Micies

Brad loves animals.  I mean, I really like animals too, but on a selective basis.  For example, I do not like (in order of dislike) snakes, frogs, *nutria, and mice/rats.

Brad has no order of dislike of animals.  He once pulled over to save a raccoon that was hit by a car.  He wrapped it in a sweater and took it to a vet who charged him $400 to put the raccoon down humanly.

Anyway, not long ago, we were outside and our puppies (aka actual grown dogs known collectively as "The Puppies") were circling our grill and just generally going crazy.  When we lifted the lid we found...a rat's nest.  With baby rats.

Ugh, gross, I'm shivering just writing this.  Then, the mamma mouse bolted out of the bottom of the grill and ran away.  Ugh, ugh, gross, barf!

I ran inside and slammed the door.  

"Take care of it!"  I yelled from the safety of the house.
"What do you want me to do?" yelled Brad.
"TAKE CARE OF IT!  GET RID OF THEM!"
"How?"

I couldn't believe this conversation.  I grew up in a family where Dad just "took care of" things like this.  There's a skunk under the playhouse?  Dad will take care of it.  There's a garden snake outside your bedroom window?  Dad will take care of it.  

It was now Brad's duty, as a man, to take care of these mice without my explicit knowledge of what he was doing or how he was going to do it.  Why didn't he get this?

"Come out here," he insisted.
"What do you want me to do?" I whined/cried, hopping about.
"I don't know.  What do you want me to do?"

What to do with the "baby miceies" (as Brad named them), indeed.  I thought the obvious answer was to kill them.  Brad disagreed.

"You are not in the position to decide if they should live or die," declared Brad self righteously.
"Yes, yes I am," I said.  "They are in my grill, so I am basically the god of them."  

"Fine," said Brad.  "You want them dead, then you kill them.  Do it.  Kill those little baby miceies who haven't even opened their little mice eyes yet."
"No!  That's not how this works," I said.  "I want them dead, but I'm not the one who's supposed to do it.  YOU kill them!"

A fight ensued.

It was finally determined that they should be released, humanly, into the wild.  So they could come back to our house and ruin our walls and insulation.

BUT before they could be released, they had to be nurtured into adolescence because they couldn't even walk yet.  They would surely be killed!

Thus began a week long process of feeding the miceies nuts and left over pieces of chicken on a daily basis.  Brad had to go out of town for two days and I had to promise, promise that I would 1. not kill the miceies 2. keep up the strict feeding regimen Brad had determined for them 3. make sure their little plastic dish of water was full.  FML.

Once the miceies started crawling around, it was obvious (to me) that their release was imminent. 

"They're going to crawl out of the grill and then we're going to have mice in our house." I argued.
"Well if you would let me get a cage for them..."
"NO!" 

And so, with a heavy heart and a thickly gloved hand, Brad scooped the miceies into a "Mouse House" (cardboard box filled with leaves, nuts and a small hole so they could get out and explore when they were ready), and we marched into the woods to release them.  Far, far away from our house.

We placed their House under some branches of a low hanging tree so that birds and coyotes wouldn't see it, and then we waved goodbye to Fievel, Mickey, Minnie and Templeton.

We talk of them sometimes, and wonder how they're doing.  For a while they were probably really happy to be in their own house.  They had lots of parties.  

But then, Fievel got into grad school, and Templeton was really into WOW and had no direction, and Minnie was all "Mickey, you need to commit to me," and Mickey was like "What else do you want?  We live together?" and then Minnie was all "You know what, Mickey, if you don't want to put a ring on it, I can damn sure find a mouse who does."

Things just fell apart.  It wasn't their fault, it's life.  The life of Miceies.

Templeton.  Pre WOW addiction.
Note the water dish.

*If you don't know what nutria are, you are very lucky.  They are the worst.  The.  Worst.  

From Wikipedia: "The coypu, also known as the river rat, and nutria, is a large, herbivorous, semiaquatic rodent and the only member of the family Myocastoridae."  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coypu 

From me: Nutria. Are. The.  Worst.  Just click on that link to see these disgusting little things.  They are like rats the size of cats.  They are not cute like beavers and they serve no purpose.  Apparently people like them for their fur.  Good.  Take them all.  Make 100,000 nutria coats.  No one would care.  Especially not me.  

**I'm sorry PETA.  Please don't protest my blog.  I don't really want 100,000 nutria coats.  No one would buy them anyway.  Because nutria are the worst.

The Infusion Day Spa

My body is apparently allergic to many kinds of antibiotics.  So this week, when I was told that I needed to be on antibiotics, the normal kind were out of the question.  You know, the kind in pill form.  Not for me!  The only antibiotic that I could take- in the world of medicine- had to be pumped into my body via IV.  I didn't even know this was an option, but it is.  

I was not trilled to learn that I would be stuck with a needle every day for seven days.  I faint every time I give blood.  I have to give myself a little mental pep talk every time I get a shot, and I still end up farting from anxiety.  This was not welcome news.

However, I decided this was a good opportunity to overcome my needle fear, so onward I marched- to the Infusion Center!

That's right, to get an IV when you are not in a hospital, you have to go to an Infusion Center.  That is really what it's called.  Only, instead of infusing vodka with pineapple or something equally delicious, you're infusing your body with drugs.

I had no idea what to expect, but the Infusion Center was really nice.  There were all sorts of comfy leather recliners filled with older Americans getting infused with life saving elixir.  I was comforted by this.  If they were able to keep these older people alive, I stood a chance.

So here's how it works.  Once you pick a chair, your nurse will begin the process of inserting the IV.  It turns out, this actually isn't too bad, unless you get Bad Nurse Kim who can never find your vein and then has to wiggle the stupid needle around.  If you get Good Nurse Larry, it's relatively painless.  

You have the option of keeping the IV in for three days.  If you do this, you must sign a waiver that you will not use the port to insert illegal substances into your veins.  I mean really, if you can't use your IV for a little meth, then what's the point?  I did try this on the first day (leaving the IV in, not using it for meth), but it was a huge pain in the ass and I had to cover it up with foil when I took a shower.  Thus, I chose to be re-stuck every day, which I think says a lot about me and how brave I am.

Once you're stuck, basically, you are a queen for 35 minutes.  They have snack options of peanut butter crackers, Sun Chips (all flavors), and those little biscotti cookies.  You can also choose from all Keurig beverages, sodas and Gatorade.   

My snack was usually cheddar Sun Chips with red Gatorade because those are the best flavors of both products.  They'll also bring you a blanket, a heating pad for your arm (because the IV juice is cold) and a remote so you can watch TV.  And, because I was the youngest and most lucid- always- I was automatically all the nurses' favorite.  Sweet!   

So, things were going well.  I was on day three of seven, and had gotten into quite the routine.  I had Good Nurse Larry, had already placed my Sun Chip/Gatorade order and was settling in for a little nap.  Larry hit the button on the machine and I heard the machine start pumping.  Then, I looked down right before the juice went into my arm and saw...an AIR bubble!

Look, I don't know a lot about medicine or IVs or veins, but I do know that in some horror movies to kill someone the killer pumps air into their victim's veins through an IV.  Air is not something that should be in your veins, I know that much.

I didn't want to freak out though, it was probably fine.  But what if it wasn't?  Should I Google this?  If I did, what would I Google?  "How long does it take you to die if there is air in your IV?"  "How much air in your veins will kill you?"  Did I really want to know the answer?

The longer I sat there, the more anxious I became.  Just because I wasn't dead yet, didn't mean anything.  What if it took 24 hours?  I would be freaked for a whole day.  It would be like watching "The Ring" and not being safe for seven days.

Finally, it was too much.  I raised my IVed arm.

"Um, Larry?" 
"Heeey, there.  What's up?" said Larry in his soothing nurse voice.
"Um, this is probably weird, but I saw a little air bubble go into my vein when you started the IV.  Is that going to kill me?"

And this is how nice the nurses at the Infusion Center are- he didn't even laugh. 

"Oh, well, that's a good question.  Was it just a little bubble?"
"Yes."
"Okay, well I can see how that would be alarming, but no, that won't hurt you.  If that whole thing were full of air and we were pumping just air into you, that wouldn't be good."
"Oh, okay.  Thanks Larry."
"You are so welcome.  Ask anything else that you're concerned about."
"Um, can I have some more Gatorade?"
"Of course!"

So that is how the kind nurses of the Infusion Center not only didn't try to murder me, but also kept me hydrated and were not at all condescending when I asked dumb questions.  

I'm not saying I'm sad that tomorrow is my last day, but I will miss being treated like a frail, elderly celebrity for 35 minutes every day.  It turns out all I need to be extremely happy is a blanket, a remote and someone nice to bring me Gatorade.  It doesn't get much better.

How to take a shower with your meth IV port.  Or how to fight crime as a robot.

Rules by Which to Live

Rules and guilt have been an integral part of my life since I was old enough to understand either concept.  It wasn't that my parents were particularly strict, but somehow I have this God given need to do the right thing all the time, and feel very, very guilty if I even slightly do the wrong thing.  Usually the guilt is followed by hours of massive anxiety until I'm forced to confess to whatever atrocity I committed.

The longest I ever lied about something was when I was five.  After learning to do a backflip in the pool, I decided that I could definitely do a back flip off my dresser, because I had a waterbed...which was like a pool.  I missed the waterbed and broke my arm in two places.  

I kept up the lie that I was "jumping on the bed" for six months until I broke.  Through my tears I begged my mom "Punish me!  PUNISH ME!"  She said that I punished myself enough and I was off the hook. 

You would think that would have taught me to just be really, really sorry when I did something wrong, but instead I just became even more vigilant about not lying and following the rules.  

I was a tattle tale.  I was the one who told on the slumber party when we were watching "It" instead of "The Little Mermaid."  I was the one who stayed behind when everyone went out toilet papering the football players' lawns.  This is also why I'm very good with grammar.  

I've mellowed over the years and have been able to relax a little.  I had a fake ID in college and I do speed occasionally.  So there you go.

As an adult, I have learned to channel my need for rules and turn them from a freakishly annoying habit that alienated me from my peers to a very positive coping mechanism.  So, in an effort to make the world a better place, here's how to improve your life with Rules.

There are two types of rules, but basically, all you have to do is make up a Rule any time you don't want to do something or you are really stressed out.  

If you don't want to do something you just say "Well, it's a Rule that I have to pick up this smelly dog poo or the park ranger will arrest me."  or  "It's a Rule that I have to fold these clothes or I'll be a homeless bum with wrinkled shirts."  Then you do it, because it's a Rule.

It's very simple.

The other Rule is the stressed out Rule, and this comes in handy a lot.  For this one, you just have to say "Okay, it's a rule that if I walk around the block one time, when I come back in the house I can't think about this terrible thing at work that's giving me anxiety diarrhea."  

Or, "It's a rule that you can't eat ice cream if you're really stressed out about the fight you just had with your husband."  Nine times out of 10 it works, until about 15 minutes later when I have to come up with a new Rule. 

So, that's how you get through life.  Bouncing around from Rule to Rule.  It's very effective and not at all crazy.  You should try it!

In fact, I'll help!  This can be your first Rule, dear reader:  if you want to keep reading, it's a Rule that you have to follow the blog (check out the new gadget thing over to your right.  It lets you put in your email address.  You can get notices when I post!).  

Okay, not really a rule.  But do it or I'll totally tell your mom that you prank called Dave Wrusso from third period at Cassie Bridges' slumber party last week!

No Longer Grateful

If you didn't know, every year Willie Nelson throws a big party for the Fourth of July (FOJ), called "Willie Nelson's Fourth of July Picnic."  It's pretty fantastic.  Willie invites all kinds of bands to a big field outside of Austin and basically it's a giant concert that goes all day until midnight.

When I was in college, my friend Cherry and I decided to check it out (Note: Cherry is not her real name, but the name she chose for herself for me to use for blogging purposes.  She would also like her fake last name to be Ginger.  I don't know what this says about her.) 

So me and Cherry Ginger buy our tickets and head over to the picnic.  We were excited to see Willie, of course, but we were mostly excited to see our most favorite, semi-famous, local country hero, Pat Green.  If you don't know who Pat Green is, do yourself a favor and look him up.  

Cherry and I loved, loved, loved Pat Green.  Pat was just famous enough to be cool, but not famous enough yet that he still had to play frat parties.  So we felt like he was our own personal country music celebrity.  We just knew that if we got close enough to the stage he would recognize us (why?) and probably pull us up on stage (again, why?).

We arrived as the gates opened at 10 AM, per our tickets.  Since this was one of our first big music festivals we didn't yet know that the crap bands come on early and that Pat, let alone Willie, would not take the stage until late into the night.  We really thought that we'd walk in and Pat would be there waiting for us.

He wasn't.  In fact, not many people were there yet.  The vendors were still setting up, I think they were still unloading the Port-o-Potties.  Never mind, we were undeterred.  This just meant we'd get primo seats!  We were going to have fun!

So we pulled out our beach towels and made camp next to a hippie looking couple with a baby.  The hippies were not sitting on beach towels.  They were not actually sitting on anything.  We observed that they had brought their baby to an outdoor festival and were sitting with him in the dirt.  We immediately began judging them.

We noticed that they also didn't have a diaper bag, or sunscreen or water for the baby whose name we heard was....wait for it...ELVIS!  Apparently naming him was the only thing they got right.

"Poor Baby Elvis," we kept saying under our breath.  As two very good nannies, we knew that babies needed things.  Lots of things.  Like diapers and food.  And, maybe a ball or something to play with during an all day music festival.  They did mash bright orange earplugs in his head at one point, so I guess that was good of them.  Other than that, Baby Elvis just crawled around in the dirt.

Then it started to rain. 

It was okay though!  We had smartly brought ponchos!  We put them on and then sadly watched as Poor Baby Elvis' horrible parents put him in a trash bag with his head pocking out the top.  The three of them were now sitting in mud.  I would like to say we offered them our towels, but those were muddy too, so we just all sat in the mud and waited.

When the rain stopped, slowly people started to arrive, and the sun came out.  See!  We were going to have fun!  Everything was okay!

All the people arriving were pretty hippy looking, and with them, were some of PBE's parents' friends who brought a big blanket.  Now, thank God, PBE didn't have to crawl in the mud.  Things were looking up for all of us.

Then a band took the stage, and they were pretty hippy looking too.  Turns out, The Dead was the opening band.  Yes, as in The Grateful Dead.  Only without Jerry, they're just The Dead, no longer grateful.  

Cherry was excited.  Her dad had gone to Woodstock and she had grown up listening to the The Grateful Dead.  I was less familiar with their music, and I really just wanted to see Pat Green, but hey, we were having fun!  I was keeping an open mind!

If you like The Dead, grateful or otherwise, I'm really sorry, but they're terrible.  It turns out I do not like The Dead.  In fact, I hate them.  I am not grateful at all.  The first song was fine, but it lasted an hour.  It was just one long song with psychedelic pictures projected on a screen behind the band.  The second song lasted another hour.  

I was becoming less open minded, but Cherry was just laying on our towels, grooving right along with the hippies.  Just as I was about to lose it, they stopped playing their forever song and left the stage.   I was relieved, but acted like I had kind of enjoyed the whole thing.  A new experience!

But then...they came back.  Turns out, the next band didn't show up due to the weather, but not to worry, The Dead was happy to keep on playing!  They played, and played and played.  The hippies twirled, and I got more and more pissed off.  

This was not why I was here.  I was here to see Pat Green and Willie Nelson, not listen to The Dead for hours in the mud.  At one point I was so angry I got up to find someone in charge.  I don't know who I thought that would be or what they would do, but I wanted some answers, damn it!  

The closest approximation of an authority figure I could find was a bored security guard who said he didn't even know who Pat Green was, and no he didn't know what time he would play.  I think I cried a little.

When I got back to our blankets, Cherry was veeeerrrrry relaxed.  She had made friends with some of the hippies while I was gone.  For some reason this made me even more angry.  Maybe because she was having fun and I was not having fun, I don't know.  Angrily, I took a nap.

When I woke up, The Dead had stopped playing and the sun was out again.  Cherry brought me some ice cream.  Baby Elvis' parents gave him some ice cream too.  

Finally, it started to get dark, and around 8:00 Pat took the stage.  We were so thrilled!  None of the hippies knew a single song, and we were the only ones standing up in our little group of people, but we didn't care.  It was our turn to twirl!  

When Willie joined Pat, the whole crowd went bananas.  Even the hippies were singing "On the Road Again."  We were all sunburned and muddy, we had survived four hours of The Dead- literally they played for four hours- and we were all going to sing our little hearts out.

And really, isn't that the miracle of Willie Nelson?  He can unite the hippies and the cowboys.  We all love him, and we all have a piece of him in our hearts.  As the show ended to fireworks celebrating a glorious Fourth of July, we were one- Poor Baby Elvis, the hippies, The Dead, Pat, Willie, Cherry and me.  It was lovely, and for that, I was truly grateful.