Shogun Hair and Manly Gowns

Yesterday was a lesson in extreme patience as Husband went into Big Hospital for a scheduled heart catheter ablation. After his last bout with heart atrial fibrillation, his EKGs were sent over to an cardiac electrophysiologist who determined that Big D has "atrial fibrillation Wolf Parkinson Waite (WPW) syndrome with antidromic/antegrade conduction through an accessory pathway". Which basically means the wiring in his heart is haywire and should he go into a-fib again, the electrical conduction paths have a higher likelihood of leading to ventricular fibrillation which means you collapse and die without immediate medical attention.

Sounded dire so we elected for him to get back into his manly mint green hospital gown and have the catheter ablation whereby the doctors go in through the femoral veins and the neck, try to induce arrhythmia, and find the accessory pathways and shut them down.

Only Big D's heart wouldn't go into a-fib. They tried for three hours and used lots of adrenaline with no luck. What do you know? White boy finally found his rhythm!

So they closed Husband up and he had to lie still for six hours. All told, we spent 12 hours at Big Hospital and still run the same risk of his heart freaking out on him like it did before. The good news is that if the doctors couldn't induce a-fib with everything they were pumping into him, then it should mean that his heart won't easily go into a-fib. The other good news is that Big Hospital got wireless internet so I was able to almost finish season one of "Arrested Development" on Hulu.com.

The video is Big D trying to see if he could hold his breath and get the machine to beep that his respirations were bottoming out. Can you tell he is bored? Oh yes, and also, when I asked him how I looked (wrong question to ask any guy but especially at 6 AM while he is lying in a bed awaiting surgery AND I didn't do a whole lot to my hair), he tells me "you look like a shogun". I think he means samurai but either way, he sure knows how to flatter a girl. Good thing my love language is acts of service and not verbal affirmation!

Squirrels Race with Haerr-balls

This past weekend, we entered Eli and Kate in their first ever "Kids Triathlon" being held down by Aunt Susan's and Uncle Shannon's and Aunt Bethany's and Uncle Toffee's. Proceeds from the race (which also included the adult version) were to benefit Susan and Shannon's ranch for disadvantaged or disabled kids and adults.

We knew Eli would be fine with the 100 meter swim, 1 mile bike, and 1/2 mile run but were less sure how Kate would do. Kate acts like it will KILL her to have to pick up her toys or walk down the driveway to get the mail (granted, our driveway is a half mile long but still...). Kate has just learned how to ride with no training wheels and getting started is always a little precarious as she wobbles and careens for several feet before finally gathering enough leg strength to stay upright.

But alas, both girls jumped in with enthusiasm, no doubt aided by the fact that their cousins Hattie Rabbit, Aber Baber, and Lena Bean were all veterans to the event. Lena and Kate were the only ones in the same age group competing against each other and luckily Susan, who had run the triathlon just minutes before, was able to get into the pool with both girls and keep them from drowning as they completed the swim portion of the race. Then off to the bike ride! Husband worked them through the transition area (while I ran behind with the camera) and then he went running after Kate (literally...he ran the route) and escorted Eli back. Then ran back out to catch up with Kate and finished running with her in the 1/2 mile run portion. Perhaps Husband could just enter the race next year. At least he would get a medal for all the running he did that day!Eli came in first out of a group of...ahem...one...in the 8-year-old female division. Kate came in first out of two in the 6-year-old female division. Lena came in second. She may hit Kate in the knee before next year to even out the competition. Hattie came in first out of one in the 9-year-old female division and Abe came in first out of one in the 7-year-old boy division (are we seeing a pattern?). So the great news is that this race is small enough that all 19 kids who were in it got a medal. Now that's MY kind of triathlon!

(Props to Aunt Bethany whose team won FIRST in the team division - she was like greased lightning in the pool, Aunt Susan who won 2nd in her age division, and Uncle Shannon who won 2nd in his age division. I will spare them by not posting pictures of them racing without their permission).

Napoleon Dynamite - Juror Panel 2

After years of moving around enough to successfully dodge it, the dreaded summons came...JURY DUTY! Now, if my only court experience had been watching endless reruns of "Law and Order", I would have been excited for the juicy fodder of being on a jury. But alas, after seeing adoption court, which is a bunch of people, all not looking at each other, mumbling things while staring at their laptops, I knew court is super boring.

I sent a request out for ideas on how to get out of jury duty to my Facebook friends. They didn't disappoint. I share their advice:

"Tell them the only justice you believe in is vigilante justice." - Susan H (my sister...she's not right in the head).

"You could try bringing a stuffed animal and suck your thumb and answer every question in a tweety bird voice...I tink I taw a waywer!!" - Camille K

"Tell them you think Perry Mason was the first Reality TV Show. I actually had a friend dismissed from jury duty when they asked if anyone thought it would be like Perry Mason, he raised his hand." - Steve and Sharon H

"Just tell them that your instructions from the federation leader on planet Lyborg Q-854 are to politely decline the invitation. Or you could just stuff a bunch of steak knives in your purse before you go through security, but I'd prefer not to visit you in county lock-up!" - Dena M (my SIL...she's not right in the head either)

"Tell them your dog said you can't come without him because he's your legal representation and bring the dog with you." - Camille K (her 2nd option)

"Another line you could try to get the boot: "The best jury is a hung jury." - Joe M (my BIL husband to Dena M...evidently warped minds attract warped minds)

In the end, I decided to go all "Napoleon Dynamite" for the day. I even debated wearing my "Vote for Pedro" t-shirt (yes, I have one thanks to my little sister Erin) but thought that would be too obvious. So I went fresh from the shower, hair not even remotely done, no makeup, ratty jeans, a old brown "RAGBRAI 1973" t-shirt, and flip flops. I tried to look as homeless and hungover as possible except when the question came up as to whether or not I was friends with, had relatives that were, or lived next to law enforcement officers. I dug up every connection I possible had and changed my outward demeanor to one of members of the Montana militia.

I looked around the rest of the room and realized that there were lots of kooks, though. I mean you had your regular Corporate people who furiously typed on their Blackberries, tromped around in heels, and otherwise looked like they were far above this lowly position of juror. Then there was the militant NRA members who just wanted somebody to hang. And your harried housewives who were trying to arrange additional days of childcare for their brood. And the ones who felt full disclosure was best when the question of "Have you ever been a party to a court case?" came up and they went into vast detail about how their husband had been accused of embezzling and was wrongly sentenced and blah de blah de blah.

In the end, my "Napoleon Dynamite" persona was dismissed from having to serve on Panel #2 and I was promptly thanked for my time. But I am saving my "Vote for Pedro" t-shirt in case I get summoned again.

Hairy Houdini & Muck Love

It's been a week...

The Squirrels kept telling me that Sassy the Sinister Snobbish Cat of ours, was "missing fur". I figured she's an outside cat, big deal, right? Until I looked closer and saw that something had taken a rather large chunk out of her side. Like I could see shiny, viscous muscle tissue rolling around underneath her missing skin in a perfect circle with bite marks around it.

A quick call to my local vet to schedule an appointment and I went outside to find the cat. She was MIA. Looked and looked and could not find her. Called the vet back and said she was missing and I would call back when I found her.

Not 5 minutes later, she shows up. Determined not to let her escape again, I put her in the van, threw my purse in there as well, and went inside to round up the Squirrels.

I come back out to open the van up and put the girls in car seats when I find that the side door won't open. "That's funny," I think to myself...until with great dread, I look up to see the cat with hind legs on the drivers' seat and front legs poised on the door handle. Right where the lock button is.

Yep, Hairy Houdini (or should I saw "Reverse Houdini") had locked herself into our van. With my purse. And my cell phone. And the only set of van keys if you don't count the set dangling off of Husband's key chain AN HOUR AWAY. I don't have a land line and am now in panic mode. The girls are due at swimming lessons in an hour!

We try to dangle cat toys and food outside the window in the hopes that she can step on the "unlock" button but the cat eyes us with disdain and curls up on the dash. I march off to the neighbors house with two rapid-fire questioning girls in tow "Mom, why did you leave the cat in the van? Why can't you open it? What if we can never get in our van again? Will the cat die? [at which point I decide not to tell them that FELINE EUTHANASIA is MOST DEFINITELY ON MY MIND]"

The neighbors are not home. Or maybe they are just not answering their door since I am the same crazy lady that accidentally set fire to the prairie and smoked their baby goats out of their barn.

But I digress...

I download Skype on an upstairs computer and dial my father-in-law's house. No answer. I email Husband at work, praying he is at his computer and not in one of the 10,000 annual interminable meetings of the corporate minds. He emails back that he is in a phone meeting and can't I just go to the neighbors? I fire an email back that THIS IS AN EMERGENCY and to call our neighbor who is also our fabulous mechanic - he resurrects our junkers on a regular basis.

My neighbor (props to Jeff S of S Repair in G town) laughingly shows up 10 minutes later with son Max in tow. Jeff is no stranger to my mad life. Last time he saw me I was at his house finding out that the husband I had sent to Prompt Care by himself was now being taken by ambulance to the ER due to his heart being in a-fib.

Jeff unlocks the door in less than 2 minutes using some red plastic wedge and a long metal pole. I gotta get me some of them.

But alas, the week was not a total loss. Eli must have sensed my unraveling because she made a lovely card for me in Sunday school. In which she tells me"Thaks" me for "Evrything" I give her and she loves me very "muck". Well, muck love right back atcha, Squirrel #1!

Sik on Vekashin

Poor Kate had too much vacation this past week. One early morning following yet another late night, she woke up and was not herself. Husband pushed her to finish her morning bowl of Chocolate Marshmallow Mateys (hey, Husband lets them buy all this crappy cereal, not Nutrition Nazi Mom!) when she just seemed lethargic.

Cut to the pool, about a half hour later. She is dressed in her new polka dot sun dress when she hurls regurgitated cereal all over herself. I cleaned her up and laid her down to sleep for a while.

The nieces decided to make get well cards for poor little Kate. The best was the card from Rachel - who we call Duke, Dukey, Rudy, Woo, Wooster, and a host of other names. In case the photo scan doesn't come through, this is what it says:

"GET well

I now what it

fells like to Be

sik on vekashin ones

some one in my

clas throw up its

cinduv grows isint

it Love Rachel"

Oh Woo...you are a blog onto itself!

The Latest in Jolly Green Giant Fashions

I was hoping for a drama-free summer but last week's happenings made it quite the opposite.

We open with Scene One - which is Husband in his flashy red and black church softball outfit, running like mad to get to third base during a friendly Tuesday night game. He feels his heart go funny but, like mostly manly men, doesn't say anything until...

Scene Two - Husband comes home from work, plops down on the couch beside me, and asks me to check his pulse. I do so, and find that it has a funky rhythm and is anything but the consistent LUB-dub, LUB-dub it is supposed to be pounding out. Husband says, "It's been doing this all day. Not sure what to do."

I pull questions from my college First Aid class and ask if he is feeling dizzy, chest pressure, tingling in his left arm, shortness of breath. He tells me he feel "off" and more tired than usual. I tell him to call Brother-in-Law Nelson who is a RN on the cardiac floor of the local hospital.

I figure Nelson will not overreact, as would my mother (also a RN), who in her spare time, dreams of crazy ways for us to die. Like by getting struck in our hoo-hah with lightning while going pee during a thunderstorm (I guess technically if lightning struck our septic tank, the jolt could travel up the line of pee into our...um...hoo-hah... but that would definitely win a Darwin Award and that is worth something). Or being beheaded by a crop duster. Or in a house fire by a toaster left plugged in too long.

Nelson has me take Husband's pulse twice, then nonchalantly suggests Husband go into the local Prompt Care. I am in the midst of supper and getting the kids ready to go to the neighbor's house to see their new fawns, goats, and cow, so I don't go with Darren. I figure how bad can an irregular heartbeat be?

Scene Three - evidently, when Husband shows up at Prompt Care and says the words "Irregular Heartbeat", they throw him in a wheelchair, careen 20 feet to the EKG machine, read the print-out and promptly load him into an ambulance with oxygen pouring into his lungs. At this point he calls me and tells me he is heading to the Big Hospital by ambulance. I feel a slight pang that I will not be nominated for the Wife of the Year award beings that I sent him to Prompt Care BY HIMSELF (whoopsie!). Luckily his parents are free to meet him at the ER.

Scene Four - Husband has a team of 8 who lunge at him once he enters the ER and put him out, shock him twice, and poke him full of holes to get some good drugs in him. He has more lines attached to him than a landmine field and there is an abnormally loud machine that squawks every time his heart gets off sync...which is about every minute. He is told that he is in a-fib, which my sister Renee (another RN) tells me basically means that the top of his heart is quivering instead of beating and the risk is that he will throw a clot to his lungs or brain.

Scene Five - Husband is told he has to stay overnight at the hospital and will have an echo cardiogram in the morning. He is now sporting the latest in hospital wear - a mint-green, mid-thigh-length gown with gaping back and a sprinkling of mint leaves just to make the gown festive.

As it turns out, before he was facing yet another shock to the heart at 1 PM the following day, his heart corrected itself. Could be because of the IV meds. Could be because the heart just found its groove thing again. Certainly could be because loads of people were praying for my now-grass-green-grippy-slippered Jolly Green Giant. Whatever the case, he was finally released at around 9:30 PM the following evening (but not before the Squirrels tore apart his hospital room and begged every five minutes for snacks) and he has not had any recurring episode.

I look at his very sculpted 6'5", 210 lbs. frame with next to no body fat and next to no cholesterol level and come to this conclusion...if Mr. Fitness himself gets himself in heart trouble, there is no hope for the rest of us. I might as well enjoy life and eat bacon while I can. And then maybe I will get a chance to look fierce in some mint-green hospital fashions!

Death by Skirt Asphyxiation

I may have missed my calling...that is, writing product reviews for people who really don't care.

Exhibit A:

I recently ordered this very lovely pencil skirt from Chadwicks (tagline: the company that sends you a gazillion catalogs if you order one thing). I picked out my size according to their sizing charts and eagerly awaited a skirt described as having a "built-in slimmer slip".
Here is the reality (and the review I posted):

"I got stuck in this skirt!"

I purchased my normal size in this skirt but the fit was WAY too tight (think obscene second skin) and as I went to unzip and get out of it, the zipper got stuck, the parted below the zipper rendering it incapable of being unzipped. I was STUCK IN THIS SKIRT! It was too tight to shimmy over my hips or up over my top. I finally got it bunched around my waist and slid it around and after much jimmying with the zipper, was able to coax one side of it down. A giant heave ho later, I was able to get it off the top of me but not without nearly squashing myself silly.

I like the fabric. I will try it in another size because it doesn't wrinkle and the length is right. However, if this zipper fails again, I will post another review.

No, I am not one of those people that can't face that I am in double digits size-wise so I order wrong. I really did order the size I normally wear and that matched the measurements listed in the sizing charts.

http://www.chadwicks.com/clothing/Shape-Benefits-Enhancement-Skirt.aspx?PfId=192587&DeptId=8207&producttypeid=1&PurchaseType=G&pref=ps

Too much information? Evidently. No one marked my review as "helpful" but when they are dying of skirt asphyxiation from not heeding my review, they may have second thoughts.