The Log in the Lake (i.e. Poo in the Bathtub)

My last post got me thinking about New Jersey, and how our six month stay there was fraught with one terrible incident after the other. First there was the "H" on the wall incident, and then there was that time in the bathtub...

You see, my sister and I were forced to take baths together when we were little. How on Earth I was supposed to have room to play with all my bath toys when there was another human being getting all up in my bath business, I don't know. It would have been one thing if Lauren had sat there quietly and let me enjoy my soaking session, but this was far from the case.

One evening, I was sitting in the bath with my sister minding my own business, when I glanced down to see a giant log of poop floating my direction! Side note: Didn't Lauren know how counterproductive it is to poo in the water that is supposed to be cleaning you!? Anyway, it was straight out of a horror movie, where the innocent female runs away at top speed but somehow the bad guy, with a slow but purposeful gait, manages to keep up. Only I was the innocent female, and the bad guy was Lauren's poop! I was too small to climb out of the tub on my own accord, and thus, cornered, hysterically creamed bloody murder and averted my eyes from the brown monster. Just in the nick of time my dad rushed in and whisked me out of the tub, leaving my sister to revel in her accomplishment. Another side note: You would think after such a traumatic near-tragedy, I would have insisted on separate bath times from then on, but I, ever gracious, was nice enough to give her a second chance).

Besides, I got her back several years later, when I failed to warn her (and our entire swimming class, for that matter) that the boy sitting next to us pooped in the pool. Take that! Although at least the germs from his were probably neutralized by loads of chlorine.

Sticks and Stones and Lauren's Broken Bones

My sister was an interesting child. And when I say interesting, I mean it wasn't quite evident 100% of the time that she was "all there" in the head. As a prime example, she seemed to have a sick fascination with sticking things up her nose. I can remember many a night rushing to the emergency room to have a button extracted from the far reaches of her nasal cavity with special medical tweezers. Yes, you heard that right when I said "many a night, " as in more than once. You would think after the first time of shoving a button up your nose, you wouldn't exactly be jonesing for a round two, but I suppose my sister thought she was some sort of five year old extreme sportist - and she was working with the limited talents she had.

And the fun wasn't limited to buttons. I remember one time on the way to my mom's doctor appointment, Lauren shoved an orange tic-tac up her nose! This one at least was more strategically planned. For one thing, we were already on the way to the doctor's office. Luckily for Lauren though, this time no nose probing was necessary - tic-tacs dissolve on their own - albeit a LOT more slowly than when they are in the mouth.

When you have a sister that sticks things up her nose on her own accord, it is also a lot easier to blame things on said sister and get away with it. Take, for instance, the time we were outside playing on the swing-set, and Lauren was taking her good sweet time contemplating scooting on down the slide. There is no time for dilly dallying around when there are only a limited number of hours of sunlight (and thus playtime) available. So I did what any reasonable person would do, I helped Lauren move things along by giving her a slight push down the slide. Unfortunately for Lauren, she hurdled not down the slide but over the edge and broke her arm. I had only seconds to convince Lauren that she had jumped from the top of the slide of her own volition before my mom emerged from the house to see what the shrill screaming was all about. And they ate up every word of my story, because everyone expects such behavior from a girl that sticks foreign objects up her nose.

It is shockingly easy to convince little sisters not only to do things, but also make them think that they were the one's who wanted to the illicit activity in the first place. For instance, one morning the day before our scheduled family photos at JC Penny's, I convinced Lauren to cut a nice triangle from the middle of her bangs. She probably believed me that her new hairdo really accentuated those bushy eyebrows until mom walked in and saw our, I mean her handiwork.

The only time I didn't quite pull off the "Lauren did it" trick successfully was the coloring of the wall incident. We had moved to New Jersey with my dad for an extended business trip. One day, while my mom was cooped up in her room taking a nap and leaving me largely to my own devices (who leaves a four year old unsupervised anyway... that is practically begging for trouble!). Anyway, I took the opportunity to hone my newly acquired writing skills, and proudly drew a giant H on the wall. When my mom woke up, I was quick to insist that Lauren had climbed down from her crib and drawn the H. The odds were just stacked too high against me this time: For one thing, Lauren doesn't start with H, nor could she even write at this point, but those are minor details. However, there was just no fooling mom this time. But what can I say, I was young, and still in the process of perfecting the art of lying.

Sadly, my sister has gotten slightly more intelligent over the years...

Anesthesia and The Queen Of Crazyville

My friend Jamie mentioned in passing the other night that she is getting her wisdom teeth out soon, and that she hopes she doesn't say something ridiculous to her mother when she is all drugged up and the effects of the anesthesia are wearing off.

I can understand completely where she is coming from, for I am an all too frequent visitor of post-surgery drug induced crazyville. In fact you might even say I am the Queen of crazyville. Its really terrible that when you finally are released from the incoherent stupor, people try and hold you accountable for things that you did and said in your deranged state. For example, my first time offense happened when I was in the 4th grade, getting my very first colonoscopy done (please feel free to feel sorry for me.) The anesthesia happened to wear off in the middle of the procedure and the nurse, in an effort to distract me from the painful tube shoved up in no mans land, asked me if I had any siblings. The answer (YES!) might seem like it should be a simple one to produce, but try as I might I drew a big blank. Finally, I answered, "I just don't remember, but I have a cat named Cinder." And then my doctor felt it only right to pass this little tidbit along to my entire family. So much for doctor patient confidentiality! Shouldn't there be a code of conduct or something, sort of like "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas..." A what happens in the operating room under the influence of heavy sedatives and anesthesia STAYS in the operating room? As if the doctor hasn't already inflicted enough pain upon my nether regions, lets just pass along a bit of info that the sister can bring up whenever she feels she has been slighted. "So what I wore your favorite shirt without asking, at least I didn't forget I had a sister!" and so forth.

My sister, I must say while we are on the topic, was quite delightful in the immediate hours following the removal of her wisdom teeth. I'm not sure I have ever seen her flirt with anyone, but apparently on the car ride home mom stopped by McDonald's and she practically threw herself at the guy in the drive-through window. After my mom managed to detain her and drive the rest of the way home, she comes flying out of the car and into the house, running circles around the kitchen, occasionally stopping to let our dog Zoe lick the blood filled cotton swabs shoved in her mouth. Then she sits down and begins the daunting task of bringing spoonfuls of milkshake to her numb mouth, only to let it surge right back out in a rush of chocolaty drool down her chin. It was a little like watching that scene in "The Sixth Sense" where Mischa Barton's character throws up that horrible clay looking stuff, only more entertaining.

But do I, her wonderful kindhearted sister, hold her obnoxious uncensored behavior over her head when I am upset with her? No. And I only showed the video evidence at really momentous occasions, like her graduation party...

My friend Amy also likes to bring up quite frequently my verbal assault on her when I had my wisdom teeth out. I had just gotten home, checked my phone for missed calls, and seeing as I had none, through my phone on the floor in anguish. Then, I picked it up and left a little message on Amy's phone that went a little something like, "Why haven't you called me, you evil scumbag? Is it so much to ask that I get a little love from my friends after I have just had bones brutally cut and ripped from my face leaving two gaping holed in my head? You are a terrible person. Goodbye." Now, if she had only bore witness to the scene that had just taken place on the car ride home, she may have been a bit more understanding, even forgiving. There is a reason you don't drunk dial your friends. Apparently, when I am uninhibited, I just get mean.

But it's not like anesthesia is without its perks. Lets digress for a moment to the car ride home from getting my wisdom teeth out, before I made a spectacle of myself on Amy's voice mail. I wake up from the procedure feeling extremely happy, and spent the next 15 minutes profusely thanking the nurse for her wonderful care and wishing her merry Christmas a billion times. So far, so good - just an extremely gracious you lady having a jolly old time with the nurse. Unfortunately, my behavior goes downhill from there. Naturally, next I looked around the room and inquired as to how my good friend Justin Timberlake was doing. After all, I saw him getting his wisdom teeth out in the chair next to mine, and he was wearing a really nice suit. And that nurse had the audacity to tell me that Justin wasn't there, raining on my parade and all that jazz. Then, my mom tried to usher me out to the car, at which point I flatly refused to leave with her. "Mom, the hobbits are going to carry me home on their backs!" Could she honestly expect me to pass up a free ride on the back of Samwise the Brave? I think not. But, after a little more cajoling I was finally all buckled in and ready to go. But then I saw my mom do a horrible thing, she pushed the little white bunnies perched upon the center divider onto the floor of our car. I called my dad in a panic, "Dad, she's killing the white bunnies!" I proclaimed, on the verge of tears. Just when my mom thought she finally had gotten it through to me that there were no white bunnies in the car, I started screaming bloody murder. My mom reflexively hits the breaks as I stare out the window in horror. Couldn't she see that she was about to run over all the little children in the middle of the road? And even worse, I wondered aloud, why weren't they more concerned about getting their bottoms all wet sitting in the slushy snow. My mom took me to McDonald's as well, to pick up a milkshake, but I wanted nothing to do with that, demanding nothing but sweet tea (which I definitely don't drink). When my mom reminded me of this small detail, my eyes flashed red and I yelled, "Get me the sweet tea now!" All I can do is hope our car windows were rolled up and no one called the cops to report mother abuse. Anyway, I bet you are now thinking, well, where are the perks of going under that I mentioned above. Well let me tell you, I had an absolutely marvelous time screaming at my mom about bunnies and children in the middle of the road and my sweet tea. I'm not sure the experience was quite as wonderful for her, but what can you do?

A lot more recently I was recovering from another surgery and was doped up on some heavy narcotics. This time, I whispered to my friend visiting me in the hospital, "Look at my grandma's hair - its on fire! Don't stare at her though it makes her very self conscious." It could have been worse though - I could have been hallucinating hundreds of bugs crawling all over my bed or little children peering up over her feet like my roommate.

Anyway, good luck with your wisdom teeth extraction Jamie. And call me before the anesthesia wears completely off.

Meet the Rodent

I've always had an unhealthy obsession with nicknames. I think it was because when I was little, my sister had one (Penske), and all I had to go by was lame old boring Heather. In retrospect, "Penske" is hardly a name one should be jealous of, it is after all a moving truck company. But of course back when I was 6 such logic could not make its way past my stubborn resentment of my sister and her very "glamorous" nickname.

The day I was christened with my first nickname was consequently a crowning moment in my life. I was in gymnastics class, dressed in a pink festive unitard - the very same one that my Barbie proudly clad, only bigger. I remember the moment vividly, bounding around on the trampoline, somersaulting through the air when my Coach yelled out, "Looking good Heater!" Heater? Heater? Had he momentarily lapsed into a moment absentminded amnesia and forgotten the "h' that followed the "t." But then the incident repeated itself several times throughout the day and soon I had given up my given names and relished the glory of my brand new name - Heater. Sadly this name was not reflective of anything about me. I was permanently freezing and my gymnastics did very little to "heat up" the gym to say the least. But none of that mattered. I was now special enough to be festooned with a nickname, it could have been Poobrains or Sparky for all I cared.

Sadly a few years later I quit the whole gymnastics business after some unfortunate repeated incidents involving my head and the floor. And quitting Gymnastics meant "Heater" would no longer get to feel special for one hour of every week. In fact, "Heater" was no more. Around this time I decided to join dance classes more properly suited to my nonexistent tumbling capabilities. Dance became my favorite part of the week, and one day I was minding my own business when my dance teacher bestowed upon each of us our Dancer Names. I was now Henrietta, the whirly twirly ballerina who floated across the stage with all the grace of a flamingo on roller skates. Sadly, our dance teacher had a difficult time keeping up with our dancer names, so she lapsed into adding a Sue or Lou to the end of every one's names. I was officially Heather Sue, and my friend Amy was henceforth Amy Lou. Sometimes Miss Colleen would mix up the Lous and Sues and a Heather Lou would slip out of her mouth and hit my face like an open handed Slap. Heather Lou? I hope she didn't expect me to respond to that? Who was this lady to mess with my identity like that. Come on, now.

I doled out the nicknames to anyone near and dear to my own heart. My sister, aka my "Cherished One," my best friends, Amy "Urchin" and Jamie "Bruisy Bruisy," in the desperate hope that someone would love me enough to name me back, and happily, that say arrived in high school. And terrible as the name may seem, I bear it with the utmost sense of pride.

Meet . . .

. . . Drum roll . . .

THE RODENT.

Yes, the Rodent. You ask, rightly so, why on Earth would anyone be happy to be called a rodent? Well, I blame it one my parents for leaving me out of the exclusive nickname club and years of yearning to be special have resulted in a general acceptance and even sense of JOY whenever I am called by a name other than my own. So thank you, Amy, my little Urchin, for loving me enough to call me your Rodent. I know you mean it in the most wonderful sense of the word, a small cuddly creature with the hair of a goddess and fuzzy warmth of fleecy mittens. Obviously.