Health 101

Ethan: "How do babies get out of their moms?"

"Um, how do you THINK babies get out of their moms?"

"Oh. OH!!!!!!!!!!!! Well, that explains why newborns always get a bath before anyone can hold them."

NURSE! HANG ANOTHER BAG OF PRINGLES, STAT!

Dear January,

You are one mean jerkface.

$#!!!!**&****%!{!},

- J

We are now HOME after being forcibly evicted to a two-starish hotel with no room service and a questionable concept of exactly what housekeeping is hired to do. Prepare yourself for a future post on the after-effects of bedbug attack.

Since the kid and I left in a rush with one clean outfit between the two of us, with me covered with toilet water (*see below), I had the pleasure of a WalMart trip in the middle of ten inches of snow, in a none-too-scenic part of town, so that I could buy us both hot-pink-synthetic-made-by-third-world-sweatshop-children tracksuits to sleep in and 99 cent flip-flops to guard against foot ick in the scary hotel shower.

For no apparent reason, I suppose because I do not have enough stress in my life right now, my house went all Amityville Horror on me about two weeks ago. For those checking your day planners, you are correct in noting that this was not soon after The Husband (as he will herein be referred, until he is promoted to The Ex) moved out, the very same Husband who used to deal with things related to leaks, toilets, vermin, and sewage. I got married, in part, so I would have someone in my life who could deal with leaks, toilets, vermin, and sewage. I deal better with matters such as high-heeled boots, gourmet cheese dips, sunshine, and wine pairings.

Since The Husband left, The Kid (as he will herein be referred) and I have endured ten full days of no functioning bathroom plumbing -- and we have four bathrooms -- in addition to periods of no kitchen water, a basement ceiling leak which soaked the downstairs carpet, furniture, and me with "maybe" toilet water, per the 24-hour plumber who could not come until three days after-the-fact, and a Shining-like icy blizzard, complete with flickering power outages. Did I mention the TWO rounds of stomach flu? No? The only thing that was missing was the blood leaking down the walls and the windows speaking at me in tongues.

Because the house decided that it was not yet done toying with the very last shreds of my sanity, last night at midnight, while I was carrying our luggage in (read: WalMart plastic bags), the Amity House attacked again. I fell on ice on the steps, sprained my wrist, and cut myself in all manner of odd place.

Initially, I thought the wrist might be broken. I attempted to seek late-night weekend medical attention for an x-ray and stitches in my left hand and elbow, but had to settle for paper towels and some Scotch tape, not because the bleeding or throbbing wrist were OK, but because I could not find anyone to stay with The Kid at midnight on a Saturday. By then, all I wanted to do was lay down and bleed in peace in my own bed, on my own dirty sheets. A doctor friend reassured me no break today, though she did say that I "should see a doctor" tomorrow.

Right now, I have my wrist wrapped, and am whimpering whenever I have to move it more than an inch. I had big plans to scrub, launder, bleach, and fluff-and-sort, but I suppose it will have to wait while I make out with my third canister of Pringles in as many days. (This winter, I am substituting food for love, so far that is working for me.)

Ten minutes ago, the Demons of January decided to push one last little button, and I watched as the cat threw up a partially-eaten kitchen sponge, right after he knocked two Christmas ornaments off the tree and then stared at me as they shattered on the wood floor. Did I mention our Christmas tree was still up? Yeah.

February will be better, right?

RIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?!

(just humor me. please, please humor me.)

Purge

The dust has yet to settle around here, but for the first time in two weeks, I feel less like I am suffocating. It's something. I am in the middle of the big house purge. What do I do with the things left behind? Confronting my past in object form is not easy.

His closet is empty except for the tuxedo and shoes from our wedding, and the trenchcoat he wore exactly once, almost thirteen years ago when we got engaged on a frigid February night in New York. I laughed about the trenchcoat at the time; later, I learned it was the only coat he had that hid the ring box.

Or the big framed version of this photo?

I really don't know. I just know that I wish it were still this easy, and happy.