Never Share a Cell Phone with Mom

My son goes through cell phones like they cost $3.45 each.  We quit buying him  expensive phones when he was in the 11th grade and dove into our swimming pool with the third phone that month in his pocket. Now all he gets is a go phone from Walmart or a hand me down from someone else in the family.

Currently we have a plan in place that he will get my phone, I will get my husband’s phone and my husband has a new phone ordered that should be delivered on Tuesday.

My son jumped the gun a little on this one.  I am not a huge phone fan.  I usually have it with me but it is also not unusual for me to temporarily forget where I left it, not bring it with me to work, or have a dead battery for hours because I played games on it.  Frankly, I am just not that interested in having a phone so close to my person all the time.

When my son asked to borrow my phone over the weekend, I didn’t ask for it back until I had to go to work.  And I guess he figured since the phone was “almost his” he would go ahead and add all his apps. And then he left all the apps open on my phone.

So I now have Snapchat, texts, Guitartun, Instagram and Tinder. For the record, I do not use all these social apps so I believe I am completely innocent in their mismanagement and/or response to any inquiries. After all, until Tuesday this is still officially my phone.

But OMG according to my son I have seriously ruined his social media life.  In my defense, I did not know what “swiping right or swiping left” meant regarding Tinder.  And I probably should not have answered the text about the pictures but was very relieved to know they were about animals and not soft porn (because as a mother of a almost 23 year old, I have the right to know).  I probably should not have reviewed all the new stories on snapchat and I am guilty as charged for the motherly comment on Instagram asking my son to please remove his dirty clothes from the hall bathroom.

It’s too bad he isn’t on Twitter.  Because that is one app I think I really would have used.

A Condom and a Cell Phone

The Cell Phone:

I looked all over for my cell phone.  I KNEW I had it when I came home from work.  But that was hours ago.  Now it was 10:00 pm and I was ready to go to bed and I needed to make sure the alarms were set and it was charged next to my bed. I finally gave up and called it using my husband’s phone. Imagine my surprise when my son answered. From his apartment across town. 

“Why do you have my phone?” I asked.

“Sorry, I must have put it in my pocket and forgot about it.  Damn! I wondered what those strange beeping noises were; I thought I was going crazy,” was his response. “You can come get it.”

Which I guess would be a no-brainer if you were young. But if you were older, you didn’t give a crap about not having your phone. Sleep was way more important.

I immediately handed the phone to my husband.

“I’ll need to use your alarm,” I told him. “So, the first alarm needs to be vibrate only and starts at 5:10 amThe second alarm is vibrate PLUS a soothing beach alarm that needs to go off at exactly 5:25 am.  The final alarm is just the jungle tune and should be set at 5:35 am with no snooze option.”

My husband just looked at me.  “What time do you want to get up?” he asked. 

He set it for 5:30 am and handed it back to me. What a pain in the ass it was to reset the damn thing 13 times the next morning.

The Condom:

My daughter’s conversation with her boyfriend:

“It’s like this:  you need to go buy condoms.  Because if you don’t buy condoms then I am going to tell my mom and she will put it on her grocery list and she’ll buy them.”

He was mortified and bought condoms. And I was never more proud of my daughter.




Happy Easter!

Every year I have this same discussion with my daughter.  She believes there is no “end date” when it comes to getting an Easter basket full of candy.  I quit making Easter baskets for the kids when they were out of high school.  My daughter even used the religion card and told me that “Candy was God’s gift to all His believers.” Okay, so that semi-worked.  I was guilted enough to get a plastic mixing bowl full of candy for everyone to share.

But that isn’t what Christina wanted.  She wanted a basket of her own.  And a stuffed animal and a chocolate bunny.  I firmly told her if God wanted her to have that, He would have told me and I simply had not gotten that message.

We had a silent truce until I bought a tonage of Easter candy last week.  Christina thought she had won and was all smiles. Until it disappeared the next day when I took it to work for my staff.  My department had decided to get together and make little Easter baskets for everyone and share bringing in candy. You would have thought I was the most unloving, unreligious, worst parent in the world that I would do that for work staff and not for my kids.

I gave in when I found this awesome Easter basket at the grocery store. Filled it with 99 cent Easter grass and candy.  Even remembered the 79 cent chocolate bunny/chicken.  My husband hid all the good candy.  At least we are done with this issue.  Until Christmas when I get to go through this all over again with the stocking that I quit filling with candy 8 years ago.Easter

The Stool Sample

A normal person would probably think that I meant this:

stool-sampleBut then there are those of you who know me.

So you know that I really mean the literal one. And I did seriously contemplate whether this would be a good blog topic.  I even asked my friend, Karen.  She said yes, so  blame her.

I was sick for over two weeks and finally decided to go see my doctor to get those little white pills that totally stop you up for a week.  All I wanted to do was run in to the clinic, pay my $20 co-pay, complain about my diarrhea and get the script for the pills.  Easy Peasy, right?

Damn doctor had to do this whole “OMG – You have had this for almost 3 weeks?  We had better make sure there is nothing else going on.  I want you to bring in a stool sample.”  My immediate response was “Yeah, that isn’t going to happen,” but in essence of time, I decided to play along and hopefully speed up my visit time.

First of all, he gave me w-w-a-a-y-y too much instruction for this process that I had no intention of doing. Then he showed me the plastic thingy and I about lost it.  Seriously?  Oh, and a specimen bottle as well?  I was surprised medicated wet wipes and a test strip was not included. And for the record, I totally DID NOT want to walk out of the doctor’s office in front of a waiting room full of patients carrying this huge white plastic monstrosity except that I simply HAD to bring it home to share it with my family.

Which I knew would ultimately result in this:


And this:

SS 1

So then I had enough. I filled the specimen jar with Skittles.


And my son ate them all.

So I never did go back to the doctor.  The pills he prescribed took care of the problem.  I also didn’t appreciate the email my doctor later sent to me asking about the colonoscopy that he said I really need to get done but I never followed up on.  Then again, maybe I should schedule it for a future blog topic.  I’ll have to ask Karen.


The Space Heater Issue (again)

It started with an email on  Feb 24th with the subject line of “Space Heaters.”  It was from our office manager and said:

Occupational Health and Safety will be here Friday morning @ 8:00am to check all the space heaters in DBS; they are checking to make sure we are compliant with the requirements.  The policy is # 724.32.1, below is taken from the policy:

  1. Space heaters must meet four criteria:
  2. Must have a Tip-Over Switch
  3. No greater than 1500 watts
  4. Certified safe by a testing laboratory (I am going to assume that the “Certified Lori Testing Laboratory” isn’t going to work)
  5. The pattern on the grille face must not have an opening greater than 1 inch
  6. Use of an extension cord to connect a space heater is prohibited. Space heaters should be plugged directly into a wall outlet.
  7. The front of space heaters shall be located at least 12 inches from combustible materials. (Do you think that would that include my feet?)

This immediately brought back the memory of when I worked in Ohio and my boss came to my office. As we were chatting, he stated: “It’s warm in here. Do you have a heater on?” To which my immediate response was: “No, heaters are not allowed.”  And that was the end of that.  Kind of like the don’t ask, don’t tell theory.

At my current job they are allowed but you have to meet the above criteria.  Here is what my heater set up looks like:


Now, I am certainly not overly familiar with OSHA codes, but I do have a notion that my heater probably will not pass inspection. (In my defense, that is what it looked like when I started so I didn’t build it.  And we are supposed to get new electrical wiring for the building sometime in 2028).

My response to the email:  Opened Outlook.  Appointment on Thursday, March 2nd at 4:30 pm:  Unplug space heater and hide it in drawer.

It is nice to know that the universal “Don’t ask, don’t tell” space heater use is the same at all businesses.


Is it Gambling Money or Wal-Mart Money?

My husband and I sometimes go to our local casino for entertainment and a free meal.  Recently we had a heated debate over the accounting of our gambling budget that we bring with us to spend.  If we lose, we budgeted for it; if we win – YEA! (But don’t bank on it; there is a reason for the phrase “The House Always Wins.”)

So this weekend when we went to the casino, my husband gave me $200. I like to play the slot machines. I take my $100 bill to the bill changer, get twenties and roam around looking for a suitable machine.  I have to have one that allows you to make a .30 cent minimum bet.  I think it is untruthful advertising when they have penny slot machines with a minimum of .50 needed to play.  Basically all I want to do is sit down, put in $20 bucks and play for a long time at .30 a pop. I do have some deal breakers:  If I do not get a bonus round within a reasonable amount of time/money, then I change machines.  The definition of “Reasonable” is totally at my discretion.  If a smoker sits next to me, I am gone.  As a rule, we have to wash all our clothes (including jackets if worn) when we get home from a casino. And finally, if I get a measly $5.25 from a bonus round, I quit.  I am insulted that my paltry .30 spin bonus doesn’t give me a decent payout.  (Remember, I said reasonable was at my discretion).

So on this particular evening, I didn’t really feel like playing the slot machines.  So I mostly visited with my husband at the blackjack table (Which, BTW is the only game where the house isn’t always 100% on the winning side) and drank lots of orange Nehi that I get for free from the soda machines.  My husband is pretty good at blackjack.  He is the source of our free meals.  Trust me, no casino is going to gift me with a free buffet when I am waging .30 at the slot machines.

I think I should apply to be a blackjack dealer.  Under reason for job I would state that I needed to brush up on my mental math addition skills. For whatever reason I can never count the totals fast enough in my head. And then you throw in that an Ace can be a one or an eleven and I am pretty much at a grade 3 level. And then there are all the rules you have to remember.  Like if you get this you split and if you get this and the dealer has this you don’t bet and if dealer has a face card you have to keep asking for a card and you should stop on 17 only when….

At any rate, my whole point here is that I ended up not spending the other $100 bill.  Safely nestled in my wallet, we walked out to the car to go home. And as always, I wanted to know how we (meaning, he) did.

“You have to give me the money you didn’t spend.”

“WHAT?” was my immediate response, “No I don’t – that is my money and I am going to spend it at Wal-Mart.”

“You can’t do that,” he explained.  “It was originally part of the gambling budget and if you didn’t spend it, then it has to go back into the gambling budget.”

“It can still be a part of the gambling budget but I am just going to go gamble it at Wal-Mart on some new stuff.”

“That isn’t how it works.  I have to track the amount of money we gamble with so since you didn’t spend it – it goes back into the gambling budget.”

For the record:  1) I did not give him back the $100 and immediately got home and spent the entire amount at Wal-Mart and 2) I am never, ever, never going to tell him again when I don’t spend my gambling allotment.  There will always be this $1 slot machine that ate my $100 in 3 minutes.  I’ll swear to it.

Physical Therapy and New Shoes

One of the outcomes from my accident was that I re-hurt my knee.  I woke up Saturday morning after my car accident to a ton of pain and discomfort. I knew better than to go to a local urgent care or emergency room. I refused to be labelled as a “DRUG SEEKING INDIVIDUAL” which is exactly what happens these days.

However, I was super popular.  And I knew this because I got a ton of letters that day as well:


I went back to my orthopedic doctor first thing Monday morning. I had, indeed, rehurt the knee and after x-rays and an exam, new orders were received.

One of those orders was to go back to physical therapy.

I am not good at physical therapy.  First of all, it hurts.  And I think I may have a bad reputation at the PT clinic.  I’ll fully own it.  My reputation is most surely due to the following:

  • As I said, it hurts. So I am going to make every excuse in the world to either arrive late or leave early.  I have the desk clerk’s email and cell phone number to text in advance and I also clearly tell my therapist that I can only do PT for 20 minutes and have to leave because I have some really important, trivial appointment.  In their defense, they do their best to trick me into staying longer and are usually successful.
  • I was once asked to lie on the treatment bed and “thrust my buttocks straight up.” Yeah, I am so not going to do that. Did they not see my age on my medical record?  But I was polite about it. “Excuse me?  You want me to do what? I don’t think so.”
  • I love it when Carl is my therapist because he will massage my knee at the beginning of my session. I asked him if he thought I could get my husband to do it and he reminded me that I actually paid for him to do it. (He was right, my husband said no).
  • I like the easy exercises the best. And then they add the infamous big ass rubber band to it. Which now makes it hard and not fun. And they know it because I am going to complain.
  • I also complain when they call me back to the therapy area when I am watching Judge Judy on the TV in the waiting area. Especially when she is bitching someone out.
  • I always ask for an ice pack to go. They have that really good crunchy ice that is good to eat. I keep a plastic cup in my car.
  • There is this one machine that I kinda like. And the reason I like it because I watched Patty set the resistance on the machine.  As soon as her back was turned, I would decrease the resistance so it didn’t hurt so much. And then put it back when I was finished.
  • William tells me to do “10 repetitions on each knee twice.” I do half and then tell him I am done. He tells me to do 10 more.  William is mean.
  • Lucked out one day. I had just bought new shoes and got to admire them 20 repetitions times 2 on this one machine.  William so called me out on it.


  • Susan at the front desk is my favorite. She never lets me leave without validating my parking even chasing me down the elevator once when I forgot.

Seriously, I am really tired of having a hurt knee.  I am hopeful that one day it will suddenly be better.  Because if I have to go back to therapy one more time, I know there is going to be a rock, paper, scissor contest and the loser therapist will have to work with me.