By Heather O.
At least that what’s the optomitrist said when he evaluated my eyes after I told him that my right contact totally sucks and I’m sick of seeing shadows and halos around everything, especially at night.
He said that between my congenital cataracts that are getting worse in both eyes, my bilateral astigmatism that is uncommon, my extreme myopia, all compounded with the hormones from pregnancy and nursing that change the shape of my eyes, correcting my vision isn’t exactly a walk in the park. When we finally came to the part about me having PKD, he said, “Wait. You have KIDNEY DISEASE too? Wow. You’re complicated.”
So then I went to the dentist, and after enduring the kind of enamal scraping that maxes out my tolerance for high pitched noises and makes me want to stick a fork in my eye just to MAKE IT STOP, the dentist said that my teeth were perfect, and that I was a poster child for good oral health.
Did you hear that? Let me say it again. POSTER CHILD. For something GOOD. Not creepy, not freaky, not complicated, but rather something that others would want to EMULATE ME for. And I know it’s a little thing, and that most people whose goals in life go beyond appearing on the Jerry Springer Show manage to actually brush their teeth and floss and stuff, but after hearing how complicated my vision is, it made me feel good to hear that I could be dubbed Oral Hygiene Queen.
I wonder what such a crown would look like. Thoughts?
So the other day I’m
attacking the giant laundry pile full of too small baby clothes calmly straightening Little Sister’s room, and I happen to look out of the window.
The House Sparrow was there. Just looking at me. Not pecking on the window, not nesting, just looking at me. I banged on the window to get him the heck out of there before he gave me the wiggins, and HE DID NOT MOVE.
He’s like the devil bird. Always watching. Waiting for his moment to strike. Seriously creepy. Where will it end?
I canned lots and lots of strawberry jam over the weekend, and I feel pretty good about myself, especially when I see all those glittering ruby jars in my cupboard. I had some questions about the foaminess, though, and I tried to call Tracy M, my resident domestic goddess (and when I say “resident”, I mean it in the “she lives on the other side of the country from me and we’ve never actually conversed face to face” kind of way), but apparently she is in the middle of her own Extreme Vomit Make-over, which is kind of like the show Extreme Make-over, only with more chunks. Go send her some vomit free love.