Don't Read This

Rambling...that's my middle name. I would change it, but I don't like change...unless it's jingley change. That I like. That and donuts. But not the "fat-free" kind. Those are yucky. What was I saying?

9/7/06 12:36 PM

Death by Vick's Vapor Rub

How many things can go wrong in just one day? Why can’t every day just be trouble free? Where does it say that life has to be just one big ‘ol kick in the head after another? And why doesn’t Steve Buscemi get his teeth fixed? Ignore that last question.

Today did not start off well. I pride myself on being a very good parent. I really do. And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that sewing my own son’s clothes out of yarn is probably not a good way to show it. But, he loves them, dammit, and pleasing him is what’s most important. Okay, he doesn’t love them, but he does wear them. If he didn’t, I’d just ground him to his room again and conveniently forget to fill his water bowl. Actually, sometimes I really do forget. Well, the bowl is white and sometimes when the light hits it wrong, you can’t tell it’s empty. Except if the water gets dirty from sitting there too long. Then it’s easy to tell. Just kidding. It’s still hard to tell.

So, this morning, I tell him that he’s a big boy now and he doesn’t have to use his booster seat anymore. He was so happy and proud and rattled his chains to show it. I just smiled and put him on the chair and then noticed that his face was just level with the table edge. Oh, well, so he wasn’t exactly big enough yet, but what harm could it do? I quickly found out.

Suddenly, he rears back and lets out this horrible sneeze and his little face just slams right into the edge of the table. Awful. Just awful. What a mess. I mean, he chipped the Formica right off the edge and that stuff is not cheap, let me report. Then he starts screaming and holding his face, yelling, “The blood! The blood! My tooth!” Blah-blah-blah. Hey, bucko, teeth will grow back, but who’s going to fix my table?

Eventually, I saw how bad he had been hurt and after I revived him after fainting from blood loss, I took him to the dentist to get his tooth fixed.

Okay, none of that last story actually happened (except the water bowl part), but I do have a Formica table that got chipped. My son says he didn’t do it, but I still almost grounded him to his room. Instead, I just put him in the well for a few hours and yelled down to him, “It puts the lotion on it’s skin or else it gets the hose again!” No, I’m kidding. The hose doesn’t work anymore. And we were out of lotion, so I threw down some of that yucky Vick’s Vapor Rub.

I remember my mom used to slather that stuff all over my chest when I was younger and sick. Now she says I’m older and sick. Anyway, somehow the fumes were supposed to open up your nasal passages. It worked, too! The bad part is that it also singed my eyelashes, burned all the hairs out of my nose and opened up the nasal passages of all the neighbors within a block’s distance. I think I read someplace that Vick’s Vapor Rub was invented during the Spanish Inquisition. That, and the packaging for CD’s. Have you noticed how hard it is to get into a packaged CD? I gave up and started using dynamite. It worked, too! Well, just on one side. For the other side, I used my band saw.

Seriously, though, I do love my son. He’s such a precious little thing. And my daughter. I don’t actually have a daughter, but I have to say I do in this blog since I have to justify the money the State gives me. Qualifying was no easy task, let me tell you. When I introduced my daughter to the welfare lady, saying, “Tell the nice lady hello, Nellie,” the lady said, “That looks like a mannequin”.

I got really nervous and just told her that she’d slept wrong in the bed and was probably just a little stiff. And she bought it. I got a nice, big fat check. Just in time, too, because I need some new DVD’s. I’m just upset that I have to spend part of it, dressing and feeding the mannequin. I have no idea what I’ll do once she starts school. Faking that is going to be sheer hell, I can tell you. Plus, she’s getting really uppity these days. Striking poses all day long, thinking she’s a model or something. And she never listens. I scream at her all day to friggin’ sit down already, but she just stares off into space. I’m thinking of letting her have a nice long stint in that well. See if that won’t wake her up.

About the Author
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I was born in Rangoon and was raised by a one-legged goat-herder who suffered from halitosis, crunchy hair, and a cough due to cold. One day while I was out helping my goat-herding legal guardian collect a couple of stray goats who were bleating and eating our neighbor's poppies (they weren't really poppies...they were carrots, but he tried to fool us so we wouldn't eat his "upside down flowers"), I happened upon a book written by Mark Tween (yes, I know it sounds the same as that other guy, but trust wasn't him) and instantly fell in love with book binding. It was beautiful.

Later when I was in high school (okay, prison, but they did teach us things), I decided I wanted to become an amateur milk I went to finishing school (where I learned to finish the folk tales I used to spin but never finish when I was a kid and an old plate of beets I refused to eat when I was eight because they reminded me of my Aunt Edna's blood boils)...and the rest, as they say, is history. Well, not the kind you'd read in a book...unless you happen to be writing a book about me, which would be pretty unlikely...unless you're my mother and someone raised you from the dead. She's not actually dead, but that's what she always screams at my brother. "You make me so mad, I wish I was DEAD!"

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