Specifically, my weekend, since technically, I’m the only one who’s talking and my weekend is the only one I know anything about.
On Friday we were forced to accept the fact that our dryer no longer works. So on Friday night we bought a new washer and dryer, because it seems wrong to buy just a washer or just a dryer. They need to be bought in pairs, like salt and pepper shakers. They’re supposed to be delivered this evening. I anticipate and have confidence that they will, in fact, be delivered, but because it has not happened yet, they are as yet allegedly going to be delivered. Anyway, on Saturday I washed a bunch of clothes in my still-working washer and then hauled all these wet clothes down to the coin-op laundromat to dry them. There is no coin-op laundromat in our neighborhood, or close to our neighborhood. We are apparently too highbrow. So I had to go to some other neighborhood in the less-swanky part of town, where people don’t have their own washers and dryers and their neighborhood is so un-swanky, in fact, that not even their apartment buildings have laundry rooms. I’m assuming.
It does seem that the coin-op laundromat is an endangered species. It has been ages since I’ve been to one. I had thought there was one just around the corner, but it turned out to be a dry cleaner. There are lots of dry cleaners in our neighborhood. But that’s neither here nor there. I was just thinking that it is kind of awesome to dry several loads of laundry at once. If I’m ever rich and can build my dream house, I will make sure that it has its own laundromat, so that I can wash and dry several loads of laundry at once. Technically, if I were that rich, I could afford to hire someone to do my laundry and it would make no nevermind to me how long it took them to do it, but I like to think that if I became that rich, I would still do my own laundry, just to keep it real. Actually, just to keep other people from touching my underwear because that’s kind of creepy–but that is, technically, in its own way, also keeping it real. And that’s how I would be if I were rich. I would still get an inordinate amount of satisfaction from performing laundry tasks with great efficiency.
On Saturday night, circa 7:30 p.m., Girlfriend came running into the living room, tripped over her own feet, and feel face-first into the non-soft portion of our living room sofa. I just realized that our sofa is only a sofa when I’m telling other people about it. Usually, among ourselves, it’s a couch. That is to say, privately it is a couch, but publicly, it is a sofa. I don’t know why that is. Is “sofa” more highbrow than “couch”? Am I putting on airs? When I’m rich, will I refer to it as a “divan” or a “davenport”? My husband would like to have a chaise longue someday, and I’m assuming that if we ever become rich, he will buy one. Maybe several. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say “chaise longue” without feeling pretentious, even though a chaise longue is technically not a pretentious thing to own. It is, however, somewhat pretentious to refer to it as a chaise longue when most people say “chaise lounge.” Maybe if I say “chaise lounge,” I will feel less pretentious, but deep inside I will know I’m just faking it. I seem to have gotten off topic. I neglected to mention that when my daughter fell face-first into the sofa/couch, she sustained a mouth injury that bled like a mothereffer and precipitated a visit to the emergency room. Because children never have the decency to fall and hurt themselves during normal office hours. No, it’s always on a Saturday night, after the urgent care has closed.* That’s just how they do.
* This is not technically true. When Mister Bubby was two years old, he and four-year-old Princess Zurg were chasing each other around the apartment and he fell face-first into the doorjamb of our bathroom and split his head open, in the middle of the afternoon. I was even more pleased than that time one of the children threw up on the linoleum. I mean, in retrospect. At the time I was appropriately unnerved by the fact that he had split his head open. But it was quite an experience to take a kid with a split-open head to the pediatrician’s office and get immediate attention. We were all covered in blood, of course, and I was pregnant with Elvis at the time, so we cut quite a figure, as it were–bloody pre-schooler, bloody head-wounded toddler, bloody pregnant woman all walking into the genteel waiting room of the pediatrician’s office–I wish someone had taken a picture of us. Incidentally, does anyone else think that Pregnant With Elvis would make a good name for a band? I should write that down. Oh, wait, I did.
Back to my story. I took Girlfriend of the Perpetually Bleeding Mouth to the ER, and we were there for about three hours, which isn’t bad at all, when you consider that it was a Saturday night and her life wasn’t in danger. It occurred to me at the time that our local hospital is in a swanky enough part of town that it probably doesn’t get a lot of, you know, gunshot victims and crap. I’ve been to the emergency room at this hospital a few times for non=life-threatening issues, and the wait was never as long as it would have been any of the emergency rooms I went to while we lived in California. In California, you went to the ER and you were making a six-, seven-hour commitment, minimum. Unless you were bleeding to death, of course, in which case, the wait would surely have been significantly less. I’m assuming–I don’t know from personal experience, thank goodness. But that is neither here nor there. Three hours is not bad at all, for an ER visit, but it’s not nearly as awesome as just walking into your pediatrician’s office. But if wishes were horses, etc., blah blah.
I was just going to say that we were there for three hours, and her mouth didn’t stop bleeding while we were there. They put some gauze in there, and they put some lidocaine in there, but it didn’t really help, so they just sent us home with some gauze and some helpful instructions and told us to come back if it didn’t stop bleeding…like, ever. It wasn’t really clear what sort of time frame they were talking about. The doctor seemed confident that it would eventually stop and there wouldn’t be any long-term harm, so I was okay with it, but still sort of wishing that it had happened in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday because that would have been significantly more convenient, not to mention significantly less expensive and inefficient. All I really wanted was for someone to tell me she didn’t need stitches and wasn’t going to lose her teeth. And that’s what I got, but in a hard-won, Obamacare sort of way. I’m not complaining, exactly. That’s just what you get when you go to the emergency room for non-emergency issues, either because you’re insured and you don’t have to pay the full cost of it or because you’re indigent and don’t have to pay any of the cost of it. It’s the under-insured middle class who have to make the hard decision of whether or not to go to the emergency room when their five-year-old tears a big gash in their gum tissue (oh, did I neglect to mention that part? it was pretty gross, maybe I was trying to spare you). Parents are either over-protective or they’re under-protective–we rarely get the luxury of taking unambiguously-appropriate action–and it occurred to me on Saturday night that the insured and swanky among us can afford to be over-protective. It made me feel very self-conscious. But at the same time, less worried. But at the same time, lame.*
* This has nothing to do with anything, but last night we were reading scriptures with the kids and talking about Jesus healing people, and Mister Bubby asked if Jesus could make the lame awesome. It was funnier than it ought to have been.
Anyway, Girlfriend will not lose her teeth, and her gum tissue is supposed to heal on its own, but we need to watch out for infection. Yesterday she stayed home from church and didn’t eat or drink much of anything. This morning, around 6:50 a.m., she started throwing up. Not throwing up much of anything because there wasn’t much of anything to throw up, but still, throwing up. I have striven to get fluids into her. She ate two popsicles in the last hour, and she just threw them both up. (Like, just now, in between sentences–not way back before I started typing this entry.) I am thinking I should call the doctor now–regular office hours it being–so I’m going to stop this blog and get back to you later. But that was my weekend. How was yours?