Thursday, May 25, 2017

Mom, Daughter, Blogger: Somehow I Am All of These

First.

My mom had heart surgery today.

Her surgeons were able to repair two leaky heart valves and also somehow magically shock her afib back into normal rhythm.

The whole thing took a little over four hours. She's in ICU now, and will be for the next couple of days. But she's sitting up and responding to nurses.

Drunkards, you can't possibly know how much your support has meant to me during this period of waiting and worrying. You're the absolute best.

I got you this rave-ready Maldives octopus to say thank you.

Because I don't want to sit here and weep tears of joy-slash-guilt-because-I'm-not-there, I'm going to write something silly and non-consequential instead.

My coping mechanism IS a Rube Goldberg machine, thanks for asking.

So.

Precocious Daughter is 17 years old. A junior in high school. An honor student. Just found out that next school year she'll be Band co-president and principal clarinetist.

And I still make her a bag lunch every school day.

What can I say? She doesn't like cafeteria food, she isn't (technically) allowed to leave campus for lunch, and I'm a creature of habit. She started brown-bagging in middle school, and I've just gone with it. Every morning, no matter how tired, late, or hungover I am, I pack her lunch.

Obviously I'm Donna Reed. Only divorced
 and overly fond of vodka.
For a number of years, PDaughter carried a succession of reusable thermal lunch totes to school. Then teenagerism took hold of her brain, and she began to lose them at regular intervals. I finally decided, fuck it, I'm buying good old brown paper bags instead. And I've been using those ever since.

I'm not sure exactly when I started drawing on them every day.

One of my first drawings was of Steven Tyler. A quick Google search tells me he began his stint as an "American Idol" judge in 2011, so that is likely when the tradition started.

Honestly, I only ever watched AI while he was on.

That's six years ago. So for six years I've been picking up a Sharpie five days a week to doodle on my kid's lunch bag.

I've drawn animals, celebrities, cartoon characters, inanimate objects, political figures, commentaries on current events...you name it, I've amateurishly depicted it on a paper bag.

Today, she was complaining that she couldn't find her black leggings, so I actually drew a pair of leggings.

That's how I roll.

But yesterday...ah, yesterday.

I don't typically photograph my brown bag creations, but I did yesterday.

You see, earlier this week I had drawn a Basset hound on PDaughter's bag.

It possibly was not one of my best efforts. When she saw it, she said (and I quote), "Oh, I thought it was a mole."

Yes, I made this soulful-eyed doggo
look like a blind rodent.

So yesterday, I endeavored to make up for my artistic transgression by drawing not one, but THREE moles on one brown paper bag.

And I was sufficiently pleased with the results to take a photo.

Check this out:

Add caption
I drew three moles, you guys.

Do you get it?

Huh, do you?

I DREW THREE MOOOOOOOLLLLEEEEESSSSSS.

Maybe not. Whatever.

But my child took this lunch to her high school.

That makes me kinda proud.

I may need to adopt another kid when she's grown, because I can't imagine not being a terrible mom any more.

MOLES, you guys.

P.S. Thanks again for your good thoughts. I can't say that enough, ever.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

The Bottom of My Heart

Hi, Drunkards.

Today on "Jeopardy," there was a category called "Heart Surgery with Dr. Oz."

First, I think Dr. Oz is a farking hack who shouldn't be allowed on cable access, let alone the most prestigious quiz show in the country.

Would vote Alex Trebek into any office if he weren't a
Canadian bastard.
But today, the category - if not the celebrity doctor-lite friend-of-Oprah presenting it - resonated with me.

My mom is having heart surgery tomorrow.

She has a leaky heart valve, as I've mentioned before.

Tomorrow she will report to the hospital at f*cking 5:00 a.m., so that she can receive an operation that I hope will save her life.

I hope...and yeah, I pray. I don't fucking pray, but I pray my mom will be OK.

My God looks like this. Your mileage may vary.

In any event. my mom goes into surgery at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow, May 25, 2017.

I need this to go well, you guys.

I don't give a fuck whether she is watched over by Jesus, Christian God, Shiva, Buddha, or anyone the fuck else.

I just want my mom - a good person whom I love with all my heart - to come out of surgery OK.

If you can send some good energy her way, I thank you.

I owe you.