Well, J is back on call as of 6:30 AM this morning. He has traded one virus for another as well. Having recovered from gastro on our vacation, he now has a head filled with green sticky fluid. Niiiccee!!! Ah, the joys of working in a cess pool called "hospital."
Yesterday we went on one of those married dates. You know, the ones where you pretend you are still courting one another, but the kiss on the doorstep is rather anticlimactic as you both enter the same house and you know you are going to bed together. None-the-less, we had a great time.
We went to see "Enchanted." About half way through the movie I realized that the last two movies we actually bought tickets for were both Disney movies. I believe we saw the rat one when you still wore shorts outside...it was that long ago. Either: a) J and I need such blatant excuses to escape reality into fantasy where there are happily ever afters, b) We are ready to have kids because we truly opt to spend free time in movies that are limited to PG, or c) We've been brainwashed by Walt himself from the grave to support the Mickey empire. It was actually a cute (predictable) movie and it was worth seeing if only to watch Amy Adams who truly deserves that nomination. She must have watched animated princess movies 1000+ times just to get those expressions of glee down.
We decided to step it up a notch on the grown-up scale and head to the IMA for the largest exhibition from the Louvre. It was on the Roman empire and of course we waited until the 5th to last day. It was packed and we waited in line for about 20 minutes before getting to the first room. I'm ashamed to say that I dabble in Art History because by room #2, all of the relief work and marble busts missing noses were beginning to blend together. All I could remember was some concept called "contrapposto" where the sculptor is able to distribute the figure's weight proportionately and they aren't leaning on some stick that is disguised to look like a tree log to keep them upright. The Romans didn't quite get this concept down yet. All I remember about Roman history is that Constantine made Christianity THE religion of the State and one of the emperors, Caligula, (sounds like a STD name to me) went crazy and declared his horse a senator. Both facts are true.
As we stood in front of a large map showing the expansiveness of the Roman empire a mother was explaining to her young son what it was.
"Where's Indiana?" The little boy asked.
This raised a bit of a chuckle from all of the nearby visitors. Afterwards I was giggling a bit about the child's remark in the car.
"I didn't know whether to think it was cute or be appalled." J commented. To be honest, I didn't pay attention to how old the kiddo was to even assess that. I'll probably go with the "cute" variety, myself, given that those who fall below on the bell curve wouldn't even be in an art exhibit from the Louvre with their child.
Lately I've been extremely kid-hungry and unless the child is simply deplorable, it hasn't been satiated by even hanging around the ankle-biters. This comes from a person who would pass off her babysitting jobs often because she didn't like children! (Ironic that I ended up specializing in peds, I realize.) And yet, I realize I have about another year before we even begin planning for a family. Anti-malaria drugs + pregnancy + third world country = BAD.
In the meantime, I'll still be watching the Disney films and making boxed macaroni and cheese a la Trader Joes.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Chaos 2007
Best parts of Christmas 2007 (in no particular order)
1) Edgar being able to fly with us.
2) The annual Big Lebowski festival with king crab, champagne, and what else but white russians.
3) Dinner at Roy's in the Minneapolis airport (quite yummy and elegant truly)
4) Getting my hair cut with The Jerry
5) Seeing my Dad's side of the family
6) My father suggesting that J do crosswords to help develop his language skills, to which J replied, "Because my vocabulary is a paucity."
7) Having a glass of wine with Ginny
8) Watching Edgar bound in the snow with the new puppy
9) Flannel sheets and the smell of fresh pine trees and falling snow
10) Watching my nephew sprinkle "reindeer dust" in order to attract Rudolph. (It was glitter)
11) Going for nachos and beer with my mom and dad
12) Having mom remember the small things like what kind of cereal I like
13) Having a white Christmas
14) Watching everyone's expression when they opened our gifts
15) Coming home
1) Edgar being able to fly with us.
2) The annual Big Lebowski festival with king crab, champagne, and what else but white russians.
3) Dinner at Roy's in the Minneapolis airport (quite yummy and elegant truly)
4) Getting my hair cut with The Jerry
5) Seeing my Dad's side of the family
6) My father suggesting that J do crosswords to help develop his language skills, to which J replied, "Because my vocabulary is a paucity."
7) Having a glass of wine with Ginny
8) Watching Edgar bound in the snow with the new puppy
9) Flannel sheets and the smell of fresh pine trees and falling snow
10) Watching my nephew sprinkle "reindeer dust" in order to attract Rudolph. (It was glitter)
11) Going for nachos and beer with my mom and dad
12) Having mom remember the small things like what kind of cereal I like
13) Having a white Christmas
14) Watching everyone's expression when they opened our gifts
15) Coming home
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Flue-id Commotion
Many of you may remember last year's blog entry about combustible Christmas trees. I will say I felt a bit vindicated when this story was recapitulated around my family's dinner table and BOTH my sibling and my mother said, "Wait, so you mean they don't just spontaneously combust?" Thank God I wasn't the only one who believed Ginny's wives tale.
How I thought that would have been the end of my embarrassment of Christmas fire stories. Then last night happened.
J was post call and was sound asleep when I got home from work. I thought it would be nice to have him wake up to the scent of yummy beef burgundy stew, a nice glass of red wine waiting for him, and the warmth of the fire on a chilly winter night. I got the fire log out of the garage and began to get things ready for dinner.
In my credit (and defense) I did check the flue. I opened and closed it a number of times and even tried to look up the chimney to make sure it was open however it was dark outside so really I couldn't tell. The opening and closing of the flue was rather noisy and I didn't want to wake my slumbering husband with all that racket so I stopped. Instead I started the fire and watched the smoke. Yup, it seemed to be going up the chimney. And with that, I went back to do dinner preparations.
Not too long into my herb chopping and Brussels sprout peeling did I begin to wonder if I had turned on the oven and something was just charred on the bottom. Then I noticed the curls of smoke quite visible in the kitchen lights. It was at that moment that all of the fire alarms went off. I guess the flue wasn't quite open. Yes, the smoke went UP the chimney, but then built up and came back DOWN the chimney as well.
By now, we have a roaring healthy fire in the fireplace and my husband is up running around looking quite pissed and surprised. He later stated that he was having a dream and thought that the alarms had something to do with the Germans coming and he was at war. Now, granted, he was quite sleepy and was quite focused on shutting off the alarms. I was more concerned with the flue and the fire and not wanting to put my hand anywhere near the flame to open the flue. In fact, I was pretty paralyzed with fear about this whole fire thing although at least I was paying attention to the most likely solution vs. the alarm. Edgar was now cowering under the table with all of the noise. I actually flashed upon my previous entry of Edgar being trapped in a fire while he was at the kennel at this point in time.
I also realized that I had washed all of our oven mitts and pot holders so I began to dig those out of the dryer as I thought that they would protect my husband's hands as he opened the flue. Again, I was more likely to call the fire dept than do this myself. I finally got J's attention and asked if he would stop working on shutting up the alarm, but instead work on the flue. I also began to open up all windows, doors, etc. Surprisingly, Edgar did not run out of the house and instead just slinked around like he did something wrong. Poor dude.
Oh dear. This was NOT the evening I had intended. After all of the commotion died down I was pretty upset. I apologized profusely and tried to calm down. I could also hear my father's voice in my head, "That was so stupid!" As if I really meant to do something like that on purpose.
The house aired out quickly and I opened a bottle of wine while my husband began to write in the soot all over our mantle before cleaning it. I think it was his way of making light of the situation which worked...well, that and 3/4 of a bottle of Syrah worked wonders. While my pyrophobia isn't better now (in fact, its much worse) my husband pointed out that now I can have confidence I can start a roaring fire.
How I thought that would have been the end of my embarrassment of Christmas fire stories. Then last night happened.
J was post call and was sound asleep when I got home from work. I thought it would be nice to have him wake up to the scent of yummy beef burgundy stew, a nice glass of red wine waiting for him, and the warmth of the fire on a chilly winter night. I got the fire log out of the garage and began to get things ready for dinner.
In my credit (and defense) I did check the flue. I opened and closed it a number of times and even tried to look up the chimney to make sure it was open however it was dark outside so really I couldn't tell. The opening and closing of the flue was rather noisy and I didn't want to wake my slumbering husband with all that racket so I stopped. Instead I started the fire and watched the smoke. Yup, it seemed to be going up the chimney. And with that, I went back to do dinner preparations.
Not too long into my herb chopping and Brussels sprout peeling did I begin to wonder if I had turned on the oven and something was just charred on the bottom. Then I noticed the curls of smoke quite visible in the kitchen lights. It was at that moment that all of the fire alarms went off. I guess the flue wasn't quite open. Yes, the smoke went UP the chimney, but then built up and came back DOWN the chimney as well.
By now, we have a roaring healthy fire in the fireplace and my husband is up running around looking quite pissed and surprised. He later stated that he was having a dream and thought that the alarms had something to do with the Germans coming and he was at war. Now, granted, he was quite sleepy and was quite focused on shutting off the alarms. I was more concerned with the flue and the fire and not wanting to put my hand anywhere near the flame to open the flue. In fact, I was pretty paralyzed with fear about this whole fire thing although at least I was paying attention to the most likely solution vs. the alarm. Edgar was now cowering under the table with all of the noise. I actually flashed upon my previous entry of Edgar being trapped in a fire while he was at the kennel at this point in time.
I also realized that I had washed all of our oven mitts and pot holders so I began to dig those out of the dryer as I thought that they would protect my husband's hands as he opened the flue. Again, I was more likely to call the fire dept than do this myself. I finally got J's attention and asked if he would stop working on shutting up the alarm, but instead work on the flue. I also began to open up all windows, doors, etc. Surprisingly, Edgar did not run out of the house and instead just slinked around like he did something wrong. Poor dude.
Oh dear. This was NOT the evening I had intended. After all of the commotion died down I was pretty upset. I apologized profusely and tried to calm down. I could also hear my father's voice in my head, "That was so stupid!" As if I really meant to do something like that on purpose.
The house aired out quickly and I opened a bottle of wine while my husband began to write in the soot all over our mantle before cleaning it. I think it was his way of making light of the situation which worked...well, that and 3/4 of a bottle of Syrah worked wonders. While my pyrophobia isn't better now (in fact, its much worse) my husband pointed out that now I can have confidence I can start a roaring fire.
Monday, December 17, 2007
S is for Snowman and Shivering Scotties
Yes, this is a very pissed off Edgar in front of our snowman. As predicted, our debate of getting a tree has been eclipsed by the simple fact that we only have 4 days to enjoy said tree before getting on a plane and thus a wasted effort. In attempt to redeem ourselves, I dragged my husband outside yesterday to build a snowman. Nothing like two 32 year olds trying to play in the snow. We got a couple of odd looks from neighbors driving by.
I will admit we cheated and used the ice blocks that the plow had left, stacked them, and then just packed snow around them. Hey, it works. Somehow we were able to coax Edgar to pose with the lopsided snowman although he wasn't really happy about it and was truly shivering...should have put on his red sweater for the snow playtime.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
I'm Dreaming of a Warm Christmas
Well, I can report that J and I finally hung up the garlands. The tree is still an issue in limbo. Now instead of having three boxes in our living room filled with decorations, the big giant one is now empty...but still in the middle of our living room. I'm beginning to think of stacking the boxes on top of one another to form a pyramid and decorating those as the Christmas tree instead.
I just read that Christmas is only 17 days away. On some level that sucks. It is raining cats and dogs outside which doesn't exactly match the holiday scene. Although, it is a vast improvement from last year when we had to turn on our air conditioning for the Christmas party we threw for our three friends: a Jew, a Muslim, and an Atheist. They all appreciated their Christmas ornaments I attached to their napkin rings.
This year, J has Christmas off, which is great. I think... We booked our tickets home on Northwest. Like all airlines, they have a temperature restriction for animals. Highly understandable. I took this into account last year when we booked and made sure we connected through Cincinnati rather than the Twin Cities for example. The last thing I wanted was to show up with Edgar in his cute crate and sweater for them to reject him. This year I gambled, crossed my fingers, toes, and whatever else, then prayed to whatever God/Angel/Deity I could think of when I purchased the tickets. Northwest's hub is Minneapolis/St. Paul.
Friday I began to abandon my magical thinking and did some research. The prognostic indicator of Edgar accompanying us is poor. I then began madly calling kennels. One guy told me that his waiting list was over 90 people long. I did make reservations (finally) but then became extremely upset thinking of Edgar in a metal box for 6 days. I didn't have this problem with all other childhood animals. Henry, my first dog, actually LOOKED FORWARD and would GET EXCITED about going to the kennel. We would know this when he would pick up on the scent and start dancing around the car as we got closer to his dog camp. He'd come back hoarse from barking non-stop and looking extremely pleased with himself.
Last year one of our local animal hospitals caught fire and they just reopened a couple of months ago. I don't think they had boarding there, but I began to freak out: what if the place I have Edgar's reservation catches fire? He'd be trapped in that metal cage!! (I think I'm premenstrual as well so the thought of this really sends me over the edge.) What I forget is that ANY place could catch fire. Fire is my biggest fear. I would spend hours at night as a little girl thinking of potential escape plans from my bedroom and actually bought my parents a fire extinguisher for Christmas one year. However, if this is how I'm thinking about my dog, what does it say about my future parenting???
At this point in time, I'm just going to keep my fingers crossed for high temperatures on 12/20 and 12/26 - our travel dates.
I just read that Christmas is only 17 days away. On some level that sucks. It is raining cats and dogs outside which doesn't exactly match the holiday scene. Although, it is a vast improvement from last year when we had to turn on our air conditioning for the Christmas party we threw for our three friends: a Jew, a Muslim, and an Atheist. They all appreciated their Christmas ornaments I attached to their napkin rings.
This year, J has Christmas off, which is great. I think... We booked our tickets home on Northwest. Like all airlines, they have a temperature restriction for animals. Highly understandable. I took this into account last year when we booked and made sure we connected through Cincinnati rather than the Twin Cities for example. The last thing I wanted was to show up with Edgar in his cute crate and sweater for them to reject him. This year I gambled, crossed my fingers, toes, and whatever else, then prayed to whatever God/Angel/Deity I could think of when I purchased the tickets. Northwest's hub is Minneapolis/St. Paul.
Friday I began to abandon my magical thinking and did some research. The prognostic indicator of Edgar accompanying us is poor. I then began madly calling kennels. One guy told me that his waiting list was over 90 people long. I did make reservations (finally) but then became extremely upset thinking of Edgar in a metal box for 6 days. I didn't have this problem with all other childhood animals. Henry, my first dog, actually LOOKED FORWARD and would GET EXCITED about going to the kennel. We would know this when he would pick up on the scent and start dancing around the car as we got closer to his dog camp. He'd come back hoarse from barking non-stop and looking extremely pleased with himself.
Last year one of our local animal hospitals caught fire and they just reopened a couple of months ago. I don't think they had boarding there, but I began to freak out: what if the place I have Edgar's reservation catches fire? He'd be trapped in that metal cage!! (I think I'm premenstrual as well so the thought of this really sends me over the edge.) What I forget is that ANY place could catch fire. Fire is my biggest fear. I would spend hours at night as a little girl thinking of potential escape plans from my bedroom and actually bought my parents a fire extinguisher for Christmas one year. However, if this is how I'm thinking about my dog, what does it say about my future parenting???
At this point in time, I'm just going to keep my fingers crossed for high temperatures on 12/20 and 12/26 - our travel dates.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Decorating Dilemma
Its no surprise that our garage is a mess. As you well know, my husband (God bless him) is a pack rat. He is the type that hangs onto empty boxes and notes from 7th grade biology class: because you never know when you may need them. It should be noted that he has not once needed his biology notes. He is also a master of tetris (can I get another thank Jesus on this one because otherwise I would kill him). To date we still have all of our pots with dead wilted summer flowers outside that we never moved into the garage because 1) we ran out of time before leaving the country, and 2) there isn't any place to put them inside the garage. Yes, we are white trash.
J has figured out how to put suitcases into suitcases so masterfully that although we have a bazillion different bags, it only looks like we have about 3. He has also masterfully packed all of our Christmas decorations into the suitcases as well. We only have a couple other small boxes filled to the brim with garlands from where else, Costco. The other day I asked if he would be a dear and go wrestle with my car, the kayak suspended from the ceiling in front of the boxes, and the multiple medical journals he has yet to read that are stacked on the ground to get the decorations. I figured it would be easier as we also need to put the suitcases back. He grumbled a bit, but came back with the decorations. I'm embarrassed to say that they have sat in our living room for 3 days now. I did open one of them up...well, I tried to open of the the boxes up by ripping off the tape, but I could tell it was like putting my husband on "Its a Small World" for hours at a time and completely made his hair stand on end. He took over the opening of the boxes.
I think part of our depression about the whole decorating thing is that Costco does not ship Christmas Trees this year. This is a tragedy within itself. We're now trying to figure out if we should subject one of our cars to the potential sap dripping, needle scraping nightmare that we have envisioned or pay out the wazoo to find another shipping direct tree farm. We're in a stalemate about this one as I am leaning toward the first option and he is more about the second.
J has figured out how to put suitcases into suitcases so masterfully that although we have a bazillion different bags, it only looks like we have about 3. He has also masterfully packed all of our Christmas decorations into the suitcases as well. We only have a couple other small boxes filled to the brim with garlands from where else, Costco. The other day I asked if he would be a dear and go wrestle with my car, the kayak suspended from the ceiling in front of the boxes, and the multiple medical journals he has yet to read that are stacked on the ground to get the decorations. I figured it would be easier as we also need to put the suitcases back. He grumbled a bit, but came back with the decorations. I'm embarrassed to say that they have sat in our living room for 3 days now. I did open one of them up...well, I tried to open of the the boxes up by ripping off the tape, but I could tell it was like putting my husband on "Its a Small World" for hours at a time and completely made his hair stand on end. He took over the opening of the boxes.
I think part of our depression about the whole decorating thing is that Costco does not ship Christmas Trees this year. This is a tragedy within itself. We're now trying to figure out if we should subject one of our cars to the potential sap dripping, needle scraping nightmare that we have envisioned or pay out the wazoo to find another shipping direct tree farm. We're in a stalemate about this one as I am leaning toward the first option and he is more about the second.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Land of Oz
Well, we're officially back and into our old routine. Read: J is perpetually tired, taking a nap on his precious day off and I cleaned the bathrooms and did laundry. Ah, the typical Sunday. There are many things I learned on my latest jet setting adventure.
1) Australians love bacon and they put it on EVERYTHING. We even had bacon lasagna. Why in the hell anyone though this was a good idea is beyond me.
2) Australians love to put beets on hamburgers. I'm not kidding. We ordered a burger "with the lot" and it wasn't just a plain old burger. Nope. It had a hamburger patty, ham, bacon (of course), cheese, a fried egg, salad, mayonnaise, raw cucumbers, and beets. One of the locals proclaimed, "Ah, now that is very Australian! We love beets and beet juice on our burgers."
3) "Chips" come with everything. Even when I was at a seafood restaurant and ordered Thai fish it was paired with french fries.
4) The Whitsundays are a MUST in life. The beaches are beautiful and white, the coral gardens are brilliant, and the fish are friendly. Sailing is the best way to get around. :)
5) "Biscuits" are really cookies. Don't be fooled.
6) Ordering coffee is a trial within itself. You have a flat white, a tall black, a cap, a latte, etc. I still don't know what a flat white coffee is, but it doesn't come with milk. Go figure.
7) Breakfast is called "brekky"
8) Just because there is an unlimited amount of wine at a wedding doesn't mean you should drink it. 3 of the 8 people at our table puked after doing "Stripping the Willow" (Not a sexual thing, but more Scottish)
9) Yes, seeing a bunch of guys in different tartans and kilts is a bit odd when you are in the middle of a Japanese tea garden
10) Stinger suits are not flattering. However, they do save you from taking a trip to the emergency vinegar station by the lifeguards on the beach.
11) Non American yogurt is always superior. God, why do we have such crap? The yogurt section in the grocery stores literally almost takes up the whole aisle and they have incredible flavors like passion fruit, honey, tamarind, mango, etc.
12) Sydney has one of the most effective public transport systems I've ever seen.
13) The US is soooo far behind the world in things like carbon neutral transport, all detergents being phosphate free, putting buckets in showers to water the grass, etc. And yes, our International image sucks.
14) Taking a vacation and living in the same house for a week with your husband's ex-girlfriend is a very very bad idea. I don't care how mature you think you are, everything you learned in junior high is true: Girls are mean.
15) A "lolly" is a general term for candy. An "icy lolly" is a Popsicle.
16) It is very odd to see banners that say "Happy Christmas" with a picture of a bright sun and then jingle bells on it. Apparently the tradition in the Southern Hemisphere is to do a BBQ out on the beach. What's even stranger is that they still listen to carols like, "White Christmas"
17) Voting in Australia is mandatory. You get fined if you don't show up. In Parliament they think nothing of calling each other "wankers," "idiots," or whatever other insult they can throw at one another.
19) No where else on earth do they have so many things that can kill you. Australia has the most poisonous snake, spider, salt water crocodile (aka "salties), jellyfish, etc. One of our Scottish friends, a veterinarian, was deathly afraid of the funnel web spider and would rant on and on about how he just bets they are armed with AK47's.
20) A "hotel" in Australia does not have any accommodations. It is actually just a bar. Very misleading indeed especially if you are a drunk tourist.
1) Australians love bacon and they put it on EVERYTHING. We even had bacon lasagna. Why in the hell anyone though this was a good idea is beyond me.
2) Australians love to put beets on hamburgers. I'm not kidding. We ordered a burger "with the lot" and it wasn't just a plain old burger. Nope. It had a hamburger patty, ham, bacon (of course), cheese, a fried egg, salad, mayonnaise, raw cucumbers, and beets. One of the locals proclaimed, "Ah, now that is very Australian! We love beets and beet juice on our burgers."
3) "Chips" come with everything. Even when I was at a seafood restaurant and ordered Thai fish it was paired with french fries.
4) The Whitsundays are a MUST in life. The beaches are beautiful and white, the coral gardens are brilliant, and the fish are friendly. Sailing is the best way to get around. :)
5) "Biscuits" are really cookies. Don't be fooled.
6) Ordering coffee is a trial within itself. You have a flat white, a tall black, a cap, a latte, etc. I still don't know what a flat white coffee is, but it doesn't come with milk. Go figure.
7) Breakfast is called "brekky"
8) Just because there is an unlimited amount of wine at a wedding doesn't mean you should drink it. 3 of the 8 people at our table puked after doing "Stripping the Willow" (Not a sexual thing, but more Scottish)
9) Yes, seeing a bunch of guys in different tartans and kilts is a bit odd when you are in the middle of a Japanese tea garden
10) Stinger suits are not flattering. However, they do save you from taking a trip to the emergency vinegar station by the lifeguards on the beach.
11) Non American yogurt is always superior. God, why do we have such crap? The yogurt section in the grocery stores literally almost takes up the whole aisle and they have incredible flavors like passion fruit, honey, tamarind, mango, etc.
12) Sydney has one of the most effective public transport systems I've ever seen.
13) The US is soooo far behind the world in things like carbon neutral transport, all detergents being phosphate free, putting buckets in showers to water the grass, etc. And yes, our International image sucks.
14) Taking a vacation and living in the same house for a week with your husband's ex-girlfriend is a very very bad idea. I don't care how mature you think you are, everything you learned in junior high is true: Girls are mean.
15) A "lolly" is a general term for candy. An "icy lolly" is a Popsicle.
16) It is very odd to see banners that say "Happy Christmas" with a picture of a bright sun and then jingle bells on it. Apparently the tradition in the Southern Hemisphere is to do a BBQ out on the beach. What's even stranger is that they still listen to carols like, "White Christmas"
17) Voting in Australia is mandatory. You get fined if you don't show up. In Parliament they think nothing of calling each other "wankers," "idiots," or whatever other insult they can throw at one another.
19) No where else on earth do they have so many things that can kill you. Australia has the most poisonous snake, spider, salt water crocodile (aka "salties), jellyfish, etc. One of our Scottish friends, a veterinarian, was deathly afraid of the funnel web spider and would rant on and on about how he just bets they are armed with AK47's.
20) A "hotel" in Australia does not have any accommodations. It is actually just a bar. Very misleading indeed especially if you are a drunk tourist.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Zion Curtain
Well, I'm back behind the Zion Curtain again waiting for Wednesday when I jet set off to Oz. My husband and I actually got packed for our 2 week adventure on Saturday. This is officially the earliest I've ever packed for a trip in my life. I realized for the millionth time why I am grateful I married this man when he thought of random details like taking photo copies of our passports just in case, checking into our abroad health insurance coverage, etc. These are things that just don't cross my mind.
We packed while listening to a lot of Midnight Oil. As J would say, "What's not to like about a tall white guy who can't dance?" He's referring to Peter Jaret who is the lead singer and if you've ever seen him in concert, he looks like he's having a grand mal on stage. I didn't realize this, but Peter actually broke up the band to pursue his political career. That is something I can respect considering that their songs are so politically motivated.
Edgar had a few mishaps on his flight over here. For one, I followed Delta's guidelines for flying an animal (even though we were flying Frontier). I taped an extra bag of food to his crate just in case, as it is advised. I packed about 6 cups thinking that it would also serve as a nice blend/introduction to whatever my mom is feeding her dogs these days while minimizing GI issues. When Edgar and I were reunited I noticed his bed was a bit wet. Then I noticed that his food bag only had 3/4 c. left. Then I noticed a note that read: I gave Edgar the rest of his food and some water. He is a very nice dog. Fernando, Denver Ramp. Holy cow! Edgar only eats 1c., 2x a day!! I even woke up at 2:30 AM to give him that cup before our flight knowing that he couldn't eat right before. This means that Edgar ate approximately 8 cups of food in less than 24 hours or so. Holy GI issues from hell.
To say that the dog was bloated was an understatement. Then the poor guy got into a scuffle with a Great Dane. The Dane belonged to one of our Sunday night dinner guests and she was beautiful! I just know that her owner is dying a thousand deaths, but truly these things happen. It was all over a tennis ball. At any rate, I missed Sunday night dinner and landed in the Pet ER about 7:00 PM. Over $180 later, Edgar has the top of his skull shaved and a nice crusty scab where he was gouged. He now was a sleepy, GI distressed, sedated, PTSD, Frankendog with a horrible case of the hot farts and involuntary bowel issues. It was quite the night.
This morning he seems to be back to normal and enduring his new nicknames of "Scarhead," "Frankendog," "Head-wound Bubba," and "Patch." I'm off to see "The Jerry" for my hair appointment to correct whatever he sees fit that the other scissor wielding bastards in Indy did to my mane. Then I'm off to see the puppies who seem to resemble more dog like form than other embriologic entity by now.
We packed while listening to a lot of Midnight Oil. As J would say, "What's not to like about a tall white guy who can't dance?" He's referring to Peter Jaret who is the lead singer and if you've ever seen him in concert, he looks like he's having a grand mal on stage. I didn't realize this, but Peter actually broke up the band to pursue his political career. That is something I can respect considering that their songs are so politically motivated.
Edgar had a few mishaps on his flight over here. For one, I followed Delta's guidelines for flying an animal (even though we were flying Frontier). I taped an extra bag of food to his crate just in case, as it is advised. I packed about 6 cups thinking that it would also serve as a nice blend/introduction to whatever my mom is feeding her dogs these days while minimizing GI issues. When Edgar and I were reunited I noticed his bed was a bit wet. Then I noticed that his food bag only had 3/4 c. left. Then I noticed a note that read: I gave Edgar the rest of his food and some water. He is a very nice dog. Fernando, Denver Ramp. Holy cow! Edgar only eats 1c., 2x a day!! I even woke up at 2:30 AM to give him that cup before our flight knowing that he couldn't eat right before. This means that Edgar ate approximately 8 cups of food in less than 24 hours or so. Holy GI issues from hell.
To say that the dog was bloated was an understatement. Then the poor guy got into a scuffle with a Great Dane. The Dane belonged to one of our Sunday night dinner guests and she was beautiful! I just know that her owner is dying a thousand deaths, but truly these things happen. It was all over a tennis ball. At any rate, I missed Sunday night dinner and landed in the Pet ER about 7:00 PM. Over $180 later, Edgar has the top of his skull shaved and a nice crusty scab where he was gouged. He now was a sleepy, GI distressed, sedated, PTSD, Frankendog with a horrible case of the hot farts and involuntary bowel issues. It was quite the night.
This morning he seems to be back to normal and enduring his new nicknames of "Scarhead," "Frankendog," "Head-wound Bubba," and "Patch." I'm off to see "The Jerry" for my hair appointment to correct whatever he sees fit that the other scissor wielding bastards in Indy did to my mane. Then I'm off to see the puppies who seem to resemble more dog like form than other embriologic entity by now.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Horse and Buggy Parking Here
Well, the scan turned out to show no growth encroaching on anything of big importance (read: optic nerve is not crushed requiring barbaric surgery through your nose and sinus cavity to your brain). Two words only suffice here: Thank God.
In the meantime, my doc said she was just chalking up my recent episode to a migraine gone haywire. I now have enough narcotics in my medicine cabinet that could knock out a small army.
To celebrate the recent bout of I-promise-I'm-really-not-a-crazy-person-medical-event, I'm making a batch of butternut squash soup. Some would go out on the town and drink bad tequila until they thought they loved everyone in the bar, but I think my poor liver has had enough with all of the Tylenol over the past week. Yup, I do happiness with soup.
While I was out buying my provisions, I went into Trader Joes and saw something that you don't see everyday. A flock of Amish in Trader Joes. The women were in their bonnets, black dresses, knitted sweater shawls, etc. They were loading up on the Joe Joe cookies, tasty salsa, and ground meat. They then loaded it up into their PT Cruiser complete with a vanity license plate of Godz4U. It was quite the distracting sight.
In the meantime, my doc said she was just chalking up my recent episode to a migraine gone haywire. I now have enough narcotics in my medicine cabinet that could knock out a small army.
To celebrate the recent bout of I-promise-I'm-really-not-a-crazy-person-medical-event, I'm making a batch of butternut squash soup. Some would go out on the town and drink bad tequila until they thought they loved everyone in the bar, but I think my poor liver has had enough with all of the Tylenol over the past week. Yup, I do happiness with soup.
While I was out buying my provisions, I went into Trader Joes and saw something that you don't see everyday. A flock of Amish in Trader Joes. The women were in their bonnets, black dresses, knitted sweater shawls, etc. They were loading up on the Joe Joe cookies, tasty salsa, and ground meat. They then loaded it up into their PT Cruiser complete with a vanity license plate of Godz4U. It was quite the distracting sight.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Waiting for Guffman, My Version
About 7 years ago I broke up with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and decided that a good insurance policy for unnecessary painful rebound relationships would be to get off of birth control. No need to add any more hormones to the mix when I didn't need them. My doc thought this was a great plan since I had been on them since I was 15. Yup, it was time to see what my system would do. My system did nothing.
Most females (and males) would rejoice in this news and so I didn't seek any treatment for about 4 months. I suppose I wrote it off as a side benefit/self-regulation issue, etc. That is until I began to have tons of swelling at my ankles, gained 40 pounds, and had insomnia. At that time, I finally went back to the doc who put me through a bunch of progesterone withdrawal tests without any success. Essentially this meant that I had little to no estrogen in my system. My internal medicine doc referred me to a gynecologist.
The gynecologist ran me through more tests and ordered a CT scan of my head. Nothing showed and he referred me to an endocrinologist. By now it is 2002. The endocrinologist decided to test my hypothalamus (mission control for the pituitary) which rendered as non-functioning. He then ordered a MRI of my brain. The scan showed that a small mass less than a centimeter thick was causing the problem: I had a pituitary microadenoma.
I will admit I went completely around HIPAA and wrote a release for my own radiology report for them to fax to the hospital as I wasn't going to wait a week while he finished his vacation. I discovered I had the tumor on my own, which sucked by the way and I wouldn't advocate for anyone else to do what I did. Eventually, that doc wasn't really certain what to do so he referred me back to the gynecologist who suggested I went back on hormone replacement therapy of birth control. I fired them both and found an amazing endocrinologist, Dr. Grua.
Dr. Grua is a great guy who drew diagrams to help explain what the body did and how mine was malfunctioning. He said my thyroid was borderline low and tried me out on some Levoxil. Wouldn't you know, I dropped my weight, the edema went away, and my reproductive cycle became as functional and predictable as clockwork. What was even better is that my husband was one of my best friends through the whole deal and we weren't even dating yet.
Here we are 5 years later and everything has been going along quite snazzy in my life. I have a great life. I'm married, I have an amazing dog, 2 great houses (with mortgage payments to prove them), a nice car, great jobs, etc. Then, I began to wrestle with headaches last Monday. The kind of stabbing pain behind your eyes where the thought of your eyeballs popping out of your skull sounds more pleasant than keeping them in your head. I dosed myself with Advil up the wazoo until my husband pointed out that headaches should not last a week. Huh. Ok, he had a point. By Friday I managed to go to the doctor for his sake and for my own piece of mind to get through the weekend. After all, the pain was a bit worse and I hate the emergency room.
My internal med doc, who is also fantastic, thought she might start out by treating it as a migraine gone BAD. She gave me scripts for two narcotics and a migraine formulary. Over the weekend I noticed a few things: 1) My pain control sucked, 2) Reading made it worse, 3) Cold compresses helped, 4) Nausea had the chicken or the egg problem (pain or meds causing it?) By Sunday night I knew I had bought myself another co-pay for yet another office visit and a trip to radiology to get my head spun in the MRI.
I showed up today in the docs office and promptly barfed all over the room. This was preceded by her stating, "It seems that I always see you when you look so miserable." I answered her with retching. Nice. That was followed by me apologizing. The office staff was more than accommodating, but still I was horrified. You will remember that my last office visit I passed out and won a week of heart monitoring and a whole lot of drama. I drove myself and didn't have anyone to come pick me up, but they gave me an injection of anti nausea meds, put the trash can near the exam table and let me rest for an hour before waking me to let me know I had an emergent appointment for the head scan.
If you have never had a head scan: Don't. First they give you ear plugs, then they put you in a claustrophobic Hannibal Lecter mask, then they put you in a small tube with loud noises for over an hour. I managed to make it to the pharmacy for yet stronger pain meds, steroids, and another formulary for migraine headaches. I'm finally home.
My doc just called:
"Hello?"
"Oh, thank God you are home! This is Dr. So and So. I got home and just remembered that I never checked on you and realized you could still be sleeping in room 4! But you did make it home!"
"Yup. I even made it to the pharmacy."
"Good! Good! Oh, thank God! I actually thought about admitting you with your husband being out of town or else driving you home myself after I had picked up my kids and then I forgot all about you! I'm so sorry! Ok, well, I'm off tomorrow, but we'll have your results Wednesday. If you need anything, have my office page me! I'm certain you want to take some pain meds. You sound like you need to take some pain meds. Ok, well, hang in there!"
Now I wait. Its like deja vu all over again with this waiting stuff. I'll keep you posted on how things go.
Most females (and males) would rejoice in this news and so I didn't seek any treatment for about 4 months. I suppose I wrote it off as a side benefit/self-regulation issue, etc. That is until I began to have tons of swelling at my ankles, gained 40 pounds, and had insomnia. At that time, I finally went back to the doc who put me through a bunch of progesterone withdrawal tests without any success. Essentially this meant that I had little to no estrogen in my system. My internal medicine doc referred me to a gynecologist.
The gynecologist ran me through more tests and ordered a CT scan of my head. Nothing showed and he referred me to an endocrinologist. By now it is 2002. The endocrinologist decided to test my hypothalamus (mission control for the pituitary) which rendered as non-functioning. He then ordered a MRI of my brain. The scan showed that a small mass less than a centimeter thick was causing the problem: I had a pituitary microadenoma.
I will admit I went completely around HIPAA and wrote a release for my own radiology report for them to fax to the hospital as I wasn't going to wait a week while he finished his vacation. I discovered I had the tumor on my own, which sucked by the way and I wouldn't advocate for anyone else to do what I did. Eventually, that doc wasn't really certain what to do so he referred me back to the gynecologist who suggested I went back on hormone replacement therapy of birth control. I fired them both and found an amazing endocrinologist, Dr. Grua.
Dr. Grua is a great guy who drew diagrams to help explain what the body did and how mine was malfunctioning. He said my thyroid was borderline low and tried me out on some Levoxil. Wouldn't you know, I dropped my weight, the edema went away, and my reproductive cycle became as functional and predictable as clockwork. What was even better is that my husband was one of my best friends through the whole deal and we weren't even dating yet.
Here we are 5 years later and everything has been going along quite snazzy in my life. I have a great life. I'm married, I have an amazing dog, 2 great houses (with mortgage payments to prove them), a nice car, great jobs, etc. Then, I began to wrestle with headaches last Monday. The kind of stabbing pain behind your eyes where the thought of your eyeballs popping out of your skull sounds more pleasant than keeping them in your head. I dosed myself with Advil up the wazoo until my husband pointed out that headaches should not last a week. Huh. Ok, he had a point. By Friday I managed to go to the doctor for his sake and for my own piece of mind to get through the weekend. After all, the pain was a bit worse and I hate the emergency room.
My internal med doc, who is also fantastic, thought she might start out by treating it as a migraine gone BAD. She gave me scripts for two narcotics and a migraine formulary. Over the weekend I noticed a few things: 1) My pain control sucked, 2) Reading made it worse, 3) Cold compresses helped, 4) Nausea had the chicken or the egg problem (pain or meds causing it?) By Sunday night I knew I had bought myself another co-pay for yet another office visit and a trip to radiology to get my head spun in the MRI.
I showed up today in the docs office and promptly barfed all over the room. This was preceded by her stating, "It seems that I always see you when you look so miserable." I answered her with retching. Nice. That was followed by me apologizing. The office staff was more than accommodating, but still I was horrified. You will remember that my last office visit I passed out and won a week of heart monitoring and a whole lot of drama. I drove myself and didn't have anyone to come pick me up, but they gave me an injection of anti nausea meds, put the trash can near the exam table and let me rest for an hour before waking me to let me know I had an emergent appointment for the head scan.
If you have never had a head scan: Don't. First they give you ear plugs, then they put you in a claustrophobic Hannibal Lecter mask, then they put you in a small tube with loud noises for over an hour. I managed to make it to the pharmacy for yet stronger pain meds, steroids, and another formulary for migraine headaches. I'm finally home.
My doc just called:
"Hello?"
"Oh, thank God you are home! This is Dr. So and So. I got home and just remembered that I never checked on you and realized you could still be sleeping in room 4! But you did make it home!"
"Yup. I even made it to the pharmacy."
"Good! Good! Oh, thank God! I actually thought about admitting you with your husband being out of town or else driving you home myself after I had picked up my kids and then I forgot all about you! I'm so sorry! Ok, well, I'm off tomorrow, but we'll have your results Wednesday. If you need anything, have my office page me! I'm certain you want to take some pain meds. You sound like you need to take some pain meds. Ok, well, hang in there!"
Now I wait. Its like deja vu all over again with this waiting stuff. I'll keep you posted on how things go.
Monday, October 29, 2007
"Of All the Charlie Browns, You're the Browniest"
Last night J and I sat down to watch "Its The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown." Yes, we own it. Correction: J owned it, now that we're married I own it by proxy. He has quite a few collections of childhood favorites from boxed sets a la Costco. Not a surprise, really. Come Christmas, we'll be watching the old claymation of Rudolph as well. Our future kids will love it.
As we finished the beloved classic, we found another Charlie Brown special on the DVD: "You Are Not Elected, Charlie Brown." I can't say I remember this one being aired on television so we watched it. I thought it might be Charles Shultz's attempt to get kiddos involved in their government. Well, kind of. Linus is running for student body president in this one. However, Linus only gets put on the ballot after Charlie Brown's pre-poll numbers are dismal. You can imagine that Snoopy gets in charge of the signs and Lucy is the campaign manager. What an obscure topic for a cartoon special. I began to wonder what other Charlie Brown specials existed on our DVD boxed set.
Wouldn't you know, he did an Arbor Day special. I don't remember this at all. Its on the Easter Beagle special (again, never seen) DVD. That one hasn't been opened yet, but perhaps I will crack the plastic seal just to see what Mr. Shultz had to say about a National holiday dedicated to trees.
I also found another special dedicated to the Mayflower attached to the Thanksgiving special. Haven't seen this one either, but my guess is Mr. Shultz decided to leave out the gory details of our first settlers and ill attempts of establishing colonies. He'll probably just end it with the Native Americans bringing corn and other side dishes to the first Thanksgiving and like all good hosts, the settlers will take care of the main dish of turkey.
I began to wonder why Mr. Shultz did not do a special on the 4th of July. He was a very patriotic gentleman from The Greatest Generation (coined from Mr. Brokaw), so it would make sense that he would have done something. Alas, in our Complete Holiday Collection of Peanuts, not one single 4th of July special exists, nor do I remember one. Rather odd for a man to do something to Arbor Day but not Independence Day, if I do say so myself. However it got me thinking about other holiday specials he left out.
1) If not a 4th of July, then why not a "Its a Great Flag Day, Charlie Brown"? The Peanuts gang could find a library Flag in ruins and then discover how to properly take care of our Nations treasure (also then teaching the young kids that it is Unpatriotic to make any clothing of the flag, depict any flag bumper stickers, etc...it is only meant to be flying during the day in good weather.) Yes, this is what my stint in Girls State sponsored by the American Legion taught me.
2) "Happy Columbus Day, Charlie Brown" Don't have a plot worked out for this one yet.
3) "A Classic Memorial Day, Charlie Brown" This could be paired with "Its the Veteran Beagle, Charlie Brown." I think this would pair well with Snoopy's delusions of being a World War Flying Ace.
4) "Its Boxing Day, Charlie Brown" (He was from Minnesota and I would like to believe he would pay homage to our great neighbors of the north.)
5) "Presidents as our Forefathers, Linus" Lets face it, Linus would be the only Peanuts character to pontificate upon the true meaning of Presidents day and Charlie Brown would just be left home from the skiing trip. Rats.
6) "Its Martin Luther King, Jr Day, Charlie Brown" This would have to be hosted by Franklin, the only non-White Peanuts character, which was quite a controversy back when Mr. Shultz was first illustrating.
7) "Lucy's Labor Day" She could be the bully sweatshop owner who was taught a lesson.
8) "Its Grandparents Day, Charlie Brown" Finally he could give something back for inviting Peppermint Patty, Marcie, et al to his grandmothers unannounced for Thanksgiving.
9) "Its the Chinese New Year Beagle-Dragon!" You can see where I'm going with this one, but they could introduce a new character of ethnic decent.
Both J and I were hoping for the other Charlie Brown specials we remembered through childhood like the summer camp special, the spelling bee special, and the bon voyage special where they end up in France sleeping in the barn and Snoopy drinks root beer at the local tavern. This is the closest thing to celebrating Bastille Day that I could find. We don't own these nor do we know where they exist in boxed sets.
As we finished the beloved classic, we found another Charlie Brown special on the DVD: "You Are Not Elected, Charlie Brown." I can't say I remember this one being aired on television so we watched it. I thought it might be Charles Shultz's attempt to get kiddos involved in their government. Well, kind of. Linus is running for student body president in this one. However, Linus only gets put on the ballot after Charlie Brown's pre-poll numbers are dismal. You can imagine that Snoopy gets in charge of the signs and Lucy is the campaign manager. What an obscure topic for a cartoon special. I began to wonder what other Charlie Brown specials existed on our DVD boxed set.
Wouldn't you know, he did an Arbor Day special. I don't remember this at all. Its on the Easter Beagle special (again, never seen) DVD. That one hasn't been opened yet, but perhaps I will crack the plastic seal just to see what Mr. Shultz had to say about a National holiday dedicated to trees.
I also found another special dedicated to the Mayflower attached to the Thanksgiving special. Haven't seen this one either, but my guess is Mr. Shultz decided to leave out the gory details of our first settlers and ill attempts of establishing colonies. He'll probably just end it with the Native Americans bringing corn and other side dishes to the first Thanksgiving and like all good hosts, the settlers will take care of the main dish of turkey.
I began to wonder why Mr. Shultz did not do a special on the 4th of July. He was a very patriotic gentleman from The Greatest Generation (coined from Mr. Brokaw), so it would make sense that he would have done something. Alas, in our Complete Holiday Collection of Peanuts, not one single 4th of July special exists, nor do I remember one. Rather odd for a man to do something to Arbor Day but not Independence Day, if I do say so myself. However it got me thinking about other holiday specials he left out.
1) If not a 4th of July, then why not a "Its a Great Flag Day, Charlie Brown"? The Peanuts gang could find a library Flag in ruins and then discover how to properly take care of our Nations treasure (also then teaching the young kids that it is Unpatriotic to make any clothing of the flag, depict any flag bumper stickers, etc...it is only meant to be flying during the day in good weather.) Yes, this is what my stint in Girls State sponsored by the American Legion taught me.
2) "Happy Columbus Day, Charlie Brown" Don't have a plot worked out for this one yet.
3) "A Classic Memorial Day, Charlie Brown" This could be paired with "Its the Veteran Beagle, Charlie Brown." I think this would pair well with Snoopy's delusions of being a World War Flying Ace.
4) "Its Boxing Day, Charlie Brown" (He was from Minnesota and I would like to believe he would pay homage to our great neighbors of the north.)
5) "Presidents as our Forefathers, Linus" Lets face it, Linus would be the only Peanuts character to pontificate upon the true meaning of Presidents day and Charlie Brown would just be left home from the skiing trip. Rats.
6) "Its Martin Luther King, Jr Day, Charlie Brown" This would have to be hosted by Franklin, the only non-White Peanuts character, which was quite a controversy back when Mr. Shultz was first illustrating.
7) "Lucy's Labor Day" She could be the bully sweatshop owner who was taught a lesson.
8) "Its Grandparents Day, Charlie Brown" Finally he could give something back for inviting Peppermint Patty, Marcie, et al to his grandmothers unannounced for Thanksgiving.
9) "Its the Chinese New Year Beagle-Dragon!" You can see where I'm going with this one, but they could introduce a new character of ethnic decent.
Both J and I were hoping for the other Charlie Brown specials we remembered through childhood like the summer camp special, the spelling bee special, and the bon voyage special where they end up in France sleeping in the barn and Snoopy drinks root beer at the local tavern. This is the closest thing to celebrating Bastille Day that I could find. We don't own these nor do we know where they exist in boxed sets.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Ironic
Last night I had a networking meeting at a local organization that specialized in eating disorders. I checked in with the nurse at the front desk and explained I was there for a meeting when she said, "Dr. So and So will be right with you." Uh, well ok. It began to sound like I was there for an appointment. I managed to sit down among the other people in the waiting room (only one looking like her BMI was about 12) and started to busy myself with the magazines. Only thoughtful magazines like "Newsweek" and "Fishing Enthusiast" really existed. Yup, no "People" or other fun fashion mags existed with beautiful people, understandably.
Another consultant from our organization came in and identified herself to the nurse and was given the same response. While I just sat there, she actually corrected her. "No, I'm here for a meeting, not an appointment."
The nurse said, "Uh huh. And the doctor will be with you shortly." This consultant actually left the office to reexamine the sign on the window identifying the business, as if to double check. When she came in I finally put her out of her misery and identified myself so she didn't feel so awkward. Funny thing, she noticed the same thing that I did.
"Where are all of the fun magazines like, "Elle," and "People?"" Ok, she actually said this aloud. In front of the size 0.5 sitting across from us who was actually reading "Time." I could have corrected her, but I just shrugged my shoulders as if I didn't have a clue.
Our CEO came in with another consultant and finally the doctor came to gather our group. We were given a tour of the building and then brought to the Art Therapy room for a slide show. Yes, a slide show. This was the strangest networking meeting I think I've ever had. The doctor began to treat it like a Grand Rounds at a hospital. She gave her credentials, some stats, and then went into diagnostic indicators for different eating disorders.
I actually learned quite a bit from this lady. For example I had no idea there was a non-purging type of bulimia. As she was going through the information my stomach began to growl. Not just some little noises. I mean GROWL. I apologized stating that I had missed lunch. Ok, here is the ironic part: the next slide was all about how "missing" meals is a sign of bulimia. I began to giggle. Yes, there were a few eyes on me at this point in time. The doctor was not amused and asked what was so funny. I think she thought I was making fun of eating disorders. Instead of explaining I apologized and asked her to continue. Of all the days I didn't get lunch, this would happen.
She talked about how they have this great interdisciplinary staff and how hard it is to find a dietitian who doesn't actually have an eating disorder them self. Never really thought of it, but I could see how that would be a problem. Finally at the end of the presentation the doctor gave us folders of marketing material. I'm surprised after her talk about denial/precontemplation being part of the stages of change, hearing my stomach protest, and admitting I missed lunch that she didn't give me her card as well.
We finally left the agency and adjourned to a local bar and grille for staff meeting. We all joked that we could go binge now, especially for those of us who had missed lunch.
Another consultant from our organization came in and identified herself to the nurse and was given the same response. While I just sat there, she actually corrected her. "No, I'm here for a meeting, not an appointment."
The nurse said, "Uh huh. And the doctor will be with you shortly." This consultant actually left the office to reexamine the sign on the window identifying the business, as if to double check. When she came in I finally put her out of her misery and identified myself so she didn't feel so awkward. Funny thing, she noticed the same thing that I did.
"Where are all of the fun magazines like, "Elle," and "People?"" Ok, she actually said this aloud. In front of the size 0.5 sitting across from us who was actually reading "Time." I could have corrected her, but I just shrugged my shoulders as if I didn't have a clue.
Our CEO came in with another consultant and finally the doctor came to gather our group. We were given a tour of the building and then brought to the Art Therapy room for a slide show. Yes, a slide show. This was the strangest networking meeting I think I've ever had. The doctor began to treat it like a Grand Rounds at a hospital. She gave her credentials, some stats, and then went into diagnostic indicators for different eating disorders.
I actually learned quite a bit from this lady. For example I had no idea there was a non-purging type of bulimia. As she was going through the information my stomach began to growl. Not just some little noises. I mean GROWL. I apologized stating that I had missed lunch. Ok, here is the ironic part: the next slide was all about how "missing" meals is a sign of bulimia. I began to giggle. Yes, there were a few eyes on me at this point in time. The doctor was not amused and asked what was so funny. I think she thought I was making fun of eating disorders. Instead of explaining I apologized and asked her to continue. Of all the days I didn't get lunch, this would happen.
She talked about how they have this great interdisciplinary staff and how hard it is to find a dietitian who doesn't actually have an eating disorder them self. Never really thought of it, but I could see how that would be a problem. Finally at the end of the presentation the doctor gave us folders of marketing material. I'm surprised after her talk about denial/precontemplation being part of the stages of change, hearing my stomach protest, and admitting I missed lunch that she didn't give me her card as well.
We finally left the agency and adjourned to a local bar and grille for staff meeting. We all joked that we could go binge now, especially for those of us who had missed lunch.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
We put the "fun" in dysfunctional
If you've been a reader of my blog for a number of years, you know that my family does things in their own way. I prefer to label it as "style." At one point in time I bought a very cute card that a grade school child wrote. The cover of the card said, "I wish our family would quit pretending we are normal." I haven't had the heart to use it because I just plain like it too much. My family embraces and celebrates the fact that we aren't normal.
Last night I had the urge to call my Mom. There were a number of things that I wanted to talk with her about, but my sense of urgency was a bit odd. I called cell phones, home lines, etc until finally my father answered. He let me know that Mom was "rushing Ginny to the hospital" and "it could be the end." Now, my father has a flair for the dramatic (although I was always labeled the drama queen, I must have learned it from somewhere). This tendency has gotten more pronounced with Chuckles has he's gotten older. I actually find it rather endearing and charming. However, I was a bit freaked out (understandably).
Ginny is THE matriarch. She is one of my living legends of how to approach life. She's no-nonsense, takes things as they are, and always has the tag line of "If you don't want to know, don't ask me." Its kind of a disclaimer statement for whatever is going to follow out of her mouth. She is the grandmother who taught me how to play poker, how to appreciate herb gardens, stray animals, homemade jam and quilts, and how to make a mean martini. Whenever my cousins and I were fighting she would simply say, "Hey, you two, knock it off," and you knew she meant business. Many family disputes got resolved with that one line. She was also the only relative who had enough balls to ask me how the sex was with my husband....in front of the family...at the dinner table. She wasn't doing it to embarress me. She was genuinely interested.
As Chuckles depicted the picture of doom and gloom, I immediately called my Mom who was now just getting pissed she had to keep leaving the ER to go answer her cell phone. She was worried because it looked like "death had warmed over" (never really knew what the hell that phrase meant) and they asked about advanced directives. Ok, well if that was what was so concerning I felt immediately better. 1) All hospitals are required by JCAHO to ask about advance directives upon admission, 2) Ginny's primary care doc is a gerontologist and if she isn't asking, then I'd have a bigger problem, and 3) they weren't rushing her to the ICU, then its a good sign. At this point in time I had other family members text me worried about Ginny and I was trying to give them the info.
I'll admit, I sobbed a bit once I got off the phone with Mom simply because I'm not ready for Ginny to die. Yes, she has COPD. Yes, I know its progressive. But, dammit, I'm still not ready. The woman is quick as a whip and as spicy as a pepper. As I was doing a brief Internet airfare search it also dawned on me that Pop, my grandfather, died on October 23rd just a few years back. I hate anniversaries as they have a bit of a strange psychic connection for repeating patterns.
Dad called me again about an hour later "going crazy because he hasn't heard from your mother" - also known as his wife. Mom called a bit later, quite happy. Turns out Ginny was admitted to the floor, was given some steroids, decided that the oxygen mask was obnoxious and took it off, was much more comfortable, etc. (J remarked that medical noncompliance and stubborn rebellion obviously runs in the family.)
My cousins had shown up to the hospital with items ready for a cocktail party. They brought good gin, olives, and snackies. This really isn't unusual behavior for our family. When Pop was in his last two days, the females of our clan (Ginny, aunt, mom, cousins, me) all went to lunch but brought our own bottles of wine plus met up the morning of his death to have cheap Bloody Marys, a signature thing of Pop. He used to buy cheap vodka and put it into empty expensive vodka bottles when entertaining.
However, I will say that as a medical person I do understand how a cocktail party in a hospital room seems a bit uncouth. We also had a cocktail party when Ginny pulled her back out moving pots and was admitted to the hospital. (Ok, just as I typed this I realized this is exactly what I did back in May and then last week...perhaps J is right about that stubborn rebellion.) While Ginny declined a good Bombay martini, everyone else had a nice time once she was admitted. I have to say, I was a bit jealous and sad I wasn't there. If I had the money, I would simply buy a plane ticket just to go join the hospital cocktail parties.
The "style" I'm referring to really reminds me of the Ya Ya Sisterhood book where a good Bloody Mary was a remedy at any life crisis. Yes, its dysfunctional, but its also our family and I wouldn't trade it for the world.
Last night I had the urge to call my Mom. There were a number of things that I wanted to talk with her about, but my sense of urgency was a bit odd. I called cell phones, home lines, etc until finally my father answered. He let me know that Mom was "rushing Ginny to the hospital" and "it could be the end." Now, my father has a flair for the dramatic (although I was always labeled the drama queen, I must have learned it from somewhere). This tendency has gotten more pronounced with Chuckles has he's gotten older. I actually find it rather endearing and charming. However, I was a bit freaked out (understandably).
Ginny is THE matriarch. She is one of my living legends of how to approach life. She's no-nonsense, takes things as they are, and always has the tag line of "If you don't want to know, don't ask me." Its kind of a disclaimer statement for whatever is going to follow out of her mouth. She is the grandmother who taught me how to play poker, how to appreciate herb gardens, stray animals, homemade jam and quilts, and how to make a mean martini. Whenever my cousins and I were fighting she would simply say, "Hey, you two, knock it off," and you knew she meant business. Many family disputes got resolved with that one line. She was also the only relative who had enough balls to ask me how the sex was with my husband....in front of the family...at the dinner table. She wasn't doing it to embarress me. She was genuinely interested.
As Chuckles depicted the picture of doom and gloom, I immediately called my Mom who was now just getting pissed she had to keep leaving the ER to go answer her cell phone. She was worried because it looked like "death had warmed over" (never really knew what the hell that phrase meant) and they asked about advanced directives. Ok, well if that was what was so concerning I felt immediately better. 1) All hospitals are required by JCAHO to ask about advance directives upon admission, 2) Ginny's primary care doc is a gerontologist and if she isn't asking, then I'd have a bigger problem, and 3) they weren't rushing her to the ICU, then its a good sign. At this point in time I had other family members text me worried about Ginny and I was trying to give them the info.
I'll admit, I sobbed a bit once I got off the phone with Mom simply because I'm not ready for Ginny to die. Yes, she has COPD. Yes, I know its progressive. But, dammit, I'm still not ready. The woman is quick as a whip and as spicy as a pepper. As I was doing a brief Internet airfare search it also dawned on me that Pop, my grandfather, died on October 23rd just a few years back. I hate anniversaries as they have a bit of a strange psychic connection for repeating patterns.
Dad called me again about an hour later "going crazy because he hasn't heard from your mother" - also known as his wife. Mom called a bit later, quite happy. Turns out Ginny was admitted to the floor, was given some steroids, decided that the oxygen mask was obnoxious and took it off, was much more comfortable, etc. (J remarked that medical noncompliance and stubborn rebellion obviously runs in the family.)
My cousins had shown up to the hospital with items ready for a cocktail party. They brought good gin, olives, and snackies. This really isn't unusual behavior for our family. When Pop was in his last two days, the females of our clan (Ginny, aunt, mom, cousins, me) all went to lunch but brought our own bottles of wine plus met up the morning of his death to have cheap Bloody Marys, a signature thing of Pop. He used to buy cheap vodka and put it into empty expensive vodka bottles when entertaining.
However, I will say that as a medical person I do understand how a cocktail party in a hospital room seems a bit uncouth. We also had a cocktail party when Ginny pulled her back out moving pots and was admitted to the hospital. (Ok, just as I typed this I realized this is exactly what I did back in May and then last week...perhaps J is right about that stubborn rebellion.) While Ginny declined a good Bombay martini, everyone else had a nice time once she was admitted. I have to say, I was a bit jealous and sad I wasn't there. If I had the money, I would simply buy a plane ticket just to go join the hospital cocktail parties.
The "style" I'm referring to really reminds me of the Ya Ya Sisterhood book where a good Bloody Mary was a remedy at any life crisis. Yes, its dysfunctional, but its also our family and I wouldn't trade it for the world.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Progress = Pain?
So what I can say is that the railings look amazing! We finished sanding, primed the suckers, and then laid down the first coat of the drab gray to match the cape cod shingle paint of the house. It took us 7 hours to do it, but like I said, they look amazing! Just in time for the rain to hit tonight.
The bad part is I pulled out my back. Again. Today I was supposed to have spent the morning working in the hospital and then the afternoon with 5 clients. I can't even lift my feet to walk it hurts so much. Sitting is excruciating. And so now I'm back (pun intended) on Vicodin - very lucid, mind you which says something about the pain factor - and lying flat in bed with my knees propped up. Even after taking the Vicodin, I'm still in huge amounts of pain.
I actually tried to go to work this morning. See, that's the thing: when you love your job(s), you really want to be there. My husband watched me attempt to sit at the table for breakfast (while propping myself up with my arms) and smirked. He asked if I really thought I would be able to make it through the day. I thought of me attempting to do therapy while I was lying on the couch in the office, knees propped up, heating pad, and perhaps a ton of Advil on board. Sure, that part could be do-able, although perhaps not very therapeutic to the client. I wouldn't do therapy while on pain pills as that would be extremely unethical. I began to think how I could do my hair without getting in the shower (as that would require me to lift my feet over the tub). The fact that I was considering doing a sponge bath as a work-around, well, that faulty problem solving (although creative) was the final straw that screamed, "You need to call in to work!"
I have a really packed work week ahead of me. This was not the way I wanted to start out. I am very concerned about how I will appear to my peers and bosses. That is one big issue I thought I would get over as I got older: caring about what others think of you. The second issue I have is being limited. I have always been a person to just push through unpleasantness and accomplish anything I put my mind to.
This worked when I was an athlete...until I blew out my knees, but even in my recovery I pushed through it to build strength. Although I probably also developed really bad accommodation skills for my knee pain and now have herniated discs in my back. My husband asked if I was in pain yesterday and when did I recognize it. I remember sucking on my lips to the point that they were chapped and had to go find lip balm around 2:00 PM, but I didn't really register pain until we were finished about 7:00. How I blocked it until then, I'll never know. Although I did have a therapist once tell me that I need to listen to my inner voice a bit more. Cleaning up was brutal.
Then I decided to vacuum. I kind of figured that if I was going to be in pain, I may as well have a clean carpet vs. all of the leaves and dirt tracked in during the deck process. And, I didn't want to inconvenience my husband by asking him to do it because it was bothering me, not him, so I shouldn't put my values onto him. (As I'm typing this I realize how stupid and stubborn it sounds, but it really was my thought pattern last night.)
I'm completely frustrated with my limitations. I just don't believe they should exist and that they are all in my head somehow. I'm not kidding. Last night as I was really starting to recognize the extent of my pain I began to think, "Holy cow its a good thing I don't have a toddler right now because I couldn't pick them up or even a baby right now." See? I do think ahead, but I'm still pretty pissed that my back is in pain and I don't think it has a right to do this. I also start to get scared about the pain meds. Granted, I really need them right now but I get afraid I will get dependent upon them or become an addict. I don't ever ever want to be dependent upon any substance whatsoever.
Taking them and still being in pain makes me wonder about how we, as society, view pain.
Do we really deserve to be 100% out of pain? Isn't pain just part of living? Even the stupid pain scale is subjective. My 8 could be another person's 4. Its all relative and perception is reality. Pain serves a function. I guess my first trick is learning how to recognize it when its still small and doing something about it...which means, accepting my limits and not pushing through it. However, in my mind, that still feels like a failure.
The bad part is I pulled out my back. Again. Today I was supposed to have spent the morning working in the hospital and then the afternoon with 5 clients. I can't even lift my feet to walk it hurts so much. Sitting is excruciating. And so now I'm back (pun intended) on Vicodin - very lucid, mind you which says something about the pain factor - and lying flat in bed with my knees propped up. Even after taking the Vicodin, I'm still in huge amounts of pain.
I actually tried to go to work this morning. See, that's the thing: when you love your job(s), you really want to be there. My husband watched me attempt to sit at the table for breakfast (while propping myself up with my arms) and smirked. He asked if I really thought I would be able to make it through the day. I thought of me attempting to do therapy while I was lying on the couch in the office, knees propped up, heating pad, and perhaps a ton of Advil on board. Sure, that part could be do-able, although perhaps not very therapeutic to the client. I wouldn't do therapy while on pain pills as that would be extremely unethical. I began to think how I could do my hair without getting in the shower (as that would require me to lift my feet over the tub). The fact that I was considering doing a sponge bath as a work-around, well, that faulty problem solving (although creative) was the final straw that screamed, "You need to call in to work!"
I have a really packed work week ahead of me. This was not the way I wanted to start out. I am very concerned about how I will appear to my peers and bosses. That is one big issue I thought I would get over as I got older: caring about what others think of you. The second issue I have is being limited. I have always been a person to just push through unpleasantness and accomplish anything I put my mind to.
This worked when I was an athlete...until I blew out my knees, but even in my recovery I pushed through it to build strength. Although I probably also developed really bad accommodation skills for my knee pain and now have herniated discs in my back. My husband asked if I was in pain yesterday and when did I recognize it. I remember sucking on my lips to the point that they were chapped and had to go find lip balm around 2:00 PM, but I didn't really register pain until we were finished about 7:00. How I blocked it until then, I'll never know. Although I did have a therapist once tell me that I need to listen to my inner voice a bit more. Cleaning up was brutal.
Then I decided to vacuum. I kind of figured that if I was going to be in pain, I may as well have a clean carpet vs. all of the leaves and dirt tracked in during the deck process. And, I didn't want to inconvenience my husband by asking him to do it because it was bothering me, not him, so I shouldn't put my values onto him. (As I'm typing this I realize how stupid and stubborn it sounds, but it really was my thought pattern last night.)
I'm completely frustrated with my limitations. I just don't believe they should exist and that they are all in my head somehow. I'm not kidding. Last night as I was really starting to recognize the extent of my pain I began to think, "Holy cow its a good thing I don't have a toddler right now because I couldn't pick them up or even a baby right now." See? I do think ahead, but I'm still pretty pissed that my back is in pain and I don't think it has a right to do this. I also start to get scared about the pain meds. Granted, I really need them right now but I get afraid I will get dependent upon them or become an addict. I don't ever ever want to be dependent upon any substance whatsoever.
Taking them and still being in pain makes me wonder about how we, as society, view pain.
Do we really deserve to be 100% out of pain? Isn't pain just part of living? Even the stupid pain scale is subjective. My 8 could be another person's 4. Its all relative and perception is reality. Pain serves a function. I guess my first trick is learning how to recognize it when its still small and doing something about it...which means, accepting my limits and not pushing through it. However, in my mind, that still feels like a failure.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Addendum
As I was gearing up to stain the deck yesterday I pulled out my knee pads - not that I was going to use them, but it makes my husband feel better about me kneeling with a history of two knee surgeries - the stain, the primer, and well all of the other necessary items used to do the project. I was psyched! How cool would it be for us to finish a project in less than a week? This was unheard of between us (may I remind you of the beer STILL sitting in the closet).
Oh, I had false, false hopes. Delusional false hopes. You know, the kind that there are psych meds for.
My husband actually began to READ the instructions on the cans of pain. This was the beginning of the downfall. My approach is: how hard can this be? Its not rocket science or brain surgery. You open the can, dip the brush, apply. No no no! My husband, God bless him, then went to get some tape to put on the boards and see if any wood fibers were attached. Because there were some nearly microscopic fibers he went to get his hand held sander. As the man put on his respirator and started in with the deck I began my frustration manifestation. The inner dialogue went something like this: "Goddamn it! This is going to take forever! Its not like this is going to have any added benefit. Its a deck, for Christ sake! Out in the open to the elements and he's worried about fibers! I can see the benefit in doing this to hardwood floors on the inside, but come on! Its a deck!"
I could see that my inner dialogue was going nowhere so I began to apply the plastic wood with a spatula to the railings and attempt to smooth some of the weathered ridges out. 15 minutes later, my husband had completed 3 boards. Three. I think he could feel the daggers shooting out of my eyes because he then stopped and said, "Honey, why don't you use the power tool and I'll so some manual sanding." I think he thought that by being more action oriented I could lessen my frustration.
Nope. The inner dialogue continued. "Goddamn it! This is so slow! With the weather forecast we'll never get to paint the railings or stain the deck! And there he is just watching me, criticising me on how I'm not being as meticulous as he is!" I finally stopped to look up at him and sure enough he was just standing there watching me. I had tripled the surface area covered in about half the time.
"What? What are you thinking?" I dared him. Smart boy didn't say anything. "What? You are just criticising me because I'm not doing it the way you want it to be done, aren't you?"
"Well, I know that you don't take criticism well so I'm not going to say anything."
As my mantra of: "I love my husband. He complements my style. I love my husband." kept repeating in my head and I also took deep breaths I finally stood up to take off my respirator, the racquetball goggles that doubled as the safety glasses and handed him the sander.
"I quit. No actually, I know I'm not going to do things up to your standards and in an effort to avoid Divorce Court, I am going to remove myself from this part of the project and go clean or garden or do something else I am good at doing while you manually sand the deck. Now that we've started this, it has to be finished otherwise it may alter the way the boards take up the stain. Nope, I'm going to remove and excuse myself from this part of the project."
I think he was also trying his own mantra at that point in time to remain as calm as possible although I think he did toss something with a little more force onto the grass. And with that he
said, "Fine."
I spent the rest of the day transplanting perennials from our pots into the front garden space which took me all afternoon. Neighbors would stop by and ask me why was he doing this sanding step and others who would say that now they are so discouraged from the amount of work that is involved they will never ever refinish their deck.
I will say that the sanding did make a small visual improvement but even he will admit, it may not be enough to warrant all of the extra work. He spent all day out there until dusk wouldn't allow anymore progress and yet there is still more to be done. It was a very good decision for me to remove myself from that step. It seriously preserved us.
Today, the plans are for him to finish the sanding and for me to prime the railings. Now, we may have another point of contention if he asks me to do TWO coats of primer vs the one. First and foremost: they have to repaint our exterior next year a completely different color. And second, we may not be here by next July.
Its been said that if you want something done, ask me to do it. If you want something done WELL, ask my husband.
Oh, I had false, false hopes. Delusional false hopes. You know, the kind that there are psych meds for.
My husband actually began to READ the instructions on the cans of pain. This was the beginning of the downfall. My approach is: how hard can this be? Its not rocket science or brain surgery. You open the can, dip the brush, apply. No no no! My husband, God bless him, then went to get some tape to put on the boards and see if any wood fibers were attached. Because there were some nearly microscopic fibers he went to get his hand held sander. As the man put on his respirator and started in with the deck I began my frustration manifestation. The inner dialogue went something like this: "Goddamn it! This is going to take forever! Its not like this is going to have any added benefit. Its a deck, for Christ sake! Out in the open to the elements and he's worried about fibers! I can see the benefit in doing this to hardwood floors on the inside, but come on! Its a deck!"
I could see that my inner dialogue was going nowhere so I began to apply the plastic wood with a spatula to the railings and attempt to smooth some of the weathered ridges out. 15 minutes later, my husband had completed 3 boards. Three. I think he could feel the daggers shooting out of my eyes because he then stopped and said, "Honey, why don't you use the power tool and I'll so some manual sanding." I think he thought that by being more action oriented I could lessen my frustration.
Nope. The inner dialogue continued. "Goddamn it! This is so slow! With the weather forecast we'll never get to paint the railings or stain the deck! And there he is just watching me, criticising me on how I'm not being as meticulous as he is!" I finally stopped to look up at him and sure enough he was just standing there watching me. I had tripled the surface area covered in about half the time.
"What? What are you thinking?" I dared him. Smart boy didn't say anything. "What? You are just criticising me because I'm not doing it the way you want it to be done, aren't you?"
"Well, I know that you don't take criticism well so I'm not going to say anything."
As my mantra of: "I love my husband. He complements my style. I love my husband." kept repeating in my head and I also took deep breaths I finally stood up to take off my respirator, the racquetball goggles that doubled as the safety glasses and handed him the sander.
"I quit. No actually, I know I'm not going to do things up to your standards and in an effort to avoid Divorce Court, I am going to remove myself from this part of the project and go clean or garden or do something else I am good at doing while you manually sand the deck. Now that we've started this, it has to be finished otherwise it may alter the way the boards take up the stain. Nope, I'm going to remove and excuse myself from this part of the project."
I think he was also trying his own mantra at that point in time to remain as calm as possible although I think he did toss something with a little more force onto the grass. And with that he
said, "Fine."
I spent the rest of the day transplanting perennials from our pots into the front garden space which took me all afternoon. Neighbors would stop by and ask me why was he doing this sanding step and others who would say that now they are so discouraged from the amount of work that is involved they will never ever refinish their deck.
I will say that the sanding did make a small visual improvement but even he will admit, it may not be enough to warrant all of the extra work. He spent all day out there until dusk wouldn't allow anymore progress and yet there is still more to be done. It was a very good decision for me to remove myself from that step. It seriously preserved us.
Today, the plans are for him to finish the sanding and for me to prime the railings. Now, we may have another point of contention if he asks me to do TWO coats of primer vs the one. First and foremost: they have to repaint our exterior next year a completely different color. And second, we may not be here by next July.
Its been said that if you want something done, ask me to do it. If you want something done WELL, ask my husband.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Deck Fun
Last weekend my husband and I began to tackle THE home improvement project that we had successfully postponed for 3 years. Yes, 3, count em', years. The deck was in desperate need of being refinished ever since he bought the place in 2004. Seeing that he has SOOO much extra time working 80+ hours a week and bought it from a previous resident, well you can see how this got prioritized less than well any other house related chore for almost a decade. Don't get me wrong, there were incredible intentions of doing this before now. J had actually bought the supplies to do this project back in 2005 including a rotary sander. (He would like me to state in his defense that he did use the rotary sander at that time to do a few of the railings but lost steam.)
During the time of our long distance courtship when the question would arise as to what did we want to do with our time, the deck came up frequently. However, when one only has 48 hours with loved ones the last thing you want to do is spend it with varnish. We also managed to put it off for the first year of marriage even though it was brought up week after week of potential "fun" for our coveted weekends.
Okey dokey. Its a good thing he married a woman who has delusions of grandeur that she is actually adept in doing home improvement because eventually I actually began to think that the deck project would be a good time. Yes, I think working at Home Depot would be a really fun gig.
The deck was looking "weathered." I say this just to be nice. There were corners of algae green going on due to the humid climate. Our incredible neighbors offered their power washer in lieu of the sander. I actually took them up on it. Holy cow. This power tool is way more fun than a girl should be allowed to have. You just hook up the electricity and the hose (which by the way would generally be a lethal combination so whoever designed this tool obviously had a death wish) and away you go!!! I was out there well past it getting dark and had all the lights and flashlights showing my way. Finally I gave up and came inside feeling exhilarated. My muscles were sore and I was sprayed with algae and mildew particles all over my legs and I felt great!
I got up super early the next day to complete the task. In fact I spent the whole day getting steps 1-3 out of the way. I will say that using the deck brush for hours just reaffirmed my decision of why I decided the Navy was a bad idea. I even found other things to power wash like the outdoor furniture. It was so much fun! The other neighbors began to feel sorry for me out there all day long. One brought me tea from Starbucks, another brought me stuff from the store and a toy for Edgar. Others would just stop by to see the freak show of a woman actually doing manual labor. Apparently its a rarity in these parts. I got comments from guys like, "Gee, could you teach my wife how to do this?" When I returned the power washer I included a thank you note expressing my exuberance and some money for their water bill.
We left all of our pots on the grass giving the deck maximum exposure to dry out for the next few days which totally confused the landscaping staff. I watched them drive around on their mowers this week and then stopped abruptly when they saw the obstacle course created by the pots. Literally, this guy just stopped and stared for a good 5 minutes before abandoning his mower and returning with his boss 25 minutes later for them both to just stare at the pots. It was rather amusing over my morning coffee to watch their stellar problem solving skills of what to do. It took a total of 45 minutes for them to decide, "Gee, we should go AROUND the pots!" Oh. My. Lord.
Today we've got to start staining the now exposed and bleached wood. There is some doubt as to the timing due to the tricky weather forecasters which would explain our hesitancy and procrastination this morning (and this blog entry). There are no power tools to make this go faster. We have brushes, buckets, and hand picked weatherproof stain selected from the rows and rows of choices last night at the Mecca (Home Depot). One could truly have an existential life crisis by deciding if we should go with 500 natural finish or 501 natural cedar finish. Yup, my husband and I know how to have a rowdy Friday night date: selecting deck stain! Oh, have we truly reached that new low of dating while married? In all fairness, we did follow it up with hamburgers (yummy) and a movie at home.
My only regret was not taking before and after photos. :)
During the time of our long distance courtship when the question would arise as to what did we want to do with our time, the deck came up frequently. However, when one only has 48 hours with loved ones the last thing you want to do is spend it with varnish. We also managed to put it off for the first year of marriage even though it was brought up week after week of potential "fun" for our coveted weekends.
Okey dokey. Its a good thing he married a woman who has delusions of grandeur that she is actually adept in doing home improvement because eventually I actually began to think that the deck project would be a good time. Yes, I think working at Home Depot would be a really fun gig.
The deck was looking "weathered." I say this just to be nice. There were corners of algae green going on due to the humid climate. Our incredible neighbors offered their power washer in lieu of the sander. I actually took them up on it. Holy cow. This power tool is way more fun than a girl should be allowed to have. You just hook up the electricity and the hose (which by the way would generally be a lethal combination so whoever designed this tool obviously had a death wish) and away you go!!! I was out there well past it getting dark and had all the lights and flashlights showing my way. Finally I gave up and came inside feeling exhilarated. My muscles were sore and I was sprayed with algae and mildew particles all over my legs and I felt great!
I got up super early the next day to complete the task. In fact I spent the whole day getting steps 1-3 out of the way. I will say that using the deck brush for hours just reaffirmed my decision of why I decided the Navy was a bad idea. I even found other things to power wash like the outdoor furniture. It was so much fun! The other neighbors began to feel sorry for me out there all day long. One brought me tea from Starbucks, another brought me stuff from the store and a toy for Edgar. Others would just stop by to see the freak show of a woman actually doing manual labor. Apparently its a rarity in these parts. I got comments from guys like, "Gee, could you teach my wife how to do this?" When I returned the power washer I included a thank you note expressing my exuberance and some money for their water bill.
We left all of our pots on the grass giving the deck maximum exposure to dry out for the next few days which totally confused the landscaping staff. I watched them drive around on their mowers this week and then stopped abruptly when they saw the obstacle course created by the pots. Literally, this guy just stopped and stared for a good 5 minutes before abandoning his mower and returning with his boss 25 minutes later for them both to just stare at the pots. It was rather amusing over my morning coffee to watch their stellar problem solving skills of what to do. It took a total of 45 minutes for them to decide, "Gee, we should go AROUND the pots!" Oh. My. Lord.
Today we've got to start staining the now exposed and bleached wood. There is some doubt as to the timing due to the tricky weather forecasters which would explain our hesitancy and procrastination this morning (and this blog entry). There are no power tools to make this go faster. We have brushes, buckets, and hand picked weatherproof stain selected from the rows and rows of choices last night at the Mecca (Home Depot). One could truly have an existential life crisis by deciding if we should go with 500 natural finish or 501 natural cedar finish. Yup, my husband and I know how to have a rowdy Friday night date: selecting deck stain! Oh, have we truly reached that new low of dating while married? In all fairness, we did follow it up with hamburgers (yummy) and a movie at home.
My only regret was not taking before and after photos. :)
Monday, October 8, 2007
Puppies!
My family is a bit dog focused.
This is a true understatement of the reality of which my husband married into with informed consent. Let me just be clear about this from the get go. He KNEW how crazy we were before saying the "I do's," (although he denies this). Also, I know how crazy we are and I am way ok with it.
My parents are sublimating their desire for grand kids through the dogs. They have two Scotties: Gregory (a rescue Scottie), and Dewars (a pure bred). When my parents bought Dewars they agreed to breed him once to help pass on a good blood line without any genetic defects. Believe it or not, one of the common problems with purebreds are the genetic defects due to over breeding and interbreeding so genetic screens are becoming customary.
Dewars is the most mellow dog on the face of the earth and not your traditional terrier. If he were any more mellow, he would be dead. At this point in his life neutering is not an option as: 1) It would be painful, and 2) We think the only thing that keeps his heart rate up is the testosterone level.
They found a Wheaten Scottie bitch named Roxie with equally impressive blood lines. Her "Mom" is actually a bit more crazy than my parents. She actually sends Christmas cards to President Bush's dogs (also Scotties) and the dogs send one back. They are now framed in her house and I actually believe she's a Democrat. At any rate, the deed was done via IVF. And yes, they do have IVF for dogs. Dewars, as a result, LOVES the vet.
Last Friday my Mom and Roxie's Mom were present during the C-section. There originally were 8 puppies. One was stillborn (a girl), which left 6 males (two black, four brindle), and 1 female (black). My ecstatic Mom was reporting the news to me as she ran out to get hot water bottles and nipples to help feed the puppies. My Dad, of all people, was proud of his dog's siring abilities. Within the first few hours, Roxie got a little carried away in cleaning and grooming one of the puppies and accidentally unplugged one of the brindle male's umbilical cord knots. This puppy died even after rushing him to the vet. Someone would have to be on watch 24 hours a day.
On Saturday Mom called me and held up the phone to the puppies so I could hear them crying (sounds like mewing). I then put my phone on speaker so Edgar could hear it. I don't know what I was expecting. He just stood there staring at the phone like, "What, lady?" At this point in time J was wandering around the house shaking his head proclaiming everyone but he to be crazy and said it was catching because I actually expected Edgar to have a visceral response to the mewing.
I finally received a photo from my family last night of one of the puppies from my brother's cellphone. I've been oohing and ahing over it and remembering my days back as a vet tech assisting with births. Its like I was a puppy Douala! When I showed J the photo this morning, his response was: "Its too embryonic for me. That could be a seal, or a puppy, or a some other mammal. Remember in AP biology where we learned that the theory of how phylogeny isn't the recapitulation of ontogeny? That may be so, but it certainly looks like it!"
"But look at the paw with the little toes!" I said.
"Um, that could be a flipper for all I know. Yup, looks underdeveloped." He said sipping his morning coffee. "And, it doesn't have any eyes."
"Yes it does! They are closed! That's how they stay for the first bit!"
"Uh huh, not ready to come out of the womb." He went onto elaborate about NICU babies and how they shouldn't have left the womb either.
It just goes to show you, one man's puppy is another man's biology lecture.
This is a true understatement of the reality of which my husband married into with informed consent. Let me just be clear about this from the get go. He KNEW how crazy we were before saying the "I do's," (although he denies this). Also, I know how crazy we are and I am way ok with it.
My parents are sublimating their desire for grand kids through the dogs. They have two Scotties: Gregory (a rescue Scottie), and Dewars (a pure bred). When my parents bought Dewars they agreed to breed him once to help pass on a good blood line without any genetic defects. Believe it or not, one of the common problems with purebreds are the genetic defects due to over breeding and interbreeding so genetic screens are becoming customary.
Dewars is the most mellow dog on the face of the earth and not your traditional terrier. If he were any more mellow, he would be dead. At this point in his life neutering is not an option as: 1) It would be painful, and 2) We think the only thing that keeps his heart rate up is the testosterone level.
They found a Wheaten Scottie bitch named Roxie with equally impressive blood lines. Her "Mom" is actually a bit more crazy than my parents. She actually sends Christmas cards to President Bush's dogs (also Scotties) and the dogs send one back. They are now framed in her house and I actually believe she's a Democrat. At any rate, the deed was done via IVF. And yes, they do have IVF for dogs. Dewars, as a result, LOVES the vet.
Last Friday my Mom and Roxie's Mom were present during the C-section. There originally were 8 puppies. One was stillborn (a girl), which left 6 males (two black, four brindle), and 1 female (black). My ecstatic Mom was reporting the news to me as she ran out to get hot water bottles and nipples to help feed the puppies. My Dad, of all people, was proud of his dog's siring abilities. Within the first few hours, Roxie got a little carried away in cleaning and grooming one of the puppies and accidentally unplugged one of the brindle male's umbilical cord knots. This puppy died even after rushing him to the vet. Someone would have to be on watch 24 hours a day.
On Saturday Mom called me and held up the phone to the puppies so I could hear them crying (sounds like mewing). I then put my phone on speaker so Edgar could hear it. I don't know what I was expecting. He just stood there staring at the phone like, "What, lady?" At this point in time J was wandering around the house shaking his head proclaiming everyone but he to be crazy and said it was catching because I actually expected Edgar to have a visceral response to the mewing.
I finally received a photo from my family last night of one of the puppies from my brother's cellphone. I've been oohing and ahing over it and remembering my days back as a vet tech assisting with births. Its like I was a puppy Douala! When I showed J the photo this morning, his response was: "Its too embryonic for me. That could be a seal, or a puppy, or a some other mammal. Remember in AP biology where we learned that the theory of how phylogeny isn't the recapitulation of ontogeny? That may be so, but it certainly looks like it!"
"But look at the paw with the little toes!" I said.
"Um, that could be a flipper for all I know. Yup, looks underdeveloped." He said sipping his morning coffee. "And, it doesn't have any eyes."
"Yes it does! They are closed! That's how they stay for the first bit!"
"Uh huh, not ready to come out of the womb." He went onto elaborate about NICU babies and how they shouldn't have left the womb either.
It just goes to show you, one man's puppy is another man's biology lecture.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
"You. Who ARE You?" ~ the catepillar in Alice in Wonderland
I have been a personality test junkie ever since my Father introduced my brother and I to Personalysis when I was a preteen. Little did I know that those "What Type of Flirt Are You" magazine tests really got more scientific. It was like discovering that Snickers in banana ice cream is a delicious combination or the perfect universal lipstick color, but yes, even better than that. It was because of this one test, our family dialogue changed forever. Our fights would begin something like, "You need to tone down that red, young lady!" Or, "You are way too blue right now. Go find the dog to hug."
When I found the Meyers-Briggs tests I began to make all of my friends in the 7th grade take those as well, not to mention countless crushes and boyfriends through my life. I even knew that it wouldn't be that reliable as according to medical theory, our personalities aren't completely formed until that magical age of 18. Don't ask why. I don't have a clue.
My Dad at that point in time also put us through a battery of tests that gaged our aptitudes, skill sets, etc.. The one thing I do remember about those tests is that my brother, Mom and I were all in the same room and when the psychologist instructed us to do something with spacial relations my mother just kept bursting into laughter which was contagious to everyone except the Ph.D. who found it very annoying. No matter what shape they gave us, she couldn't get it to the intended outcome. This would explain why Mom never played paper airplanes with us.
When Dad was working on his real estate license, he discovered the DISC system. It was just another version of Personalysis to me by another name. I let it go for a number of years until discovering that it is the new "It" test for team development with my consulting gig. To help understand: D=dominance, I=influence, S=steadiness, C=compliance.
Two days ago I took the test willing to have my CEO go over the results with me so that I understood the report formats and coaching development sections. It was a bit uncomfortable for me to have exposed myself so much. We spent two hours going over the reports. Truly, it wasn't anything I didn't know, but it was uncomfortable to be that vulnerable with such icky (yes, icky) statements out there about yourself.
"You are forceful and direct when dealing with others." Forceful. That is an icky word. That implies I have some sort of secret weapon of coercion. I asked if we could cross that word out and pretend that it didn't exist.
"You prefer authority equal to her responsibility." My CEO commented, "See, this is exactly what you said to me the very first time I met you about why you left your last position and you hadn't even taken the test!"
"You are at your best when many projects are underway at once. You are forward-looking, assertive, and have a strong vision for results." Wow. Ok, I feel exposed. J and I finally figured out that because I need to multitask, we now go for walks when we need to do some deep discussion. Which also pointed to another statement: "Stress relief is found through physical activity."
Turns out I am a strong "D" (although not as strong as my Dad), and a secondary "I." If I were back in SLC, I would be a "DI" which would not imply a princess but more of a disenfranchised charity. Dad turns out to be a "DC" and not for the comics company (although we do call him "chuckles" because he is anything but) nor for our National capitol. Nope, he is a rules and regulations person. I pointed out to him that neither of us have the S for steadiness. His reply was, "Don't worry, your mother has enough S for both of us."
Turns out that is what J is too. He's a "SC." That would explain his overly high personal standards and fear of losing stability. It also explains how he really balances me out. While my stress style is to get quick to anger and worry about if I'm being manipulated then get really expressive, J is very slow to get angry (and in fact, God bless him, finds my Temple tantrums amusing) and is pretty non-emotional with the exception of an undefined fear when highly stressed.
Turns out that 40% of the population are "S" types. That was my lowest score. It also turns out that my boss is almost a 100% "I" type, with a secondary "D."
More really unnerving statements that your boss can read about you: "Be understanding of her sporadic listening skills" Ok, not good for a social worker. My CEO simply explained it was typically only because I was 12 steps ahead of where that person was in my brain, which is true.
"She is comfortable in an environment that is constantly changing. Even when the environment is frantic, she can still maintain a state of equilibrium. She is capable of taking inconsistency to a new height and to initiate change at the drop of a hat." OUCH. Ok, so this explains why I loved the emergency department, but also explains why my team back at the hospital operated in fear mode when I was so excited. Again though it also helps explain how J balances me out as I am really quick to make change and he is the last one to initiate it. This also drives us crazy at times, but for the most part it is a really good thing.
The test also analyzed my motivators and my values. That was something I hadn't seen before and was least familiar with how to use that when coaching someone. Turns out that I have a HUGE accountability quotient, I believe in giving my time and attention 100% to someone in need, I put a huge value on personal relationships, I'm highly sensitive to other's needs, I set realistic goals for myself and others, and I use common sense extremely well. Things that I need to work on: stress management and a sense of timing.
The one piece that I was worried about was if I was a good fit for the job with my natural and adapted style. This is an instrument that predicts this and is a bit scary when your boss is looking at this. Turns out, I am a perfect fit. No wonder I love what I do and have never been happier.
When I found the Meyers-Briggs tests I began to make all of my friends in the 7th grade take those as well, not to mention countless crushes and boyfriends through my life. I even knew that it wouldn't be that reliable as according to medical theory, our personalities aren't completely formed until that magical age of 18. Don't ask why. I don't have a clue.
My Dad at that point in time also put us through a battery of tests that gaged our aptitudes, skill sets, etc.. The one thing I do remember about those tests is that my brother, Mom and I were all in the same room and when the psychologist instructed us to do something with spacial relations my mother just kept bursting into laughter which was contagious to everyone except the Ph.D. who found it very annoying. No matter what shape they gave us, she couldn't get it to the intended outcome. This would explain why Mom never played paper airplanes with us.
When Dad was working on his real estate license, he discovered the DISC system. It was just another version of Personalysis to me by another name. I let it go for a number of years until discovering that it is the new "It" test for team development with my consulting gig. To help understand: D=dominance, I=influence, S=steadiness, C=compliance.
Two days ago I took the test willing to have my CEO go over the results with me so that I understood the report formats and coaching development sections. It was a bit uncomfortable for me to have exposed myself so much. We spent two hours going over the reports. Truly, it wasn't anything I didn't know, but it was uncomfortable to be that vulnerable with such icky (yes, icky) statements out there about yourself.
"You are forceful and direct when dealing with others." Forceful. That is an icky word. That implies I have some sort of secret weapon of coercion. I asked if we could cross that word out and pretend that it didn't exist.
"You prefer authority equal to her responsibility." My CEO commented, "See, this is exactly what you said to me the very first time I met you about why you left your last position and you hadn't even taken the test!"
"You are at your best when many projects are underway at once. You are forward-looking, assertive, and have a strong vision for results." Wow. Ok, I feel exposed. J and I finally figured out that because I need to multitask, we now go for walks when we need to do some deep discussion. Which also pointed to another statement: "Stress relief is found through physical activity."
Turns out I am a strong "D" (although not as strong as my Dad), and a secondary "I." If I were back in SLC, I would be a "DI" which would not imply a princess but more of a disenfranchised charity. Dad turns out to be a "DC" and not for the comics company (although we do call him "chuckles" because he is anything but) nor for our National capitol. Nope, he is a rules and regulations person. I pointed out to him that neither of us have the S for steadiness. His reply was, "Don't worry, your mother has enough S for both of us."
Turns out that is what J is too. He's a "SC." That would explain his overly high personal standards and fear of losing stability. It also explains how he really balances me out. While my stress style is to get quick to anger and worry about if I'm being manipulated then get really expressive, J is very slow to get angry (and in fact, God bless him, finds my Temple tantrums amusing) and is pretty non-emotional with the exception of an undefined fear when highly stressed.
Turns out that 40% of the population are "S" types. That was my lowest score. It also turns out that my boss is almost a 100% "I" type, with a secondary "D."
More really unnerving statements that your boss can read about you: "Be understanding of her sporadic listening skills" Ok, not good for a social worker. My CEO simply explained it was typically only because I was 12 steps ahead of where that person was in my brain, which is true.
"She is comfortable in an environment that is constantly changing. Even when the environment is frantic, she can still maintain a state of equilibrium. She is capable of taking inconsistency to a new height and to initiate change at the drop of a hat." OUCH. Ok, so this explains why I loved the emergency department, but also explains why my team back at the hospital operated in fear mode when I was so excited. Again though it also helps explain how J balances me out as I am really quick to make change and he is the last one to initiate it. This also drives us crazy at times, but for the most part it is a really good thing.
The test also analyzed my motivators and my values. That was something I hadn't seen before and was least familiar with how to use that when coaching someone. Turns out that I have a HUGE accountability quotient, I believe in giving my time and attention 100% to someone in need, I put a huge value on personal relationships, I'm highly sensitive to other's needs, I set realistic goals for myself and others, and I use common sense extremely well. Things that I need to work on: stress management and a sense of timing.
The one piece that I was worried about was if I was a good fit for the job with my natural and adapted style. This is an instrument that predicts this and is a bit scary when your boss is looking at this. Turns out, I am a perfect fit. No wonder I love what I do and have never been happier.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
September Revisisted
If you will kindly remember, September was supposed to be the month of clarity. Well, here we are on the last day of the month and I still have beer waiting to be bottled next to the vacuum in the closet. Also as a side note, we have 20 gallons of apple cider in our garage waiting to be turned into REAL cider a la a little fermenting once we get the closeted pilsner out of its fermenting container. However there has been progress on other fronts.
J has decided to go for a fellowship in palliative care. While I made pro/con lists from hell and taped them to the fridge, listened for hours, etc, etc, etc, there was only one person who helped him reach that decision and it wasn't me. Nope. It was a good friend of ours in J's same year who is now interviewing for jobs around the area. This is the same guy who came up with the molecular structure for Splenda at the winery. We'll call him Dr. PDA (not for Public Displays of Affection, but for the real gadget).
The night before our anniversary, long after I passed out and went to bed, they stayed up talking. Dr. PDA pointed out that while he is efficient, these jobs want their docs to see somewhere around 27 patients a day. 27 patients in an 8 hour period. That is less than 1 patient every 4 minutes. And this is for a primary care physician!!! No wonder our health system is going to hell in a hand basket. He then pointed out that 1) J cares too much about his patients, 2) his strength is communication, and 3) when you are specialized, you can basically tell the HMO's to go screw themselves because you are a specialist and can take as much time as you damn well please. That was all it took for J to make the decision to get his CV in order.
J went through his CV and met with his advisor last week. Her first words were to the effect, "Don't tell me you aren't going to apply out of state just because you don't want to uproot your wife." Up until that point, J was seriously just thinking of putting 80% of his eggs in the one basket labeled, "Indy," but now he is thinking of other places to apply.
Yesterday we went up to Lake Michigan with Edgar to take him swimming. (Yes, he is like our child and I am sublimating my baby hunger with the dog for now, which by the way isn't getting any better now that I work with labor and delivery PRN.) It was an exciting adventure 3 hours north where Edgar navigated the waves and you could see Chicago's skyline in the distance. As we were driving home with exhausted puppy sleeping in my arms, J remarked that if he were to apply to Boston's program, Edgar wouldn't have a lake. In fact, we would live in an apartment (renting, of course), without a yard or a lake or anything a doggie needs. I had to remind him that we would survive and he is just a dog. (Very hard for me to verbalize that last part.) I reframed it by saying it would be an adventure as we could live in a downtown loft, just like his fantasy of being a bachelor, except for the fact that he would be married with a dog and trying to get pregnant. Ok, so my reframing abilities suck, but that was what I could come up with.
Other options include: Milwaukee, Rochester, quite a few in the South, etc. J is against anything in Florida as he has evolved from the polar bears and would definitely melt. I might chalk it up to his strange fear of Mickey Mouse and Alligators, but then I would be making things up in my head.
As we have been moving forward with this new direction, I've been having a ton of dreams about my house back in Utah. It is currently being leased by a very nice couple from the UK who are professors. My dreams (read: nightmares) involve me coming to check on the property only to find that they have done major renovations, painted the walls awful colors (or colors that I do in fact like, but am pissed because they did it, not me), threatening litigation, freaking out about losing the income source, neighbors taking sides as to who misinterpreted the lease, etc, etc, etc. Freud would have a hay day with that one, I'm certain.
Doing a fellowship means that we will be postponing an eventual goal of returning to Utah. However, I've noticed that now J is making statements that he would be happy returning to the general West (not specified as to Utah.) The house in Utah is something that I identify with simply because it was my first house and that I bought it all by myself. I suppose that this new evolution of fellowship direction will just coincide with another revision of me.
In the meantime of this potential revision, there is beer needing to be bottled, a deck to be stained, cider to be fermented, and perennials to be transplanted.
J has decided to go for a fellowship in palliative care. While I made pro/con lists from hell and taped them to the fridge, listened for hours, etc, etc, etc, there was only one person who helped him reach that decision and it wasn't me. Nope. It was a good friend of ours in J's same year who is now interviewing for jobs around the area. This is the same guy who came up with the molecular structure for Splenda at the winery. We'll call him Dr. PDA (not for Public Displays of Affection, but for the real gadget).
The night before our anniversary, long after I passed out and went to bed, they stayed up talking. Dr. PDA pointed out that while he is efficient, these jobs want their docs to see somewhere around 27 patients a day. 27 patients in an 8 hour period. That is less than 1 patient every 4 minutes. And this is for a primary care physician!!! No wonder our health system is going to hell in a hand basket. He then pointed out that 1) J cares too much about his patients, 2) his strength is communication, and 3) when you are specialized, you can basically tell the HMO's to go screw themselves because you are a specialist and can take as much time as you damn well please. That was all it took for J to make the decision to get his CV in order.
J went through his CV and met with his advisor last week. Her first words were to the effect, "Don't tell me you aren't going to apply out of state just because you don't want to uproot your wife." Up until that point, J was seriously just thinking of putting 80% of his eggs in the one basket labeled, "Indy," but now he is thinking of other places to apply.
Yesterday we went up to Lake Michigan with Edgar to take him swimming. (Yes, he is like our child and I am sublimating my baby hunger with the dog for now, which by the way isn't getting any better now that I work with labor and delivery PRN.) It was an exciting adventure 3 hours north where Edgar navigated the waves and you could see Chicago's skyline in the distance. As we were driving home with exhausted puppy sleeping in my arms, J remarked that if he were to apply to Boston's program, Edgar wouldn't have a lake. In fact, we would live in an apartment (renting, of course), without a yard or a lake or anything a doggie needs. I had to remind him that we would survive and he is just a dog. (Very hard for me to verbalize that last part.) I reframed it by saying it would be an adventure as we could live in a downtown loft, just like his fantasy of being a bachelor, except for the fact that he would be married with a dog and trying to get pregnant. Ok, so my reframing abilities suck, but that was what I could come up with.
Other options include: Milwaukee, Rochester, quite a few in the South, etc. J is against anything in Florida as he has evolved from the polar bears and would definitely melt. I might chalk it up to his strange fear of Mickey Mouse and Alligators, but then I would be making things up in my head.
As we have been moving forward with this new direction, I've been having a ton of dreams about my house back in Utah. It is currently being leased by a very nice couple from the UK who are professors. My dreams (read: nightmares) involve me coming to check on the property only to find that they have done major renovations, painted the walls awful colors (or colors that I do in fact like, but am pissed because they did it, not me), threatening litigation, freaking out about losing the income source, neighbors taking sides as to who misinterpreted the lease, etc, etc, etc. Freud would have a hay day with that one, I'm certain.
Doing a fellowship means that we will be postponing an eventual goal of returning to Utah. However, I've noticed that now J is making statements that he would be happy returning to the general West (not specified as to Utah.) The house in Utah is something that I identify with simply because it was my first house and that I bought it all by myself. I suppose that this new evolution of fellowship direction will just coincide with another revision of me.
In the meantime of this potential revision, there is beer needing to be bottled, a deck to be stained, cider to be fermented, and perennials to be transplanted.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Intuition
I consider myself to be a pretty intuitive person. I get this about me. I can sense if bad things have happened in places, pay close attention to my dreams, and really listen to my gut. The only thing I really don't get is that others don't have this same tendency.
This week I started off by attending hospital orientation. The group was small, like under 20 people. And as far as new employee orientations go, this was a pretty well designed program. About 20 minutes into the morning I began to sense that something was wrong with someone in the room. I didn't really know what or who, but the feeling kept nagging at me. Sure enough I finally spotted the guy. He was rubbing his leg, shifting in his chair, wincing, gasping, and turning red. What surprised me is that none of the speakers nor any of his table mates were doing anything about it. He was in a lot of pain and it was getting worse.
I also knew that he was trying to be quiet. He then began to cry. No one noticed. He didn't want to be noticed. Chances are this was a really good job that he really needed and by leaving early he probably thought he would get in trouble. I would cause a ton of attention by going over there and asking what I could do plus, was it really my role? I finally couldn't take it and found one of the facilitators in the back to bring her attention to the guy. She couldn't figure out who I was talking about even though it was plain as day obvious to me who was in pain. Finally she said she would let the other facilitator know when she got back in the room. This wasn't good enough for me.
I finally grabbed our HR coordinator to let her know. She went over to him and asked the "well, duh" question: Are you ok? No lady, he is NOT ok. He admitted he was in a ton of pain through quiet sobbing. It was only at that point in time that others in the room began to notice something was wrong. The HR coordinator then called her boss to ask what should be done. In the meantime I'm beginning to worry about him throwing a clot, a DVT, or something else really bad. People don't go into sudden huge onsets of pain for small reasons. She then told him he could go. I can only hope she directed him to the ED. I would have at least gotten a wheelchair and sent someone with him. Granted, she is in HR, but come on!
Later this week I began to have tons of dreams about the house which we jokingly called my Father's Castle and my gnawing anxiety began again. Something was wrong. I should also mention that this runs in my family. My grandmother knew my cousin was pregnant before she announced it. My Mom has these feelings quite frequently. And I have had three unique experiences the night before something bad has happened: once before I discovered my boyfriend was cheating on me, once right before I was diagnosed with a tumor, and then right before 9/11. I pay attention to these feelings. Thank God what I'm experiencing isn't anything close to that, but a little warning none-the-less.
This week I started off by attending hospital orientation. The group was small, like under 20 people. And as far as new employee orientations go, this was a pretty well designed program. About 20 minutes into the morning I began to sense that something was wrong with someone in the room. I didn't really know what or who, but the feeling kept nagging at me. Sure enough I finally spotted the guy. He was rubbing his leg, shifting in his chair, wincing, gasping, and turning red. What surprised me is that none of the speakers nor any of his table mates were doing anything about it. He was in a lot of pain and it was getting worse.
I also knew that he was trying to be quiet. He then began to cry. No one noticed. He didn't want to be noticed. Chances are this was a really good job that he really needed and by leaving early he probably thought he would get in trouble. I would cause a ton of attention by going over there and asking what I could do plus, was it really my role? I finally couldn't take it and found one of the facilitators in the back to bring her attention to the guy. She couldn't figure out who I was talking about even though it was plain as day obvious to me who was in pain. Finally she said she would let the other facilitator know when she got back in the room. This wasn't good enough for me.
I finally grabbed our HR coordinator to let her know. She went over to him and asked the "well, duh" question: Are you ok? No lady, he is NOT ok. He admitted he was in a ton of pain through quiet sobbing. It was only at that point in time that others in the room began to notice something was wrong. The HR coordinator then called her boss to ask what should be done. In the meantime I'm beginning to worry about him throwing a clot, a DVT, or something else really bad. People don't go into sudden huge onsets of pain for small reasons. She then told him he could go. I can only hope she directed him to the ED. I would have at least gotten a wheelchair and sent someone with him. Granted, she is in HR, but come on!
Later this week I began to have tons of dreams about the house which we jokingly called my Father's Castle and my gnawing anxiety began again. Something was wrong. I should also mention that this runs in my family. My grandmother knew my cousin was pregnant before she announced it. My Mom has these feelings quite frequently. And I have had three unique experiences the night before something bad has happened: once before I discovered my boyfriend was cheating on me, once right before I was diagnosed with a tumor, and then right before 9/11. I pay attention to these feelings. Thank God what I'm experiencing isn't anything close to that, but a little warning none-the-less.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Anniversary Drama, in Five Parts
September is full of celebrations. Tons of family birthdays, tons of friends' birthdays, my own birthday and if that wasn't enough, I also decided to get married in the same month. Last Sunday was our first anniversary. With every bit of fun there is always some drama. Our first act had to do with the wedding cake.
Last year the wedding cake was a pretty big deal mostly because I really wanted J's family to be a part of the selection. One spring day J and I brought samples to the family and we all submitted our commentary. It was quite fun and in the end we decided on a combination of a large spice cake with cream cheese filling tier and two tiers of lemon with raspberry filling. It wasn't your traditional cake, but it was to both of our families as each of our parents had spice cake for their weddings. As traditions go, the top tier went into a deep freezer at my mother-in-law's house.
The shipping dilemma began way back in July. How were we going to get this sucker from SLC to Indy? My poor MIL started having nightmares about packaging strategies to preserve the frosting. We also considered having my mom bring it when she came to visit only to realize that one of our friends had hers confiscated by security. Somewhere right after my birthday J received a phone call from his mom. He listened for a bit and consoled her then handed the phone to me.
"Oh, my dear heart, I don't know how to tell you this. But last night..." She stops to catch her breath because she's sobbing, "We went down to the basement and the deep freeze was broken. Everything had melted. We lost meat, fish, even some breast milk that was saved when Max was staying with us. But, oh, we lost the cake! I'm so sorry! We came so close!"
"Its ok." I responded calmly. "I'm so sorry you lost all of that meat." I didn't begin to go there with the breast milk.
"You aren't going to break down? Because I knew if you would break down I would lose it and I've been crying most of the day, didn't sleep last night and thought I would break the news to J first so he could support you. I would be hysterical if I were you. We were so close!"
My response? "Eh. There are bigger fish to fry. Its no big deal. I really appreciate you hanging onto our cake for so long."
"You really aren't that upset? I can't believe you aren't that upset. Are you just pretending for me?"
"No really, its ok. These things happen. No good will come out of me getting upset. All we miss out on is some stale cake."
I began to wonder why this stupid tradition even exists. Is it for luck? I brought that up to J later who rationally reasoned that it had to be a newer tradition as deep freezers didn't exist way back when and the divorce rate was really low. Good point. I began to research it. No no no, it is actually meant to be for your first child's christening!!! Oh good Lord, they thought we would have been pregnant before our anniversary and I suppose we would have been way back when. The tradition then morphed into the christening OR your anniversary. Good times for stale cake.
The second act of our drama unfolded last week when I came home a little bit early after teaching my class. I was received at the door by an overenthusiastic husband hugging me, telling me he was glad I was home, and promptly trying to shuffle me out of the living room. I glanced at our desk which was laden with clothes. "What's this?" Apparently it was my anniversary surprise. Clothing from REI for our outdoor adventures planned in Australia. He was so smug that he planned all of this even before my birthday and was going to surprise me, but then I ruined it by coming home early. That night he proceeded to bring me out articles of clothing one by one. Capri's, a long sleeved shirt, short sleeve shirt, sleeveless shirt, and tank top all very high performing gear. I was really impressed that he had the guts to buy me clothes in the first place.
The third act of our drama came when I accidentally washed his wallet. Oops. I pointed out the bright side that at least I didn't wash his phone. However, it did give me a fabulous plan to buy him a new one for our anniversary. It also fell into line with the tradition that the first anniversary should represent paper or clocks. I thought of paper money! Yeah yeah! Go me!! My poor sentimental husband claims he never heard of such a tradition. I said, "Where did you think the term 'golden anniversary' came from?"
The fourth act involved the US Postal System. Saturday morning there was a LOUD banging on our door, followed by aggressive door bell ringing. This happened not once, but three times. Edgar went wild and J and I, like mature adults, hid. We hid in our own house. Our front door does not have a peep hole so we were stuck tiptoeing around windows trying to see out without them seeing in. Then we heard the truck pull away. Now I go outside to find the "sorry I missed you" overnight slip with the next available time to be picked up three days away. I went outside in my pj's trying to see if I could find the mail dude. The rest of the morning was spent tracking down the package, contacting the sender to confirm it was perishable, etc, etc, etc. We did finally get the package which was from my MIL: fancy cocktail paper napkins, a card, and some cookies. She also included some leaf decorations that were on the tables of our rehearsal dinner. This made J well up a bit. Talk about thoughtful. That night we had a dinner party, but we didn't use them as we wanted to hang onto them for just a little bit longer.
The fifth act involved a sleepover of drunken guests from the night before. We made pancakes and coffee to just continue the celebration. It wasn't what we envisioned for our morning of our anniversary, but it was fun! We then paid bills (yup, living on the wild side for us!) and then took Edgar to one of our State Parks for a hike. That was followed up by a swim for Edgar in our lake, a bath, and us grilling steaks with a nice chilled bottle of champagne. I also gave J his wallet which he was thrilled! While I loved the clothes and actually wore them on our hike, the best gift was the decision he came to by telling me he was 90% sure he wanted to do a fellowship. Hallelujah, we may have some direction!!!
And then of course we have the epilogue. The following day I called my parents as I was half baffled they didn't call first and then began to worry that something REALLY BAD was happening over there. Mom talked about work, the dogs, asked about my jobs, how J was doing, etc when I finally said that we had our anniversary. Whoops. Well, she felt bad, which wasn't really my intention. Apparently when she talked about it with my father later that night his response was, "Well, at least she remembered her own anniversary." This coming from a man who has been married almost 35 years.
Last year the wedding cake was a pretty big deal mostly because I really wanted J's family to be a part of the selection. One spring day J and I brought samples to the family and we all submitted our commentary. It was quite fun and in the end we decided on a combination of a large spice cake with cream cheese filling tier and two tiers of lemon with raspberry filling. It wasn't your traditional cake, but it was to both of our families as each of our parents had spice cake for their weddings. As traditions go, the top tier went into a deep freezer at my mother-in-law's house.
The shipping dilemma began way back in July. How were we going to get this sucker from SLC to Indy? My poor MIL started having nightmares about packaging strategies to preserve the frosting. We also considered having my mom bring it when she came to visit only to realize that one of our friends had hers confiscated by security. Somewhere right after my birthday J received a phone call from his mom. He listened for a bit and consoled her then handed the phone to me.
"Oh, my dear heart, I don't know how to tell you this. But last night..." She stops to catch her breath because she's sobbing, "We went down to the basement and the deep freeze was broken. Everything had melted. We lost meat, fish, even some breast milk that was saved when Max was staying with us. But, oh, we lost the cake! I'm so sorry! We came so close!"
"Its ok." I responded calmly. "I'm so sorry you lost all of that meat." I didn't begin to go there with the breast milk.
"You aren't going to break down? Because I knew if you would break down I would lose it and I've been crying most of the day, didn't sleep last night and thought I would break the news to J first so he could support you. I would be hysterical if I were you. We were so close!"
My response? "Eh. There are bigger fish to fry. Its no big deal. I really appreciate you hanging onto our cake for so long."
"You really aren't that upset? I can't believe you aren't that upset. Are you just pretending for me?"
"No really, its ok. These things happen. No good will come out of me getting upset. All we miss out on is some stale cake."
I began to wonder why this stupid tradition even exists. Is it for luck? I brought that up to J later who rationally reasoned that it had to be a newer tradition as deep freezers didn't exist way back when and the divorce rate was really low. Good point. I began to research it. No no no, it is actually meant to be for your first child's christening!!! Oh good Lord, they thought we would have been pregnant before our anniversary and I suppose we would have been way back when. The tradition then morphed into the christening OR your anniversary. Good times for stale cake.
The second act of our drama unfolded last week when I came home a little bit early after teaching my class. I was received at the door by an overenthusiastic husband hugging me, telling me he was glad I was home, and promptly trying to shuffle me out of the living room. I glanced at our desk which was laden with clothes. "What's this?" Apparently it was my anniversary surprise. Clothing from REI for our outdoor adventures planned in Australia. He was so smug that he planned all of this even before my birthday and was going to surprise me, but then I ruined it by coming home early. That night he proceeded to bring me out articles of clothing one by one. Capri's, a long sleeved shirt, short sleeve shirt, sleeveless shirt, and tank top all very high performing gear. I was really impressed that he had the guts to buy me clothes in the first place.
The third act of our drama came when I accidentally washed his wallet. Oops. I pointed out the bright side that at least I didn't wash his phone. However, it did give me a fabulous plan to buy him a new one for our anniversary. It also fell into line with the tradition that the first anniversary should represent paper or clocks. I thought of paper money! Yeah yeah! Go me!! My poor sentimental husband claims he never heard of such a tradition. I said, "Where did you think the term 'golden anniversary' came from?"
The fourth act involved the US Postal System. Saturday morning there was a LOUD banging on our door, followed by aggressive door bell ringing. This happened not once, but three times. Edgar went wild and J and I, like mature adults, hid. We hid in our own house. Our front door does not have a peep hole so we were stuck tiptoeing around windows trying to see out without them seeing in. Then we heard the truck pull away. Now I go outside to find the "sorry I missed you" overnight slip with the next available time to be picked up three days away. I went outside in my pj's trying to see if I could find the mail dude. The rest of the morning was spent tracking down the package, contacting the sender to confirm it was perishable, etc, etc, etc. We did finally get the package which was from my MIL: fancy cocktail paper napkins, a card, and some cookies. She also included some leaf decorations that were on the tables of our rehearsal dinner. This made J well up a bit. Talk about thoughtful. That night we had a dinner party, but we didn't use them as we wanted to hang onto them for just a little bit longer.
The fifth act involved a sleepover of drunken guests from the night before. We made pancakes and coffee to just continue the celebration. It wasn't what we envisioned for our morning of our anniversary, but it was fun! We then paid bills (yup, living on the wild side for us!) and then took Edgar to one of our State Parks for a hike. That was followed up by a swim for Edgar in our lake, a bath, and us grilling steaks with a nice chilled bottle of champagne. I also gave J his wallet which he was thrilled! While I loved the clothes and actually wore them on our hike, the best gift was the decision he came to by telling me he was 90% sure he wanted to do a fellowship. Hallelujah, we may have some direction!!!
And then of course we have the epilogue. The following day I called my parents as I was half baffled they didn't call first and then began to worry that something REALLY BAD was happening over there. Mom talked about work, the dogs, asked about my jobs, how J was doing, etc when I finally said that we had our anniversary. Whoops. Well, she felt bad, which wasn't really my intention. Apparently when she talked about it with my father later that night his response was, "Well, at least she remembered her own anniversary." This coming from a man who has been married almost 35 years.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Birfday Babble
Last year at this time I was in warp speed. I was trying to manage the details a wedding produces in the 9th inning and every 24 hours passing just meant I was watching the clock expand my ever growing to-do list. It was always T minus nuptial date. What this really meant was that I treated every day the same. Including my birthday which in 2006 only signified that I was T minus 11 days and counting. You could imagine my surprise this year when I realized that essentially I was celebrating becoming two years older not just one.
My birthday typically revolves around significant other life events like the start of school, new itchy wool sweaters/skirts that my mother had to pair with saddle shoes, the closing of swimming pools, Labor day, and my parents typically getting ready for a week absence due to globe trotting. This last event was due to my father's line of work and the yearly trips just happened to coincide with the yearly celebration of me. I spent quite a few birthdays in the custody of aunts, uncles, grandparents and random babysitters (including my now sister-in-law oddly enough while my parents were in Asia.)
I had my share of birthday parties growing up. One of my favorites was the afternoon tea my mother threw and some of my friends showed up in Cotillion dresses with gloves. I was just thrilled I had mini cheese cakes for my birthday cake. I also had the typical 80's rainbow/Snoopy stuffed animal/water slide birthday, the sleepover birthday when I was 10 where I accidentally broke the news to Molly M. that the stork was a lie that I still feel Catholic guilt about doing, the tomboy University football game birthday with my grandfather/uncle/brother where I got my period (that sucked), the drunk fest 21st birthday at a bar where I believe my own 19 year old brother got in, and the 22nd New Orleans birthday where I thought it was a good idea to karaoke "Raspberry Beret" after eating at a transvestite Asian restaurant and many drinks with toys/umbrellas/swizzle sticks in them. The best birthday I've had as an adult was when J surprised me with an elaborate surprise in Stillwater, MN at a bed in breakfast, canoeing, and two high-end elaborate meals. I think I turned 28 that year.
This year I turned 32.
As in, my-parents-had-a-9-and-7-year-old-by-the-time-they-were-32. My brother was kind enough to wish me a "Happy 26th Birfday, yes Birfday." This truly is kind of him as last year I accidentally wished him a happy 30th birthday when he only turned 29. Whoops about my math skills on that one.
My mom took J and me out to dinner while she was here for my birthday. That is just one of our traditions. I saved my cards from my friends and family to open with J that night before we went to dinner. While I hoped/guessed that J had made reservations at one of our favorite spots, dinner was really decided last minute between the two of us. Saving for trips and marriage has cut down on our elaborate dating. No surprise. Even on J's 32nd b-day back in January, I tried to surprise him but had to realistically coordinate his time into feasible reservations.
J came in the door about 5:00 with my gift. Some book about nursing ethics and their workforce shortage. This reminded me of the gift two of my girlfriends gave me in New Orleans. They bought a "silver" necklace with the word, "Virgo," in cursive as the charm from one of those cheesy kiosks in the mall. I think I responded the same way. "Wow. Thanks." as I tried to look really interested but my flat voice betrayed me. With J's gift I began to get a little angry. How did he not know my feelings about the nursing shortage?!?! All parties' gifts were just to see what my reaction would be.
Apparently watching me freak-out, attempt to mask my freak-out, or any variation there of could be a National past time and potentially more entertaining than baseball. Even when I was a self-conscious teenager my loving mother and brother would drive around the neighborhood with their arms out the windows, driving really slowly, and blasting twang country out of the stereo just to watch me freak out to the point of tears in the back seat. Good times.
After I had thanked him/convinced him I really was grateful for the stupid ethics book, J then brought his on call bag out and presented me with my real gift: perfume. But not just any perfume. The one that I've been rubbing off of the magazine sample since mid-July to the point that I had paper cuts on my forearms. The man pays attention. Well, either that or he was concerned that his friends were thinking I was attempting suicide with superficial lacerations. This was an extravagant gift for me. I do not buy perfume. The last time I purchased a new scent was in 1999.
I will say that my best gift I received this year were the numerous phone calls, cards, and well wishes friends and family passed along to me...as it should be.
My birthday typically revolves around significant other life events like the start of school, new itchy wool sweaters/skirts that my mother had to pair with saddle shoes, the closing of swimming pools, Labor day, and my parents typically getting ready for a week absence due to globe trotting. This last event was due to my father's line of work and the yearly trips just happened to coincide with the yearly celebration of me. I spent quite a few birthdays in the custody of aunts, uncles, grandparents and random babysitters (including my now sister-in-law oddly enough while my parents were in Asia.)
I had my share of birthday parties growing up. One of my favorites was the afternoon tea my mother threw and some of my friends showed up in Cotillion dresses with gloves. I was just thrilled I had mini cheese cakes for my birthday cake. I also had the typical 80's rainbow/Snoopy stuffed animal/water slide birthday, the sleepover birthday when I was 10 where I accidentally broke the news to Molly M. that the stork was a lie that I still feel Catholic guilt about doing, the tomboy University football game birthday with my grandfather/uncle/brother where I got my period (that sucked), the drunk fest 21st birthday at a bar where I believe my own 19 year old brother got in, and the 22nd New Orleans birthday where I thought it was a good idea to karaoke "Raspberry Beret" after eating at a transvestite Asian restaurant and many drinks with toys/umbrellas/swizzle sticks in them. The best birthday I've had as an adult was when J surprised me with an elaborate surprise in Stillwater, MN at a bed in breakfast, canoeing, and two high-end elaborate meals. I think I turned 28 that year.
This year I turned 32.
As in, my-parents-had-a-9-and-7-year-old-by-the-time-they-were-32. My brother was kind enough to wish me a "Happy 26th Birfday, yes Birfday." This truly is kind of him as last year I accidentally wished him a happy 30th birthday when he only turned 29. Whoops about my math skills on that one.
My mom took J and me out to dinner while she was here for my birthday. That is just one of our traditions. I saved my cards from my friends and family to open with J that night before we went to dinner. While I hoped/guessed that J had made reservations at one of our favorite spots, dinner was really decided last minute between the two of us. Saving for trips and marriage has cut down on our elaborate dating. No surprise. Even on J's 32nd b-day back in January, I tried to surprise him but had to realistically coordinate his time into feasible reservations.
J came in the door about 5:00 with my gift. Some book about nursing ethics and their workforce shortage. This reminded me of the gift two of my girlfriends gave me in New Orleans. They bought a "silver" necklace with the word, "Virgo," in cursive as the charm from one of those cheesy kiosks in the mall. I think I responded the same way. "Wow. Thanks." as I tried to look really interested but my flat voice betrayed me. With J's gift I began to get a little angry. How did he not know my feelings about the nursing shortage?!?! All parties' gifts were just to see what my reaction would be.
Apparently watching me freak-out, attempt to mask my freak-out, or any variation there of could be a National past time and potentially more entertaining than baseball. Even when I was a self-conscious teenager my loving mother and brother would drive around the neighborhood with their arms out the windows, driving really slowly, and blasting twang country out of the stereo just to watch me freak out to the point of tears in the back seat. Good times.
After I had thanked him/convinced him I really was grateful for the stupid ethics book, J then brought his on call bag out and presented me with my real gift: perfume. But not just any perfume. The one that I've been rubbing off of the magazine sample since mid-July to the point that I had paper cuts on my forearms. The man pays attention. Well, either that or he was concerned that his friends were thinking I was attempting suicide with superficial lacerations. This was an extravagant gift for me. I do not buy perfume. The last time I purchased a new scent was in 1999.
I will say that my best gift I received this year were the numerous phone calls, cards, and well wishes friends and family passed along to me...as it should be.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Snakes and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails
The other night my husband returned from his version of mecca (Costco) with various items I requested (e.g. yogurt and paper towels) but also with items of his own choosing (e.g. muffins...and a ton of information on underwater cameras, their specs, rebates, etc.)
"Honey, I think I found THE Christmas present." He announced. "Max will love it in a few years." Translation: I think its really cool and I'd like to get it for me, but I'll site our nephew as the reason why and we'll hang onto it for a few years then I'll pass it onto him.
The last time he announced something like that we ended up with a bottle of 2004 Vintage Bordeaux (THE banner year of Bordeaux in decades). 2004 was the year Max was born and it seemed fitting for his nephew/Godson.
J immediately pulled up the a website about the gift in question. It was a book. The Dangerous Book for Boys. Apparently it was a best seller in the UK and I have to admit it was an intriguing concept...it also contained all sorts of things that I didn't give a rats ass about but someone with a Y chromosome would jump up and down on the couch for. Things like: 5 knots every boy should know, how to make a fireproof cloth, how to make a periscope, US coins, the history of pirates (ok, that one I'm interested in), and a whole two pages on the mysterious topic of girls. What I did love was the video clip associated with it. I particularly liked the go cart piece. After watching Edgar perfect his diving under the water while swimming stunt earlier this week (and I subsequently screamed, gasped for air, and freaked out...he was fine and J remained calm), I knew that what type of mother I will become and would not be ok with a go carting son. We also found this video clip as well.
As J was watching the clips and doing everything he could to contain his enthusiasm I realized two things: one, he will be a great dad and two, I wondered what the counterpart book was like for girls. There isn't one out yet, but I have researched it out and found that it may be a "booklet" not a book (WTF?) as well as it could be entitled something like: The Daring Book for Girls. Many a feminist blogger has taken offense to this. What exactly will they teach? How to throw a tea party? How to do first aid? How to walk in high heels? How to apply make-up? How to play hopscotch, cats cradle, or Mary Mack? How to bake a cake?
I will say this is exactly why I dropped out of Brownies. I can't say that my badge in how to upholster furniture (complete with a wooden block, some foam, and a cloth stapled around it) will ever get me anywhere nor is it anything I would want to pass onto my daughters. I remember being jealous that my husband and his boyscout troop were going ice caving/camping when we were in the 6th grade and asking why I couldn't go. Brownies did not prepare me for the real world.
Who knows, maybe Santa will bring my husband the book of his dreams only to find his wife late at night reading it under the covers with a flashlight. There might be something sexy about a woman who knows how to build a catapult.
"Honey, I think I found THE Christmas present." He announced. "Max will love it in a few years." Translation: I think its really cool and I'd like to get it for me, but I'll site our nephew as the reason why and we'll hang onto it for a few years then I'll pass it onto him.
The last time he announced something like that we ended up with a bottle of 2004 Vintage Bordeaux (THE banner year of Bordeaux in decades). 2004 was the year Max was born and it seemed fitting for his nephew/Godson.
J immediately pulled up the a website about the gift in question. It was a book. The Dangerous Book for Boys. Apparently it was a best seller in the UK and I have to admit it was an intriguing concept...it also contained all sorts of things that I didn't give a rats ass about but someone with a Y chromosome would jump up and down on the couch for. Things like: 5 knots every boy should know, how to make a fireproof cloth, how to make a periscope, US coins, the history of pirates (ok, that one I'm interested in), and a whole two pages on the mysterious topic of girls. What I did love was the video clip associated with it. I particularly liked the go cart piece. After watching Edgar perfect his diving under the water while swimming stunt earlier this week (and I subsequently screamed, gasped for air, and freaked out...he was fine and J remained calm), I knew that what type of mother I will become and would not be ok with a go carting son. We also found this video clip as well.
As J was watching the clips and doing everything he could to contain his enthusiasm I realized two things: one, he will be a great dad and two, I wondered what the counterpart book was like for girls. There isn't one out yet, but I have researched it out and found that it may be a "booklet" not a book (WTF?) as well as it could be entitled something like: The Daring Book for Girls. Many a feminist blogger has taken offense to this. What exactly will they teach? How to throw a tea party? How to do first aid? How to walk in high heels? How to apply make-up? How to play hopscotch, cats cradle, or Mary Mack? How to bake a cake?
I will say this is exactly why I dropped out of Brownies. I can't say that my badge in how to upholster furniture (complete with a wooden block, some foam, and a cloth stapled around it) will ever get me anywhere nor is it anything I would want to pass onto my daughters. I remember being jealous that my husband and his boyscout troop were going ice caving/camping when we were in the 6th grade and asking why I couldn't go. Brownies did not prepare me for the real world.
Who knows, maybe Santa will bring my husband the book of his dreams only to find his wife late at night reading it under the covers with a flashlight. There might be something sexy about a woman who knows how to build a catapult.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
I Can See the Light!!!
There are many reasons why today is a good day. For one, it is my husband's last night on this hellish rotation of the ICU...also his last ICU rotation in his residency. It has seriously sucked the life out of his bone marrow. This particular ICU has been rated as the most severe in mortality (about 70% of all admissions die) in teaching hospitals across the Nation. J's particular attitude is, "If I can make it here..."
Its one thing to have an expected death, but its a completely different issue when patients who were fine crump on you when they were expected to be discharged. I think that has been the hardest part. At least with palliative care (a potential fellowship interest) all of those have come to terms with expected outcomes and have abandoned traditional allopathic curative medicine. The ethics have been difficult for J as well. (e.g. Why exactly are we transplanting a guy for the third time in 5 years?) Believe it or not, he moves onto an elective month in September of ethics.
September will be our month of potential grounding. He has been going non stop since June...basically he missed summer completely. In our last official week of observed summer his goal is to get to our pool as many times as possible before it closes next Monday. We'll also be looking to finally bottle the pilsner we brewed in April that has been sitting in our closet reaching its malty goodness potential. And, we'll be discussing what one year from now will look like. As of July 1, 2008 he will be finito in his residency training. This of course begs the question of, "Now what?"
Yesterday I landed a PRN job as a medical social worker. I swear, the minute I walked back into the hospital, saw the gurneys, smelled the ammonia, saw the volunteers in their cute pink smocks at the information desk...well, I knew I was home. It sounds ridiculous, but true. One of the social workers asked me why PRN. I had to be honest. It wouldn't be really ethical for me to take a really big job right now knowing that 1) I'll be gone for 2 months in Spring, and 2) Nothing is for certain after June 2008. This would make my third part time job I hold, which is great. The last time I held more than one part time job it was right before I left for graduate school where I found myself as a part time veterinary tech and part time pastry chef. I liked the variety.
Life's future is pretty up in the air right now for us. Its kind of like standing on the edge of a cliff. Thrilling, and scary. 2008 could bring us new jobs, new locations, potentially planning a family, new challenges...or who knows, we could still be here in Indiana with similar jobs and a new fellowship. I certainly hope September brings insight.
Its one thing to have an expected death, but its a completely different issue when patients who were fine crump on you when they were expected to be discharged. I think that has been the hardest part. At least with palliative care (a potential fellowship interest) all of those have come to terms with expected outcomes and have abandoned traditional allopathic curative medicine. The ethics have been difficult for J as well. (e.g. Why exactly are we transplanting a guy for the third time in 5 years?) Believe it or not, he moves onto an elective month in September of ethics.
September will be our month of potential grounding. He has been going non stop since June...basically he missed summer completely. In our last official week of observed summer his goal is to get to our pool as many times as possible before it closes next Monday. We'll also be looking to finally bottle the pilsner we brewed in April that has been sitting in our closet reaching its malty goodness potential. And, we'll be discussing what one year from now will look like. As of July 1, 2008 he will be finito in his residency training. This of course begs the question of, "Now what?"
Yesterday I landed a PRN job as a medical social worker. I swear, the minute I walked back into the hospital, saw the gurneys, smelled the ammonia, saw the volunteers in their cute pink smocks at the information desk...well, I knew I was home. It sounds ridiculous, but true. One of the social workers asked me why PRN. I had to be honest. It wouldn't be really ethical for me to take a really big job right now knowing that 1) I'll be gone for 2 months in Spring, and 2) Nothing is for certain after June 2008. This would make my third part time job I hold, which is great. The last time I held more than one part time job it was right before I left for graduate school where I found myself as a part time veterinary tech and part time pastry chef. I liked the variety.
Life's future is pretty up in the air right now for us. Its kind of like standing on the edge of a cliff. Thrilling, and scary. 2008 could bring us new jobs, new locations, potentially planning a family, new challenges...or who knows, we could still be here in Indiana with similar jobs and a new fellowship. I certainly hope September brings insight.
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