Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Yosemite Road Trip! Day Two, Southern California

Today was all about a lovely, scrumptious knee pain management injection for me, then relaxing with the kid and visiting with grandma.  When we got up, I could see the extent of the freeway construction that wasn't as evident last night in the dark.  Our window overlooked the 5 freeway, which had cranes lining it as far as the eye could see--and this was just a tiny section of it.

I was NOT looking forward to driving around in this.  But off we went, doctor first, where the kid got to watch as my pain mangement doc took a needle--TWO, actually--the size of a roofing nail and stuck it deep into my knee, something he usually does while his patients are under general anesthesia.  We've gotten to the point after all these years where he knows I'm not going to freak out or kick him in the head, so for me he doesn't put me under or otherwise drug me, he just rams that sucker into my knee as I make interesting faces.

The kid's eyes were bugging while we wait and I use a ball point pen to mark the most painful areas for injection.  All kinds of questions.
*pointing to big honkin' syringes* 'Is that going in your knee?!'
"How deep?!"
"Pretty darned deep.  Plus he has to poke around and get under and into places with it."
*Horrified face*  "Is he gonna use BOTH of them?"
"Doesn't it hurt?!"
"OH, yeah."

The doc comes in and gets right to it, expertly poking his finger into parts of my knee to make sure we agree on where it hurts, then swabbing my knee down.  In goes the needle, and I start with the faces.  The kid goggles.

Meanwhile, the doc and I are having a conversation.  This makes for more open-mouthed stares from the kid, especially when the doc leaves the syringe hanging from my knee to mark his spot while he turns to get the other syringe ready.

Ah, priceless child-freaking opportunities.  I force a maniacal grin through gritted teeth as the doc and I both chirp, "Yup!"
At this point I do believe that her eyes are going to fall out of her head at any moment.  "FOR HOW LONG?!"
I shrug nonchalantly. "Week or so."
Incredulous gurgling noises from the child who is incapable of speech at this point.

After this the doc turns back and swaps one syringe for the other and completes the procedure, after which, much to the kid's relief, we do not leave the office with a syringe dangling from my knee.

Afterwards we return to the hotel so the kid can take a promised swim in the pool and I can sit and fold origami and rest my knee and let the magic stuff percolate through it.  A few hours later we are off for a lovely visit with Grandma, during which Grandma gifts the kid with a well-loved stuffed dinosaur that's been around for years, then we take Grandma to dinner at her fav Italian place.

Later we wend our way back to the hotel, where as we enter the big double doors from the lobby, the night desk manager, Arturo, suddenly steps out and stops us.  He procedes to confiscate the big red stuffed dinosaur from the kid, telling her briskly, 'He can't come in here, he's been banned from the hotel, we've had complaints.'

The kid's jaw sags for the second time that day.  Poor kid, it's like she has a sign around her neck saying 'Hey, tease me!'

"Why not?" She says.
Arturo frowns a bit and explains.  "Well, guests are saying that he is running up and down the halls, knocking on doors and then running away.  Also he won't stay out of the pool and is being too noisy.  It's my job to keep troublesome red dinosaurs out of this nice hotel."
The kid is grinning now. "Is he eating key cards instead of cookies?"
Arturo rather reluctantly admits that this is so.

Eventually Arturo relents and allows the red dinosaur into the hotel if the kid promises he'll behave, and we go off to our room, giggling and armed with more fresh, hot cookies. The kid is galvanized and sits down to draw a picture for the staff of the adventures of the red dinosaur and to thank them for the great time she's had.  Meanwhile, as a treat we order dessert from room service.  The kid gets gelato, which she oohs and aahs over and proclaims is the best thing, anywhere, ever ever.

Meanwhile the troublesome red dinosaur, whom we have named Marriott, smirkingly guards the keycards but to his credit does not eat them.

The kid finishes her drawings, which she gifted to the desk clerk when we checked out the next morning.

Evil dinosaur:  Marriott.  Starts food fights, shakes trees to make leaves fall into the pool, eats key cards, knocks on room doors, then runs.

I don't think the kid will ever forget this hotel stay!

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