Get your holiday decorations up early; otherwise, you won’t bother, and wouldn’t that be sad?
(By the way, it’s three weeks until Christmas. AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!)
For The Gambit, it is all lights, all the time. He has a sixth sense for the location of every switch in a room, and must immediately determine which light it’s connected to. (He does this with Uncle Wookiee, anyway, whose name is “Up!” as far as The Gambit is concerned. Auntie Robin don’t play that game.)
We had an interesting time at a local furniture store recently. An oven was set up, mercifully unplugged. The Gambit immediately started pressing the buttons. “On!” Then he’d check the overhead light, the table lamp, the halogens, everything. “On!” Finally, he sighed in frustration — then noticed the giant window, looking out on the city. He ran over to said window and pressed his face against it, checking out all the skyscrapers, lit up in the dark. Then… he went back to the oven, pressed the button, said “On!”, and returned to the window to see which skyscraper’s lights were connected to the oven switch. All buttons are connected to lights, you see; it’s just a matter of determining which one.
This kid is scary smart. He’s going to outlap us all soon, unless his brain completely shorts out from all the Christmas decorations. (“Light! Light! Light! Wow!”)
I haven’t started explaining about The Rogue yet. I’m not sure how; there’s lots of “baby sibling” books out there, but that doesn’t really apply. I suppose I’ll figure it out sooner or later… or just deal with the meltdowns when they arrive.
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Okay, I know, I really, really ought to be paying more attention to the new Afghanistan surge, and the various implications thereof. But you know what? I got nothin’. Obama is saying all the right things — and Lord knows I trust him more than I trust Bush, if for no other reason than he’s not a moron — but an increase in troops is still an increase in troops. I have a hard time believing that more soldiers will win this, when frankly, soldiers were never the solution in the first place. Can somebody point me towards a time when pointing a gun successfully changed someone else’s culture?
I think I’m a little burned out. Probably too much time watching the health care sausage get made. I promise, I’ll be enthusiastic in time for the midterms, but until then? I think I’m going to go watch a few more episodes of old-school sitcoms (The Nanny, anyone?) and try to kick my cold/soreness. (I’ve turned creative new colors of purple, by the way.)
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I did warn you that this would turn into a quasi-fertility blog. (In my defense, very little is going on with the baseball hot stove right now, which would be what I’d talk about otherwise.)
So, the medication I was taking worked pretty well — not fabulously, but pretty well — and according to the doc, I was ready to take the ovulation drug. Okay, fabulous. Until she told me a little more about it.
“I have to inject myself?”
“It’ll be fine,” she said soothingly. “It’s just the size of an insulin needle. Doesn’t hurt a bit. Just make sure you do it between 5 and 7 PM.”
Well, okay, I figure. I’d seen The Chef inject herself about a million times while she was waiting for The Gambit, and it wasn’t too hard. Pre-loaded needle, the works. I’m not scared of needles or anything, though I prefer not to look when getting blood drawn. I can handle this.
At 5:45 PM, go into the bathroom. I clean a little spot on my stomach just below my navel. I get out the syringe, tap the needle, and force out the tiny drop of liquid. I take a deep breath and stick the needle in my belly.
The next thing I know, I’m on the floor of the bathroom, freezing cold, and Death Wish is licking my foot. I’m half-leaning against the radiator and my head hurts. The magazine holder is at my back. The shelves under the sink have been kicked into a weird position. The syringe is on the bathmat, needle bent, still full of medication.
I find my cell phone. It’s just past 6 PM. I’ve lost, oh, six or seven minutes.
Getting up off the floor, the room spins and I almost fall again. The back of my head is throbbing, and when I touch it, I can feel a tender spot right at the base of my skull. Fabulous. It’s probably time to call The Wookiee, who is out running errands.
“Hi,” I say, flopping on the couch. “I tried to inject myself, but I kind of passed out. I feel pretty funky. I think you’re going to have to do it for me. Think you can come home?”
“Um, yes,” says The Wookiee.
While waiting, the feeling starts to come back to my body, and I realize that my ass hurts. I wriggle around to look, and yep, there’s an eight-inch gash. It’s wept blood through my pajama pants. Wonderful.
When The Wookiee gets home, I have him grab the needle off the floor, and I bend it back into shape. After all, we only have half an hour left of the injection window. “Okay, it looks pretty clean. I guess we should still be able to use it.”
“Uh-huh,” says The Wookiee.
“You have reservations.”
“I also have three cats,” says The Wookiee. “Care to state anything else obvious?”
In the end, The Wookiee performs admirably, and the injection is completed (without any sign of horrible infection, I’d like to say). The Pierogi and his girlfriend come over to keep me company (and awake, given the possibility of a concussion) while The Wookiee goes back out for gauze for my ass. He also comes back with four kinds of ice cream.
The moral of the story: Don’t try to inject yourself near a sharp-cornered magazine holder and a metal radiator.
Posted in second line pursuit | 7 Comments »
So I had to inject myself. That ended with me unconscious on the bathroom floor, a knock on the back of the head from the radiator and an eight-inch gash on my ass from the magazine rack.
Wonderful.
Posted in second line pursuit | 1 Comment »
No matter how stressed you are about the holidays, booze is not the answer. Unless it’s tawny port.
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