Random acts of stupidity (or not) performed, witnessed, aided and abetteted or possibly made up entirely by me.

I once glued $8.00 worth of pennies to a blanket because I felt like it, hid it (poorly) because I was afraid of getting in trouble and lied about it (also poorly) when busted by my mom. I think I was trying to make a flag of some-sort. I don't really know; I was five.

I once flattened an entire family of bunny-rabbits (mommie and ten-thousand teeny-tiny babies) with my car on Granville Rd. I was driving home from Purdue to eat dinner with my family, Freshman year. On Easter Sunday.

I once set my water heater ablaze when the idea struck me to cleverly fix that annoying drip, drip, drip with an extremely flammable plumbing adhesive called Stop Leak. It made a movie-quality "whooosh" sound, but I digress. I then, cleverly mind you, dumped five gallons of water on the flames to put out the fire. And the pilot light. Alcohol may or may not been involved. I do remember for sure that the bill from the plumber I hired (and lied to about what actually happened) gave me a bill for $73.50.

While traveling through Europe I once descended the wrong side of a mountain and landed myself in a completely different country, without any money (would have been for the wrong country anyway, I had Francs not lire), or my passport. Funny how: when you think you are in France, Italian sounds a hell-of-a-lot like Spanish. Hol-friggin-la!

I once went into the boys locker room at Fountain Central because I was invited (stop thinking dirty thoughts, I was in 6th grade, PedoBear!). Besides, I wanted to see what it looked like in there. But then I got caught, or rather the douche that invited me told everyone and our cheerleading sponsor found out. Thanks for going easy on me, Bonnie Wolf.

I once (with a few accomplices) went to Chicago on a school day and drove on Lake Shore Drive before I had my license. It was the first and only time I've cried whilst driving 80 MPH.

I once hid a ferret in my parents' house for three months without them knowing. I was strictly forbade from owning a ferret. Some pals and I rescued her from a very dangerous environment. After I brought her home, I just couldn't give her up. I miss Mo.

I once peed in a park and slept on a bench when I couldn't find my way back to my hostel. In London. (At least the people that called me a homeless wanker spoke English and gave me a gyro).

I once was forcibly removed from a live production of Rockey Horror Picture Show. That, in itself, deserves a trophy of some sort.

I once went to Paddington Station in London (different trip all together) and bought a ticket for the first train leaving. I found myself in Dover, England (as in The White Cliffs of...) and had the time of my life. I stayed four days and even took a day-trip to France while I was there. I toured Dover Castle and the amazing network of WWII caves underneath. I made a friend I'm still in contact with as of today.

I once adopted a de-scented skunk as a pet and had her stolen from me by a bunch of dicks that burgled my house. I named her after a Phish song (Reba) and taught her how to sit up and beg. I miss her too.

I once sang the National Anthem for a crowd of a couple thousand basketball fans (Sectional Semi-finals at Attica High School) and almost had a stroke. At least I didn't forget the friggin words. The Trueloves might still have that disaster on video (makes mental not to ask).

I once followed Phish for two months just because I could (and was young and stupid). I ran out of money in a few weeks and had to get creative to feed myself (paid for my tix ahead of time, thank God). I sold cigarettes, beer and water and lived in a Geo Metro with a lesbian that called herself Moonbeam. I went 11 days without a shower and learned this valuable lesson; patchouli is not a substitute for soap.

I once got addicted to E-bay (can you say Coach? D&B?) and had to have my loving husband cut me off by changing my password for me. Still clean to this day although.......

I once met a man (Falco Rex) on an internet message board. He became my mortal enemy. We fought and argued but eventually joined forces (proverbially) to punish others who dared to challenge us and our beliefs. We drew a rather large group of followers from eight different countries (minions, we called them) and eventually built our own website for trolling and flaming the noooooobs. As we grew closer, he confided in me that he was unhappy where he was living in New Hampshire and wished he could just start over somewhere else. I was living by myself with Audrey the kitty, my crazy cat lady days still in my distant future, so I offered one of my two spare rooms to him if he'd like to make the move to cow country and be my roommate. The first time we met in person was when I picked him up at the downtown Indianapolis bus station. Six years later and we're still in contact, I usually just call him "Hubby".

Authors note; this is not how we usually dress. The photographer happened to catch us on our way to church.
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And the winner is....... Me!

http://www.jennsylvania.com/jennsylvania/2011/02/and-the-winner-is.html

I just won a contest held by my favorite author and make-believe best friend, Jen Lancaster. A friend of mine loaned one of her books to me a couple years ago and I was instantly hooked. A fellow Purdue grad, Jen has a direct line to my funny-bone. Her surley satire and snarkey whit destroy me with laughter everytime I pick up her work. She reminds me so much of my sister Jenn. Conincidence? Perhaps not.

Jen Lancaster recently had "Name your favorite holiday" contest on her blog and while some entries were original and interesting (Festivus, Drinking Day) most were boring (Christmas times 2000). I thought I would utilize our mutual love for all things Simpson's and choose the fictional "Whacking Day" as my holiday entry. The prize is Jen's intire winter reading list.

Skipping a Beat by Sarah Pekkanen

Amaryllis in Blueberry by Christina Meldrum

The Amateurs by Marcus Sakey

It's Not Me, It's You by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor

Backseat Saints by Joshilyn Jackson

This Is Where We Live by Janelle Brown

The Dead-Tossed Waves by Carrie Ryan

Here Lies Bridget by Paige Harbison

and, from previous season's Reading Lists

Good Enough to Eat by Stacey Ballis

Not Ready for Mom Jeans by Maureen Lipinski

It's All Relative by Wade Rouse (signed)

My Fair Lazy by Jen Lancaster (signed)

I suppose since my sister Jenn spent about three (edit; four. Jenn Foster says it was more like four) hours of her Friday evening at a signing last year to score me a personalized, signed copy of My Fair Lazy I should pass the new copy (the one that might or might not have been dropped in the bathtub in a fit of laughter) on to her. So I guess we're both winners to some degree. Anyway, between close-out prices thanks to poor management at Borders and my most awesome-y-awesome cache of brand new books soon to head my way I should be set with reading material for the next few months.

Crazy cat lady strikes again.

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I saw this cat tree online and just couldn't pass it up. The price was right ($125 from allpetfurniture.com, no shipping costs) and the print matches my new curtains. Now my guys have six towering feet of platforms and condo-style hidey-holes on which they can shed and cough-up. And bless my loving husband for putting it together for me (he makes my heart go 'squee'). I tried myself but the directions were in Sanskrit, as I'm only fluent in Lolcat and Pirate this was a bit of an issue.

They Might be Giants-Birdhouse In Your Soul

I have so many happy memories associated with this song, with They Might Be Giants. Eric and Chris (Ball State swim camp buddies) introduced me to their music the same weekend as Monte Python and the Holy Grail and home theater surround-sound. I saw the group live for the first time in 1996, Slater Slammer (do they still have that at Purdue?)and I buy tickets any time they have a show within 100 miles. The Vogue in Indianapolis is a great venue for them to display their talents as it's quaint but not divey, there's always plenty of room to stand or sit as you please, they have an intermission as well as a set break between opener/headliner and it's non-smoking (at least for TMBG, one of the John's has a severe allergy to smoke). All-in-all, I can't think of a better way to spend an evening at a bar.

How I spent my Superbowl Sunday

My parents are snow-birding in lovely Ft. Myers Beach for the winter so my husband and I drive down to the farm one day a week to check on the place and take care of the cat. Josh loves that cat. Sunday, we were debating on whether or not to go because I'd been feeling a bit peckish (read: whiny and bitchy). I mean, I felt like garbage: tightness in my chest, shortness of breath, headache, sore back and shoulders. I'd been to urgent care the weekend before and had some pain-killers left over so I popped a couple of those and we headed to Attica. (Huge smiting with a pointy stick is in order to the people at St. Elizabeth East who tried, in vain, to make me die)

Needless to say, a 45 minute car ride was not a good idea and by the time we were returning I told Josh to swing by our house so I could change my clothes. I wanted to go back to urgent care (a proper medical facility, Clarion-Arnett); I was in a world of hurt. I didn't figure it would be too busy since the "Big Game" was starting in less than two hours. And I was right. We walked through the ER doors and the tumbleweeds were tumbling and the crickets were chirping.

Now, I hate how the hospital front desk employees make you stand over an impossibly low counter while acquiring your entire medical history. There's no chair and the counter is too low for me to lean on without looking like I'm posing for Playboy. So I just huff the magic words, "chest" pant pant "pains" pant. I'm instantly whisked away in a magical wheelchair that I didn't even see coming and before I can say boo, I'm in a room with roughly seven medical professionals ripping off my clothes and sticking little squares to my naked flesh.

I have a 12 point heart monitor (EEG)complete with 12 wires connected to me on my left hand side. I have a BP cuff on my right arm, pulse monitor on my right index finger, and an IV slammed into the back of my right hand (which is ouchy because the loop on the tube was too long and I kept bumping it). Oh, and an O2 hose shoved up my nose. They draw blood, run tests, pull my X-rays from last week's visit, give me a CT scan and some other stuff I don't really remember because by now they've given me Valium to calm my crazy ass down. Have I mentioned I'm prone to panic attacks?

A couple hours of this go by and one of the members of Team Eileen comes in to tell me that the Doc is on his way and will be in shortly and would I like the remote to the TV to take my mind off the pain. Well, hell yes I want that remote. Sweet. I turn on the "Big Game" just in time to see Agculara piss the National Anthem down her leg. Lovely.

The Doc comes in a few minute later to tell me I have fluid in the lining of my heart, that my lungs are operating on about 30% capacity because they're filled with fluid too. I have a lot of fluid, so he says. Lots and lots of fluid. In short, I am a very sick chick and have earned myself a night or two in the Acute Care Unit on the Cardiac floor (with the best possible care our Purdue insurance won't fully pay for). Of course, I react the same way as I always do when I get terribly bad news; I burst into tears. I'm then told it's going to be about an hour or two before my room is ready (what is this, a hotel?) so Team Eileen continues to treat me as I won't officially be admitted and handed over to the cardiac docs until my room is ready (no problem, these folks rock). The game is on but I'm not watching. I'm too busy sniveling, reeling in pain and struggling to breath despite the oxygen boost. Also, I am scarred. Really really scarred.

One of the nurses hands my husband a folder that looks like something you would get at a business proposal. It's all fancy and laminated. Josh tells me that it's my welcome packet. Welcome packet? What is this, a hotel? He starts reading me little tidbits of information like visiting hours (there are no restricted visiting hours, just quiet time after 8pm), how the phones work (dial 9, derp), who to call for fresh towels and room service. Room service? Fresh towels? Hotel much? I ask Josh (jokingly) if there's free Wi-fi in every room and he assures me: there is. It's halftime (and morphine time thanks to my new bestie, Nurse Whatshername) and while very sparkly and shiny (I love my morphine shinys) the sound is just awful. The mic's aren't coming on when they're supposed to and the echo is stomping all over the Black Eyed Peas. Lousy reverberation factor! Poor Peas.

A new nurse comes in and tells us we're going to cardiac now, and with a couple of clicks under each corner, my ER gurney instantly transforms into a race car. Flying down the hall at top speed, I notice I'm still the only patient in ER. Apparently, I was right, people in this town really do love football. I can just picture Johnny Tool-belt sitting at home with a rag on his hand (his index finger in a bowl of ice), just waiting for the game to end so he can have it re-attached. The elevator smelled like a machine shop; between that and the vertigo from pulling negative G's (turbo elevator?)I hurl. And cry.

All the cardiac patients on my floor, I notice as we cruise by rooms at a cool 20 MPH, are at least 150 years older than me and I couldn't help but think I might be in some real trouble here. We arrive at my room (I almost slide off the end of my race car from the abrupt stop)and my husband notes that it's nicer than some hotels he's stayed in back east. And it is a nice, private room with my own bath, two (TWO) flat screen TV's and a couch that makes into a bed (yay! sleepover!). My new nurse tucks me in, because I'm freezing, and hits my IV with three vials of god-knows-what. As I start to loose consciousness, I do remember saying, "so, I guess I'll see you guys later," and it's fade-to-black.

Three hours later...
I wake up in a strange dark room that smells faintly of disinfectant and death (I guess that's me I'm smelling). I have many tubes and wires and monitors and my very own cacophony of beeps. My husband is worrying at me from across the room; he looks like he's been crying.

"What's the score?"
"It's 3am. Game's over"
"Oh. Who won?"
"Do you really care? Because I don't know. Want me to look?"
"No."

My nurse comes back (Valerie. Her name is Valerie and she's so sweet); she tells me she has some medicine to make me feel a little better and explains that the doctors are treating me with drugs to reduce the fluid on my heart and lungs. If that doesn't work they will stab me in the heart Pulp Fiction style and remove the fluid that way (yippee). Valerie injects the new meds (turns out this particular drug is called Liquid Satan, TM) into my IV and my hand, followed by arm, followed by shoulder and chest, followed by face followed, by brain spontaneously convulse into cramps and my whole body bursts into (proverbial) flames. I shriek. I wail. I cry out for my mom (who doesn't even know I'm in the hospital and won't for at least another 18 hours or so). I attempt to flee in a madness of fiery pain and agony. I'm vaguely aware that Valarie has called for help to hold me down and that all my little beep beep beeps were now WONK WONK WONKs. Every machine attached to me is screaming, as am I. I am dying. Really and truly dying. This is it for me. Good night and good luck!

Alas. I did not die. If I had, this blog would probably have a few more readers. Especially since this entry would technically be posthumous. I digress. I'm not dead and really wasn't as close to dying as I though. I'm told however, my heart rate sky-rocketed to 206 and my BP fell off the radar almost completely. Apparently, I had a very nasty reaction to the devil piss they injected into my veins. Oh well. We'll be adding that to the list of crap I'm allergic to. On the bright side, it's morphine time! So, I guess I'll see you guys later...

When I wake up, I notice my husband looks as bad as me so I send him home to rest (with some convincing). He had to go to work the next day or loose his job. He's too tired to argue so he kisses me (I think he's been crying again)and stumbles out of the room. It's at this point, I remember it is (was) Superbowl Sunday and I can't for the life of me remember who played. Movement catches my eye on dark side of my room, it's Valarie. My nurse is watching me in the dark and smiles. She comes over and brushes my hair out of my eyes, asks me how I'm feeling, asks me if I want to call my mom. I told her, "no," that she'd be on a plane before the phone stopped ringing. I'd promised to call her tomorrow when I was feeling better so I didn't scare the bejeezus out of her. (She was still recovering from her own heart troubles)

My next morphine shot makes me bat-shit crazy. As soon as it hit me I was a blundering monkey-person with no control over body movement or speech. Val asks me when I ate last and I say that I can't remember, but the words come out sounding like "blah jinger tootie ffffllllllppppttttt". Valarie gives me a sugar-infused Popsicle and pours grape juice down my gullet; I'm instantly cured of my aphasia. "TV?" she says. "Uh-huh" I says back. She shows me how my combination bed control, call button, TV remote works and says to call her if I need anything. I say something like, "thank you, Mommie" and she touches my head once more and smiles at me.

I do not sleep for the next 20 hours. I can't. Can not. I don't know why, but I can't sleep at all and I'm so tired. So I watch TV. For 20 hours. Straight. My attention is turned back to the Superbowl and I slowly start to put together exactly what happened. Here's what I gather: the powers that be in Dallas hired Christina Aguilera to sing the National Anthem but forgot to get her a teleprompter, planned a multi-million dollar halftime show without performing a sound check, and forgot to repair the 1,100 sold seats that were damaged in the 3/4 inch Dallas blizzard. Well played Dallas, well played.

Sun comes up: still can't sleep. Stupid, stupid liquid diet is making me sick. I'm told I need to call for assistance before using the bathroom. Nah-nah-not likely. After my third trip alone without killing myself, they let me be concerning bathroom necessities. I had the pleasure of seeing my heart on an ultrasound; neat and gross. Noon. Can't sleep. More drugs. More gross liquid foods. The only item on my menu I can even stand at this point is red jello. My last liquid diet meal consisted of nothing but five red jello's. I convince my respiratory doc to convince my cardiac doc that I needed solid food to live. They obliged and my next meal was considerably less sucky. 2pm and still can't sleep but I'm feeling better.

My husband then returned, looking more haggard than when he left the night before. He brought my book bag, laptop, clean clothes and the scarey, scarey dinosaur toy that makes me laugh (courtesy of my BFF's five-year-old). Josh helped me email my college instructors, to let them know what was going on so I could get my assignments. He even took all the homework, that was due Monday and Tuesday, to my school for me. Love him.

By Monday night, I was feeling well enough to let my parents know where I was and why. And I was very proud of Mom, she didn't freak out. About 9pm I finally slept and awoke feeling a little better. TV, drugs, eat, sleep, go to bathroom, repeat.

Tuesday evening the doctors were talking about keeping me through the week, possibly until Saturday or Sunday. After another major meltdown, I decided this would just not do. Not even a little. Crying and saying Iwannagohomerightnow was not having the positive effect I'd hoped for. I needed to get out of there for more reasons than one. I was going to go crazy if I stayed in there much longer and I had two exams on Thursday that I didn't want to miss. I started refusing morphine and I got out of bed and walked around my room until I couldn't walk anymore. I sat in my chair, got up to walk, laid in my bed, got up to walk, repeat.

Wednesday morning, I had a second ultrasound on my heart. I told the tech doing the test there was an extra hundred in it for her if she made me look good on camera. She winked and said she'd do her best. After the shift change my favorite day nurse Becky came in to check on me. I asked her to do what she could do to spring me today; she said she would. I also had my first and only visitor (Rindy) besides my husband that morning and was brightened a bit more still. I'm getting out of here; I know I'm getting out today.

"You're getting out today!" My cardiac doc came in at about 3pm to give me the good news: not only am I going home, but all the fluid from my heart is gone. Just gone. Can't even see it on the ultrasound. She said as long as I take it easy, I'll make a full recovery (yay). She hugs me, I cry again.

I sign papers, get my scripts, discharge instructions, pack my things, and wait for my wheelchair ride (I hope it's less exciting than the first one) which should be coming any minute. Hubby is waiting downstairs with the truck. I am pumped. I wait. 15 minutes. 20 minutes. 30 mi'... oh common! My nurse walks in and says "you're still here? I've called downstairs twice to send someone for you. What the hell? I'll be right back." I assure her that I'm not going anywhere. Josh calls, he says five people have been wheeled out since he parked at the curb. Must be national discharge day. My nurse comes back in and grabs my hand. "Let's go. We're walking you outta here".(yay)

I almost passed out before we reached the main entrance; it's a big-ass hospital. I now know why it's hospital policy to escort patients being discharged in a wheelchair. I should have done more rehab while locked up in the joint. Huff. Puff. I eventually make it to the ground floor, where my chariot awaits.

Though my body and mind had recently been to hell and back, I noticed something peculiar as we left the parking lot. The name of the hospital and the signage had changed since Sunday; I had entered Clarion-Arnett Hospital but departed from IU Health. There were red-and-white pitchforks everywhere! I asked Josh, "how long was I in there?"

That's my Superbowl story. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I didn't enjoy experiencing it. Also hoping that next year's Superbowl in Indy will be more organized, better staffed and all-n-all less wrought with suck.

Today...

Today I woke to my alarm at 8am, knew I could sleep for another hour but got out of bed anyway. My town was digging out, schools and factories were open, the sweet sweet capitalist engine was firing up and I had to go to class for the first time since Monday. I was pumped! Hiyah!

Today I was getting my books together and when I put on my shoes, I felt a squish. I immediately had a full review of last night's kitty cuisine. Grade=Fail! Won't be buying that particular brand again.

Today I had a bit of trouble getting out of my driveway due to the ice snow snow ice snow ice snow ice ice snow dirt concoction that was so lovingly bestowed upon my property. While perturbed by the inconvenience I was most appreciative of my 4-wheel-drive Blue Monster (its a Ford Escape which technically classifies it as a sport utility wagon V-6 light but then Einstein's official title was patent clerk, so much for labels). I hit the gas and got right outta there.

Today I was driving to class and a minivan pulled out in front of me so I hit the brakes hard (thank you ABS). I had to bury my front end into a drift just to avoid hitting the van. For some reason the van that cut me off plowed into the same drift 20 feet ahead of me even though I saw no oncoming traffic or obstacles. My bookbag, sitting on the passenger seat dumped into the foot well so I leaned over to re-pack my bag. Some one's banging on my driver-side window; its the driver of the van. Now, I have an amazing ability to expect the best out of people and situations so I assume Mr. Bangy McBangy wants to see if I'm okay or apologize or something. I. Am. So. Wrong. This person (boy-child with bangs originating somewhere along his spine combed so far forward that all I can see is his chin) wants me to get out of my car so he can fight me. Fight. Me. I shake my head "no way" so he punches my driver-side window, says "this is why bitches shouldn't be allowed to drive" gets back into his van, tries like hell to get out of the drift, succeeds and T-bones a citybus.

Today I went to my first class and destroyed my exam on medical terminology. A+ Boyaah!

Today I came for a sensible lunch and a quick study break. I had to get a running start to get into the driveway but made it just fine.

Today I noticed my alley was plowed while I was inside studying and lunching. I decided I didn't have time for the shovel and just rammed the 4 foot pile the plow left me in my driveway. I rammed it with the Blue Monster 'til I broke through! I was only 2 minutes late to class.

Today I went to my last class and kicked it's ass around the room. Twice. Another A+

Today I'm tired because so many people from my hometown are racist, bigots and feebes.

Today I'm sad because boys that never grew up pass their blind hatred to their many many spawn.

Today I'm angry out of plain ol' jealousy; because ignorance is bliss and I'm not able to join the party.

Today I learned that every experience matters, no matter how insignificant.

Storm Shopping

I was always told not to go grocery shopping while hungry, clothes shopping while bored and E-Bay shopping while drunk. I adhere to these guidelines whenever I can (read: whenever I feel like it) and I'm adding a new one. Don't go emergency storm shopping while on Vicodin. Now, I already have an adoration of all things shiney and painkillers make EVERYTHING look shiney. Everything. Everywhere. Especially in the hardware store. My poor husband, bless his heart had a hell of a time keeping me focused on the task at hand which was to buy batteries, one flash light and ice melt.

Me: Ooooooooo. What's that. Its pretty. Lets get it!

Hubby: That's a mailbox. No. We already have one.

Me: Ooooooooooooo. Lets get one of these!

Hubby: Honey, that's a filter for a coy pond. We don't have a coy pond.

Me: Ahhhhhhhh. I want this!

Hubby: That's a doorknocker. All our doors are made of glass. Not a good idea.

Me: This sink is on sale. We should get two!

Hubby: No...

And it went on like that for about an hour. I successfully snuck a few items into our cart when he wasn't looking. He finally got me to follow him to the check-out by dangling his car keys in front of my face. He glared at me and shook his head while I placed my shineys on the belt. We took our items home and did a quick storm readiness inventory.

We now have, I'm ashamed to say one flashlight for every living organism in the house, enough batteries to power a small submarine, a doorknocker, some pvc pipe, a replacement knob for the hot tub we don't have, 50 lbs of ice melt, 6 rolls of duct tape and a light switch cover with Tinkerbell on it. Yay me.