Velveteen Mind: June 2007

One reason I love to write is because of a comment written by an English professor on an essay I wrote on Kate Chopin's The Awakening in one of my college literature courses.

"Not focused. However, I love your writing style. Read a couple of times because I enjoyed it. Find it hard to believe you may not have read the book?"

I had not read the book.

For you The Awakening fans, I tried, but I wasn't in the mood for it. Too woeful for me at that moment. That moment certainly being a night or two before the essay was due, I'm sure. I may or may not have been drunk at the time. Freshman year and all. No shame. I've always meant to go back and read that damn book. However.

The power of constructive criticism. This was some of the first feedback I had received on my writing and I just adored that line "love your writing style." I didn't particularly like this professor, so I got a kick out of that comment all the more.

My goal immediately became to be able to write about something I knew nothing about and to do it in such a way that my writing style would be enough to camouflage my ignorance. I always love a challenge:

Learn how to write out of my ass and do it with such flair that you don't notice the smell.

How'm I doin' so far?

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By the way, I just walked into the living room and Pants is playing some kind of game with Cheeks involving three overturned cups and a handful of dice that looks suspiciously like Three-Card Monte or the Shell Game.

Er, do you think it could be possible that I'm teaching the wrong value system here?

Let me guess: Pants is the dealer. Cheeks is the shill. Mom is the mark.
Welcome to the first day of the rest of my life.

I thought my arm was going to fall off today. At the very least, I would lose my thumb.

After a couple of months of experiencing a pain in my left arm and not thinking much of it, my thumb started going numb on that arm yesterday. Just the tip, though, so no big deal. Then this morning, while feeding Cheeks, I noticed that the whole thumb was losing feeling and the tip of my index finger was starting to tingle.

Okay, let's see... left arm, shooting pain, throbbing pain, getting worse, losing sensation in hand... What's that PSA? Minutes lost are brain cells lost? Lord, I'm having a slow-mo stroke. I just know it. If not, then it's a foot long blood clot like the one our family friend had recently. That must be it. They'll have to cut off my arm. Damn.

Despite having no activities scheduled for Father's Day, yet, I really didn't want to spend the afternoon in the emergency room. I had my heart set on convincing Maguire of some kind of family activity.

Growing up in Southern Illinois, our family spent every Father's Day at Six Flags over Mid-America in St. Louis, Missouri. My dad figured that if he had to spend any day at Six Flags during the summer, it would be the one day no dad in his right mind would choose to go to Six Flags. Guaranteed short lines. He was right every time, too. I can still smell the hot asphalt and Log Flume chlorine right now.

Unfortunately for my amusement-park-loving-self, Maguire has not yet found his Father's Day groove. My "no lines at the waterpark today!" pitch was met with a blank stare.

Looks like it's the ER for me.

As much as I hate to admit it, you'd have thought it was my own private Mother's Day. Three hours in the waiting room sounds bad, right? Nope. That meant three hours to myself! About thirty minutes in, I realized the good fortune I had numbly stumbled upon. Three hours reading a book! Paradise. Yes, in the ER.

At some point, though, I did have to stop reading and see a doctor. The diagnosis was not nearly as dramatic as I had expected. Something about a strained muscle and pinched nerve due to a repetitive motion injury. The cause? The doctor hazarded that it might be from lifting a 20 pound baby 30 spajillion times a day. Or... "Do you type on a computer a lot?" Ruh roh. Huh? Nooooo.......

Looks like it's the baby or the blog. The baby. Or. The blog. Am I supposed to choose? What are the chances this will just heal on its own without my changing a damn thing?

The baaaaaaaby or the bloooooog... Let me get back to you.

After I finished listening to some advice from the doctor about changing habits (no, thanks) and beginning to take (completely useless) painkillers, the nurse came in and said, "[blah, blah, blah] ...and here's your work excuse good through the 19th." Wha-wha-what?! I get off work?!

I couldn't wait to tell my ~~boss~~ husband.

I immediately drove home to share the verdict with Maguire. By "immediately," I mean by way of the beach and big loping spirals around our neighborhood. From Google Earth, you'd think my car was trying to sneak up on our house without being noticed. By "verdict," I mean proof that I'm worked too hard and need a break. Proof in the form of my precious doctor's note.

Mother with a reprieve in sight: Maguire, I have a doctor's note that excuses me from work through the 19th! Looks like I'll be making a reservation at the Beau Rivage for a couple of nights without all you ~~hangers-on~~ sweet boys... smiles hopefully.
Maguire: Ha. You have a lifetime work excuse note.
Mother with homicide in sight shoots her "oh no you didn't" look directly to Maguire's soul.
Maguire dodges with an "oh no I didn't" look of his own. If he could withdraw into his turtle shell, he would.

Yeah, you better protect your soft and vulnerable spots, you bastard.

If I want a day off from this job, it looks like I'll need a note from the coroner.

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It appears that my planned Lagniappe Linky Love post to thank my fabulous commenters from Victor Vito will have to wait. I'll finish it soon, though, I promise!

Hey, before you get upset, remember that I have a doctor's note! It's gotta be good for something!

P.S. We did have a wonderful Father's Day. After most of the afternoon spent at home, we went out and washed the dad's truck, drove down to the Beau Rivage for ice cream, then hung out on the beach until dark watching the beach rentals guys trying to get their truck hauling the jet skis unstuck from the sand. Perfect boy stuff. Just as it should be on Father's Day.