can't yell at him for making me wait anymore. I go to get into the car after flinging the backpack in the backseat. It is kind of difficult to maneuver around the huge bouquet, but I lift it up and slide in underneath it, gingerly sitting the vase on my lap. I didn't bump it on the roof of the car. Didn't whack it with the door or maim it with my seatbelt. But...

The instant I sit it on my lap, all of the blooms fall off of the stems. Seriously I have never seen anything like it. Complete and utter flower decapitation. It wasn't just that the petals fell off. The entire bloom. And they were still mostly closed, too. So I am left with a dozen of what look like weeds. John and I both stared in complete amazement for about 5 seconds, unable to say anything. Of course that was before he peeled out of the parking lot, raving mad and headed straight to the florist. He was mumbling these incoherent sentences, something about "$100" and a few F-bombs. Mind you, this was when I was in school. And we were seriously broke, y'all. I don't know how much he dropped on my V-day roses this year, but we still to this day don't spend that much on flowers unless someone is getting married or has died and that someone is a close relative. (I'm sure the 2 dozen I got for V-day this year was even more, and I don't even want to go there.) But then? As broke as we were at the time? Wow.

So John goes back to the florist and takes them in. He had just left, so the lady obviously remembered him. And he walks in and hands her the weeds in the vase and the flowers separate from them and demands to have a full refund. And she tells him--get this!--"I'm glad you brought them back so I can maybe sell them to another customer." Because I'm sure the demand for decapitated roses is sky-high. And she tries to give John another color of rose. He's having none of that. He takes his cash and gets back in the car where I am waiting for him.

Of course by this point, I am touched that he did this for me on a random day. Really I am. The gesture was enough for me. But he is bound and determined that I am going to get peach roses. That is what he set out to do and that is what I am going to get, damnit. And so he drives all over town, despite my protests, to every florist he can think of. And he finds the peach roses. And they are even more beautiful than the first.

We laugh and joke about that day often. The day something so simple as bringing me a surprise bouquet of flowers went completely wrong. About the random and bizarre happening to us. It's been sort of representative of our relationship. If something could possibly go wrong, it will. And no, our last name isn't Murphy. We are indeed like the Griswolds.

Sometimes I wish our life together wasn't so difficult at times. And at other times I know that those experiences are the glue that binds us so steadfastly. If it is something so serious, we learn and we grow. If it is something silly, we laugh together. There's an entirely twangy and cheesy country song out there, and one of the lines says something about "we're lost but holding hands". That's us. That is 100% John and Andi. If I could have one wish granted for the rest of our years together, it would be that we never lose that ability to laugh together.

A Night Out

The fam and I headed out for a nice night out this evening before I head back to work. Well, if you consider pizza and Chuck E. Cheese a “night out”. Of course we hate the Chuckster’s pizza. We opted instead to hit up Dewey’s first. Where I swear you can find perfect pizza. Both babies behaved themselves. John insisted on letting Zach try a hint of lemon, though I tried to tell him that the citrus was too acidic for Zach. Well, I’m wondering now if babies can taste sour, because Zach wanted to eat the lemon wedge instead of making the requisite funny face and turning away. I know they can’t taste salt before a certain age, so who knows.

And then we headed to B&N, where I picked up a complete anthology of Jane Austen. It makes me feel dirty to buy her books in such a way, but I cannot wait to get lost in the vastness of all of it in one book. Now I have to make the confession that I have never read Jane Austen. Not Pride and Prejudice. Not Emma. Not  Persuasion. I know it’s awful. But I am going to fix it all starting tonight. But at least I didn’t just watch the movies and pretend I know all about her works. I never even watched the movies. That would’ve been even sluttier than cheating and buying all of her books under one cover.

And then we went to see Chuck. What more torturous experience than to hear Justin Bieber songs piped over a PA in the voice of a mouse? But Zach looked on from his stroller while Evan and John played. I did find the coolest arcade game EVER in the form of the giant Operation. Evan spent $25 in tokens to win a whopping $3 worth of prizes, but the point is to have fun and he did. I can only take that place in small doses and today was just right because hardly anyone was there. Code for not many screaming children, no long lines, and no worries that I am going to turn my head and Evan was going to go missing or something equally terrifying. Actually, the last time we were there, there was this really creepy guy sitting in a booth by himself, watching all of the kids play. Who goes there without a kid???? And so we haven’t been there in some time since then. But no Chester the Molester tonight.

So now Zach, exhausted by the stimulation of the evening, has gone to sleep before we even had a chance to fully clothe him in pj’s. Poor kid is just in his onesie. Evan is finishing up his homework and will soon be heading to a niv=ce bath and bed. John, though he doesn’t know it yet, is going to serve me a bowl of ice cream and brew me some coffee while I dive into my foot-thick book. And I may just get a back rub while I read. Life really can be good.

Getting Even

With my husband. My better half. Because anytime you take a pic of him, he does this crazy stuff. So it looks like I married the Great Retardo in each and every pic of him. He really does look normal, I swear. So I was going to put this one on Facebook, but he threw a fit. And by looking at it, you’ll understand why it begs to be shared with the world, even if it is just the Blog World. Maybe this will teach him to just say “cheese” next time…

Random

Not much to report from here. We are in the midst of some reorganizing and purging here in the house (as evidenced by Zachy's changing table on its side in the background of this pic!).



John got his second ticket this past week. Apparently he didn't stop long enough at a stop sign around the corner from our house. I think the local police just have an affinity for my car for some reason.



Zach's teeth are just right there. The two front lowers. Gah! I wish they would just break through. Tonight he gnawed on a whole wheat organic teething biscuit for the first time. He isn't particularly fussy or anything. I'm just impatient.



Evan is grounded. Again. He insists on making me be the bad guy. This week, he lied about homework, and so I took away priviledges. So later that night, I went to work and John let him have his Nintendo DS. (Way to back me up, Honey!) So I have confiscated the DS and now take it to work with me. Video games rot your brain, anyway, Evan! Read a book instead.



I am now addicted to the damned DS. Hey, those games can be pretty fun, and it sure does pass the time when I'm pumping at work!



Zach loves "Where is Thumbkin"!



Evan brought home a B in Science on this past report card. Seriously, Evan? Last quarter, he had a 99%. I was secretly disappointed. It was his lowest grade at 92%. Which brings up the grade scale for 3rd grade. This is new for Evan as a 3rd gader, but 95-100 is an A, 90-95 a B, 85-90 a C. A D is anything below 85%, which is considered failing for any grade above 2nd grade at his school. It seems like it should be another planet or something where 84% is failing. Poor kid. Times sure have changed since I was a 3rd grader, and I was in the gifted and talented program where my homework was so difficult that there were times when my mother would crack up laughing when trying to help me because it was too difficult for her! Seriously. So I sort of feel bad for Ev, and haven't been busting his chops about the B since it would be an A anywhere else. And with 92% being his lowest grade, I can't complain. I just know he can do better. Plus, all of the teachers left the same remarks in the comments: "Evan is too talkative in class.", "Evan has trouble paying attention duing class.", and my fave by far, "Evan is a remarkably bright little boy, is engaging and fun, but is entirely too disruptive in class." How can the kid get the grades he gets and be that disruptive? He must get that from his father.

I renewed my PALS this week. Yay, fun! And I also started looking into the home study program for my Neonatal/ Pediatric Specialty credential. That would make my credentials RRT-NPS. What is it about adding more letters after your name that makes you look more important? Anyhow, I don't need the cred to work the NICU, but it would make me look like a rockstar in the neonatal respiratory therapy world. And my boss would have no choice but to pay me a lot more. Which means the whole process, though admittedly rather expensive, will eventually pay for itself. Score.

Evan has been driving us crazy with the Karaoke machine John's mom bought him for Christmas. Apparently it has kids' songs programmed into it. There really is only a certain amount o time one can listen to the instrumental version of "This Old Man" before one goes completely, certifiably insane. Just sayin'.

Zach's hair has started to grow toward the center of his head in hilarious fashion. So from one angle, it looks like a fauxhawk. And from another, a Kewpie doll. Ha!

I guess that's all I have to report.

Is There a Degree for That???

So the story starts out with Curious George. His wife is feeding the baby, but there are errands to run (bathseat!) and so the wife tells Curious Gearge to go and take the base for the infant carseat out of the car and put the Big Boy carseat in there in the rear-facing position, because The Chunk is not a year old yet! It should be simple. The anchor doesn't need to be used because of the rear-facing thing, and the LATCH system makes it easy. But time passes. Zach finishes his apples and bananas. He finishes 5 ounces of breastmilk. I have pumped. No John.

I am just about to go and check on him when he comes, huffing and puffing, through the door with beads of sweat on his forehead. And he is pissed. And he tells me that everything is basically some form of shit or another. My car, the LATCH system, the carseat we chose....And then he tells me he needs my help. And so I go. In the shorts and tee I had on. In 27-degree-weather. The LATCH is about half an inch from latching. It won't reach. And so I put all of my weight into, pushing it toward the seat back, while John uses all of his upper body strength to try to get it latched. Both of us keep taking breaks because we are straining so hard. And we give up. We think that maybe, since Zach is 20 lbs. now, that it will be okay to face him forward, and when we turn it around, the carseat installs like a dream.

But I know it can't be right. And so I think to myself that our fire departments do checks on carseat installation, and so I call them.

And I spoke to a real-life Carseat Technician. Seriously. What are the education requirements for that, exactly?

But we ended up having him install the seat for us. And I am glad I did. The safety features of my car made it difficult, even though they were supposed to make it easier. He spent the better part of an hour working on getting it in there. And when the manual said it shouldn't move more than an inch in any direction, he made sure. He'd wiggle, then get out a ruler. Wiggle, ruler...on and on. It really was hialrious. Zach has got to be the safest baby in the world right now.

So the moral of the story is to check your local fire department. You may have a highly skilled carseat technician in your area!

Laughter and More

So the topic has come up recently at work about how it is that I can justify supporting my family alone. Again, it came up. I think the actual words were, "I can't believe John doesn't work."




Hmmmmm.....

My mother raised 7 children and never worked outside of the home. For several years, before I went back to finish my degree, I was a stay-at-home mom to Evan. I wouldn't say that either of us didn't work. Because being a homemaker, if done correctly, is the hardest job out there. No one says this of women who choose to stay home. But John's a man, so it must be different? Why?



So yes, I work and John stays home. It probably won't always be this way. It is just the arrangement that works for us right now, and my ownership of a vajayjay doesn't make me above or below being the breadwinner. Honestly, my earning potential is about 4 times that of John right now, and so it just makes financial sense that I should be the one working. And quite honestly, even if he did work, the cost of daycare for Zach would negate his earnings. So why would we do that when I can honestly replace his potential income with one extra shift per week and no daycare expense?



So what is it that John does????? Well, he is excellent with the kids. He cooks the majority of our meals. He does all of the laundry. He tries to keep the house. (I say "tries" because I don't think anyone could keep it to my standards but me--I am that OCD about it!)

What else? Well...

He knows te extact brand and absorbency of tampons I use and has no qualms about buying them. He knows the brand of shampoo I use, the exact shade and brand of my makeup, and more. And in his manliness, he is still not afraid to traipse into the store at the mall and get the goods for me while I'm working.

I don't have to ask for a thing. If I say I'm thirsty, he immediately gets up and brings me a drink. If I'm cold, a blanket. If I'm hungry, a snack. As a matter of fact,if I don't want him to do any of those things, I have to be careful not to think out loud because he does it all without my asking. He even drives mto work and picks me up because the employee lot is quite a distance from the door and heaven forbid I get cold or rained on while walking in. In the winter, when everyone freezes upon exiting the hospital, I don't even have to wear a coat because John is there in front to pick me up, with the car nice and toasty. Seriously, I am that spoiled by him!



And most of all, he makes me laugh. He is nonstop comic relief from the shitstorm. Like the time I had a horrible day at work and he put on my pink Crocs and danced around the living room singing "I Feel Pretty", even though he didn't know all of the words. Or the day I thew out his boxer briefs full of holes. e resurrected them from the trash and he ripped the seams all the way so they looked like a rough version of a bikinis and he puffed out his chest as he came into the room, wearing only them and shouting "This is SPARTAAAAAAA!" And taking a picture of him? Seriously impossible without cracking up. Seriously. So now I am going to close this with some examples.

He Strikes Again

At least nothing in my home or near my children was ablaze this time.

Yeah, I'm talking about John. Again.

This time, it was with my money.

I could kill him. Really. (No, not really. Don't call the police or anything.)

It all started with me being assigned to my 12 here at the ER. No cafeteria, no gift shop. Roughing it again. And I forgot. So I call John relatively early to let him know a few things: A. I'm starving and can feel my fat cells being eaten. B. I have no cash. C. Even if I did have cash, what would I do with it? So I tell my dearest all of this and he assures me he is on his way to bring me dinner and singles for the vending machine. Beautiful. Just what I wanted.

15 minutes later, the secretary transfers a call to me. It's John. And it went like this:
John: "We have a problem."
Me: "What problem???? Where are you?"
John: "I have no money."
Me: "Well, I know that! Use the debit card. I left it in your wallet."
John: "Ummmmmm. About that...."
Me: "What is wrong?!?"
John: "I tried, but...."
Me: "What do you mean, 'you tried'?"
John: "Remember when they mailed you that new pin number?"
Me: "Yeah, it's in the lockbox with all of the other banking stuff..."
John: "Well, I forgot where it was...."
Me: "Well, now you know. When will you be here? I'm starving!"
John: "Ummmm. I can't. I went to get cash, but I entered the old pin too many times andtheATMkeptyourcard." (This last bit gushed out as all one word because he knew I was going to kill him!)

Seriously. No money because we are products of techno advancement and just use our magic plastic for every-fricken-thing. I pretty much told him that he made the mess and he had to fix it. How? Well, I made him call friends until he found someone willing to loan us $20 until the morning when the bank opens and I can withdraw enough cash that we can survive for the 2 weeks it takes to get a new debit card. He wanted to know what to tell whichever friend he got ahold of. And I told him to put on his Big Boy Britches and tell them what he did. 20 minutes later, he was here with food, a sheepish grin, and a very red face. But I ate. And Ev now has lunch money for the morning.

Only John.

The 'Tots Survived

B said she could see a blog post coming on this and she was absolutely correct!

It all started at about 1 AM when John said he wanted a midnight snack. He decided to make some tater tots, of all things. Our deep fryer died some time ago, and with my husband's relatively new struggle with diabetes and hypertension, I was not about to replace it. A normal person would have baked them in the oven. But this is John. My love, my life, my soulmate, the father of my children. But living with him is kind of like what I imagine it to be like for the Man in the Big Yellow Hat to live with Curious George. Seriously.

So he fills a pot with canola oil and heats it up. I am in the bedroom, just around the corner from the kitchen, playing on Facebook, when I hear him ever-so-calmly ask, "Honey, do we have any baking soda?"

And I think to myself, "Why in the is he baking at 1 AM?" And so I ask him why he needs it. And I hear him say what I think is, "Oh, fire." Just like that. Casual, nonchalant. So I get up from my perch at the desk to investigate. Surely that isn't what he said.

And I peek around the corner into the kitchen...

Yep. That's what he said. Oh my God!
I just see 4 feet of flames shooting from my stove. What happened next is a bit of a blur. I thought we had a fire extinguisher under the sink. Guess what! We don't! And so I started randomly jerking open cabinet doors. (Like the one with drinking glasses in it...what in the hell was I thinking?) And John is screaming at me "Get me SOMETHING!!!!!!" I did't think about the flour that was in the cabinet right behind John, which would have worked with the grease fire in place of the baking soda. I couldn't think of anything other than the flames, which were getting higher and higher. And I yelled at John, "Should I call 9-1-1?????" And he shouted back "Ummmm, yeah Andrea. GOOD IDEA!!!!!" (Hey, I do not appreciate that sarcasm, Mister!) And so I reached for the cordless phone while simultaneously screaming to Evan in his downstairs bedroom. The poor kid ran up the stairs in his little boxers, looking all bleary-eyed and confused.

"Evan, baby, run downstairs and throw on clothes and go outside though the back door. Hurry, baby, please!
So he tries to come up through the kitchen, and I had to shout at him, "No Evan! FIRE! Get OUUUUUUUUT!" And bless his little heart, he did. In the meantime, the only thing nearby for John to grab was a neat little stack of Zach's receiving blankets that were folded on the kitchen table, waiting for the next morning to be put away once Zach awakened. So John is fanning the fire with, trying to smother it, but only making it worse. And there are huge chunks of burnt blanket wafting through the air. I dial 9-1-1, and as soon as the dispatcher answers, I shout "FIRE!" at her as well. I don't even remember the rest of that convo. I know she asked if everyone was out, and I told her I was working on it. I grab Zach and run outside to meet Evan and wait for emergency people to arrive. The local police are first, and just as I am teling them that my husband may be mildly retarded and started a grease fire by frying tater tots, John emerges from the house, arms full of charred baby blankets and breathing rather heavily, to tell us the fire is out. (Incidentally, this is the point where I think, "Shit! I haven't treated smoke inhalation in a long time---do I remember how?????)
Wthin the blink of an eye, the police officer is on the phone to let the fire people know it is out, yet within three minutes, there are 3 enormous fire engines lined up on the street in front of my house, sirens wailing. Zach is looking in awe at the lights, and I look over and saw Evan put on shorts and a huge parka--that's it! No shoes, no shirt, no long pants. Thankfully a neighbor brought over a blanket for him.
The fire people get a great laugh over the fact that my father-in-law is the Fire Chief in his town and John was a volunteer firefighter for years, yet we didn't have anything to put out a fire in my house.
So anyway, with the fire out and the family safe, we were still not permitted to re-enter the house because of the smoke. When the fire people opened my living room blinds and opened the window, I gasped. The smoke in the house was so thick you couldn't even see anything other than opaque white. With the fire department's industrial fans and my opened windows, it cleared relatively quickly, and we thanked the people who helped us and started to head inside. And then it happened.

By it, I mean the most ridiculous statement I have ever heard come from my husband in almost 10 years of marriage.

"Andrea, do you want some 'tots? I saved them for you!"