I TOLD YOU SO. D*mmit.

I broke my thumb in February. It's called skier's thumb and since I'm a skier (and had actually been skiing that day), I could probably have gone with the story that I hurt it skiing. Which I did not.

Not these. But very very close.

I fell down stairs. Well, actually, I slipped at the top of the stairs ('cause I was still wearing my ski socks) and bounced down about the first six or seven. Normal reaction when falling? Fling out one's limbs! In this case, wildly grab for the railing and when the steps prove to be just as slippery and one keeps bouncing down them, the handrail bracket will attempt to stop one's thumb which will be yanked painfully backwards in a move eerily reminiscent of getting one's hand caught on a ski pole during a crash.

The yanking backwards will sprain the ligaments in the thumb, strain the tendons, and tear little bone chips off the joints where the ligaments attach. It hurts. Quite a lot actually.

But it never occurred to me that it was broken so it took me about 9 days of "hmm, my thumb and my hand still hurt A LOT" to call the doctor. I saw the PA, she ordered an x-ray after insisting she was sure it was just a sprain, and then she called me in the car to say, "It's broken! The radiologist thinks it's broken in two places! You need to go to an orthopedic surgeon!" Oh. FABULOUS.

So I went to the orthopedic surgeon who spent about 2.3 seconds looking at my thumb and then gave me the most uncomfortable brace to wear.

This actually looks more comfortable than what they gave me. Sexier, too - I got one in BSA brown. 

It was ugly and uncomfortable and I didn't like it so I immediately went out and bought a new one. It cost about $17 which was probably about 10% of what my insurance was getting charged for the piece of crap I wasn't wearing. 

I had to go back and see him again and each time I did, the office staff charged me my $20 copay. The second time, I questioned it and we had a conversation that involved me explaining that the last time I saw an orthopedic surgeon (two years ago, no broken bones but an actual skiing injury), I did not have to pay the copay. They countered with, "Did you have a broken bone?" Well, no, but it's an orthopedic surgeon and why am I paying for follow-up? "Our policy is that you pay each time with a broken bone." Which seems like a crappy way to differentiate but they did "go and check" (I am sure they were really checking with their insurance filing people and not just gossiping about what they were going to order for lunch; I heard them talking about things like "sandwiches" and "carry-out" and "I'll pay you later" so I'm certain that was it) - and then they made me pay again. 

So I payed them my second $20 that I didn't think I should and spent about 1.8 seconds with the doctor and left, never to return, because I'm pretty sure that it's cheaper to feel my own knuckle and tell myself it will heal in a few more weeks and just take it easy than it is to keep paying my copay to have the doctor do that. And I'm sure he has better things to do anyway than listen to me. He's probably glad I'm gone, anyway, since the second time I saw him he told me that I wasn't to ski on our trip to Colorado that month that was specifically planned to ski. I said, "Thank you, but I'm going to ski. That's why I'm going there." His eyes got very big. I wondered how often patients say to him, "Thanks for the advice that I'm not going to take." 

And now I'm wanting very much to call his office staff to tell them, "I TOLD YOU SO!!!!!" Because look what I got in the mail from them today:

Yes, that would be in the amount of two co-pays I shouldn't have paid. 

So there.

Nook (and the husband) for the win

I am not a good playground mommy. I used to hover and then I erred too far on the side of letting them play so I've also been that mom whose child was screaming in pain and I didn't even notice. Last time it happened, the mom (who was hovering!) was commenting in a snarky voice about where this child's (awful!) parents were when I finally wandered over to find it was my kid wailing like he'd been Tasered.

By this kid. 

(The other part of playground mommy-hood I suck at is being tolerant of bullsh*t from other kids and moms. But that's a subject for another day. Maybe.)

I've never really had a chance to be a sports mom either so I guess I don't really know how much I suck at that. My 12yo never really wanted to play sports and the times we forced him to do so he did, were short-lived and mostly spent trying to keep him from melting down.

But now that the 6yo is playing baseball, so far I have found that I really don't enjoy it. I dread it. I don't want to go. I want to stay at home. With the 12yo. Who also doesn't want to go. N enjoys playing but doesn't necessarily live for it and for crying out loud, he's on the Rookie 1st grade team. These are 6 and 7 year olds. Most of them are more interested in knocking themselves on the cup because they can *and* it won't hurt. Do I *really* have to sit through every second of every practice and every game?? Maybe that makes me a bad sports mom. Or just a bad mom.

Could be worse. At least I'm not her. 

It doesn't help at all that we kindof got screwed with his team - we requested a particular teammate and ended up in an entirely different league. Where we know no one. First (and only) two practices lasted for an hour and forty minutes. Even N said that if all the practices are that long, he doesn't want to go. This is what we both felt like:

About the length of the practice. I also feel this way about having to leave the house.

So I guess we're going to see what we can do about switching teams. Baseball teams. 

And in the meantime, I finally got to go buy my Mother's Day present today:

Sweet!!

It's a Nook Simple Touch with Glow Light, a built-in book light. It's been out-of-stock for weeks and I was allegedly on a list but when they just write your name on a piece of paper and lay it on the counter and say, "We'll call you" - well, frankly, that doesn't inspire confidence. And the B&N website kept saying today was the day they were available for shipping; until today, when they updated that to say, "Sh*t, we're out-of-stock again, try June 5." So I called the store where I was allegedly on the list and a) she found me on the list and b) they got 3 in today! And I guess because I called, I got one of the three. Which is an admittedly crappy way of parceling out your limited stock - "Gee, let's wait and see who CALLS us first! And if they're on the list, they win!"

But I'm not going to gripe about it. AT ALL. Because *I* was the winner of that little contest (who dashed out the door to get there before they fully understood the questionable nature of their order fulfillment). And I am sitting here charging my very own Nook with Glow Light (yes, they had me at Glow Light) and the fact that I am sitting here at all means that I have the Best. Husband. Ever. 'Cause he came home and picked up N and took him to baseball and I don't have to go. 

So it's Nook - and husband - for the win.

Just dropped in

Last night, we discovered the reason for the large concentration of bird poo in one particular area on the deck:

Though it's not entirely this guy's fault. There's a sibling and at least one parental unit who I'm sure contributed to the mess.

This little poo machine fell out of his nest onto the deck. Or, more probably, was pushed. Feathers in? Check. Wings are flapping? Check. Get the heck out of the nest and fly away, little guy. And please, go crap right on the deck (which is exactly what he did right before I took this picture; you just can't see the white spot of goo until his wee little tail from this angle). 

He was followed shortly by a sibling who landed smack on the table and left this little gift, too:

I don't like shell in my egg. Actually, I don't like yolk either.

I was a little concerned for their safety as they staggered and waddled around, flapping their itty bitty little wings. I didn't particularly want to get involved in any sort of rescue, mostly because I figured I would muff the whole thing and a potentially survivable situation would turn into avian murder, so I was really hoping they would be okay. On their own. Quickly. 

And apparently they were. They continued to take relatively small tumbles down from the deck onto the patio and then the ground and before long, were hopping through the grass behind a grown-up bird (I'm assuming the one that had just pushed them out of the nest) and before long, they were gone. I'm pretty sure this is what's referred to as fledging and it was pretty darned cool to see it up close. I guess some birds fledge before they are ready to fly (where the heck do they go??) but these little guys seemed quite capable of at least short bursts of flight as they tried desperately to get away from me. 

More of a hop here. Note the little pile of poo in the bottom right corner. 

I used to really dislike birds. I think they're pretty awesome now. And in this case, I'm happy about a few things: 1) they survived; 2) we got to watch the major life change that is leaving the nest; and 3) they will stop carpet bombing my deck from their nest. Awesome. 

Angry Hands

I love the phrase jazz hands. I don't use it often in conversation but whenever I hear someone else use it, it makes me laugh. A lot.

I have a friend who does a particularly good version of Jazz Hands. While skating. I need to get her to teach me. 

But there are other ways we can fling our hands around at strangers. A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine was involved in a road rage incident. This particular friend (and every time she tells it, I laugh out loud like I do at jazz hands: this is SO unlike her) flipped a DOUBLE birdie at the other lady. The other lady - and I use lady 'cause I'm nice (really, what kind of lady follows someone around for 10 minutes and then gets out of her car and yells? Okay, maybe a lady who has been flipped off with the double birdie. I digress.) wasn't particularly nice and my friend was actually trying to assume responsibility and apologize and this woman wasn't having any part of it. The birds flew the coop.

So today, following a lovely Memorial Day parade on a record-setting hot day (in which some of us were participating in at least partially polyester uniforms; there was lots of sweating involved), we sought refuge at Chili's (after P and his friend, whose birthday is today, decided that by golly, they wanted Chili's for lunch). The road rage story was told. Again. (I still laughed.)

And upon leaving the restaurant, two of the three vehicles our group was occupying apparently had an almost incident (with each other) in the parking lot. And the Angry Hands were released! We followed each other onto the highway afterwards - Angry Hands waving at each other! Parents with children in the car, many of the parents in uniform, no less: Angry Hands!!

Smile for the birdie, kids!