101 Uses for a Half-Dead Moose
Okay, all I really have is one (use him as a table for folding clean laundry), but I liked the title. It's catchy.
What hopefully isn't catchy is whatever nastiness he's got. He just doesn't appear to be getting any better. This morning, he staggered into our bedroom at 5:50am and proclaimed he'd been awake and unable to return to sleep since 2:30. (Which is odd, considering I gave him NyQuil at 9:30--the real stuff, too, not the generic shit.) He layed on the bed for a few minutes, then showered, then staggered out of the bathroom and collapsed onto the bed.
Are you okay?
"Yeah, I just kind of almost blacked out for a minute."
Hmmm...that doesn't exactly fit my description of "okay," but you can't tell a dying man he's sick anymore than you can tell a man with a hangnail he's not dying, so I left it alone. Again, he shuffled off to work and I hoped beyond hope he didn't choose to "kind of almost" black out again while doing 65 on the highway during rush hour.
A recent IM exchange went something like this:
Me: are you still alive, moose?
Moose: i'm alive and absolutely swamped. i'm glad i came in or i would have been screwed. i just had a ton of shit come at me at once and it needs to get done. and my nose started bleeding, but not from my nostril, from like a pore or something. almost like a zit, but it wasn't. it was weird.
Me: what the hell?
Moose: i was just leaking blood out the side of my nose
Me: are you okay, moose?
Moose: i'm fine.
Okay, so...feverish, blacking out, and now nasal stigmata? I think it's time to call a medical professional. Or, at the very least, a priest.
So while my husband was experiencing spontaneous facial bleeding at work, I got up a half hour early and got Bob up and at 'em for his 8:00 dental appointment. I tried to cancel it yesterday, but the receptionist asked "why, is he sick?"
Um...well...no, but I'm fucking tired. Doesn't that count?
"8:00 is our first appointment, so he'd be right in and out."
Okay, fine. Sheesh. Tooth nazi.
So at 7:55, we were out the door, and in the office at 8:00. Sure enough, we sat in the waiting room for less than 3 minutes before being called back. Bob settled into the chair and eased in for his cleaning. Two chairs down, a kid about Bob's age was screaming bloody murder and they hadn't even got him in the chair yet. The screaming went on while Bob had his teeth cleaned (despite his apparent hypersensitive gag reflex, which he gets from me), examined and coated with fluoride paste. About the time Bob was selecting his Spiderman tattoo for a job well-done, the screaming kid's parents were finally told to try again another time. The dentist told me no cavities, bottom front teeth are loosening up, 6 year molars are coming through, and so far he appears to have inherited my nice straight teeth genes (thank God). And then we were off. Twenty-five minutes, start to finish.
So since we had time to kill, I suggested Starbucks. Bob readily agreed. Again, we were in and out with unusual quickness and lack of bullshit. We pulled up to school with 10 minutes to spare. I was starting to feel a bit cocky over how well the morning had gone, when Bob chose that moment to drop his strawberries'n'cream into my front passenger seat, where it oozed into a file folder containing a 3-ring binder full of chiropractic records I was to take to the post office this morning to mail to an insurance claims adjuster for a client.
Ah, well. Win some, lose some. I didn't want to go to the post office this morning, anyway.
What hopefully isn't catchy is whatever nastiness he's got. He just doesn't appear to be getting any better. This morning, he staggered into our bedroom at 5:50am and proclaimed he'd been awake and unable to return to sleep since 2:30. (Which is odd, considering I gave him NyQuil at 9:30--the real stuff, too, not the generic shit.) He layed on the bed for a few minutes, then showered, then staggered out of the bathroom and collapsed onto the bed.
Are you okay?
"Yeah, I just kind of almost blacked out for a minute."
Hmmm...that doesn't exactly fit my description of "okay," but you can't tell a dying man he's sick anymore than you can tell a man with a hangnail he's not dying, so I left it alone. Again, he shuffled off to work and I hoped beyond hope he didn't choose to "kind of almost" black out again while doing 65 on the highway during rush hour.
A recent IM exchange went something like this:
Me: are you still alive, moose?
Moose: i'm alive and absolutely swamped. i'm glad i came in or i would have been screwed. i just had a ton of shit come at me at once and it needs to get done. and my nose started bleeding, but not from my nostril, from like a pore or something. almost like a zit, but it wasn't. it was weird.
Me: what the hell?
Moose: i was just leaking blood out the side of my nose
Me: are you okay, moose?
Moose: i'm fine.
Okay, so...feverish, blacking out, and now nasal stigmata? I think it's time to call a medical professional. Or, at the very least, a priest.
So while my husband was experiencing spontaneous facial bleeding at work, I got up a half hour early and got Bob up and at 'em for his 8:00 dental appointment. I tried to cancel it yesterday, but the receptionist asked "why, is he sick?"
Um...well...no, but I'm fucking tired. Doesn't that count?
"8:00 is our first appointment, so he'd be right in and out."
Okay, fine. Sheesh. Tooth nazi.
So at 7:55, we were out the door, and in the office at 8:00. Sure enough, we sat in the waiting room for less than 3 minutes before being called back. Bob settled into the chair and eased in for his cleaning. Two chairs down, a kid about Bob's age was screaming bloody murder and they hadn't even got him in the chair yet. The screaming went on while Bob had his teeth cleaned (despite his apparent hypersensitive gag reflex, which he gets from me), examined and coated with fluoride paste. About the time Bob was selecting his Spiderman tattoo for a job well-done, the screaming kid's parents were finally told to try again another time. The dentist told me no cavities, bottom front teeth are loosening up, 6 year molars are coming through, and so far he appears to have inherited my nice straight teeth genes (thank God). And then we were off. Twenty-five minutes, start to finish.
So since we had time to kill, I suggested Starbucks. Bob readily agreed. Again, we were in and out with unusual quickness and lack of bullshit. We pulled up to school with 10 minutes to spare. I was starting to feel a bit cocky over how well the morning had gone, when Bob chose that moment to drop his strawberries'n'cream into my front passenger seat, where it oozed into a file folder containing a 3-ring binder full of chiropractic records I was to take to the post office this morning to mail to an insurance claims adjuster for a client.
Ah, well. Win some, lose some. I didn't want to go to the post office this morning, anyway.
posted by Mitzi Green at 7:24 AM
3 Comments:
Oh dear, Ben's erupting snozzer doesn't sound good.
Good for Bob at the dentist. It's always nice when somebody else's kid is acting up - makes you feel smug for a while :0) LOL. Bummer about the documents - small price for a good morning though.
Oh man! What a morning. My kid got his gag reflex from me to. Totally freaks out at the dentist. That was probally him you heard screaming.
All in all, the morning went of spectualuarly, could have taken an entirely different route, but it didn't.
Hope things continue to fare well, sorry to hear about Ben the Moose (giggling now at the Moosebaby moniker (sp)).
Be well, be safe,
Marcia
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