Category Archives: Ordinary Life

Who thought it was a good idea to take her kid along for a dentist appointment? This gal!

It turned out not to be a good idea. Not a good idea at all.

I wasn’t able to get an appointment within the planned window of time when I called. I had to wait until after the new year and slots were few. I just took the first available. I figured when it got closer I’d either ask someone to watch him or I’d take him in the stroller. He’s pretty mellow most of the time. I felt if he was in the stroller, it would be doable as long as I had access to YouTube on my phone.

Atlanta was entering a week of Seattle-esque weather so I was a little cranky to start with the morning of my appointment. As I began to put our stuff in the car, it hit me. The stroller was in Chris’s car. My husband mostly works from home, but today he was at the office.

There were lots of four letter words as I realized that this appointment was going down like the Hindenburg. A toddler at an appointment is one thing. A free and unconstrained toddler is another. And with less than an hour until appointment time, there was no way I’d risk a cancellation fee. Emotionally that’s akin to paying to park, when walking a couple blocks will get me a free space.

Ah yes, the space saver high chair that fits on a regular chair. He could be locked into it off to the side of the dentist cube, yes? That’ll do. I was feeling very MacGyver and brilliant. Connor is always fascinated when the chair within a chair is placed on the floor. He will sit in it just because of the novelty.

I discovered his love for sitting in the chair without a chair when I set it on the floor during a weekend in the mountains and he didn't want to get out of it.
I discovered his love for sitting in the chair without a chair when I set it on the floor during a weekend in the mountains and he didn’t want to get out of it.


Problem solved, we headed off.

First he decided he was not sure he wanted to walk into the dentist office so he plopped down on the ground outside the door. I was losing my grip on the chair at this point so I set it inside the hall so I could encourage him to keep going. He came in the first door and then decided he wanted to hang out right there outside the actual office, so he plopped down again. He was eventually coaxed into the waiting room by the sight of his magical throne…on the floor.

My dentist is never on time, no matter what time of day the appointment is. I will say that this particular morning they were only 15 minutes behind, but Connor’s unwillingness to settle on one place to sit made it feel like much longer. At one point I thought he was going to try and make off with an older woman’s walker.

When the assistant finally came to get me, I made a point to loudly blame my husband for the odd situation. The part about him unexpectedly going to the office was a lie. The part about him making off with the stroller was true. A lady laughed and I could tell she was admiring my brilliance in the face of such hardship.

First problem was that they needed a full set of x-rays, probably because I have forgotten to go since Connor was born. So he had to sit in the chair outside the cube. He didn’t care for this plan and he let it be known. Loudly. One of the hygienists walked him around the cubes while my gag reflex went into the most overreactive state I have ever experienced. It was seriously ridiculous. Every time she stuck that cardboard in my mouth, I felt like a cat with a hairball.

Connor returned for my cleaning and he was locked into his precious chair. Except apparently he only likes the chair on the floor if he’s not locked in. And it’s his decision. Toys got tossed, his new toothbrush gifted by the hygienist got tossed — come to think of it, I haven’t seen the toothbrush since. Guess it got tossed in a corner somewhere. Or it’s at the bottom of my purse. Either way, gone forever.

I could hear myself thinking from just a few short years ago from another cube. “This lady seriously brought her kid to the dentist? It’s called a babysitter. I will never do that when I have a kid!

My hygienist tried to get him to color, despite my explaining that with his delays, we weren’t quite there yet. But she did give it the old college try. She was very nice, considering. I think it helped that her first, now adult, child had special needs, too. Another employee came to walk him around and keep him busy while I was being cleaned. He returned for the wait for the final check by the dentist. He explored the mechanics of climbing on me and jumping off me in great detail. When the dentist finally came, my hygienist corralled Connor for the check, where once again I was encouraged to remove the partially emerged wisdom tooth that didn’t make an appearance until my 30s (it is my only wisdom tooth, even on x-ray). I would have asked a couple of questions about my teeth, including if I should do anything about the one I recently chipped. It’s really small and Chris swears it’s not noticeable, but I’m kind of obsessed with it. But he took off before he could be handed toddler duty. Probably for the best, as one of my questions would probably have been answered with, “Stop drinking coffee.” That’s never going to happen. In fact, I chipped my tooth on my coffee mug.

Now that the visit was over, Connor decided to be cooperative and did a good job of waiting while I checked out and following me to the car. I congratulated him on the success of his mission. I will never try this again. But that’s okay. Vengeance will be mine.




Men and Mystery of the Woman’s Wardrobe.

“You have a lot of jeans.”

“You looked in my jeans drawer?” I asked my husband. Turns out he had decided to put away the pair I left slung over our dusty elliptical. Little does he know how amazing it is that I only have ONE jeans drawer.

I felt he needed explanation.

“That’s because I have three pairs that I don’t currently fit into, but I WILL (see dusty elliptical reference). I have skinny jeans for boots and bootcut jeans for my Converse–”

“Wait, shouldn’t the bootcut go with the boo–”

“Shut up and listen.” I continued. “There is a jean skirt and a couple pairs of capri jeans. Wait…three capris. Two blue — one boyfriend cut and the other a straight leg — and a white pair. Good for summer and sandals. I also have some red skinny jeans to mix it up. Plus the first non-maternity pair of jeans that I was able to squeeze into after giving birth. I could get rid of those…but it feels disloyal. And it’s almost the holidays. Not the time to be cocky.”

I think all this made as much sense to him as when I tried to explain that not only do I need my 80+ pair of shoes, but yes, I need multiple black shoes, brown shoes, flats, boots, etc. Or why I need seven black shirts. No, they aren’t all the same. This one is dressy. That one is casual. This one is v-neck and works with these necklaces. That one is scoop neck and works best with those scarves (I have a whole drawer of those, too).

This one is a collection of my husband's shirts sewn together by my sister-in-law.
This one is a collection of my husband’s shirts sewn together by my sister-in-law.

Yes, sometimes I get carried away. Like my blue stripey phase. I’m not even convinced I look all that good in stripes.


Since having Connor, my wardrobe can now be divided into two more sections. Crap that requires layering, accessorizing and effort; and crap that does not. This has also led to a shocking rise in the number of flats living in the closet my husband and I share in a very reasonable 80/20 split. I don’t know what the future holds for my large collection of heels, but for now I tell myself I will have fancy, important meetings downtown that will necessitate the wearing of heels when Connor starts school. Who with or about what, I have no idea. In the meantime, I will continue to fight the urge to buy clothes for a life I don’t lead anymore.

To my shoes, although we’ve said good bye, Iiiiiiiee-ey-Iiiiiiii will always love youuuuuuuuuuuuuu:

Thank God I had seats at that Lady Gaga concert.
Thank God I had seats at that Lady Gaga concert.
I ordered these toward the end of my pregnancy. I hope they enjoyed that one dinner.
I ordered these toward the end of my pregnancy. I hope they enjoyed that one dinner.

Now I’m just rocking out with my boy.


It’s just a bonus that my knee doesn’t hurt anymore.

“But why do you need so many purses?” Here we go again.

Losing my Athens, Georgia

Ever since I found out last week that Junkman’s Daughter’s Brother in Athens is closing, I have been listening to R.E.M.’s Out of Time and feeling that lovely combination of nostalgic and depressed, which is a little weird because R.E.M. actually predates my time in Athens. Nonetheless, I did spend four years trying to spot Michael Stipe around town and was the only one of my friends that never did. Very disappointing because I had the perfect line to approach him since my initials at the time were R.E.M. He would have been charmed, I’m sure.

Junkman’s Daughter’s Brother courtesy

Another significant Athens business closing? I really can’t take it. I’ve yet to recover from the loss of the greatest coffee shop I’ve ever known and the hits just keep on coming. I know everyone thinks their era was the best, but I can assure you, it was all about 1998-2002.

Blue Sky. Oh, Blue Sky. Admittedly your Mocha Freezes weren’t always consistent, but the way we’d smell after studying there for a few hours sure was. The walls were always covered in original art that ranged from amazing to downright terrifying at times. I was there to hate on the new Starbucks when it showed up next door and while all the silly freshman who didn’t know any better trekked into that corporate box, we Blue Sky patrons packed the house and basked in the comfort of knowing we were better and smarter. Sometime after I graduated, you decided to expand and serve alcohol in addition to being a coffee shop. My heart sank a little as you betrayed your true calling, and soon you were gone from us forever.


Mexicali. You were basic, standard Mexican food and almost fully staffed by students, or at least people in that age range. You were so busy that a portion of your staff was dedicated to “chipping.” Yes, just making sure the tables had chips. But you left it to your young staff to make the pitchers of margarita instead of using professional bartenders. And for that, your hammered patrons thanked you.

courtesy jrheimbach
courtesy jrheimbach

Caliente Cab, you were awesome outdoor eating. Incredible Cuban sandwiches and we could bring our own booze or run into the gas station next door. I hear you may still exist in some form somewhere else, but I don’t have to go to know it’s not the same.

One the location of Caliente Cab. courtesy
Once the location of Caliente Cab. courtesy

One of my favorite freshman memories is of the 80s disco at Georgia Theatre. It was from 2 am to 4 am on the weekends after concerts cleared out. On those rare occasions we weren’t in the mood to go out at our usual hour of 11 pm, we’d set our alarms, take a nap and wake up at 1 and get ready. Then came the new closing time ordinance. Might as well have become that little town in Footloose the way it hurt so bad to lose our weekly dose of Prince and Michael Jackson. Of course, Georgia Theatre isn’t actually gone, despite a major fire that gutted it in 2009. But it’s all clean and colorful outside now which makes me fear that the interior no longer properly reeks of stale beer or boasts a floor you wouldn’t sit on even if both your legs were broken.

courtesy Brad Kuntz
courtesy Brad Kuntz

Molly O’Shea’s Irish Pub. Your Amaretto Sours live on in my heart.


The Winery. But NOT the recently closed Broad Street location. I liked you before your plastic surgery makeover — the original and smaller location a couple blocks away. Once you moved to the main street, everyone from Milledge Ave. found you. And ruined you.


“I think you ladies are in the wrong bar!” was how we were once greeted walking into Lunch Paper, the punk bar. It was understandable confusion since most of us looked like we had walked out of a dressing room at Express or Old Navy. But we still loved you. I even remember how we used to go every Monday to watch the new episode of The Osbournes which you always took care to have on the TV. Kids these days probably don’t know that the first season of that show was super awesome and beloved before the family was crammed down our throats from every conceivable angle and Sharon was on six shows at once (not hating, just saying).


I didn’t actually realize at the time that Five Star Day Cafe was new when I was a freshman. But damn, fifteen years of that that mac and cheese.


Farewell, Schoolkids Records. Damn you, technology.


Now my guilty pleasure. The place that probably won’t show up on many, okay any, best of Athens lists. AMF or Athens Music Factory came about after I started school with cheap drinks and dancing. You have had about a hundred names — Fifth Quarter before you became AMF, Last Call after. I can’t even find one picture of you online. But you are burned in my memory. Sort of. Actually it’s kind of hazy. You actually sold liquor drinks to minors for a quarter with a fallible wristband system. We saved them all and had every color in our purses ready to go. I don’t know why. I don’t think you really cared. But you did give us Thursday 80s night in a beguiling attempt to fill the hole left by Georgia Theatre.

And oh, what they’ve done to my dorm with their renovations. Those kids. They don’t know the true Myers Hall. The true Myers Hall didn’t have air conditioning or fancy, modern “up to code” features. Reader, you may wonder why I would choose such a dorm. The reason was my inability to read between the lines back in 1998 during my senior year of high school. The other buildings in the community were described in the brochure as having AC, while it was pointed out that Myers housed the air-conditioned computer lab. You see, it did not occur to me — IN 1998 — that a dorm would not have air conditioning. In Georgia. In August. When I discovered my blunder, I waited to be murdered by my friend since 8th grade, Giovana, who was to be my roommate and trusted me to make the decision since she didn’t give a crap and I was obsessed with the matter. Fortunately, she missed all my major arteries and we went on to have two great years there. No AC meant everyone’s door was always open and it attracted an interesting array of people. But these kids now are living in chilly asbestos-free suites, never to know the amazing feeling of kicking your sheets off in the middle of the August night and turning your window fan to high. This generation will be so entitled.

Back of renovated Myers Hall and quad. courtesy
Back of renovated Myers Hall and quad. courtesy

I guess nothing lasts forever. And sometimes that just sucks.


So, The Grill, don’t even think about it. Ever. Seriously. My heart couldn’t take it.


College pics…just cuz.

The Good


Myers Hall - Fall 1998
Myers Hall – Fall 1998
Myers and the Quad - 1998
Myers and the Quad – 1998
My favorite shot I took of College Ave.
My favorite shot I took of College Ave.
Quad activities!
Quad activities!
Freshman Christmas gift exchange on 4 North.
Freshman Christmas gift exchange on 4 North.
Fries and feta at the Grill.
Fries and feta at the Grill.
Does the hot dog guy still come to campus?
Does the hot dog guy still come to campus?






The Bad

The day I learned dishwasher soap and dish soap are not interchangeable.
The day I learned dishwasher soap and dish soap are not interchangeable.

And the truly ugly…with some beauty.





The worst job I ever had.

The worst job I ever had was not actually the worst, but it was exceptionally stressful in my 20-year-old mind that cared too much what other people thought.

It was a thankless job — the kind of job you keep a secret. The kind of job you lie about and claim you’ll be busy studying when you’re actually scheduled to work a shift. The kind of job you swear your friends to secrecy about.

Was I a stripper? A drug dealer? An operator of a webcam sex site, as an RA in my dorm community was found out and fired for? Please. All of those are far more socially acceptable on a college campus than what I did.

I worked for parking services.

Yes. I wrote…wait for it…parking tickets!

Potential social suicide, but you try finding a decent part-time job in Athens anywhere near campus when you’re deathly afraid of waiting tables (never been a waitress because I don’t have to try it to know I would suck at it–I’m sorry. I just realized I wasn’t listening when you ordered. What did you want?)

The job was so easy. You were assigned specific lots to monitor and given a handheld device to check plates. I had to make sure the proper parking pass was displayed and then run the plate for other violations if it wasn’t. If the machine barked at me, yes, literally barked, I had to radio my supervisor for a boot. It was great because we were specifically instructed to sit in our cars during class changes. We struck as students were getting their learn on. So suck on that, kids trying to get educated! I never ceased to be amazed how many students were on a first name basis with my supervisor. They’d rack up the tickets, get booted, daddy paid, then get the boot removed. They literally drove themselves door to-door.

My saving grace was that my assigned lots were graduate student and faculty. I did not want to work commuter lots under any circumstance as that was where I was most likely to encounter other undergrads that I might know. Then one day, my supervisor radioed me with a horrifying request that I monitor the commuter lot near North Campus where all the business majors park. In my time at UGA, it seemed like everyone majored in business but me, the journalism major. All my friends parked there, which was fine, because my good friends knew my secret.Problem was, a whole lot of casual friends and acquaintances parked there, too. It was like a stealth operation. During class change, I fought the urge to hide in the trunk and slunk down in my seat. As I made my rounds, I was prepared to throw myself over hoods to go into hiding.

But then I heard it. “Becky? What are you doing? You work for PARKING SERVICES?” Oh, crap. Busted by guy I knew from my dorm days. I saw him quite a bit because he had a crush on one of my friends. I went into my usual ramble for when I would get outed, “Blah blah, never heard back from The Gap blah blah pays more than the library…”

“That’s cool,” he lied. Lied, most likely, because he then pointed out that he wasn’t parked in an actual space. This lot was infamous for filling up quickly and forcing people to trek all the way out to the Ramsey gym lots and take the bus back in. He was worried I would write him a ticket. I assured him I wouldn’t, but I also warned him my shift was almost over and that I couldn’t make promises for what would happen then. He seemed satisfied and went to class.

When I clocked in for my next shift, my supervisor asked me into her office. Turns out jerkface got a ticket later that day. And what did he do? Complained to parking services that I had told him it was okay to park there. I assured her that I warned him he was taking a risk by parking there, and I had not made him any guarantee that he wouldn’t be ticketed. They were actually pretty nice in the department and understood that I wasn’t going to write a ticket on the car of someone I knew, especially face-to-face. But he could have lost me my job telling them I was giving permission to park illegally. I should have let him have it, but the on the few occasions we ran into him downtown, I just ignored him and walked away.

There was a big giant bright side to the job though. Remember how I mentioned I patrolled faculty lots? I had one particular English professor that I hated. She was a writer. A writer from Hah=vahd. She went so far as to let her students know how much better Harvard was than Georgia — then why didn’t they hire you? She was like the female version of the guy in Good Will Hunting that likes apples, but doesn’t get Minnie Driver’s number. She supervised a study abroad program in England I was on in which she asserted her superiority daily in class and scheduled a mandatory activity every Thursday night, even though classes ended early Thursday and we had Fridays free to travel and this prevented anyone from going very far.  Almost two months after we returned, my two roommates and I received an e-mail that the laptop we were assigned was “broken.” It  worked when we turned it in, but now we were expected to pay for it. However, we were not to be defeated in a battle of wits by a professor that was still dumb enough in 2000 to post students’ social security numbers on her door, so once she was directed to contact our lawyer (a roommate’s dad) we never heard another word.

Not long after all this drama, she busted me in the faculty lot she parked in. “Ohhhh, I didn’t know you were a meeeeeeeeter maid,” she sneered in a condescending tone. I just smiled. “You move fast. I think you wrote me a ticket last week. I parked on the lines because I only had to run in for a minute…” I don’t remember what I actually said, I only know that for a few seconds I debated my options. She still had the ticket with her unpaid. I could offer to take it, and possibly get it taken care of. Generally, parking services doesn’t do that, but they might if I explained the awkward position with my professor. But no. The sarcastic “meeeeeeeeter maid” played over in my mind. So I walked away after carefully studying her vehicle. I vowed I would ticket it every opportunity I got (sadly I never got one).

I still take joy in that ticket. It was worth every bit of stress.

Nonetheless, I took a 50 cent pay cut the following year to shelve periodicals at the science library. It took less of an emotional toll.

I’m turning into such a slob.

The write-from-home, stay-at-home mom thing is making me really lazy. If you had told me in my teaching days that I’d let my gray roots get so far before taking action or equate getting dressed to climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro or stretch out the months between haircuts to such an extreme, I wouldn’t have believed you. And yet, I maintain my love of clothes shopping, despite the fact that I’m too sluggish to put them on anywhere but a dressing room.

I also realized I need to pull myself out of a clothes rut:


But I did finally get a haircut:


The first thing my stylist said was, “Somebody’s been playing with color!” Sigh. Yes. Once again I’ve managed to start unintentionally turning my hair black with Nice ‘n Easy. Unfortunately, it just ain’t in the budget to do it professionally all the time. Especially since we have to pay off the hit we took when our old house under appraised, finish painting the new house, and — come hell or high water — we’re going on vacations again in 2014. We’ve gone on trips — that’s what you call it when you take the kid — but we are going on vacations –what you call it when you drop the kids off at Grandma and Grandpa’s and outrun them back to the car. And just Friday I received the exciting news that one of my good friends is engaged and I will likely be attending a wedding overseas in about a year!

Looks like I reloaded my Fitness Pal App just in time. I’ve been inputting my food intake for a week now to track my calories. I think it will really help this time since I find myself genuinely debating the merits of one Oreo cookie vs. two pieces of leftover Halloween candy. I started this right before the holidays because I really like a challenge. Also, I’m tackling my weight loss with a very specific strategy:

IMG_5723But here I’ve gone on and on about me when I know pretty well most — okay fine — all of you really only care about Connor, so…

Here he is relaxing with a puzzle:

IMG_5730To be clear, he only likes taking them apart and throwing the pieces everywhere.

This is what happens when I get up in his business about his molars:


And this pictures really doesn’t do justice to how much it hurt, right on the bone. And he wouldn’t let go. I almost panicked and smacked him, but refrained. I now know I will perform poorly in the event of an attack by a dog — or alligator. I believe the recommendation is to push toward the animal, not to pull away. Fail. Also, the state of my nails is not indicative of my current state of laziness. I’ve always been too lazy for mani/pedis. I regard them as annoying appointments to keep, like doctors. Random side story, though you can’t really tell in the picture, that nail is totally deformed from the time I slammed it in a car door when I was 15. It grows warped and downward the longer it gets, kind of like the creepy Guinness World Record keeper with the longest fingernails. But there I go about me again.

Go check out this page created for epilepsy awareness by a man who lost his young wife to epilepsy. He has been sharing people’s epilepsy stories all month for Epilepsy Awareness Month. He also makes these to share:


For those that might be confused, I don’t know if there is an Abigail, Ga — that was a misunderstanding — and my aforementioned laziness precludes me from Googling it. But these are pretty awesome. Check out his gallery of E-heros!

I don’t want to kill my kid, I’m just really fashionable.

I’ve been combing the Internet for an indoor swing for Connor now that winter is settling in. It has actually been in the 40s here in Georgia, otherwise known as “Oh My God I’m Gonna Freeze To Death Like The Original Pilgrim Settlers” weather here in the south. At least we have Chick-Fil-A and Waffle House so we won’t starve. His spurt in motor skills was well-timed right before the part of the year where I climb underneath 12 blankets and don’t get off the couch for five months.

His newfound independence reminds me of the Terminator films. Everyone was all, woo hoo! Skynet! Oops. Apocalypse. You see, Connor, too, has become self aware and he will soon be on an unstoppable path of destruction.


But apparently an indoor swing is not attainable for a reasonable price once you factor in the cost of hardware SOLD SEPARATELY. ALWAYS. SOLD. SEPARATELY. Everything I need is solely manufactured for kids under 25 lbs.

On my fruitless quest I was reminded why I hate home design blogs.


Originally featured on Martha Stewart (surprise), shared on other design sites.

Yeah. Let’s install a trapeze in the living room. This is modified from my initial reaction which involved some four letter words. I became intrigued…what other impractical and deadly joys are out there that I’m ruining Connor’s life by not providing?


Original credit here

Okay. This is a cute use of space and it’s apparently really the boys’ bedroom. So this is actually a lesson in parenting. It is apparently possible to have an elevated surface, two kids and no homicide attempts. I only have one kid so I can’t speak as a parent, but I can speak as a sister, and I SOOOOO would have pushed my brother off that on a daily basis. And I would have gotten away with it, too. Just like the time I gave him a bloody nose and claimed I was trying to stop him from running into the street. He wasn’t.

This is hailed as a “vibrant and lively” kid’s bedroom:


Credit here

I agree. If your kid is Don Draper.


Credit here

I mean….I don’t….what?



Just the other day I was telling Chris we need a little more excitement in our lives in the form of trips to the ER.


Credit here

Seven years I spent yelling at students to get down when they were climbing on things they shouldn’t. Could have saved my breath since apparently parents are indifferent to broken limbs.


Credit here

Again, words fail me. I assume Johnny Depp himself comes to install it with the $60,000 price tag?


Credit here

Your daughter is never too young to learn the art of pole dancing…


Credit here

Sing with me! The best part of waaaaaking up, is dying an untimely death after getting your foot stuck in a drawer!


This one’s pretty cool, I just think it was stupid to do the room in white. Getting your kid’s blood out is going to be a b****.


Spinal cords are overrated. Besides that’s why we keep prisoner clones in the basement.

lilliput-Play-Homes-a-19999-Playhouse_1Lilliput Playhomes

Most of the people who buy this playhouse end up living in it. But the kids get the master.

Halloween Week in Pictures

Lots to blog, and it’s coming, but for now, Connor hopes you had a great Halloween!

Also, It’s November 1 so Epilepsy Awareness Month starts today!


Connor was the hit of music class this week in his cow costume. I think it was the mystique of him crawling and his face barely being visible.








We took a photo op tour of some of our decorations before they get stored for the year. He adored playing in the front yard so much that he was furious when I picked him up to go inside.










And Connor’s first trick or treat. The only thing more adorable than a cow is a cow that drives. Since Connor isn’t walking just yet, he rolled in style. But I tell you, it was one more thing that drove home the challenges of people in wheelchairs when we had to skip homes that were just too hard to get to the door.






I just wish my version of a peacock looked a little more like the one on the box. I choose to believe it was an unflattering cut.

It would be easier to come up with titles if I could stay on topic…

I love a good sunburn with such ridiculous lines, that most of my wardrobe will fail to hide my stupidity. But rather than take responsibility for my failure to apply sunscreen anywhere but my face, I will instead blame the organizers of the annual Miller Lite Chili Cookoff for moving it from the tree-filled shady location at Stone Mountain Park to the the black asphalt parking lots of Georgia International Horse Park in Conyers. No trees. Just asphalt. I will give them credit for a larger space that made it easier to walk around, but I’ll push people out of the way if it means the return to the sheltered haven by the park.

We like to go every year, but we missed last year–the final year at Stone Mountain–for a most hilarious reason. My mom went to the ER. Yes, I just referred to my mom going to the ER as hilarious. You read that right. Ok, it wasn’t hilarious at the time–at least not for a few hours–but it’s an interesting story. It had been a stressful few months with Connor’s time in the NICU and diagnosis, and that morning, another stressful issue (nothing to do with Connor or us) came to light. I called and talked to my mom about it that morning. About an hour and a half later, we arrived at my parent’s house to drop Connor off. This was the first time we had ever come over that my mom didn’t come out to meet us at the car (something I often like to point out she never did when it was just me coming over). When she finally came downstairs, she looked surprised to see us. “What are you doing here?” I thought she was joking. I reminded her they were babysitting while we went to the cook off. “Did I know about this?” she asked, confused.

Forgetting Connor was coming over? Yeah right. Something is weird. She usually only blocks out memories that involve me as a teenager. She looks at Connor and says, “Oh, aren’t you cute,” in a way that indicates this is some random baby mysteriously propped in a chair in her sunroom. My dad and I look at each other. Then she asks why we’re there again. And when we answer her, she clearly doesn’t remember that we just told her. She also can’t remember what she had for breakfast, where they went for breakfast or what neighbors they ran into while they were there. She’s asking the same questions over and over, and clearly isn’t forming any new memories. And me? Great. I realize when I called her that morning I gave my mom a freakin’ stroke.

So rather than downing 900 samples of chili, we head to the ER. My mom keeps asking us the same questions over and over. She’s on a repetitive loop. Then she declares, “I’ve had a stroke! Self-diagnosis for you!” She repeated that roughly 647 times by the time we reached the hospital, and thought she was figuring it out for the first time every time. Once we reached the hospital, since she wasn’t able to retain new memories, she kept thinking she just woke up there and continued asking the same questions. It was the weirdest thing because she was looping like a tape recorder. Same comments and questions, same intonations, same jokes. Blood pressure was off the charts. Scans, an MRI, and a few hours of me battling the urge to video this insanity with my phone, and they come back with an answer. No stroke. In fact, everything looks great. Diagnosis: transient global amnesia. Lasts roughly 24-hours and can be caused by a stressful event. She will completely recover, and it is unlikely to reoccur. It is also extremely rare. Yay us and our predilection for weird rare medical crap. It’s particularly weird because though you forget a big chunk of time and events, you don’t forget the basics, who you are and the basics of your life. So sadly, I was unsuccessful in convincing her she had promised to gift us $25,000 and turn over the keys to her ’66 Mustang.

So then the rest of the day could be spent repeating what was wrong with her when she would ask every three minutes. “Well that will teach you to call and give me bad news again!” I heard that 87 times before we left the hospital. At this point I was embracing the hilarity of the situation since I knew I hadn’t caused irreversible damage to my mother’s head. Regrettably, I did not record her at all. Though you can find YouTube videos of other people with this, and they pretty much sound the same. Hilarious that is. Especially hilarious, since she was going home with my dad who would have to field the questions for the next several hours. I did write a bunch of stuff down in a notebook though so my dad could tell her to read it when she looped.

Some people will do anything to get out of babysitting.

We’re pretty settled in the new house at this point. The dining room is still a mess, but pretty much everything else is in place. Chris has informed me he will not be meeting my two-month deadline to paint the entire house. He seems to think a year is more appropriate estimate for completing all the rooms. “But Becky,” as my friend Cat said, shaking her head “you stay home. Can’t you paint?” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Have you met my husband? I paint like I vacuum, it would seem. Willy nilly without leaving straight lines. I am but a hander-upper of necessary supplies.

Connor now has his very own playroom downstairs. It is chock full of fun and goodies for him, and secured so I can get stuff done. So what does he do?


How am I supposed to get stuff done when he looks at me like that?!

Then his favorite toy, his jumperoo, finally gave out after extended use past the weight limit. It was a sad day. This is how he uses it now:


I also decided the room I initially chose to be his was too small, so Chris got the honor of disassembling the crib again to move it. I’m delightful to live with.

Connor recently had a 30-minute EEG at his neurologist’s office, just to check in on the general state of things. Lo and behold, he actually had a seizure on it. Seizures are famous for not cooperating with EEGs, so getting one on a 30-minute test! Whoa. His neuro now believes what we have been seeing are complex-partials, pretty much what we’ve always battled, aside from infantile spasms. They are decreasing since putting him back on vigabatrin and hopefully we’ll get the just-right doses of vigabatrin and Onfi soon. He had his first ERG in quite some time on Friday. I’m not sure if he’s planning to be Miley Cyrus for Halloween or if he’s expressing his distaste for the boring peach-colored gown (where are my rockets?!).


I’m still on my fruitless quest to get a detailed report from Boston on his MRI back in August. We have the basic results of no growth, but we’re also supposed to find out how many tubers, SENs and specific locations. So I will continue on my 9,000 phone calls quest that every person who deals with a medical issue knows so well. Why does everything have to be so hard with hospitals, pharmacies, insurance, doctors… The only doctor’s office that I feel comfortable with response time is his neurologist. But I have to play games with:

the hospital in Atlanta

now apparently the hospital in Boston (which saddens me cuz I gave them props earlier this year)


the ophthalmologist

the pediatrician

the mail order pharmacy

I hate when I like a doctor, but staff makes life hard.

My parents just adopted two kittens, and they seem even more fascinated by Connor than he is with them. And he loves kitties.


Sunday was my birthday. A lot has happened in my 23 years. (Shut. It.) Pretty mellow affair that started with brunch with Chris and my sister-in-law Donna and dinner at my parents. It ended festively while I was in the shower that night and heard Chris yelling “Becky!” Oh my god. This is it. We’re going to the ER. Connor must be having a status seizure–something we’ve never had to deal with. I run down in my towel…nope. He vomited. Everywhere. On himself. On Chris. On the floor. On the new couch. So emergency bath time and snuggling. He was fine. Fortunately it was only once and he was perfectly fine before and after. Which makes me wonder if this is the stomach of a toddler issue or a vomit seizure. Either way, he’s great now and expending his energy on keeping me from doing vomit laundry.


At least he’s helping spread Halloween spirit.



If you need me, I’ll be following doctor’s order somewhere:


My sister-in-law knows how seriously I take my health so she gave me this bracelet for my birthday:


Happy anniversary to my parents!



Informational meeting on financial planning for your special needs child this week! Wills, estate planning, a chance to ask questions, etc.

Thursday, October 10 at 7:00pm
Mount Vernon Baptist Church 850 Mt. Vernon Hwy NW Sandy Springs, GA 30327
Please RSVP to me at

Nobody is falling for this Xfinity garbage. We still know you’re Comcast and that you don’t know what you’re doing.

Nothing bonds people like mutual hatred. Perhaps a sad fact of human nature, but true. Whether it be a co-worker or a business entity, lifetime relationships can be built. In fact, 15 years later (ermagherd, when did that happen) I fondly recall the cold, unfriendly girl that lived in one of the single rooms on our dorm hall. She came and went, acting as if the rest of us didn’t exist. Her room happened to be painted purple, therefore she was dubbed “purple room girl.” That was the first bonding activity — talking about how rude and weird she was — amongst me and several girls I’m still friends with today. One-by-one, girls wandered out of their rooms to share an anecdote of how “purple room girl” gave them a death stare for brushing their teeth too loud. Okay maybe hatred is strong word…I didn’t hate her. She just made me uncomfortable. That is, until she left her alarm set for 2 a.m. one weekend while she was off with her equally creepy and unfriendly boyfriend. It blasted through the walls until I finally had to get the RA on duty to go in and shut it off. Then I hated her, and I think he did, too.

I love that at least once a week, someone finds my blog by Googling “Accredo complaints” or “Accredo pharmacy sucks.” More bonding.

So now let us bond over a mutual hatred of Comcast! Here, I’ll start.

We recently moved (why am I blogging about Comcast, when you want to hear about Connor and the new house? It’s coming soon, I promise). Chris is the only person I know who had nice things to say about them. No matter how many people I know that have it, he is the only one that would defend them. But they finally broke him.

First, the company that is famous for not coming out as quickly as you need them, shut off our cable early. Yes, Comcast, we actually wanted cable for the entire duration of living there. Since when are you early?

When Chris set up the transfer, he was told we could move the boxes ourselves if we wanted. They would have the cable already turned on for us. Guess what? It wasn’t. After 45 minutes on the phone the Friday evening we moved in, a couple things were established. One is that when he set up the transfer, the person who did it was supposed to transfer all the box numbers to the new house. So Chris read them all off and they were — supposedly — transferred that night. But when the cable continued to not work, the person on the phone figured the person never came out to turn it on. Shouldn’t who got dispatched and whether they did their job be documented? Then they couldn’t even get us someone the next day, though THEY screwed up. Not until Sunday. Chris missed the start of college football, and that’s when his Comcast spirit started to die.


So when they got here on Sunday — oh hahahahahahahahaha! — I kid. Nobody showed up Sunday.  And when we called again, there was no record of any move/change of address apparent to the person on the phone. This is after we spent an hour waiting on hold before we gave up, then had to call back, then wait several hours for a callback. They couldn’t see where anyone had ever been assigned to come out. An entire football weekend gone. It’s clear at this point that there is no way we will see the final episodes of Big Brother, Dexter, the premieres of Mindy project or New Girl, or any of our other shows for the foreseeable future. My husband is wilting before my eyes without syndicated “Big Bang Theory” episodes, I’m horrified that I won’t be able to live status update about how this year’s BB winner was a floater and Connor is debating giving up his dream of curing cancer without the tutelage of Sid the Science Kid.

The person on the phone wants to solve the problem by setting up another appointment that presumably nobody will show up for (Dr. Phil taught me that you teach people how to treat you) so thankfully, finally Chris cuts her off with, “clearly you don’t want my business, so how about we just cancel the whole account.”

And so our relationship with Comcast was done. Oh, wait. Not yet.

Next we receive a bill of $1400 for all the unreturned equipment. We had already turned it in as soon as we cancelled, but what killed me was this bill was sent BEFORE all the issues and cancellation. They told us to move it, then they BILLED US FOR IT!


Then we were done. Oh, nope! Not yet!

Next we receive a bill for the next month because they have started a new account for us (with Chris’s name spelled wrong–two s’s, really?) AT THE OLD ADDRESS.

I don’t dare to presume it’s over. I can only hope. When I write my e-mail complaint to the powers that be, I think I will merely send the link to this entry, rather than waste more of my time. It’s not like they’ll care. If they did, when you follow the Twitter and FB hashtags for #Comcast, you wouldn’t find an endless stream of complaints ABOUT THE SAME THINGS.

Also, hiring staff to monitor Twitter for complaints who claim to want to help, directing people to e-mail the ComcastCares address, claiming that executives will review the issue? Good one. Nobody responds from that address, in case anyone is out there waiting for an answer. But at least you can maybe a fake a few people out on Twitter, with a campaign to create the illusion of giving a crap.

And, oh my, I had no idea that Comcast does security systems! I imagine it works a little something like this: “Hello, I’d like to report an intruder stabbing me.” “One moment please. This security system should be available shortly. Ref Code: FUcustomerNobodyHereCares.”

Now you go! Let’s bond! Comment with your worst Comcast experience! Maybe they’ll read your complaint, too. Okay, obviously I’m being ridiculous, but it just feels so good to vent. Come on, everyone. Let purple room girl have it!

Why is Michael Bolton messing with my life?

Why does life have to be so damn frustrating? You know how everything just fell into place with selling the house? Of course it couldn’t be that simple. Also, I’m really struggling not to drop an F bomb in every sentence today.

Everything was going along swimmingly until Michael Bolton showed up at my house. Well, at least some guy trying to look like the 1989 version of him, hair and all. The appraiser of our current property. After a few days of him dragging to turn it in, we all had the distinct feeling he wasn’t going to meet the sale price. We began to prepare for the possibility that we needed to make some more cash appear on our money tree in the backyard. We threw around some figures that it might be. None of those figures was as high as $20,000, but indeed, that is how much he undervalued our house by.

So now everything is a mess. A mess for the people buying our house, for us, for the people whose house we are buying, and the people whose house they are buying. Good old Michael Bolton wannabe has jacked all of us up big time.

Our realtor is fighting the appraisal. Especially since he used a pending sale as a comp (a comp has to be closed) and he did not use one property from the Autumn Lake neighborhood (remember the one I complained about stealing all our buyers because they have the same builder and floor plans and are right behind us?) He is ignoring her at this point and she’s talking to the supervisor. But if we can’t get this one adjusted, we have to get another appraisal, which ain’t free, plus, now we are looking at major time restraints, which mean that to continue we must reschedule the inspection of our new house that we cancelled for fear we’d be paying for it for nothing. We will have to do it without knowing if a second appraisal will do us one damn bit of good.

Basically, I’m making the call to potentially flush more money down the toilet that could go into fixing up our current house if this blows up in my face. My anxiety has me feeling like I could throw up. We’re both frustrated, and Chris is at the point of just wanting to fix this house up. But I can’t let go of the fact that if we can make this work, I think long-term, the new house might be the better solution. But the thought of continuing to flush money makes me want to throw up. What if I’m making the wrong call? If we can’t get this appraisal raised, should I just throw in the towel? To even make a second appraisal work, the buyers would probably have to change lenders, too.

Thank you, Michael Bolton, the appraiser. But a couple days ago I was feeling positive and excited. Now I want to punch someone. You.

Have a lovely undervalued day, sir.