Angie Kinghorn

Ghosts of Christmas past: the year we antlered the Hubster and the dog

In case you haven’t heard, antlers are in.
Really, they’re everywhere.  On labrador retrievers, Christmas card photos, and even cars.  We can attribute this trend to our dear friend KLZ from Taming Insanity, who, while known for many things, is perhaps most famous for her ability to rock a pair of antler ears.
This week she’s having an “Antler It Up!” contest.  We’re supposed to submit photos.  And y’all?  I actually have some.
This gorgeous gal is my sister.  We’ll call her Blondie.  I  don’t know for sure, but I’m fairly confident in my assertion that Blondie brought the antlers to last year’s Christmas gathering.  We’d just lost our father, and we were trying to inject some levity into the holidays by attempting to do realistic impressions of caribou.  Thus:

Impressive how Blondie can rock those antlers, no?  Didn’t even notice the attached reindeer ears on anybody else, but you sure can see ‘em here.
We even had a pair of antlers for the dog.  And some cocktails.  So Blondie and I were all over this.


So then we decided it would be fun to get the hubster involved.  The hubster, like most men, is not fond of having his picture made whilst accessorized.  Especially whilst accessorized with a headband.  Thus the attitude:

Which I tried to rectify:

And finally…

We even got the dog to look moderately enthused! 
So KLZ, enjoy.  I realize we put the antlers on the correct end of the dog, so I hope that doesn’t put us out of the running.  
Oh, one more thing….
Reindeer always travel with guardian angels.



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Where the hell I’ve been

Sometimes life gets in the way of blogging.  I’m ok with that, since this isn’t an actual job for me, but since I have virtually dropped off the internet for the last few weeks, it seems appropriate to tell y’all what’s been going on. 
In a nutshell: my husband got sick the Thursday before Halloween.  Sick enough to go to the doctor, sick enough to not be able to sleep, sick enough to take narcotic painkillers.  This is a man who has to be on death’s own doorstep to take even two Advil.  Naturally, I thought he must be dying.  His doctor, on the other hand, thought he had a kidney stone, and sent him home on Friday to wait out the weekend with pain meds, copious amounts of water, and a sieve in which to urinate until nature took care of the problem.  
I pretended not to worry (translation: I tried to hide as much of my anxiety as possible and made myself busy nagging him to rest, to drink more water, to actually use the sieve in the bathroom, etc.), but I became fearful as the weekend ticked by and his pain got worse.  The hubster is the kind of guy who will gut it out through anything.  He’d go to work with his arm half amputated, saying, “It’s only a flesh wound!” 
So seeing him doubled over, groaning in pain, and getting up from the couch like a pregnant woman…well, it scared the hell out of me.  
But not as much as his attitude Monday morning, when no kidney stone had appeared, and when one of his testicles was suddenly so swollen and tender he wouldn’t let me touch it.  Never mind gutting it out, the hubster stayed home from work and called the doctor until, on his third call, he finally talked to the guy and was referred to a urologist.  Who couldn’t see him until the next day.
The next day, he was still in agony, and had an appointment with the urologist, followed by an ultrasound and a CT scan.  The day after that, he had an appointment at 8:30 a.m. to discuss the test results with the doctor.  I offered to go, but the hubster told me to take the kids to preschool and not worry about it.
So I was suspicious when he called me right before 9 and told me he’d changed his mind.  He wanted me there for the appointment after all.
“What’s wrong?”  I asked.  “I know you’ve already seen him.  What did he tell you?”
“Nothing.  He’s running late.  And I just decided I’d rather have you here for the appointment.”
“You’re a terrible liar.  Doctors don’t run late first thing in the morning.  What’s wrong?”
He almost sounded normally exasperated as he replied, “Nothing.  Seriously.  Just come down here after you drop the kids off.”
I knew.  I knew in my heart something was not good.  I knew from his voice that he was keeping it from me.
But I didn’t know I’d be sitting with him twenty minutes later, gripping his hand while the urologist spoke to us about how he was virtually certain that the problem was not a kidney stone.  It was most likely cancer.  Testicular cancer.  And he’d booked an OR for 11 a.m. the next day to remove the affected testicle and the tumor that took up an estimated 80% of it, according to the ultrasound.
“Wait,” I said.  “Back up a minute.  Tomorrow?  Can we get a second opinion before we do this?  You said you’re not sure it’s cancer?  What if it’s not?”
The doctor was kind, but firm, as he explained to us that yes, we could get a second opinion, but that any doctor in the world would do the surgery based on the test results.  And that the test results indicated time was of the essence.  We couldn’t afford to wait even a week.
Things get a bit blurry from there.  I remember staring down at my husband’s arm.  He was wearing my father’s watch.  His memories.  His legacy.  His death, barely 13 months old, shone from my husband’s wrist as I gripped his hand, and listened to the all-too-familiar language of malignancies and tumors.
Somehow the demons stayed at arm’s length until my in-laws arrived and took the children home with them.  But they howled through my head the rest of that night and the next day at the hospital.
For now, I’ll leave it at that and tell you only that the surgery went well.  The pathology came back in five days (it can take far longer), and while yes, it is cancer, it’s a seminoma, the most easily treatable type of testicular cancer.
The hubster was ordered to stay home from work the rest of that week, and I watched him  attempt to rest.  Both of us wondered where things would go from here, though the urologist told us he was confident that the next thing would be radiation.  To decide on a plan, we had to go see an oncologist, but the soonest we could get in was the Monday after Thanksgiving.
He was right.  The oncologist recommended radiation, so the hubster’s due to start a two and a half week course of it soon.  They hope to have it finished by Christmas, and then all indications are that he will be just fine.
“Just fine” is not a part of the lexicon I can understand anymore.  I’m so happy things aren’t worse, and I know how much worse it could have been.  But the voice in my head watches everyone else (including the hubster, now), walk around as if everything is just fine, and screams, “This cannot be happening!”
This is the recurrent nightmare I have dared voice only recently to my therapist and family; the nightmare in which something happens to my husband.  Just like something has happened to the rest of the men in my family.  He’s the only man with us when we gather around the table for Christmas dinner, and it’s not lost on anybody that we dine with ghosts. 
So that’s where I’ve been.  Wrestling demons.  Not wanting to write for fear of what might spill onto the page.  
But don’t worry, because the logical part of me, and all of everyone else, knows that everything will be just fine.  I want to believe it, and I will believe it, but for me, it’s gonna take some time.

You know you’re a mom (of multiples) when…

You know you’re a mom when you start to sound like your own mom.  You know you’re a mother of multiples when you start to sound like your own mom and you don’t care.
Yesterday, for example, I arrived for preschool pickup to find the hallways of the school smelling strongly of bleach and a haz-mat team running around in full spacesuits.  A sign on their usual classroom door told us that the children were in another room.  After I collected their bags and coats, I found the room and lined up with the other mothers waiting at the half-door to collect their children.  When it was my turn, I asked about the change of locale.
“Well,” the teacher said, “Somebody had an accident in the old classroom, so we had to evacuate.  Just so you know, it might be,” her voice lowered to a stage whisper, “contagious.  We like to alert all the parents in these types of situations.”
An accident.  Okaaaay.  Toxic waste spill?  Influx of malaria carrying mosquitoes?  Swine flue?  Asian bird flu?  Whooping cough?  
All around me, mothers with infants in strollers were coaxing their three year olds into their coats, periodically shrieking, “No!  Don’t touch the baby!  You’re contaminated!”  
I looked at the teacher.  “What kind of accident?”
“One of the kids…got…sick.”  She moved her hands as she spoke, vaguely circling her stomach area and then lifting them skywards.
“So he vomited.”
“Yes.  Like I said, there was an accident, so we evacuated the classroom immediately.”  
I was perplexed.  Vomiting kind of comes with the territory when you’re talking about preschoolers.  “Did this child throw up on the other kids?”
“No.  Just, you know,” she dropped into her stage whisper again, “all over the floor and stuff.”
“Well, were the kids stomping in the puddles or finger painting with the vomit?”
“Of course not!”  She looked scandalized.  “We evacuated immediately.”
Seriously.  Evacuated?  What was this, Chernobyl?
“Ok, great, sounds good,” I said, herding my kids off to the playground.
My mind was whirling, attempting to do math (a dubious prospect at best).  Remnants of high school biology led me to conclude that if this kid was throwing up today, he was well and truly contagious yesterday, and that all our kids had been thoroughly exposed.  It’s not like this was thrilling news, but it hardly seemed like the apocalypse.  If we were gonna get sick, we were gonna get sick.  There’s not much we could do about it after the fact. 
We went out to the playground for our daily after-school play time, a non-official playgroup of sorts, and I took up my usual position with the other mommies, watching our kids slide, climb, throw sand, and generally get filthy.  
Our preschool is usually a laid-back kind of place.  Many of the mothers attended when they were children.  There’s no crazy emphasis on academics; they like to let children learn through play.  Listening to the mothers on the playground yesterday left me feeling like I was in the twilight zone.
“My God, I can’t wait to get them home and throw them in the tub.”
“Oh, I just hope she doesn’t touch the baby!  I cannot deal with a sick baby.”
“I just want to scrub him down with Purell.”
“Who was it that threw up again?  Why was he in school?”
Watching the twins climb the massive playset to the slides, shrieking, I put their bags down at my feet.  “This is so weird.  Remember when we were in elementary school?  You know, when a kid threw up in school, they’d just move us all to the other side of the classroom until the janitor could get to the class, and then he’d sprinkle some powdered stuff on the mess, sweep it up, and then everything just kind of went on.”
Crickets. 
Then, a chorus of, “Oh,  yeah, I remember that!”  
“Yes, that stuff that was like kitty litter!” 
“It’s amazing any of us lived!”  
And then the crowd dispersed, each to her own minivan.  Where, I suspect, many children were scrubbed down with Purell or whisked home for de-contamination.  I wish I could say that I whipped out my own Clorox wipes, but quite frankly, my dear readers, I didn’t give a damn.
Instead, I took the kids to the grocery store, and during our first stop in the produce section, I turned around to bag some grapes, and when I turned back, my daughter was chowing down on the ice in the apple cider display.
I’m so getting my Good Mommy card revoked.

 

Sampling the goods…

Once more it would seem I’m late to the fashion party, at least when it comes to the world of sample sales.

You’re shocked, I’m sure.  For those of you who’ve never met me, here’s a quick and dirty rundown of my fashion sense.  I tend towards classic for church and other dressy functions, and my wardrobe is a sea of black.  (But in a good way.  Think Audrey Hepburn, not Sicilian widow.)  But on a day to day basis, life and busyness and my status as a non-morning person find me regularly dropping the kids off at preschool wearing yoga pants and a sorority t-shirt that is definitely past its sell-by date.  Most of the time I’m not even wearing makeup.  I love nice clothes but hate paying full price and shop happily at Marshall’s.

However, in my dream world where I have tons of free cash and time, and my children didn’t do things like jump into toilets to splash around the minute I turn on a curling iron, I would be perfectly coiffed and immaculately dressed at all times.  My clothes would be purchased from stores with soft lighting and helpful sales people.  I mean, you can’t deny the results: looking good makes you feel good.  I love the way my little black dress turns me into Joan Holloway, the way a pair of skyscraper heels makes the world mine for the stomping, the way that casually slinging my red python handbag over my arm feels like a jolt of espresso, and how MAC’s Viva Glam lipstick turns me into Marilyn Monroe.

These little addictive moments mean that I like to shop.  If I had more time and money, this might be dangerous.  But as I’m short on both and blessed with a giant guilt complex (buying anything at full price triggers instant buyer’s remorse), it’s a problem I can live with.

Thankfully, I don’t live in New York, the land of the sample sale.  A couple of years ago I attended one here, and I barely survived.  After narrowly escaping the stampede of fashionistas at the door, I watched in awe as bony girls in nude thongs and strapless bras pranced around, their modesty buried under the piles of designer duds they hoarded in corners.  They shopped in packs, with someone assigned to guard the stash at all times so they could take turns with their friends practicing a form of Greco Roman wrestling to get in front of the one (yes, ONE) mirror in the entire place.

Never again.

However, I’ve recently discovered the world of online sample sales, and ladies (and gents), I’ve gotta tell you, I’m in love.  These sites feature highly discounted designer clothes, housewares, shoes, handbags, children’s clothes and toys, and even vacation packages at exotic resorts.  It’s well worth your time to sign up and take a peek, especially with the holidays coming up.  Generally, the sites work by featuring several brands for a limited period of time.  Only select items from that brand are featured for sale, so you may not find the latest and the greatest.  Or if you do, be aware that quantities are limited.  But all in all, I’ve been extremely impressed with what I’ve seen listed in online sample sales.  If you shop quickly and do your research beforehand, you can get great deals.

So far, my favorite online sample site is Rue La La.  Rue La La features amazing brands (today, for instance, they have one of my all time favorites, Yummie Tummie) and deep discounts.  I’ve been pleased with everything purchased from the site.

I’m also a member of Gilt Groupe, and while I like it, I don’t shop there as often as I do at Rue La La, simply because their brands are more upscale, and so are their prices.  But I have purchased from Gilt, and their customer service is wonderful.

Swirl by Daily Candy is still in the startup stages, and features fewer sales, but extremely interesting items.  I’d also suggest you sign up for Daily Candy emails, which are part humor and part fascinating new products.

There are a host of other online sample sale sites out there, and I’d love to hear from you if you’ve got a site you love.  One I’m eager try is Hautelook.  You can find more information on online sample sales at Shefinds.com

Let me know if you’ve got other good places to shop online.  I can’t believe it, but it’s almost time to start my elfish activities for the year.  And as I try to avoid the mall after Thanksgiving, I welcome any and all suggestions for good online retailers, especially those that involve my favorite four letter word: SALE.

Happy shopping!

Oh, and a PS–the sites I’ve mentioned are free to join, but some do require an invitation.  I’ve put my invitation in the links for Rue La La, Gilt Groupe, and Swirl.

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