Key Seeker

Forget my series on public safety. Who cares about all of you when I have a personal crisis on my hands? My school keys are missing! Yes, the keys to my workplace have been misplaced. Oh, don't think you're gonna find them and break in and run copies willy-nilly. It's not like they trust me with a master key, or a key to the building. Nope. I am one of the 10% of teachers in Newmentia who don't have a key to the building. You know, because the other 90% has to get in there after hours and on weekends because they work so much harder than me. All I am missing is the key to my room, and a key to one of my two cabinets. The other one won't lock, what with the hardware beging installed wrong since we moved into that building in 2000 or thereabouts. The keys are on a stretchy lime green keyring thingy from The Devil's Playground. I think I have had it since 2000. If we could cheaply carbon-date the dirt ground into that coiled old-style phone-cord-looking green plastic, we might know the true age of it.

I just noticed that it was gone at 3:30 today, when the #1 son picked up a package at the Post Office, and wanted to use my key to saw through the cardboard. He's as smart as a chimp at finding tools to suit his purpose. But my school keys were not in the little slot thingy made to hold glasses on the console of T-Hoe. I always keep them there. I never go to work without T-Hoe, so I can never forget my keys. Except now. They are gone.

#1 says that I left the keys in my classroom yesterday when we left open gym to take him to the hospital. I say no, that I locked my room, and I can only do that with the keys. I always check the thermostat so that I'm not bleeding taxpayer money into heating or cooling my classroom while I'm not there, and then I step into the hallway and lock my door. That's because I'm a fanatic about people getting into my stuff. #1 also says that I did not have my keys when I got into T-Hoe which I had to park out behind the gym. I know I DID have they keys then.

Upon locking my classroom, I navigated the obstacle course of the hallway full of the contents of the teacher workroom, AD office, and Nurse's office. I wound my way through the scattered cafeteria chairs, into the gym, along the shiny, shiny, newly-waxed concrete mezzanine, stopped at the top of the back stairs to the gym floor to untie the tape with the sign about fresh wax that was hung on Monday, gave #1 the keys to T-Hoe, tied the wax sign back across the handrails, then proceeded down the steps and a short hallway by the stage, and out the door by the band room. They are on a separate keyring, my personal keys. I had to take both sets of keys out of my pocket to sort them out. When I exited the building, I took my school keys from my pocket, and tossed them into their holding area in T-Hoe. From there, I called my mom to tell her I was taking #1 to the ER to have his head examined.

In one breath, #1 swears that I never had the school keys in T-Hoe, yet in the next breath, he says I must have left them in the ER when I wrote the check for his noggin test. That just goes to show you that you can't take the word of a 14-year-old with a concussion. My theory is that he moved the keys when we drove through McDonald's, when he made room to set some fries in the glasses compartment, and they are still somewhere in the dark recesses of T-Hoe's nooks and crannies. The boy swears that he never moved any keys, because they were not there.

After leaving the Post Office this afternoon, we stopped to buy a large quantity of fireworks, and dashed into Save-A-Lot for some tasty steaks to grill tomorrow. We then returned to the Mansion. I made #1 and The Pony search T-Hoe. I also made The Pony search HH's Pacifica, because we drove it to see Ice Age 3 and he stuffed my purse under the seat. Nope. No keys. #1 had a little fit because I was accusing him of losing my keys, but he never touched them, because I left them at school or in the hospital. I called the hospital, but nobody had turned in any keys. I went back to the garage, backed T-Hoe out into the light of day... and within 30 seconds, I found my school keys. They were wedged in a crack made from the little door thingy that closes over the glasses compartment. #1 had set the keys on the shiny fake wood console part behind that little compartment door, and they slid into that crack.

I went back into the house, jangling my keys. He raised his giant concussed head from the couch. "Where did you find those?" I explained that they were right where he put them. He still denies that the keys were even in T-Hoe.

That boy has too much of HH in him.

Nothing Says Bloggin' Like A Thumping Of Your Noggin

Today's public safety info concerns head injuries. If you have recently been knocked in the noggin, and for the past 24 hours have experienced extreme tiredness despite 13 hours of sleep, a constant headache that started at the back of the skull where the noggin-knockin' occurred, then spread to the top and front of the head, and recently added nausea to your laundry list of complaints... you probably need to be checked out by a medical professional.

I told you last week how the #1 son took a spill playing basketball at open gym. Another player's shoulder connected with his chin, knocking him over backwards, resulting in a gym-echoing head thump on the floor. He had a headache and tiredness, but I called the ER, and a nurse said to watch him and bring him if he got worse. After 24 hours and some sleep, his headache went away. So all was fine, and he played basketball the next day, and two days at the beginning of this week.

Yesterday at open gym, #1 was laid out flat on his back by his best friend in a shoving incident, then took a charge from his other best friend, and for the head-banging hat trick, he bumped heads with the shover in a tussle over a loose ball. After playing four games full court, #1 took a turn to sit out. That is uncharacteristic of him. He wants to be on the court all the time. Shortly after leaving the gym at 3:00, his head started to hurt. When he got home at 4:50 after a trip to the library for high-speed internet shenanigans, he was headachy and tired. He took an ibuprofen and slept for two and a half hours until I made him get up. He still had the headache when he woke up, and it spread from the back of his head to the top. He took another ibuprofen, which is something he never does. He hates to swallow pills. He did not know which blow hurt him, but was thinking it was when he took the charge from the barreling BFF2.

I checked on him all through the night, and he muttered that he was awake when I poked him. This morning he got up at 9:30, and said he was fine. Which I was to learn later was not quite the truth, but that his head was still hurting when he awoke. After feasting on 4 blueberry waffles, 3 pink cookies, and a Coke, it was off to open gym at noon. Normally I make him eat a sandwich for lunch, but since he had gotten up so late, I let it slide. #1 shot some baskets and fooled around with his cronies for about 20 minutes. The coach said to call more people so they had enough for two teams. #1 came upstairs to where I was watching, which he never does, because I am the plague and he can't be seen with me, and said, "I don't feel good. I might throw up. I really don't feel like playing. My head hurts." Again, this was unusual for him. He yearns to play basketball. He has only missed ONE open gym all summer, to go to Six Flags. I told him I was taking him to the doctor. He said he didn't want to go, but he didn't complain enough to change my mind. The doctor's office line was busy, because you know you can never get in to see the doctor when you're sick, but only for your appointment that has been made six months in advance, and if you are more than ten minutes late, they cancel it and bill you anyway, and sit in the office not taking patients but eating bon bons brought by the pharmaceutical rep.

So I did what anybody without insurance would do (even though we HAVE insurance) and carted him off to the ER. He was pleased that I took him to the good ER. "Are you taking me to the one that leaves the surgical instruments inside of people?" I assured him, "No. I am taking you to Dad's hospital. Not mine where I woke up during surgery, or Mine North, where they gave The Pony acetaminophen for his broken elbow, put it in a soft cast, and told him to see a doctor within a week."

There was only one other customer in the waiting room. We were called back within five minutes. The intake nurse even said to bring The Pony. "We don't want him sitting alone in the waiting room." Which I don't know whether is a hospital belief that unattended children will make mischief, or a statement of their clientele lounging around the waiting room. The nurse took #1's vitals and history, and escorted us back to a room with a bed and TV.

The young doc was not even foreign, had a military haircut, and explained that a concussion is like when you bump your knee and it gets a knot and turns red, but doesn't bruise. After about a week, everything is back to normal. A bruise, on the other hand, means bleeding, which is something that is serious in a brain, and the only way to know for sure which injury you have is to get a CAT scan. After the doc shined a flashlight in his eyes and asked some more questions, #1 was taken away to slide his head into the donut of the CAT scan machine thingy while The Pony and I waited in his room. #1 said he had to keep his eyes closed, but he heard a giant noise like race car engines revving, and imagined that donut part spinning wildly about his head. He also said it was a tight fit, and that they had to shove one of his ears down in the head thingy, and that he could feel roller thingies under his forearms as whatever he laid on was moved. After it was done, the radiology technician looked at him funny and said, "Did you hit one side of your head more than the other?" Which I am sure was just more history, but #1 was worried that the guy knew something he wasn't telling.

After 50 minutes, we heard a nurse calling radiology to see if they'd read the images yet, and then the doctor came back and said #1 had a concussion, and should not play any contact sports or baskeball for a week or two, and should follow up with his doctor within 7 days, and should be awakened every 2 hours for the next 24 hours and asked his name, location, and the date, and to take only acetaminophen and not ibuprofen for the pain, as ibuprofen causes bleeding, so apparently that is worse than liver damage that was the big story in yesterday's news.

#1 said his nausea was improving from laying flat and not moving, and that he was now starving since it had been six hours since he last ate. Do you have any idea how much and how often 14-year-old boys eat? I coughed up the $100 ER copay, gathered the three pages of discharge instructions, bought the non-nausea starving Pony a bag of cookies out of the vending machine, and took my boys for some fast food fast. Then I hurried home to wait for the incoming bills from the radiologist, ER doc, and hospital, which will arrive in their own good time, with names of larger entities that I do not associate with the good ER.

Now #1 and I are depressed that he can't work out for at least a week, and other players may gain on him while he's down. That boy is motivated. And hard-headed. At home, he said he didn't want an acetaminophen because the pain wasn't bad enough to take a pill. That's while he was laying on the couch. When he sat up to use his laptop for 10 minutes, he indeed went to get an acetaminophen. Right now he reports feeling fine. I'm not sure how much to believe.

I am glad I took him to get checked out. Better safe than sorry. I don't want him turning into a dead skiing actress.

One Good Shove Deserves A Hammer

Yesterday's public safety notice advised you not to have a swine flu party. I should have included more specific directives. At the swine flu party you don't have, be sure that you don't serve a beef roast, Nestle's chocolate chip cookie dough, or Dunkin' Donuts hot chocolate. That will save you from an E. coli and salmonella cocktail. And if worrying about your health gives you a headache, take that acetaminophen now, before it is taken off the market. You can always go to Tennessee for a new liver, unless Steve Jobs needs another one.

Today's safety notice is directed at high school basketball players. When you are playing at open gym, which means scrimmaging against your own teammates with absolutely no referees and only the honor system to punish decapitation after the fact, it is not advised to shove a player who is just standing with the ball after beating you out for a rebound. That is, don't put both of your hands on his shoulders and shove him so hard that he is laid out flat on his back, just for the sake of shoving him, because you are mad that he beat you, shoving him without any attempt to get the ball, but just to intimidate him. Because Karma is a big ol' b*tch, and when you think you are going to shoot that loose ball you just scooped up, a dude from the shovee's team will run up behind you and hammer that ball out of your hands that you have just cocked above your head to shoot a sweet, sweet, unchallenged jump shot. The dude will jam that ball so hard that the follow-through of his hand might just whack you on your empty noggin, making you cry 'foul', even though your constant elbowing and holding and slapping and shoving goes unchallenged. You may think it was an accident, but the smirking that ripples across the players behind your back says otherwise.

Really. Take that advice. Because knocking someone down just to be a punk will garner you tenfold in whackings and dirty looks and loathing.

Ain't No Party Like A Swine Flu Party

Today's public safety advice: Do Not Hold a Swine Flu Party. No matter how much you want your young 'un to contract the swine flu at your convenience, do not invite yourself to visit those who are currently suffering from this affliction. In addition, do not host a swine flu party if you are one of the 'lucky ones' to succumb to the porcine plague. Swine flu is nothing to sneeze at.

When The Pony was just shy of a year old, there was a smattering of Chicken Pox at his daycare. This was when the Chicken Pox vaccine had just come out, and his doctor had advised that he COULD get the shot at a cost of $100, or I could take him to the county health center to get it for free, or if my job was flexible, I could let nature take its course and see if he came down with the Chicken Pox when he was good and ready. He further added that there was not enough data yet to prove the the vaccine would definitely make The Pony immune from the Chicken Pox for life. So I opted to let nature take its course.

Secret Spy H was out of the country for his job, lounging about in Wales, soaking up the cuisine and wallowing in a tiny bathtub. My mom came out to stay with me, what with the Mansion being in the middle of nowhere, and me having a preschooler and an infant to deal with. Upon picking up The Pony from daycare, I noticed a few spots on his arms. The daycare lady and I crossed our fingers for Chicken Pox. It had been just long enough for the exposure to take. I showed my mom, who was also pleased, and I tucked him into bed that night with visions of pox dancing in my head.

Around midnight I woke up. Every time that happens, I go check on the kids. That's because I figure there was some reason that I woke up. And I'm obsessive compulsive. I went to check on The Pony, and I didn't recognize him. Oh, he was in his bed all right. But his face was swollen until he was unrecognizable. Seems those pox were not Chicken Pox at all, but a manifestation of his newly-acquired amoxicillin allergy. I woke my mom, who woke the #1 son, and we all hauled our butts to the new local emergency facility. It was only 10 minutes and five miles away. They took The Pony right in, asked about his recent medication history, which was that sweet, sweet, pink amoxicillin for an ear infection, and got to work. That meant that they spent about 30 minutes trying to start an IV in my bawling, bloated, baby boy. I don't fault the nurses. They were not shy about complaining how the doctors never listen to them, that they can't get an IV going in these little ones, and an injection would work just as well, and it could have been done all ready. And that's the route they finally took, after the foreign doctor saw that his method was not working. After about 4 hours cooling our heels in the new facility, The Pony was good to go. He got the Chicken Pox later that school year, from his brother, who brought it home from preschool. So much for the then-new Chicken Pox vaccine.

So the lesson here is: Be careful what you wish for. What you think is going to be a mild case of swine flu might turn out to be something you don't want, and you may not know it until it's too late, unless you are a light sleeper. Or something like that.

The Following Is A Public Safety Announcement

In keeping with my dedication to public safety, such as yesterday's idea to outlaw texting while scooter-riding, today I turn my attention to roadwalkers. Roadwalkers. Not streetwalkers. They are an entirely different danger to public health. No, I mean roadwalkers, those people who think it is their right to stroll down the pavement, cars be darned.

Signs should be posted along the roadways, banning pavement walkers. Just like NO THROUGH TRUCKS, these signs could proclaim: NO ROADWALKERS. Think of the jobs that would create! Maybe South Carolina has some stimulus money laying around that they're not going to use, what with fewer governor trips to Argentina now. That would pay people to put up the signs that a new sign factory can produce.

This roadwalking is becoming a hot issue. Just today, on my way to the doctor's office, I saw TWO roadwalkers. The first, a female, was out for a workout. She of the sports bra and earphones who can no longer afford a gym membership, apparently, because times are tough all over. No more climate-controlled treadmill for her. She's gotta hoof it like the dark ages. Except that maybe she should walk FACING traffic so she knows when a T-Hoe on a mission is bearing down on her. That 15-foot mowed grassy right-of-way might be a good place to walk when traffic is coming from both directions and meeting right at the point you are walking, necessitating the T-Hoe in your lane to come to a halt until the motorcycle in the other lane passes by. Did you not hear about the drunk walking home on New Year's Eve who was knocked in the head by a passenger-side mirror? Be glad that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is neither drunk nor a state representative nor one to leave the scene of an accident after pocketing the evidence of your cell phone knocked loose by the collision.

Roadwalker Part Deux was a male in a straw hat and no shirt (we are truly midwestern fashion plates here in Hillmomba) who at least had the good sense to walk facing traffic. But he still lacked enough sense to step off the pavement on the hilly winding narrow blacktop county road where he had three cars backed up until Mrs. HM passed in the opposite direction so they could give him a wide berth. If only you had been on my side of the road, my #1 son was prepared to shove your shoulder and shout, "Step off, Dude!"

People. If there is no sidewalk, then perhaps you are not meant to be walking along that road. I know the price of gas is high. I know that you can no longer ride your scooter and text, due to the law I passed yesterday. But walk yourself to the library and read this blog and realize that you are part of the problem. You are not a precious little tow-headed two-year-old that people want to indulge and protect. They will crack your noggin like a rotten jack-o-lantern and not give two hoots about it. Roads are for cars. Sidewalks are for people.

Don't even get me started on the bicycle riders on the sidewalks.

HM Is Part Of The Solution

Here's the problem with America today: cell phones. An entire generation is growing up with their nose in a phone. What's the deal with texting? Why not just punch in the goshdarn numbers and TALK to the person already? Oh. I know why. Because that would draw attention to you while you are doing something you are not supposed to be doing. Like students in a classroom. Workers on the job. Uh huh. That's what's wrong with America today.

As I left The Devil's Playground after my usual Sunday morning steambath, I spied a young man driving down the road toward me on a cute little orange scooter. Texting. I kid you not. The dude was shirtless, driving the scooter with one hand, laughing to himself and texting. He was one of my students from last year. That means he had ridden that scooter a good five miles to get to that point. Shirtless. Helmetless. Texting.

I call for the government to protect us from ourselves. Pass a law against riding motorcycles and scooters while texting. I can't text while teaching. That's not even quite as dangerous as riding a two-wheeled motor vehicle with one hand and no eyes. Newsflash! My entire generation survived without constant contact with the outside world. We were able to educate ourselves and work a 40+ hour week without an electronic umbilical cord tethering us to our families and friends.

MAKE IT STOP!

Scatterbrain Saturday 6/27/09

Hey! Did you hear that Michael Jackson died?

The water in Poolio is hot enough to boil reptile eggs. HH and the boys say it is comfortable, yet when I put my hand in the water, it feels like bathwater. Only warmer. I think draining out a third of the water and running in some cold, cold well water would be in order... but I'm not the one swimming in Poolio.

One of my favorite movies was on TV last week: The Bad Seed. I was flipping through the channels and caught the part where that handyman tells Rhoda, "Then they're gonna fry you in the electric chair. They have a little blue chair for the little boys, and a little pink chair for the little girls." The #1 son went up to his room to watch it to the end, even though he's seen it before. And it's in black and white.

Note to selves: If you reject the stimulus package, your affair will be exposed, even though the local press has known about it for six months. Timing is everything. Just ask the Obama campaign--oh, did I say that? I mean the Obama White House. Sorry. It seems like they are still campaiging, getting on TV every day, and releasing info at specific times as a distraction, just like the cheating, fornicating, bastard-siring, pretty boy John Edwards endorsement during the primary.

From the You came along one scandal too late department: House Judiciary Committee Chairman John Conyers Jr. decided not to investigate ACORN after all. It seems the 'Powers that be decided against it,' according to Conyers. Still, Conyers appears to have made this decision too late to save his wife from crime. He must have some hefty skeletons in his own closet.

I am bored with summer. But that does NOT mean that I'm ready to head back to school in six weeks. As in AUGUST 10 !!!!!