Oh, I'm So Sorry...

Be warned. There is a lot of pain driven anger in this post.

I've been cramping for four weeks. Cramping, nauseous, bowel issues, etc. It's been a very painful couple of weeks. I called my OBGYN for an appointment but because I haven't been in for three years I am now considered a new patient and they can't get me in until February. I AM DYING so I called a second place because if I gonna be a new patient Imma try to be a new patient sooner.

Acetaminophen and Ibuprofen don't even touch the pain and I'm closer to kidney failure than relief from the cramps. I came to the end of my tolerance Sunday night and had Mr. D. take me to the ER. I was actually truly hopeful I would find relief, but I have found myself in a new circle of Hell.

It's the "saccharin-y sweet and condescending I'm so sorry you're in pain, but I'm completely useless even though I'm a medical professional" circle of Hell and it grows wider every moment. In the hospital they gave me an I.V. and some morphine, which I did not enjoy, did some blood work, took a sonogram and a CT scan. Doctor Clearly a Man said he found, "only a small cyst."

"Have you thought about seeing a gynocologist?" he asked because he's stupid. I told him I had an appointment for Thursday, but I'd come to the end of my ability to cope. "You should see your gyno about having a laparoscopy to look for endometriosis." Bitch! I am at the hospital right now! Why don't you do it?!

Instead he sent me home with a referral for the OBGYN that I already have an appointment with (in February) and some Tylenol with codeine. He seemed to think that because I'd been in the ER the night before, the GYNO would give two figs and see me this week instead of making me wait until February.

Nope. I called the office Monday afternoon, after the drug haze had burned off, and in spite of the fact that I'd just been in the ER...I am a new patient, and being a new patient means regardless of what is happening in my gut, I can't be seen until February. "I'm sorry you're in so much pain. I hope you feel better." I wish I had a toilet to shove her head into.

The Tylenol with codeine is barely making a dent in the cramps, so I called the ER to ask if it was supposed to, you know, work at all. The receptionist said, "nothing really takes all the pain away, but I'm sorry you're in so much pain. I hope you feel better." What I wouldn't give for a freaking toilet!

So I started calling around the freaking Metroplex because, dammit, I'm not playing anymore. I have an appointment for tomorrow morning in Arlington. I will chain myself to the bed if there isn't a resolution I can live with. Or I'm taking my uterus out myself. I have an x-acto knife. I'll use it.

The Day We Did Everything and Accomplished Nothing...

My dad-in-law has been in a nursing home for almost a year, leaving my mom-in-law to run the house alone. She used to think he didn't do much, but since he's been gone she's realized how much he actually did. Taking care of the house is hard for her. She's not as young as she used to be (who is, amIright), she isn't as strong, and she's kinda short.

Why is that relevant, you ask?

Because her ceilings are maybe seven feet high, and she can't reach high enough to change a light bulb even on her tip-toes. And somehow I can't even fathom, she goes through a ton of light bulbs. Every other week she's asking Mr. D. (who is her son and more than happy to help out his mom) to come take care of this or that and "change a couple of light bulbs, too." It's amusing to me, but probably a little frustrating for her.

She asked him to come by because one of the toilets needed plunging and the bathroom sink was leaking, and she needed some light bulbs changed. Unfortunately, she had to wait until we had a free weekend, so it took a couple of weeks. Thankfully she has a second bathroom so she wasn't in dire straits, but it was still an inconvenience for her. At any rate, Mr. D finally had a free weekend and I decided to go with him because I figured we could divide and conquer and get things done faster.

But you know me. .Nothing ever that easy.

We brought all of our tools and planned to buy her a new toilet plunger at Home Depot because we figured she'd probably need a new one. We we're half way there when we realized we'd forgotten the toilet snake. Sigh.

We got to the house and changed a few light bulbs. One or two were found to be socket issues so it wouldn't matter how many bulbs you put in those bad boys, they weren't ever gonna illuminate (problem solved). Another was controlled by a light switch that was in the "off" position (another problem solved). Also, she keeps a large white file box full of light bulbs, some in their packaging, some not, and I don't know if she noticed, but she put one or two of those dead light bulbs back in the file box so I went behind her and tossed them in the trash.

With the bulb issue resolved, we headed to the bathroom with the leaky faucet and problematic toilet, which while technically not clogged wasn't exactly free flowing either. Now, I've been a part of this family for almost twenty years and the water level, upon flushing said toilet, has steadily risen over the years so whatever is clogging that toilet has been settling there for a long, long time. So when one uses the toilet one will experience one of two things depending on how one conducts oneself after toilet use. If one is a "sit and flusher" the flusher will experience an unexpected washing of the tushie as a swirling tide of cold water rushes up and grazes the bum before finally descending down the hole.

On the other had, if one is a "stand and flusher" the flusher will watch with abject terror as the swirling vortex rises higher and higher leaving one on the edge of ones seat, so to speak, wondering if the toilet will over flow this time until, just as the flusher is sure all is lost, the waters will recede. It's fun for the whole family.

We found someone had drilled the holes for the faucet under the bathroom sink far too large, and had fixed the issue by shoving some random round of metal between the hole and the screw that tightens the faucet to the sink, to keep the screw from going through the hole. Otherwise the screw would go through the hole, thereby keeping the faucet from attaching to the sink, instead securing the faucet to air. This would be a problem, in case you're wondering.

Anywho, Mr. D and I took turns shoving ourselves into the impossibly small underside of the sink, I went ahead and liberally applied my four letter sentence enhancers as I struggled, while Mr. D settled for pained grunts. Eventually, we managed to remove the old faucet.

As I said, we'd forgotten the snake and after a quick inspection of the toilet plunger, which had to be forty years old and as hard as an athletic cup, we headed to Home Depot for a more malleable plunger. We also purchased a new faucet, and hoses because, would you believe it, they were still the original copper.

I would like to say we managed to keep it to one trip, but that would be a lie because after we got back to the house, and replaced the faucet, we found that we'd gotten hoses with the wrong connectors. So we went back. No project can ever be completed in one trip to Home Depot no matter how well prepared we are.

After returning from the Depot for the second time with the correct hoses, we reconnected all the things and turned the water back on. I was under the sink, tightening the screwy parts thinking about how amazing it was that I'd managed to make it through the whole process without taking a bath when I got a face full of water because in that moment of distraction, I started to loosen the water hose. I realized my error before the hose was completely detached, but I was still drenched by the time I had re-tightened the hose.

While I replaced the faucet, Mr. D plunged the toilet, but no amount of strong arming that plunger would move whatever was clogging the toilet, and once we turned the water back on the faucet still dripped.

We eventually ran out of time and had to leave things as they were. We felt a lack of accomplishment in spite of all we had accomplished because we left the house in the same shape we had found it. The toilet was still clogged and the sink still had a drip.

One day it will all work out.

I Just Can't...

Here's a gem! Last night, Miney took Moe's half size Barbie to the bathroom to color her hair (the Barbie's hair and it gets so much better). After coloring Barbie's hair (with a purple marker, no less) she was left on a shelf over the toilet because, why not?

Sometime later, Eenie decided to use the bathroom for it's intended purpose and placed her cell on the shelf over the toilet right next to half-Barbie. After completing her task, she flushed the toilet and reached for her phone, accidentally knocking half-Barbie off the shelf. She tumbled into the swirly yellow depths and disappeared before Eenie truly understood the events she had set in motion, not that she would have tried to rescue half-Barbie from her fate had she been able.

Now half-Barbie is resting in a kink in our toilet, just waiting to return in a poo covered vengeance. My better sense says to get ahead of it and call a plumber, but my Luna vision says wait and see. When Eenie told me about the incident last night, I couldn't even laugh, which is seriously awful because things like this are hilarious. Luna has killed my sense of humor. Or maybe just tempered it a little as I found the humor this morning. Dang Luna and her dang need to eat all the dang hair all the dang time.

Does anyone have a snake I can borrow?

Have you seen me?

Oh My Dog...

This is Luna. She is six. She is a Chihuahua mix of some sort that we adopted from the shelter when she was just a wee babe.

Luna

She is one half of a pair I like to call the Idiot Twins. The other half of the moronic duo is her brother Apollo. 

Idiot Twins

They take turns wearing the Crown of Annoyance with my guy, Gus.

Cutest face EVER.

Gus is only annoying because he slobbers A LOT and tends to fling it around when he shakes his head, and cries to go outside, then wants to come immediately back inside, and then wants to immediately go back outside again.

Anyway, Luna has had this habit, since she was very little, to over drink to the point where she vomits so we have to give her ice cubes. She also licks the floor, the couch, Mr. D's legs (which I BEG HIM not to let her do because GROSS!!!) - she licks all the things. If you have a keen eye, you can see what looks like a bald patch on her under carriage above her hind leg. Would you like to know why?

Two weeks ago she threw up per her usual habit, except it wasn't congealed water. It was green. Now it's been raining pretty consistently for three weeks. Around here metric tons of rain = copious crops of mushrooms, and not the safe kind. No matter how we try to keep up with the removal of these fungi, we are never diligent enough, and as sure as the sun rises (eventually) one of the idiot twins will find and consume them and Pootastrophe commences. What follows is about two days of sleepless nights and runny days. It never fails. How did dogs survive in the wild? That's what I want to know.

So Luna voms green gunk and I'm puzzled because usually the green comes from the other end, but things change, so we keep an eye on her. Let me back up. The week before she looked pregnant. Knowing what we know now, we understand what was afoot and would have acted more quickly, but we didn't then what we know now so we did exactly what one would do with the information we had. (Heh!) It was baffling to us that she could be pregnant because she has been fixed as have the other two. I know what you're thinking, "if she's been fixed, she can't get pregnant, idiot." To you who have those thoughts I say, shut your mouth. We have friends who were told their dog was "fixed" and had every reason to believe so until the night she started birthing puppies on the couch.

We got the twins from the shelter and we were told they had been spayed and neutered, but I didn't ask to see evidence, so I kinda have to take their word for it, don't I? At any rate, we were worried we might have been duped or Luna was some kind of miracle, when pregnant belly went away. Then the vomiting began. The, she stopped eating and drinking so I took her to the vet.

At the vet they gave her an antibiotic, an anti-nausea and an injection to help with the dehydration she was experiencing. She had a large lump of liquid on her neck and looked just miserable, but they seemed to think she'd just had a reaction to mushrooms, which I said she "may have eaten, but usually manifest out the back door," so I think they stopped looking for a reason and just went with what I said, except I'm not a vet so maybe we shouldn't just listen to what I said unless we listen to the whole comment which included the part where she has diarrhea not vomiting. Just saying and possibly passing judgement.

At any rate, they sent her home with the caveat that if she vomited again we were to take her to the ER. No less than two hours later, she went ahead and did just that.

To the ER we went and once there, they referred us to a twenty four hour hospital. We had already spent $500 towards treatment by that point. At the second ER they told me they wanted to do some blood work, which had already been done earlier in the day at the other vet, but now it was past six and the other place was closed so we couldn't get those records. $150...They decided to keep her over night for observation because she was severely dehydrated..$1500...

The vet called me later that night and told me she thought Luna had a bowel obstruction. She felt Luna needed surgery to remove the obstruction, but nothing showed up on the x-ray, meaning she hadn't eaten anything metal. The surgery would be "exploratory" meaning they would open her up to dig around and "they might find something, they might not."

Now the price tag on that was $2500, which hurt, but the bigger issue was the fact that they wanted to "open her up and poke around just to see if they find something". That seemed kind of invasive to me, so I asked her to wait.

The next morning she called and said that whatever it was that was clogging Luna's pipes had moved to her lower intestine, but she was concerned it might not move from there. We decided to move forward with the surgery.

The vet called two hours later and said she had removed a mass of hair and bits of sharp plastic from her lower intestine. The hair wouldn't have made it through the colon and the plastic would have torn everything to shreds. When we went to pick her up two days later they showed us the wad of hair they pulled from her gut.

It was just...ungodly. Words can't express....if I had taken a picture...I just can't describe...it was like...I mean....it was just...it had to have been collecting for years. You guys, I have never seen anything like it. It was literally the stuff of my nightmares. I get the heebie jeebies just thinking about it. Bloody, freaking, what the fresh, tenth circle of Hell. Ew. Gah. I'm sorry. I'm done.

One more.

Deep shudder.

So we brought her home, stapled up like Frankenstein's monster, and $4,000 poorer. People, that is above and beyond ridiculous! I haven't spent that much in healthcare for my children in all of their years put together, but what were we supposed to do? Also, I'm over being the one who takes the pets to the vet when they are in crisis! The last two times I took a dog to the vet he/she had to be put down. Who is the common denominator in these cases? I is! 

At any rate, when the children ask why there is no money for college we're going to have to tell them Luna ate it. 

Also, once these three head to the Big Farm, we are never getting another dog. EVER.

The Wind That Almost Broke Me

For anyone who has returned to my blog, you know my two greatest aggravations are the above ground pool we purchased last year (so a recent, but substantial aggravation) and my garden (a long festering continual aggravation). As I wrote in a previous post, I had decided on a different approach to my yearly garden activity with the help of Meenie, and Mr. D's suggestion of choosing one plant to focus on. This year we ended up with green beans enough to choke a small army.

I had to replace one of my two apple saplings when, half way through April, it just stopped growing.  The sapling was unable to sustain itself, but still managed to sprout four other shoots that I was able to salvage. The rest of my trees and bushes were surviving and I felt like I was gonna make it through this season without melting down (again) and then the winds started up. Here in Texas from about March to June is tornado season which means gusty winds almost daily. So every day I was watching with clenched teeth from the window as the the wind whipped my saplings around like rag dolls, the same wind that knocked over the two remaining butt trees (butt trees grow stinky little white flowers in spring) in our yard, at the root. I almost hoped the wind would rip those saplings and bushes out of the ground because then I would'nt have to try anymore.

See, gardening had started as a hobby, something I wanted to do because it was something my Grandma does. Then, it became it a matter of determination. I was going to have a garden. It isn't rocket science for Pete's sake! More recently it is a matter of principle. I've put too much time and money into it to walk away from it. Thus, the hope of watching it blow away. Alas, everything stayed firmly rooted, which is so sad. The part where I was disappointed that it survived was sad.

But that came back around and slapped me across the face because I thought if the saplings and potted plants managed to stay upright, everything was copacetic, right?

Not remotely.

Mr. D was in the back yard one Saturday when a slight (and I am not over stating when I say slight) breeze came through. He came inside and hesitantly informed me that one of my grapevines had just been blown over..................................................................................................................................

Have you ever felt betrayed?

I walked outside to take a look and there, on it's side, was one of my two potted grapevines. I. Lost. My. Crap. It wasn't because the grapevine that had fallen over was the one that established roots from the pot into the ground and was thus the stronger vine, even though it was. It wasn't because I had placed a fence around it to protect the vine from my dogs and the wind had taken the fence with it and crushed my vine inside it, which it did. No, it was the path the wind had to take in order to knock my grapevine over.

Fence, garden box, plants and junk

 This "slight wind" had to travel through the backyard fence and past this garden box I built for giggles and kicks.

The greenhouse

The grapevine

And then pass through this greenhouse which currently holds dead flowers because it is August in Texas. The little garden bed in front also has dead flowers because it's still August in Texas. One of the apple saplings is in the wooden box.



And this is the grapevine. Notice the fence surrounding the pot. Furthermore notice the size of the gaps in the holes of the fences that surrounds the pot. Somebody explain to me how on God's green earth a slight wind, or even a blustery one, could have traveled across the yard and knocked over that vine, fence and all. I am not kidding when I say I came unglued.

I was angry for a couple of weeks and here's why. I have strong faith in God and Jesus Christ. I know He answers our prayers and is aware of each of us and our struggles. I know He loves us and cares about things that are important to us. However, I have prayed over this garden non-stop and it has been an uphill battle. This was just the last straw. Mr. D doesn't understand. He kept telling me that sometimes things just happen. I get that, but there were some extreme machinations for this to have occurred. If God can split the Dead sea so the children of Israel could cross on dry ground or create water from a rock or perform any of a hundred little miracles, surely he could deflect a little wind.

This felt like a purposeful thing and it almost broke me. I began to wonder, how can I pray for help when not only will the Lord not help me, but seems to go out of His way to thwart my efforts. I don't need help killing my garden, I could do that on my own so what was the point of praying?

Except, Heavenly Father doesn't do things to be mean. I was talking to a friend, telling her how angry I felt and how pointless it felt praying for help when I could accomplish the same level of killing my garden on my own when she kind of chuckled and said, "if you don't want to pray, then you really need to." So I started praying to understand the reason or the lesson I needed to learn from this experience. Mr. D still feels it is a case of "sometimes things just happen." Maybe it is because I still don't have an answer, but I'm not angry anymore. Maybe that was the point.

I'm open to suggestions.

Larry, Darryl and Darryl...

I watched this show when I was a kid called "Newhart" starring Bob Newhart. He owned a hotel and there was a trio of brothers who were in every episode. Only one brother ever spoke and he always said the same thing- "Hello, my name is Larry. This is my brother Darryl and my other brother, Darryl."

I always found that amusing...

Just like I remember them.

Until I got married. See what had happened was, I married a man who had the same name as one of my brothers. I also happened to have a very similar name to his mother, but we have common names so I guess I can't complain. However, I still plan to. Anecdote inserted here: my brother who has the same name as my husband went on one date with a girl whose name is the same as mine. He said she was nice enough, but he just couldn't be responsible for adding another couple with the same name to the family. Technically, they would be Pricketts and we would be Davidsons, but would we want to have to make those distinctions at family gatherings? Or be referred to as senior and junior or first and second. My mother already struggles with which man we are speaking of when using the common name of my husband and brother. She's really the only one who can't manage, but throw two of my name in the mix and she'd go into a tailspin from which she'd never recover. 

However, just to make things simple for myself, I started calling my brother by his first and middle name once Mr. D and I were married because there are certain situations where one needs to be able to call to ones husband from another room and have ones husband respond and not ones brother. For example, if one has found oneself in the "meditation chamber" sans toilet paper because the last time one looked there was plenty, but there are two very young little girls in the home who are still learning moderation in their toilet paper usage.

Whew! Tangent. Back to the point.

One more minute. I referred to my brother by his full name for ten years until one day we got into a discussion that led to a warm argument. At one point I used his name and he snapped that he hated that I called him by his full name and why did I start doing that? I was kind of stunned for a minute. I guess it didn't occur to him that the change started when I got married and it didn't occur to me to tell him why I started using it. So now I use his initials. It's worked out for our nieces and nephews, who have two uncles with the same name.

I never really liked my given name so my pen name suits me just fine. In fact, I prefer it. I have no problem answering to my given name if that is how one knew me originally, but the fewer people who know my legal name, the better. I wouldn't be sad if it was lost to the sands of time, but I digress.

Since Mr. D and I were, er, bestowed with common names, I was desirous to give my own children monikers with more distinction. Nothing crazy or impossible to spell (I thought) but something that would keep them from ending up being one of several in their class. They already had Davidson working against them (sorry babe, it's true) they needed something to help distinguish them from every one else. 

Oh boy.

When we named Eenie, I didn't realize there were so many different ways people could imagine her name was spelled. I thought I chose a simple direct spelling. It is almost never anyone's first choice. Or even third. Also, her name tends to sound like initials which leads to various and sundry letter combinations beginning with her first Thanksgiving when my cousin asked if she could hold "PJ". Well, shoot. It was too late to change her name by then. 

Then there was the time when my brood of two and I went to a McRestaurant where I let Eenie and Meenie play for a spell. When it was time to go, Meenie was at my side cheeking a bite of McBurger she'd been chewing for almost fifteen minutes, but still refused to swallow, when I called across the McPlayground, "Eenie! Come hither!"

I heard her sweet little voice echo from inside the McTube that she was on her way when this woman behind me asked if I'd just called for an Eenie. I told her I had just as Eenie popped out of the end of the tube. The woman looked relieved and mentioned she had a daughter named Eenie, too. She mentioned her Eenie's middle name was (insert middle name) and I was kinda irritated. Eenie's middle name is the same! Thankfully she has a different last name. For now.

I thought I was really mixing it up with Miney until we found another little girl with the same name living on our street.

Honestly, there aren't an abundance of people running around with the same names as my children. So it's not as bad, as say, having the same name as your brothers or sisters.

I promise I will never complain about names again.

Let me take you back about a hundred years to a place called Mexico. The population is mostly Catholic and it is tradition to name your children after Saints and family...but mostly saints. And the favorite Saints are Jesus and Mary (or Maria). My Gramma and I went to Humble to visit my cousin D for a couple of days at the beginning of this month. It was the first time in all my years I've really had the opportunity to talk to her (my Gramma).

My cousin is more Mexican than me. Her mother and father were both from Mexico. My grandfather was white so my mother is half white. My father is white so I am even more more diluted. My cousin is immersed in her Mexican side. She speaks fluent Spanish, listens to Spanish music and watches Telanovela. I have never been with my Gramma in this kind of an environment. She spoke Spanish almost exclusively herself and even though I don't speak much, I understood more and more of what they were saying. I loved every minute of it. 

Anyway, I managed to finally get my Gramma's mother's maiden name out of her, a task I have failed at for over ten years. It is crazy what one can find with accurate information. For example:

Gramma's mothers name was Maria... as was her sister's name. And her other sister's name, and her fourth sisters name.

All four sisters' first names were Maria. I kid you not. They did have different middle names. However, the brothers were a little more tricky. There were two Jesus and two Carlos. They also had clarifying middle names, but their last name was Gutierrez.

That's like the United Stated equivalent of Jones. Mary Jones and her sisters, Mary, Mary and Mary. And her brothers John and John and Carl and Carl.

I was recently working on my sister-in-laws family tree. Her family is just as name crazy as mine except their name of choice (one her paternal side) is Willie. Directly down her line is Willie, Willie, Carl, Willie and for variety, Willie. At one point, one of her ancestors, Willie, married a woman name...Willie. Do you know what her father's name was? Floyd.

Haha! 

Wait...Do you hear that? It's the bus I'm about to throw my sister-in-law under! It's not really her fault. We're all victims of what our parents named us. However, my sweet Doly, her mother loved her own name so much she gave it to all three of her daughters, in different variations. There's the root name and a unique ending; enette, eneth, and olynette. One of those endings belong to her mother. The third daughter was gifted with a mashup of her mother and fathers name. It's pretty creative.

They all have some version of Maria as their middle name. Maria, Marie...I feel like 90% of the female population sports Marie in some variation as their middle name. My mother in law does. Last night I was thinking about all the variations of Mary that I am currently aware of; Mary, Maria, Marie...Did you know Martha is also a variation of Mary/Maria? If I thought my name was common before, realizing my middle name is a variation of one of the most common names ever was a poke in the eye. 

Hello, I'm Mary, this is my great Grandmother Mary and my great Aunt Mary and my other great Aunt Mary and my other, other great Aunt Mary.

It's SO SIMPLE...(Pool Version)

This is the last post about that stupid pool I promise.

We finally gave in and drained it. The next time someone says "it's so simple" to my face, we're going to play a little game called "fronthand/backhand" wherein I present the option of fronthand/backhand and the offending comment-or then chooses fronthand/backhand and I apply my fronthand/backhand swiftly across their mouth. Unfortunately, this game can only be played once as the other party usually picks up on the rules fairly quickly and will not play again. I saw this game on an episode of Key and Peele. It was amusing. I digress.

To be fair, draining the pool really should have been "just that simple". There are, in fact, three manufacturer installed ways to drain that pool. There is a drain installed at the bottom. All one has to do is unscrew the cap and replace it with another, easily screwed on piece that allows the water to freely flow from the pool. It even allows one to add a garden hose so the water can be directed elsewhere, thus preventing a small flood in the immediate vicinity.

Options two and three are built into the the filter itself. One simple places one of the pool hoses inside of the pool and either chooses "drain" or "waste" and the filter does all the work. Again, if one has a long enough filter hose it can prevent a swampy back yard.

However, we did not have the piece that connected to the drain. So option 1 was no longer an option. I found that I could shove my big toe in the drain and the water would escape, but frankly, I wasn't interested in sitting beside the pool with my toe in the hole as a new pool formed around me and I sank into the mud. I guess I'm just not that committed.

Options 2 and 3 disappeared when we couldn't achieve the suction needed between hose, filter and water to remove the water, because you have to have all three of those things to remove water from the pool using that method.

As all three manufacturer methods were no longer available, and nothing can just be simple, draining the pool was not that simple. Mr. D did a little research on the good 'ole world wide web and found a fourth way to remove the water called "siphoning." Maybe you've heard of it. People use it to steal gas in the movies. We did a slightly altered version where we placed a garden hose in one end of the pool and then turned the water on. We left it on for a minute and then turned it off, disconnected it from the house, and carried it (upright) to the other end of the yard where we placed it on the ground in an area that was lower than the end of the hose in the pool.

It worked! Huzzah! Water was draining from the pool! It took three days.

After day two I was getting a little antsy and was considering sticking my toe in that drain for a few hours. I did, in fact, stick my toe in the drain when my son, who was in the pool (don't ask) realized the drain poked out on the inside and he could stick his fingers underneath it to keep it open. He wedged a little piece of plastic under the lip and the drain stayed open! Huzzah! Two exits for water! Things were looking up.

Every couple of hours I went outside to swirl the water around to ensure that the muck actually made it out of the drains. Oh my naivete!

On day three, I woke up refreshed and ready to clean out the dregs of the pool, happy to fill it with clean water and start over. I walked outside with a smile on my face and what do I see as I approached the pool? Eighteen inches of nasty green water. See, the drain didn't go all the way to the bottom and while the garden hose did, the flow of water had ebbed to the merest trickle. Also, in spite of the fact that I'd kept the peas soup stirred the entire time, only the clear water had escaped.

I climbed the ladder and stepped into the pool with a bucket and new attitude.

One of my big issues with wallowing through the sludge was the ginormous gash I was sporting on my right ankle. See, what had happened was, I was shaving my leg two days before (yes, just the one). My shower is rather narrow, so I have to get creative and contort-y when I shave. So there I was, heel pressed against the wall, toes pointed the the sky, knee to my nose, pushing the shower head away with my right hand, whilst trying to shave with my left hand, but I am not left-handed, you see. Thus, I decided to rearrange my position by holding back the shower head with my left hand and shaving with my right. Things were going relatively well until I reached my ankle which was tweaked in such a fashion that the tendon that runs aside my ankle was flexed more than usual...It was a new contortion I was trying. I shant be repeating it, is what I'm saying.

It was about that point that I lost interest in continuing that particular activity. I called for Meenie and asked her to bring a hand towel and large bandage with her. I told her I was gonna stick my leg out the shower and she would need to quick dry my leg and slap that bandage on post haste. She asked where the cut was and I assured her she would see it. So I stuck my leg out there and wow! it was a bleeder. She slapped that bandage on like a pro, but it was already filled with blood before I had dried off. Now, I like to think I am a nerves of steel kinda girl, but I am not.

By the time I was dressed and making my way to the couch the bandage was leaking and my head was pounding. I was nauseous, light headed and seeing stars. It was pitiful. I eased myself onto the couch and called Meenie over to ask her to change my bandage, but I was breathing real slow and deliberate like so the conversation went like this:

Me: I need you to change it. I'm bleeding out...

Meenie: Mom, you're such a drama queen.

Me:...of the bandage.

It was pretty funny.

Anyway, back to the pool that I'm wading in with this large gash that I'm sure is going to get infected and then it will get gangrene and they'll have to amputate and then all I'll have to show for my efforts is a stump and will anyone appreciate the sacrifice I made for them. No! No they will not. These and other angry thoughts fill my brain as I bend, scoop and toss nasty green water out of the pool and just like that, two hours have passed and suddenly, the pool is clean!

Yay! I went and reconnected the hose and fresh clean water began to fill the pool. We have crystal clear waters by 4:30 that afternoon. It was beautiful. I shed a tear.

My friend Tomaco has told me the difference between white people and black people is that white people hope you won't and black people wish you would. So tell me how simple it is just to start over and just drain the pool.

I wish you would.

Battle With the Pool Season 2

For those of you who may not remember, we bought an above ground pool last year because...it really did seem like a good idea at the time. However, the idea began to sour almost as soon as we left the store.

Why? http://dpdavidson.blogspot.com/2017/07/the-rain-in-spain.html

That's why.

We made it through the winter with everything intact (or so we thought) but when Spring came we learned the truth and it was ugly. So, so, ugly.

The cover that had come with the pool was, how to put it nicely...worthless, so I ended up using a tarp to cover the pool. It worked pretty well, but then it rained once or twice and then the water froze and melted so then there were puddles and do you know what likes to spawn in puddles? Mosquitoes.

Yeah, so as soon as it was warm enough, we got hustle outside with buckets to remove the nasty water that had collected on top of the tarp, because the water in the pool was pristine, and I did not spend the winter keeping it covered so I could immediately contaminate it with mosquito larvae, doyouhearme!

However, in removing the ocean water upon the tarp, we flooded the back yard which ripped Mr. D's knickers because he had wanted to mow down the forest (a.k.a. backyard) that evening. Maybe it was the sight of a million pre-winged mosquitoes wiggling in the tarp water under my nose, but I felt my issue was a little more pressing than his. I really didn't want to be the family responsible for infesting the entire neighborhood. Maybe I hadn't conveyed that message clearly enough to him. He thought I was just being a brat. That's another story, and I will tell it. It's crazy and it's not his fault.

At any rate, the yard was flooded, but the tarp was off and the pool water was clear and beautiful and even though you could see the schmutz on the bottom, a little bit of chemical intervention, a little suck, suck from the pool vacuum, and running of the filter and we should have been good to go, but NO, it can't ever be that easy.

I plugged in the filter and the clear top cracked. Well, dammit.

You know, I've seen it a lot lately, where the loss of the smallest, seemingly insignificant thing can render the entire entity completely useless. It is astounding how often that happens. For example, the smallest piece broke in the driver's side seat belt of Eenie's car, so her seat belt wouldn't latch. If her seat belt doesn't latch she can't drive her car (as her parents, we won't allow it. Period. The end). Thus her entire car is useless.

Anyway, the top was broken, thereby rendering the entire pool filter useless. Two futile weeks spent in search of a replacement top gave us unfiltered and therefore, green, water and we ended up buying a completely new filter because that one little piece can only be bought from England and is unavailable until August. Remember those mosquitoes? They were about to have a whole lot more breeding ground if we didn't step up our game. Also, you can chemical the ever-loving life out of your pool water, but it still needs a filter because those june bugs can't swim and don't remove themselves.

So Mr. D orders a new filter, but dammit it all if he didn't check to make sure the hoses that came with it fit the pool. Because they didn't, but it wouldn't have mattered if he had because the brand of pool we bought (Bestway - avoid it like the plague) is the ONLY brand that uses the size hose it does. Also, because size wasn't enough of an issue, the new filter's hoses screw on while our old hoses were clamped.

I managed to fit our old hoses onto the new filter (yay!) and we were in business (!) until I went outside the next morning and found that the outgoing hose (old) had sprung a leak. DAMMMIT! Bear in mind, this was in the same four week period that we were planning and executing Eenie's graduation ceremony and party, planning and executing a week long trip across the mid-west, wherein half way through the trip the AC in the van died, Meenie was preparing to take her driver's test, and the car she needed to use was the car that no longer had a functioning driver's side seat belt, and we were also preparing to take Eenie to Utah to spend the Summer with my brother and sister-in-law. So this was the annoyance that just kept on giving.

I couldn't use the hoses that had originally come with the pool. None of them, because the second hose cracked the next day, and every day we can't run the filter is another day the algae gets further ahead of us. I'm racking my brain trying to figure out some way to adapt these stupid friggin hoses for my pool and I think, "I can't be the only person in the world who has this issue!"

Amazon had adapters. I ordered and installed them. I would like very much to say we have won the war and the Davidson's are able to enjoy the pool once more, but that would be a dirty, dirty lie because it is a dirty, dirty pool.

Mr. D thinks we should drain it, but I feel like doing that is a sign of defeat and if we drain it, I just want to get rid of it, but we've come to the place where we've invested too much time, energy and money just to let it go. I hate it when I find myself in that position. It's like the dang garden all over again.

We should just drain it, but I'm no quitter. I will, however, use every curse word I've ever heard while I continue to beat my head against the pool filter of futility.

Stupid pool.

D.P. vs. the Garden: Round 18

So it's gardening season again and here I am, seed packets in hand, hoping for bountiful glory, destined for bushels of misery.

I went out to check on my trees and vines at the beginning of March and realized that even though I had placed a fence around my lemon trees, my dog was still just tall enough to eat the tops of the branches. SO OF COURSE HE DID.

When I saw the damage I immediately began to spiral. "I have to build taller fences and then replace all the bird netting over the garden bed. More dirt! I need more dirt! The red mulch isn't looking as red as it did last year. Must have more red mulch. Must. Get. To. Home. Depot." My heart was racing, my palms were sweaty and I felt light headed. Meenie, who also doubles as my garden buddy, watched me spiral with a look of amusement and embarrassment when suddenly, through the haze of insanity, I had a single moment of clarity.

Not this time.

In that moment, I decided I was not going to allow my garden to run my life. It is supposed to be relaxing, dammit, and I've never been so stressed out in my life! I took a deep breath, dropped what I was holding and walked into the house, but in order to make sure the spiral stopped completely, I had to pop a Xanax. A Xanax, people. It happened to be my last one.

I had to see my doc for a refill and she asked how I was doing with the anxiety and I told her I really only had to take one every once in a while, like when I'm spiraling about my garden. She got real quiet and said, "you need to do something you enjoy."

Now that you mention it, what the hell am I doing?

I talked to Mr. D about my resolve to take a simpler approach to gardening and he suggested the same things he's suggested every year. Try planting just one or two things. For whatever reason, I took that to mean plant one or two plants which sounded dumb to me, because it was dumb and also not what he meant.

So I have planted a crap ton of green beans, tomatoes and cucumbers. If I don't end up with a crap ton of green beans, tomatoes and cucumbers, I'm calling it.

Time of death: 19 years.

D.P. vs. the Tree...

The woman who owned our home before us got a wild hair up her butt, just before they moved, and planted eight of those nasty Braburn pear trees in our back yard. Not only do those pear trees not bear fruit, every year they blossom with these pretty little white flowers that smell like butt. I cannot express to you how nasty those flowers smell. So when that first spring came around imagine my horror at finding my very own smelly butt garden blooming in the back yard. I hated those trees, thus I was hardly saddened when, one by one, they all died.

Except for the last two. They have held on and fought the good fight. One died last year and seemed to be hanging around waiting for his buddy to die. The second one didn't die so much as it fell over, detaching the root system from the trunk. It was really kind of appalling, the dead one standing stoically over the not dead but uprooted one. At any rate, the fallen tree managed to miss all things important when it fell, but its been on its side for about two weeks. Tuesday I decided it was time to take care of the carcass, however, lacking the proper power tool meant using a handsaw to cut that bugger up. I was tired after about ten minutes. I was hardly able to raise a glass of water to my lips after twenty. I started getting blisters in inconceivable places after thirty minutes and after that its all a blur.

I knew the job would never get done with only that handsaw. I went to Home Depot later that day and looked over a few chainsaws, but chainsaws kinda scare me. So I left Home Depot with the disappointingly teeny pots I had ordered online and could not return.

Once home Meenie and I went to work on the tree until dark. Our home teacher came by that night and offered the use of his electric chainsaw. I'm afraid of chainsaws but I like the idea of an electric saw because it doesn't work when it's unplugged. Don't ask for an explanation, man. Just take it for what it is.

Fast forward to today, when the stars had aligned. I took that chainsaw outside to make quick work of the fallen tree and quick work it was. Thus I decided to move on to the second deader though upstanding tree. My plan was to cut off some of the limbs over hanging important structures I did not want smashed.

That's when I noticed the chain was off the blade. So I took it apart, adjusted the chain and put the blade back on. Upside down, because of course. I opened it up and corrected the blade. I should have taken that for the sign that it was, but I didn't.

Here's the thing, if Mr. D had done the job, there would have been no hang-ups, no pitfalls, and no aggravation, but because I was the one doing the work, it ended up becoming a hundred times more complicated. For example, standing underneath and to the side of the first limb I cut off, the limb should have fallen straight to the ground, but because it was me, the branch got caught up in another branch as it fell and instead of falling down it swung to the side and landed softly though directly on top of my head. That was the second out that I did not take.

I desired that the tree would fall to the north, but even with a cursory cut on the north side it fell to the south where I was standing. It missed me but did hit the fence, the compost bin and my tub garden, all things I was wanting to avoid having the tree land on. Which was why I opted to cut it down as opposed to waiting for it to take the initiative to fall on its own. In the meantime, Eenie is watching the entire process from the trampoline while intermittently laughing her but off and gasping in fear.

The chainsaw kept coming unplugged and at one point I yanked on the cord and the plug came flying at my face and hit me in the lip. Still I pushed ahead, because I don't know when to quit. I decided to remove the limbs all around the trunk, leaving the limbs still holding the trunk up for last. However, because the tree was dead some of the limbs had already broken. Whilst upon the north side of the tree, I pulled one of the limbs off the fence which caused one of the supporting limbs to break and the whole thing came falling back towards me. I was starting to feel that the tree was taking things personally and actively trying to kill me. I managed to get the rest of the limbs severed without incident when wouldn't you know it, the trunk took one last shot and tried to roll over me as I cut it in half. Guys, this tree had nubbins all around it. It should not have been able to "roll." I looked at the scratches, bruises and blisters on my hands and arms and decided I should walk away while I still had all ten of my fingers.

I should just stop doing things.

It's SO SIMPLE...

Except it wasn't.

Last week I was rolling to the Corner Market to purchase meds for my bookends who were sporting fevers (because even homeschooled kids get sick) when the front right tire just popped. I pulled over and set to work changing the tire from flat to donut and was back on the road ten minutes later. Now, Ennie has mentioned, countless times, that her tires are bald but tires aren't free and don't magically appear. The stars of money and time must be aligned for pretty much anything to happen. Thankfully those stars aligned on Friday.

Around 11:00 a.m. Friday morning, I headed to the Discount Tire before the stars left that perfect alignment and wouldn't you know it, the Discount Tire was closed.

All of them.

In the country.

Literally.

The founder of Discount Tire had died and every Discount Tire was closed from 10-2 so that every employee could attend the funeral. It wasn't posted on the door or on the website, but it was the message one got when one called Discount Tire.

So I attempted to occupy my time at a nearby shopping center to avoid putting more miles on the donut, but I got bored and went home. At 2:15 Eenie and I headed back to Discount Tire and had soon purchased four new tires. We only needed two but the other two would be needed sooner rather than later and the stars were still aligned.

We walked to the McDonalds only to find the lobby was closed. The drive thru was still open, but one must be in a car to use it and we had left our car across the street. We took a chance and strolled up to the window where we explained that we would have brought a car had we known it was required, and the women in the window begrudgingly allowed us to buy drinks.

We walked back to the Discount Tire where we raced bar stools until the car was ready and then Ennie drove us home because bar stool racing left me dizzy. Mr. D also required tires, though half as many, so for those of you who need help, that's six tires.

The next day was even funner.

Mr. D went grocery shopping Friday night and pulled the van into the driveway to unload it. However, he opted to leave it there. I had taken Eenie's car for the night and when I got home at eleven, I parked next to the van instead of parking across the street.

The next morning, Mr. D decided to see his parents, but wanted his car which was in front of the van, in the garage. Stay with me, it's relevant.

He moved the van behind Eenie's car and then told me the ignition was hesitating in the van and I should see about the battery before I found myself stranded somewhere. Then he left. Meenie and I were supposed to go pick her friend up so a few minutes later we get in the van and, wouldn't you know it, it wouldn't start. I popped the hood and found one of the posts was covered in corrosion!

That was great because lots of time corrosion disrupts the current and simply removing the corrosion is all that is required to get the vehicle running again. I removed the corrosion, but sometimes it takes the battery a minute that I didn't have to respond. However, the van was blocking the car...

Luckily the spacing between the van, the car and the garage was enough that one perfect three point turn later, Meenie and I were on the road.

We stopped at Auto Zone on the way home because I had noticed the post connection on the battery would need to be changed because of the corrosion. I also thought it would be a great opportunity to teach my girls a useful skill. It was supposed to be an easy fix. I mean, the connector from the post snapped off in my hand! It was half done already, but dang it all if it didn't just suck from there. One little nut stood between me and a completed job.

One. Little. Nut. that refused to budge. I sent the girls inside when it became clear things weren't progressing. I tore up my fingers, bruised my forearms and knees and cursed a blue streak all to no avail. Mr. D strolled up two hours later and used a hacksaw to cut the screw off. So Simple!

Grrrr...Whatever, it was done.

Of course it was a chore tightening the connector to the post of the brand new battery we ended up buying, and after five minutes of complaining, Mr. D decided he was going to buy a less annoying connector and left. I had it tight before he got back, hands empty, because the connector I had purchased was the only kind Auto Zone had that would work in the van. Which was why I bought it. He asked why I didn't say something before.

Why hadn't I said something? So, so, many reasons.

1. I had been working on it all day and he was ready to quit after five minutes?
2. I needed him to leave before one of us got slapped?
3. He wouldn't have accepted my answer?
4. I needed him to leave before one of us got slapped?

I was pretty proud of my three point turn and while I was explaining how I'd gotten out of the driveway, he cut my off with a snarky, "I know, you drove across the grass." 

(Long pause as I wait for my eyes to stop rolling.)

"Three point turn, nothing but driveway. Suck it!"

Six tires and one battery later, the stars have changed position. If there is any further need it's just gonna have to wait.

P.S. After reading this to Mr. D his one comment was "I'm always the bad guy in this thing, but if it makes you laugh..."