How to Make a Head McExplode Part II
I dropped Big I off at a play date yesterday and there was no way I was getting Lil C out of that house quietly without some serious bribery. When you are wearing a leg brace, it’s just not worth it to cause a temper tantrum. I’m wisely choosing my battles. So, I promised her a happy meal from McDonald’s and she was more than happy to leave with me like a little angel.
We went to the drive-thru. I ordered a meal for me that cost $4.98 and a happy meal for Lil C. There was a sign up that said, "Order any extra-value meal and get a happy meal for $.99". Perfect. So, my total before tax should have been $5.97. I couldn’t hear my total through the speaker, and their display monitor wasn’t working properly. I should have seen trouble coming right then and there.
When I pulled up to the window, the woman reached for my credit card and said my total was $9.54. WHAT?
I politely told her that the amount was incorrect. She didn’t even allow me to finish my statement before she started barking at me (as if I’d just called her a horrendous name or something) that "I don’t punch in the orders; I just take the money. If it says it’s $9-something, then that’s what it is."
Now I’m annoyed, and my head is about to mcexplode. This happens at McDonald’s a lot.
"Well actually, that’s not what it is. My meal costs $4.98 and the happy meal is $.99. That equals $5.97, nowhere near $9 and I’m not paying $9." I considered asking her to add it up in her head but realized that this was probably an unrealistic request considering my treatment thus far. I did the work for her and still. . .
"Well, that’s what it says," she barks back at me.
"Well, then you’re going to need to go find someone who knows how to fix it and work the cash register because I’m not giving you my credit card until you do." I contemplated driving away, but there was Lil C to consider and also the principle of the matter.
She then proceeds to bark at me that "I can’t see the breakdown until I charge you and print out the receipt.
"Well, then you’re going to need to find someone who can," I tell her, "because that’s just going to make extra work for both of us-you over-charging me, and me having to get you to take the charge off when this is already proving difficult enough for you."
"Well I didn’t do it!" she yells at me.
"I didn’t say you did," I said back to her calmly. "I just told you that the total is not correct and asked you politely to please fix it. If you can’t do that, then kindly find someone who can and will. I’m not going to be overcharged $3."
Maybe money grows on trees (or by overcharging customers) for McDonald’s, but I work hard for mine. Meanwhile, the cars are lining up behind me.
She slams the window and leaves the area in a huff. My blood was boiling on the inside. I believe I started breathing as if trying to get through a bad labor contraction. She comes back, punches a couple things into the cash register and amazingly enough, my charge is reduced by $3. Amazing. It turns out those cash registers can take charges off. Who would have ever thought they could do such an incredible thing???? They seem to just need a willing human being to work them.
I hand her my credit card and she hands me back my receipt. It’s only as I’m driving away that I see that she actually charged me ten cents more than she should have for the happy meal. I didn’t go back.
It’s just not worth it. I think we’re done at McDonald’s. My blood pressure will thank me, and so will our arteries.
I Knew Him When. . .
I played the saxophone when I was in elementary, junior high, and most of high school. I even won a solo award as part of our school jazz band one year. I was one of those "One summer, at band camp" kids, although I balanced it out with large doses of sports participation and dance committee type things. There was this one particular band guy. . .
You know the one. He’s the one that every girl drools over. The guys the band girls drool over are always different from the ones the mainstream girls drool over. This guy was a drummer, a really fabulous drummer. During jazz band competitions, if he had a solo (which was always), no drummer ever had a chance over this particular guy. If you were born within a three year span of Shane Rozum and were an aspiring drummer, well then, you were out of luck. He always took the trophies home. I think it was a combination of his mad drumming skills and that perfectly wavy hair that made the girls go crazy over him.
He was a year older, and it was a sad day when he moved up to the high school and left us lowly 9th grade girls pining behind in the junior high school.
Because we were silly girls, we made up songs about him, wrote poems about him, and were all comfortable sharing our stories and fantasies of dancing with him at a school dance because he was, what we concerned to be, unattainable. He was completely inaccessible to us in the way that Brad Pitt is to the general population of non-big-lipped women. At least that’s what we all thought.
If you know me (either personally or through my writing), you know that I’m the one out of the group who gets up to karaoke when no one else will and without needing 14 margaritas to do so. I’m the girl who goes to the interactive wax museum and thinks we are not getting our money’s worth unless we do each and every interactive (and possibly embarrassing) activity. Yes, I’ll volunteer.
I’ve never been accused of being shy.
So, when our all-important 9th grade dance was approaching and I didn’t have a boyfriend or any worthy prospects in my own grade, I had an idea. I called Shane Rozum.
The phone call lasted all of two minutes. I think he was as shocked at me calling him as I was at myself for choosing to call him. When the two minutes were up, I had a date to the 9th grade dance and some extremely jealous friends.
Don’t knock the scrunchie. It totally matched my dress.
The dance was fun. He brought me the obligatory corsage and I wore the dress my Mom made me buy, which made me look like a 7-year old instead of a blossoming soon-to-be-high-school-woman (whose body was a little confused about when it was supposed to start the whole blossoming thing anyway). You can’t tell from the pictures, but I’m pretty sure he wore sneakers with his outfit. Truth be told, we didn’t do a whole lot of talking (Get your mind out of the gutter!). For once I felt shy. We hadn’t really talked before. Gawking at someone and going on a real live date are two entirely different things.
We arrived like rock stars (Man, I should have seen it coming. . . ): me with my 80’s rock like ‘do, and Shane with his killer shades.
We did dance, and if looks could have killed. . . well, there were so many band girls who wanted me dead that I would have probably been six feet under half a million times which I think would put me safely through the Earth and out the other side. They could glare all they wanted because even in my pale pink lacy dress, I felt like a rock star being at the dance with the drummer extraordinaire.
Which leads me to today. I haven’t seen Shane since he was a senior in high school and I was a junior. Just this week, I reconnected with another old friend from high school on myspace who told me about the band that Shane is in, a band about to go on tour called "Jealousy Curve." And you know what? They totally rock! I spent some time on their myspace page and listened to their tunes and truly wished that my knee brace wasn’t holding me back from getting my groove on. They have toured with The All American Rejects and are now going on their own tour.
I also stared at Shane’s picture for a while because seriously, is that THE Shane Rozum, the one and the same that I went to the all important 9th grade dance with??? (You’ll only be able to see this with a myspace account. If you don’t have one, take one part typical rock-n-roll drummer, combined with one part wavy shoulder length hair which can be thrown all over the place while wilding drumming, add what I think are some piercings, and you pretty much have the idea.)
Just another one to add to the "I knew him when" list. . .
Whipped Cream on the Horizon
Nothing makes you forget your worries and stress like being around a newborn baby. I spent most of the day with my cousin and her three-week old baby girl. I held her for hours, helped my cousin figure out a more comfortable way to nurse (for which I’m now being told I should be a lactation consultant), gave her my EZ bather (to borrow, since I’m still super attached to all my baby stuff and can’t officially close that door yet), and helped her give the baby a bath. It felt good to be around a little baby, and it also felt good to help out my cousin. It was nice to think about someone else’s issues for a little while.
I don’t know what Mr. BBM was thinking today. Apparently, he spent part of the afternoon while I was gone, shooting Reddi-Whip into the ready and giggly mouths of my girls. I’m thinking that leaving him alone with them on any type of regular basis would probably be a bad idea, especially considering that Lil C now grabs the whipped cream from the refrigerator with demands that she "vants more now, peeease."
Blissfully unaware that my kids were doing whipped cream shots at home, and after staring at a baby all day, it was time for torture PT. Today, I was able to add tension to the bike and go around comfortably from the start. Having my own bike at home is making a difference. We added 5 lbs to the leg press exercises, and my PT also added wall squats to my already lengthy exercise list. He also watched me walk a bit with the brace unlocked. It felt really weird. Next week, we’re unlocking the brace for walking. I’m supposed to practice at home. Something tells me I won’t be walking the runway anytime soon though.
I am now allowed to sleep without the brace on at all, provided my extension doesn’t suffer for it. I can’t wait to go to bed tonight! WOO HOO! I hit 129 degrees flexion today too, which was a nice increase from 125 on Tuesday. Slow and steady seems to be the name of the game here. I’d like to hit the upper 130’s by the end of next week.
I’ve been down in the dumps about this recovery, realizing how ridiculously long it’s going to take to get back to normal. Today, while adding three more leg exercises to the mix, I realized that I’m going to have killer legs for the beach. The leg lifts are also working my abs. I’m going to try to be more positive about all of it. It’s going to be a roller coaster with ups and inevitable downs. Truth be told, I’m not really fond of thrill rides. This one isn’t giving me the option to sit on a park bench with some ice cream though.
One of my friends had ACL reconstruction done on both of his knees and he’s doing great now. He said the surgery forced him to get in the best shape of his life; and he does look fabulous. That’s what I’m going to focus on.
To go along with my peg-leg pirate walk, I’m also going to adopt the Pirates of the Caribbean saying, and continue to "keep a weathered eye on the horizon." I’m also going to treat myself to a whipped cream shot from the fridge. I think I deserve one.
***The latest review is up at The BBM Review. If you’re looking for a new work out system, make sure you check it out.
So NOT Cool
This is "light mix turning into rain by rush hour":
The roads are covered with snow. Roads are closed due to accidents. It will probably take Mr. BBM three hours to get home. I almost fell on my butt when I had to retrieve Big I from school because I can’t fit boots over my stupid immobilizing brace and it was slippery out there. It’s rush hour and the snow is coming down like crazy. So not COOL!
Oh, almost forgot to mention that when I got in the car to go get Big I, I attempted to clear off the windows without having to walk around with the scraper. I lowered the windows, but the stupid automatic thing on my driver side window brought the window the entire way down which brought a big old pile of snow right into my lap. Also NOT cool. Actually quite cool as my heated seat quickly melted the snow onto my pants. GRR.
Here’s another thing that’s not cool. This is my leg:
I stood in front of the mirror the other day in my underwear and could not believe the difference in my legs. The difference is just ridiculous. It’s not at all unlike that chicken leg. I think it’s a cruel joke for women who have ACL surgery. As women, we always carry more weight on the upper thigh/butt area. If ACL surgery is going to take away my muscle, at the VERY LEAST, it could also take away some of the upper thigh/butt area. Just call me KFC BBM because that’s what I look like. It is so not fair, and SO NOT COOL!
Here’s yet one more thing that’s not cool. Mr. BBM and I bought our new exercise bike primarily for me and my rehabilitation. On the first night we had it, I was already hurting from PT so I didn’t take a turn on the bike. Mr. BBM spent the whole evening on the thing.
The next day, I went to ride the bike before my shower. The seat was so insanely high that I could barely get on the thing. Once I did, it only took a second to realize I was NEVER going to be able to make this work. I jumped off the bike onto my good leg and tried to adjust the seat.
SWEAT.
FRUSTRATION.
SCREAMING.
SWEARING.
And a phone call. . . Mr. BBM answers his work phone.
"What the hell are you trying to prove? (Mr. BBM tries to inquire why I’m so upset but I continue. . .) No seriously, what are you trying to prove? I just spent the past 10 minutes trying to adjust the seat that SOMEONE screwed on so ridiculously tight that I will NEVER be able to move it. I can’t ride the bike, and who did we buy this bike for? Me, right? ME! It’s just like when you screw the cap on the bottle of soda too tight that I can’t open it. Are you trying to prevent me from drinking soda? Are you trying to prevent me from riding the bike? Just as you show common courtesty in lowering the toilet seat, do a girl a favor and lower the bike seat when you’re done, especially if you are going to be intent on proving you are Hercules."
So
NOT
COOL!
Human Volcano Eruption
9:00 a.m. "I vant milk mommy." (Mommy gets her milk.)
9:05 a.m. "I vant ‘ornange’ juice mommy."
9:05:01 a.m. "Lil C, I just gave you milk. Drink your milk first. Then you can have orange juice."
9:07 a.m. "I vant choc-it milk MOMMY."
9:07:01 a.m. (Mommy adds chocolate powder to milk.)
9:08 a.m. "I vant draw-bewwie milk MOMMY!"
9:08:01 a.m. "Lil C, please drink your chocolate milk first. You can’t have three drinks. Mommy is TRYING to make your breakfast."
9:09 a.m. "I vant egg toast."
9:09:01 a.m. "That’s what I’m making you Lil C. It will be ready in a minute."
9:10 a.m. "I VANT EGG TOAST MOMMMEEEEE!" (Repeat at 10 second intervals.)
9:11 a.m. "I VANT EGG TOAST MOMMEEEEEEEEEEEE!" (Mommy tries to keep brain from erupting with frustration. Mommy starts feeling like a chef at a 5-star restaurant, under extreme pressure to get things done right and get things done NOW!)
9:12 a.m. (Eggs and toast are served to Lil C.)
9:12:01 a.m. "Don’t vant egg toast MOMMEEEEE!"
9:12:02 a.m. "Tough Lil C. That’s what we’re having."
9:12:02-9:15 a.m. (Lil C eats her toast and then climbs out of her chair telling me she is "all done."
9:20 a.m. (Lil C crawls back up in her chair.) "VANT EGG TOAST MOMMEEEE." (Proceeds to eat ice cold eggs. Yeech.)
This is pretty much how every meal goes lately with my downright pain in the heiney agreeable little two-year old. I was on the phone with a friend while making breakfast and shuffling beverages; and I can honestly tell you that I started to feel like my head was going to explode. Lil C is high maintenance and SO demanding right now. She’s also fickle, in case you couldn’t tell.
As a Mommy who is still walking around in an immobilizer brace and is still having some discomfort when I overwork my knee, I choose my battles wisely. It’s not uncommon for Lil C to have three drinks at a time. Some would say I’m spoiling her; I say I’m insuring that I don’t have to get her another drink five minutes from now. Three should last her a while.
The demands of a two-year old are bad enough when you’re completely healthy and mobile. When you’re walking like a peg-like pirate and negotiating stairs 20,000 times a day, it’s downright exhausting.
I am also completely stressed out today for another reason. My aunt was recently diagnosed with breast cancer and is undergoing a mastectomy today. Only four weeks out from much more minor surgery, I feel like I’m reliving all of those emotions again: the waiting for your name to be called, the changing into a drafty gown, the stick from the IV needle, being wheeled into the OR, the waking up in pain. . .
I can’t get her out of my mind. I feel physically sick just waiting for news, and dealing with a high maintenance little person is not distracting me. It’s only making it worse. Is it just me or are children 10 times more demanding and impossible when they know you’re already stressed out?
Here’s hoping Mount BBM can avoid blowing her top today. My plan is to keep Lil C well hydrated with a different drink stationed at every table in five foot intervals. I am hoping this plan of action will help us both avoid an "eruption" of catastrophic proportions today.
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