Pictures and a few final bits of funny from the accident.

Good morning!

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.  Well, I've never been much of an artist, my art form is words, but I do want to share with you two pictures from my recent accident.

To catch most of you up, Friday was my wedding anniversary, but on my lunch break from work I was T-boned by a driver as I crossed an intersection.  (I had the green light.  You do the math.)  I'm okay, very sore, bruised, but nothing broken.

Talking about nothing broken:  I did go in for X-rays, and I forgot to mention how hilarious a process getting X-rays has become.  The last time I was X-rayed was some 13 years ago when, if you follow this blog, I was also in a car accident, and had actually been hit by a car.  Then it wasn't funny.  Friday, getting a series done on my leg was hilarious.  Why? 

Beachwear? No, just
the latest fashions in lead
aprons.

Because the technician, while situating my leg over the plates, handed me a very, very small lead apron, and told me to cover my...gonads. 

I about died laughing.

"Hold still," she commanded from her booth offstage.

Folks, I love those who work in the medical field.  But honestly, she had me contorted in an odd position, I was very aware that my toenail polish was in need of a touch up, and I was holding a lead apron the size of a doily in front of my nay-nay area.  How was she seriously expecting me to sit still?

After several yoga-type positions, I did ask her if the X-ray series counted as a yoga class...see KRAM?  Even when I'm not at Gold's, I'm thinking about it!

Here's the car: Yes, it has been totaled.  Hubby says the passenger seat was blown so far to the left, he had to pry open the the center console to get some belongings out.  When they towed it to his body shop yesterday, the tow driver handed him the tow slip and said, "I just rolled it off and left the keys inside.  It's all bloody."

Those of you who follow this blog, or who follow me on Face Book, know that he had good reason to believe the brownish/reddish stains all over the seats, the ceiling, the dash, the floor would be blood.  I mean, here's what my clothes looked like:

Nope, these are not the clothes of
a shooting victim.  This is what happens
when you mix Slim Fast with McD's.

 And yes, critique partner Marie, that tank is the one I wear under my favorite multicolored blouse.  The blouse didn't show the stains, but it did stiffen nicely when coated with SLIMFAST.  Everything's in the washer now, but I haven't a clue if it'll come out. 

At least the accident didn't dent my sense of humor.  Or Hubby's.  He said he didn't fill the tow truck driver in on what was actually dripping from every corner of the car.  But he did smile when he opened the door and the heavenly aroma of chocolate hit him.  So there's that.

We are still waiting the police report, but we are confident that the other driver will be found at fault, so truly, with the exception that we are down a car for now, this accident could have been so much worse.  Instead, I can look back and laugh, and I really hope you laugh with me.

WWJD:  What would Johnny do?  He'd
get in that car and get my glasses!

Oh, and yes, we did find my glasses.  I had to have the very nice fireman go in the car  (admittedly, I was channeling every ounce of "damsel in distress" but I could not get in that car one more time) in dig around for them.  I'm not even sure where those glasses wound up, but he was able to find them for me.  The fireman saved the day again!

Always wear fresh nail polish...in case you're in a car accident.

Hello all!

By the time you read this, it will be Saturday.  Yesterday was my 22nd anniversary with my dear Hubby.  We had a low key celebration planned, given how fractured the children's work schedules are these days, we were looking forward to pizza, ten pm, our house.

God, or nature, or a certain yuppie dingleberry in a little car had other ideas.

My lunch hour was delayed a little yesterday because NBM had to run out and placate a customer.  So while my initial plan was to stay in the conference room and edit, by the time 2 Pm rolled around, all I wanted was a McD's chicken sandwich.  For a buck, it's a lovely little pick me up.  I poured a Slimfast shake into my travel coffee mug and headed out.

Through the drive through, no problems. Stopped at the light, no problems.  Got the green, moved forward, big gigantic problems. 

I remember spinning.  I remember landing on the opposite side of the intersection, on the opposite side of the road, unable to breath.  I'd been T-boned on the passenger side at a high enough rate of speed that my curtain airbags deployed. 

Oh, and there was Slimfast dripping from everything.

By the time I started to catch my breath a very nice lady in a green shirt came up to the car and told me the police had arrived.  (It's a busy spot, I'm sure they weren't far away.)  She then noted that I was covered in...something.  She asked if I was bleeding. 

"Nope, that would be Slimfast."

I was unable to find my glasses.  The spinning or the impact sent my glasses flying and I seriously couldn't find them.  I got out of the car, and got to spend some quality time with a police officer and a very, very nice fireman.  The fireman came up to see if I was injured and he took one look at my khaki Capri's and asked where all the blood was coming from.

"It's Slimfast."

He had a good chuckle. 

So I gave my statement to the police, and then the very nice fireman ushered me over to two very nice paramedics.  (Under different circumstances, this would have been a banner day for me.)  As we got into the ambulance, one of the paramedics asked if I'd been drinking hot chocolate.

"Nope, Slimfast."

He chuckled, and said I smelled chocolaty.  Probably the nicest thing any could have said to me.

They took a look at my right leg, which had a seriously nasty lump, and we all sort of decided that I could just as well go to my own doctor instead of the ER.  (I was bummed, I've never ridden in an ambulance before.)  They did however insist we hang out until Hubby got there, so for about twenty minutes we chatted about baseball  (boy am I glad I speak "man") and, of course, the topic of the TV show "Emergency" came up.  (Wonder who mentioned that????)

Hubby got me to the doctor's office, where several folks stared at me.  You know how it is in those offices:  you're bummed to be there, but you sort of check out who might be worse off.  And then you think, "Well, at least I'm not that person."

I was that person.  The people in the waiting area sort of looked horrified when I hobbled in.  So I said to Hubby, "well, I'm super bummed that my clothes are covered in SLIMFAST."

That seemed to put everyone at ease.

We get to the exam room and the first thing the nurse wants to do is weigh me.

WHY?

"No, I'm not going to weigh you.
Would you like some coffee?"

Why...I was just there three weeks ago.  It's not like my weight it going to fluctuate that much in three weeks.  Would Dixie McCall demand to weigh someone covered in Slimfast?  No, she would not. She would say something comforting, and then she'd get me some coffee.

So I have to get weighed, which is when I remove my shoes.  Normally I wear sandals to work, but my nail polish on my toes was looking a bit less than awesome.  Since I was too lazy on Thursday to touch up the toes, I opted to wear some cute summer shoes without socks.

Which means my terrible nails were visible during my exam.

I'm home now, very sore in the neck, back, and right leg regions.  I haven't a clue if they're going to total my car, so I'm on pins and needles about a few things, but nothings broken, no one's dead, so I guess it could have been seriously worse.

One other little "It can only happen to Sarah" sort of thing:  Because of the anti inflammatory meds I'm on for my hands, I cannot take any Aleve or Advil, or Extra Strength Tylenol.  I can, however, have a glass of wine.  I asked my doctor that.  He said, "Sure, but with food of course."

"No painkillers, but it says here you can have
all the wine you can hold...just be sure you
eat while you're drinking."

I think I love my doctor. 

So, my friends, I guess it's true what mothers have said for years: "Always keep your toenail polish fresh because you never know when you're going to be in an accident."

And I'll add:  Keep a tighter lid on your Slimfast.

Five for Friday: Reasons I can't wait to work alone!

Hello!

Ahhhhhh, Friday!  Best day of the week for those who live the office drone life.

I am working almost completely alone today.  No NBM, he's on vacation.  No Noelle C., she's off on Fridays.  No PM, he has to help one of the guys with a job.

Blissfully alone.

This will mean more work for me, of course. No one to back me up when the phones are ringing, no one to help out if someone should come into the office.

I can't wait, and here are five reasons why:

5)  All the spider solitaire I can stand.


Best game ever, and I play the difficult level.  Love it!

Just you and me, all day!

4)  My music all day, volume up, shoes off, dancing at my desk to Rick Springfield.

One of the other girls at another branch calls it my "dance dance party time."

3)  I have editing to do on my new novel and I'd like to use some office time to do it.

 Fridays tend to be dull at work...most of the time...so rather than yawning at my desk, why not get something constructive done?

2) NBM tends to over manage every minute of my day...not having him stare over my shoulder on a Friday is a nice change of pace.

 It's exhausting being good at what you do, finishing everything early, and then having to create work for yourself because NBM is convinced that if you aren't slaving every second of every day you're clearly not working hard enough.

1)  Noelle C is making me INSANE.

Okay, I have to vent:  The woman is completely off her nut.  First of all, half of what she says is so unbelievable I am gathering it all for a fourth book. 

Yes, according to her...that's her.

A tid bit  or two:  She used to model for Cosmo.   She is the model on the Dungeons and Dragons artwork.  She's never been to a fair of any kind ever. She belonged to a cult that wouldn't let her go to college  (but modeling for Cosmo and D&D was okay.)

Anyway, she's almost as bad at her job as Elsie W.  Granted, there are no bad cooking smells, but I really could do without the endless therapy sessions I have to provide her every time I try to explain to her how to do her job...a job she did two years ago, according to her, perfectly.

I have my doubts.

She's decided she's going to make fewer calls a day.  (Her goal, like Elsie's, is 100 calls a day.)  See, she doesn't want to run out of leads and therefore work herself out of a job.  So she's doing her job poorly to keep her job.

He logic is almost as staggering as her constant need to tell me I'm hurting her feelings.

So yes, the number one reason I like working alone is because working with people is exhausting, and most of the time, they annoy me with their whining and their rules, and their sucking at their jobs. 

It's gonna be a good day!

When I am old, I want the sexy wheelchair!

Good evening!

So last week Peaches and I went to visit my 95 year old grandmother in a nursing home 40 mintues from my house.  (I've always said, my people aren't terribly attractive or smart, but we are hairy and we live a very long time.)  My grandmother is one of those spunky ladies who has pretty much outlived all of her friends, siblings, and husband, and hasn't a clue why God is keeping her here, but she muddles along with a good sense of humor.

I maintain God keeps her here so that I can visit the nursing home...and stuff like the following can happen to me.

We went to see her and the plan was to visit for an hour, right before her bed time, and then grab a bit to eat on the way home.  As we were about to wrap things up, the hall monitor....caregiver...came in an announced that there was going to be a band concert on the patio in ten minutes, would we like to go?

Looking at my grandmother's almost sightless eyes light up, there was no way we were going to miss this. 

Which is when the fun started.  See, I don't know my way around the home too well.  It's basically a series of identical halls the lead you to pods of rooms.  I can find Grandma's room.  I can find the lunch room.  Beyond that, I'm just wandering.  Keep that in mind for later.

We managed to get out to the patio, and we were the first ones out there because my Grandma had two people pushing her wheelchair. The rest of the residents had to wait until the hall monitor pushed them all to the lunch room and then moved them one by one to the patio.  Very time consuming, but hey, they were going OUTSIDE.  So they had patience.

The band was the local municipal band, made up of about 14 people ranging in age from low 20's (okay, the two man drum section was made of up guys in their low 20's, both of whom were trying to catch Peaches' eye) to upper 70's...you sort of felt some of the band members were using the concert to scope out the home...you know...for their own future plans.

The concert was okay, I mean, it was 12 really old people playing marches and polkas for 40 super old people who couldn't march or polka if you propped them up and pushed them in step...and two guys trying to catch my daughter's eye.  In fairness to the guys...polkas and marches aren't that taxing on a drummer, and she was, after all, the only person on that patio under the age of 44.  ( I was, yes, the next youngest person out there.)

There was an exception to the rule:  Clarence.  Clarence is a 78 year old volunteer at the home and every single ancient woman in the place adores him.  See, he's not in a wheelchair, he has his own teeth, and he  is charming.  I think even my grandmother, who can't hear or see so well, likes him because every time he moved, she looked in his direction.

You see this.

Clarence sees this.

But Clarence only had eyes for the woman in the sexy wheelchair.

Didn't know there was such a thing, did you?  Well, most wheelchairs have brand names on them, "Mediline"  "Medimove"  "Medipedi."  Things like that.  But there was one semi comatose lady on that porch whose wheelchair's name was BREEZY.

Yep, Breezy...the Porche, Corvette, Mustang of wheelchairs all rolled up into one.  And Clarence couldn't get enough of the lady in the BREEZY.  She didn't seem to notice him...after all, it was half an hour past her bedtime and she was pretty much asleep.  But he was making her hands clap and moving her chair back and forth during the polka.

I suggested Peaches polka with Clarence.  She declined.  And then returned to staring at the drummer with the cute glasses.

The concert lasted 45 minutes and then we were going to wheel grandma back to her room, and go home.  However the caretaker, the only person who brought all those people out to the patio, now had to bring them in from the patio and put them in their rooms.  She told them all, like first grades, to stay in the lunchroom until she got everyone in there and then she would get everyone, one by one, to their rooms.

And like first graders, the wheelchair set was not about to wait. 

We were wheeling grandma out of the lunchroom, ahead of those making a break for it, but there was a gent whose back wheels were stuck on the threshold of the door.  (Speed bump, if you will.)  I gave him a nudge and started to take Grandma back to her room.

"No, sweetie, take me back to my room,"  says the old man.

Now, I'm not one to be unhelpful.  So I told Peaches to take grandma back to her room, and I'd take this guy back to his. How long could it take?

"What's your room number?"

"110," he says, and I figure we're off to a good start.  The group behind me is milling around looking for an opening in the wall because no way are they waiting for someone to wheel them to their rooms...darn it, they know where their rooms are!

So I start taking this man to his room.  After several twists and turns one this is abundantly clear:  There is no room 110.  Oh, and this guy hasn't a clue where his room is.

I ask a nurse, who points me in the right direction.  We get to the door and he reads the name, "Yes, that's me.  I'm Fred."

"Oh good, Fred,"  I park him in his room and I'm about to leave...



You know how I hate unmade beds.

"You make my bed."

I look at this guy.  "What do you mean, make your bed?"

"Fluff up the pillows, pull the sheets tight."

He says this like I'm an idiot...and like an idiot, I make his bed.

"Now I want to get in the bed."

"But Fred, I just made it."

I'm arguing with a 90 year old.

"I'm getting in the bed."

"Can you do that on your own?"

"Yes."

I have my doubts.  But I let him fiddle with the foot rests on his wheelchair for a minute.  I used to work in a facility a little like this, so waiting for an old person to do something isn't an issue for me.  But after a minute, he really seemed hell bent on standing up, whether those flaps were up or not, so I bent down to flip them up.  That's when I saw that Fred had a catheter/urine bag strapped to him.

I'm out. 

Too many things could go wrong.  So I go out, get a nurse, who is laughing about this because she heard our conversation.  Then I head back to my Grandmother's room, working my way through the flood of wandering wheelchairs...sort of like the escape scene in "Titanic"  except in really, really slow motion.  One woman stopped me and said, "Am I lost?"

"Sweetie, I don't know," I said, "What is your room number?"

"525."

I was happy to see a sign two feet away with an arrow pointing to 525.  "You go that way,"  I said.

She started to scoot, and another woman stopped me.  "Can you help me find my room?"

Her husband didn't like her talking to strangers.  He hustled her away from me.

I did notice that Clarence had BREEZY well in hand.

Back in my grandmothers' room we hugged her and said goodnight.  On our way out of the building I noticed that "525" had someone pushing her chair in the opposite direction.  He looked a tiny bit panicked. 

I wonder if he had to make her bed.

When I am an old woman I shall wear a swimsuit on the treadmill.

Good morning!

My grandmother has always loved purple.  So, since I can remember, she's incorporated purple into her wardrobe.  When the book "When I am an Old Woman I shall wear Purple," came out we immediately thought of her.  I still do, so many years later.

I bring this up because when most of us think of old ladies, we think of old ladies who were purple hats or sweatshirts with birds on them, or things like that.

And when we think of what people should wear to the gym, we think of sweat pants and shorts and t-shirts and jog bras.

Weird transitional thought?  Bear with me.

Yesterday I went to Gold's  after what I like to think of as a bit of a break.  Okay, it was about six weeks and basically I was too blah and busy to go, and I forgot to pack shoes one time and then I didn't have a water bottle and it was hot...and whatever!

So yesterday I got there and was feeling pretty good.  The scale informed me I'd lost about 3 pounds in 6 six weeks.  Given what I have eaten and haven't exercised in that amount of time, I was pretty happy to see a negative number instead of a massive gain.

I then headed to Cardio Cinema where it's dark and no one judges you.  Until now.  I was getting a pretty good sweat going on a treadmill when an older lady walked past me.  Granted it was dark, but it was really hard to miss what she was wearing. 

For the pool, yes.  For the treadmill
NO!

She was wearing a one piece swim suit, complete with ballerina type frilly skirt.  I am not making this up.  She strode past me in her one piece swim suit. 

Now I'm one to put the best construction on everything at first.  So I figured she was coming in to have a word with someone and then she was headed to the pool.

Nope.  She got on a recumbent bike and started pedaling.  Hard. 

Wipe down the seat
with disinfectant please!

Not since Jennifer Lopez wore that basically naked green dress to the Grammies have I thought, "Oh Sweetie, put down a paper
liner on your seat before you sit down."

Until yesterday. 

I looked at that old lady on that bike wearing that one piece swimsuit with the frilly skirt and her old lady work out shoes...and I said, "EWWWWW!"

And then I made very sure I didn't get on the same bike she'd been on.

As I was leaving Gold's, I saw her continue her work out.  (Again, it's really hard to miss a fat old lady...oh didn't mention she was a fluffy girl, about my size?  Yeah, she was very fluffy...in a swimsuit working out like everything is normal.)  She was on a treadmill, sweating away with the 20 somethings.  Now granted, she probably had more material in her one piece suit with the frilly skirt than the 20 somethings had in their spandex shorts and fitted yoga tops.  BUT, with the 20 somethings, there was ZERO chance of fanny cheek slipping out of those shorts.   Getting a wide view of wrinkly old lady fanny was a VERY REAL POSSIBILITY.

If you must work out
in a swim suit, this would
be okay...

 I guess my point of this is two fold:  First, it is clear that not everyone has been listening to my summer fashion suggestions.  (Yes, I'm also talking to the mom who thought it was okay to go to the grocery store in her swim suit.  Yes, the shorts were okay, the no, no one should have to stand next to you in line and wonder if the stress you're putting your swim top straps under will finally destroy those little straps and we will all get a great view of your...well let's just call them saggy glands, shall we?)  Second...work out clothes are work out clothes.  And swimsuits are NOT work out clothes.  If you forgot shorts and a shirt and all you have is a swimsuit, that is God's way of telling you it's a POOL DAY.

Meanwhile, I'm too traumatized to work out today.  I need to lie down.

Happy Independence Day to all my American friends!  God Bless America!

(And stay away from the liquor if you're going to set off fireworks.)

A quest for BREAD! (sometimes hubby just can't help it!)

Good evening!

So on Friday, Hubby and I found ourselves alone with no children and no real plans.  Normally we go out to eat on a Friday night, but we decided instead to go to a grocery store Hubby really likes to "hunt and gather" food for dinner.

I should explain Hubby's shopping habits.  Hubby is not one of these guys who worries too much about sales and bargains and buying in bulk.  Not when he's on a quest to find a specific thing.  Therefore he has two favorite grocery stores:  one caters to the upper crust, has one inconveinient location, and isn't open very late; the other caters to the mostly upper crust has three locations, none of them close to us, isn't open very late, and has neat stuff for lots of dough.

But we were NOT going out to eat, so I figured it would be okay. 

We got to the store and entered on the alcohol/deli side of the store.  While I love how the store is set up...we didn't really need anything from the alcohol or the deli side of things.

"One thing we need," says he, "is croissants.  I really want to make croissant French toast for breakfast."

That sounded good, but try as we might, we couldn't find croissants in that store.  And, since they were about to kick us out since it was closing time, we picked up fixin's for some really cool pizzas.  $80 later, we were home, making pizza and drinking the port wine he picked up.

Are you keeping a running tally?  You may want to.

The next morning we headed down to the farmer's market.  "They always have great bread down there, " says he, "we'll find croissants down there for sure."

$30 we had cheese, we had veggies, we had some honey, but alas, no bread.

So we took a break, went to the Steaming Cup, my very favorite place in Waukesha, for breakfast.  I had the old world oatmeal and coffe, Hubby had his normal Brazilian...no not that kind.  It's a weird looking dish that involves mango and yogurt and oatmeal and what looks like blood, but Hubby assures me it's acai juice.

$13 later, we were back on the street looking for croissants.   There's a tiny bakey in downtown Waukesha that touts its bread.  We stopped in.  Alas, no croissants and no plain bread.  They did have a ton of fun looking breads involving olives and bacon and jalepenos.  The lady behind the counter overheard us talking about what we were looking for and she said, "We're trying a new recipe for cinnamon bread on Thursday."

That's great, but that doesn't help us.

We did not spend any money in that shop...yet.

There's another bakery in the downtown area whose claim to fame are the sweat things bakers make.  So we headed down there to see if we could find some croissants.

Nope.  They had cookies, torts, cupcakes, candy...but no bread and no croissants.  I bought a tort.  $5.

"we are on a quest for bread!"  Hubby said.

"I HAVE A BLOG TITLE!"  I said.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!"

People were starting to stare.

We got back in the car and I said, "You know who has croissants?  Pick n Save."

"I'm not going to Pick n Save for croissants."

"Sure, because that would make my blog funny and you don't want to be in my blog."

"That's right."

So we went home.  Later in the day, he announced he needed to go to Sam's Club to get cat litter, food, and...maybe look around for croissants.

For those of you who aren't aware, Sam's Club is a division of Walmart, sort of like a Costco.  I knew the cat litter and food was going to cost us.  With four cats, any time we have to make a run for food and litter, it's a chunk of change.

I told him to go with God.

Who knew this was the hardest
thing to find in Waukesha?

Half an hour later, he sent me a picture.  A picture of croissants.  A big box of croissants.  For $5.99.  The total bill at the store was $115.   Can't blame all that on croissants, of course, but after all the other croissant search expenditures, it was sort of just something I had to laugh at.

We spent the rest of the weekend eating the croissants in various ways.  None of them involved French Toast.  I'm sure we'll give that a try...next weekend.

Provided we have the funds to pay for it.