Sometimes You Just Gotta Say...

A Montana teen texted her boyfriend that she was going to crash her car into oncoming traffic in an effort to commit suicide. Shortly thereafter, going 85 mph, she crossed the center line and crashed head-on into another car, tragically killing the pregnant driver and her young son.

She was charged as an adult (17 years old) for deliberate homicide. Right now, the case is being decided as to whether she should be prosecuted as a minor or an adult.

In the meantime, she and her father are suing the estate of the VICTIM for damages, citing that the accused "suffered permanent and continuing injuries, along with mental pain and suffering and the loss of capacity to enjoy life. It cites future loss of income and past, present and future medical expenses. Winter is seeking a judgment against the defendants for damages, costs, pre-judgment and post-judgment interest and other relief deemed appropriate."

WTF? I mean seriously. "Loss of capacity to enjoy life?" Didn't sound like she was enjoying life much when she TRIED TO KILL HERSELF AND TOOK OUT A COUPLE OF OTHERS IN THE PROCESS! Gah!

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In another matter, 4 guys rent a canoe to enjoy a river ride. Being dumbasses (or just being doods, take your pick), they come up with the brilliant plan to jump off a railroad trestle that bridges said river into the water.

3 guys make it. 1 does not. He was hit by a train when he tried to outrun it.

Now his mother is suing the railroad and the canoe rental company for damages.

She's suing the railroad company because they couldn't stop the train fast enough.

Uh yeah. Everybody knows you can stop a zillion tons of steel on a dime. It's a train, fer pete's sakes, not a mini cooper.

She's also suing the canoe company because they "knew or should have known" that stupid people jump off of train trestles that go over rivers so they shouldn't be renting canoes.

It seems kind of obvious that critical thinking isn't an inherited trait in that family.

As her attorney said, this was “a tragic death that could have been and should have been prevented.”

Well duh. It prolly wouldn't have happened if the victim hadn't climbed up the train trestle, ya think?

WTF?

__________________________________

From the "That Really Takes Some Balls" department:

A guy in Seattle admired a totem pole he saw in a park. Instead of having one made for the house he was building, he convinced a crane company that he was the city arts commissioner and was having the 18-foot pole restored. So they took it down and delivered it to his house. It didn't fit in the guy's garage, so he hid it.

Took 8 months and a trip to Oregon to get that sucker back.

WTF was he thinking? WTF are any of these people thinking?

Heh

A bloggy friend sent this to me in email:

I know! I know! Straight to hell....

Touching Base on Big Kid

Big Kid is finally on the mend again after the latest crisis.

Here is the recap:

3 times in the emergency room in a month. First trip to the ER (he was coughing up blood and couldn't breathe), was down in the city, and he was diagnosed with bronchitis. Even though they had his medical records there on hand (from his H1N1 crisis), they didn't do any swabs, blood tests or apparently scope down his throat. Sent him home with a prescription and told him to follow up with his doctor in 5 days.

Admitted to the hospital twice. First time up here at our small regional medical center, four days after going to the ER in the city, and they actually did tests in the emergency room and discovered he had Mono. And his throat was obstructed from swelling of tonsils, adenoids and lymph nodes. Kept him for a couple of days because he was really sick and couldn't breathe. Sent him home with a bi-pap breathing machine and instructions. Second time we took him down to the hospital in the city, where he got a tonsillectomy to make room for his airway.

So here is the aftermath. LOL

I was with him the day of his surgery. He was so wiped out that he was in a hospital bed with just a face-mask and completely unconscious. From the lack of sleep for 4 days or so, I thought, because he was on no medication except for his psychiatric meds. He was so out of it that he turned over and pulled the IV out of his arm and never felt it. Because he was going into surgery in about 5 hours, the nurses decided to wait until then to replace it.

We had to shake him up several times to get him to respond and sign some papers (one was the Hippa form that said the staff could share his information with me because he was an adult). At that time, I informed the nurse that Big Kid was wearing extended wear lens contacts that needed to be removed before surgery. She wrote down on his chart "lenses removed" and then somebody came in and said the surgeon was on the phone and ready to talk to me. So I went to talk to him about the procedure.

The next day in the ICU, after the surgery, the nurse said to me----"I've been reading his chart and the amount of risperdone (an anti-psychotic the kid takes) seems to be high. Can I go over it with you?"

When the kid was admitted, Hubby brought all of his pill bottles so they could write down his meds and dosages. Turns out the admitting nurse misread the risperdone dose and they were giving him twice what was prescribed. And his original dose was pretty freaking high to begin with. No wonder he was practically comatose!

The day the Big Kid was released, we waited all day for the surgeon to sign off. By 6pm, the staff ascertained that the doctor wasn't even working that day, and the on-call didn't have any orders to check the Kid whatsoever. That evening, at 8pm, on a FRIDAY night, as Hubby was checking the kid out, his nurse said, "by the way, Big Kid has MRSA. Here is a handout about it, and you need to follow-up with your doctor."

WTF? Like our doctor has office hours on the weekend?

MRSA is a antibiotic-resistant staff infection that can be deadly. The handout said that 40% of patients in hospitals catch it and that it is very contagious. It explained that people can get "colonized" with it, but not be "infected". WTF does that mean?

After a weekend of quarantining the kid to his room (such an easy task---NOT!), we went to see the doc on Monday. Yes, he had MRSA in his nose and throat. He also had a urinary tract infection. Joy. Got meds for both.

On Tuesday, it occurred to me that the Kid prolly wasn't seeing too well, and asked him if he needed help in putting in new contacts. He said he was fine.

THEY NEVER REMOVED HIS CONTACTS BEFORE SURGERY! Damnit.

Since the contact lenses were fairly new (in just a couple of weeks, they're 30 day lenses and expensive), we decided to let everything be, since the chance of him rolling them back to the back of his eyeballs while under general anesthetic was practically nil by now.

On Thursday, he woke up with a major oozing infection in both eyes. gah!

During this time, with all the test results, etc, it became clear that Big Kid simply cannot stay up here in our home for extended periods until his lung problems sort themselves out, if they ever do, because of the high altitude. Kitty's home, which is actually her mother-in-law's home, is not a safe place for his breathing issues because of a long-term mold problem (also, the MIL had a cat that has since died that pissed all over everything and no matter what Kitty has tried you can't get the stank out of unsealed hardwood floors unless you sand them down and seal them).

I'm NOT going to co-sign another lease for him in an apartment after the last fiasco, and we simply can't afford to buy a house or anything like that for him.

So we purchased a mobile home in a very nice park where Kitty's parents have lived for the past 25 years. During the last week we've had a crew in there customizing it for his needs (blowing the air system out, tearing out the carpet and replacing it with tile, painting, etc). It's a lot closer than Kitty's house was, so we can get there within 30 minutes if he needs us.

Kitty is going to close down the house and move with him.

We're also in the process of having an assisted-living person come in and help him when she has to work. He can't be home alone for more than a few hours at a time.

I'm just heartbroken to say that our family doc and Big Kid's Neuro-psych don't feel like he's capable of making any medical or financial decisions on his own, due to the damage incurred by oxygen deprivation to his brain.

This is something we're going to have to be thinking hard about.

Rule #15 Don't Let Hubby Take Dogs to the Groomer

With all the drama surrounding Big Kid's latest illness, I had to get Hubby and the other guys to help pick up the slack.

One of these chores was taking the dogs to the groomer to get their summer cuts. Since there are 4 dogs, I scheduled 2 one day, and 2 the next.

This is why you don't let Hubby take the dogs to the groomer. He walked out of the house with a couple of yorkies---Molly-Poo and Stinky Pete--- who looked like this:






And came back with a Chinese Crested and a Chihuahua.

Molly-Foo Young

Stinky Pedro

Guess who spent the night in the doghouse?

Pooping on My Parade

You ever feel like Somebody is just crapping all over your life?

This is how yesterday went:

Had to drive the Little Guy down to the city to replace his retainer for the THIRD time. At $220 a whack.

Took the Aspiring Adult with us because he had to get a urine test for his new job. He lost his old job because he dropped the F-bomb in front of his last employer. The employer himself dropped the F-bomb quite frequently, so the kid figured he wouldn't mind a potty-mouth free-for-all. The boss did in fact mind, because it was a family-friendly establishment.

Why did I have to drive the Aspiring Adult since we provided him with a car of his very own? He just blew out the second engine in 5 months. The first time was because he couldn't figure out that when the oil light comes on, it means there's no oil. This time, it was because he was treating the Chevy Malibu like it was an off-road vehicle. He's going to have to replace the engine himself this time ($3000), but that's another story.

Then we went to see the Big Kid in the ICU. He was doing well, but had breathing issues through the night. The nurse told me that the surgeon wanted to keep him another night. That was ok with us! Hubby went and spent time with him early in the afternoon, and Kitty was planning on going in the evening.

Had to run a few more errands before heading back up to the mountains. Picked up lunch, and dang, I was ready for a nap!

When we got home, there was a strange car smack dab in the middle of my driveway. There was nobody in there. How very odd.

The occupants weren't in their car, they were in my house! Gah!

That they were armed with mops and vacuums should have told me that they weren't your average burglars, but I totally freaked.

"Who are you, and what in the HELL are you doing in my house?"

Turns out that they were from a cleaning service that I stopped using over 5 months ago. I actually have a new cleaning lady, and she'd just been here last week. For some reason, my name popped up on their company's computer saying I was scheduled for a cleaning, and their new scheduling person didn't confirm it.

One of the boys had forgotten to lock the door when we left, so when there was no answer to their knock, they came right in!

I called their office and talked to their office manager. She apologized profusely and said that she wouldn't charge us for the cleaning.

"Lovely," I said sarcastically. "And I won't charge your company with breaking and entering."

The part that irks me is that the cleaning ladies were furious with ME. I told them I knew that it wasn't their fault, and apologized for freaking out all over them. But you'd think they'd put themselves in my shoes. It's pretty darn unsettling to come home and find strangers pawing over your things (they had moved them to clean, but still...).

If I had known this was going to happen, I would have stayed away at least until they vacuumed or cleaned the bathroom. LOL

As soon as that was over, I got a call from the Big Kid at the hospital. "They're kicking me out! You have to come and get me!"

Waaaaaa?

I called his ICU nurse. Apparently the ER doctor who admitted the Kid did rounds and figured he could go home. The nurse tried to talk him out of it, but he was the boss, applesauce. Hubby tried to call the surgeon, but he was in surgery all day, and the assistant did all that she could to help us. We were very worried that he'd come home, freak out all over again, and we'd have to take him back to the ER. Thought one more night with the Bi-Pap in a monitored setting where he'd feel safe (not in the ICU, but in a bed somewhere) would be the best for everyone.

So one good thing DID happen yesterday. Between the ICU nurse, the surgeon's assistant and Hubby twanking on the ER doc, the kid got one more night.

I'm going down to bring him home in a couple of hours.

...and a new day begins.

Mono-polizing Our Lives

After 4 straight days with little or no sleep, we couldn't take it any more. Monday night was the last straw.

The vicodin made the kid weird, psychologically. He got it in his head that if he fell asleep, he'd stop breathing, even though Hubby and I promised to take turns staying up with him and watching over him. He kept taking his cell phone or the house phone into the bathroom and called the hospital operator multiple times, trying to "check in" like he was at a hotel. When we figured out what he was doing, we took the phones away and he threw the mother of all fits.

Although his cannula (nose hose) was attached to his concentrator, he kept wandering through the house, ranting and dragging his oxygen tank cart behind him. There was a lot of foul language and abusive behavior (on his part) as well.

Tuesday afternoon, our family doc, the head respiratory therapist at the oxygen company and the doc who treated the Big Kid at our little regional hospital consulted and agreed that he should probably be trached until the mono was over. Even with the Bi-Pap, his oxygen intake was being severely compromised when he fell asleep. Unfortunately, they couldn't do the procedure up here, so they sent us down to the city to the big hospital down there.

Yeah, right.

I was so tired that I couldn't see straight, much less drive. Hubby offered to take him, and armed with test results he took him to the emergency room as instructed. When he got there, the people who had set this up with our doc were gone with the shift change.

It took him 8 freaking hours to convince them to admit the Kid. They wouldn't accept the test results, despite 3 phone calls from our doc and the oxygen company and had to run their own, starting from the beginning. Except they didn't. They just made them wait. Hubby REFUSED to leave, and finally they got the Kid a bed at about 2am.

The ENT on call saw the kid on early morning rounds yesterday, took a look down his throat and scheduled an immediate tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy. Same day service. LOL

An hour after the procedure, the kid was awake and talking. Said he could FINALLY breathe!!

Right now, he's in the ICU with his old friends from last fall, as a precaution due to his history. He's sleeping normally with the Bi-Pap. Hubby and I were able to get about 12 hours of uninterrupted sleep, so we're feeling much better too!

Unfortunately, and I say this with ::koff koff:: love, they'll probably release him today. I hope not, because we could all use another 12 hours and a day without drama. ;-)

NOT Cut Out For Nursing

or Call the Waaaaambulance!

Our friend The Friggin Loon mentioned in the comments section that maybe this whole thing with the Big Kid is God's way of telling me that I should be a nurse. Nosiree, Bob (or God). I'd tell You to shove it up Your big behind, but then You'd probably smite me with a passel of boils or something.

On the other hand, boils might be a welcome respite from this past weekend.

Friday afternoon, before I checked the Big Kid out of the hospital, the oxygen people sent over a guy with the Bi-Pap machine. I cleared a space next to the bed, thinking it would be a large unit.

But no, the darn thing is about the size of a loaf of bread. A $5,000 loaf of bread. It hooks up to the Kid's concentrator and we're all afraid to touch it in case it snaps into tiny pieces. We all stand around the nightstand and gape at it with reverence and awe, like it was the Holy Grail.

The aftercare instructions from the hospital were simple. Pain relief and fever reduction with Tylenol. Maintain the Kid's oxygen levels with all the equipment. Easy peasy, right?

Bahahahahahaha!!!

It's been like taking care of a 300 lb two-year-old. A two-year-old who's in a great deal of pain and very cross with the world.

When I got him home and settled into the armchair with his nose hose, the Kid said to Little Guy, "Go check my concentrator and make sure it's set up to 5 (liters)".

Except that because his tonsils and lymph nodes are so swollen he can barely breathe, much less speak, it comes out like, "Gachkmycaancenraroranmaasuuissepoofi".

Little Guy does and then comes back and said, "I need help." I check the concentrator, and yes, it's up to 5.

At about 6, Hubby was home and I decided to lay down with MY oxygen to rest for a little bit. I'm supposed to use it for 12-14 hours a day, but I usually get by with about 8, while I'm sleeping. My ass was dragging so badly that I curled up with a book, hoping to drift off and get a little nap. I couldn't sleep. In fact, although I was exhausted I was totally alert. Too alert. WTF?

At 8, I heard a commotion outside my bedroom door. Hubby came in and said, "there is something wrong with the Kid's concentrator. The control is stuck and way too much air is coming out of it."

I called the oxygen people and sat down on the floor at the end of the hall in front of the two concentrators (mine and his). They talked me through resetting it over the phone. When I was done, I happened to glance at mine, and Whoa, Nellie! The controls on MY concentrator were set up to 5, instead of 2. I guess Little Guy got the units mixed up and changed my settings.

I got juiced.

Finally got everyone settled in bed, and fell on to my pillow at 10pm. At 1am, the kid was in my doorway and turned on my bedroom light.

"Moooerismyulsocksmonior?" (Mom where is my pulse-ox monitor?)

Half-asleep, I said, "It's in my purse."

A few seconds? minutes? later, I heard what passed for screaming from someone who can't breath. I jumped out of bed and ran into the Kid's room.

He had taken off the bi-pap mask and didn't have his nose hose in.

"My oxygen is down to 50!" he screamed, and ran down the hall into the living room, with me chasing after him, clutching the nose hose in my hand.

Seconds later he fainted. Wham! Hit the floor. I shoved the oxygen hose into his mouth and slapped him around a bit.

"Breathe!" I shouted. "Wake up!"

Apparently, when he got into a deep sleep, 5 liters of oxygen isn't enough. His level went low enough that it triggered the mother of all panic attacks. He hyperventilated and passed out.

Saturday we remedied the situation the best we could. Got the concentrator replaced and rigged his bed so that he'd be in a semi-reclining position. As it was, he was still in a lot of pain and couldn't get comfortable, so he was up and down every hour. Taking his psychiatric medication was a real pain in the butt, because the pills would get stuck in his throat. I had to puree everything just to get some nutrients in him.

Then he started complaining that he hadn't pooped in days. His stomach hurt when he was lying down. Considering the amount of fruit puree we'd been pouring down him, I figured this was something that would take care of itself in it's own time.

And boy, did it. Sometime in the wee hours of Sunday morning, he tried to make it to the bathroom (he has to get the mask off, the nose hose in and trail a tank behind him), before he crapped his pants.

He didn't make it.

Kitty got him cleaned up and back into bed. Until 3am, when he was at my bedroom door. "Mom, I can't sleep, will you sit up with me?" He's been doing the majority of his sleeping sitting up in the living room easy chair at 40 minute intervals.

Yeah, sure, let me go to the bathroom first.

More asleep than awake, I stumbled into the bathroom and sat on the can. On top of something very cold and very squishy.

When Kitty cleaned HIM up, she didn't check the toilet seat. It was covered in wet turd lumps. So I had to pull up my pants on my own sh*tty ass, get him settled with his tank in the chair, then shower, change and clean up the doody mess in the bathroom.

By Sunday, the Kid was so miserable that he was begging to go back to the hospital. We had to explain over and over that he wasn't serious enough to be in the hospital, that we knew he was in pain and uncomfortable, that it was the nature of his illness, and he'd just have to get through it the best he could. He called his doctor and left a message, and the doctor called him back. And couldn't understand a word the Kid said on the phone.

I took the phone from the kid and explained that he thought that if HE called the doctor, he'd get to go back to the hospital. I apologized profusely, and explained everything that had happened on the weekend. Doc said, "let me prescribe something for the pain so you can all get some rest."

Hubby went to the pharmacy and came back with a large bag and a bemused expression. "You gotta see this."

Inside was an INDUSTRIAL sized bottle of liquid vicodin and acetaminophen. Enough to knock out an entire football team. I kid you not. That thing is bigger than a pint-sized bottle of Wild Turkey. But 10 times stronger.

So we propped the kid up so he wouldn't aspirate if he vomited, dosed the crap out of him, and everybody got a good nap.

Bad, bad Nursey.

I am Mother, Hear Me Whimper

Well, doctors and nurses got all the fluid out of the Kid's lungs, are reducing the tonsils with steroids, and have his oxygen under control with the Bi-Pap machine.

He's driving them nuts and they want him out of there. LOL

So here was the issue of the day.

The respiratory therapist told me that Big Kid could come home with a Bi-Pap., but the insurance company won't pay for a Bi-Pap unless he's completed a sleep study, and he's been on a waiting list and can't get one until August.

How screwed up is that?

I called the nurse-on-call for the insurance company, and explained the situation. Between having the doo-doo scared out of me and being hormonal and not getting enough sleep, I was bawling about 3 minutes into the conversation. "He can't come home if he can't breathe, and how can it be more cost effective to keep him in the hospital for a month?"

The nurse agreed, and offered to put me through to a claim's representative. She said she'd stay on the line to explain the situation for me (so I wouldn't blow my nose in their ears, I suspect). We were on hold for about 5 minutes and when the representative came on the line, the system dropped the nurse off, so I had to go through the whole thing AGAIN.

And yes, about 3 minutes into the long and convoluted explanation I was sobbing like a wet wuss-bag.

"All the doctor has to do is prescribe a Bi-Pap", she told me.

Whaaaat?

"I wish those idiots would just call us first for benefits before upsetting the parents," she grumbled. "If your son's condition warrants a Bi-Pap, all the doctor has to do is prescribe it. He doesn't have to wait for a sleep study."

Damn, I wasted a good manipulative cry for nothing.

As much as I am grateful and thankful for all of your sympathy and support, to be honest, I'm starting to feel like Munchausen Mommy. "My kid is sick! My kid is sick!"

I was telling that to Kitty and Hubby last night. Kitty stayed the night so she wouldn't have to drive back and forth to the city.

Kitty said, "Imagine how I must be feeling. Big Kid never goes ANYWHERE. And then he gets two somewhat random illnesses that I probably carried home (Mono isn't your run-of-the-mill thing among adults, and both children of a friend of Kitty's recently had it)."

So we've dubbed her Typhoid Kitty.

Typhoid Kitty and Munchausen Mommy. Quite the pair. ;-)

Thanks again for all your kind wishes. Gotta go fix up the kid's room for a stay in isolation before the oxygen guys get here.

Big Kid---The Neverending Story

My boy is back in the hospital.

:-(

Last Friday night, Kitty took him to the emergency room down in the city, because he had swollen lymph nodes, was coughing up a little bit of blood, and finding it hard to breath. The took x-rays of his chest (no pneumonia, thank God) told him he had bronchitis, sent him home with a script for some strong antibiotics and told him to follow up with his doctor within 5 days.

They didn't examine his lymph nodes or do any blood work. Kitty was quite put out (and rightly so), that they kept trying to take his oxygen away from him, even though she insisted that he needed it. Luckily, she stayed with him and kept a watchful eye.

He came home for the weekend so we could care for him and spent most of the time sleeping. On Monday, he was ready to go back to Kitty's. Early Tuesday morning, he called me, frightened because he couldn't breath when he was laying down. He'd been up all night. Hubby went down to the city and got him and I made an appointment to see our family doc right away.

He looked really puffy, and was a bit altered. I put it down to a night with no sleep, but the puffiness was worrying me. His heart rate was rapid (we check it with a pulse-ox moniter every few hours), and I pulled the doctor aside when we got there because water-retention, the inability to breath when lying down and rapid heart rate were all symptoms I had when I was diagnosed with heart failure a couple of years ago.

The doc ordered a bunch of tests (scans of his lymph nodes, lungs and heart) to be done the next morning, gave me a handful of referrals to specialists, and prescribed a diuretic. At that point, Big Kid was pretty sick, but not urgently so. We'd have to rig something up so he could sleep semi-sitting and try to keep him comfortable. We had to crank his oxygen up to 5 liters.

I was up all night with him. He'd sleep for 40 minutes and then wake up disoriented and in pain. By the time the morning came, I could actually hear the fluid in his lungs when he was breathing, and his neck was huge. So I took him to the emergency room at our small regional hospital.

They ran a bunch of tests. He was full of fluid, and his lymph nodes and tonsils had swelled up so big that they were blocking his airway. They were planning on trying a c-pap (which forces air down into the lungs by mask), but if that didn't work, they were going to have to put another trach in.

In the meantime, they were making plans to transport him down into the city by ambulance, because some of his symptoms DID seem to have cardiac involvement, and they weren't equipped to handle it there.

Right about the time they were finishing with his EKG (which was bafflingly normal) his bloodwork came in.

The look of surprise on the doctor's face was truly a sight to see.

"You're not going to believe this", he said to me and the nurse. "Big Kid has Mono."

Mono? Are you freaking kidding me? That with a side of secondary bronchial infection. With his compromised immune system, he has a raging case of both.

Soooo....they decided they could treat him right here, thank Goodness.

Because his oxygen and CO were messed up, his kidneys weren't functioning properly, causing him to retain a large amount of fluids. You can't really treat Mono, because it's a virus, but you can treat the symptoms.

He couldn't sleep on his back, because the pressure from the tonsils and lymph nodes were crushing his windpipe.

They've got him in an isolation ward because he is highly infectious. After he was settled in, Hubby and I brought him a fan, his tunes, and some magazines. He was a lot more alert last night and feeling better with pain meds. They had to shave off his beard for the mask, but he didn't even blink an eye at it.

Oh and I almost forgot. It seems like sometime between his last bloodwork and this, Big Kid has developed diabetes. Something we're going to have to deal with when this crisis is over. ::sigh::

So here it is, 8 months later, and I'm getting ready to trek back to the hospital to glove, gown, and mask up again. Only this time, I don't have to drive down into the city, but half a mile down the highway(a blessing).

If you have a moment to spare, good wishes and healing prayers would be truly appreciated, My Friends.

Bad Car-ma

I love my car.

It's a '92 Caddy Seville that we bought from my Dad's estate when he passed away in '97. It's a 4-door sedan that only has 120K miles on it (which is very little for an 18-year-old car, considering the average mileage put on a car is 15K annually). My dad got it with a V-8 engine, and it really kicks ass going up the mountain.

I'm not a car person. Or I guess, what you'd call a "gotta have a new car" person. Hubby has a friend whose wife just beats the crap out their cars, and insists on having the newest model every other year or so. Hubby has offered to trade it in and upgrade over the years, but I've refused. I really REALLY love this car and can't think of another I'd rather have.

On some level, I think Hubby feels guilty, because he's gone through several cars himself since we've been married, and I'm just happy with mine. It looks great to me (gorgeous midnight blue), is fully loaded except for a CD or MP3 player (which I could give two poops about), has front wheel drive (with the great Caddy feature of a light that shines in the direction you want to turn at night when you hit the signal) and has been very reliable. We've had some work over the years (brakes, tires, etc), but it's been a great car to haul a family around in.

I tease him about how lucky he is to have such a low-maintenance wife. ;-)

Of course, being me, things don't usually run the way you'd think ordinary life is supposed to.

I guess I'm not the ONLY one who loves my car.

A few months ago, I wrote about the spring snow storm we had and the family of rabbits we found huddling under the hood when Hubby went to check my wiper fluid. We live in a rural mountain area, and there is a plethora of wildlife around.

Over the past 13 years, from time to time, if I've been driving the car for a few hours or more, it started to get a smell. Kinda burny. We've all described it various ways..."burning coffee" (which is entirely reasonable, since once I overturned a full coffee cup on the floor), "popcornish", or "burnt meat".

I'd get home, make an appointment with our local mechanic shop to check it out. We'd get there, and they couldn't diagnose the problem, because well, there was no mystery smell. Everything was working fine. I'd drive it home, and a month or two later, it would happen again.

So, it happened again one day, and I drove it straight to the shop. Went inside the office and said, "Hurry! Get out here!" The owner (who is our neighbor), and all his mechanics smelled it all for the first time, said the smell wasn't electrical but seemed to be organic. They checked the engine, carburetor, etc, were baffled, and said, well, if you have a loss of power or anything, bring it back.

I had a lot of appointments in the next two weeks, and I didn't want to use this car, so I left it in the garage. Hubby had brought his mom's car from back east, and I used that instead because I just didn't want to deal with the burny stuff.

Bright and early one morning, Hubby decided to run the car down to get an oil change for me before I started driving it again. It started to get that smell almost right away, which was unusual, because it usually took at least an hour of straight driving before it happened. When he got there, the owner of the shop said, "let's take another look under the hood".

Popped it open and screamed like a girl.

Mice. Everywhere. Running around under the hood of my car and jumping out at him.

When he was sure that the mice were gone, he put my car on the rack thingy and lifted it up. Every nook and cranny, hole (muffler too), and ledge was stuffed full of dog food! He and the guys took air hoses and estimated that they blew about 2 pounds of Pedigree dry dog food from the underside of my pride and joy.

I guess when my car got hot, it started cooking the dog food, hence the burny smell.

Oy.

Apparently my car has served as a mobile meese hotel and casino complete with buffet for the last 13 years or so. I must have left a trail of dog food behind me every time I left the house and bounced along the dirt road.

Now we're storing the dog food in a sturdy garbage can with a locking lid. Yuck!

_______

P.S. For some reason, Blogger is dropping some of the comments. Don't worry, I'm getting them in email!

Grr

You know, this really annoys me. Both as an adoptee, and as an adult who tries to be moral and responsible.

Most of the time, I love being a parent. ;-) Most of us grow up imagining parenthood, and I have a lot of compassion for those who find out one day that biological parenting just isn't in the cards for them. I feel their pain, I really do.

I had two children with my first husband, when I was really young. Both were born with supposed genetic developmental disabilities. Although I was ok (yes, a relative term), I had no medical history for anything.

My guys and I went through genetic testing, mostly because my former in-laws were reluctant to provide information ("there's nothing wrong with US! It's YOU, you Bastard!") At the time, genetic testing only identified about 17% of known disabilities, and we were cleared.

Back in the day, before they became de jour, any kind of learning disability or cognitive issue was rather taboo and a cause for shame. After our divorce, my ex and his sister went on to be tested for issues later on, both because it might explain some of the problems they had while growing up that their parents ignored, and because my ex's children from his second family were having problems.

When I met my current hubby (we've been together 18 years!) I made it clear that unless I found my biological family and got a medical history, I didn't feel like it would be a moral or responsible thing to do to have more children that could possibly be born with developmental disabilities. Before anyone squawks about it, I have to explain that I just didn't feel it would be fair to my guys to have to divide the care they would need into adulthood in an extensive way, especially since my Little Guy would need lifelong assistance. Our love is infinite, but our resources aren't.

Hubby loved me enough to marry me anyway, and to take on my guys as his.

I found my birth family 8 years ago, and yes, there are some possible genetic issues. We decided not to have any biological children together, which has been really painful for me. I loved being pregnant, and Hubby's a wonderful Dad.

So I get the pain, I do. And somewhat the desperation of wanting to parent (aka Baby Rabies).

What I DON'T get, and have little patience for is:

Prospective adoptive parents who are so desperate for a child, any child, that they will take on and invest themselves---emotionally and financially---with a baby who is not actually legally free to be adopted.

KNOWING that both parents haven't signed off on the adoption, they take temporary possession and then refuse to give the baby up, desperately dragging it on for months, or even years, figuring that "possession is 9/10ths of the law", only to have to give the baby up to (usually) the biological father who has never given consent for relinquishment in the first place and has been trying to establish his parental rights.

Then the prospective adoptive parents cry to the media (knowing that the baby was never legally free, but thought that their two-parent and/or more affluent status would win them the day) that the child will be traumatized by being ripped from their happy home.

Yeah, probably so. But whose fault IS it? Who dragged it out, knowing that both parents didn't sign off? Who cared more about themselves than the child? Adoption is about finding a home for a child who needs a family, not about finding a child for someone who wants one.

And if they win the day, how will they eventually explain to their child that one of the biological parents didn't want to "abandon" him/her, but fought to keep him/her? That their desire to be parents trumped a child's right to be a part of their family of origin, just because the adoptive parents had more money or a better attorney?

That shit really pisses me off.

Bleargh!

I'm sorry I haven't written, but I've just been really tired.

In the last 3 weeks, we've had:

BigKidhasanewtherapistwhoheisgoingtosee3timesaweekbecausehecan't
controlhisangeroutbursts.Bothhisfamilydoctorandneuropsychthinkthathe
mighthavetogointoassistedlivingbecausesomeofhisissuesaretoomuchforKitty
andItohandle.LittleGuyhasbeenhavingtoattendweeklyjobtrainingclassesdown
inthecitytobeinonagovernementgrantthatwasofferedbetweenMayandJune
wheretheyhadgrantstosethimupwithanemployerbuttheyreallydroppedthe
ballanddidn'thaveenoughemployerssetupforallthepeoplewithdisabilities
they'recruited,sobasicallyit'sbeena5hourwasteoftimeeveryweekforthelast
twomonths.Hewaswaitingforhisridetocommunitychoirwhenhisretainer
droppedoutofhismouth,felltothepavementandbroke.Thisisthe3rdretainer
we'vehadtoreplaceat300bucksapop,dagnabbit.Theaspringadulthasdamaged
thecarweallowhimtodriveandtriedtohideit.Wecan'tinsureitwithcollisionunless
wegetitfixed,andgodknowswhomuchthat'sgoingtocost.Themoverscamewith
Hubby'smothersfurnitureandstuffandwehadtofindroomforallofitandHubby
thoughthewasreadybutbrokedowninthemiddleofallofit.Iwentformy6month
cardiocheckup.Mybloodpressureislow,myheartbeatishigh,andIhavetogoget
anechocardiograminthenexttwoweeks.OurlittlestyorkieMollystarted
draggingherbacklegsandfallingover.We'vehadtotakehertothevettwiceaweek,
andwethoughtshewasparalizedwiththespinalthingweinerdogsgetbutitturns
outshehasseverearthritisinherbackdogknees.Thetraumaandpainsentherweight
downto2.9lbswhensheshouldbe3.5to4pounds.Wethoughtwe'dhavetoputhertosleep,
butshe'sdoingfairlywellonsteroidsandglucosesupplements.Kittyhastosellhermotherinlaw'shouse
becausehermedicaidhasrunoutandtheyneedallherassest.SowehavetofindanewhomeforBigKid,
andwelookedatmobilehomesintheparkKitty'sparentslivetoday.Oh,andwe hadagaragesale.

Hard to read? Yeah, hard to live, too. LOL I'm freaking pooped.

Hope you guys have a wonderful holiday weekend!

Sometimes You Just Got to Say...

I've got a great big steaming bowl of WTFs cluttering up my in-box just screaming to get out!

Although there are leash laws in their area, the Flemming family were used to letting their 12-year-old yellow Lab Jake outside to roam at will. Sadly, he was hit by a car and killed. A couple of months later, they got a letter from State Farm Insurance asking reimbursement for the damage sustained to the driver's car.

They were so indignant about it that they were able to make the news (you'd think the reporter would know better, but I guess it was a slow news day).

"'We've lost a member of our family but we're supposed to pay for the damage to her bumper? That's just wrong,' daughter Katherine Flemming said."

Oh, where to start, where to start...

What's wrong, dear doofus, is irresponsible pet owners like you who don't think that laws apply to your extra-special selves and let your dogs roam unattended without leashes. The driver didn't hit your dog on purpose, that's why they're called "accidents". She sustained damage, and somebody is responsible for it. Should it be her? Should it be the insurance company?

No, it should be you. If it wasn't for you, her car wouldn't be dented and your dog wouldn't be dead.

WTF?

These two ladies deserve matching Richard Cranium awards.

Janice Eberle of Danvers is fighting a $300 ticket for parking her Mercedes SUV in a handicapped space. Her excuse? It was raining and her arm hurt. Plus she was only going "in for a minute".

In Arlington, Texas, Tweed Clark ran into the courthouse "for just a few minutes" to pay her daughter's $250 dollar speeding ticket. Unfortunately--koff koff--she "didn't realize" that she wasn't supposed to block the access to handicapped parking. She's fighting the $600+ ticket she was issued as "excessive".

I think they should slap on another $100 for sporting such a precious name as Tweed, but that's just me.

WTF Ladies?

Last, but not least, the Prairie South School District certainly has its priorities mixed up.

5-year-old Ryan Coomber wears a prosthetic leg. Bullies on the school bus have taunted and teased him, punched him in the face, taken his backpack away from him, and one darling child even tried to remove his prosthetic. When his parents complained to the school, how did the school respond?

Ryan and his sister are no longer allowed on the bus for their own safety. Instead, their parents have to drive them 25 miles each way to and from school.

What a crock of crap. Why shouldn't the bullies be forced off the bus instead of the victim? Make THEIR parents haul them back and forth to school. Maybe those parents will be so inconvenienced they'll do something about their little monsters.

WTF People?

The Battle of the B*tches

No, I'm not talking about the Real Housewives. I'm talking about the battle that is going on in my own home, between me and Little Missy, the elderly Yorkie we adopted last September. 9 months later, she is now known as Little Messy, Stinky Pete, the Puxatawny Pooper or That Little Shit, depending on who you're talking to.

For the first 12 years of her life, Little Missy was the pampered baby of an elderly lady. The woman never let her out of the house---she carried the little miscreant around, hand-fed her, and let her poop and pee wherever she wanted. When the woman passed away, her niece took the dog until she could find her a home. Which she did with dispatch, probably due to Little Messy's unpleasant habits.

The next family had small children, but they only lasted 8 months with her. They tried to crate train her, but she barked all night. They couldn't leave her out of the crate unattended, because she did her business all over the house while they were sleeping. They ultimately put her in diapers and let her sleep on their bed.

They thought she was deaf because she refused to respond to them (she's not, she just ignores everyone unless it suits her). Finally, the owners couldn't take it any more and decided to put her down if they couldn't find her a new family.

Enter dumbasses one and two. Which would be me and Hubby. Since I had trained our other 3 dogs (2 yorkies and one delicious noodly mutt) with military precision (the power of cheese, you know, or that failing, the bunny slippers from hell), I smugly figured I could teach that old dog some new tricks and she'd fit right in.

Man plans, God laughs. That little shit has been trying to train ME, as she has all her past peeps.

After the first month---we had her spayed, had breast tumors removed, and when the vet tried to clean her teeth, they all fell out but ONE (apparently all the previous owners took her to be groomed regularly, but never got around to taking her to a vet---her health was sadly neglected and she was in pain), she got acclimated and decided to try to assert herself as the queen bee in the house.

But there's only one Alpha B*tch here. And that would be me.

Every morning at 3 a.m., she starts barking. Not little ladylike yips, mind you, but shrill, piercing, ear-splitting yaps. And she does some kind of growly thing in her throat that brings to mind Linda Blair in The Exorcist. You keep expecting her head to twirl around as she rasps "Your mom sews socks that smell!"

She's incessant and she ultimately wakes up everyone in the house. Except Hubby. He snores so damn loud, that even if Chernobyl happened next door, he'd sleep through it.

At first we thought she had an old bladder and had to go to the bathroom. I'd put her out, and she'd just stand at the door and bark. You might think I should leave her out there until she did her business, but in the winter time, she'd turn into a pupsicle, or an owl might carry her off into the night.

I'd let her back in, and put her back in her crate. And the yapping would begin again the minute I left the room. So for the sake of everybody else's sleep, often times I'd busy myself in the kitchen or living room, because she wouldn't DARE bark if I was there. Many a dark gloomy morning I've sulked over my coffee and contemplated buying a cattle prod, but that would prolly kill the old thing daid.

The worst part is that we can't leave her locked up all the time. But there is NO time when she's alone and quiet to make an opportunity to praise her. So when we ultimately let her out, it just reinforces the behavior ("if I yap for 3 hours they'll let me out!") Ugh.

My latest solution, now that the weather is warm, is to take her crate outside into the garage once she gets going. There she can bark her damn fool head off and the only thing she'll bother is herself.

Every time I let the dogs out to potty, she runs under the couch. We have to grab her and physically put her out there before she figures out what we're doing. I am DONE trying to dig her out with a mop. She'll peek her head out from under the couch to see if anyone's around, and if she sees me, she'll turn around and squirm back under there. If nobody's there, she'll come out and poop on the carpet. Then run back under. Hence the name the Puxatawny Pooper.

We have learned to keep all the bedroom doors closed because about an hour or so before bedtime, she'd go hide under someone's bed. And they'd get the rude awakening when she started barking at 3 a.m. UNDER THE BED!

Since Hubby sleeps through the racket, it's his job to trap and crate the little stinker at night. Frequently when I get up, the couches and loveseat are pulled away from the wall in his quest to capture her.

Other than that, I have to admit she's a sweet old thing. She likes to cuddle, and farts a lot, but that's not her fault. Since she doesn't like to share or play well with others, the other dogs just ignore her.

But this is the last time. No more crotchety old dogs. Because no good deed, etc. etc.

How's YOUR week?

To My Friends Who Use Wordpress

I've been running around the past week trying to catch up and comment on blogs I've been neglecting. A couple of days ago, I went back to my friend Rootie's blog and made a revolting discovery.

She'd deleted my comments.

Well no, not really. They just didn't show up. I went to every other place I'd been commenting, and none of them showed up on blogs that had Wordpress.

I did a little troubleshooting, and the best I can figure is that suddenly Wordpress has decided that I'm a spammer and has blocked my IP address.

I'm not sure that I'm the only one this is happening to, but if you feel like you're a little light in the comment department, check out your spam catcher in your comments section. You have to mark "this is not spam" for it to unblock IP addresses.

Feh.