Trapped

They brought me a patient this morning. Unresponsive, on the vent. Eyes open, just a reflex. Later, I went back in the room and his eyes were closed. I spoke, his eyes opened. They were so sad. He's still in there. But he can't move anything. Can even move away from pain. He is trapped in his own body.

He was there because he shot himself in the head.

Jesus Camp

You want to see a scary movie? Watch Jesus Camp, a documentary by Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady. It looks at fundamentalist Christianity by focusing on 3 kids, and it follows them to a camp in North Dakota where they pray, worship, and are indoctrinated.

It was one of the scariest movies I've watched in a long time. My husband and I were both switching between hiding beneath our blankets, or staring with mouths gaping. We even paused it multiple times to discuss, something we rarely do in the middle of a movie. Maybe it's because we've both lived it. It's a lot scarier being on the outside looking in. I could relate to these kids and the dogma that surrounded them. Except imagine all the little girls with freakishly long hair and skirts down to their ankles. That would be me.

Part of me wants to show the film to my parents. There is a fear, though, and a possibility, that they would not see anything wrong with it, and then would demand a conversation to discuss why i do. A conversation I am not yet ready to begin.

Yes, they make caramel lattes.

My mother lives in a neighboring state so I don't get to see her as often as I would like. But she calls me, and I call her, and for some reason we both can talk on the phone for longer than we would for any other person.

This morning my phone rang. I recognized my mother's special ringtone, so I drug myself half out of sleep and answered it. I was greeted with, "Sorry to wake you up, but I'm at Starbuck's. What should I order? What was that thing you gave me to try last time?" My mother can never remember what to order. My first question: "Hot or cold?" Hot. That narrows it down a bit.

So I start racking my brain for hot drinks I normally drink at Starbuck's. Chai, and . . . chai. She didn't like my chai. That's not it. Probably something my husband drinks that I suggested knowing she would like. Latte or mocha? I suggest both. First mocha. "I don't see that on the menu," she says. "It would be under cafe mocha," says my sleepy brain. "Oh, there it is. Was that what it was?" "Maybe a caramel latte?" I reply. "I don't see that on the menu either."

Then I hear the voice of her friend calling out to the drive thru speaker, "Do you make caramel lattes?" I cannot hear the answer, but I know it already. My mother quickly orders a tall, thanks me, and lets me go back to sleep.

I love my mother. And I love that she asks me for help with Starbucks.

And no, she's not old. She's only 47.

Busy, Busy, Busy

Things here have been busy, but great. We are in the house, finally. We expected to be able to move in starting Saturday, January 4th. Instead, we got the call on the first. Being night people, we loaded up the SUV with dishes and started unpacking. By 4am Wednesday morning we had the entire kitchen moved over, washed, and placed in the new cabinets. The next few days are a blur of moving, packing, unpacking, errands, and Lowe's trips. Rooms have been painted, new furniture has been delivered, and new projects have been planned.

I love this new house.

I Got a House, I Got a House, I Got a House, Hey Hey Hey Hey!

We signed. It's ours. The sellers may vacate early. That's OK with us. We've picked paint colors for the office and extra bedroom. We've ordered a new mattress and bedroom suite. We are off to order the couches.

Still so much to do. But this has all been so easy. It has all worked out so well.

Almost.

Wow, I started this little thing and just let it drop, huh? Oh well.

Things around here have been stressful. Most of our stuff is in boxes. Even the dog is stressed. We are buying stock in rawhide.

But we sign tomorrow! I can't wait!

And now I get to shop for furniture. When I don't have to buy furniture, I just get to look, I see tons of things that I would love to have. But now that I have the house to put it in, and I have to spend money on it, none of it is quite what I want. Lots of great stuff, I just can't fall in love with any of it. And I honestly don't even know what I'm looking for.

Final walk-through today. Sign tomorrow. Move next weekend. Get out of this shitty apartment. Stretch my legs a little. This is good.

I'm ready.

I'm ready to move. We got the down payment together. We just have to wait until closing now. This is difficult. I am ready to be out of our tiny apartment.

Lots of things are wrong with the apartment. It has gotten to the point where it is funny. A couple of years ago, the heating fan in the bathroom went out. Now we have a switch that does nothing. Did we put in a work order? Of course not. We are too lazy for that. And we would have to be there to deal with repair men and keep the dog off of them. And I would have to put on a bra. Too lazy.

There is some damage to the wall in the bathroom and also to the inside of the door. We tried to lock Stinky in there once while we were gone to keep him from destroying the house. Apparently didn't work. I did wash all the peanut butter off the walls though.

We caught Stinky with a syrup bottle once. He is amazingly good at removing lids. He was drinking the syrup. So was the carpet. I did get all of that up eventually though, thanks to my new Bissell. I have a love affair with my Bissell Little Green. That is another post entirely.

A couple of months ago, our towel rack in the bathroom started to break. It still holds towels, but it is holding together by a thin strip of metal. Work order? No, see above.

And finally, the kitchen sink. Several weeks ago, I noticed that when I turned on the water, a small fountain shot out of the back of the faucet. Not good, not normal. Probably easily fixed, I probably could have done it myself. But I didn't . Now it has stopped leaking, but when we turn the water off, it makes a high pitched squealing sound for about three seconds. It sounds like someone is squishing a bunny. J and I laugh every time. We are horrible people.

But every time something else goes wrong, or we hear the squished bunny, we look at each other and repeat our mantra:

It is time for us to move.