Author: Big Mama

Okay.

So this isn’t really a post because I just got home from the Taylor Swift concert. Gulley went with me and I brought Caroline and her best friend and OH MY WORD. AMAZING.

But I’m exhausted after watching Taylor make all her wardrobe changes so I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow. There may even be mediocre pictures to go along with it.

In the meantime, we’re invited to a Halloween party on Saturday night and P and I need costumes. Any thoughts on what we could be? Preferably something that goes together and can be pulled together by magic in time for Saturday night?

Help us. Please.

I suggested we could go as Austin Powers and Foxy Cleopatra, but then P gave me a look that suggested he isn’t sure I can pull off Beyonce. I think I’m offended. What does she have that I don’t have? I mean, other than her youth, flawless skin, magical hair, rhythm and billions of dollars?

So yesterday was my day to get things done. Except that should be in all caps. GET THINGS DONE.

Because it dawned on me that I’m leaving for the Amazon in two weeks and may need things like proper rainforest footwear and a hat. Although I have yet to find a hat that doesn’t make me want to sing the theme song to Go Diego Go.

“Deep inside the jungle where nature’s running wild
coming to the rescue is a very special child
talking to the animals and swinging from a vine
this rough and tough adventurer is working all the time”

Which is interesting since I don’t even think Diego wears a hat. His cousin Dora has a hat she dons every now and then for an adventure, but Diego just has his rescue pack. AL RESCATE!

The most disturbing thing is that my mind has chosen to remember this kind of trivial information instead of more important things like where I put the spare key to my car or the ability to do long division in my head.

I believe it has something to do with how many times I watched Dora and Diego while sleep deprived. It’s like the way they wear spies down during an interrogation, repeating mindless songs over and over again until they crack. Or at least that’s how they did it on an episode of Alias I watched one time.

But even more pressing than proper clothing and malaria medication for the Ecuador trip is the literary pumpkin patch. We received a note home on Friday about it, but I was in a medicinal fog and chose to ignore it hoping it might go away.

No such luck.

Naturally, it is not a requirement. Just a fun opportunity. Which is the librarian’s nice way of saying that you don’t have to do it if you can live with the guilt of your child not having a literary pumpkin.

And I think we all know that I can’t take the chance that Caroline will one day tell her therapist, “It all started with the literary pumpkin patch in third grade…” Plus, and I say this in a hushed, ashamed whisper, sometimes I kind of enjoy the craft challenge.

After much debate between a character from Harry Potter or Chronicles Of Narnia, Caroline decided she wanted to make an Aslan pumpkin. So I ran to Michael’s yesterday while she was at school because experience has taught me it’s smarter to shop for the basic supplies by myself. Once she gets involved we tend to end up with glitter and a bedazzler gun and then I wake up passed out in the back of Michael’s with a red cart full of things for which there are no explanation.

I stuck to the basics. Yarn for a mane. Some little puffy things to make cheeks. Googly eyeballs. Yellow paint. Oh, and I got Gulley to buy me a pumpkin because we went to lunch and when I dropped her off we were right by the local pumpkin patch and she had cash and I didn’t. True friends buy each other pumpkins. I believe that’s in Proverbs.

I picked up Caroline from school, told her about the supplies I bought and said we could go home and get to work. She informed me that Aslan is a serious lion and would NEVER have googly eyeballs. So I tried to downplay the googly aspect.

And so we spent the afternoon painting a pumpkin a nice harvest gold color. After she declared it to be dry, which was debatable, we began work on the mane by hot-gluing yarn all over the top. I was at least ten minutes into this process when I realized she’d left the room and gone in her playroom to play.

“Get back in here and help me make Aslan.”

She walked back in the room, glanced at the pumpkin and then at her poor mother with hot-glue burned fingers and said, “That really doesn’t look like much of a lion.”

“Well, that’s because it’s a PUMPKIN. It’s not easy to make a lion out of a PUMPKIN.”

Which is a sentence I always imagined I’d say one day.

And kind of makes me wonder if Diego carries anything in his rescue pack that could help a person turn a lion into a pumpkin.

Did I mention that I was sick with a touch of the bronchitis last week? I can’t really remember.

And right now someone is yelling at their computer, “YES. YOU MENTIONED IT SEVERAL TIMES. ENOUGH ABOUT YOU AND YOUR STUPID BRONCHITIS.”

To which I’d like to say, “Hey P, why don’t you settle down?”

But since I don’t want to leave y’all with a bronchitis cliffhanger, I’ll let you know that I am doing much better and am only coughing 22 hours a day instead of 24. I’ve also apparently developed a bit of the narcolepsy because if I sit still for more than five minutes I fall into a dead sleep. I’m not sure if this is a side effect of the bronchitis or the medications I’m on.

I’ve also lost my appetite.

For those of you who don’t know me in real life you can’t really appreciate the magnitude of this. I don’t lose my appetite. EVER. I am the girl who can be up all night with a stomach bug and then eat a Frito Pie made from Hormel chili in a can for breakfast the next morning. I think this is a side effect of the antibiotic because it leaves me with a taste in my mouth that’s reminiscent of feet coated in metal and that tends to curb all cravings. So, good news! All this time I’ve just been one bronchial infection away from my goal weight.

Our weekend was pretty uneventful. In fact, I’m sitting here trying to remember what we did. That’s how uneventful it was.

Oh! P left to go to the ranch on Friday afternoon and my friend Michelle came in for the night. We have been friends through some other friends for a few years, but hadn’t really had the chance to get to know each other that well. It’s safe to say that we have now remedied that problem since we each told our life story starting with “I was born in ….” and ending with “…and that’s where I see myself eventually.”

And she won Caroline over for life because she helped her with her soccer moves in the backyard AND let Caroline braid her hair. That isn’t an activity for the faint of heart because it generally involves pain. Especially when she decides to start over and rips the rubber band right out your hair.

After Michelle left on Saturday, Caroline and I had to go run some errands because you know what happens when you spend a whole week being sick? NOTHING. Nothing happens. And so NOTHING has gotten accomplished and you find yourself with a To-Do list that’s a mile long and growls at you.

But after about three errands my narcolepsy started to kick in and I knew I needed to wrap it up. Caroline had big plans to attend a birthday party and spend the night with a friend so I dropped her off and watched the Aggies play Iowa State. We won. But it was a win that only a mother could love. Which is to say IT WAS UGLY.

And then I found I couldn’t move myself off the couch so I spent Saturday night flipping back and forth between episodes of Army Wives and the Texas Tech vs. OU game. I really do lead a lifestyle that’s straight from Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

On Sunday morning I decided my hacking cough might offend the folks at church so Typhoid Betty stayed home. We met Mimi and Bops and my sister and her family at Taco Garage for an early birthday celebration because today is actually Bops’s birthday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BOPS.

Finally, I realized I couldn’t avoid the grocery store any longer. Mainly because we were out of food. Like all food. Like we had a 1/2 pint of sour cream and a piece of moldy cheese in the refrigerator and about six stale wheat crackers in the cabinet. And while some folks in Europe might call that a gourmet lunch, my family in South Texas would call it starving to death.

So I braved the Sunday amateur crowd at HEB to load up on groceries. And now we have milk! And fruit! And ham! And all other manner of foodstuffs that won’t require us to continue to blaze a trail to Chick-Fil-A.

And that was the weekend.

How about you?

So I finally made it to the med clinic yesterday. And I’m pretty sure they hosed the place down with bleach after I left. I don’t really have a cough that anyone would describe as delicate.

They took my blood pressure and temperature and listened to me breathe in and out and ultimately determined that I have a bad case of bronchitis. Bronchitis with a touch of fluid that could turn to pneumonia. And then maybe yellow fever.

Not really on the yellow fever part. I don’t even know if you get a cough with that.

I was sent home with about six prescriptions (It made me long for the days that I worked in pharmaceutical sales and got all my medications for free.) and instructions to get a lot of rest over the next couple of days.

Oh that Hazel. She’s a tough old bird.

I couldn’t really get into it last night because my flight got in late and I was on the verge of tears by the time I got home, but the trip to Chicago was great. I mean, other than the moments I felt like a lung may come out. I was able to meet my editor along with so many great people that work for Tyndale and had the chance to let them know I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. I think we all felt good about it.

By the time I got to the Chicago airport I had almost no voice left. I bought some hot tea at Starbucks hoping that would help and went to sit at my departure gate even though my flight wasn’t leaving for a few hours. Sophie called to check on me and we tried to have a conversation but it became impossible thanks to my lack of voice and an overzealous gate worker who was very fanatical about the entire O’Hare airport knowing it was “ALL ABOARD TO NEWARK”.

“ALL ABOARD TO NEWARK.”

He announced it at fifteen second intervals for at least thirty minutes. It was as if he had found his one chance to be in the spotlight with a microphone in his hand and he was going to take full advantage.

“ALL ABOARD TO NEWARK.”

Yes. We get it.

“ALL ABOARD TO NEWARK.”

I believe you’ve mentioned that.

“ALL ABOARD TO NEWARK.”

For the love of all that is sacred.

“ALL ABOARD TO NEWARK.”

If they haven’t gotten the message by now then they don’t deserve to go to Newark. They shouldn’t ever leave their house again.

I felt ceratin Hazel was about to bust out with a long lecture on how people should know when to board their plane and if they can’t be responsible enough to get there on time then they don’t deserve to fly and that the trouble with people today is all this hand-holding. You know when nobody was there to hold your hand? THE GREAT DEPRESSION. People need to take responsibility for their actions or lack thereof.

But just then a couple strolled up next to me and sat down leisurely. And I heard the man say to the woman, “Yes, this is our gate. It doesn’t look like they’re boarding yet.”

And I couldn’t help myself. I asked, “Are you going to Newark?”

“Yes.”

“Well then you should know it’s ALL ABOARD TO NEWARK.”

Then, as if to emphasize my point, overzealous gate guy bellowed, “ALL ABOARD TO NEWARK”.

How this couple had been unaware of that fact in spite of being in a fifty mile radius of the Newark gate will remain as one of the great mysteries of my life.

Anyway, I eventually boarded my flight to Houston and by the time I arrived at the Houston airport I was really hungry. I hear that’s a symptom of the yellow fever. Since I’d been out of Texas for twenty-four hours I was naturally craving Mexican food and so I was delighted when I saw a sign that read “Todo Salsa”. Perfect. I know enough Spanish to know that meant “ALL THE SALSA” which was exactly what I wanted.

Unfortunately, and I blame this on the cold medicine, it took me a few minutes to realize what I was actually seeing was a sign that read “Todo Salas”. Which means “ALL GATES” in Spanish and has nothing to do with Mexican food or salsa. Unless maybe you’re flying to Mexico.

Clearly it was time to get Hazel home.

By the time my final flight arrived in San Antonio I’m not sure who was more relieved we were on the ground, me or the poor man that had to sit next to me. All I know is it took everything in me to not yell “QUIT LOOKING AROUND AND GET OFF THE PLANE. MOVE IT, PEOPLE. MOVE IT.” In hindsight they may have moved faster if I’d announced I had the yellow fever.

But I’m home now and have inhalers and steroids and antibiotics and, love of my life, prescription cough medicine that will help me sleep.

And that’s what I plan to do until further notice.

Well.

I am home from Chicago. And I am sad to report that Hazel not only made the trip with me but she appears to have gotten angrier and more belligerent from all the travel.

We’ll be going to the clinic tomorrow to see about some antibiotics or perhaps an iron lung. But in the meantime, I have to go to bed.

I’ll see you on Thursday.

P.S. Hazel wants you to know that airport security frowns on large bottles of Nyquil. Probably because they’re a bunch of communists.