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You are here: Home / Archives for Anecdotes

Anecdotes

Foul Friday

January 16, 2012 by sue campbell

Cautionary note: do not read this if you have a weak stomach or a sensitive nature.

On Friday, I was picked up from work by a husband who hadn’t eaten all day, a daughter who had not had a nap and the dog, who seemed fine. The husband and the daughter both had things to tell me and they both were telling me at the same time. I admit my mind fluttered back to my desk, noting how calm and quiet that space was in comparison.

Still, it was Friday, so things couldn’t be all bad.  We could still turn this night around. The first thing we needed was food, so we stopped at our new favorite place, just about a mile from home to grab dinner to go. Things were looking up. But, we had forgotten one essential fact: it was Friday the 13th and our luck had run out.

A sudden retching sound emanated from the dog. I looked back from the passenger seat just in time to see him launch hot liquid vomit all over the back seat.

“What just happened?” Ben asked.

“Hoover puked,” I said as I started looking in my bag for something to soak up some of the barf.

And then the stench hit. It was by far the worst thing I have ever smelled in thirty five years on a smelly plant.  It was the kind of sickly stench that made your good sense tell you to simply run. But we couldn’t run.

The stink triggered Ben’s gag reflex and he had to roll down his window and literally stick his head out of it while driving. Dangerous? Maybe, but there was no way in hell we were going to stop until we were at home and could do something about that awful stench.  I rolled down the rest of the windows and opened the sunroof while Nora, who was nearest the pile, chanted, “It smells so bad, it smells so bad, it smells so bad,” in a sickened, yet fascinated tone of voice. Meanwhile, I was convulsing with the laughter of a mad woman. I firmly believe if I had stopped laughing, I would have barfed.

“Did he eat shit?” Ben asked in disbelief. He says now that he said it under his breath so Nora couldn’t hear, but I say in such situations, there’s no hope of shielding the girl from cussing. This is exactly the kind of situation swearing was invented to handle.

Thankfully, we were close to home. We all turned our faces toward the fresh air streaming in through the windows. The second we hit the driveway Ben and I sprang from the car, he sent the dog to the backyard (perhaps forever) and I released Nora from her carseat and set her on the lawn.  We took deep gulps of vomit-free air.

Ben gathered cleaning supplies while I gathered my nerve. I had to be the one to clean it, or there would be human vomit to add to the mix. I had rubber gloves, several rolls of paper towels and a jug of enzymatic cleaner.

The first thing I discovered was that, yes, in fact, Hoover had eaten shit. And I can now confidently answer that eternal question, “What smells worse than dog shit?” with “Dog shit that has been eaten by a dog and then vomited up in a confined space.”

I cleaned for an hour in the twilight and then the dark. Occasionally, Hoover let out a woof of protest from the back yard, to which I thought, “Bitch, please.”

I removed the back seat, dumping at least half a jug of cleaner over the seat and seatbelt straps. I scrubbed the bare metal that remained. I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed again, thinking all the while, it would have been so much easier if he had merely crapped in the backseat, rather than projectile vomited bile with turds in it.

When I was done cleaning, I set the seats in the backyard under the covered patio to air dry overnight.  I re-entered the house a hero. Out of admiration and solidarity (and perhaps a bit of guilt), Ben had been cleaning the house the entire time I was cleaning the car. I brought Hoover straight to the bathroom for inspection, amazingly, he had not a speck of vomit on him, well, on the outside anyway.  I briefly considered force-feeding him an entire tube of toothpaste, but decided to take the hottest shower of my life instead.

I then sat down to a cup of hot tea and dinner.

After dinner, Ben checked the car with a flashlight. He reported there were still several issues. “There’s clean, then there’s really clean, then there’s work-at-the-Mayo-Clinic-clean, then there’s work-at-the-Mayo-Clinic-and-have-OCD clean.” Guess which guy Ben is? Thankfully, at this point, the odor was knocked down enough to prevent him tossing his cookies, so he went out to put what we thought would be the final shine on it.

But Saturday morning the stench remained. We set to work again, removing the seat belts and the plastic covered insulation under the seats and scrubbed everything again.

Then I drove to Costco with no backseat whatsoever, just bare metal, and could still smell it. I thought I was imagining things until I got home and had Ben verify. It still stank.

By Sunday we were ready for Plan C. Throw out the back seat and get a replacement from the junk yard. However the only seat from the same make and model car was serving as a bridge over an oily mud puddle. Granted, that would be an improvement over one besmirched by dog shit and vomit, but only a slight one.

As of this morning, the car is still without a back seat. We are formulating Plan D, which may involve putting the engine from this car into a different, unsoiled car. But we have one fact to cling to: we are still alive.

Surviving something like this feels like a major victory and victories are never due to the efforts of just one person or family. So, we would like to offer our profound thanks as follows:

  • To the designers of the Mercedes W123 body style (late seventies to early 80s) for having the foresight to make the back seat removable,
  • To the makers of Nature’s Miracle enzymatic cleaner, which magically removes the very nastiest of smells — provided it can actually reach the smell (asking it to penetrate 30-year-old horse hair stuffing is asking a bit much),
  • To Pick-N-Pull Auto Recycling, for only charging $20 for a new back seat – we’ll find one eventually,
  • To the weather, for not pouring down rain while we cleaned, and
  • To whatever force in the universe is responsible for preventing further vomiting,
thank you so very much.
Now, let us never speak of this again.

Filed Under: Anecdotes Tagged With: stomach turning stories, unbelievable

Sometimes I Just Get Lazy

January 9, 2012 by sue campbell

It was a long day and I was tired. Nora was at the dining room table drawing and Ben was sitting by the fire.

“Alright, I’m going out to check on the chickens,” I declared. “I don’t want to, but it has to be done, so I’m getting it over with and then it’s bedtime. Nora, you need to get your pajamas on. You don’t want to, but it needs to be done. Since we both have things we don’t want to do, should we have a race to see who can do them the fastest?”

“No, I don’t want to do that,” she said.

“Come on, let’s get done what we need to and then we’ll do yoga and story time.”

I proceeded to mud room to grab my chicken-checking headlamp and put on my barn shoes. But the headlamp was not in its spot. I half-heartedly dug through the layers of coats and hoodies and then, “Well, it’s dark and they’re sleeping. I can check on them first thing in the morning to make sure they have food and water. I can’t check on them if I don’t have a light.”

Even though Ben was two rooms away, he spotted this for the hipocracy it was.

“Ok, Nora, that means you don’t have to put your pajamas on.”

Then he proceeded to mock my two-second turnaround and I was forced charge into the living room and attack him with tickles. Nora quickly joined in. We got him so good that he suffered an acute case of hiccups.

And that’s the story of how Nora got to sleep in her clothes.

Filed Under: Anecdotes Tagged With: this is what I get for running my mouth

Broken Leg Chic

November 11, 2011 by sue campbell

There is an episode of the Simpsons where a professional yo-yo team visits Bart and Lisa’s school.  There is music and laser lights and they can make yo-yos do anything. They are the embodiment of glamour — according to the elementary school set. Every kid gets yo-yo fever; it’s all they want to play with or talk about. The camera pans to Mrs. Crabapple: “I am so sick of yo-yos.”

Right now at Nora’s school it’s not yo-yos, it’s broken legs.

A little girl in Nora’s class broke her leg about a month ago while riding her bike, pretty badly from the sounds of it.

And now she is a rock star.

When we pick Nora up from aftercare, most days there are a room full of kids limping around. Every play silk is a cast.  Every stick is a crutch. Every chair is a wheel chair.

“Mom, Jane can do this,” she says holding one leg stiff and hopping along on the other.

“Mom, Jane can stand on her leg without her crutches now.”

“Mom, Jane’s getting her cast off tomorrow, so don’t ask her how her leg is doing because she’s getting the cast off.” (I don’t think this was true.)

A few nights ago, Nora spent no less than twenty minutes attempting to wrap a small silk handkerchief around her calf. I finally helped her wrap it, as our bedtime routine was being delayed.  Then a walked away for a second and heard her, in tears, telling her daddy, “Mommy didn’t do a good job wrapping my leg at all.”

So he helped her re-wrap it, and she hobbled up to me and said, “I broke my leg,” and then, after my mock horror, “Just kidding, I’m just pretending.”

I have a hunch that the only people sick of broken legs are little Jane — and her parents.

 

Note: Jane is not her real name, as I didn't ask permission to
use it before writing this post.

Filed Under: Anecdotes Tagged With: broken legs, play silks, playing pretend, simpsons, stuff kids get obsessed with, yoyos

Mockery: It Runs in the Family

November 7, 2011 by sue campbell

Ben’s parents were visiting Portland last week. It was a beautifully simple visit: just time spent sitting by the fire, putting together puzzles with Nora and working on sewing projects at the dining room table.

At one point, we had to temporarily clear all the sewing stuff off the table so we could eat. The sewing machine was placed on the floor behind my mother-in-law, Debbie.  She commented that it was still on, and she hoped that someone wouldn’t step on the pedal and send the machine into fits.  I shrugged, thinking Nora was the only risk of this happening, and she was on the other side of the table.

We all chatted as we finished up eating when we began to hear a low mechanical hum.

“What’s that noise,” Debbie asked.  “Do you guys hear that?”

It was not a sound my house usually makes, so I looked under the table.  Debbie had her foot just barely touching the pedal of the sewing machine, causing it too hover in the ready-for-action-but-not-quite-driving-the-needle-down mode.

“You have your foot on the pedal,” I said, and we all laughed that she had been the one to set it off, after pointing out the danger in the first place.

A few more minutes passed and Nora suddenly stomped her foot on the floor and then said, “What’s that noise?”

We all paused, then broke into near hysterics as we realized that Debbie was being mocked by her four-year-0ld granddaughter. She made a noise herself, then asked what the heck it was.

“Well, what do you guys think — is mockery nature or nuture?” I asked.

Debbie was pretty sure it was nuture — though she blames her son — not me. (Which is not entirely fair, I assure you.)

What do you guys think: nature or nuture? Have your kids ever mocked their grandparents?

 

Filed Under: Anecdotes Tagged With: mockery, nature vs. nuture

Kindergarten Yogi

October 28, 2011 by sue campbell

Somehow, Nora and I have fallen into the awfully good habit of doing a bit of yoga before bed. It may have started as a stalling tactic on her part, but it’s backfiring on her, because she’s been falling asleep much faster lately.

Lest you imagine the two of us locked in a synchronous Vinyasa flow, let me give you a glimpse of what our practice actually looks like.

“Mommy, we need to do our yoga.”

“Well, we’re running out of time, do you want to do yoga and skip story time?”

She nods vigorously.  We head to the living room and I light a candle and place it in the middle of the room then switch off the lamp.  I try to get her started with some breathing exercises and she cuts me off.

“Mommy, you showed me a lot of poses, so now I’m going to show you some, alright?”

She is seated cross legged and she places her hands on her ankles with her elbows pointing out and grimaces. Like a yogic body builder showing off her biceps.

“This is called ‘muscle pose.'”

Now she lets herself fall on her side and places an arm under her head and the other hand is curled on the floor in front of her. I follow along.

“Mommy, see how your hand is flat?  You need to curl your fingers so your bones strengthen. If you don’t curl your fingers your bones won’t strengthen.”

Still on her side, she stretches her arms and legs out at a 90-degree angle from her body.

“This is called ‘crinkled dog’ pose,” she calmly explains.  “And you know what else doggies do?  When they wake up, they do this –” she smacks her lips repeatedly, “–they do that because they’re trying to clean their lips. They got dirty from the carpet.”

I nod as I smack my lips, thinking that an imperfect yoga practice is the most beautiful thing that’s happened to me today.

 

Filed Under: Anecdotes Tagged With: kindergarteners, preschoolers, yoga

How to Show Your Guests a Good Time – Portland Style

October 10, 2011 by sue campbell

Perhaps you have important guests coming in from out of town?  Your husband’s beloved grandfather (Papa) and uncle who’ve never been to Portland?  I can help!

Your guests will be tired from travel. But not so tired that they don’t immediately notice that your front yard is full of dog crap. Quickly steer them into the house.  The first thing to do is feed them, of course. Just make sure the dishes you feed them on have that weird residue from the dishwasher.

After dinner, give them the tour of your quarter acre urban farm, being sure to stop in the basement to look at the piles of laundry and the smelly, yet adorable, baby chicks.  Then make them stand around outside in the rain looking at your chicken coop and overgrown lawn when all they really want to do is sit by the fire and talk to your four-year-old who they only get to see once a year. She will cooperate by burying her head in your chest and grunting whenever they address her. Once she warms up, she will deliver ear piercing  girl screams to show her affection. At this point, advise that hearing aides should be turned down.

Let your guests return to their hotel for some much needed rest. Your husband has a role to play here, too. After closing up the chicken coop for the night, he should decide that one of the chickens definitely needs to go into the vet, as her butt looks like those red-assed monkeys you can’t help staring at at the zoo. Make an appointment to drop her off in the morning, you can squeeze it in during the grand tour you are planning, it will just take a few minutes.

In the morning, instruct your husband to ready a large box to house your giant chicken for transport to the vet.  As you guests arrive, recruit one of them to take over cooking breakfast while you and your husband wrangle a 12 pound chicken into said box. Leave your husband to finish cooking and scurry off to the vet.

The vet’s office will instruct you to return for your chicken in two hours, so, take a wrong turn on the way home to add another twenty minutes to your already half hour return drive. Once you’re home, it’s time to being the tour of the Rose City! Pile into the car, passenger seat for Papa, of course. Your husband drives and you ride on the hump squeezed between uncle and large car seat.

Make a stop of your daughter’s school. Brilliant photo opportunity. Wow, it’s time to pick up the chicken already!

But when you get there, it won’t be. You will sit in the lobby, with guests, four-year-old and husband waiting in the car, for a ludicrously long time, while every bird keeper in Portland waits with you.

Because they are gracious and midwestern, your guests will forgive you. But God only knows what they must be thinking. Finally, after nearly an hour and half, the vet pulls you to an exam room to tell you that your chicken has lice and a mild uterine infection. You get to give her — a chicken who won’t come within 3 feet of you of her own volition — antibiotics twice a day for seven days.

But the monkey butt? Completely normal.

Fork over enough money to buy a flock of 30 baby chicks to treat a chicken who hates you and heft your box of poultry out to the car, wedging it into the space between the passenger seat and the back seat on the floor, your four-year-old’s legs resting atop it.

This is where you all break into giggles. There is a chicken in the car. At least there will be a story for your guests to tell their friends when they get back. Never mind that everyone in Minnesota will think you’ve become a hopeless west coast flake. Own it.

Now that you’re off to such an aupicious start, the rest will likely take care of itself. Make a stop at Powells Books, the International Rose Test Garden and the St. John’s Bridge. Your guests will be so relieved that they are no longer locked in a sedan with a sick chicken, they’re sure to fall in love with P-town.

Filed Under: Anecdotes, Chickens, Complete Nonsense, Family Outings Tagged With: And yes, my chicken is feeling much better now, thanks for asking

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What kind of blog is this?

This is a blog for PARENTS. True, the writer, Sue Campbell, writes books for kids. But this blog is for grown-ups. It has some swearing and would be super boring for kids. Except for the swearing.

The PODCAST is for KIDS and PARENTS. In fact, my twelve-year-old daughter is my co-host.

If your kids like Sue's books, send them over to suecampbellbooks.com where there's some kid-friendly content. EVEN BETTER, join the mailing list. You get stuff for grown-ups and printable stuff for kids. And sometimes there will be super ill-advised giveaways or coloring contests for free books.

MORE ABOUT SUE: She makes an ACTUAL LIVING from writing words and marketing books and lives with her husband, two daughters, six chickens and one messy house rabbit in Portland, Oregon. And yes, Portland IS that weird. She really couldn't be any luckier.

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