Morphine in the UK, and yes, I’ll be fine

I am beginning to develop relationships with the staff in the emergency room. I should have a punch card or a VIP pass at this point. It would not surprise me if, the next time I am in there, that they pull me aside and ask me if I am ‘having trouble at home’. (I’m not)

So I fell down the damn stairs again. This happens to me more often than it should. I am so clumsy that I regularly fall UP the stairs. I am the only person that I know that can manage this feat of grace.

Look, I am 5’2″ and most, no, all of my clothing is too long for me. All of my trousers are at least 4 inches too long and all of my dresses are even longer. I waift around the house pulling up my skirts like a damn Edwardian. This means that stairs are a huge hazard. Especially when I have Doom Cats swirling around my feet begging for food.

So I fell down the damn stairs again. I spectacularly fell down them. I fell down them so hard that I managed to unglue one of my shoulders. This was not cool. Being British, I had some wine and then went to bed with mutterings of “I’m Fine” and ” I am sure it will be better in the morning”. It wasnt.

I got up the next day and was all “OMG I AM BROKEN! SHIT! THIS TOTALLY SUCKS!” I was positive that I had been mortally wounded and would die at any minute. I had probably contracted ebola as well. So of course I had to wake up manboy and demand to go to A&E. (Accident and Emergency. Somehow ER sounds more dire, but that’s Brit life for you)

I hate this.

Now, the last time that I was in A&E it was because I had broken my foot. Would you like to know how I did this? I broke my foot getting out of bed. I am not joking. I awoke  in the middle of the night and wanted to go to the bathroom. So I got out of bed, hit my foot on a bookshelf and broke it. Again, I just went back to bed all “I’m FINE. ” I got up the next day with blood all over me and a purple foot. I had even managed to rip off one of my toenails. I am an idiot.

I had to go to A&E with a leaky foot, toenail hanging off by a string, and broken toes. And I was all…”I hit my foot on a bookshelf because i had to pee” and they were all “yeah, sure you did, ok, that looks really bad though.” Sigh.

So this time I was prepared to look like an idiot, no worries. When they greet you with “oh, Hello! ” at A&E, you know that you fail at life. The first nurse that saw me asked me what was wrong.

I broke my shoulder.

How do you know that it is broken?

It hurts and it does not work. (this is my definition of broken. Broken=not working and oowie)

OK, let me get the doctor.

The Dr says, Ok, now, I don’t want you to scream. I am sure he is going to move my arm or press my shoulder or some other dire test of pain. This is how it goes right? No.

Do not scream, but you have a spider on you.

I turn my head to my not-broken-sholder and shu’nuf, there is a spider. I pluck it off and set it free on his desk. It spiders across his desk, around his keyboard and spiders away. He looks at me as if I am crazy. (WHAT? That is totally what normal people do. Shut up)

Then he prods me and pokes my obviously broken appendage and says, well, we will have to give you some pain medication in order to examine you further. Lets start with some really lame OTC painkillers. And I am all…can we skip that and go right to the Vicodin? I am totally ouchie here.

Now in the UK they only have three types of pain management. Tylenol, codeine and morphine. That is all they have. I do not know why. So he says “would you like some morphine?” HELLS YES, BRING THAT SHIT. I mean, yes, that would be very kind of you. ouch.

Turns out that I dislocated my shoulder, then ripped some ligaments or muscles or whatever I have in there, then popped it back into place and hurted it more. Great. They gave me a strip of cloth with a diaper pin and sent me home. Which is fair enough, I get to go back in a few days and be poked some more. I have no dignity, it’s FINE.

Oh and don’t worry about my hurty arm. I am sure I will break something else soon, just to take my mind off of it. I promise to tell you all about it.

(for a Better pain rating scale; see here)

My kids break everything I own and I am bitching about England again.

You guys. My kids are breaking my house now.  It isn’t enough that they have gone through 3 computers (or is it 4?), one TV, one expensive DVR box, one kindle, one couch….no, make it two TV’s…a few door handles, some light-fixtures, one toaster, one car roof, seven bicycles…you get the idea.

Now they just want to break my house. It is a house of bricks people. Like the one that stopped The Big Bad Wolf. Nope. If you build it, my kids can break it. If anyone knows how I can get a bespoke window latch replaced for a few pence, let me know.

Let me just back up to the couch for a minute. How do you ‘break’ a couch, you may ask? I’ll tell you. You wait for mummy to cook dinner, then you jump on it until is is a pile of dust on the floor, then you say…’mum? why is the couch made of sadness?’ yeah. This couch had a welded metal frame. I am not joking. Dust.

And how, just how, did they manage to wrench the latch off of the window in Little Stormbringer’s room? Seriously? If, in a fit of madness, i decided to vent my anger on a window latch, i could NOT pull that shit off. I’m a Big Girl from Detroit, and…and i have issues…but…no way am I strong enough to bend metal, people.

Sure. I am convinced it was easy. So easy.

And yet, my sweet, soft, squiggy little White Rose managed it. Now I cannot close the window. At all. They even stripped the screw, and FUBAR’d the lock. OK…….i’ll just …uh, fix that…somehow….uh…

Add to that…this weekend they managed to break an OAK AND IRON bench that sits in my front garden. Are you Kidding me? Jean-Claude Van Damn with a Seattle attitude, high on Bruce Lee and Bruce Willis could not have cracked that. And yet….

(this is where you go and comment and make me feel better. Please tell me that I am not the only one with destructo-kids)

England, you’re killing me here. I love the UK with extra loves, but you owe me a break for a minute. Last week i had to re-wash several loads of laundry. Two because, well, there are only so many weeks that you can watch your pants be rained on while you are waiting for them to dry, and one because my fresh, lavender-scented laundry is just what Orb-weavers and slugs want to nest in.

Sloe-worms. Maybe it is slow-worms. I do not mind a snake, or even a worm or two. Heck, I am the girl that will stop to save a worm from sidewalk-sun or a snail from dry-death. But there is something that is just gross about a creature that cannot figure out if it is a worm or a snake and just wants the worst of both. Ick. Trust me, they are even more gross when they have been chewed on by a cat and dropped at your feet. Just no.

I cannot stress the superiority of american appliances. I have to sing Mary-had-a-little-lamb TWICE just to time how long i have to push a button on my Euro-stove  to get it to light so that I can cook foods.(you can see that this is not driving me insane) Tell me, what is the best temperature to cook chicken on? Is it 5, 8, 9, 12,  or the series of dots, or the one that says POWER? I have no idea. What is an oven-timer? You know, that  thing that goes ‘beep’ when your food is done? I do not remember. (kill me now)

I even have to adjust my shower in Celsius folks. How hot do you want your shower? Somewhere between 20 and 30 degrees? Yeah, good luck. What that really means is: you must choose to burn or freeze.  Choose burn. Choose freeze. You may not choose warm. Sigh.

Well that wraps up this week. Enjoy your appliances, America. If your kids break everything you own, you can take some solace here.  I’m out.

Gnomes and Nits, a mother’s tale

I just made myself a tea and a glass of water. Sharp kitty broke my ashtray, spilled my tea and drank my water. This is my life. I am a vessel for the taking y’all. Drink of my life juices all of creation! (great, now Cat is puking up my water and most probably a mouse for me to clean up later. huzza!)

So we have gnomes now. Garden gnomes. I am not sure how this happened. I was pretty sure that I was going to make it through life without gnomes of any kind.

Nope.

Let’s just be clear here. I hate garden gnomes with a firey passion of the christ. Unfortunately, The White Rose does not. She found some gnomes in a , tip, bin.. uh..skip? dumpster near our house. Some poor old bird died and they threw all of her ten thousand gnomes into the trash. This made both of my children sad. They needed the gnomes. They wanted to love them and give them new homes. God only knows what my British neighbours thought we were doing going through trash and gnoming it up.

One of the gnomes is a girl gnome. She has a lantern and a beard. (Don’t judge). I now have a girl-beared-gnome that has to come in at night because The White Rose thinks that “her dreams will get wet” if we leave her outside. Copernicus the homicidal monkey is less scary than this gnome-thing. I have to pretend to love it and give it naps and who knows what else the kid will make me do to it before I come unglued.

I can’t type ‘gnome’ anymore. I feel ill.

Let’s talk nits then shall we? Honestly, I am more grossed out by the …lawn ornaments… than I am by nits these days. I hear through the grapevine that kids in the U.S. do not get head-lice anymore. I believe this. I only knew one kid that had them in all my years of (primary/elementary) school. Here? England 2012? Everyone has them. All of the kids. All of the time. I swear that I am not making this up.

I have done everything but shave them bald, but they just keep coming back. I have become like a monkey-mum. I am constantly grooming them and picking at their hair. Oh sure, we do the chemi’s and the combs, but it makes no noticeable difference. I can kill them in my family, but then some nasty kid hugs my kids and REPEAT AND RINSE. Forever. It is like one of the seven circles of hell. And OMG, my kids have bugs. I cannot stress how awful this is.

But the Brit-mums? they are so calm about it. “yes, my daughter had them until she was 14. they grow out of it.” “oh, i know, you just have to keep at it until they are in highschool” “nevermind, just use the comb on them every day!”

YUCK

Since i am not allowed to spray them with kerosene or DDT, I guess this is my life now. Nits and Gnomes.