Time Suck

The Plug

I started this post in the beginning of January, along with the 6 0r 7 others to which I keep alluding.  A meme of sorts posted by a friend of mine last night has inspired me to finally finish it.  Since the post itself promises to be rather long (no surprise there), I'm going to invite you all to join the meme on the front half.

Recently the aforementioned friend, who also happens to be a MarineLawyerMommy started a blog in preparations for writing a book.  The blog, so far, rocks.  And completely puts mine to shame.  When you go follow her blog (because you will), don't think less of me.  You'll see exactly what I mean when you get over there.

The book she is writing, from what I gather, is about the struggles of women in our society to be all.  Or, more accurately, our failures to do so.  How all these extremely successful women go about their days feeling like they have failed at every other thing, from blowing their diets to not wanting to get down on the floor and play dolls.  It's called The Modern Failure, and I am COMPLETELY addicted to it.  And Chanelle, who writes it (I actually have another post about her in the works . . .), is always looking for input, which is super easy given how amazingly thought provoking her every post is proving to be; further putting my mundane "this is what I did today" blog to shame.  And if all that hasn't been enough to get you over there to check her out, maybe this will do it:  She will send HOMEMADE COOKIES (we all know how I love me some cookies) to the first 30 people who plug The Modern Failure.  While that is FAR from the reason I'm plugging it, I am nonetheless very excited about my cookies.

The input she is looking for today is from this post.  I think we all have nights where we look around, the day is gone, and we find ourselves wondering where the hell it went.  Or at least I do.  6 -7 times a week.  Chanelle wants to know where your time goes.   Here is what happens to mine (near as I can tell):

The Post

I have been talking a lot recently to two good friends of mine from OCS – women who knew me when I was just Marine.  Before Mommy.  Lawyer.  And Wife.  Over the last 6 years or so since OCS, all of our lives have changed a lot.  Michelangelo (we are the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles; I'm Donatello) got out of the Marine Corps, became a vagabond in South America, and climbed Machu Picchu.  I was extremely jealous.  Leodardo was sent to Joint Command in the middle of nowhere where she has been able to get a Master's degree and a black belt.  Again, jealous.  Then she joined Roller Derby.  Cue intense jealousy.  I have had a longstanding star-crossed love relationship with Derby since my sorority president introduced me to it oh so many years ago.  I have had fleeting associations with many teams, but I move a lot.  My life changes a lot.  And now, I find myself in a place where I know I'll be stable for at least a couple years, where I could actually join a team – and stay on it – and there is just no way.  I am just too busy. 

And I found myself thinking about how I am almost too busy for my own life these days.  Every single day there is at least one thing I find myself wanting to do that just won't fit, whether it's Roller Derby or just putting in the new garden.

Somewhere between 04:30 and 06:00, Flintstone wakes up to eat.  I prefer it closer to 04:30 because then I can go back to sleep for a little while.  If it's not until 06, when my get-your-lazy-a$$-out-of-bed-NOW alarm goes off, it throws my whole morning off.  From 06 (or whenever Flintstone is sated) until 7, I run around in the dark (I don't even turn on the lights in the kitchen because that will just make it harder to see when I go back in the bedroom) getting my uniform together and on, PT clothes gathered up so I can work out since I've inevitably forgotten to stock my office closet at the beginning of the week again, sanitizing bottles and breast pump paraphernalia, putting my hair up, making myself a lunch, getting everything together and labeled for Flintstone to go to daycare, making a lunch for Punky on the rare occasions that I have time, changing Flintstone and getting him packed into his car seat, letting the dogs out, packing up the diaper bag and my work bag, and getting on the road.  If Flintstone is awake for all of this (which he has been most mornings for the last 2 weeks), this all slows down.  My last minute alarm may have to move back to 05:45 soon.  And this doesn't even take into account days when I'm supposed to be at morning PT. 

I also make a cup of tea during that time window, but more often than not, it's still sitting exactly where I made it when it's time to go.  If I'm lucky, I remember to put it in a travel mug.

I have to be on the road by 07 if I want to be on time.  Punky and usually MacGyver are still asleep when I walk out the door.  I drop Flintstone off at about 7:15, jam my heart back down my throat, and head to work.  I scoot into my office at 7:25.

7:25 – 10:50 I battle the vicious mountains of cases trying to envelop my desk. I pump in the middle of that time.   At 10:50 I change into PT clothes and go work out for an hour or so.  I no longer shower after PT because there just isn't time.  I change back into my uniform and go pick up Flintstone from daycare shortly after noon and take him home to spend the afternoon with MacGyver.  On good days, or days I don't have PT at lunch time, I have lunch with MacGyver and feed Flintstone.

I'm back to the battle by 13:00 (1 o'clock) at the latest.  The battle continues.  I will often have a cup of tea, or even coffee at some point.  I also have to pump again around 3 – joy of joys.  The workday ends at 4:30.  On paper.  In real life I almost never leave the office before 5.  When I was in a trial billet, I could easily stay in the office until 8 before a trial.  I'm glad I'm Review – for now.  I'm told I'm going back to Trial in a few months.

I get home around 5:30.  From 5:30 – 8 there is making dinner, which often requires shopping, dishes, laundry, Punky's homework, feeding Flintstone, eating dinner, and cleanup.  I do not do all of these tasks, if MacGyver is cooking, I'm doing dishes; if he's helping Punky, I'm cooking dinner, and so on.  On nights when everything falls into place and there aren't 75 other things that need to be taken care of, we have time to sit down for a ½ hour and watch something on the projector (got rid of the TV months ago – thank heavens!), or play a game.  But it's usually the former.  A ½ hour of screen time a couple nights a week is not that bad.  Bite me. 

At 8 the getting ready for bed rigmarole begins, which is followed by story time.  Lately, we've been reading the Percy Jackson books, though we just finished the forth one and need to go buy the next.  Shortly before 9, Punky's tucking in is complete.  Flintstone should also be asleep by this point, but I'm usually still holding him as I hate missing story time.  And I suck at putting him down without waking him up.  I am well aware that I should be putting him down sleepy but still a little awake so he gets used to falling asleep on his own.  Whatever.

At some point, whether it's dinner time or after story, I pour myself a glass of wine.  I often remember to drink it.

Once Flintstone is out, MacGyver and I take a shower.  It isn't unusual for MacGyver to have to wake me up for this because I'm usually ready to pass out by the end of dinner.  But after tuck in time is when all the fun grown-up parts of my life take place (ok, maybe at lunch time, too), so I'm usually able to rouse myself enough to spend some quality time with MacGyver.  I like to be asleep by 11.  Well, I'd like to be asleep by 8, but that really isn't an option ;-)

Obviously, every day is different, but that's a "typical" day.  It doesn't count Punky's extracurriculars (can you say girl scout cookies?),  Farmer's Market, and whatever else that eats up my time.

The Roller Derby team I have been courting since before Flintstone was born practices three evenings a week an hour away.  Obviously not an option.  BUT I will be spending a week doing Derby things with the team in May AND they've invited me to participate in other ways.  I might be a ref, a jeerleader, or possibly a volunteer.

But even fitting that stuff in is going to be a challenge.  Because it's not like my schedule is about to open up any time soon.  A friend of ours at church, whose children are grown, commented on Sunday "Oh, you are right in the middle of the best part, careers, young kids, you're young – it's also the hardest, most stressful part – you must not have time for anything."  Ha, to say the least!

So that's my daily time suck.  What's yours?  Head on over to The Modern Failure and let her know!

Catty B*tches

“I don’t really like other women.”

From Cheap Wine and Cookies

“I don’t get along with other women.”

“Other women don’t like me.”

I hear this sort of thing relatively often, (for instance today) and it makes me cringe at best. At worst, it sends me into a full-on, feminist rant. What follows is something in between:

Sometimes I just want to scream at women who talk like that. “Do you have any idea how pompous you sound saying that?”

You may not mean it that way, but you sound like a complete freaking narcissist. And really, half the women I hear say this do a whole lot of other things that put them in the narcissist category, too.

Not only does it make you sound ridiculously full of yourself; it makes you sound desperate for male attention. Like you actually value men more than women.

Look at what you’re saying. You’re setting all women apart as one class, removing yourself from that class, and placing yourself above it. To say you don’t get along with or like other women is to place yourself above your own gender.

By implying that you get along with men better than women, you are implicitly placing more value on the masculine.

We live in a society that values the masculine above the feminine. Say all you want about the great leaps and bounds we’ve made, the fact remains that women are still stereotyped as being weak, emotional (in a negative way), and irrational. The competition for mates is also seen as more fierce among females. An unmarried man in his 30s is a bachelor. An unmarried woman in her 30s is often an object of pity. Which is so frigging stupid! Don’t even get me started on THAT tangent. I am also consciously avoiding including anyone who is not heterosexual from this particular analysis because it would make it too long and convoluted.

Women who set themselves apart from women are giving in to the above stereotypes. They are trying to separate themselves from negative perceptions of femininity, but they’re going about it in a completely asinine way. You want to separate yourself from the negative stereotypes associated with women? Prove them wrong!

Don’t be a catty bitch. That’d be a great start.

Embrace the great things about being a woman. Embrace the things you love about other women. Don’t be swayed by those who spout off crap about how women are whiny or bitchy or whatever else. “Hey, Dumbass, I’m a woman and I am NONE of those things, nor are any of my female friends.”

Don’t run around acting all effing superior to other women and reinforcing the negative stereotypes that women are backbiting and catty.

Then again, if you say shtuff like that, you probably are backbiting and catty.

Am I saying you have to love every woman you meet? Hell no. Obviously. I clearly dislike catty bitches and women who act like they’re better than other woman.  It's self defeating and immature.  I mean, you hear it more from snotty teenagers than anyone else.  Hell, I said it as a snotty teenager even though I knew it wasn't true.  I have always had a lot of male friends, at times more than I had female friends.  But I have always had female friends, too.

Saying you don't get along with other women is just asinine.  Do you have a mom?  Sister?  Best friend or woman you look up to?  Yeah.  Kindof bitchy to them to say you don't like women, eh?  

How about we as women stop being the only class that is so easily tricked into turning on our own?  Because really, what would you think of someone who said "I really don't get along with other Caucasians?"  

Sounds pretty effing stupid, right?

Trust me, I get the desire to be part of the boys club.  I belong to TWO historically male dominated professions (though law is moving away from that).  So I get it.  I know that sometimes it makes things easier to just be one of the boys.  I've done it a lot in my life.  But, you know what?  You don't have to be a catty bitch to make it in the boy's club.  And you don't have to get down on women.  You just have to have the balls - er, ovaries - to own who you are.

 

Originally Posted:

Jan 28, 2011 10:26 AM

Michigan Bound

So on the 29th we loaded up and headed out for another long haul to MI. MacGyver and I, Punky and Flintstone, and Sirius and Tonks (Kingsley had to stay home, a friend is checking in on him and the fish) and all our gear in Vivienne - my MazdaSpeed 3 hatchback. For 20 hours or so. Joy.

It really wasn't as bad as it could have been, though. Flintstone was such a good boy. We did a whole lot of the driving overnight, so he slept a lot - though I did spend a lot of time with one arm twisted into the backseat retrieving pacifiers, holding bottles, and just letting him hold my hand. I also spent a lot of time pumping. And a lot of time pumping with one hand while my other hand was in the backseat with him. My left shoulder has become quite flexible this week.

On the 30th, we dropped Punky off with BioB in Indy (well, we dropped her off with BioB's current boyfriend, BioB was at work). How sad is it that the first thing Punky said when we told her she was going to spend New Years with BioB was "ooo! I love that babysitter!" referring to the girl who watches Punky when she's there since BioB spends very little time with her.

The handoff went smoothly. BioB's boyfriend is a nice guy. He told us that BioB wants to move to Oklahoma. He hates the idea. I love it. There's no way in H-E- double hockey sticks that we're going to drive Punky all the way to OK for visitation.

BioB will actually have to provide transportation herself - something she's required to do since she's $13,000.00 in arrears for support, but she has only actually done once in the last 4 years or so.

So I say go to OK and good riddance. She abandoned Punky at 6 months and withdrew from her more and more until she was going 6 to 8 months without contacting us at all. She offered to consent to the adoption. Then, out of nowhere, she suddenly starts acting like she wants to be in Pubky's life again. It may be selfish, but I'm not ok with that. Especially since I think it's all for her boyfriend's sake. When they break up, which they do often, she looses all interest in Punky.

But I try to be reasonable and civil. So we dropped Punky off then skipped up to Lafayette to spend the evening with some friends from when we went to Purdue.

I LOVE Lafayette. It makes me so nostalgic. We had dinner at the restaraunt where MacGyver and I first met, and I caught up with my roommate from Sr year. Oh, the antics she and I pulled.

We crashed at a hotel, had breakfast with another friend who's a successful DJ in the area, and took off for the last 6 hour jump to Michigan. One day, we'll spend a weekend in Laf, go to our old haunts, and see DJ L spin.

What's Wrong with Boo Now: By Association

Okay, this one has been a little delayed in being posted.  I'm still about 5 posts behind where I want to be, but here it is.  If you haven't read any of my What's Wrong With Boo Now? posts in the past, I suggest you go back and check them out in order to get the full hilarity of this string of events.

While we were visiting my family in MI, one of my two bestest friends ever, NotDonna, threw me an awesome baby shower, but since she doesn't live in MI, either, she did it at Boo's house.

At first, Boo insisted that he wasn't going to come because he's male.  "That's so gay," he tells me.  Ahem.  "Boo, first, no it's not; and second, you are gay."  But, nope, he insisted he wasn't coming.  Glitter Fairy, his boyfriend, and a very good friend of mine for many years, would be there, but Boo would not.  Yeah right.

The day before the shower, a group of us, including Boo and Glitter Fairy, went tubing down the Muskegon river, a very fun, four hour trip.  While applying sunscreen, Boo was adamant that everyone put plenty of sunscreen on the tops of their feet as he has had the pleasure of being very burned in that area before.  I got distracted putting it on Punky and somehow completely neglected to do my legs.   An hour into the trip, I realized how pink they were getting, but it was already too late.  I deflated a tube to cover it, but I was already fairly cooked.  Everyone else seemed fine.  Overall, it was a blast.

Boo and Glitter Fairy both work at the same bar I used to work at, and they had to work that night, so they didn't get home until very late.  Either very late that night, or early-ish the next morning, I got a rather frantic call from Boo.

"You can't have the shower here," (in 4 hours).

"Um, excuse me?  We are having the shower there.  If you try to change it, you will give NotDonna a nervous breakdown.  She will kill you."

"Bubbles (Boo's dog – who is a whole string of mishaps in and of herself) had her puppies last night."

"Oh, yay, that's so sweet.  How many?"  I've already had a long angry chat with him about getting that friggin dog fixed.

"Ten!  But she had them all over the livingroom and diningroom.  There is blood and dog placenta juice all over the carpet!  In 10 different spots!"

Ultimately, it was decided that he would use our Mom's industrial steam cleaner to clean the carpets before everyone got there.  When we got to Boo's house, there was a note on the front door: "Please Use Back Door."

They had moved all the couches and chairs into a line, blocking everyone into the kitchen because the carpets were still wet in the rest of the house.  But it actually worked out really well, and the shower was a friggin blast (there are pictures in an earlier post).  AND there were many males there – including Boo - the majority of whom were heterosexual.  Unfortunately, we did have to end it a little early.  In the post below, you will see pictures of why.  If you have a weak stomach, I would suggest not looking.

As it turns out, Glitter Fairy neglected to put sunscreen on the tops of his feet and shins on the tubing trip.  He got a very severe case of sun poisoning, and at the end of the shower, Boo had to take him to Urgent Care.

Alright, so, technically this malady did not strike Boo, but I think it's pretty close.  And the pictures seemed to be in keeping with previous posts.

Don't forget to enter the Birth Pool!

What's Wrong with Boo Now?: Chipmunk

Time for another exciting installment of What's Wrong with Boo Now?  And this will be a very special installment in as much as there isn't anything actually wrong with Boo this week.  Well, nothing new, at least.  If you haven't been keeping up on my plague ridden brother, you should definitely take the time to check out the cascade of misadventures that started it all: That's Not a Spider Bite, and the most recent calamity in the last installment of What's Wrong with Boo Now?

Now that you've had a chance to catch up:

I texted Boo the other day to ask him which middle name he liked better for Pip, Livingston or Cheshire (opinions, anyone?  I'm not sure we're ready to come out of the closet on the first name just yet, but it'll be soon.  There are reasons behind the two unusual middle names we were considering.  Cheshire is pronounced Chesher).

Boo responded, "Livingston.  What do you feed a baby chipmunk?"  With this picture attached:

Then he called me.  "Why," I asked, "do you have a baby chipmunk?  Where did you get it?  Put it back."

He told me he knew that's what I would tell him, and that he and his friend V (that is actually what we call her), found it in her driveway.  They have a bunch of chipmunks living under their deck, so, anticipating my advice, they put the chipmunk under the deck.  An hour or two later, they found it "drowning" in a small pond in V's yard.

So Boo has a new pet.  Because that's what Boo needs in addition to Bubbles, the insane adolescent black lab who chews on beer cans and eat wrapping paper.  (There's another story in the Boo saga – the ultimate reason my 22 year old brother no longer lives with my mom, is because living with Bubbles almost gave her a nervous breakdown).

I told him to call the vet right away and that he'd probably have to get baby rabbit formula, but, I'm emphasized, "Call the vet, or he is going to die."

Boo said he'd call the vet, and stop and get the food on his way to work that night.  And that he had already built "Suds" (to go with Bubbles the dog) a nice big habitat.

Later that night my dad told me that Boo was on his way to the vet with the baby chipmunk.

I didn't hear anything else about it for a couple days until I received a picture of Boo sleeping with baby chipmunk curled up on his cheek.  Very cute.  That kid . . .

What's Wrong with Boo Now?: Burn Notice

First, a warning:  I'm going to put the pictures at the end of this post.  They are gross.  If you have a weak stomach, don't scroll down to them.  Now, onto the tale of Boo's misadventures this week.

You may recall recent mention of my younger brother, Boo in a little post called That's Not a Spider Bite.  If you missed it, you should go back and read it now, not only is it hilarious, but without it you cannot truly understand the humor of this tale.

Some things you should know about my little brother:  His name is Boo.  That is not a pseudonym for this blog, it is the name my mom started calling him when she brought him home from the hospital, a name that the rest of his have always called him.  He is 22 years old.  Some of his friends have finally switched back to calling him by his "real" first name, but to me he will always to be Boo (Uncle Boo to Punky).  He is a manager/bartender at the bar that I cocktail waitressed at many summers throughout undergrad and law school; the bar where MacGyver proposed.  He has atrocious luck.  We all do.  All us "Timothy's" are mishap prone.  For whatever reason.  When I was Boo's age, I went through a really bad streak of horrible luck.  Apparently, it is now his turn.

Every time he calls, there is some new tale of woe.  And this isn't just complaining about life.  This kid has real problems (again, see That's Not a Spider Bite).  Sometimes, I'm horrified and worried about him.  Other times, I can't help but laugh.

He has been suffering some serious financial troubles the last couple months, really, really stressful stuff that he has been busting his butt to fix and make right.  Finally, last week, it reached a resolution.  We all heaved a huge sigh of relief. 

Two days later, I got a picture message from him on my phone.  The picture is in the post below.

"Holy feaking heck," (or words to that effect), I said when I called him.  What the heck did you do?  Oh, wait.  No.  He called me first.  The picture message hadn't loaded yet.  "What are you up to?"  I ask. 

"Oh, I'm at the hospital."  This is where my heart stopped for a minute.  He sounded fine.  Who was hurt?  Mom?  Dad?  Who? 

But, I managed to remain calm and ask "Why?"

"I sort of burned my hand."

"What?  Are you ok?  How did that happen?"

There was enough time for him to assure me that he was ok, minus the fact that he was now going to be facing massive medical bills when he had just gotten out from under the previously mentioned financial trouble, when all hell broke loose on my end.  I told him I'd call him right back, but when I did, he didn't answer.  THEN the picture message came through.  It's in the post below.  Holy effing bovine.  Ouch.

I texted him to ask how in the world he did that (because, look at the picture, he can obviously text back).  But, no response.  I'm pretty sure he was in with the docs at that point.

I then did the obvious thing, and forwarded the picture to half the people I knew, and proceeded to make fun of Boo.  I told him I was going to start a weekly piece on my blog called What's Wrong with Boo Now? 

Later, I got a hold of my mom who told me that he had tripped over a chair while walking around a campfire and landed with his hand deep in the center of the fire.  He actually had to go to two different hospitals to have it treated.  And the vicodin they gave him made him deathly ill.  And he went back to work the next day.  Who wouldn't want to bartend with a burned and mangled hand?

But don't worry, he's duly thankful it's not paralyzed.  Haha.

What's Wrong with Boo: That's NOT a Spider Bite

I was listening to an interesting piece on NPR over lunch that reminded me of two things.  The first is a useful piece of entomological information I think more people should know.  The second is a period in my brother's life that I find just hilarious – even if that does make me sound evil.

First, the PSA*:  If you ever go to the Dr. and are diagnosed with a Brown Recluse bite, get a second opinion.  Brown Recluse bites are the go-to scapegoats for all manner of necrotizing wounds that Dr.'s can't explain.  In reality, Brown Recluse spiders are very rare, and their bites are even more so.  Brown Recluses are NOT common throughout the US.  For instance, they do not live in Michigan, and they do not live in South Carolina.  And in the states where they do live, they are hard to find.  They are called the Brown RECLUSE for a reason.

The professor who was being interviewed on NPR pointed out that there is a list of over 95 causes for wounds commonly mis-attributed to Brow Recluse bites, and one Dr. even called in to say that medical training includes only about ½ hour of information on entomology (bugs), but that diagnosing something without another obvious cause as a Brown Recluse bite is not uncommon.

When in doubt, you can always contact your nearest USDA extension office, who will be more than happy to tell you about the prevalence of different kinds of spiders in your area, and will even identify specimens for you.  Many, many common, harmless brown spiders are mistaken for Brown Recluses, which is probably a contributing factor to the myth of Brown Recluse bites being common.

Second, the story:  Broken Boo.  A few years ago, my little brother went through a really hard time in his life.  And my family, never missing the opportunity to demonstrate our love for each other, still laughs about it today (much the way we still laugh about the time my mom got acid in her eyes at work and had to wear 2 eye patches for a few days – hilarious!).

I was in law school in NY at the time, when I got a call from my brother, who I think was around 20 then.  He tells me he woke up that morning, and his arm didn't work.  His hand was bent into kindof a claw, his wrist was bent down too, and his arm was completely useless.  "What do you think I should do?"  He asks me.  Being the brilliant law student that I am at the time, I advise him to go to the figging Dr.

He goes to the Dr.  He calls me back.  "They think I might've had a stroke."  This is where I try to stay calm and not scare him.   Ahem.  "They think what?"

"They think I might've had a stroke."

"Might have?  Did they do any tests?"

"No.  Should they have?"

"Um, yes."

Ultimately, he goes back to the Dr. a couple of times.  They determine he DID NOT have a stroke (thank Heavens and all that is holy, that would NOT have been funny at all.  I was sooooo worried about him for a few days.  But then we found out it wasn't a stroke and I went back to taunting him).  The Dr.'s can't figure out at all what's wrong with his arm or how to fix it.  I believe they tried steroids and maybe something else, but, ultimately, nothing worked, and he was left with a gimpy, curled up arm.

A few days later, he called me again.  "I think I have mono."

"Why?"

He lists off his symptoms, and, as someone who's had mono twice, it sure as heck sounds like mono to me.  "Do you know anyone else who has mono?"  Yes, a couple of his friends do.  Great.  He's gimpy and he has mono.  I advise him to go to the Dr.  Again.

He calls me back.  Yep, it's mono.  AND strep throat.  And the antibiotics aren't doing much of anything for the strep.  Yay.  Poor kid.  Mono, strep, and, still, a gimpy arm.  (PI really, really hope no one is offended by my horrible use of the work gimpy, but it is the word I used whenever I talked to him, and the word my parents both used to describe is malady, so accurate storytelling mandates that I use that word).

Guess what happens a few days later?

You got it, another call from Boo.  "I have this big painful sore on my shoulder.  What do you think I should do?"  After a battery of questions, including whether this is on the gimpy arm (no, it's not, it's on his "good" arm), I suggest, for the fourth time that month, that he go to the Dr.

And what does he relay back to me from the Dr.?  "It's a Brown Recluse bite."

"No, it isn't,"  I flat out tell him.  I'm starting to think your Dr. is an idiot.  Brown Recluses don't even LIVE in Michigan.  Ugh.  But that's what the Dr. said.  He also said it would heal on its own.  Ugh!  So I called one of my favorite Entomology professors from undergrad.  This guy is awesome.  Literally wrote the book on entomology in the Midwest.  He agrees with me, it is very, very unlikely that Boo has a Brown Recluse bite.  The professor also informs me that it is really common for Dr.'s to say Brown Recluse bite when they just don't know what it is.

Plus, I didn't want Boo to believe he'd been bitten by a spider.  The kid is terrified of spiders (and ants) as it is.  To a very humorous degree.  We wanted SOOO badly to get one of those remote controlled tarantulas to have crawl up to him during our wedding just to get him to scream like a girl in front of all those people.

So I send Boo back to the Dr.  It turns out he has a staph infection (or something of the sort, I don't remember exactly).  He has infected skin on his "good" arm, a gimpy arm, mono, and strep throat.  On the one hand, I felt so bad for him.  On the other hand, it was just all too funny.  My mom made fun of him constantly.

When I got home for MacGyvertmas that year, I found out why.  While the staph, mono, and strep had cleared up, his arm was still screwed up.  It had gotten significantly better, he had use of the arm, he just couldn't move his wrist and hand.  The pictures are in the post below.  Don't forget to look!

Moral of the story:  Don't blame it on the bugs.  Don't always take your Dr.'s word as infallible – especially if that word is "Brown Recluse."  (Ok, so it's two words.  Bite me).

* Not all, maybe not even a majority of this info is actually from the piece on NPR or from the USDA.  I specialized in Entomology in undergrad and have always had a fascination with insects and other arthropods, so much of this is based on my own education and experience, which is still, I assure you, quite credible.  But feel free to look it all up.

These are pictures from when we went to MI for Christmas the year Boo had the messed up arm.  We surprised my mom by setting up and decorating her little Christmas Tree while she was asleep.  Note Boo's gimpy, curled up wrist and hand.  What you won't see in these is how many times I had to stop decorating because I was laughing so hard watching him try to hold things and maneuver his twisted hand.  I'm giggling now just remembering it.

I know.  I'm horrible.  But it's even funnier now, because a couple months later, Boo woke up one morning and his hand was just better.  Poof, no more twisting or paralysis.  And it hasn't happened again since (for about 3 years).  But that kid.  He just has issues.

(Also, please note:  Punky had no idea what we were laughing at.  She knows better than to ever laugh at someone for a physical problem, and she knows it is NOT ok to make fun of anyone - even Uncle Boo - even though Mommy does - a lot.  Let's just hope she doesn't think it's ok to make fun of her new little  brother just based on the interesting relationship I have with mine ;-)