Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Monday, day 2....

It is, in fact, Tuesday, right? I mean, really? Someone forgot to tell me.

Let's start at the beginning. I'm moving. I know, I know, that pretty much says everything, doesn't it? I am getting married next week (yay, me!), but my future husband lives in another state. This means that one of us has to pull up roots. In our case, that was me.

Except, like any other woman that wants to have her cake and eat it too, I decided to "sort of" move. In case you don't know how that works, here's how you do it--keep your job in one state, work two days there, stay with friends (in my case, my little brother) then telecommute for the balance of the week. It sounded so easy. A little time on the road listening to ebooks, get to see my baby niece, all is well.

And then I started actually doing it. My stuff, for the first time in  my life, is in five different zip codes. I'm not kidding. Between garages, houses and storage units, I actually have spread my stuff out in five different places, all of which are between thirty minutes and three hours apart from each other. And here's the kicker--today, when I went to get dressed for work, my pants were in one zip code, and I was in another. It's like that dream where you go to work and you realize you are in your underwear....yeah, that was me, except it was real. As it happened, I had four tops, no pants and two dresses in the closet at my brother's house. One of the dresses was my wedding dress (wouldn't that have been cool?? Try explaining that one to the boss.) and the other saved the day. Of course, it meant wearing a dress. I don't wear dresses much, so the questions started as soon as I walked in the door. As I mentioned in my last post, my co-workers have a sense of humor. I am happy to be providing them with good material yet again. But I guess it was better than coming to the office in my underwear.

And then there was my daughter. My sweet baby girl (she's 19. I bet she hates me calling her that. Maybe she won't hear me.) called me just as I was settling in after lunch. She is a sophomore in college, three hours from home, and she had passed out cold on the bathrooom floor in the Physics building. At least she waited until she came around to call me. She's considerate like that.

My child has had problems with this before. Twice, when she had been laying out in the sun, she passed out from the heat. The first time she was at my mother's house, and my step-father is a doctor. He wasn't worried, which went a long way towards keeping me from completely freaking out. So when she came to her first real black out (caused by a doctor trying to draw her blood), it had happened before. This went only a little ways towards keeping me from freaking out....which is not to say that I didn't lose my cool. It just means they didn't have to have me committed.

The reason the blood drawing incident bothered me (well, one of the reasons) was because it unnerved my daughter, then 17, so badly. She said she was fine, the doctor left, and then she was on the floor. When she woke up, she was alone and disoriented, and she panicked. I'm very much a mother hen...the baby panics, I panic. I got her calmed down, they took an MRI (she took out the blood pressure monitor on the wall with her head on the way down), and she lived. After that incident, I took to calling her nosedive (I'm a very sensitive and nurturing mom). It was either that or feed the hysteria by feeling sorry for her. Okay, so I did feel sorry for her. I did her chores for a week. It was everything I could do to keep from following her to school to carry her backpack up and down the hall for her. But, of course, I still called her nosedive.

Anyway, we had pretty much figured out that heat and needles triggered the black outs. She carries a bottle of water on her, and any time there are needles, she lays down and stays there until she's in the clear. So today's phone call took us both by surprise. She was in class, started feeling weird, got up to go to the bathroom and next thing she knew...bam! Out cold. 

So there I was, trying to figure out how I could skip the three hour drive and be there in ten minutes to take care of her. She was threatening to walk to the student health center, a mere ten minutes in the 156 degree Southern heat, and as much as I wanted her at the doctor, I had no clue how to get her there without letting her walk. I waived off knocks at my office door by people that write my paychecks and ignored phone calls, and meanwhile, my daughter had gotten over the intial anxiety and was assuring me that she would be fine if she passed out on the sidewalk because there were students everywhere and "someone" would "probably" help if her if anything happened. I told her she needed to stop worrying me like that. I'm 41. That's 287 in dog years. My blood pressure can't take it.

It turned out to be electrolyte imbalance. Or something like that. Now, Nosedive is home eating subs with her roommates and watching television like it was just another day. She's fine. Meanwhile, I'm trying to figure out how to get her to go to college closer to home. Like next door. Maybe I'll get her one of those buttons...you know, "I've fallen and a I can't get up." Wonder if they come in different colors.

And let's not forget that, despite my lack of pants and personal drama, I did actually have to work today. In fact, I worked two hours late. I'm a five o'clock kind of gal, so when I was still at work at 6:30 (in a dress), the co-workers that were still at the office (At 6:30. What is wrong with these people?) were starting to wonder if it was really me or if aliens had put a clone in my place.

So I survived the second Monday in a week and I'm hoping things don't really come in threes. If they do, I'm staying bed tomorrow. And considering I still don't have pants in this zip code, that might not be a bad idea.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Revenge of the Texas Swirl

I love margaritas, always have. And there are certain people that margaritas go well with (take that any way you want). I decided a while back that it would be fun to expand my horizons and work my way through different kinds of margaritas. So far, the raspberry is my favorite, with peach coming in at a close second. I didn't care for mango, loved the blackberry, and don't really remember the pomegranate (I'm getting ahead of myself--stay with me here). Of course, I'm always up for the traditional, and I even have a recipe for a diet margarita that I had planned to try this past week. It sounded really good, especially for something that included the word "diet" in the title. But I didn't quite get there. The reason why has to do with the Texas Swirl.

Sounds cool, doesn't it? I actually came close to trying the Texas Swirl several months ago. I was diverted (that happens to me a lot) by something called a "Pain Killer." What attracted me to the Pain Killer was partially the toasted coconut that they rimmed it with and partially the fact that the restaurant I ordered it from actually had a LIMIT to the number you could order. I had never had a drink that had limit to the number you could order, so I decided to give it a shot. It was really good...kind of a pineapple/coconut thing, without the pina colada sweet factor. And the toasted coconut was pretty awesome.

Anyway, I finally got back to the Texas Swirl, which, for those who aren't margarita aficionados, is a mixture of a traditional lime with sangria. Sounds great. At this restaurant, it's served in this little skinny glass that makes it look like you are getting about a thimble full and topped off with a straw that still has the paper on it, except it's curled around the straw in a little ribbon. Cute. Harmless. So I thought.

I realized I had a problem when I began to order my second round. I only drink every once in a while, but I can usually handle two without swaying when I get up as long as they don't taste like lighter fluid (an indication that there is more tequila in there than I am capable of handling) and I saw no reason why this should be any different. When I finished the Texas Swirl, I decided to switch to the pomegranate. But when the waiter started asking me questions about my second margarita, I began to realize that I didn't understand a word he was saying (it turned out he was trying to explain to me that the pomegranate margarita was a $12 drink. Had it not been for the Texas Swirl, I think that particular revelation would have convinced me that no pomegranate that wasn't gold plated could possibly be that good). I nodded, said okay, thinking that whatever he had to say about my choice required nothing more than me agreeing with him, and turned back to my dinner companion, a girl friend I have (fortunately) known for years.

It was then that it first hit me I was no longer sober. The second margarita arrived, this one contained in a glass that was roughly the size of my head. I think it was pretty good, although I don't remember much about the second one. I do vaguely remember my friend demonstrating to me that the first glass was bigger, which she did by dumping the entire contents of my second glass into the first one--it took it with room to spare. So I immediately switched to iced tea. We sat at the restaurant for four hours while I sobered up (that's what girl friends are for. Thanks Anita!). And then I went home.

I live by myself, fortunately, because if there had been someone here for the rest of the story, they would have laughed themselves silly. I know I would have if it hadn't been me. I slept like a baby until 2am. Then I started dreaming that I had a nasty headache. And then I woke up to discover that I really did have a headache, with a nice stomach ache to boot. I decided that the best thing would be to hydrate myself...at least that seemed like a good idea until I actually stood up. Wow. The hangover that followed was too much for a forty-one-year-old lightweight like me. I have been hung over exactly three times in my life (four, now). I'm a huge baby. I can't stand to be sick. Especially on a work night. Fortunately for me, the girls at work have a sense of humor.

Needless to say, when it came time for the diet margaritas the next night (yes, I did say I only drink every once in a while--this was just poor planning on my part), I wasn't woman enough to face them. Another friend was coming over to join me, and she was very understanding when I requested that we stick to diet sodas. Again, that's what girlfriends are for. I'm blessed to have so many.