Eye Exams are not for the Weak

I shall preface my tale of woe with this caveat: I have an eye thing. I cannot stand for anything to be near/in/on/coming toward my eye. Granted I wore contact lenses for years and years, but that was simply due to my own perseverance and a need to get rid of the coke-bottle lenses that pushed my nose down and caused cheek muscle strain from the weight of the frames. (Plus, I wanted to eliminate one of the big three: I had frizzy hair, braces, and goggles to see. Truly a Trifecta for adolescent torture.)
It's been about 5 years since my last eye exam. I'll sit here a minute so that you may lecture me just as the eye doctor did...
Yes, yes, I'll go again next year, provided the memories of today fade quickly and forever.
The exam consists of normal high tech equipment, taking measurements, you know the drill. Then of course they pull over that behemoth of a machine that blows air onto your eyeball with the velocity of paint ball guns. Do you know the machine I'm referring to? It tells you if you have glaucoma or not. I could have told her I didn't, she didn't need to blow me off of a stool to know.
The rest of the exam went as smoothly as it can when one is being tortured. Bright lights are not my friends, and now, sadly, neither is either of the technicians at the local doctor's office. Sigh. I lose so many people that way...
But then the poor doctor arrived! With soft contact lenses the size of Frisbees that she WANTED TO PUT IN MY EYE!!? Hello, Optimist!!
And, bless her, she wanted to put them into my eye herself, cutting me out of the process.
If it hadn't been for the headrest, I believe I would have scored in the high nine's for the backbend I tried to do. My head left a veritable dent in the leather.
But the part I could not help, it was involuntary, was the kick.
Hey, don't judge me.
The doctor was spared from impact because she was to the side of my leg, which went straight up, into the air, and flailed about looking for something relatively firm and human in which to impale. It could not be stopped.
Come to find out, I have TWO eyes! I had to put in BOTH contacts to be evaluated! TWO!
This time, for the other eye, I asked, oh so sweetly, could I possibly try to put it in myself?
She concurred until she saw that no matter how close my finger got to my eyeball, my head and eye were parallel and never the two were to meet. So she, bless her again and again, took the contact and stuffed that thing in my eye again. I remember hearing her say, "Look to the left, open your other eye, try to keep it open, look at me," but in my tragic world of shame, I thought she was saying, "This will scar  you for life, you need to run for the door and not stop until you hear the "O Canada" theme song." Turns out it wasn't her talking, it was my fear. Had no idea I had that kind of ventriloquist in my head, but I believed that voice. Believed it.
That was when my Joyner-Kersey gears started up, and I guess I was physically trying to remove myself from the embrace of this Mengele doctor and head to Alberta.
Fortunately, she was bigger than me and restrained me.
She took her measurements, blah blah blah, and then said, CHEERFULLY, "Now we take them out!!!!"
Can you believe this woman's bravery, her fortitude? She is heroic!
I won't bore you with details, but let's say the nightmare of removal ended with her saying, loudly and with feeling, "Don't grab my hand!"
Now I've lost two technicians AND a doctor as Facebook friends.
But the good news: they all made it out of there twenty minutes before noon! They earned that nice long lunch, and I just pray none of them harbor ill will for long, because I had to order the correct lenses, and I have to put them into my own eyes. I have to wear them!! In front of these same people!!! And I have to look happy about it and be pleasant, and not hit anyone, or that bill may mysteriously not be covered by my insurance.
Say a little prayer for us all...

Eulogy for a Zoey

My Zoey came to me in a maroon van, squirming amongst a half dozen other tiny white squealy balls of fluff. She was the size of my hand and she was tough stuff from the moment she was born.
She never cried, even though her big "sister," my other white bichon who was about six months older, would roll little Zoey over and over, growl at her, snap at her, try to get the best of her. Zoey always went back for more.
Even when my older pup got tangled into a roll of double sided tape, created herself into a tripod and had attached Zoey to her underside (what I wouldn't give for pictures of it), Zoey still sat patiently while I untangled the mess and set them both free.
I once snipped Zoey's toenail too closely and the poor dog was gushing blood. She only squeaked. Literally. One squeak. Had I not noticed the copious quantities of blood soaking my shirt, my pants, two towels, and the car seat during the car ride to the vet, I would never have known she was hurt.
The vet once told me that my pup's knees were so badly arthritic that he didn't know how she could walk, yet aside from a little bit of favoring of one leg or another every now and then, the problem would never have been noticed. Sometimes I could hear those little joints popping, and at that point she would bend the leg, hop on the other three, until the knee stopped hurting, but she never wanted to stop moving, to see everything she could.
And water! That baby was born part water dog. Even in mid-January, snow on the ground, she jumped into the community pool, leash attached, and swam to the other side while I fumbled around trying to get to her and still stay dry. I had to grab the leash and drag her across the water, which I was sure wanted to freeze over, in order to get her out. She shook it off and never had a single sniffle.
Then we moved to a home with a koi pond and every single time that dog went outside I heard a splash as her butt went under -- the poor fish, they didn't last a month. Weak hearts, I guess.
Nine short short years later, she developed diabetes and I could not face the reality of it. If it hadn't been for the strength of my parents, she might have suffered needlessly because I was frozen with the fear of losing my beautiful Zoby-girl.
Thankfully, though, parents know what to do. They helped her when I could not. And I swear sometimes that little girl is still in this house. I have said her name a hundred times, calling to her when I intended to say a different name. I think I shall do that for many years.

Three is the New Two

When my son was two years old, life was a breeze. I thought the "terrible two" thing was a myth, the stuff of legend, and I revelled in the thought that I had gotten away clean without a blemish or bruise to show for my son's toddler-dom.
Then he turned three.
Ah, the fateful third birthday cast a pall upon my world.
I'm sure I'm not the only mother who has felt betrayed by my son's newly found sense of independence. I have been the main caregiver each and every day of his unfettered life, and now I want only to bind him in something sticky and sturdy until the day he shall turn four.
We try to go shopping...where is that kid?
We try to go to the car ... hello? Son? Are you anywhere in the tri-state area?
We try to go ... anywhere ... and I discover that I am the only one of the pair of us who is actually trying to accomplish anything aside from running, full on, high speed, headlong running.
I believe he is part shark. He never stops moving. He would even sleep in a constant state of motion if simple gravity would allow it.
But alas, blessed Inertia strikes when he least expects it, and I bid her a fond hello every time she appears. She, Inertia, is my friend.
Sadly, though, Sleepy and Irritable and Plain Old Exhausted are always behind Inertia to take me to my own slumber just when the little man is finally down and out. It just doesn't seem fair.

The One Buck Store Dilemma

I admit freely that I have fought the dollar store craze for as long as they have been in existence, until recently.
I have a wonderful friend who swears by anything with the word "dollar" in the marquee, as she suggests it is the best place on the globe for deals.
I have always just seen the plastic this or that for a dollar, and it will break/crack/crumble into lego pieces within moments of purchase.
BUT.
I had been into Dollar Tree -- not my best choice, but they had these great little plastic poop bags, originally intended for pet waste disposal, that fit around my son's diapers just perfectly. What is it they say about mothers and inventions, or something...
Family Dollar -- a bit crowded, a bit messy, not so clean in my perusal. Good for paper products, though, such as wrapping paper or those cute little bags to stuff the gifts into. Handy and non-messy, as you know.
Then I visited a Dollar General and the chorus of angels began to sing with the opening note of the doorbell as I walked into the store. Name brands everywhere, for almost every product, as well as the generic choices. But this was stuff I'd heard of! And a little cheaper than the other variety stores. Bonus!
My son, three years old, found a bargain aisle of summer products marked even less than a dollar! That is a parental coup if every I've heard of one. He was happy amongst the kid chotchka and I was thrilled that he was happy and a cheap date!!
We walked out of that store with enough cleaning supplies to last at least a month (maybe less if I have spaghetti for supper anytime soon) and an orange plastic rake! (Don't ask.) And my son is ecstatic.
Good store. Sit, stay, and we'll be back!

Skin Matching Makeup

I tried one of those new liquid foundations yesterday on my face. It is supposed to go onto your skin white, and then magically figure out your skin tone and match it perfectly, leaving you with flawless, poreless, impossibly beautiful skin -- according to the commercials anyway. I want that! I'll take it!
I think of my skin as a light color, a bit mottled, but overall not too bad. It's not Nicole Kidman porcelain in reality -- not by a long shot -- but that's the skin I would love to have and mentally, I do. Hey, it's my delusion, I'm allowed! (I'd have to douse myself with white paint every morning to do it, to hide the sun spots, the freckles, et cetera, but if I stay away from mirrors forever, the dream is still in tact.)
I dotted the concealor onto my under eye skin, just like the instructions commanded, and waited for the magic to begin. While I'm blending thoughtfully with my fourth finger, the weakest of the fingers according to beauty experts so as not to stretch the delicate skin, I see a bit of tone evolving.
Here it comes! My skin, only better!!
And I open my eyes to see...
Well, how interesting. Miss Maybelline or whomever suggests not so subtly that I am jaundiced.
If Curious George were here, he would feel right at home. But not only would I have the yellow suit, I would have a yellow face to match. I am a banana.
I have to go find a bilirubin light as quickly as possible before I blend into the fruit bowl.