Can you be Anti-Climactically Excited?

Huzzah!!!!  Huzzah!!! Lance is here.  If just the pregnancy and the delivery are emblematic of how different these two kids may end up being than I have no idea how to even begin to deal with Lance. Some of you may have noticed a stark lack of posting during Leah's pregnancy this time compared to my frightened ramblings the last go around. Well, the reason is, there was very little to say about how terrifying Leah was this time.  She was quite pleasant really.  Until...

Well, it all started about 2 weeks before Lance really showed up.  Leah was having contractions timed nicely around 4 minutes apart with minimum discomfort and let me sleep for a little while.  Got me up at 3:30am and said we should get going.  I called my Mom to meet us at the hospital and Leah's Mom to come here for Vincent and we headed out, like we envisioned Lance doing in the near future.  The excitement is there, but nowhere near the mania and fear from the Vincent insanity.

The first hiccup was when we hit ridiculous traffic on 270 at 5:30am.  We decided to go with a mid-wife versus a doctor this time because we liked the idea of someone a little more focused on caring for my wife than just getting the kid out and trying to play 18 holes (not a vagina in a maternity ward metaphor).  So, we had to trek down to Shady Grove (Grave) hospital for the delivery which is about 40 minutes on a good day.  Today, the day we needed, was 90 minutes.  Leah, in labor, insisted on driving.  The caveman in me wanted to just hit her over the head and drag her into the passenger seat because there was no way I wanted her driving my nice new car while in labor.  The husband who intends to sleep next to his wife for the next 30-40 years or so just nodded and took the passenger seat like a good boy. Outside of the traffic the trip was ok outside of the ridiculously disgusting and increasingly rude expletives being spewed forth by my wife as she transformed into some sort of commuting harpy of doom.

We got there an hour after my Mom who waited patiently and we went in.  Straight up to maternity/delivery.  We were ushered into triage fairly quickly but had to leave my Mom in the waiting room as only I was allowed back.  Leah was hooked into more machines than Keanu Reeves in the Matrix and we waited.  We talked we, tracked contractions and everything was chill.  We met our mid-wife of the evening, an older woman who definitely had a closet full of earth toned flowy skirts smelling of patchouli and dried flowers.  But she was very nice and friendly.  We were there for about 3 hours with me occasionally wandering out into the waiting area to wave the flies away from my mothers mouth as she slept with her mouth looking oddly like a Venus fly trap.  Finally the mid-wife said we were being admitted and that they were just cleaning a room.  The images of what that might entail and the ushering out of some other couple who just had a child were very similar to those of some sort of baby assembly line.  Finally, they come back an hour later and say they are ready for us.  But as I look at the contraction monitor squiggly line thingy I notice something. The last big squiggle looks oddly like a baby's hand waving the middle finger and then no more contractions for like the last hour.  Leah's labor came to a screeching halt and we were sent home with nothing to show for it but exhaustion and $10 less for the parking fees.

During the drive home the hormone fairy showed up in time with Leah's exhaustion and genuine disappointment and I spent a good half hour washing the tears and snot from the sobbing session that was the drive home. 

I ended up having a very busy work day and went to sleep ragged and sad and feeling a little helpless about not being to do anything for Leah or Lance, for that matter.  The one bright spot was when Vincent asked if we were able to find Lance at the hospital and we told him he was a good hider and we were still looking.

I will have more soon on the actual birth of Lance and the birth of Vincent's jealous alter-ego Vinnie the Crusher of Souls.

The Terrible Twos Versus the Throw them Down the Stairs Threes

Ok, so, Vincent… our child, my son, the cute, funny clever energetic little whipper snapper.  That is what all of you see.  But there is a dark side.  And within that dark side lies…  THE BEAST!!!! This alter ego looks like my son.  He plays possum when things are going well.  He is sweet and endearing and offers kisses and hugs and will out of nowhere wrap his arms around my neck and say, “You are my best friend.” He starts conversations with, “Hey Daddy, let’s go build some robots in my room.  COME ON!” while smiling and running away to go frolic in the glorious world that can only be built with Legos. It is impossible to resist.  He is the living embodiment that enthusiasm is contagious and I find myself enjoying Legos more than I ever thought possible.  (Side note-as a child we didn’t have Legos.  Name brands were a little pricey for us.  We had Brix Blox. Fun, but not Legos).

When things are going well there is nothing I enjoy more than hanging with “The boy.”  However, sometimes things aren’t going well.  Often it is roughly one second since things were awesome and no one told me that things had changed.  Vincent seems to be the only one who knows that things have changed and his insolent mood and attitude are completely justified.  This is an actual conversation we had walking home from the park near our house yesterday.

We are walking home from the park because Vincent has pinched a loaf and we were ill equipped to change it at the park.  As we walk he stops and crosses his arms while I keep walking.

“Hey buddy, catch up.  We have to go home and change your butt.”

“No.  Daddy, you don’t listen to me.”

“Bud, you didn’t say anything.”

“You need to come here and listen to me.  When I say come here you don’t listen.”

“Bud, you didn’t say come here and you need to be nice to Daddy.”

“You don’t listen and we have to go home and change my butt and you need to carry me and then we can walk and you don’t listen and we get home and I will get mad and then I yell and then you cry and then we still need to change my butt and I want some bang crackers (graham crackers) and some milk and we need to take a bath with Momma and you don’t listen.  Cuz that’s why.”

I immediately put my fingers in my ear to stop the bleeding and oozing grey matter and picked him up.  It was at this moment I understood that my almost 3 year old child is far far smarter than I.  I treat him like an adult conversationally which applies at least some form of basic knowledge and comprehension.  He responds with the incoherent ramblings of a schizophrenic on meth, which completely trumps me until I just start screaming like an idiot and he looks at me like I am a step back in the evolutionary chain of our species, often following it up with a pat on my head as I scream into the night sky and saying, “It’s ok, Daddy.  It’s ok,” while shaking his head.  Ain’t fatherhood grand. 

We are having another one of these?  Are you kidding me?

2.0 Lance Robert Marchesani

Wow, two posts in 10 days.  That has to be some kind of record.  Well, I have asked you all to join me today, or whenever it is you get around to reading my drivel, to discuss the concept of the second child...  First thought is...  ACK!

Leah is now less than a month from her due date.  Vincent was six days early, so it is not unreasonable to think that Lance could be here within three weeks.  I have had many many thoughts, feelings, dreams and nightmares since Leah told me she was pregnant (actually, I told her...  I have an uncanny ability of remembering her cycle).

Initially, the feelings are nowhere near as overwhelming as finding out the first time.  The first time it is like looking into the brightest light you have ever imagined and you can't look away.  It is new and amazing and bright and beautiful and mysterious.  And when you are married and want children, it is also universally positive and exciting. Remember, I started this segment with initially.

I think women gestate for 9 months because that is how long the idea takes to get used to; for men.  See, we men, we have no choice but to try and be involved with the pregnancy stage by thinking about all of the crazy crap that is about to throw our lives into complete and utter upheaval.  Women, get to experience having a child while they actually go through the process of growing one in their wombs.  Example, women, pretty much from the moment of confirmation of a pregnancy will start to change their eating habits either for good or bad.  They will stop or significantly lessen any alcohol.  They become less concerned about going out and having fun because, frankly, being pregnant is apparently ridiculously exhausting. (Understandably so) There are lots of other things that go on that change a woman's life from the norm.  No reason to go into all of them, and having a penis, I can not possibly know most of them.

Men, we are fairly selfish in our thinking, at least I was/am.  Less free time, less money, less sanity, etc.  Then, once you get through those basic ideas, you move on to the fun topics of can I do this? How do I do this?  WHY did I do this? Someone once told me that everyone screws up their kids.  The issue is how permanent and debilitating is the damage. Knowing how damaged I am/was/will be I feel like I was starting WAY behind the 8-ball.  All I could think of was how can I make this kid everything I wasn't.  At least the early years (meaning until like 30) were a bit rough.  Things are pretty great now. There is a line in a song a friend of mine gave me called Legacy that is "What if I do my best but still give you the worst of me, oh no... don't want to do that to you." That thought kept me up nights.  What if you do your very best and that isn't enough.

Well, over the nine months of Leah's pregnancy, those were the thoughts that haunted me.  Now it is three years later and we have an amazing almost three year old who I couldn't be happier with.  (Outside of the spontaneous times where I think about whether or not I could actually help him reach the farm across the street with my foot if he stomps his feet and says no one more frickin' time.) He is brilliant, has a great sense of humor and I can't imagine a child being cuter.  So, all in all, things turned out pretty amazing.

However, I feel like trying to replicate these early successes is tempting fate.  I know I have a plethora of bad qualities and rottenness in me and Leah, God love her, was no princess growing up.  What if he has my cynicism, my smart ass mouth without the good natured self-deprecating undertones...  Basically, what if he is an asshole?  I mean, we have all met assholes and it isn't like there is just one couple in Wisconsin having them all and shipping them around the country. I know he is going to be different and I know that once he arrives I will be blown away about his singular beauty and his own individual personality.  I know this...  I just have a hard time thinking it. If you have met my three siblings and realize that we all actually came from the same two people you can understand how the "What if..." fairy has a ball with parents when they go beyond the first child and venture into the unknown of the genetic crap table that is having children. Well, in 3-4 weeks these curiosities and fears will start to be answered...  and the "What if..." fairy is ordering another bourbon as we speak...  bastard.

Valentine's Day... Hmmm

Good morning all.  I decided this morning, after a week of proposal Hell unlike I have ever experienced before, to throw my music on random and take a few minutes to discuss the event that is Valentine's Day.

Wow, Valentine's Day...  brings back so many painful memories.  As some, but not all,may know, I didn't kiss a girl who was not a family member until I was 17.  I have been over my late bloomer status before and although I do love an almost daily bout with self pity, I will spare you more.  Where I am going with this is simple.  Valentine's Day has had more negative feelings attached to it over the span of my life than positive.

I am sure many, if not all of you, had some sort of Valentine's Day commemoration or celebration in elementary school.  In our school, we used to have to make Valentine's for whomever we liked and everyone would have a little lunch bag decorated for the event on the back of their chair and the people in the class would wander around and place Valentine's they had written in the bags of those they wished.  I think my personal best was three one year.  (Two came from the Dossou sisters who were from Namibia or someplace like that and gave them to everyone.  Incidentally, they were also the people I would have as dancing partners when we had the dreadful square dancing segment in gym.  For a 7 year old, square dancing with someone who does not speak English at all and thinks square dancing is some sort of bizarre white man sacrificial rite is a harrowing experience that never goes away.  They were very nice sweet girls, but it took a few years before I figured that out.)  The third I got usually came from the new kid in school who hadn't learned I was the Pariah yet.  This was the pattern for my formative years.  But every year I would hope I would get one from Tracey Corpuz or Nicole Murchland.  Alas, I would watch as Timmy McKenna and Stefan Shilgalis backed up a dump truck for their accumulated wealth of heart felt pre-teen bliss in the shape of Valentine's cards and those little nasty chalk heart candies that were wrought with misspellings.

In spite of this, I would still hope...  That continued for a long long time. So, 23 years later, after very few happy Valentine's Days, I meet Leah.  Where to begin?  Leah is unlike anyone I have ever met. She abhors "Hallmark" holidays...  (Valentine's Day, Amalaguena (The Spanish Jew Feast Day, etc.) Yet, she lives to watch movies so emotional that she can't see the last half hour through the tears that have taken over her eyes.  She can't handle compliments and open, focused shows of romance and affection make her feel uncomfortable. For someone who lives for the big production of events such as this and birthdays etc.  this has always been difficult for me.  I don't want to annoy her with the affection that I heap on her, but at the same time I want to heap.

So, babe, this year I have decided, screw you, I am giving you what I want to give you, and through this post, maybe you can see why I want to show you how I feel.  Simply put, it is because you deserve it.  Who you are and what you have become deserves to be celebrated and I am just the sap to do it.

Leah, you amaze me.  You are such a work of contradictions you are like a Pollock painting.  Beauty within pain and intricacy.  You laugh easy and yet have had so many reasons to never laugh again.  You love to be crude and yet you hate bad manners.  You have the mouth of a drunken sailor and yet you truly love words and language and savor both. You have cried at Les Miserables and you have been stoned at a Phish show. You love expensive fine wine and Miller Lite in a can. You are the true definition of beauty inside and out.  I love you and love the family you are helping me build. I would be lost without you.  Anyone who has seen me over the last ten years knows that is no embellished statement. Happy Valentine's Day.

Row well and live, 41!

Hello all. It's been awhile. So, on to the blog of the day.

41 years ago my mother boarded a bus to go to St. Mary's hospital in Hoboken, NJ to give birth to me. She says it was the hottest day of the year. Up until that day she had given birth to two boys who had thick black hair and olive tinted skin. As an Irish woman she was wondering where all these "dark babies" were coming from. My Pop was Italian, and the seed is strong. So, out I come, apparently so fast the doctor missed the birth, although it did happen in a hospital, not on the bus. To quote my mother, "you looked like a plucked chicken." I was all legs with a crop of bright red hair. That was my beginning. 41 years later a lot has changed.

The only red hair I have is in my beard and is overwhelmingly outnumbered by the gray. I have little to no hair on my head depending at what part you are looking. I have crows feet around my eyes, worse on one side from the scars.  I have more gray chest hair than any other color and it is thick enough to call into question whether there is skin underneath. My back hair is full and lush.  I spend almost as much time maintaining that as I do the hair on my face.  Currently it is parted on the left so as to create a pseudo hunchback look which is very fetching. My ass is eroding, apparently into my gut.  My legs seem more chickeny than ever.  My feet hurt every morning when I carry Vincent down the stairs. I have callouses on my feet that seem bulletproof.  I am as pale as ever and have an increasing number of what my mother always called "beauty marks" which could be used to play connect the dots for a good six months and the final shape would be something akin to a constellation map of the galaxy. Playing basketball now takes 2-3 days of recovery to be able to walk almost normally and up to a week for full recovery. All in all...  this kind of blows.

And yet... I have a 2 1/2 year old son as you know.  Next go around I think I will start this family thing a tad earlier.  It is cuter when babies are playing with your eyebrows than the hair growing out of your ear or nose depending on which is closer to their reach. Every morning when I get up Vincent asks me, "You gonna bring your belly?" I am not sure what this means exactly, but there is no way it can be flattering.

Some of you know that we are expecting number 2. Yes, Leah is pregnant again.  This child is living proof that you can get pregnant the first time you try...  damn it.  I would have loved a few months of, "Honey, I am not pregnant yet...  we will have to have sex for the next three days." Nope.  I get this, "We should get started having another..." and in mid conversation Leah says, "I am pregnant." In the tradition of having fetus names, we will be calling this one Baby Consuela until the birth. The due date is March 23rd.  So, keep your fingers crossed and we look forward to showing off further evidence that even in my advanced age and slowly atrophying body Leah still found me attractive enough to throw me one more good one.  HUZZAH!!!!

Family and Rebuilding

Hey gang! It has been more than 2 months. Miss me? When we lost Missy I gained more than just a little reminder of two key things. One, don't neglect what you love about yourself. I love writing and have pledged to do more of it. I write for me first, but I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy sharing my thoughts and hearing your feedback. Second, I am understanding the importance of family in ways I had never experienced before.

So, here is a little diatribe about family. First, everyone's family is awesome and sucks at the same time. By saying that I mean no disrespect to my family. Let me explain. The more time you spend and the more you know about a topic the greater chance of finding out something that makes you absolutely bugshit in addition to what you love. Hell, I am sure even the Walton's had Voodoo dolls of each other they used to torture in private moments.

I mean, let's look at it this way... On a first date, (one that is going well mind you, not one like I had where I drove to Connecticut to meet a girl for the first time who I met online, just to find out that she had 4 teeth all of them brown and made me sleep in the hallway of her apartment building because she suddenly thought meeting a stranger for an overnight in her apartment was weird. (Still tapped it though... but the neighbors wouldn't stop staring. That welcome mat had a whole different feel afterward.) Then the next day we went to a Giants game and got pelted by snowballs. (yes, the infamous snowball game at Giant's Stadium) but I digress.

So, first date that is going well... The first date, you show your best face (if you have one) and then you start spending time together. But the initial feelings can sometimes be so strong that you ignore the things that start to bother you. However, over time, the more you know and notice these things, the more you are bothered by them. At the same time, the depth of your feelings grow as you are increasingly exposed to things you love and remind you of your first attraction. The depth of both feelings increase and the balance that holds the good on one side and the bad on the other teeters back and forth throughout your relationship and when it spends more time on the good you get married and your life is over; and when it spends more time on the bad you find weird ways to upset and disappoint your partner in the hopes they will become so disenchanted with you that they dump you. At least that is how my wussy ass does it. Never under estimate the abilities of a passive aggressive weenie.

Well, with family the process is slightly different because you know them from the moment you enter the world. However, you create that list and have those balances with family as well. The difference is that it is forever. You can fight it growing up and try and rebel against your siblings and your parents etc. But it is eternal... there is no escape. For a long time you can almost feel betrayed by this fact. So much of our life is based on choices and how you deal with them. But family, there is no choice really. I have known friends who have absolutely magical relationships with their siblings and parents. They love to spend time together for weeks at a time etc. They are truly twisted. I have also known families that were so ridiculously venomous that it seemed as if they were trying to develop a sitcom in Hell of Anti-Walton sentiment.

So, here I am now, with my family somewhere in between the Satanic Walton's and the Cosby's. We are colorful, enthusiastic, interesting people. We share a lot of similarities and yet have exceptional differences. We have different depths and beliefs. We even have different volumes... if you have been at one of our family gatherings, I am sure you have heard them. I am often the quiet one. Scary, I know.

The interesting thing about family is no matter the circumstance you can always reach out to them. Even if you haven't spoken or seen each other in decades. They will still listen, even if they hang up eventually, they will listen first. Family has a capacity to love more than just friends. You have more shared history, more of your own identity at risk if you lose them or are threatened by the prospect of losing them.

I have, unfortunately, had cause to witness the devastation of losing a family member in shocking circumstances, twice, from the same family. Yet, they endure. Leah has lost a huge part of her future and the most important part of her past. Neither was her fault, nor could she have done anything to prevent either. That is little consolation and, to be frank, makes no difference to her. The loss, the fact that Julian and Missy are gone is all that matters. Leah is now an only child. Her deepest secrets and oldest memories are now hers alone. I know Leah has an amazing extended family and is closer with some of her cousins than I thought extended family could be. They have been there for her as much as they can, and Mandy and Laura in particular have been amazing. But it isn't Missy. It never will be.

Her family has been shaken with horrific losses, and yet they look beyond themselves to help those they feel have lost the most. This is a testament to family like I never thought I would see. And frankly, I would rather have not had cause to see it. But, this event has shaken them so deeply that family won't be enough. Time won't be enough. The only thing that will bring back some of the beauty and vitality of this family is the dedication of their friends and extended family to take on the burdens of Bobbi, Richard , Kenny, Drew, Ellie and Leah. They need our time, love and peace more than we do. We have the opportunity to show them that family can be more than blood, but also shared experiences of pain, comfort and joy.

The fire, the Kitchen and Some New Perspective

Hello all! Or at least the few people who read my blog. This will be my second post in a month and my first of the new year. I want to start with talking about the fire. Most of you know that we had a kitchen fire in October and many of you have heard the story. But I feel it is time to put it down on paper, or the 2011 equivalent of paper.I hope this story makes you laugh, cry and becomes a part of you. (Or at least is entertaining enough to get you to the end.)

So, on Friday October 8th it was a warm typical day and I am in a tank top and shorts, bare feet. (this is important and you will find out why.) So, as usual, at 5:45 I decide to prepare Vincent's dinner which on this day consisted of sweet potato fries and chicken nuggets. We didn't have a deep fryer so I used an iron skillet with about a half an inch of oil, as usual. I turned on the stove and then had a call of nature that would not be denied. So, while sitting there contemplating the universe like all men do while on the can, I hear the fire alarm go off. This was nothing new. Occasionally there is a crumb or two on the stove top that burns and sets off our sensitive fire alarm. No biggie, right!?

So, I wrap things up and walk out of the bathroom which does not have a view of the stove. I see about a foot of thick white smoke on the ceiling and realize there is more than a burning crumb going on. As I turn the corner and see the stove, there is a five foot tall column of fire that looks like a special effect from the Ten Commandments coming out of the iron skillet and burning the microwave, 3 cabinets and just starting to burn the ceiling. I did not freak out. I repeat, I did not freak out. I did however start a string of really bad decisions. But they were decisions made with a clear head. :)

Now, as I entered my kitchen I had to pass our pantry. The pantry is where we house our chemical fire extinguisher. Yeah, walked right by that. I made up my mind that I was going to grab an oven mitt and carry the skillet out the back door and throw the burning grease into the grass. I just kept thinking I need to get this fire out of my house. Not get this fire out, mind you... just out of my house. So, I get over to the mini-inferno and reach for the oven mitt. (Now, I have to reach over the cabinet with those handy little items called lids which are really good at extinguishing enclosed fires.) So, I put on the cloth oven mitt and grab the pan. Gently. I begin the slow walk of about 20 feet to the back french doors. So, if someone were watching they would see a rather pale, goateed man in a tank top and basketball shorts wearing a flowered oven mitt carrying an iron skillet with a five foot column of fire coming out of it. If I were in a grass skirt and had various piercings of bone through lips, cheeks, ears and eye lids, I could have been a witch doctor headed for a sacrifice. Instead I was just a moron about to achieve disaster.

So, as I walk, slowly and methodically to the door, I leave the microwave and cabinets still burning and although I didn't notice, the kitchen is very full of smoke and I am starting to cough. As I turn the corner at the end of the counter top and get within about 18 inches of the door handle to go outside, the oven mitt bursts into flames... and I mean bursts, like those guys in movies covered in accelerant after a tanker goes up. So, now my arm is on fire. This was startling and I was ill prepared. I jerked my hand back in startled surprise. Burning oil, being liquid, sloshed and spilled onto the floor. Now, even while on fire I was determined to get this damn pan of flame outside so I was still walking as I started to burn. When the oil sloshed onto the floor, it made for a very slipper surface... (and there is an -oleum (like petroleum) in linoleum for a reason, that crap burns well.) So, now I have stepped on burning floor, thus burning foot to go with burning arm. And just because it was burning the floor didn't mean the floor wasn't slick. So, barefooted, I slip on the burning grease laden floor. Now, everyone over the age of two (as I have learned watching Vincent) throws there arms up in the air to regain balance. This is an effective technique in regaining balance and is a time honored tradition. However, the Russian judge always dinged me on this acrobatic feat for the minimal risk factor. I decided to take it up a notch by doing it while having upper and lower extremities ablaze. I would have gotten the gold, but I lost it on the dismount. Meaning, when I threw my arms in the air to regain my balance, I took the pan with the flaming grease in it and threw about a quart of flaming grease in my own face. I then dropped the skillet and the grease flew everywhere... including my right leg and foot. I had burns on the left side of my face and head that looked oddly similar to the scars on the military dillweed in Avatar. I also had second degree burns on my cheek, eye lid, arm, right foot and cornea. More about my injuries later.

So, now I am in ridiculously excruciating pain, parts of my shirt are on fire, the floor and french doors are on fire, the oven mitt is still on fire. I get the door open and throw the skillet and oven mitt outside. (That was my goal and I would not be thwarted, damn it. Flames be damned) When I come back in, the fire on the door and the floor is now out. Now, I am working pretty much on auto-pilot dealing with the remaining fire. I go over to the remaining flaming cabinets and microwave with the smell of burned plastic, grease, drywall, hair and flesh in my nose and the house seriously filled with smoke. So, I put out the cabinets and the microwave and then I run around and open up as many windows as I can to ventilate because now I have really started to cough. So, I get the windows open and I decide now it is time to deal with my face. I go to the bathroom with a wet towel over my face (the same wet towel I used to put out the flames so it is covered in burned plastic and smells of toxic fumes)and try and open my eye and I can barely do so. I can't see well out of the other eye because I have been walking through smoke and it is tearing up so bad. When I get my open it is like trying to look through white wax. I am convinced I have blinded myself permanently. All of this happened in a period of about 3 minutes. Now that I have had a few minutes without something on fire the adrenaline is wearing off and shock and exhaustion are setting in.

So, I walk out to sit on my front porch to wait for Leah and Vincent to come home from daycare. At this point I am not really thinking all that clearly any more. I have a wet towel on my face, clothes on with burn holes in them and still no shoes. Why didn't I call 911 you ask? Well, honestly I didn't call them for Leah's benefit. I could not imagine the anguish she would feel coming home to a fire truck and an ambulance in her driveway... or worse, to come home and see the remains of a fire and me gone already because the ambulance and fire truck have left. So, I sat on the porch so she could see that I was more or less OK and then help me deal with the issues of my burns etc.

By the time she pulls into the driveway I am borderline delusional and kind of wandering around on my front lawn holding the towel to my face. Leah gets out of the car and runs over thinking I poked my eye out... I wish.

"What happened!?!?!?!?" (Leah)
"Well, I had a little bit of a fire." (me)
"Oh my God... Is the house still on fire?" (Leah)
"No, I put it out and opened the windows. Everything is fine. Get the boy and let's go inside. I will be fine, I just need some ibuprofen and some ice" (I actually said this) (Me)

"JESUS CHRIST!!! HAVE YOU SEEN YOUR FACE!!! WE HAVE TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL!!!!" (Leah)

"Oh... ok. Let's go then. But I should put on shoes and a different shirt, don't you think?" at this point I am in serious shock and talking as if I am considering how to dress as if I were at 12 Oaks and about to sit down to a barbecue with Scarlett O'Hara at the beginning of Gone With the Wind.

So, we leave for the hospital, and during the drive we call and make arrangements for Leah's cousin Laura to save the day by picking up Vincent for us so Leah can witness my complete misery uninterrupted.

We get to the hospital, about 15 miles, in about 6 minutes. Leah hadn't driven that fast since the last time she was taking me to the hospital for a kidney stone. (Another story...)

She drops me off in front of the emergency room and I stagger in, still holding the burned plastic wet towel over my face and walked up to the pseudo nurse/concierge/bell hop who now seems a necessary evil in all hospitals emergency rooms. She looks up and says, not quietly, "JESUS!!!!" I tell her the situation and ask where I should wait. She says with great urgency, "People who have been set on fire get first priority." The complete bizarreness of this statement escaped me until I got home. But the good thing was I didn't have to sit around for awhile reading articles of how Martha Stewart and her billions understand the common housewife and here are 19 different things you can do to make your toilet more comfortable for under $300.

So, I am taken to the ER nurse, and once again, after pulling away the burned, plastic encrusted towel I hear, again not quietly, "Jesus..." She takes my vitals and escorts me to a room where I wait for an ER doctor. Brief note, I think it is bad form for nurses, especially in the ER to show such horror and surprise when a patient comes in with scary injuries. That would be like a woman seeing a man naked for the first time and staring at his junk and going, "Oh, it is so cute... does it get bigger?"

So, I am sitting there and shock and adrenaline have worn off and I am just exhausted and in so much pain that it felt like a bunch of gremlins were perched all over my body with lighters to my skin and giggling. They finally come in and give me morphine. When I hear this is what they are doing I breathe a sigh of relief. They did it intravenously. That takes about 10 seconds to get into your system and then you can cease feeling pain and enjoy the dancing baby pink elephants that usually accompany morphine wherever it is administered. How about not. I felt no relief from the pain at all. Now I was getting nervous.

So, they started to work on me by peeling away some of the dead skin and such and I start to whimper like a 3 year old with a skinned knee that has just had Bactine applied to it. They ask if I am still in pain. "Ummm, yeah. Like a whole lot. As a matter of fact, my fingertips just punctured this flimsy foam cushion that I am sitting on." They then gave me 2 percocet. So, now I have had morphine and percocet. NOW, I am feeling a whole lot of nothing and the pink elephants have arrived and they have been joined by the cutest little fat people playing banjos. They could at this point sodomize me with a garden rake while removing my fingertips with a set of wire cutters and I would ask them for another pillow so I could take a nap.

The nurse that is working on me looks like Flo from Alice and I keep fighting the desire to ask for corned beef hash and eggs over medium. I am also worried about my still hot flesh igniting her ridiculously Aquanetted hair laden with peroxide. I still had my trusty towel if she were to ignite though. Ahh Frederick Memorial Hospital, the 80's are alive and well.

As they are working they tell me I need a tetanus shot. I am not sure at what point my body may have been pierced by a rusty nail so that I need a tetanus shot, but I am drooling a little at this point and have no desire to quibble. They come in with a needle about 75 feet long for the tetanus shot. Suddenly the drugs are not enough and my one good eye opens up quite wide and I was worried about it falling out onto my cheek. The nurse says, "Don't worry, I won't stick it all the way in." I respond, "Yeah, and I said that to my first girlfriend. Ask her how that turned out."

(side note, why use a needle that long if you are not going to stick it all the way in. Seriously... that is like putting on a Tyvek suit to change a diaper.)

At long last I am done and am smeared with all kinds of gross sticky gels of varying types and colors on burns on my face, head, eye, left arm and right foot. I look like a reject zombie/mummy and I stagger accordingly with the outfit in mind. If I am going to dress the part I should act it. I now have one eyebrow, not the kind that goes all the way across, it is just over the one eye. My lips and the tip of my nose are burned also so I have salve (which is a gross word by the way) on my lips and nose too so I look like I have been going down a on a woman who may have the yeastie beasties.

We leave, we go pick up Vincent and I spend the next 10 days in a percocet coma of which very little is remembered.

Things I remember:
1. Percocent eliminates the ability to achieve nirvana... if you know what I am saying.
2. The day after it happened I am sitting on the couch and Vincent walks up to me and points at my eye and says Boo boo and gives me a hug. It was completely unsolicited and made me feel better than any drug that was administered.
3. I remember Leah's parents coming the next day to help with Vincent while I was a lump and Leah had to clean up everything.

Well, that is the story. I am more or less completely healed and have my vision back completely. We also have a new kitchen that was way more bitchin than the last one. The only scars left are on my arm, my eye lid and my right foot. And a few emotional scars such as my reaction when the house fire alarm goes off, scars that Elsie shares based on the 3 hours of shaking she does whenever she hears the fire alarm beep. But all is well.