Ten years ago tonight, Himself and I first met.
We met at a Murder Mystery dinner. The first two things I found out about him were that he disliked bread and Italian food (we were having spaghetti and garlic bread - the first and last time the two of us ever ate that meal together).
I remember the first thing that came to my mind, "We have NOTHING in common." I was pretty quick to dismiss him as a result (in truth, I was pretty quick to dismiss ANY guy at that point in my life - I did not want to get married, and the surest way to that was to not go out with the same guy more than a couple of times). As it turns out, he was friends with my best friend's boyfriend (who then became fiance, husband and ex-husband - all before Himself and I were ever married), so it wasn't as easy to dismiss him as I thought it would be. And, as it turns out, we had far more in common than I thought.
He was excellent at the Murder Mystery game, and I was intrigued by how different he was from everyone else. We ended up talking for quite awhile after the event. In fact, talking(ironically, given Himself's hermit-like personality) was the hallmark of our early relationship. In fact, my roommates, at the end of my tenure at Warren Hall, gave me an award for being the "Most Likely to be Found Outside at 3 a.m. Deep in Conversation." Let's just say I didn't exactly get a lot of sleep that spring.
It's hard to believe it has been 10 years. Ten years ago, I was on a year-long break from college, trying to decide what to do next - working full-time in educational programming for the national 4-H organization and serving as the resident advisor to Warren Hall - a co-ed house for 24 college-aged youth. Himself was living the barracks at the Navy Hospital, working as a corpsman in the Navy and a vampire at one of the local hospitals.
In the 10 years since, Himself has moved four times, I have moved six times and we've moved collectively four times. We've worked for 16 companies between us, lived in three different states, a total of 10 cities and one aircraft carrier. We've been married six years, had a Siamese cat (Rameses), one child and will welcome a second one this year. We've driven tens of thousands of miles to pick up or drop off Grover and have driven the stretches of I-95 and Route 13 between VA and DE hundreds of times in that pursuit.
We have made and moved away from dozens of close friends ... which probably explains our reticence to work to find any new ones. We have written thousands of e-mails, used up hours on the phone and road-tripped to all sorts of cool places. We have laughed, loved, cried, fought, mourned and celebrated - and eaten our way through more amazing food than either of us probably should have.
More than that, in ten years we have grown. Given the adventures (good and bad) of the last 10 years, I'm looking forward to what the next 10 years holds for us.
I love you, Himself.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Voice of Angels
The other night I was driving home from dinner with friends and listening to a CD that I had dug out of a massive box of junk that somehow had made the move (and 7 months of habitation) without having been opened. It's not a CD I listen to often, the older I get, the less music I've found myself listening to, as my brain gets too busy to enjoy it (it's one of the hallmarks of my anxiety issue).
The second-to-last song came on, and I nearly had to pull over to listen to it. The song, "Who Will Be the Real Hero?" in and of itself is a rather forgettable song. Easy to sing along to, just sappy enough to make you feel warm and fuzzy. But it wasn't the song that nearly stopped me in my 65 mph tracks headed northbound in The Frontier. It was the memories that came flooding back.
The majority of my high school was a member of a single, locally prominent religion. As a result, the majority of students, during their "elective" period, took religion, offered across the street from campus. Because of the large number of students enrolled in the religion program, they had a council of a dozen or so seniors each year, who planned activities, peer involvement events and traveled to all the local congregations throughout the school year to speak during a church service.
I had the privilege of serving with some of the most incredible people on that council my senior year. Throughout the year, we tried (mostly unsuccessfully) to learn a hymn, which we could perform mid-way through our Sunday program when we visited local congregations. To say it was horrible is probably a little strong, but I'm not so sure I could call it "good" - we had a handful of musically-inclined people and a lot more not-so-musically-inclined people. But we tried. And getting a group of high school seniors to sing for a religious service period is kind of it's own miracle, so no one really complained.
However, the Sunday before graduation each year, the religion department held its own graduation, honoring students who had completed 3 and 4 years of elective religious study (another miracle). It was tradition for the council to sing. This meant we had to do something more complicated that the hymn we had lovingly tried to sing through the year - and it probably had to sound better.
We practiced. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. At the same time there was some (details now forgotten) drama among the ranks, causing even more stress than normal. Whispers of "this is never going to sound good at all" swirled through the group, as everyone (musically-inclined and not) wished for another option to show our dedication and appreciation.
The night of the event came. During our last rehearsal, we could barely be heard 3/4 of the way back in the congregation - and that was without any people filling their seats yet. We stumbled. We groaned. We sounded ... okay. But no one who wasn't lying (or our parents) was going to come up and tell us that we had contributed to the spirit of the meeting.
Immediately following the rehearsal, we gathered in prayer. Someone pleaded that we would be able to sound good and bring a good spirit. Then the graduation began, we took our seats and forgot about anything more than our individual tasks.
As we stood to sing, something changed. Something palpable settled down on us. When we opened our mouths, it wasn't our voices at all, but the voices of angels that reached out into the congregation. Our hearts filled with an amazing sense of love and peace.
When the night was over, we were met with astonished exclamations - from parents and our advisor (who had heard our woeful musical attempts enough to know it wasn't actually us singing) to random relatives and members of the audience, stunned by such a performance by an otherwise obviously rag tag group of teenagers.
The song we sang: "Who Will Be The Real Hero."
More than anything, hearing the song again, for the first time in years, brought back what happened AFTER the song had been sung and the crowds had departed. It brought back a memory I'm not sure I'd thought of since that night ... Of a crowd of teens, who had loved, struggled, learned and grown together for an entire year, who had just experienced a miracle. Of hugs and tears and wonder. Of disbelief, of faith, of hope and anticipation. A memory of clinging together in awe over the small miracle, in sadness that our time as a family of sorts was over, in hope that the goodness would remain in each of us.
I haven't seen the majority of that group in more than a decade, though I often wonder what they're up to. It was nice to have a quiet moment to remember such a significant point in time, when I was surrounded by incredible people, whose voices sounded like angels.
The second-to-last song came on, and I nearly had to pull over to listen to it. The song, "Who Will Be the Real Hero?" in and of itself is a rather forgettable song. Easy to sing along to, just sappy enough to make you feel warm and fuzzy. But it wasn't the song that nearly stopped me in my 65 mph tracks headed northbound in The Frontier. It was the memories that came flooding back.
The majority of my high school was a member of a single, locally prominent religion. As a result, the majority of students, during their "elective" period, took religion, offered across the street from campus. Because of the large number of students enrolled in the religion program, they had a council of a dozen or so seniors each year, who planned activities, peer involvement events and traveled to all the local congregations throughout the school year to speak during a church service.
I had the privilege of serving with some of the most incredible people on that council my senior year. Throughout the year, we tried (mostly unsuccessfully) to learn a hymn, which we could perform mid-way through our Sunday program when we visited local congregations. To say it was horrible is probably a little strong, but I'm not so sure I could call it "good" - we had a handful of musically-inclined people and a lot more not-so-musically-inclined people. But we tried. And getting a group of high school seniors to sing for a religious service period is kind of it's own miracle, so no one really complained.
However, the Sunday before graduation each year, the religion department held its own graduation, honoring students who had completed 3 and 4 years of elective religious study (another miracle). It was tradition for the council to sing. This meant we had to do something more complicated that the hymn we had lovingly tried to sing through the year - and it probably had to sound better.
We practiced. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. At the same time there was some (details now forgotten) drama among the ranks, causing even more stress than normal. Whispers of "this is never going to sound good at all" swirled through the group, as everyone (musically-inclined and not) wished for another option to show our dedication and appreciation.
The night of the event came. During our last rehearsal, we could barely be heard 3/4 of the way back in the congregation - and that was without any people filling their seats yet. We stumbled. We groaned. We sounded ... okay. But no one who wasn't lying (or our parents) was going to come up and tell us that we had contributed to the spirit of the meeting.
Immediately following the rehearsal, we gathered in prayer. Someone pleaded that we would be able to sound good and bring a good spirit. Then the graduation began, we took our seats and forgot about anything more than our individual tasks.
As we stood to sing, something changed. Something palpable settled down on us. When we opened our mouths, it wasn't our voices at all, but the voices of angels that reached out into the congregation. Our hearts filled with an amazing sense of love and peace.
When the night was over, we were met with astonished exclamations - from parents and our advisor (who had heard our woeful musical attempts enough to know it wasn't actually us singing) to random relatives and members of the audience, stunned by such a performance by an otherwise obviously rag tag group of teenagers.
The song we sang: "Who Will Be The Real Hero."
More than anything, hearing the song again, for the first time in years, brought back what happened AFTER the song had been sung and the crowds had departed. It brought back a memory I'm not sure I'd thought of since that night ... Of a crowd of teens, who had loved, struggled, learned and grown together for an entire year, who had just experienced a miracle. Of hugs and tears and wonder. Of disbelief, of faith, of hope and anticipation. A memory of clinging together in awe over the small miracle, in sadness that our time as a family of sorts was over, in hope that the goodness would remain in each of us.
I haven't seen the majority of that group in more than a decade, though I often wonder what they're up to. It was nice to have a quiet moment to remember such a significant point in time, when I was surrounded by incredible people, whose voices sounded like angels.
Friday, February 20, 2009
It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like ...
SPRINGTIME.
Okay, I realize it could, in theory, snow here until well into May. But I do believe our weeks of massive, three-day-long snowstorms are winding down. Something in the way the sun is tilted, and the way it lingers in the southern sky a bit longer these days. (Sidenote: three cheers to the congressman who decided to move Daylight Savings up to March - is it totally ridiculous? Absolutely. Do I love him for it? Anyone who gives me light is beloved in my camp.)
This morning, Woodstock woke up to the twitter of birds. As a matter of fact, she woke up yelling, "Birdies! Tweet tweet. Tweet tweet." Then wanted to go upstairs rightthisverysecond to investigate as to whether or not the birds could be seen. It's been months since the birds visited us before noon. We lie in the shadows of The Frontier's largest mountain range, and the sun doesn't reach us for awhile in the deepest freeze of winter.
Today, I'm working from home for a few hours - we had to leave the office as the server needed rebooting. No one has to tell me twice to leave early on a brilliantly sunny Friday afternoon. No one actually has to tell me to keep working either - Woodstock is napping and it's still too cold to actually enjoy the aforementioned sunshine.
Last February at this time, I was knitted deep in the throes of a bitterly cold, emotionally dark winter. And I was dreaming of lucious shrimp paneer - one of my all-time favorite comfort foods. Well, that and paneer masala at Bombay House. (If Jane is reading this, this would be the first recipe I want from your Indian excursion - in addition to a good dal). This February has flown by ... a rash of doctor's visits to confirm I wasn't dying (ha - I just might if my breakfast doesn't stay down), visits from my mom and sister, a speaking gig at a really cool event last night, in-law visits this weekend (*crickets*), and then ... end of the month.
And March means, at least according to the calendar/sun schedule - spring.
It's so exciting, Woodstock and I might just celebrate with steamed asparagus tonight. After all, it's my favorite spring veggie.
Okay, I realize it could, in theory, snow here until well into May. But I do believe our weeks of massive, three-day-long snowstorms are winding down. Something in the way the sun is tilted, and the way it lingers in the southern sky a bit longer these days. (Sidenote: three cheers to the congressman who decided to move Daylight Savings up to March - is it totally ridiculous? Absolutely. Do I love him for it? Anyone who gives me light is beloved in my camp.)
This morning, Woodstock woke up to the twitter of birds. As a matter of fact, she woke up yelling, "Birdies! Tweet tweet. Tweet tweet." Then wanted to go upstairs rightthisverysecond to investigate as to whether or not the birds could be seen. It's been months since the birds visited us before noon. We lie in the shadows of The Frontier's largest mountain range, and the sun doesn't reach us for awhile in the deepest freeze of winter.
Today, I'm working from home for a few hours - we had to leave the office as the server needed rebooting. No one has to tell me twice to leave early on a brilliantly sunny Friday afternoon. No one actually has to tell me to keep working either - Woodstock is napping and it's still too cold to actually enjoy the aforementioned sunshine.
Last February at this time, I was knitted deep in the throes of a bitterly cold, emotionally dark winter. And I was dreaming of lucious shrimp paneer - one of my all-time favorite comfort foods. Well, that and paneer masala at Bombay House. (If Jane is reading this, this would be the first recipe I want from your Indian excursion - in addition to a good dal). This February has flown by ... a rash of doctor's visits to confirm I wasn't dying (ha - I just might if my breakfast doesn't stay down), visits from my mom and sister, a speaking gig at a really cool event last night, in-law visits this weekend (*crickets*), and then ... end of the month.
And March means, at least according to the calendar/sun schedule - spring.
It's so exciting, Woodstock and I might just celebrate with steamed asparagus tonight. After all, it's my favorite spring veggie.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
One of Those Parents
One of my greatest fears is being one of those parents, but since I'm wildly opinionated and highly stubborn, I suppose it's probably inevitable at some point that someone won't agree with me. It's not like I haven't had 30 years of practice at it.
But this one makes me feel horribly guilty, even while doing it for the life and safety of my child ... I am the nursery treats enforcer.
Woodstock, while two weeks' shy of "legal" nursery-attending age, started nursery this past week, mostly because I wanted to warn the nursery leaders and children's sunday school leader of the "Treat Issue."
Unfortunately, people hear "peanut" and tune me out, patronizing me with, "Oh we never serve treats with peanuts, so don't worry," then promptly turn their backs, failing to realize my mouth is still moving like a fish gasping for breath out of water (even though we all know fish breathe through gills and not their mouths).
The problem is, it isn't just peanuts. Or it, is, technically, but it's not just the consumption of actual peanuts. I'm one of those very fortunate parents to have a child with a life-threatening allergy to something she if she so much as looks at the food (not quite, but touching it and rubbing her eye or kissing someone who has eaten peanuts is enough to cause a reaction). That means, if a parent bakes peanut butter cookies on a baking sheet two weeks ago and doesn't wash it in soap and hot water (you don't wash baking stones with soap) and then bakes cookies for nursery on it - it's enough to potentially cause an anaphylactic reaction in Woodstock. It means if they bring in Stouffer's animal crackers, which "may contain peanuts" and there is a sliver of a peanut - it is potentially enough to cause an anaphylactic reaction. And so forth.
It means at least two major brands of animal crackers are out. As are home-baked treats. Ritz bits of any kind. Bakery treats from store bakeries. Some cereals (did you know some kinds of Chex have peanut flour in them?). Anything with "processed on the same equipment as ..." or "may contain ...". And so forth.
And ... it's all speculation. It might be enough to trigger a reaction. It possibly could be a huge problem. But Woodstock has had two anaphylactic reactions to peanuts without ever having ingested an actual peanut in her life, so it's not exactly over-reacting, even if it feels like it.
I hate being the parent who has to be pushy and demanding to get someone to listen.
I hate being the parent who has to tape a note to the treat bucket with a ridiculous list of "thou shalt not bring..." because "Deathly Allergic to Peanuts" doesn't cast a wide enough net.
I hate being the parent that has to ask for a completely peanut- and nut-free nursery because keeping toddlers and pre-schoolers from "sharing" (er, stealing) each other's food is nearly impossible. And because if the peanut content is high enough, the other kids could cause a reaction in Woodstock just by swapping saliva (who thought they'd have to worry about that prior to tweendom?!). So none of the other kids can have it either. And that makes me feel like a real pain-in-the-rear-end.
I hate being the parent who worries every week if Woodstock is going to be okay. I have to do it five days a week (with slightly less obsession, but there was one scary moment on Valentine's Day where Woodstock got into the other kids' M&Ms).
I hate being the parent who sounds like she's crying wolf, with tales of epi pens and hospitals and swollen throats - evne though it's all true - because it sounds so ... over-dramatic.
I hate being that parent.
I've lived through one week of nursery. Roughly 95 more weeks to go (plus or minus a few). I'm just glad she's not deathly allergic to something like dairy or eggs or soy.
But this one makes me feel horribly guilty, even while doing it for the life and safety of my child ... I am the nursery treats enforcer.
Woodstock, while two weeks' shy of "legal" nursery-attending age, started nursery this past week, mostly because I wanted to warn the nursery leaders and children's sunday school leader of the "Treat Issue."
Unfortunately, people hear "peanut" and tune me out, patronizing me with, "Oh we never serve treats with peanuts, so don't worry," then promptly turn their backs, failing to realize my mouth is still moving like a fish gasping for breath out of water (even though we all know fish breathe through gills and not their mouths).
The problem is, it isn't just peanuts. Or it, is, technically, but it's not just the consumption of actual peanuts. I'm one of those very fortunate parents to have a child with a life-threatening allergy to something she if she so much as looks at the food (not quite, but touching it and rubbing her eye or kissing someone who has eaten peanuts is enough to cause a reaction). That means, if a parent bakes peanut butter cookies on a baking sheet two weeks ago and doesn't wash it in soap and hot water (you don't wash baking stones with soap) and then bakes cookies for nursery on it - it's enough to potentially cause an anaphylactic reaction in Woodstock. It means if they bring in Stouffer's animal crackers, which "may contain peanuts" and there is a sliver of a peanut - it is potentially enough to cause an anaphylactic reaction. And so forth.
It means at least two major brands of animal crackers are out. As are home-baked treats. Ritz bits of any kind. Bakery treats from store bakeries. Some cereals (did you know some kinds of Chex have peanut flour in them?). Anything with "processed on the same equipment as ..." or "may contain ...". And so forth.
And ... it's all speculation. It might be enough to trigger a reaction. It possibly could be a huge problem. But Woodstock has had two anaphylactic reactions to peanuts without ever having ingested an actual peanut in her life, so it's not exactly over-reacting, even if it feels like it.
I hate being the parent who has to be pushy and demanding to get someone to listen.
I hate being the parent who has to tape a note to the treat bucket with a ridiculous list of "thou shalt not bring..." because "Deathly Allergic to Peanuts" doesn't cast a wide enough net.
I hate being the parent that has to ask for a completely peanut- and nut-free nursery because keeping toddlers and pre-schoolers from "sharing" (er, stealing) each other's food is nearly impossible. And because if the peanut content is high enough, the other kids could cause a reaction in Woodstock just by swapping saliva (who thought they'd have to worry about that prior to tweendom?!). So none of the other kids can have it either. And that makes me feel like a real pain-in-the-rear-end.
I hate being the parent who worries every week if Woodstock is going to be okay. I have to do it five days a week (with slightly less obsession, but there was one scary moment on Valentine's Day where Woodstock got into the other kids' M&Ms).
I hate being the parent who sounds like she's crying wolf, with tales of epi pens and hospitals and swollen throats - evne though it's all true - because it sounds so ... over-dramatic.
I hate being that parent.
I've lived through one week of nursery. Roughly 95 more weeks to go (plus or minus a few). I'm just glad she's not deathly allergic to something like dairy or eggs or soy.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Curses
Less than 48 hours after Himself and I got married, I left on a nearly three-week business trip that had me jetting from VA to CA to Florida. I was gone all but three weeks of our first three months as a married couple. For the next year, I continued to travel extensively - 8-15 days a month, on average, 7 or 8 months out of the year.
So it really is Himself's turn to go away on business trips to exotic (ha!) destinations, dine at new restaurants, schmooze with complete strangers, and sleep in some anonymous hotel room.
Except, when I was doing it, I left Himself to look after our cat, Rameses.
My payback is I get to play single parent to a toddler - which is more than fine. Woodstock is a lovely toddler and it's really only like playing single parent for a couple of hours a day anyway. Not a big deal. Plus, we get to eat pasta for dinner and we get to eat all of the blackberries I bought by ourselves, because they certainly won't be good when Himself returns at week's end.
However, I seem to be cursed to fall apart physically when Himself takes his (now) monthly business trips. I had felt like the typical lousy pregnant woman over the weekend - the "morning" (code word for "all day") sickness keeps rearing it's ugly head and anything other than sweats hurts my now very tender, VERY bruised mid-section. But yesterday was new ... I woke up with stabbing abdominal pains and all manner of digestive protestations. We'll leave what could be a very colorful (and gross) description at merely that.
I dropped Himself off at the airport, then ventured to Happy Valley to celebrate my mom's birthday with her family (my mom and sister were in town for the weekend). I managed to get through the lunch without eating more than a few bites and therefore saving myself (and others) from any mid-meal bathroom dashes.
I bid adieu to the family, then drug Woodstock (half asleep) to one of those department store having crazy sales to look for cold-weather gear for her for next season.
On the way home, I was struck with absolute searing pain and narcolepsy and had to pull over in a grocery store parking lot to sleep for 40 minutes (Woodstock, fortunately, was also napping) in the car. I awoke to Woodstock saying "Mommy! All done! Woodstock all done!" As much as I wanted to sleep for another month, Woodstock was not about to let me - something about being strapped into a carseat for half the day.
I made it home, fed Woodstock leftovers and collapsed.
I woke up this morning with the digestive issues at a slightly duller roar, searing pain still alive and well. At least I've kept down cereal, but liquids are another (strange) matter.
Just like last time - fine until the day Himself leaves, then WHAM! some sort of ailment hits me out of nowhere.
Friday cannot come soon enough. Or, maybe I should just be realistic and say August. I'm really looking forward to August.
So it really is Himself's turn to go away on business trips to exotic (ha!) destinations, dine at new restaurants, schmooze with complete strangers, and sleep in some anonymous hotel room.
Except, when I was doing it, I left Himself to look after our cat, Rameses.
My payback is I get to play single parent to a toddler - which is more than fine. Woodstock is a lovely toddler and it's really only like playing single parent for a couple of hours a day anyway. Not a big deal. Plus, we get to eat pasta for dinner and we get to eat all of the blackberries I bought by ourselves, because they certainly won't be good when Himself returns at week's end.
However, I seem to be cursed to fall apart physically when Himself takes his (now) monthly business trips. I had felt like the typical lousy pregnant woman over the weekend - the "morning" (code word for "all day") sickness keeps rearing it's ugly head and anything other than sweats hurts my now very tender, VERY bruised mid-section. But yesterday was new ... I woke up with stabbing abdominal pains and all manner of digestive protestations. We'll leave what could be a very colorful (and gross) description at merely that.
I dropped Himself off at the airport, then ventured to Happy Valley to celebrate my mom's birthday with her family (my mom and sister were in town for the weekend). I managed to get through the lunch without eating more than a few bites and therefore saving myself (and others) from any mid-meal bathroom dashes.
I bid adieu to the family, then drug Woodstock (half asleep) to one of those department store having crazy sales to look for cold-weather gear for her for next season.
On the way home, I was struck with absolute searing pain and narcolepsy and had to pull over in a grocery store parking lot to sleep for 40 minutes (Woodstock, fortunately, was also napping) in the car. I awoke to Woodstock saying "Mommy! All done! Woodstock all done!" As much as I wanted to sleep for another month, Woodstock was not about to let me - something about being strapped into a carseat for half the day.
I made it home, fed Woodstock leftovers and collapsed.
I woke up this morning with the digestive issues at a slightly duller roar, searing pain still alive and well. At least I've kept down cereal, but liquids are another (strange) matter.
Just like last time - fine until the day Himself leaves, then WHAM! some sort of ailment hits me out of nowhere.
Friday cannot come soon enough. Or, maybe I should just be realistic and say August. I'm really looking forward to August.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
99 Things
1. Started your own blog - DONE
2. Slept under the stars - DONE
3. Played in a band - If you can put "symphony" in the same category as "band", then yes, I've done that.
4. Visited Hawaii -
5. Watched a meteor shower - DONE
6. Given more than you can afford to charity - DONE
7. Been to Disneyland/world - both DONE
8. Climbed a mountain - DONE
9. Held a praying mantis -DONE
10. Sang a solo - DONE
11. Bungee jumped -
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea -
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch -DONE (quilting)
15. Adopted a child -
16. Had food poisoning - DONE
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty - DONE (and even if they still allowed it, I'd never do it again)
18. Grown your own vegetables - DONE
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France -
20. Slept on an overnight train -
21. Had a pillow fight - DONE
22. Hitch hiked -
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill - DONE The day after I got married (long story)
24. Built a snow fort - DONE
25. Held a lamb - DONE
26. Gone skinny dipping - DONE (more than once)
27. Run a Marathon -
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice -
29. Seen a total eclipse - DONE
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset - DONE
31. Hit a home run - DONE (if backyard baseball counts)
32. Been on a cruise -
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person - DONE
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors -
35. Seen an Amish community -DONE
36. Taught yourself a new language - DONE (if 8 years of Spanish counts)
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied -
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person -
39. Gone rock climbing -
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David -
41. Sung karaoke - DONE
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt - DONE
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant -
44. Visited Africa -
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight - DONE
46. Been transported in an ambulance -
47. Had your portrait painted -
48. Gone deep sea fishing - DONE
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person -
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris -
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling -DONE
52. Kissed in the rain - DONE
53. Played in the mud - DONE
54. Gone to a drive-in theater - DONE
55. Been in a movie -
56. Visited the Great Wall of China -
57. Started a business -
58. Taken a martial arts class -
59. Visited Russia -
60. Served at a soup kitchen -
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies -
62. Gone whale watching -
63. Gotten flowers for no reason - DONE
64. Donated blood, platelets, plasma - DONE
65. Gone sky diving -
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp -
67. Bounced a check - DONE
68. Flown in a helicopter - DONE
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy - DONE
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial - DONE
71. Eaten Caviar - DONE
72. Pieced a quilt - DONE
73. Stood in Times Square -DONE
74. Toured the Everglades - DONE
75. Been fired from a job - DONE
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London -
77. Broken a bone -
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle -DONE
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person - DONE
80. Published a book -
81. Visited the Vatican -
82. Bought a brand new car - DONE
83. Walked in Jerusalem -
84. Had your picture in the newspaper - DONE
85. Read the entire Bible -
86. Visited the White House - DONE
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating -
88. Had chickenpox - DONE
89. Saved someone’s life -
90. Sat on a jury -
91. Met someone famous - DONE
92. Joined a book club - DONE
93. Lost a loved one - DONE
94. Had a baby - DONE
95. Seen the Alamo in person - DONE
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake - Eww, gross!
97. Been involved in a law suit - DONE
98. Owned a cell phone - DONE
99. Been stung by a bee- DONE
Guess I've lived a little. I've done more than half. There are a half-dozen things I could say "Never" to (like rock climbing and sky diving). Just not my cup of tea.
2. Slept under the stars - DONE
3. Played in a band - If you can put "symphony" in the same category as "band", then yes, I've done that.
4. Visited Hawaii -
5. Watched a meteor shower - DONE
6. Given more than you can afford to charity - DONE
7. Been to Disneyland/world - both DONE
8. Climbed a mountain - DONE
9. Held a praying mantis -DONE
10. Sang a solo - DONE
11. Bungee jumped -
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea -
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch -DONE (quilting)
15. Adopted a child -
16. Had food poisoning - DONE
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty - DONE (and even if they still allowed it, I'd never do it again)
18. Grown your own vegetables - DONE
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France -
20. Slept on an overnight train -
21. Had a pillow fight - DONE
22. Hitch hiked -
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill - DONE The day after I got married (long story)
24. Built a snow fort - DONE
25. Held a lamb - DONE
26. Gone skinny dipping - DONE (more than once)
27. Run a Marathon -
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice -
29. Seen a total eclipse - DONE
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset - DONE
31. Hit a home run - DONE (if backyard baseball counts)
32. Been on a cruise -
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person - DONE
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors -
35. Seen an Amish community -DONE
36. Taught yourself a new language - DONE (if 8 years of Spanish counts)
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied -
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person -
39. Gone rock climbing -
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David -
41. Sung karaoke - DONE
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt - DONE
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant -
44. Visited Africa -
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight - DONE
46. Been transported in an ambulance -
47. Had your portrait painted -
48. Gone deep sea fishing - DONE
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person -
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris -
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling -DONE
52. Kissed in the rain - DONE
53. Played in the mud - DONE
54. Gone to a drive-in theater - DONE
55. Been in a movie -
56. Visited the Great Wall of China -
57. Started a business -
58. Taken a martial arts class -
59. Visited Russia -
60. Served at a soup kitchen -
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies -
62. Gone whale watching -
63. Gotten flowers for no reason - DONE
64. Donated blood, platelets, plasma - DONE
65. Gone sky diving -
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp -
67. Bounced a check - DONE
68. Flown in a helicopter - DONE
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy - DONE
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial - DONE
71. Eaten Caviar - DONE
72. Pieced a quilt - DONE
73. Stood in Times Square -DONE
74. Toured the Everglades - DONE
75. Been fired from a job - DONE
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London -
77. Broken a bone -
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle -DONE
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person - DONE
80. Published a book -
81. Visited the Vatican -
82. Bought a brand new car - DONE
83. Walked in Jerusalem -
84. Had your picture in the newspaper - DONE
85. Read the entire Bible -
86. Visited the White House - DONE
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating -
88. Had chickenpox - DONE
89. Saved someone’s life -
90. Sat on a jury -
91. Met someone famous - DONE
92. Joined a book club - DONE
93. Lost a loved one - DONE
94. Had a baby - DONE
95. Seen the Alamo in person - DONE
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake - Eww, gross!
97. Been involved in a law suit - DONE
98. Owned a cell phone - DONE
99. Been stung by a bee- DONE
Guess I've lived a little. I've done more than half. There are a half-dozen things I could say "Never" to (like rock climbing and sky diving). Just not my cup of tea.
Monday, February 09, 2009
The Good, The Bad and the REALLY REALLY Ugly
One of the unique things about having multiple deep-vein clots is the significant damage it wreaks on one's vein. That, coupled with the lingering dull ache (a result of the blood coursing through the weakened vein) and the continuing risk of clots, made my doctor issue the dreaded order: compression stockings.
So it is that every morning before I get out of bed (note: must remember to shower at night - I forgot last night, got my stockings on this morning only to remember I had yet to shower - having to repeat the whole nightmarish process), I flop around like a dying fish in order to get the opaque, "nude" ("nude" if your skin is about 15 shades darker than mine is) stockings up to my upper thighs.
On the mornings I get up earlier than Himself, Himself does not seem to appreciate it so much, but they go on oh-so-much-easier before I get out of bed than after. (If there is such thing as "easier" and "compression stockings" in one breath).
There are, however, some good (if you squint your eyes, cock your head and hop up and down while thinking of them) things ... along with the bad and the really, really ugly.
The Good
Be afraid, be very, very afraid.
So it is that every morning before I get out of bed (note: must remember to shower at night - I forgot last night, got my stockings on this morning only to remember I had yet to shower - having to repeat the whole nightmarish process), I flop around like a dying fish in order to get the opaque, "nude" ("nude" if your skin is about 15 shades darker than mine is) stockings up to my upper thighs.
On the mornings I get up earlier than Himself, Himself does not seem to appreciate it so much, but they go on oh-so-much-easier before I get out of bed than after. (If there is such thing as "easier" and "compression stockings" in one breath).
There are, however, some good (if you squint your eyes, cock your head and hop up and down while thinking of them) things ... along with the bad and the really, really ugly.
The Good
- They keep my legs roasty-toasty warm in the frigid outdoor weather of The Frontier.
- My legs look skinnier - they're like really ugly spanx
- They are toeless and thigh-high, so my toes won't suffocate (I loathe wearing socks and only do so during the winter unless given no other choice). Additionally, I will not have to hoist them over my belly in later stages or deal with additional fabric on my stomach (another thing that drives me to the brink of insanity)
- They are, as I mentioned previously, "nude" v. the hospital white ones my grandmother wore a decade ago.
- As much as they keep my legs roasty, toasty warm in the winter, wearing thick compression hose in the summer - especially while 9 months pregnant in the truly miserable month of August - makes me want to run far, far away.
- They are EXPENSIVE - at a price tag more than every other pair of socks Himself, myself, Woodstock and half the neighborhood own combined
- I have to wear the prescription variety - the highest compression they make. This is equivalent to wrapping one's legs in thick rubber bands and smiling about it.
- They add an extra 10 minutes, per leg, to my morning routine, just to get the darn things on (all while envisioning thoughts of cutting off all circulation to my feet prior to successfully getting them all the way up my leg)
- Because they are trying to minimize further vein damage, as well as correct the damage that has already been done and prevent further clots, I have to wear them a minimum of eight months
- While they hide rather nicely (the "rather" is because what leftover fat/tissue they displace on my leg gets pushed up into my rear, giving me an odd-shaped behind) under trousers, I can only imagine the beauty-queen contestant I'm going to look like this summer with them screaming out from under my summer-weight, summer-length clothing.
I'm not much for one to worry about fashion, but I have a sneaky suspicion that the granny socks, my fat, pregnant belly (that is already dotted with pencil-, dime- and quarter-sized injection bruises), and maternity clothes that are never cute, regardless of how hard one tries, are going to combine to make me one hot mama this summer (in more ways than one). The fashion world will never quite be the same again.
Be afraid, be very, very afraid.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
One Hundred
Today, if he were alive, would be my grandfather's 100th birthday.
He was born at the tail-end of the lame-duck period of Teddy Roosevelt's presidency, a little more than a month before William H. Taft took the oath of office.
One hundred years ago, in 1909, the NAACP was founded. The first radio broadcast was transmitted via short-wave radio. The Navy opened its base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. The Manhattan bridge opened. Barry Goldwater, Benny Goodman, Jessica Tandy, Burl Ives, Errol Flynn were all born that year.
It seems a lifetime away - too far back to comprehend, and yet I am only two generations removed.
He dropped out of school in the eighth grade when his father died - to go to work and provide for his mother and his seven siblings. In 1923, it's just what you did when you were the eldest son.
As a young man, he was thinning sugar beets alongside a friend, when a bolt of lightning struck the ground between them. The bolt split and hit both of them. My grandfather lived. His friend did not.
He didn't marry until he was 42 years old and all of his siblings were grown, married and self-sufficient. My grandmother was 16 years his junior. His younger sister had a daughter marry the same year he did.
He loved people and animals - and made a living as a police officer, bus driver and farmer - generally working all three jobs simultaneously to provide for his wife and five children.
He made excellent candy and peanut brittle, never missed a deer hunt on horse and
As a kid I remember him in his big recliner, playing 'I've got your nose' and giggling at our horror-stricken faces. He was a big man - tall and larger than life - who delighted in children. I remember gleefully going to visit him on "the farm" - his big hands lifting me up to right Cheeto, the Shetland Pony. I remember him cutting the grass with a push mower, his penchant for growing huge vegetables and his love of rhubarb.
He was my mom's hero - they had a father-daughter bond unlike any I've ever seen before. She dreamed of growing up to become a policeman and owning horses. Instead, she became a librarian and married my father who really doesn't like horses.
He was gentle and kind and stubborn as a farm mule. My favorite memory of him was two months before he died - at my uncle's wedding reception. He cradled my day-old niece - one just come from heaven, one speedily headed that way. They sat, in perfect stillness, not needing words for their spirit to commune. Someone captured the moment on film, exactly the same way my heart did.
My last memory of him was a week or so before he died - he came down to attend my sister's baptism. He was a skeleton with skin, I hardly knew how to respond to this shrunken giant. On the way home, he developed a blood clot that put him immediately in the hospital - he lost his leg and never made it home.
He died on the day my dad planted three pine trees in our front yard - and every single time I go home, I look at those pine trees and think of him. Everyone else in my family thinks it's odd - to associate those pine trees with a man who never saw them - but I distinctly remember the day he died, and I distinctly remember dad outside planting those trees - grown tall and broad and thick now.
He died three months shy of his 83rd birthday. I was 13 years old - the oldest of the grandchildren - one of the only to remember him before he grew sick and frail. I remember my mom's devastation, my grandmother's steadfast refusal to ever again utter the words "joy" or "fun" after he passed. I penned a poem about his passing the night before the funeral - it was only then that I cried at his passing. He was the first direct relative I had lost to death. Grandpa died knowing only 8 of his 16 grandchildren.
It seems odd to me that my grandfather would be older than most of my friends' great-grandfathers. His grandparents crossed the plains as pioneers, a mere sixty years before he was born. His life seems so remote, so far away, so far removed from the modern, crazy world we live in today. He was an adult through the Great Depression, too old to serve in World War II, a senior citizen when my parents married.
In the centennial year of his birth, were he alive, my grandfather would welcome great-grandchildren #3 and #4. His home and farm have been long sold - after the passing of my grandmother more than six years ago. His possessions have all been divided among children and grandchildren. His siblings have all passed. What remains of his generation, his life, are memories and photographs - fleeting glimpses of the hard-working, gentle man who answered to the name Ed.
Happy 100th Birthday, Grandpa. We still miss you.
He was born at the tail-end of the lame-duck period of Teddy Roosevelt's presidency, a little more than a month before William H. Taft took the oath of office.
One hundred years ago, in 1909, the NAACP was founded. The first radio broadcast was transmitted via short-wave radio. The Navy opened its base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. The Manhattan bridge opened. Barry Goldwater, Benny Goodman, Jessica Tandy, Burl Ives, Errol Flynn were all born that year.
It seems a lifetime away - too far back to comprehend, and yet I am only two generations removed.
He dropped out of school in the eighth grade when his father died - to go to work and provide for his mother and his seven siblings. In 1923, it's just what you did when you were the eldest son.
As a young man, he was thinning sugar beets alongside a friend, when a bolt of lightning struck the ground between them. The bolt split and hit both of them. My grandfather lived. His friend did not.
He didn't marry until he was 42 years old and all of his siblings were grown, married and self-sufficient. My grandmother was 16 years his junior. His younger sister had a daughter marry the same year he did.
He loved people and animals - and made a living as a police officer, bus driver and farmer - generally working all three jobs simultaneously to provide for his wife and five children.
He made excellent candy and peanut brittle, never missed a deer hunt on horse and
As a kid I remember him in his big recliner, playing 'I've got your nose' and giggling at our horror-stricken faces. He was a big man - tall and larger than life - who delighted in children. I remember gleefully going to visit him on "the farm" - his big hands lifting me up to right Cheeto, the Shetland Pony. I remember him cutting the grass with a push mower, his penchant for growing huge vegetables and his love of rhubarb.
He was my mom's hero - they had a father-daughter bond unlike any I've ever seen before. She dreamed of growing up to become a policeman and owning horses. Instead, she became a librarian and married my father who really doesn't like horses.
He was gentle and kind and stubborn as a farm mule. My favorite memory of him was two months before he died - at my uncle's wedding reception. He cradled my day-old niece - one just come from heaven, one speedily headed that way. They sat, in perfect stillness, not needing words for their spirit to commune. Someone captured the moment on film, exactly the same way my heart did.
My last memory of him was a week or so before he died - he came down to attend my sister's baptism. He was a skeleton with skin, I hardly knew how to respond to this shrunken giant. On the way home, he developed a blood clot that put him immediately in the hospital - he lost his leg and never made it home.
He died on the day my dad planted three pine trees in our front yard - and every single time I go home, I look at those pine trees and think of him. Everyone else in my family thinks it's odd - to associate those pine trees with a man who never saw them - but I distinctly remember the day he died, and I distinctly remember dad outside planting those trees - grown tall and broad and thick now.
He died three months shy of his 83rd birthday. I was 13 years old - the oldest of the grandchildren - one of the only to remember him before he grew sick and frail. I remember my mom's devastation, my grandmother's steadfast refusal to ever again utter the words "joy" or "fun" after he passed. I penned a poem about his passing the night before the funeral - it was only then that I cried at his passing. He was the first direct relative I had lost to death. Grandpa died knowing only 8 of his 16 grandchildren.
It seems odd to me that my grandfather would be older than most of my friends' great-grandfathers. His grandparents crossed the plains as pioneers, a mere sixty years before he was born. His life seems so remote, so far away, so far removed from the modern, crazy world we live in today. He was an adult through the Great Depression, too old to serve in World War II, a senior citizen when my parents married.
In the centennial year of his birth, were he alive, my grandfather would welcome great-grandchildren #3 and #4. His home and farm have been long sold - after the passing of my grandmother more than six years ago. His possessions have all been divided among children and grandchildren. His siblings have all passed. What remains of his generation, his life, are memories and photographs - fleeting glimpses of the hard-working, gentle man who answered to the name Ed.
Happy 100th Birthday, Grandpa. We still miss you.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Except, that's not actually all ...
Woodstock's pending big-sisterhood is indeed thrilling, moreso after the drama of the last month passes.
However, it is somewhat baffling and miraculous. It took a year, obsessing, charting, doctor's visits galore, a miscarriage and drugs to bring Woodstock into existence.
This one ... well, let's just say it involved an adult night out and the apparent lining up of all the planets, a half million stars and good universal karma, AND the month of December (Grover and Woodstock are September babies, this one ... an August baby ... do the math) because, it just happened.
Just happened? To me? The kid who has know about her potential fertility issues for 15 years. Seriously? Clearly they got the wrong person. I'm not supposed to be able to have "surprises." It is supposed to involve a lot of work, drugs and agonizing to create a child(apparently nature got it backwords this time - the work, drugs and agonizing came after). Even the doctor was baffled. The first (of many) that I saw said, "You do realize this doesn't happen to severe PCOS patients, right? It's a miracle, because this just doesn't happen."
Yes, I know. Which is why I wasn't sure to feel gleeful or stunned when there were two lines on the stick, proclaiming that I did NOT have the stomach flu last month. The good thing about thinking one has the stomach flu and being in a state of blissful denial is that a good half of one's first trimester passes without actually realizing it. The second half, however, has made up for that.
I got to enjoy the prospect for all of about two weeks before the blood clots and resulting drama showed up. Between the medication, which makes me nauseated and the all day sickness, my weight is going in the wrong direction. Between the drugs and the $125 compression stockings I now (not-so-proudly) own, the weight of my wallet is also going in the wrong direction.
The clot issue has compounded both the symptoms and the complex nature of how hard a pregnancy is on a woman's body. But we have arms and legs on a body 1.5" long.
All of that aside, the drama and discomfort and inconvenience and cost doesn't really matter. We're having a baby. And that, above all else, is something I will NEVER take for granted. Ever.
However, it is somewhat baffling and miraculous. It took a year, obsessing, charting, doctor's visits galore, a miscarriage and drugs to bring Woodstock into existence.
This one ... well, let's just say it involved an adult night out and the apparent lining up of all the planets, a half million stars and good universal karma, AND the month of December (Grover and Woodstock are September babies, this one ... an August baby ... do the math) because, it just happened.
Just happened? To me? The kid who has know about her potential fertility issues for 15 years. Seriously? Clearly they got the wrong person. I'm not supposed to be able to have "surprises." It is supposed to involve a lot of work, drugs and agonizing to create a child(apparently nature got it backwords this time - the work, drugs and agonizing came after). Even the doctor was baffled. The first (of many) that I saw said, "You do realize this doesn't happen to severe PCOS patients, right? It's a miracle, because this just doesn't happen."
Yes, I know. Which is why I wasn't sure to feel gleeful or stunned when there were two lines on the stick, proclaiming that I did NOT have the stomach flu last month. The good thing about thinking one has the stomach flu and being in a state of blissful denial is that a good half of one's first trimester passes without actually realizing it. The second half, however, has made up for that.
I got to enjoy the prospect for all of about two weeks before the blood clots and resulting drama showed up. Between the medication, which makes me nauseated and the all day sickness, my weight is going in the wrong direction. Between the drugs and the $125 compression stockings I now (not-so-proudly) own, the weight of my wallet is also going in the wrong direction.
The clot issue has compounded both the symptoms and the complex nature of how hard a pregnancy is on a woman's body. But we have arms and legs on a body 1.5" long.
All of that aside, the drama and discomfort and inconvenience and cost doesn't really matter. We're having a baby. And that, above all else, is something I will NEVER take for granted. Ever.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Too Many Dead Brain Cells
Two words: Wicked. Insomnia.
Combined with a couple of medical issues and ... whoo boy, am I grumpy and flaky and in posession of far too many dead brain cells.
For instance ...
Yesterday I spent the better part of my day proclaiming Five Guys as one of the premier burger places via Twitter. Somehow, a group of us decided to have a Tweetup at FiveGuys next week - a bunch of social media geeks who know each other only by Twitter handles and virtual interaction via a social media networking organization.
It was a slow day and ... lately burgers (shocking) have sounded wonderful.
Except, it spilled over into today (ever tried to arrange a meeting with six people via Twitter? You run out of characters before you finish doing the @replies), and today is most definitely not slow, except in the processing facilities inside my foggy head.
In the midst of burger-and-work madness, I've already blown of a meeting today (fortunately rescued by the skin of my teeth when the visitor popped his head in my office on his way to the meeting and said, "I'm excited for today's meeting." Um, yes, me too...WHAT MEETING?!)
As I've mentioned before, this is the year of more doctor's visits than I can possibly keep track of, which is why I should not have been at all perplexed when a representative from the hospital system called me to register for my "upcoming procedure."
Um, what?!
Of course, HIPPA laws being what they are, the hospital couldn't tell me exactly what procedure I've been scheduled for - or when - so I had to play elimination. Probably not something I scheduled. That eliminates Friday's appointment. Probably not something my doctor scheduled. That eliminates a couple of other appointments. Hmmm...but there is the doctor's appointment tomorrow - the one where I don't actually have a physical address for the office and where I'm not sure if I need to do anything in advance.
I pick that one. The hospital lady says "Ding! Ding! Ding!" (in so many words) and then it's time to play "Which Procedure Might the Doctor Have Scheduled for You at the Hospital?" Except, well, truly I have no idea. So I hang up and call the doctor's office, telling them that I have two very dumb questions.
1. "Can you give me your address - I have an appointment and have zero idea where to go." She laughs and tells me it's in the biggest hospital in the valley - you know the one you can see from the Interstate miles away? Oh. That would be what IMC Suite 101 stands for as well as explain the vague response I got when I asked my doctor what the street address was - the hospital takes up four city blocks.
2. "The hospital wants to know what procedure I'm having tomorrow - at this point, I think I'm rather curious as well." The receptionist laughed. "They've jumped the gun. We just have you down as a "possible" - not going to send you unless we determine you need it." Comforting. It wasn't something I forgot.
Of course, she couldn't promise the visit wouldn't involve needles (I still have a 4" bruise from my last encounter with a lab TWO WEEKS ago, compliments of the anti-clotting meds. And my tummy looks like a dartboard in a poorly lit bar (where no one hits the same place twice).
On top of that, I have a major proposal due today - one for a major brand-name publishing house and a major musician. One that is coming at an agonizingly slow pace. It seems I've forgotten how to segment strategies, tactics and technical schemas with all the dead/leaky brain cells lately.
And it seems I've forgotten how to sleep. I am tired, so very, very tired.
But I'm having Five Guys next week - and a very long doctor's visit tomorrow. It's the variety that keeps one's life spicy ... isn't it? See. I have accomplished something. Just not anything that counts at the moment.
Any good remedies for reincarnating dead brain cells?
Combined with a couple of medical issues and ... whoo boy, am I grumpy and flaky and in posession of far too many dead brain cells.
For instance ...
Yesterday I spent the better part of my day proclaiming Five Guys as one of the premier burger places via Twitter. Somehow, a group of us decided to have a Tweetup at FiveGuys next week - a bunch of social media geeks who know each other only by Twitter handles and virtual interaction via a social media networking organization.
It was a slow day and ... lately burgers (shocking) have sounded wonderful.
Except, it spilled over into today (ever tried to arrange a meeting with six people via Twitter? You run out of characters before you finish doing the @replies), and today is most definitely not slow, except in the processing facilities inside my foggy head.
In the midst of burger-and-work madness, I've already blown of a meeting today (fortunately rescued by the skin of my teeth when the visitor popped his head in my office on his way to the meeting and said, "I'm excited for today's meeting." Um, yes, me too...WHAT MEETING?!)
As I've mentioned before, this is the year of more doctor's visits than I can possibly keep track of, which is why I should not have been at all perplexed when a representative from the hospital system called me to register for my "upcoming procedure."
Um, what?!
Of course, HIPPA laws being what they are, the hospital couldn't tell me exactly what procedure I've been scheduled for - or when - so I had to play elimination. Probably not something I scheduled. That eliminates Friday's appointment. Probably not something my doctor scheduled. That eliminates a couple of other appointments. Hmmm...but there is the doctor's appointment tomorrow - the one where I don't actually have a physical address for the office and where I'm not sure if I need to do anything in advance.
I pick that one. The hospital lady says "Ding! Ding! Ding!" (in so many words) and then it's time to play "Which Procedure Might the Doctor Have Scheduled for You at the Hospital?" Except, well, truly I have no idea. So I hang up and call the doctor's office, telling them that I have two very dumb questions.
1. "Can you give me your address - I have an appointment and have zero idea where to go." She laughs and tells me it's in the biggest hospital in the valley - you know the one you can see from the Interstate miles away? Oh. That would be what IMC Suite 101 stands for as well as explain the vague response I got when I asked my doctor what the street address was - the hospital takes up four city blocks.
2. "The hospital wants to know what procedure I'm having tomorrow - at this point, I think I'm rather curious as well." The receptionist laughed. "They've jumped the gun. We just have you down as a "possible" - not going to send you unless we determine you need it." Comforting. It wasn't something I forgot.
Of course, she couldn't promise the visit wouldn't involve needles (I still have a 4" bruise from my last encounter with a lab TWO WEEKS ago, compliments of the anti-clotting meds. And my tummy looks like a dartboard in a poorly lit bar (where no one hits the same place twice).
On top of that, I have a major proposal due today - one for a major brand-name publishing house and a major musician. One that is coming at an agonizingly slow pace. It seems I've forgotten how to segment strategies, tactics and technical schemas with all the dead/leaky brain cells lately.
And it seems I've forgotten how to sleep. I am tired, so very, very tired.
But I'm having Five Guys next week - and a very long doctor's visit tomorrow. It's the variety that keeps one's life spicy ... isn't it? See. I have accomplished something. Just not anything that counts at the moment.
Any good remedies for reincarnating dead brain cells?
Monday, February 02, 2009
It's Probably Not Going to Be Such a Good Day If ...
It's probably not going to be such a good day if ...
Can we just forget this and start again tomorrow?
- You start it off with wicked acid reflux and insomnia - both fueling the other.
- Woodstock wakes up at 5 a.m., inconsolable, leading you to haul her into your bed, if only to lie horizontally while trying to comfort her
- Instead of sleeping, Woodstock practices her educational pursuits by naming all the parts of your anatomy - including exhibiting frustration at not being able to dig deep enough to find your belly button.
- Himself takes up his whole half of the bed - residing just on the "middle line," while Woodstock sprawls out on 3/4 of the remaining half of the bed - leaving just enough room for your right butt cheek and one arm.
- 10 minutes before your alarm is supposed to go off (not that you've slept more than a couple of hours all night), Woodstock pops up and declares, "Food?! Food!"
- You realize you didn't get Woodstock's milk to take to Miss Jan's today, so you have to leave early to get some on the way
- Seconds before you are ready to leave, you decide to brush your teeth, turning your eagle eye away from Woodstock for a split-second only to hear a horrible "thud" and a moaning wail emenating from the floor - three feet below where Woodstock was a milisecond ago. You cradle Woodstock, watching the bruise/goose egg show up on her head while Himself runs the basic neuro-function tests to determine that Woodstock is fine you are never going be trusted to keep an eye on her again
- You already didn't want to go to work because your stomach feels suspect, your leg still isn't quite right and your head is stuffed with cotton from lack of sleep - and now all you want to do is snuggle Woodstock until her head no longer bears the reminder of your stupidity.
- Your stupidity and the resulting inability to separate yourself from Woodstock makes you 15 minutes late to work and the only reason that you're not later is because you forgot to pick up her milk
- You have a "first thing" meeting (which you arrive late to), then a meeting after that, then one after that ... and all you can think of is your bed and Woodstock's goose egg that screams "Bad parent! Didn't pay attention! Knew better!" over and over to every passer-by.
- The house is a pig-sty from the housework restriction you've been on and all you really want to do tonight is feed Woodstock comfort food and snuggle with her for hours
Can we just forget this and start again tomorrow?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)