Juicebox woke up this morning and told me that he had a bad dream, one of volcanoes and ‘blowing up’. He then proceeded to impart upon MastaG and myself his extensive knowledge of volcanoes.
He told us that there is lava in them. He told us that lava is bad news. He told us that they grow up out of the ground, and that they’re very dangerous, and that you don’t want to be near one. He told us that they make mountains.
He told us that there are girl volcanoes and boy volcanoes. The girl volcanoes are the ones that have closed up and don’t shoot lava out.
The boy volcanoes are the ones that do.
Hmm.
—
I think I’ve been having nightmares myself. It involves being in a large crowd, maybe at an anticipated outdoor music festival, and hearing the incredibly amplified voice of Metallica’s James Hetfield say “WHO CAME TO BONNAROO TO HEAR SOME FUKKIN METAL?!?!?!?“
They then proceed to play some fukkin metal and chase me with RIAA lawyers. I escape, only to be blocked by Eddie Vedder, wearing a polo shirt and brandishing golf clubs.
I wake up screaming. I managed to convince the Ladyfriend that it was just another giant robots dream.
Theres no need to put something this heavy on that girl…
A while back, I noticed that Camera Shy was getting Google hits on some….less than desirable….search terms. Curious to find out why, I clicked on some of the searches and found little tidbits like this:
Okay.
I don’t necessarily like folks searching for such lovelies ending up on my site, so I told Wordpress to block my site from all search engines. Lo-and-behold, the explicit searches keep coming (while legitimate searches are indeed blocked).
Can someone out there help me understand why this is happening, and perhaps even help me to fix it?
I’ve heard of beers gone bad, but have never experienced one myself. The Missus brought home a six pack of Shiner Hefeweizen after her Thursday night out that just tastes really… funky.
It’s been a while since I had a Hefeweizen and I don’t remember them tasting this bad.
Last night, I was watching Gimme Shelter about the Altamont concert, the bookend on the left side of that whole hippie movement, with its scenes of fear, ugliness, and brutality. A buncha people my age, drunk, drugged up, wanting to listen to some Jefferson Airship and Rolling Stones, while Hells Angels and other thugs beat the hell out of people with pool sticks and chains, and ultimately stab a guy to death for pulling out a pistol.
Ugly scene, man. After my time at Bonnaroo, I can relate to the fear that those people’d have if a crowd like that went sideways. Pressed in, no way out, trying to have eyes on all sides just to make sure some crazy, speedfreak drunk doesn’t jump you and kick all your teeth out. The only security are the people doing the kicking, and all the bands can do is say things like “Lets just all be cool, people, lets be cool and we’ll play some more music.”
Bad juju.
Its probably not what I needed on my psyche last night, after the week I’ve had, lemme tell you…
I’m stressing about the boy, folks, with worse case scenarios rolling around in my head, drilling a hole through my stomach. I spent the last few weeks, month even, in a happier state than I’ve been in in a long, long time, but one credible risk to one of my kids, and man, its back down to ‘charlie in the trees’ kinda stress.
He’s feeling fine, had no physiological symptoms to his reaction other than the contact dermititis where the ink was on him and some slight swelling, which the doc said was normal for an allergic reaction, but I’m willing to bet that the allergist I’m trying to get a referral to is going to say that he has a PPD allergy, which will be a lifetime sensitivity riding around his neck like a rabid albatross. All because I agreed with him and Pigpen that it’d be cool to get a big tattoo. And it did look cool too people, lemme tell you.
The stress is getting to me, tho, and I’m having a hard time shaking it off. I’m snapping at people for minor transgressions, both real and imaginary, my shoulders are tense, and no matter how much I stretch, or meditate, or use those techniques I’ve honed to settle my ass down, the knot is still there in my stomach, and my shoulders ache.
After I see the allergist, I’m telling myself I’ll feel better. Maybe get the kids spending the night at the in-laws (who I completely forgot to inform of this until last night, something that adds another level of guilt to my situation) this weekend, and I can silently freak out for a while and get it out of my system. Or drink heavily. One or the other.
I’m telling myself that MastaG feels fine, and that I’m overthinking the issue. That even if it is an allergy to PPD, it’ll just mean that there will be a finite list of things, hair dye (if his hair ends up as black as mine, hair dye won’t really be an issue), nail polish (no emo kids in my house), some black dyes on t-shirts and such (I already wash shirts before anybody wears em).
I’m telling myself that its just a small matter, an allergic reaction that might never come back. But I keep remembering how BJ and I agreed that she had the flu, and even when we took her to the ER that Thursday, we were just going to get some fluids in her, maybe some medicine, and she’d be home.
Then I think of the next day, the Friday when I first heard “life-threatening”, and I realize that there won’t be a time in my life when my loved ones are sick that I’ll take easily.
