An interlude

Part I: Giving blood

I meant to give blood earlier, but after Leo did and was told the blood collected at the Indiana Blood Center (the nearest place for us to donate blood) would not go down to the hurricane victims, I made an appointment at the nearest Red Cross office. Turned out they weren't sending blood down there either; I guess it's not needed so desperately (which is a good thing).

I went ahead and went through with it, though. And when I say "went through with it", that is exactly what I mean. First, you need to understand that I am a HUGE baby when it comes to needles. It's not so much the sight of blood that I hate; it's just the thought of this needle, this foreign object UNDER MY SKIN that makes me absolutely nauseated (I did throw up after a shot once as a child). For years I was glad that I weighed under 110 pounds, not just for the obvious reasons, but because it gave me an excuse. "I can't give blood because I don't weigh enough." Then finally I did weigh enough, but I was still chicken.

After Audrey was born, at home with no medication, I finally realized that if I could get through childbirth without medication or an epidural, I certainly should be grown up enough to handle a needle in my arm (never mind that one of the pluses of a homebirth for me was NO NEEDLES, not even an IV).

So I finally did give blood, and have several times, though I occasionally have problems with them not being able to find a vein. Sometimes I haven't had enough to drink, and I also just have tricky veins. They are nonexistent in my right arm; I have no idea how the blood passes through over there. The left arm has them, but they are very deep and require much poking and prodding to find them. Once, I had been hooked up for nearly half an hour, which is already running long, and the gal kept checking my bag, adjusting the tubing, and clucking that it was running very slowly. She warned me that if it slowed down too much, she would have to stop the process because it could make my vein collapse (I think that's what she said; it sounded pretty horrible anyway). Well, that is indeed what happened. The blood flow stopped before enough was collected, which meant that donation was virtually useless. All that discomfort for nothing! This, again, I was told, was probably due to not drinking enough water. I am, admittedly, not the most hydrated person in the world.

Back to yesterday. I got there, filled out all my forms, got through the interview, got the fingerstick to test my iron...all good (though that fingerstick hurts as much as anything else, bleagh!). I hopped up on the chair, and a volunteer brought me a bottle of water to drink while blood was being drawn. Good...I was NOT going to be dehydrated this time! The gal assigned to me started to clean my arm, and that is my cue to look away. Just look away, think about something else, anything at all but that freakin' sliver of metal being imbedded in my flesh. I warn her that I have tricky veins as she desperately hunts for a good place to stick the needle.

I feel a stick, wince, and then relax. The hard part is over...I thought. Then my gal says "Clarice....Clarice!" Clarice, another needle sticker, the supervisor I think, looks over from cleaning off some counters. "I need some help over here."

Ooooooooh...oh nooooooooooo....that's sort of the same as hearing a surgeon say "oops". I think I actually started moaning, even though I couldn't feel anything wrong yet. I just knew the needle was going to break off in my arm and I was going to have to have minor surgery to get it removed. I still have no idea exactly what the problem was, but Clarice came over and fiddled with the needle for a minute or two (OHHHHHHHHHHHH! No, don't move it around, I can feel that!!!!). At one point it became actually a little painful, but when I started saying I was feeling nauseated, Clarice flipped up the end of the seat so my feet were above my head and switched my water for some cherry Powerade. I don't know exactly why that is supposed to help nausea brought on my personal mind games, but I am now in love with cherry Powerade.

At the end, they filled a few smaller vials, I think for some new testing they are doing, and had some trouble with some of those. Of course. Icky feeling returned, but the volunteer lady brought me some more of that wonderful cherry Powerade...ahhh...OK. I am still alive. I felt like the biggest baby they've ever had walk through their door, but I've survived, once again. And I came home with a couple of souvenirs, which I'd like to share with you.


The bruise left by Nurse Ratchett. Not the biggest bruise I've ever had, but probably the ugliest. Note how far away it is from the needle hole. I have no idea why; I did not want to ask lest the answer bring me closer to puking my guts out.


The hip armband I got to make me feel better.

I also got a cool sticker to wear that says "Be nice to me: I gave blood today."

Part II: I am making my daughters in to shoe whores

It started out so innocently. Audrey was probably 18 months, and I realized that she had black patent leather for church, tennis shoes for play...but what would go with her cute little khaki pants? And I found an adorable pair of brown suede Mary Janes (at a consignment store, so I could justify them!) that solved that problem.

As she grew older, the problem also grew. What about her black stretch pants? And oh my gosh, THAT adorable pair of Mary Kate and Ashley sneakers is just TOO adorable for me not to buy for her, never mind that she already has a pair of perfectly good tennis shoes sitting at home, and these will go with one, maybe two outfits.

How many pairs of shoes does one child need (even if she is a GIRL child)?

I'm ashamed to show this next picture:



The answer, apparently, is eight.

I can explain.

The white sandals in front were her church shoes from this summer. So she won't even be wearing those for very much longer, right? The black boots in back and the black and pink clogs in front are hand-me-downs, so I didn't pay a THING for them. The black boots in front were bought to go with her black boot cut leggings (and I am trying not to giggle as I write that...yes, boot cut pants for a five-year-old, and she is ADORABLE in them), and I had forgotten about the other black hand-me-down boots when I bought them. These go better anyway (though she has complained that they give her blisters. Too bad; she'll soon learn it's a small price we pay for the glory of SHOES). The tennis shoes in back are, well, her tennis shoes, which, along with the black Mary Janes next to them, are probably the ONLY justifiable shoes I've bought her. The tan slip-ons in front are to go with her khakis and cords, and also with jeans when tennis shoes won't do. And the pink high tops in back? Those are my favorites. They were absolutely an indulgence (though at $8 from Walmart, who cares?), inspired by one of the characters in her Junie B. Jones book. They are my favorites of all of her shoes, reminding me of the Chuck Taylor high tops I wore in high school.

Want a better look? I thought so:



These do not even include the two (yes, two) pairs of summer play sandals she is still wearing while it's still nice enough (well, I bet YOU have a pair of white and a pair of brown sandals...don't you?)

And don't think the baby has escaped this either (and she's not even walking yet):



The two pairs in front are hand-me-downs as well; they were Audrey's five years ago. Which is absolutely unbelievable to me.