I Think I Have the Black Lung, Pop

So, my children have colds. Dylan has a cold, too. For the first time ever, I do not have a cold. Let me repeat: My entire family is sick and I am totally fine! This has never happened, ever. My immune system is generally out to lunch more often than a secretary 6 months from her retirement. This time, though, somehow, I am magically completely healthy (okay that's not actually true. My fibromyalgia is worse than it's been in 7 years...but at least I'm not hacking up a lung in addition to that ridiculousness).

This cold and not-cold have offered a fascinating opportunity for me to observe the differences in the ways different folks handle being mildly ill without a sea of mucus clouding my brain. Dylan handles having a cold pretty much as I imagine Mary Poppins might. He complains a little bit in the morning, takes a spoonful of honey and a cup of tea and goes about his day. He coughs and blows his nose like a reasonable human being without a lot of ceremony, and he goes to bed a little earlier. No complaints there.

My children, on the other hand, are a study in contrasts but are both terrible at being sick. To illustrate this for you, I present this scene from our morning (Rylan's dialogue is, of course, the crystallization of the general ideas he presents through actions and somewhat rude gestures):

Pippa, upon awakening: Daddy. Me cough. Me up ALL NIGHT. (Coughs dramatically)

Rylan, upon awakening with a thick crust of green nastiness completely plugging up his nose: So, what are we going to do today, guys? I am raring to go! What this? Oh no, it's definitely NOT boogers. Nope. You don't need to wipe my nose. It's all good here.

Pippa, upon being presented with breakfast: Nooooooo. Me no want banana! Me no want bread! Me. NOSE. RUN.

Rylan, upon being presented with breakfast: Oh cool, I totally love bananas and there's no reason at all that eating them would be at all difficult for me. I mean, it's not like my nose and throat are completely obstructed with a thick coating of mucus I refuse to expel. Gaaaaaaaaag. What's that? No, I'm totally not going to puke. Gaaaaaaag. Feeling great, gimme more banana!

Pippa, standing 3 inches from my face: What wrong, Pippa? What wrong, Pippa? What wrong, Pippa?

Me, somehow guessing I might be expected to ask something...: What's wrong, Pippa?

Pippa, clutching at her chest: Mommy. Me. NOSE. RUN.

Me: Okay, well let me help you wipe it, then.

Pippa, running across the room and flinging herself on top of a packing box: Nooooooooooooooooooooo!

Me: Pippa, why won't you come here and let me wipe your nose?

Pippa: Me. NOSE. RUN. Me NOSE RUN! Me NOSE RUN!!!

Me: Um, yeah...I gathered that. Come get your nose wiped.

Pippa: Noooooo! Can't come. ME NOSE RUN!!!

Rylan: I'm not saying I have pneumonia. I just. There's a little something in my chest (coughs like a consumptive zombie). It's probably just allergies. No. No. I don't need a breathing treatment. No. Look over there! A squirrel!

Me: Pippa, come here right now or you get time-out.

Pippa, running to her time out corner and slamming herself against the wall: Me NOSE RUN! Me cough (coughs like Derek Zoolander after spending the day mining for coal)! Me (pauses for dramatic effect) SICK.

Rylan: I'm just going to lay on the floor for a little bit. Nothing to see here, folks.

Pippa, after coughing: Poor princess. Poor Pippa. Pippa sick.

Rylan: I could totally get up if I wanted to. It's just that this floor is really comfortable. I feel...great...

See what I mean? Worst sick people ever.

I am clearly dying of smallpox of the tuberculosis and no one cares!!!

Look at my face. Have you ever seen a face this sick?

Ah me. Minutes to live. My young life has been a waste.

Righting The Redneckery: There Will Never Be a Conclusion

Hi y'all! I am determined to get back to this blog. I miss it and all my bloggy buddies and their witty words. Of course, re-dedicating myself to blogging right before a major move during which I will almost certainly be without an Internet connection (le gasp!) for quite awhile is rather, well, stupid...nevertheless...

Today I bring you what would be the conclusion of our tale of ongoing whattheshizz woe I've titled "Righting the Redneckery" if eternal life wallowing in hellfire had a conclusion. Some of you may remember those posts from...oh Lordy a year ago? Yeah, it's still going on.

In my persistent and extreme naivete regarding all things related to this PITOFDESPAIR well-loved older house, I created a house-fixin'-up schedule for myself in April. At this point we didn't know when/where/if we were moving, but I figured we probably would be moving somewhere at some point (if only to a cardboard box under Crackhead Bridge if Dyl didn't get a job...Crackhead Bridge being my extremely politically incorrect term for a freeway underpass near our house) so it needed to get done. I made lists and drew up charts and estimated I could have all of my stuff done by June 1 and hopefully Dyl could finish the bathroom by then as well. It all worked out on paper, but I forgot one little thing (well two).

I have children. Children do not like home renovation projects. Children are apt to either a. get all stimmy on your ass or b. BREAK ALL OF THE THINGS! I'll let you guess which kid is which in this scenario. The day I painted the first wall, Boog took a leap off the tower of "Well-Adjusted Autistic Kid" and landed in a pool of "I'm a Complete Mess and Everything in my Life is Terrible, Especially You, MOM". He spends his days stomping around the house yelling at everything, and mostly me. It's amazing how without a word he can convey, "I can't believe you painted my room! Who the hell do you think you are, woman? My room was blue. Blue. Blue is the color of my room. This. Is. Not. Right."

Pippa, on the other hand, has seen this period of mild neglect ("Here kids, watch another movie while Mommy attempts to somehow make this wall look not crooked. Surely there's some kind of trompe l'oeil for that...") as a unique opportunity for creating mischief. Her mischief comes in myriad unexpected forms, but she has been pretty laser-focused on a toddlerhood staple these days. Basically, all of the things have been colored on. All of the things. The table, the floor, the couch, the freshly-painted living room walls. I even caught her holding the dog down trying to scribble on her belly in pink crayon hollering, "ALICE! Hol' Stiiiiiill!!!" I'm not an idiot. I take the pens and pencils and crayons away. She finds them. She can get into any drawer, closet, or lockbox-guarded-by-Unsullied in the house. Mommy's tired...and frequently covered in ballpoint pen scribbles.

This is my very long way of saying we did not meet our June 1st deadline. In fact here we are at July 2nd, set to move in 17 days and we still need to: paint the master bath, put in the shower doors, install the toilet and vanity, do the floors in the hall bath, clean the paint out of the tub, take all the tape down, touch-up wall and trim paint in the whole house, replace a small section of the kitchen floor, spruce up the garden, touch-up the outside paint, install new blinds in Pippa's room, install the kitchen sink and moulding in the kitchen. Oh yeah, and pack.

Egads.

At every turn, we are faced with some new, glaring example of redneckery. Today the counter-installer guy from Home Depot came to put our new counter in (an hour and 15 minutes early, I might add, hope you enjoyed being greeted by my stinky, sweaty sports-bra clad self. If you'd given me an hour I would have been Betty Draper all pastel shirtwaist dress and pearls and glass of lemonade or scotch-and-soda-offering...okay that's not true, but I would have been less odorous and fully-dressed). He discovered, surprise surprise, the rednecks installed the old counter wrong and as a result of this, part of the underside of the sink is totally rusted-out. So. New sink. Yay. Also...this was lurking behind some moulding:

"Bubba! This dishwasher don't fit right!" "Aw, don't worry, Junior, just put that sonbitch up on blocks!"

The counter-installer guy laughed and laughed and then said, "People don't realize the dishwasher feet are adjustable. They could have just pulled them down a little," and then he laughed and laughed. Yeah...we'll probably just slap some more moulding across there and call it a rednecky day...

So we spackle and patch on, screwdrivers and hammers against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the f*ckwittedness (I used that asterisk for you, Mom. You're welcome.).

This is getting long so tomorrow or Thursday I'll regale y'all with the Tale of the Bathroom Window or The Day Our House Almost Flooded and We Almost Got Divorced. Thanks for reading!