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Monday Morning Quarterback on All Hallows Eve

2011-10-31T11:47:00.003-05:00

After moving to Wisconsin almost three years ago, the State and city of Milwaukee have continued to woo me with it’s blue collared roots, multicultural festivals, and amazing integration of nature into urban settings. I am smitten until the last weekend of October.

The idealized and romantic notion of trick-or-treating has been decimated. Charles Schulz is rolling in his grave. I have inquired several times to our native friends of why trick-or-treating has been sterilized to city ordained set times of daylight that appear to be randomly chosen (Saturday vs. Sunday) and never on the actual holiday. The answer is typically unsatisfying. School nights? Nope, because Sunday afternoon falls into that category of unfinished homework and forgotten permission slips. Crime is lower during the day? Perhaps, but isn’t the concept neighborhood watch based on community awareness? One would think a street filled with lit up porches and adults patrolling their front doors at the same time would exemplify this requirement. Besides, I have yet to see an increase of police patrolling in my neighborhood during the current set day and time. What really upsets me are the children who run from their families minivans en mass without costumes to my door while their parents sit in the car waiting to drive them less than a mile to the next block. A costume isn’t expensive. A sheet as a ghost or a super cape would be appreciated as a token of homage before I give you a piece of the “good” candy.

This year I played Monday morning quarterback once again about how I would have handled the parents who were trick-or-treating for their 4 month olds in strollers, the grandparents who came to my door because it was too cold for their grandchildren who sat in the car curbside, and the children who proudly said they weren’t dressed up as anything but gladly took my candy. This year I even had one 40 year old male come to my door without children or a costume. At least the teenagers who were too old to trick-or-treat donned a Scary Movie mask. The parents have missed the point of this holiday. I found myself playing judge; a role I loathe. The kids who wore costumes got better candy and more pieces. The ones who actually said, “trick-or-treat,” and had manners got even more pieces of sugary loot. While I would have liked to have not given any candy to those who offended me, I didn’t mostly because I feared the consequences of property damage all because I didn’t give them a Snickers bar. But the real reason I didn’t is because penalizing the children wasn’t fair. It was their parents who made the poor choices and were terrible role models of entitlement and working the system.

The first year of living here I actually applauded the parents who brought their children to the safer neighborhoods for trick-or-treating. I even reframed the lack of costume as a lack of monetary resources to my neighbor who has lived in the same house for 70+ years. Go, social worker, go! Last year I became disillusioned when the first group of trick-or-treaters consisted of teenagers who had the audacity of opening my front door and taking the whole bowl of candy until J chased them down the street and they dropped it. This year I became bitter and feared what kind of role model I was becoming for my son.

What should be a fun holiday of community celebration has once again brought out my latent societal judgment of what is just versus what is fair. Most importantly it illustrates how the racial and social class differences are thriving and how each of us contributes to the divide, even if it is only in our thoughts. This frightens me as I mold and shape my son's evolving world view. I have lived in more segregated communities either by faith (Salt Lake City), social economics (Boston), and race (New Orleans). Only in Milwaukee have I ever had the concept of entitlement between the have and have-nots reinforced so strongly.

It is my plea to the elite neighborhood societies who organize their members-only trick-or-treating and the cities who publish their staggered approved dates and times to return to the roots of Halloween where children dress up, meet their neighbors, and become the ambassadors of community unity on the actual holiday during twilight and early evening hours. Or maybe I should have a get-off-my-lawn moment and suggest that if they want to regulate tradition of day and times, why not add in age limits (like Virginia, Seattle, and Illinois) as well as a costume requirement.

Cue the Beastie Boys

2011-10-13T11:49:00.002-05:00

"Sabotage" may be my theme song, or so I fear.

This isn't a new topic for me, in fact, I've probably mentioned it a million times. Yes? No? If I haven't, it's only because I've written thousands of imaginary entries in my head about this topic. What might be called self-sabotage is what I like to call, "making life more interesting." But, unfortunately it doesn't. It just adds more problems I can obsess about which is not more interesting, but keeps the pharmaceuticals in business for my anxiety meds alone.

J and I have a host of expenses this month we were not exactly counting on hitting at once. Isn't this always the case? We had the renovation post-Rocky Raccoon's eviction from our garage (aka new roof). We are also finally painting the house in Salt Lake because our family painter/friend finally got an opening in his schedule after waiting 2 years. And we decided our house in Wisconsin also needed a fresh coat or two before the snow flies. And now we can wave buh-bye to the cushion in our checkbook.

The cushion has always been earmarked for one thing or another, but never spent. It also provided that false sense of security when making impulse purchases on Zulily or Amazon (damn those instant gratification websites.) Being psychotically optimistic, the large expenditures provided us an "opportunity" to actually construct a budget for the first time since residency.

Most of the day to day expenditures fall within my domain as Chief Family Officer. You know, groceries, vet bills, keeping H clothed, etc. Last week I offered to host a play date. Being budget savvy I baked a bunch of breads (banana, apple spice, and pumpkin chocolate chip) instead of buying snacks. Yea me!! But then I rationalized spending the money we saved on the vet bill and baking to then buy a bunch of pumpkins, gourds, and mums to decorate our house for October. Booooo! (Pun intended for the season and self-judgement.)

Needless-to-say, J was not impressed with my choices. And well, neither was I. $80.00 doesn't seem like a lot in the grand scheme of these things, but $80.00 here and $40.00 there adds up to things that we could do like go on a family vacation or buy a second car or make extra payments to our debt. Here's the problem: like the cushion, we have all these wild dreams of what is possible without any solid agreed-upon goals with actual time-tables. So as a result we look at one another at the end of a couple of years and wonder why we have this great safety net and possibilities, but are still in debt without a second car. I know, total geniuses, right?

Because most of the day to day stuff falls on me, I have a tendency to take the blame unilaterally and begin to spiral thinking I am self-sabotaging. I realize I cannot control things like sending J to the store for just a jug of milk and he comes home with milk, two loaves of bread, some fun bakery items, dried cranberries, and a can of malted milk. Problem is, I also come home with random items like mustard because I can't remember if we have anymore in the cupboard and God forbid we run out of it while I'm trying to make something like a vinaigrette. These things add up and now we have random malted milk and two things of mustard cluttering up the pantry. We'll just shove those next to the beets that we haven't eaten in 2 years and the canned pumpkin just in case we want to make a pie one day.

This week, to atone for my budgetary indiscretion we are eating out of the freezer entirely. So far we have had homemade chicken pot pie, pasta, and frozen vegetables. It's been healthy, balanced, and economical. We won't be able to keep this pace up because we will run out of random leftovers even though J would like us to do this every week for the next 5 months. And because I will become very depressed just eating out of the freezer and pantry for weeks at a time. The pharmaceuticals don't have enough SSRIs to cover that kind of depression.

I have no idea what else we will have for dinner. I'm trying to figure out how to get creative with things we have left. For example, it can be difficult to make a coherent meal with things like frozen butternut squash, blueberries, fish, tiny servings of multiple wild rice mixtures, and a small thing of spiced beef. In all honesty, I may lose weight just because the potential creations of my options sound less than edible. But I'm proud to say we've only bought milk and bread at the store this whole week.

Why My Mom is Awesome, Reason #8762

2011-09-30T12:46:00.002-05:00

Mom: "Well, I have to get off the phone now. I'm at the annonymous-get-your-mobile-on phone store. They see my red Jetta with the clergy sticker on and think, 'It's that crazy woman again.'"

Me: "What? Why?" Thinking, Mom should either buy stock in this company or have her own private reserved parking outside the store.

Mom: "Oh, I didn't tell you? You'll love this."

I'm wondering if the following story could be better than the Easter lamb story.

Mom: "I was showing the social worker at work how to use your phone to communicate with our Dutch lady who doesn't speak English and I accidentally turned it on to only speaking Spanish. I don't know the Spanish to turn it back to English and so I can't work my phone."

Me: "Only you." As I begin to calculate how many years it will take before I do something like this. I came up with 14 months.

Mom: "Oh it gets better. Somehow I also switched it so now the Angry Birds theme blares every time I turn my phone on. Needless-to-say, it was a bit disrupting for our conference call."

Better Late Than Never - Birthday Post

2010-10-14T12:55:00.004-05:00

Drafted October 2010, Finished August 2011.

Somehow I have Diana Ross singing in my mind's jukebox. You know the song. You used to hit the roller skating rink to it with your neon jelly bracelets and side ponytails. "Upside down, boy you turn me, inside out, and, round and round." We had it on vinyl. Pretty hip for a wonder bread family in Utah.

It pretty much sums up my life ever since Mr. Man arrived. That was August 10th. Somehow I lost over two months in the meantime. Here's the fun story of how it all went down.

On August 9th at my 38th week appointment our beloved OB stated, "You know, tonight would be a good night to go into labor. I'm on call and it's my last call before I leave town. Did I mention I'll be out of town on your due date?" Yeah. Out. Of. Town. Not what you want to hear. We replied it wasn't going to happen because my dear J was taking his Board examination the next day.

Boy we're we wrong.

Cue the Fates, God, and Beezelbub rubbing their hands together in delight at the silly folly some chick in Wisconsin made. It was too tempting and they had to intervene. I really don't know who to blame/credit, but I envision it going down as a winner takes all kind of a thing doing something ridiculous like rock/paper/scissors.

As you may remember, I'd been experiencing regular contractions (or "surges" as my hypnobirthing people call it) since 33 weeks. Nothing new on that front. J had taken the day off to cram last minute before the test day and somehow the familiar pressure in my belly was feeling a bit different about 4:00 PM. At 4:55 he asked if he needed to reschedule his exam. No, no, not to worry! I just headed to take a bath to reduce some of the pressure and eat a light dinner. We went to bed early, but did not fall asleep. You see, J had some massive anxiety heartburn and my belly was feeling like someone put a corset on it then cinched it every 5 minutes or so. However, I didn't want to worry him so I pretended to be asleep. Yes, I PRETENDED. By midnight we were still attempting to find Mr. Sandman.

Here's what I thought: if I could fall asleep I would relax and delay any labor advancement. Then all I needed to do was get J off to his test in the morning without having him worry anything was wrong and then I would take a cab to the hospital to check myself in. It was our first baby so certainly it will take a long time to progress and by the time his 10 hour exam was over, I'd be ready to push and he'd be there for the birth of his first child.

I realize this is flawed thinking. Now. But it seemed like a reasonable plan at the time.

At 2:19 AM J woke to find his charming wife on all fours on the bed and groaning like a dying cow. When I told him I think we should go to the hospital his response was, *sigh* "I know." As my cow impressions continued, J began packing for the hospital. Yes, yes, we were one of those couples who didn't have a bag packed even though I'd been in early labor for 5 weeks. I made my way downstairs and would instantly drop to all fours every time another contraction hit. I was groaning so much that I scared Edgar. I tried to reassure him by calling him over for pets, but another one would hit and I'd be moaning again and he would run away ears back and tail between his legs.

Off to the hospital where upon checking into the L&D, the nurse asked where the patient was. Don't mind me. I've just hurled myself onto the floor from the wheelchair for another on-all-fours mooing session. I made it to a 8 to 9 cm before I asked/begged for an epidural. The nurse (ex-miltary) was about to make J leave for the actual procedure due to potential fainting when I told her that he needed to stay. I don't think she knew he was a doc. About 20 min after the epidural I asked for the anesthesiologist to come back in and turn the medication dosing down. I didn't want my legs to be numb, I just wanted to dull the sensation a bit. He replied, "I don't know why you had me place it at all. You will call me back and ask to turn it back up." I didn't.

The nurse was, shall we say, "assertive," to say the least. Maybe more of a drill sergeant? The actual pushing began somewhere around 9:00 AM. I first tried to "breathe the baby down" a la our hypnobirthing method, but that was going nowhere fast. Turns out our child-to-be was sunny-side up and I had to rotate him in the womb. P-A-I-N-F-U-L. However I persevered. Dr. Safety OB-man was encouraging and pretty damn funny through the whole thing. I knew he had to leave his shift come 1:00 PM, so by damn I was going to get this kid out before he left the hospital.

At 12:32 our Mr. Man arrived into this world. 7 pounds, 11 ounces. 20 inches long.

Bed Rest

2010-07-19T17:40:00.003-05:00

I absolutely love our OB doc. He's a goofy nerdy guy who is about our age and has a comb-over. He has no self-delusions, is wicked smart and has one of the funniest senses of humor. One of the reasons I chose him was his reputation for being Dr. Safety. I know this because I was assigned to work on a project with him assessing the culture of teamwork and patient safety in the department. I'd been working with him on the project for about a month when we found out we were pregnant. Part of my role on this project is to assess every physician on the service. With the ethics involved my choice of physicians was pretty much cemented, which is awesome because of the built-in rapport I already had with him. In fact when I called to ask if he would be my OB, he replied, "Thanks for your vote of confidence." He's imparted a few other gems during our visits.

31w appointment:

Me: "I really, really don't want an episiotomy. I also don't want to tear. What can I do to prevent it?" I was thinking more along the lines of perineal massage or something.

Dr. Safety: "You could start smoking."

Me: "What?"

Dr. Safety: "Well, at this point you are going to tear no matter what with a normal weight kid. Smoking to keep the baby's weight down is the only option, but I don't recommend it. We don't do episotomies anymore routinely, but you will tear. I'll sew you up."

28w appointment:

Me: "When will I know the results of my glucose tolerance test?"

Dr. Safety: "I'll call you tomorrow and then you can celebrate passing."

Me: "Celebrate? On what? I'm pregnant."

Dr. Safety: "I just wrote you a prescription for pain killers on your costochondritis. Take one of those."

I must have looked shocked.

Dr. Safety: "I'm kidding!"

33w appointment:

Me: "I'm swelling."

Dr. Safety: "That happens. Uh...how long have you been itching your belly?"

Me (mindlessly scratching the belly bump): "I don't know. It itches. I take benadryl."

Dr. Safety: "What about other places? Legs, feet, palms of your hands?"

Me: "Yeah, usually at night sometimes."

Dr. Safety: "Let's put you on the fetal monitor."

15 minutes later

Dr. Safety: "Um, do you know you are contracting every 5 minutes. Do you feel that?"

Me: "Yeah. Didn't know it was that close. It just feels like tightening."

Dr. Safety in disbelief: "Tightening."

I nod.

Dr. Safety: "You just bought yourself a pelvic exam."

10 minutes later.

Dr. Safety: "And you are now 50% effaced and 2 cm dilated. You win an admission to Labor and Delivery. I'm afraid to do anymore tests because you've failed every one I've given you."

Me: "Shut up! You're joking."

Dr. Safety: "Not remotely. You are in active labor."

Me: "You mean false labor."

Dr. Safety: "No. I mean active labor as in pre-term active labor."

Me: "But I just came in for swelling!"

I must have repeated, "I just came in for swelling," about 15 times to anyone who would listen as they wheeled me off to L&D. I told the transport person, the guy who held the elevator, the nurse, the tech, the desk clerk, etc. Think I was shocky? No, what would give you that idea?

Since Dr. Safety is by the book and literally quotes recent medical journal articles from his photographic memory he imparted that at week 34, there is no need to stop premature labor. Since I was still 33 weeks for another 8ish hours, they would give me the drugs to stop labor until midnight and then just stop. Stop? Yes, stop at the arbitrary cut off time of midnight when I turned 34 weeks. In went the smooth muscle relaxant drug, the antibiotic, and the steroids to quickly develop the kiddo's lungs. And there I sat for another 24 hours watching my contractions come and go.

By late morning of the next day I was contracting less regularly so they allowed me to go home. However, I was on strict bed rest. It's like a recurring nightmare from karma-land for me: how to be still and not do anything. It always involves something medical like an appendicitis or a back surgery and now a kiddo. I was also informed that any subsequent pregnancy I will automatically be considered high risk and put on bed rest. Oh Goody.

For the past 3+ weeks I've laid low. I've read books, surfed the net, tried to work clandestine from home, talked to girlfriends, and played the Wii. This was a challenge as the nursery still isn't painted, furniture is haphazardly relocated into other rooms, chaos reigns, the lawn continues to grow, and we're now considering anything frozen from Trader Joes as Gourmet. My exciting outings include car rides to the grocery store parking lot or the dry cleaners or to pick up Edgar's dog food. Seriously, they were the highlights of my weeks!

On Monday at my 37w appointment I was released off of bed rest. Now that I have a semi-greenish light to move ahead with my to-do list, my energy level won't cooperate. It's like revenge of the first trimester.

The Pre-Labor for the Labor

2010-06-16T15:36:00.003-05:00

When we announced our pregnancy to our families in January we were met with unbridled enthusiasm. We were sent home with various items and well wishes including a set of gently used pregnancy and child development books. They proved to be extremely helpful roadmaps on this journey of ours.

Girlfriends, sister in laws, and other moms proved to be an extraordinary resource of advice and wisdom so far in my 7.5 months. While I was warned that the What to Expect book was written for the sole purpose of scaring the expecting mother to death, it was the sole choice my insurance company sent me once I registered with their pre-natal department. One girlfriend recommended I get The Girlfriends Guide to Pregnancy for the real scoop on what to expect. That was some wise advice. If I have any kind of odd question I go there first. While at Costco, we picked up Dr. Oz’s latest take on the owners manual of your body with bambino. That was the most unhelpful book thus far. This tv man assures me that the kid can taste what I eat thus learning to like the veggies or pizza I put in my mouth. Really? As J put it, “Why don’t you write to him and ask him to explain the pathophysiology behind that statement.”

One book went into the importance of a birth plan. When I mentioned this to the same girlfriend who suggested the Girlfriend’s Guide she said, “Oh. My. God. Please tell me you aren’t going to be one of those. They never work.” While every book suggests writing one, they also say be prepared for the hospital staff not to follow it. For the record, we haven’t written one yet. However, the book did spur me on to getting more tools under my belt when it came to labor. The one thing I fear the most is pitocin. That’s the drug they give you to speed labor along. I learned more than I wanted to know from a documentary and other readings. Once given, a vicious cycle ensues. The pitocin causes stronger and longer contractions that HURT, so you request an epidural and the pain meds slow your labor down which then leads to MORE pitocin and then more pain meds, etc, etc, etc. I want to avoid that drug like the plague.

As a result of my fear I looked into other ways of managing my labor. At first I looked into the Bradley method. This philosophy centers around husband as birth coach. While this sounds like an encouraging partnering method, I would like to refer back to 1992 for everyone to understand why it wouldn’t work for me.

In 1992 a combination of sucky genes and athletic overtraining landed me in the operating room with a cocky orthopedic surgeon. It was a complex surgery with a 7 inch scar to prove it. When I woke up from anesthesia, my wonderful patient mother was by my side. “Can I get you water? How about a blanket?” Instead of the soothing nurturing maternal voice, I heard a pitch like a screeching out of tune violin. It was so bad that I finally kicked her out of my room and had the nurse put a sign on the door that literally said, “No Moms Allowed. All Visitors Must Check In With the Nurses Station.” Aunts and other visitors paused to confer with my mom who was now banished to the visitors’ area. Mom had a great sense of humor about the whole thing. She got her last laugh when I was left to maneuver my groin to ankle bulky brace and crutches to my bathroom and then got stuck. I was so pissed that no one was coming to help me I finally threw my crutch outside the door while swearing at the top of my lungs. At that point Mom just looked at the nurses and said, “Yes, that is my daughter. Isn’t she lovely?” It wasn’t one of my finest moments. Somehow I just don’t think a coach will cut it when I’m passing a watermelon.

I then looked into Hypnobirthing. I will admit, it’s a little “out there,” but then again how could it hurt? Invoking the relaxation response seems natural enough. There have been studies about hypnosis/relaxation use in surgery as a substitute for anesthesia. I was worried my biggest hurdle would be J’s scientific nature. I was shocked to find he was open to the idea AND there was a certified instructor in our city! Somehow the stars aligned and we landed in a 5 week class with 2 other couples.

Let me introduce our cast of characters (names changed of course): Gary and Lisa are two PhD’s. Gary has his PhD in animal physiology biology and embodies the scientific method. Lisa has her PhD in something with the brain. She looks like she only shops at organic fair trade stores. How they met, got married and had a son is a little baffling. They embody the skeptic and Mother Nature. We also have Lindsey and Matt. Both are CPAs. She is a tri-athlete, Iron Man, marathon competitor. Matt is still traumatized by his ex-wife’s pregnancies and deliveries. They are more of the “Die Hards.” And then there is us: we’re treated as the medical experts and are go-with-the-flow.

Our instructors are a husband/wife dyad: Danielle and River. I think the name “River” is a dead giveaway. He too is a PhD in biology and specializes in invertebrate marine biology. Danielle has never had children, but is a licensed hypnotherapist, massage therapist, and Hypnobirthing instructor. River has 3 kids from a previous marriage. All were delivered naturally.

We began our first class with introductions and get to know you time, although most of it was spent with River and Danielle pontificating. There they were espousing the benefits of having a physician who is pro-hypnobirth/pro-natural and the power of belief and intention because it’s better for your baby. The computer used for the power point was propped up on the drum River uses for his male bonding drum circle and he went into detail about hormones and neuro-receptors. It was an odd juxtaposition.

We then went in to watch birthing videos where hypnobirth techniques were used. I was anticipating the other couples to squirm, but the only person making any kind of noise was the only physician in the room. It was a dead giveaway of his 100+ births he’s attended and the trauma that remains. His facial expressions were priceless as they put the blue limp baby on the mom’s chest. You could almost hear him say, “Hello? Where’s the resuscitation?!?” Yeah, we're going to be a good time.

Reconsituting Ambitions

2010-05-28T16:17:00.002-05:00

I generally pride myself on being somewhat of a gardener. There is nothing better than digging in the dirt, feeling the warm sun on your back, and at the end of the day sitting on your porch with a refreshing beverage admiring the work you’ve done. I also don’t mind the occasional sore muscles the next day from reconstituting the soil and mulching. In a lot of ways, playing in the garden is my version of going to church. I feel whole.

When I was younger I remember the dreaded yearly visits to Western Gardens with my mom and Ginny. Mom planted formal gardens complete with alternating orange and yellow marigolds along the boarder. Ginny was more free flowing and tried her hand at veggies, herbs, and wildflowers. As a result of the two influences, I like a natural garden and I completely 100% without a doubt ban all marigolds. They always depressed me; kind of like 4:00 in the afternoon. I don’t know why I have an aversion to the 4:00 – 5:00 witching hour, but I always have.

I spent a ton of time trimming wild honeysuckle mounds and weeding my parent’s garden after break-ups. You could generally tell if I had hit a rough patch in my love life because the yard was immaculate. After one particularly ugly break-up in 2000 I weeded their lawn. Yes, their lawn. By hand. I’m not talking about just the dandelions. I’m talking the crabgrass, morning glory, violets, henbit, sorrel, and the dreaded spurge. My poor mom has been trying to get grass to grow in my weeded spots ever since.

When I bought my first house my first summer was tormented with boyfriend issues. As a result I grew fantastic zucchini, eggplant, broccoli, sage, thyme, basil, and tomatoes. I bought tons of good top soil and spent hours upon hours with my shovel tilling the garden. I had so much produce I finally had to invite random family friends to stop by and harvest their own. I bought my first lawn mower – which proved to be entertainment for all the men on my street to watch me attempt to maneuver it up the steep hill. I had never operated one of these things before given my brother’s penchant for the task. My neighbors would seriously come outside with a beer to watch. After that humiliation I practiced with my weed eater over at my parent’s house. As a result, my parent’s garage needed to be repainted because I had whacked all of the paint off.

Moving to Indy I had to downgrade my garden adventures to a small patch along our sidewalk and pots. That year we made a container Victorian twilight garden. It was magical. Think of tons of pots on a deck with highly contrasted and variegated foliage of texture and color – most of the colors being pale yellows, pinks, purples, and whites. As twilight would approach, the blossoms and contrasts seemed to float and glow. Add a little candlelight and wine or a homebrew for a perfect way to wind down from a hard day.

We haven’t had the opportunity to plant our pots again until this year. Selling our place in Indy then moving in and out of Boston mid-summer kind of put a damper on that. But this year? We’re ready to go! Or are we?

I didn’t exactly grasp how being 7 months pregnant would impact that whole gardening thing. After all, those pioneer women were still planting crops and trekking down the Oregon Trail in their third trimester! Being an ex-athlete I have a great ability in tuning out whatever might be aching until after the event was over. Come to think of it, maybe it’s not such a “great ability.” I typically overestimate my capabilities and pay the price later. I don’t notice that I’m limping, grabbing my ribcage, or stretching awkwardly to compensate for my 2008 back surgery until I’m almost done with the project. The rest of my evening is spent laying on ice with some sort of painkiller on board, barely moving while J either says, "I told you so," or "Why can't you just take care of yourself like normal people? I'd like my wife to be around when we're 70."

I’m trying to learn how to ask for help. What’s difficult is then realizing the timeline is out of my control. I realize I cannot reconstitute the topsoil, move the bags of potting soil, crawl around on my knees weeding, or lift the pots once their filled with flowers. It sucks. I try to sit on the porch calmly and fight the urge to pick up a rake or trowel on a daily basis. In order to calm my inner grasshopper I think I’ll go try and prep the nursery for painting instead. Really?!? Because moving furniture into the center of the room and crawling around with painters tape is easier?!? Ok, scratch that idea. What about doing the floors? You know, vacuum, swiffer, mop the suckers? Oh yeah! Because the vacuum is so light and easy to maneuver up and down the stairs. Ok, so I'll scrub the bathtub. Have you tried leaning over a basketball to scrub the bathtub recently? Add in a kicking squirming basketball. It doesn't work very well.

Today I had a whole conversation with J about limits and what constitutes being “active” during your last trimester. Sad to admit it, but I think I figured it out. We went to have lunch outside the hospital at the park which involves traveling down a hill. For one, my balance sucks. I almost fell a couple times. This is a new development. Then after lunch (the small lunch due to the compressed stomach) I had to get back up the hill…with limited lung capacity. It was a small hill. I sounded like I had advanced COPD by the time I literally heaved myself up it.

My dream for Memorial Day weekend was to conquer raking the yard of all maple whirligigs, getting the topsoil and grass seed in, planting more pots and flower beds, ordering mulch to be delivered, cleaning the house top to bottom, AND priming the nursery. I’m beginning to think I’m a little overambitious. Maybe I'll settle for doing a load of laundry...that is, if I can carry the basket to the basement without falling ass over teakettle.

The Two Extremes - A Preview

2010-05-21T14:22:00.002-05:00

I always knew that we would fall into one of two parenting camps: the over-protective’s or the shake-it-offs. Given our pediatric medical backgrounds I could see us wrapping the kid in bubble wrap, helmets, various athletic pads, and using Styrofoam to seal off any gaps we might have missed. “Ok, honey, have fun getting the mail! Remember Stranger Danger!” I could also envision the opposite with us glancing at the kid scraped up and bones broken after attempting a new trick on the homemade skateboard ramp, “You’re fine! You have an airway, you are breathing, and you definitely have circulation! I mean look at all that blood! Just grab a paper towel and add pressure to that gaping wound to stop the bleeding.” I always worried we would swing like a pendulum between the extremes without any rhyme or reason.

Edgar gave us a little preview of our lives as parents. However, handling crisis and the art of preparation call for two different approaches. In the heat of the moment of a crisis, I completely over-react – see the entry about his frienemy. J handles things with logic and calm while I’m hysterical. It’s good to have a balance. Then we take the Boy Scout method of Be Prepared. J’s style is to completely over-plan and safeguard against the worst possible scenario. The planning effort can sometimes be completely overwhelming and gets us stuck with no movement what-so-ever. Whereas I figure you can only plan for so much and then just deal with it. If you want something done, ask me. If you want something done well, ask my husband.

Let’s skip to our crib shopping experience, shall we? After reading something in a baby book about how you need to get your crib ordered by week 20 of pregnancy, I now had black and white proof that we needed to stop pretending we’re ostriches with our heads in the sand. By week 21 we began to browse baby stores. It was over-whelming to say the least. Do you get a convertible lifetime crib that turns into a full sized bed for little Jimmy to go off to college with or do you do the standard crib? Will the lifetime crib stand up to Jimmy’s gumming and teething? Well, that depends upon the wood. If it’s pine, then forget it. Do you need dove tail joints on your kid’s dresser? Really?

Our first visit ended badly as J was on a verbal rant about how much crap do you really need for a baby? Really? Specific baby nail clippers? And don’t get him started on baby monitors! “We don’t need no stinkin’ monitor! We grew up just fine in the 1970’s without them!” he exclaimed. (Yes, however we also had higher rates of SIDS and my own mother’s sanity would have been preserved knowing my colicky self was just fine wailing away in my crib while she went outside to take a 5 minute mental health break.) I told him that he didn’t need to get a monitor, but I would be getting one thank you very much. (His tune has changed once he realized he could set up internet nanny cams on our wireless home network. Tech nerd porn at it’s finest!)

On the second visit to the baby store, we literally closed them out after 3 hours of browsing, taking brochures on the crib manufacturers, and asking about the manufacturers recall rates in the past 5 years. We were not your typical pregnant couple. Other couples looked at the cribs and remarked, “Gee, that one is pretty. Should we order it?” And then there was us. While I’m reading the consumer reviews about quality, customer service, and which brand had the largest recall in 2007 for lead paint from China, J’s shaking the crib all over the place to see how sturdy it is. We had three different sales reps come up and ask, “Can I help you?” Nah, we’ve got it. I think they were more worried about us abusing the floor models than customer service. Like I said, we closed them out. Music was turned off and they had to unlock the doors to let us out.

On the third visit, weeks later with my panic increasing about timeframes, we were determined to narrow our selections down. Again, it took us two or more hours to settle on 3 different possibilities and finally place an order for a rocker/glider. In my mind, this was a must-have. After all, it will be my tired butt that is playing dairy farm in the middle of the night. It better be damn comfortable, durable, and stylish in addition to all that quality stuff J prioritizes. Again, music was off and lights were also in the process of being turned off when we finalized the sale. At least we provided someone a nice commission check.

Our fourth visit occurred last weekend. We went directly after work on Friday. The same sales girl was there who sold us our rocker and she remembered us.

“Have you made a decision?”

“Well, we’ve narrowed it down to these three.”

“Are there any questions I can help answer?”

“Nope, we’re just debating.”

Fast forward through the next 2.5 hours where J is continually knocking on the two floor models to check on the wood density, crawling underneath to check on the mattress support, and opening drawers repeatedly on the dressers. I pretty much just sat in the floor model rocker watching him asking how I could be helpful. Our perky sales girl stopped by 3 more times before we decided we were ready. By the time I brought her over, J was interested in potentially ordering a crib from one company and the dresser from another as long as the wood finishes matched. This of course, prompted more debating about styles of furniture and philosophical references to how style trends come and go as she walked away. And then the music turned off…again. We made a quick decision – which would have been my original choice by the way, 2.5 hours ago. And then we had to decide upon the mattress. Really? Natural organically certified bamboo or the fancy spring/foam flip mattress? I chose the easy to clean in the middle of the night plastic covered one. J lovingly caressed the bamboo green mattress and conceded.

Prodgeny Returns

2010-05-06T16:14:00.002-05:00

One of my dearest friends has a floor to ceiling framed reproduction of Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son in his office. Seriously it takes up a full wall. It’s ironic that he selected this painting considering all of the strife that later ensued in his relationship with his son.

When I stopped writing last year it was because I needed a moment of pause…or months of pause to be precise. The blog has been an outlet for me to process my experiences, thoughts, and beliefs. Most of these have been primarily shaped by my upbringing which is why my family makes many guest appearances along the way. The story I tell is mine. It’s my perception and what I chose to accept into my own mythological life story. It’s biased, one sided, and in that sense very self-centered.

It’s almost been a year since I traveled home to extend an olive branch to my father; my own version of the return of the prodigal son. But instead of following the parable in the Bible, my father did not slaughter the calf and celebrate my return. Instead he said I had a “poisoned pen,” told me he didn’t like me, I wasn’t a friend, and wished me the best of luck with my life. I was then compared to my brother and how he treats my father, thus adding to the distance and triangulation. Agreeing to his terms of playing the part of daughter where he would interact with me at Sunday dinners on a superficial level, we operated like this the rest of the painful 5 day visit. I had been emotionally disowned and abandoned by my father. In many ways I had created what I most feared. For the next 7 months we did not speak. Not on my birthday, not on Thanksgiving, and not on Christmas.

It was just too much for me to handle. I had hit what Seth Grogan calls The Dip. “Quit the wrong stuff, Stick with the right stuff, Have the guts to do one or the other.” I needed time to figure this stuff out.

And then things shifted big time for me. Not like I had enough on my plate by starting a new job and getting settled in a new town, we also decided to try for a baby. We succeeded.

10 weeks into the pregnancy we decided to return home, although with great trepidation. It was at that time we planned to announce the happy addition to our families. I tried to remain open and play out the moment of revelation with my parents. Would I get a cool congratulations? Another “best of luck?” I tried my best to keep my expectations low out of self-protection. I couldn’t have predicted what happened. My father jumped off of the couch with tears in his eyes to congratulate us, warm hugs, and, “Thank you. This seriously is the best gift you’ve ever given us.” They then commented that over breakfast that very morning they discussed how old my eggs were. If I'm lucky, I may even get a visit from my father when the baby comes in August. This would be a first ever since I married and moved out of state.

Since then things have improved. We send photos of my growing belly and ultrasound shots of the baby via email and Dad will actually talk with me on the phone when I call. It’s a nice change. I suppose we’re both testing the waters. In many ways its akin to dipping your toes in the ocean waves after living through a tsunami.

Mom in Milwaukee

2009-11-12T10:15:00.003-05:00

Thank God Mom came out to Milwaukee. It was the first visit I've had in over a year where I wasn't on massive amounts of pain pills pre and post back surgery. Needless-to-say, hanging out with Mom is a lot more fun when you are lucid.

We had a mission: find an age appropriate professional wardrobe. Remember I'm now in a job where the professed dress code policy is "business casual," but everyone wears suits or at least blazers on Fridays. The last time I really had to play dress-up for a job was years ago. I mean, perhaps a decade ago. When I first became a therapist, I was fortunate to have my parents support to purchase a suit. At age 22 I needed that adult costume while people sat on my couch and poured their hearts out to me all the while I'm thinking, "Man, this person needs a therapist...oh my God, I AM the therapist!!!." The costume gave me a bit of confidence to really believe in myself.

When I got into medical social work, I realized the emergency department was NOT the place for suits. Somehow "dry clean only" doesn't really work with body fluids from sick kids. All of a sudden my J Crew chinos were considered upscale. There were several shifts when I went to work in one outfit and came home in scrubs after an unfortunate patient encounter. I was also a bit of a rebel by wearing open toe shoes and skirts. In hind sight, while I may have looked fabulous running to medical codes, it was pretty stupid to be in a trauma room with my little piggies vulnerable. Thank God I never got a needle puncture or something like that falling from the suture tray.

As I ventured into administration I kept my wardrobe of chinos and flouncy skirts. Now I just looked hip. Anthropologie was my go-to for fun dress up clothes that were age appropriate. Besides, everyone at the hospital knew me. It wasn't like I had to prove myself or fit into an unknown culture. I could pull off Anthropologie in my late 20's. There are still some pieces I can pull off in my 30's, but it certainly doesn't fit my current professional culture.

So like I said, Mom's visit had a purpose and a true mission. She is the one who I trust going into the dressing room with me and being 100% honest. I think the hardest part of looking for professional clothes is to not look old ladyish or too dowdy. I can't believe it, but we started at Talbots. This was the store just mere years ago I would pass mumbling something about conservative ladies with white hair and ugly scarves as "accessories." The sales lady, who may have just passed legal drinking age was about as dumb and as engaging as a floor mop. "I brung you more pants to try." Brung? Yeah, perhaps she would have been better off at Forever 21 not Talbots. It seriously took my Mom to go outside the dressing room to break up the conversation about church service and inform them we were here to spend money for a new wardrobe. They sent a more senior sales person in to assist.

As we were putting things on hold, another shopper stopped me and asked if I was starting a new job. I told her I had and needed to fit into the culture. Turns out she also worked in hospital administration. She left us with some great parting words of advice, "Always dress better than is expected." She also inquired if I had a teenager because they could be handy in helping select things that were age appropriate. I had to stop for a moment. Oh my God, I guess I AM old enough to have a teenager and yet I don't even have a baby yet! Good Lord that was a shocker.

After guzzling some cider at Alterra we ventured into Ann Taylor. Holy Batman, the 80's are back! Slouchy ankle boots? Skinny belts cinching over sized cardigan sweaters? I have a mantra: if you've already lived through the trend, you are too old to repeat it. There were a couple of tops that literally looked cross between what Laura Ingalls wore on Little House on the Prairie and a blouse I wore in the 2nd grade for class photos. While I found some good staples like blazers on sale I passed on the neon jelly bracelets. Just kidding. There weren't any jelly bracelets, but maybe they will debut with the holiday dresses! Just the fashion accessory you need for your office Christmas party!!

After 3.5 hours of power shopping we were starving so lunch at some ubiquitous American restaurant chain seemed quite reasonable. We went back for some of the clothes at Talbots. I have to tell you, spending money is exhausting. It's emotionally draining. I was pretty catatonic by the time we got home.

Having Mom around for a week was a lot of fun. We got to play tourist in our own town by going to a Fish Fry, seeing a play downtown, moseying around the old German section of town, and going on a distillery tour. There were several things we couldn't fit in, but there is always next time.

And yes, for the record, I actually bought a scarf but completely drew the line at broaches. Hey, I still have my standards.

Explicating Illusions

2009-11-05T09:36:00.003-05:00

I have to keep reminding myself that I'm only on my third week of exploring this new role. Most of the time it feels as though I've been in the system for at least three months. The learning curve is large, but not in the way I thought it would be. Thank God I have my org development skills to really observe and diagnose what is going on in the institution.

Organizational culture is a funny thing. It is defined by the behaviors and customs that are normal for that group. It also may not exactly match what is written down in policy and procedures. I have become a sponge and cryptographer. Things are not always what they appear to be. For example, although the dress policy states that it is "business casual" most of the successful leaders wear suits or at least a blazer on "casual Friday." Although chinos may be acceptable, they are the bare minimum for professional standards. I had one person complain to me that someone had the audacity to wear corduroy pants.

Another example of cultural norms is that everyone leaves their doors open. Shutting an office door is a huge no-no. It sends the message that you are unavailable and not a team player. So privacy is compromised and what should be confidential conversations are usually held in public, but in a whisper. That alone doesn't exactly build trust. In fact, in my opinion it pretty much destroys it. Seeing that this is the norm, it is also not a surprise to know that direct feedback is rare. A team mate could be flailing in his or her performance, but no one wants to be rude and tell them why. Instead I get the feeling that it is perceived to be the kinder and gentler approach to just let them drown and fail in silence. I find this to be a bit appalling. So as I have taken the helm, I rather violated my own code of "observation only for three months." I actually gave feedback to both the person who was drowning in oblivion and the hierarchy about my conversation. I'd like to think that by taking that risk I showed I was a pretty trustworthy person. Well, either that or I just shot myself in the foot politically.

The term, "silos," was first introduced to me when I worked at another hospital years ago. It was a buzz word in most management book best sellers at the time. It's a catchy term for really saying, "you guys aren't playing nicely in the sandbox together, " or, "you have no idea who is in the sandbox with you." Comparing what I knew then to what I know now, there never was a silo problem in that particular hospital. All of the departments worked well together, but it gave a burning platform for change and the new leader to look very important. I can honestly say I now know what a silo problem actually looks like: team members who have no idea why they are in the same department and do not know how to access each other's talents. I'm working on that.

Then there is the generational gap fun. Gen X'ers (1960 - 1977ish) are now a large part of the workforce who are still reporting or colleagues with the Baby Boomers (1945-1959). Baby Boomers are all about company loyalty, getting that gold watch at retirement, and putting in long hours. Gen X'ers are more about home/work balance. Their attitude is, "why should you care if I'm here from 9-5 or 7-3 as long as my work is getting done and my objectives are getting met?" Baby Boomers see putting in more than the expected hours as a badge of honor. They truly expect a warm body to be available consistently during prescribed work hours regardless of the output. It's a bit of a nightmare to manage and negotiate expectations when the culture appears to be all open-door, but is really managed in whispers.

There is a long way to go with this organization, but I'm energized by the challenges. Let's hope they are willing to take a breath of fresh air.

So Far...

2009-10-20T07:23:00.003-05:00

Here's what I know after my first day of work:

1) I share my office with the person who used to hold my position and I now supervise. Uncomfortable? No! What would give you that idea?

2) Virtual New Employee Orientation is a lot quicker than going in person. You can just fast forward through the slides demonstrating what sexual harassment is and why it's bad. I used to teach this class so I think I've got the scoop.

3) My boss is awesome.

4) I'm exhausted.

5) My office needs some serious decorating.

6) This whole carpool thing with J is barely squeaking by. I waited an hour for him to finish that whole pesky thing we call "patient care."

7) High heels are overrated.

8) Did I mention I'm exhausted? With blisters from those stupid high heels.

9) Badge photos always look terrible.

10) Even though I'm not clinical, I still got a pager within 10 minutes of me walking through the door. And here I thought I was free from that PTSD beeper sounds.

Rebirth

2009-10-18T09:24:00.004-05:00

Three years ago this month I started a new job in a new city with an old sinking feeling.

I knew the job wasn't a good fit for me and yet I was enamored by the flattery of pursuit and nice salary. I tried to convince myself that it would be a "learning opportunity" even before I set foot into the building. I would expand my skill set. I could influence change. These are the lies I told myself as I sat in the 1970's wood paneled executive boardroom complete with office furniture that were hand-me-downs from the public school system. Every morning I would attempt to psych myself up for another day of cheer leading the disenfranchised staff, policing those who were skimming by, and deciphering the mixed messages from a messed up dual reporting system of divas who fed off of drama.

Looking back, there were two bright spots to my role: the CEO (whom I never really got to interact with but highly respected) and the office staff (who were jovial and made me feel welcomed). It was the longest 7 months of my life. When I accidentally quit during a meeting with the divas by blurting out, "I can't do this anymore," it felt as though the weight of the world lifted off of my chest. This unhappy journey was never going to have a happy ending. Intuitively I knew it from day one and yet I never fully listened.

I did gain something from this chapter of my life. It proved to be an amazing learning opportunity, but in a way I didn't expect. It confirmed I belonged in healthcare. That is where my heart resides. I confirmed my identity that I was an unconventional social worker. I confirmed my skill set as a leader of systems change. These were all things I already knew in my soul, but sometimes a little reassurance isn't so bad. I also learned the valuable lesson of happiness - don't settle for anything less.

I've been wrestling the demons of my past and old scripts that were shaped by this one work nightmare. The intensity of self-examination has increased this past week as I gear up to start another new position. However, I do have something now I didn't have before: clarity.

Once I quit, I renewed. I renewed a vision for myself based on my preferences, my style, and my ideals. I knew I wanted to be an organizational development consultant in healthcare. There is something about walking into a hospital for me that energizes me. I love the culture. I love the challenges. I love the humanity. I also love solving systems problems, working with teams, coaching leaders, navigating complex political systems, and focusing on the patient.

Last year I was one of two finalists for what appeared to be my dream job. It was at a prestigious healthcare institution under the OD department. However, my job would have been focused mostly on training. I didn't mind training. I was good at curriculum development, but what I dread is the monotony and boredom of doing the same thing over and over again. This is what this job would have been. It consisted of overhauling new employee orientation and implementing it...then repeat over and over again. I convinced myself it was a step in the right direction. It was a foot in the door. I could prove myself and then show them what my true skill set was. Again, I was telling the same lies to myself to see what I wanted to see and not what truly existed. I knew I wouldn't be happy there with the role they were filling. They wanted a trainer, not an organizational consultant. I didn't get the job and was very angry for a long time. I displaced my anger, my disappointment, and my perception of failure. It was yet another opportunity for me to really look at what the Universe was telling me.

I began to refine my professional vision and looked for opportunities to advance my dream. Call it synchronicity, karma, or just plain luck, but I found a graduate school program that seemed to speak to my soul. Within days of the deadline for application for admission, I sent off my information and was accepted.

I remember first meeting my classmates and professors. When asked what I wanted to do with this degree I was confident in my response: I knew I wanted to be a healthcare organizational development consultant. There was no one like me in the small class of 12. Some were already Senior VP's of international businesses. Others worked in foreign fields of bioengineering or retail. Every textbook was like drinking from a well after eating sand. Every project I did for my second masters was focused on my dream. My intention was set and I thank God my professors and team mates accepted my unconventional approach.

After graduating, my husband and I moved to a city where we knew no one. There were no ties, leads, or networks for support. I was intimidated by this at first given that somewhere around 80% of all jobs are landed through networking, not blind resume submissions. Weeks into settling into our new city, we were invited to a Sunday brunch for J's department. There I had a connecting conversation with one of J's colleagues. Like me, he was unconventional in his chosen profession and shared a passion for change. As the dialogue progressed we both became quite animated. The conversation ended with a request for my CV. I emailed it off without a second thought. As the weeks progressed, I actually embraced the idea of being the domestic spouse for the first time in my life. It was literally one day after J and I had this conversation about our new relationship roles did my phone start ringing off the hook. Ironic that once I let go of my intensity, my intention manifested.

I believe that once you set your intention, the Universe will conspire to make it happen. Tomorrow is the manifestation of this case-in-point. Tomorrow I step back into the world of a 40+ hour work week. I have the leadership component, the healthcare component, the systems perspective component, and mentoring component. I am officially a healthcare organizational development program manager.

"Projects"

2009-10-06T12:47:00.003-05:00

I'm finding that the more you look at a house, the more "projects" you begin to see. It's a little like falling down the rabbits hole, to be perfectly honest. Folks I can officially say with confidence that the honeymoon phase of home ownership is over.

During the past three weeks I've pretty much lived on Angie's List and the phone. Angie's List is a pretty big operation here in the Midwest and I've found it to be quite helpful. Of course I do my part and review the businesses I've used. I give a lot more credence to reports written in the past 6 months than those from 2 years ago. I will say it bugs me that I pay for the service. A pesky $9 gets automatically withdrawn every month. This being said it does work in my favor when I call a company and let them know I got their name off of the list.

The home problems began one morning when my husband neglected to tell me that the hot water handle on our tub fell off. I came home from an interview to find it sitting on the side of the tub. Here's the kicky part: it apparently has fallen off in the past because it was GLUE GUNNED back on. Yes, you can see the glue they used to get the handle back on the stem. You know a simple hex wrench would have worked to tighten it back on, but apparently - and this is hard to fathom - I am more adept in tools than the yahoos who owned the house when it happened.

So, apparently we needed a plumber. I began the search. One guy who came highly recommended passed the job off to a buddy of his who is a handy man. The handy man came within the hour but admitted that plumbing wasn't his strong suit. At least he acknowledged that before attempting anything. He said we just needed a replacement part and he could take care of it for about a buck seventy-five. Sounds good, right? Well, knowing my husband and his fondness for being thorough, I called another plumbing operation who sent out a master plumber for an estimate. He said the whole kit and caboodle needed to be replaced which would run me about $200-$300 just for the parts and an additional $850 for the labor. I'm no mathematician, but there is a LARGE difference between this guy and the handyman.

We mentioned this to some neighbors of ours who are both architects and hobbies include things like Habitat for Humanity. Right now they are in the process of building a garage. I mean, pouring the concrete themselves, framing, installing windows, electricity, roofing and siding the sucker. Ed, out of the kindness of his own heart, said he would come take a look.

In the meantime I also wanted to get the opinion of our gutters. It's rather generous for me to actually call them "gutters" because really they are more like waterfalls over the edge. Here I'm thinking we just need to adjust the slope and clean them out. Oh no, no, no, no, no. Two companies come by and give comparable bids both showing me how these are the original gutters made of steel, well beyond their lifespan, and the best thing we could do is replace the whole system in aluminum. And we're on a time deadline as winter is coming. The old owners disclosed there was some ice damming, but we didn't realize the extent of the problem. The good news is the roof is great, but we may have some apron issues (whatever that means) in a particular section. Now I have tried to sit down with J to go through the bids but he'd much rather do practically anything else than discuss expenses for home improvement issues. So this project is on hold for now.

In addition to the landscaping project mentioned in my previous post, we have an arborist coming to look at the giant silver maple. Who knows when he/she will show up. And, just to be completely thorough, we had the insulation guys come this morning for a bid. See, the ice damming is caused by heat getting trapped in this particular section of the roof and then compounded by the gutter issue.

Tom, the insulation guy, came and gave me a true education about insulation. Hell, I had no idea what a R19 vs a R38 rating was. I can honestly say I do now. I also learned that spiders will build their webs where drafts are because that's where the bugs are. Interesting, eh? Who knew? While getting up in the attic, we needed to pull down the medicine chest in the upstairs bathroom. (Don't ask, it's just an odd old house.) Getting it back on was another matter.

Have I mentioned my husband's love affair with molly bolts? All I can say is thank God he has this odd infatuation because we're going to need it. The previous dumb-asses used dinky plastic anchors which pull right out of the drywall. I'm surprised that the medicine chest hasn't fallen yet. Let's just say it is happy in it's safe resting place on the floor right now.

I'm truly impressed with J's fearlessness when it comes to home improvements. We also had a lovely leaking cold water handle in the downstairs bathroom sink. This Saturday he consulted the Big Orange Home Depot Bible of Repairs and went to down dismantling things. It was a little surprising for me when I turned on the water and nothing came out. That's how I learned he had turned off the water main. We also learned that we have iron pipes. IRON. With severe atherosclerosis (aka, deposits making the hole very narrow for water to travel through). Not much we can do about that but eventually replace all of the pipes in the house - God help us. J was highly successful in fixing the sink.

However it does make me very very scared about the other house we own. Here we are thousands of miles away and the 1922 bungalow is just sitting there with renters. What home improvement projects lie in wait for us there?

Naked Ladies Kiss Me Over The Garden Gate

2009-09-29T12:10:00.008-05:00

I feel like a student in Professor Snape's Potions class.

This morning I had a landscape artist come out to evaluate our new back yard. I'm normally quite handy with a trowel and trusty weeder, but in this back yard I'm pretty stuck. The first thing the landscaper said was, "Oh my dear, you don't have a back yard with a tree. You have a tree for your back yard." She's not kidding. Apparently this Silver Maple of ours is very very old. The bad news is they also have a relatively short life span compared to say an Elm. We also have a wild Mulberry tree which I thought was a kind of Oak. See? Mulberry tree, not Mulberry bush. Goes to show you what I know about this yard and how ill informed those nursery rhymes are.

The whole reason I had this person come out was to evaluate if they could till the soil for us to seed grass specific to shady areas. Not so much. Maples are also fastidious in their root structure by spreading out and only goes 2 - 3 feet deep. No tilling for us. Because the root structure is so close to the top it will leach all nutrients and water so this explains why our grass looks the way it does: clumps sparsely dispersed in clay dirt. Awesome. Her solution was to just put mulch down. This sounds like a terrible idea to me. A brown yard? Well, I guess that's what we have now so perhaps its not that bad of an alternative. The only prayer we have of doing grass is just putting top soil down - a lot of top soil - and seeding it with fescue, not rye. I learned more about grass root structure today than I thought I would ever learn. Rye is the main grass of all that sod people use. Fescue doesn't have a matrix root system. It's just one solitary blade per seed.

As I was getting more and more dejected about our options for the yard, the landscaper picked up on my mood and went to the truck to get her encyclopedias of botanical species. I was highly relieved to learn that my options were more than just hostas and ferns. Our conversation went something like this:

"So the horny toadalis is fantastic with it's feathery plumes, that is unless you want to get the limnanthus sacquaguia, otherwise known as Puffy Faces. As you can see it's broad leaf structure would be a nice contrast to the Mugwort with it's variegated leaf. I would steer clear of the hemlock, besides it's not indigenous to this area."

"What about this pretty purple flower?" I said pointing to the day lily looking bloom.

"Oh no, dear! Climaxius Epictus, or Man's Folly, will not grow in climate zone 5, which as you know we are right on the border of 4 and 5. But this lovely Witches Death would suit that corner nicely with fall blooms or the Snake Weed. I might consider planting the Japanese Blood Grass over there but it needs moist soil so perhaps the Viking Ship Heucharella. That one is a native plant. "

"What about hydrangeas? My husband loves the purple flowers."

The landscaper scrunches up her face to show her disgust. "If I see anymore of that Russian Sage and bourgeois yellow day lily I will just scream. Those hydrangeas were all the rage years ago. A burning bush might be a good alternative."

I'm guessing that is a solid "No" from her on the hydrangeas.

"But there's no accounting for taste, I suppose. Now these would be lovely by the rocks." She said pointing to a familiar plant on the page.

"Oh! You mean Lady in the Bathtubs!"

Double blink through her spectacles and pinching the bridge of her nose. "Why would you call Bleeding Hearts, 'Lady in the Bathtubs?'"

"Because my grandmother grew them and if you pick off the blossom, turn it upside down and open it slightly it looks like a Victorian woman in a bathtub."

"Haven't tried that. And look at all these Rhododendrons in your yard! I'm surprised they've lasted this long with such an alkaline soil. Comes from the limestone. You must use quick lime once a year to keep them happy. My goodness, you can see these people had no idea about plants putting this peony in the shady corner. It is most certainly unhappy. And we must trim back these yews. Why on earth they would plant these here? I should also mention that we need to get a jump on this otherwise we'll have to wait until the last hard freeze of winter. That typically is May 15th."

Excuse me? May 15th? Did she really just say "hard frost" "typical" and "May 15th" in one sentence? Oh. My. God. How am I going to survive winter?

The conversation went on for 2 hours for a 20 x 20 space and I'm being generous with those measurements. Some of the names of these plants were absolutely ridiculous. Inky Fingers? Red Hot Poker? Scotch Broom? Love Lies Bleeding? Naked Ladies? Kiss Me Over The Garden Gate? Digitalis - otherwise known to me as the main ingredient for heart medication. Witch Hazel - which grows in the shade by the way. I vetoed the Hemlock for the record. Murphy, our second Scottie, ate some wild Hemlock and hallucinated. He landed in the doggy hospital overnight while his psychedelic trip wore off. One of my big requirements for the yard is nothing can be poisonous. I'm also against prickly plants.

In the middle of all this the movers show up to remove all of our boxes and packing material for a small fee, of course. They were exceptionally early. It took them about 10 minutes to remove the remnants of our two months of unpacking. As I drew up the check, the movers and landscape artist were in a battle about what to do with the mulberry tree.

"My wife makes jam with the mulberries."

"The berries also make a lovely wine, that is if you can get the berries before the birds. However, this one is a volunteer."

"Volunteer?" Man, am I glad the mover asked this question.

"Yes, it was a noxious weed that they let grow. However, it's not thriving and nor should it being in so much shade. Best to rid the yard of it before it becomes a larger problem."

"I'd rather have the wine than the jam, personally." Said the mover.

As for me and the rest of my morning, I've had 3 phone calls from the company for follow up and the landscaper came back for a second look at the Maple.

"They're notorious for dropping branches, these Silver Maples."

No kidding. I could have told you that looking at all of the limbs scattered across the yard from Sunday's storm. Rocket science.

"You need to call the tree people and point out the missing bark on the underside of that limb. Could be a bad sign that might call for the tree to come down which would be thousands upon thousands of dollars. Besides, it would alter my design plans then with more sun in the yard. Yes, yes, you need to call the tree people." And with that she handed me a sticky note with a name and phone number.

Inspired Completion

2009-09-27T11:50:00.002-05:00

Last night my husband and I ventured away from our usual fanfare of animation movies and actually saw something with REAL people in it. We've been trying to see this particular movie for a couple of months now, but life gets in the way. Whether it's a good dining experience that takes 2 hours longer than anticipated or a family having to discuss treatment options for their loved ones, we just seem to miss all intended shows. Not yesterday. We actually made it to see "Julie and Julia."

I had particular interest in this movie as one of my dearest friends, "Martha," sent me the book a few years ago. I enjoyed the read while simultaneously thinking, "Good Lord this woman is mad trying to do 500+ FRENCH recipes in 365 days." But, she did it. On that level, it was quite inspirational for me. Like Julie Powell, I have a predisposition for starting things and not quite getting them completed. Take the quilt in my mother's basement for example. It's been resting there nicely for about 6ish years. Or my novel(s). Yes, potential plural on that, folks. I have somewhere around 3 novels on my computer. It was highly reassuring to hear from another dear friend that a lot of her set aside writing time was spent deleting what she already wrote. That is where I get in trouble with that project. Playing editor and author at the same time is highly unproductive. So at least Julie Powell succeeded in finishing something with a self-imposed deadline.

Don't get me wrong; I make deadlines, but typically these are deadlines that are externally imposed. I wouldn't have two advanced degrees without deadlines in place. But I play head games with myself (to my downfall) and see how I can rationalize skirting deadlines I make for myself. If you need any help in understanding how my brain works, just look for a post a few back about me with unstructured time.

I have to say I quite enjoyed the movie even if I left feeling quite hungry. All of a sudden I felt inspired to make boeuf bourguignon. I already know how to make it, but I've never done it the Julia Child way. Turns out I wasn't the only one inspired for French cuisine after seeing this movie. Mom told me that a few Sundays back they decided to embark on Julia's Duck with Cherry Sauce. Mind you the book in all of it's genius actually does teach you the art of French cooking in steps if you actually followed the steps in sequential order. However, Dad apparently decided to skip steps 1-4 where you first learn how to even roast a duck to making one with extravagant cherry reduction. He probably used the cherry pitter he inherited when his Mom died. I'm guessing here - we haven't talked in months so this is all extrapolated from my daily talks with Mom. She said it was amazing although they washed every pot and pan about 3x minimum during the 6 hours or whatever it took to make the dish.

J started thinking about making Coq au Vin this evening. Again, it's not complicated just time consuming. He also wanted to clean the house and plant somewhere close to 500+ bulbs in the backyard. I have a feeling we won't be dining on any pearl onions and succulent chicken this evening given the fact he's still in his pj's surfing the net. As for me, I'm going to go outside and find my trowel to lavish the last day of summer up here in the midwestern north. Getting those bulbs planted by sundown will be almost equivalent to making all those recipes within one year.

Reciprocity and Generosity

2009-09-23T08:33:00.003-05:00

The whole concept of gifts is one where I personally struggle. There is a certain etiquette and decorum about a finely fashioned gift that begs the question: is it about the gifter or the receiver? It also makes me wonder where and how expectations get placed.

I know I've brought this subject up before in older posts, but background information is always key in understanding context. Growing up, my family culture had striking differences between my paternal and maternal sides. The maternal side usually had larger budgets for the daughters and grandchildren, but the spouses always appeared as an afterthought. I didn't recognize this when I was younger, but as a married woman I can now sympathize with what my Dad experienced. There is a striking message as your wife opens up gifts of expensive jewelry and you get socks. After awhile a request of socks and underwear as a present seems appropriate because at least you aren't going to be disappointed. So sad, but so true.

On my paternal side, the couple was recognized in a mutual joint gift and everyone got the same thing. On one of our last Christmases with my grandparents, my parents were absolutely ecstatic with a dolly. You know, the kind movers use to wheel around heavy boxes. Seriously. Ecstatic. I get it. But then again I love presents that are either completely practical or completely indulgent. The siblings on my paternal side also extended the small remembrances for everyone that didn't have to be elaborate, but made sure you were acknowledged and important. I still love the homemade chocolate dipped fortune cookies, The Dog calendars, and whatever glam fun I got from my cousin. Gifts for all of the dogs are also included, which makes my heart sing.

I realize I am not the most consistent gifter, which is difficult to acknowledge. Honestly it depends upon my wealth status as to what I can do, which I realize is a universal truth for everyone. One year I was able to bring everyone bottles of wine. That felt great. I also realize how important it is for nieces and nephews to be remembered. It always meant a lot to me when I got something from my aunts and uncles. I have to say that J and I aren't really great about this since we've been out of SLC with our own niece and nephew. Birthdays come and go in the time warp continuum and I typically beat myself up about forgetting them. So when I receive something in the mail for my birthday from my sister-in-law I feel pretty rotten about accepting it.

On the other hand, what do you do with friends who are also as flaky as you are in the gifting department? One year you get an amazing package and then years go by without birthday or Christmas remembrances even though you send things to them. Do you stop giving them gifts? Or other friends who are so consistent and you are the flaky one? Or what do you do with gifts that are so extravagant there is nothing you can do that would seem fair (a cookbook can't compare to diamond earrings)? Another dilemma is the gift that says, "I don't know who you are," or, "This is really all about me," or "You are an afterthought"? I've experienced all of these scenarios and I'm still at a loss of what to do about them.

I'm all about fairness when it comes to gifts. I'm also all about making sure the other person feels recognized for their uniqueness. When I give gifts, they are 100% from the heart and typically very well thought out. My one exception was last Christmas when I was in my fuzzy haze and sent family notecards to a girlfriend of mine who didn't take her husband's last name. That was a big faux pas. I know I made other mistakes last year in gifting and cards albeit with the greatest of intentions.

The last hurdle is giving things to your spouse. Is it really a gift when you are essentially using "our" money? Hard to surprise them with a luxurious gift and always wonder in the back of your mind if they will question the cost rationale. Or do you really believe them when they say, "Don't get me anything"? Anniversaries and Valentines are especially tough. One person gives something from the heart and the other comes up empty handed.

Gifts should equally reflect the giver and receiver in my idealistic view. It should say something about the relationship like a common interest or acknowledging that you really heard them when they mentioned they liked something specific. Although this seems simple, it is really quite difficult upon execution. If it wasn't, there wouldn't be a need for a post like this one. But, that is, I suppose, my gift to you.

Utah Man Am I

2009-09-13T12:16:00.002-05:00

When I was younger my feminist side was rather pissed off that the Utah Ute fight song didn't use the gender neutral term of "person" rather than "man." I got over it. The song is catchy and it is part of my childhood inner jukebox. The season tickets was a tradition my paternal side of the family embraced. Grandpa would sit there in the stadium with his "special juice" and radio. I never did understand why he brought the radio as it echoed the live crowd and calling of the plays, but now I understand he was just needing the commentary.

In college I attended most of the games after "pre-partying" at one of the local fraternities. Because the family season tickets were near the student section Mom was often worried she'd see me passed down while crowd-surfing. For the record, that only happened once. Well, only once at a Utah football game. One other time at a concert in Reno, but that is another story.

The passion for the Utes and their recent switch to a the more politically correct hawk named Swoop, still runs in my veins. I do miss the guy riding the horse dressed as a Ute Indian riding around the stadium with a bit U flag, but I understand why they changed. As I've moved around the Nation I've tried to watch various games on television which is difficult when Utah is not a Big 10 school.

In 1998 I watched the NCAA tournament where Utah's basketball team seemed unstoppable. There I was in my tiny cement dorm room screaming at my tiny television set for the Utes much to the dismay of my other roommates. My boyfriend at the time thought it was amusing that I actually yelled and cheered.

Coming off of a Sugar Bowl upset and triumph last year, I was determined to find the Utes football season on our cable selection here in Milwaukee. That's when I discovered we actually had the BYU cable TV channel. Are you freaking kidding me? BYU? This tells me exactly what our community is comprised of...enough Mormons to command BYU television to be a staple on our cable selection.

I was raised in a family who cheered on the Utes and anyone who played BYU. It wasn't a far stretch for me to move to Boston and adopt a similar stance about cheering for the Red Sox and anyone who played the Yankees. In Boston there was a substantial Mormon community in Belmont, seriously just the next town over from us. The Temple rose along route 2 like it does along the Washington DC beltway: a shining imitation silhouette of Sleeping Beauty's castle. However, we never got BYU cable TV in Boston.

When I searched the official Utah athletic web page I noted that most of the games were being broadcast on some Mountain West cable channel and gave subsequent directions about how you too could call your cable company who would be happy to supply access for a modest fee. I decided it wasn't worth it. Besides, I'm the only one in the family who enjoys football. Somehow I married a guy who is not sports oriented. He understands the rules, but if given a choice of watching sports or doing something else, he'd take the latter. The only reason why he will watch sports is to be amused how much I engage and yell at the television.

Last night was another clear example of why I love this man of mine. He searched out the broadcast of the Utes playing San Jose State and set the DVR for me. There we sat with our ice cream: me yelling through most of the first quarter, J laughing at me, and Edgar cowering at his mother now turned wild screaming woman at the light box. I realize I have quite the potty mouth when it comes to my team and bad plays.

And then, there it was, a shining moment of connection with my family flashing across the screen: the Utah Pig Bus. One of my brother's fraternity buds created this tailgating icon that was even honored in the victory parade after the Sugar Bowl win. This is the same fraternity brother who convinced my own flesh and blood how it was a *good idea* to do a skit and jump into the San Francisco Bay from an oversize Styrofoam toilet (supposed to look like a helicopter) called "Snowy, the Hellaskier," for Red Bull. The same Utah Pig Bus where my parents trekked out to hang with the guys and meet their future daughter-in-law. The same Utah Pig Bus that I now see Facebook photos of children of the guys I used to pre-party with. Just seeing the Pig Bus on ESPN U made me miss my crazy brother.

On a sad note my other Alma Mater, Tulane, was absolutely humiliated by BYU yesterday, but at least the Utes remain undefeated even if they didn't bring their best game forward. How do I know it wasn't their best game? My sore vocal chords prove it.

Isn't It Rich? Aren't We a Pair?

2009-09-11T10:43:00.003-05:00

I hate this song and yet whenever we end up ill, J strikes up the band. It's all I can do to cover my ears before he mentions anything about clowns.

I'm on day 4 of being bed-bound. Let me just say that this whole sick thing is beginning to wear thin. I've rescheduled somewhere around 6 interviews so I do not infect others. By mode of default, J and I have begun to think we have the dreaded swine flu. Fever? Check. Sore throat? Check. Wishing your head wasn't attached to your body? Check. Wondering if your swollen glands are going to burst through your skin like Aliens? Check. Debating about eating because the thought of chewing is exhausting and painful? Check. "Sexyish" flu bed head from all of the sweats and chills? Check. The oh so attractive look of pasty white death warmed over? Check. On the positive, both of us have the cluster of symptoms so at least we aren't alone in our misery but that does leave us at a lack of a caregiver when we're both moaning about how it hurts to lie still.

I think one of the worst parts is that guilt of duty thing. Unprecedented, J has been out of work for 3 days straight. This takes a lot and tells me exactly how terrible he feels. But every morning he pulls himself out of bed looking quite pasty and debates if he feels well enough to go in and take care of his patients. It usually takes a few calls to his boss and hospital ward under his care before he decides he really would be better off at home.

We are going stir crazy. What I wouldn't give for a nice trip to the grocery store. I hate going to the grocery store, but truly it sounds like a great exotic break from the mundane.

Last night I woke up from a dream that my head was being used as a dodge ball. I kept thinking I really needed Tylenol, but the thought of getting out of bed was more painful than just lying there in agony. Finally when my husband roused from sleep an hour or two later I mustered my request for the two magical pills that might stop the chills and ease the pain. He was woken up by a dream of having died in a car accident. I have no idea what time it was so suffice it to say I was highly cautious about dosing myself with more when I finally got out of bed this morning. I have to say my fingers hurt from typing. I guess the writing is on the wall: time for me to get back in bed.

Shape Shifting

2009-09-08T13:01:00.002-05:00

After several esteemed colleagues told me that while they love to follow my blog, "for the love of all that is holy, please change the font," I did. I suppose embracing the inability to write HTML and translate that into Mac-speak, is a part of self-awareness and growth. I do have limitations and boy oh boy, computer speak is one of them. One follower told me that my "improved" font looked like tiny old English and another had to copy and paste my entries into Word so they could reformat it into something legible. So sorry for the strife!

I have been conspicuously absent from posting lately. Let's just say that the stars aligned and I've been in interview after interview. It's been a much needed change of pace. I actually get to dress up in my real-adult-costume of suits and heels to head out and get a feel for what is out there in the professional world. I must say that my former graduate school colleagues have been a huge support for me during this challenge. It's so nice to know you have people you can count on for support, ideas, and brainstorming.

Who knows what will come of these forays into professional life, but I certainly am enjoying the process.

Practicing Motherhood

2009-08-30T10:57:00.003-05:00

I'm convinced that there is nothing worse than a gloomy, chilly Saturday without a plan. Well, unless you are ill or just want an excuse to sit in your pj's and eat peanut butter out of the jar because you are too lazy to actually make the peanut butter cookies. But, I suppose that IS a plan so nix that last sentence. There is nothing worse than a gloomy, chilly Saturday without a plan.

I like plans. But mostly I like plans because I can either choose to follow them or deviate from them. It's a power thing I suppose. I can feel uber accomplished and look at my to-do list all checked off while inhaling the Lysol vapors or fabulous peanut butter cookies I actually made. Or, on the other hand, I could feel semi-criminal by slacking off and actually getting away with it. What's funny about this whole thing is that I am the criminal and the police to myself simultaneously. Hard to "get away with it" when you have to be the enforcer.

Yesterday we didn't have a plan. Sometimes my plan is really not to have a plan. This "plan" works when I know one of us has experienced a really tough week and unstructured downtime is needed. Not the kind of unstructured downtime that includes something like, "1:00 PM - 3:00 PM Unstructured downtime." So, see that would be too structured. In order for it to be truly unstructured it can't even be premeditated. *sigh* Then again, by planning to not premeditate the unstructured day would be a plan.

Have you come with me through the looking glass? Yes, this is what it is like to be me. It's exhausting, isn't it?

Ok, now really, back to my story: yesterday. We decided to finally attend the 6th Harry Potter movie matinee. Because it's a matinee and it's so late from the debut, we practically have a semi-private showing of the movie all to ourselves. I realize that we could have gone to see something more, oh, I dunno...grown-up, perhaps? Like the newest Quentin movie where Brad looks like he's wearing a caterpillar above his lip and everyone keeps wondering if it tickles his nostrils, or the cooking movie where Amy is once again trying to be Meryl for the Oscars only this time without a nun's habit. Yeah, we thought of going to see one of those movies, but it just wouldn't be faithful to our penchant for kid's movies. The escape factor really sets in when you temporarily believe that your house will float with a gazillion balloons or memories can be stored in tiny vials. But here's the ironic part: I needed escape from myself (see paragraphs 2-4 if you need further explanation). But I needed escape from myself because I've been focusing way too much on the whole kid issue. So really, how wise was it for us to attend a KIDS movie where your only semi-companions are KIDS to try and escape the KID issue? Don't even dignify that with an answer...it's pretty obvious.

Again, I'm all about the planning. Specifically for the past two years the question has remained the elusive: when? It doesn't take a leap of faith to realize that I was highly unsuccessful in my quest to escape myself. Damn. So now I'm actually forced to DEAL with the issue which means talking. Talking. Processing. You know, all the things I'm specifically trained to do. I look like I have alphabet soup behind my name showing all the credentials of my specialty of processing issues.

The issue has come to more of a head for me these past few months as I've now graduated...again...and have tried to launch myself into the job market. I guess I wonder where I should be placing my energies with the timing of potential plans. I also have to say that I feel like a mooch. Here I am sending my husband out the door to make a living while I make plans with my domestic art skills. (Numchuck skills, dungeons and dragon skills, Sims 3 skills.) I wouldn't feel so guilty about it if there was a little one who was my one and only responsibility for those 8-10 hours of the day. Edgar almost counts. Well, he did this week. He had a 48 hour tummy virus which gave me a taste of motherhood by being woken up in the middle of the night retching and bed-changing, wandering around cleaning up vomit, doing laundry, petting him while the poor guy didn't understand what was happening as he puked, and washing his beard/brushing his teeth only to have him toss his cookies once again. I also dabbled in the arts of playing amateur dry-cleaner with our velvet slipcovers on the couch. By the way, I can tell everyone with confidence this is NOT a skill of mine. But like I said, Edgar almost counts. And you know what? I was pretty damn successful playing Mom!

Edgar is like a kid in several respects. We take him pretty much everywhere. My husband mentioned it was almost apple picking season and pumpkin patch season to which we thought about bringing the dog. Yes, I get he's a dog. I also realize these are activities normal people would bring their children. I'm not normal. He has favorite toys like a kid, scheduled meal times, a regular doctor, play groups, etc.. See? Kind of like a kid. He even has phobias. He doesn't mind lightening and thunder. Fireworks are a little more troubling. But his real challenge is that obnoxious beeping from smoke alarms with low batteries.

We discovered this phobia when my Mom was visiting last year. His ears could hear the faint beep timed 90 seconds apart from the alarm in the basement. He would settle down to sleep, hear it, then pace the bed and tremble. Not exactly restful and it took us 2 days and nights to figure out what was going on. It was that faint and he has super-hearing power with his Scottie ears.

Fast forward to June when another alarm in our apartment was doing the same thing. As my husband fiddled with it and replaced the battery I got in the shower. The loud beep was enough to drive Edgar mad. So much so that he banged his head through the bathroom door, leaped through the shower curtain and over the high claw foot tub to find safety with me. The last time I had a dog jump in the bathtub with me I was maybe 5 or 6. Henry, my first Scottie, was afraid of thunder and arguments. The bathtub was his refuge.

As we returned from our date of Harry Potter and City Market, we noticed Edgar had expressed his frustration by strewing the bathroom garbage about the house from, a) being left behind, and b) being blocked off from the living room where the great velvet comfy couch sits in a prime location to see out the front window. As I was picking up the Kleenex I heard J laugh, "Hey Mr. Roo!" Edgar was trembling in the bathtub. Traumatized Edgar practically jumped into my arms when I bent down to pet him. And then we heard the beep.

Shiver Me Timbers

2009-08-29T10:03:00.002-05:00

I don't know what happened. It was like I blinked my eyes and - poof - summer was gone. Just when I got the shorts and tank tops unpacked, I realize that the need for sweatshirts and layers came earlier than anticipated.

For the first time since I can remember I'm actually going to have an Autumn birthday on September 5th. Being so close to labor day and the beginning of school, I typically received some sort of back to school fashion gift. When I was younger it involved some sort of itchy wool skirt and sweater with saddle shoes my Mom thought was adorable, but I couldn't wear my new outfit until it got colder. In Utah that was usually around the end of October. This year it's not even the end of August and I'm contemplating turning on the heat to adjust to the mid-50 degree weather outside. As one friend put it: Welcome to the north!

I have it on good authority that Milwaukee is not as cold as Minneapolis in the winter. That makes sense seeing that it is a bit closer to the north pole. I also heard a rumor/wives tale that because it was a mild summer we should expect a mild winter. However this knowledge does not protect me from the mild chiding from my husband that I will freeze this winter. I keep telling him I'll adapt. I will. But, he finds it humorous when I say this given that I can be cold on an 80 degree summer day.

The Right Fit

2009-08-19T17:08:00.004-05:00

Looking for jobs has got to be one of the most painful things to do. I'm getting the most polite "you suck" emails from corporations. I'm either too qualified, not specialized enough, don't have international conglomerate business experience, or my personal favorite: I'm not the right fit, but they wish me well with future endeavors. How can you tell if I'm the right fit if you haven't even talked with me and yet I have all the desired qualifications? Seriously?

Today I got blocked from a job I really wanted because my email thought the invitation to complete step two of the online process was junk mail and I missed the opportunity. It's leaving me clutching my heart in one hand and throwing my fist up to the sky dramatically asking, "Why? Why?!" while Edgar is simultaneously licking my toes to show he loves me and yes, I am in fact a good human being. I find the formula is something like this: the more you want the job = the less likely you will get it = the more the pain will crush you. Truly, it's a good time.

I remember being on the other side of the hiring desk. Sorting people based on obscure resume data is challenging. Are they "seasoned" or "green"? Are they too new of a grad or is their education even relevant to the position? Hell, does their education or experience make me think this person would get bored with the job? Nine times out of ten, it's usually an HR generalist who is doing the first screening and they aren't exactly sure what to look for. As a hiring person I dreaded when employees came into my office with a letter in hand and "need to tell you something." While they are telling me all about their impending move/wedding/baby/inheritance/life revelation for their two week notice, I'm thinking about the HR hell.

There are rules of engagement when hiring and I'm surprised by how many hiring people don't understand them. Granted, you kind of learn about them as you go. There are specific things you cannot ask. I've been asked the most insulting and lawsuit inviting questions by people like the directors of human resources. Do you have kids? Are you planning on having kids? Are you married? Which church do you attend? Good hell!

Behavioral interviewing is typically the way to go, as in, "tell me about a time when..." I made sure my panels were briefed on what you could and could not ask before the candidate even walked through the door. My favorites were the ones who looked flawless on paper thanks to a resume professional, but would reveal something odd in the interview. Something like how they were abducted by aliens and ever since then knew they needed to be on this professional path. Others who would ask if I'd be willing to talk to their probation officer or would I have leniency for missing work due to an upcoming trial.

For now, I suppose I need to have patience, believe in the Universe, karma, intention, and pray. I also need to limit my time on the computer just to cushion my self-esteem!

Arts and Crafty

2009-08-18T11:07:00.003-05:00

You would think a girl coming from Utah would be inherently crafty. I mean, this is the land of scrap booking and Martha Stewart is practically a saint. (Although Mom once told me she spoke at a Junior League convention and referred to the Temple as that "cute little church" down the street.) We never had wreaths on our front door with the exception of Christmas. No strange Easter twig trees or hydrangea bloom wreaths heralding spring were found at our house, but we did color our own Easter eggs. We never flew the flag for the 4th of July. There were never any photos of us in the living areas. "It's just one more thing to dust," Mom would say. Instead of putting her creative juices into dust collecting items, Mom would can the hell out of our raspberries and apricots every year and make homemade cookies until the cows came home. Our house looked the same virtually every season.

The one exception of decor was Halloween: Mom's favorite holiday. Every year we pulled the cardboard cut outs of witches and pumpkins and placed them in the windows. Other moms would get actual bales of hay and stuff their own scarecrows for their front porch. We even did the fake spider webs for a while until it coincided with the biannual house painting which just got plain messy. We did once have a fake hand we buried in the ground as if a corpse was climbing out of its grave, but the neighbor's dog (named Satan, literally) dug it up and carried it around the streets like a chew toy. We found it extremely funny. When I was younger Dad did a hell of a job carving pumpkins. Mom also was awesome when it came to sewing and making costumes. You dreamed it; she would make it happen.

When I went to college and joined a sorority I was actually expected to do things like create a fabric wraparound cork board and puffy quilted scrapbook for my little sister of the house. It was like asking me to do calculus. The room practically stopped breathing when I told them I didn't own a glue gun or even know how to use one. Embarrassed, Mom did tell me we in fact owned a glue gun from the 1980's or so, but it was messy and hot and never really worked. I had no recollection of this gadget what-so-ever. Two of my sisters took me to the craft store to initiate me into the world of crafting. As I wandered around the fake flowers and whole aisles dedicated to ribbon, I felt a little like I was in a foreign country. There I bought my first glue gun.

Somewhere circa 1996 I also began to scrapbook with a little help from my friends. My first one was primitive to say the least. My skills progressed as I kept developing, but once I saw the creative instinct of my sister in law's best friend, I literally came to a stand still. This woman was beyond creative. She made pop-out folding lanterns for God's sake on one of the pages. I haven't picked up my scrap booking habit (an expensive one, by the way) since 2003. Good intentions, but those pop up lanterns still haunt me. Perhaps I really should find a class or something to foray my way back into the creative world.

My husband comes from a family where his Mom has ironed embroidered hand towels that change with the month. She artistically places glitter dusted autumn leaves and rattan among the pumpkin and gourd shaped candles. Her crafty prowess showed up at our rehearsal dinner, which the photographer loved getting all of the decorative details from every angle. I have secret envy of women and men who are inherently crafty, including my mother in law.

I'm still trying to learn the artful placement of items. I have two girlfriends in particular who have the gift of style. Seriously, both of their homes look like they came out of magazines. Placement of baskets, interesting wooden signs, window treatments look effortless. Honestly, that so so far out of my league I can't even stand it. Since I've been married I've picked up cues from catalogues and other media to begin to decorate with the seasons. Sands capes in hurricanes with tea lights, mixed leaves for the fall, and cranberries for winter will grace my coffee table at times.

My newest challenge in Wisconsin is doing basket liners. I noticed that the previous owners had used twine to artistically tack the liners into the baskets for clothes storage. It was a pretty good idea, minus the orange thread. Being the clean freak, I decided to wash all of the liners. That's when I learned they had only done the decorative thread on the outside liner. The inside fabric was glued down. Still, we took out the liners and washed them. I later ironed them as well.

J and I ventured to Michael's where I thought embroidery thread would be lovely. I am not the color specialist; I defer to my husband on that. He chose a pretty slate blue gray and I went hunting for needles since our sewing kit was still lost in one of the cardboard boxes. The only needles I found were quilting needles. No problem! A needle's a needle a needle, right? Not so much.

I spent a good 30 minutes trying to thread the sucker. Tiny eye holes and twisted strands do not mix. After getting stuck 3x I let my husband have a go. He did it and I began the artistic stitching. It looked terrible. I abandoned the project and started to search for my glue gun.

Here's the problem: I haven't really located my glue gun when I really needed it since the move in 2006. I'd find the glue sticks, but not the gun. Then when I would somehow stumble across the gun I'd say to myself, "See? That's a logical placement. Just remember where it is when you need it next time." A more logical person would have just reunited the damn gun and sticks to save this need of a mental note and high frustration for the future. Not me.

Throw in 2 other moves in the past 3 years and the repeated mental note, and let me tell you how frustrated I am. I've found the glue sticks, but in every box that I have semi-unpacked I have yet to find the stupid gun. On a positive, I did find the sewing kit with better needles. I suppose I'll have to go back to my original plan of the embroidery thread and once again stumble across the glue gun when I'm not looking for it.

Yokel Local

2009-08-17T16:02:00.002-05:00

Believe it or not, that's the name of a New Glarus beer. We picked up a six pack of the local microbrew last week to celebrate becoming official Wisconsinites....or is it Sconies? Either way, we have the license plates and drivers licenses to prove that we are officially residents of America's Dairyland. So far it's my 4th State where I'm an official resident. I can't count Louisiana because I never did make that trip to the DMV.

This trip to the DMV wasn't as eventful as my others. The only thing worth blogging about is that the clerk kept trying to remember which town in Massachusetts she visited back in the 1980's. "You know, the one with the historical college that's been around for a long time?" Um, yeah, that TOTALLY narrows it down. Boston, and for that matter, Massachusetts, is known for it's universities, hospitals, bars, and cemeteries. Sure, I know exactly which town you visited.

There are a few things I've noticed about being in Wisconsin so far.

1) There are 3 dedicated polka radio stations in the Milwaukee area.

2) One of the polka music stations is right next to the Mexican radio station.

3) I never noticed how much polka and Mexican music sound the same. They both love the accordion.

4) There is a strong cajun influence here; go figure we're near where the French Canadians originated before migrating down to the bayou in Louisiana.

5) Zydeco, predominantly cajun music, also has a love affair for the accordion.

6) The State Fair is huge, although they are still years behind Minnesota's State Fair in the deep-fry-food-on-a-stick. Deep fried Snickers was sooo 2003.

7) Organic, buying local, supporting your own, and sustainable living are rooted strong here. Go farmers markets, local bistros, small bookstores, and Alterra coffee.

8) Restaurants are still not smoke-free. I'm just waiting for July 2010 for that celebration!!!

9) Dairies still do home delivery! Didn't think I'd see that again until we moved back to Utah.

10) The Green Bay Packers are named after meat packers. Blech. They are the only community owned sports franchise.

11) It's beautiful here. People are friendly. Neighbors look out for one another. The clouds are amazing.

12) Milwaukee is known for it's diversity and festivals. After Summerfest - the worlds largest music festival (yes, it even beats out Jazz Fest) - every weekend hosts a different cultural festival. Irish fest was last weekend. I believe Indian Summer festival is coming up soon.

13) My grandmother was born in Rhinelander, Wisconsin...a mere 3+ hours away up north. My husband works for the same medical school that graduated my great grandfather in dentistry (back then, medical and dental students spent 2 years together and then "specialized" their last 2 years of medical school.)

14) They have fireflies, bunnies, chipmunks, and squirrels on cool summer nights. Really? Can it get better?

I'll let you know how I feel about it once winter hits. My perception might shift a bit as the earth tilts away from the sun.

Consumer Warnings

2009-08-14T12:24:00.005-05:00

Moving to Wisconsin meant that I could finally get my Utah storage unit shipped. There were many things that I was looking forward to reuniting with. My Pottery Barn couch, the rug, my coffee table, and of course my beloved high efficiency washer and dryer. I'm one of those who get excited about energy star appliances. When I bought my first house I was thrilled to head down to Sears and explore the washers that only used 13 gallons of water per load vs. the typical 30 gallons. Not only that, but it didn't have an agitator so my delicates really would be better preserved. I'm telling you, this was exciting for me. My enthusiasm spread through the family and every so often I would end up washing Ginny's sofa slip covers or old quilts.

In anticipation of my shipment arriving I scheduled a Sears maintenance guy to come to the house and do the once over of my beloved appliances. I figured I wanted someone to look at the gaskets, hoses, and seals after they had been in storage for 3 years. Sears thought it was a bit overkill, but they were happy to take our money. I did some light reading of installation of the appliances from my file of manuals and warranties I keep handy. They offer special hints like suggesting to not reach into the washer while parts are moving and don't mix bleach with toilet cleaners in the washer. I'm not certain why anyone would put toilet cleaner in the washer to begin with, but I figure that someone did this at one point in time and filed a lawsuit that caused enough ruckus to actually have them now make it a specific warning in the use and care guide.

Over breakfast, my husband was perusing the light literature and noticed something. It was under the "Washing Procedures" heading.
I don't know about you, but I can understand not wanting to wash a crayon, keys, coins, or paperclip, but a FROG? Seriously, who keeps frogs in their pockets? Little boys, perhaps? I don't know of any little boys who wear suspenders or for that matter have their elbows bend like the way its depicted in the illustration. A frog. Now you know this booklet has gone through several proofs before it got published and yet no one seriously questioned the frog.

Note to self: remove all amphibians from pockets in the future.

Up to Speed

2009-08-07T10:28:00.005-05:00

For all you Mac users I must first apologize. The website must look like I took out the old typewriter font for my oh so fabulous makeover - and not achieving it. Akin to showing up to my prom in my brothers stinky tennis shoes. I assure you that if you actually borrowed a PC and found the website you would be a bit more pleasantly surprised. I spent all day yesterday playing with the template, fonts, colors, and other nuances in HTML. This is big because I do not speak HTML. For all I know it stands for Hippopotamuses Together Must Languish! It was only until the end of the day that I proudly showed my husband on the Mac to realize the incompatibility of the two. When looking at the screen I realized a third grader could have done better. At least they might be fluent in HTML. Makes me want to pull out my walker and mumble, "Those kids these days!" I might even pull out a shall for a grand effect of showing how old I am.

Now I knew these two systems are not compatible, but really? Fonts? How hard is it to get fonts across these two giant corporations? I've known PC doesn't play well with Apple. I've gone back and forth between these two systems all my life. In the 8th grade my newspaper adviser brought in his own Mac so I could layout the student paper. However, when I got into high school we were still using the light board with exact-o knives to literally cut and paste the pages together. In college we re-entered the renaissance and I remember I got my own email account that I could access only from the library PC's. The "sophisticated" program was akin to the stupid C prompt. I didn't use it much. My Mom always had PC's for her business even though there was a subtle rivalry even within the family as her oldest sister only worked on Macs. I can't believe it's now 2009 and the rivalry continues. Even within my own home we have a semi-working PC (it's the laptop with the shattered screen hooked up to the monitor that once belonged to the dead desk hard drive), and the sleek new sophisticated beautiful Mac Book Pro. Can you tell which one I'm working on primarily? I'll give you a hint: I have a ton of cords. *sigh* Well, that and I probably wouldn't have spent 5 hours working on fonts on a computer that wouldn't show the glories of my efforts!

Now several of you are probably wondering what the Hell happened to me. It's been like a month since I posted! Last time I checked the site she was going on and on about New England and then, poof! she's gone! It's called moving, folks. Come on, say it with me: "C-r-a-z-y."

So here is a brief summary of what I've been doing in the past month: Canoe down the Charles River to watch the fireworks for the 4th of July, insanely decide to make a last minute trip to Utah to see the family, have a great dinner with my brother and his wife, hang out with my husbands grandparents, play up in the canyons, make dinner for my in-laws, come back from 4 days behind the Zion curtain to find Edgar's paws to be a bit tender because the dog sitters played fetch on hot asphalt, proceed to carry Edgar "Skittle Toes" around the house for 2 days because he's too tender to walk, lick my emotional wounds, let college students pack our belongings in one day (a.k.a. sure it makes sense to put the pantry items like flour in with the scented candles!), pay 3 burly men to drag/carry our belongings onto a truck, spend a lot of money in buying every moving crew lunch plus tipping them, clean the empty apartment like mad men while trying to assure J that perfection is not needed, go stay with Boston Mom, take a side trip to Kennibunkport, Maine where the secret service guys like to hang to guard George Sr. and Barb, proceed to travel West staying in such glamorous spots like Cleveland and Lake Geneva, send postcards to nieces and nephews along the way so they can track your journey across the USA and learn little history lessons to boot, lament you don't have enough time this trip to do such diversions like Niagara Falls (something you promised you'd do on the trip West when you ran out of time going East), wish Wegman's Supermarket was national, learn our new mortgage person is not a detail oriented person (not good, folks), close on the house, have an awesome dinner with our Realtor, have the Boston shipment arrive the next morning, have the Utah shipment arrive a few days later, play "guess what's in this box?" game, play the "why in the world did I pay to store this crap for 3 years in Utah?" game, wrestle with self-examination and life purpose (you know, a light diversion), realize that queen bed box mattresses do not fit up the steep stairs, put 2 queen box springs in the dining room while you ponder what to do next, realize that you accidentally gave the Pottery Barn sofa slipcovers to Goodwill instead of the 2 bags of clothes that haven't fit since 2005, lament and grieve stupidity of having a naked couch and hope that a bargan hunter is enjoying the slipcovers, search for jobs, bake cookies for neighbors, learn you didn't make enough cookies for people 4 houses down who heard the new neighbors were giving out cookies, rejoice that you have your beloved high efficiency washer/dryer back, hear from niece and nephew's mom that while they enjoyed the postcards the kids keep asking for a lobster dinner now, take Edgar for walks so he can chase bunnies/squirrels/chipmunks and enjoy the fireflies, try to coordinate with Mom about coming for a visit, have a vegan picnic with work people at the lake front, go into a cooking frenzy, learn you've been eliminated in a job search you really wanted, do more self-examination, watch chipmunk steal new budding lemons off of "Lucinda the Lemon Tree" and curse them, bring Lucinda inside, watch husband obsess about CAT cable vs. Ethernet or whatever sprawling all over the house when considering ISP service, discover the stupidity of previous home owners in their "quick fixes" and random holes in walls/floors, make multiple trips to local hardware store and Home Depot, read mindless novels, obsess about how to fix the wool rug smell, do more self-examination, worry about things you can't control, and finally get tired of living in the maze of boxes, oddly prioritize organizing the guest room first (looks great, by the way), do more extreme gourmet cooking, work on blog, and finally decide that you will get one more room organized before the end of the day.

So there you have it. I have had a lot of experiences that do warrant more explicit blog entries. Believe me, there have been a lot of instances in the past few weeks that I have commented to my husband that it was blog-worthy, but alas no time. Well, no time and we just got internet 2 days ago.

Yankee Doodle Dandy

2009-07-06T09:25:00.004-05:00

When I was younger I never understood the odd fascination Ginny had with magazines. One in particular caught my eye: Yankee Magazine. Why in the world would a woman who lived on a ranch in Oakley, Utah keep a subscription dedicated to New England living? It made sense to me that she kept Sunset; after all, it was dedicated to living in the West. But really, Yankee?

Yesterday my adopted Boston mom took J and I up to one of her favorite places in the world: Rockport, Massachusetts. Her story is one of both independent marriage migration from New Jersey to New Hampshire, Boston to Chicago, and San Diego back to Boston. She had to leave home to find it. Her love affair with New England is palpable and when I was ruled by my back pain, she kept me entertained with stories of her journeys and places to which she felt a natural affinity. There she was taking my blood pressure and chirping away about kayaking on Spy Pond or taking the train to the New Jersey shore. Ever since we learned our time in Boston was limited, Judy's urgency and drive to play tour guide grew stronger. We specifically blocked out yesterday just for her, which was no small feat but something so worth while.

As J's and my time dwindles in Boston, our bucket list seems to grow longer. We've played tourist this past week by eating at the Nation's oldest restaurant The Union Oyster House, taking the T down to the common and catching a movie, and renting a canoe to take Edgar down the Charles River with a picnic to hear the Boston Pops and watch the fireworks explode over our heads. There we moored with a couple who had made this a ritual for 6 years and knew the ropes, so to speak. The current of the river is strong and they brought their own anchor as well as a small motor to get back upstream after the show. Thank God we met Rachelle and Peter otherwise we would have been paddling aimlessly around the river during the whole show. The Coast Guard isn't exactly friendly and strictly enforces the rule that all watercraft must be either in transit or at least 100 feet away from the shore. They don't tell you where you can go, but they make it very clear you can't stay where you are. By the end of Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" there were 5 canoes and kayaks tied to Rachelle and Peter's boat. You could almost feel the small anchor groaning. Although we couldn't hear the music, the drunken choirs on all the yachts surrounding us would catch small chords of the song and keep echoing the embellished chorus of "so good, so good, so good" over and over again. Oddly enough, Peter is from Wisconsin. While J and Peter discussed the merits of taking a ferry from Michigan to Wisconsin on our upcoming cross country adventure, I learned all about Rachelle's masters in children's theater and her recent discovery of the Twilight series. Not bad for someone who is 62 and just bought her first house to claim she is now finally "settled and grown up." Rachelle, originally from California, talked about how she never thought she'd end up in Boston and how hard it was to start friendships here 14 years ago. We talked about how it can be hard to find friends here as they are a little slow to trust, but once you are let into their lives it's forever. My friendship with Judy was much like that only oddly enough I was the one who was slow to let down my guard. So much for the stereotype of the East Coast natives being the ones with so many boundaries.

We arrived at Judy's house late yesterday afternoon, which wasn't an issue. She nurtured our lateness and said we deserved to take it easy after such a demanding year. There I saw the photograph of J and I at my graduation framed on her mantle next to photos of her daughter and soon to be son-in-law. Not even my own family has photos of us on the mantle, but they aren't exactly the family photos on display kind of people. Judy shuffled us into her car and we began our trek up to Rockport, Massachusetts. The small Cape Ann town is home of such films like "The Witches of Eastwick" and "The Proposal." We wandered around Bearskin Neck to her favorite art gallery where she promptly bought an oil painting of two girls on the beach. We had lunch at a very elegant restaurant on the point complete with harbor views, sailcloth curtains, whitewash clapboard, and fresh fish sandwiches. As we talked about her daughter's upcoming wedding and the pondering of grandchildren she said, "You can't make wine before it's time." I realized it was a very Ginny thing to say. I also wondered if this was a town Ginny and Pop visited on their RV adventures through New England during retirement. Was it a town highlighted in Yankee Magazine she felt drawn towards?

We wandered around the little shops drawn into places that made "witches balls" - colorful hand blown glass balls with spider web strands inside to attract and capture evil spirits before they enter your home. We found local pottery, adorable crocheted baby sun hats and homemade fudge before finding the new age store. There crystals, tarot, and books on numerology ruled the shelves. J could only take so much of the chanting cd, but Judy and I perused the books on body-mind connections and various essential oils. She bought a book about mediums and inquired the Gaia inspired women about the meaning of the number 7 in her life. She was born on 7/7, one of 7 children, several 7's in her license and phone numbers. They were more than happy to oblige and I once again realized another connection to Judy. 7 is the number of the mystic and who would have thought new age would be yet another connecting point for us.

By the end of the day we took our Arnold Palmer's back to the car and discussed medicine, given the common connection between Judy and J's careers. We got caught in the 4th of July weekender traffic coming from Maine, but it gave us an excuse to take the scenic route through the Mystic Valley and Arlington. Before we departed from her home, she insisted upon lending us her recent copy of Yankee Magazine. She thought it would be good for us as there were some articles about lighthouses and Maine - places we may want to visit before we left.

This morning, for the first time in my life, I sat with a cup of coffee and read the whole magazine. I was captured by the photographs of Adirondack chairs, suggestions of bed and breakfasts around Maine, and the preservation of small towns in New Hampshire. I finally "got it" about life in New England. The juxtaposition of busy city life to small town heritage and small town preservation movements over simple things like colonial rock walls appealed to my soul the same way I fell in love with Ginny's herb garden.

Perhaps I'm over-romanticizing it or perhaps I'm just a little nostalgic, but I believe that people are sent into your life for a reason. Last year I lost Ginny, but within months I was given the gift of Judy. Who knows, I just might get a subscription to Yankee Magazine sent to my Wisconsin home.

They Come in Three's...

2009-06-26T16:31:00.004-05:00

I don't know about you, but I'm on "Breaking News" overload. But it's also hard to turn it off. Here's my prediction: death due to poly-drug addiction, custody battle over kids which will probably result in them being split up, and more exposure about child abuse (either his own as a kid or the lawsuits against him). Shocker, right? Not really. This is what the news has been like for the past week for Ed, Farrah, and Michael:

I have to give credit where credit is due.

The Role of Families, Villages, and Possibilities

2009-06-24T09:36:00.002-05:00

I have to say that one of my personal heroes is my cousin. She has gone through amazing personal battles and let the world into her history as her own nuclear family develops. It takes true courage to be that raw and honest. It's a battle our whole family faces, genetically and socially: addiction.

When I began this project of blogging, Joey and I would email one another pretty consistently. I first used this forum as a way of making sense of the world from the gifts and baggage everyone inherits from their family. I just found mine to be particularly humorous. She struggled with how much personal stuff does one release into the world? A couple of years after we wrestled with this topic via email to find personal balance, she was published in a major Eastern newspaper. The story was intensely intimate about her struggle with addiction and debating if you explain it to your child. I was in awe of her bravery.

Don't get me wrong; my blog has caused its own share of problems within my family. I figure you have to laugh at times otherwise it just becomes too painful. I don't think that my family is all that different from others; I just choose to put it "out there." No one is really supposed to put it "out there," and yet there is a slew of people who relate to it. Why? Because it's familiar, duh. Like it or not, addiction touches everyone in some way or fashion.

I find I cannot write about myself in isolation. I wasn't raised all by myself. Families play a huge part. They shape how you view the world and give a baseline for what is normal. Stories about my family of origin waxes and wanes through my entries. I'm still trying to find what is a comfortable balance. When I share it is typically a humorous story. The painful ones typically live in my head as third party dialogues which might make a suitable screenplay one day. In fact, one of the signs I'm not coping well is when I begin to write scripts in my head. I never intend to hurt my loved ones with my shared stories. I do intend to make people laugh a little and feel a little less isolated in their own experiences. I find I do that pretty well. One scene I particularly relate to is in the trailer of Spanglish between Cloris Leachman and Tea Leone. There can be humor.

As my husband and I begin our process of departing Boston, we realize we're entering a new chapter of our lives. One that may or may not involve children of our own. Nothing like a good family of origin trigger than considering birthing your own. Well, that and having my Mom deal with her knee surgery with painkillers and wine. It makes me consider my boundaries once again with my family. It also causes one to take serious self-inventory of potentially scary patterns. Example of inner dialogue: "Do I have addictive personality traits? How are they triggered? How are they controlled? Am I using all or nothing / black and white thinking? Oh my God, THAT ALONE is a trait of addictive thinking!" I've been reassured a number of times that I'm nowhere near addiction, and yet a certain unsubstantiated anxiety exists. I'm certain I'm driving J and my therapist nuts.

One of the big considerations of starting a family for J and I is the proximity to our families for support. Most of my girlfriends live near family - to which all rely on quite a bit for support. There are others who have family relatively close, but for one reason or another they are not as active in their lives. I realize it's possible to have children near or far away from family and still get the support you need from other sources.

It's been almost a year since I've seen my Dad and brother. It wasn't a happy visit due to Ginny's death. And yes, there was a lot of alcohol involved. I remember at that time talking to my parents and letting them know that if they choose to keep their lifestyle the same, they should be aware they will not see their grandchildren after 5:00 P.M.. My mother immediately said that she would change. My father simply said that I need to do what I need to do, which was fine by him. It was heartbreaking.

I grew up in a family where literally we were raised by the village. Cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and even elderly neighbors played a HUGE role. There were sleepovers and family dinners, all of which will not happen for my children with their maternal side. It makes visiting family even more difficult when you are out of state. The 5:00 rule appears unenforceable when you are staying at each other's respective houses. At least if we lived in the same city, J and I could take our children home when cocktail hour begins to spin. I'm beyond trying to control their consumption. I did that in junior high by pouring $40 worth of gin down the drain purposefully on a Saturday night, knowing the liquor stores would be closed on Sunday. All I can control now is what I choose to expose my own personal family to and by giving my parents informed decision making power. (Some would say this is rationalization, but the purpose is strikingly different.)

This upcoming move has caused a lot to come into focus which also yields a lot of grief. I don't grieve what I have in my family relationships. I grieve what I wish I could have had. How would things be different if the bottle wasn't involved? I love my family dearly. I just wish I could have more of them.

Getting Ahead of Myself

2009-06-24T09:03:00.003-05:00

As we move closer and closer to the date of the move, I'm finding that the thin lacquer of denial is cracking and crumbling. Even if I can actively and willfully procrastinate packing by watching the last DVD of John Adams, the inevitable shows up in my unconscious. Last night I was fraught with dreams of repainting fascia and eves on our new house only to realize that the old owners hadn't moved out yet. Buying a house means there are a lot of projects - several of them I am well aware of thanks to the inspection. I realize I am aware of them while my husband has been blissfully unaware by busy finishing up his year of fellowship. I have pretty much handled this whole transaction single handedly much like my first purchase 5 years ago back in SLC. J is blissfully unaware of what a sister joint is, what premiums we're considering for homeowners insurance, the billions of copies of bank statements / taxes / IRAs / W2's / promise of our first born I've overnighted to corporate, what our monthly average energy bill will be, and what is involved in solving the ice damming problem from the inside of the house.

Instead he is more concerned about aesthetics. For example, one of the previous owners of our 1927 gem actually (gasp) cut the french doors off at the base to clear the carpet (most likely shag) they installed leading from the foyer into the living room. Since the house has been restored to the hardwood floors, the original french doors are a bit short. He's been scheming on how to restore the doors. I'm more concerned with practical things like buying a dehumidifier for the basement; apparently, it's a must for Milwaukee. I'm waiting for him to begin to perseverate on how to patch the awful hole in the wall the current owners drilled to install a flat screen TV with cable access. Honestly, he doesn't have time to really think about these things has he should be studying for boards. But, alas, those books remain on the shelves while he attempts to figure out how to merge iTunes accounts on our MacBook Pro and dream of how to stream it to our stereo.

If you have followed my blog for awhile you know that I have a secret love affair with Home Depot and DIY. I *think* I'm more handy than perhaps I truly am, but I have a huge spirit with need for learning and projects. I'll barrel into things head first. For example? I'd like to refinish the front door. But it will be highly difficult with my husband lurking about over the next two months as he will want to meddle and become distracted from studying for boards. Boards are his top priority. Ok, well, they are my first priority and yet I have little control over them. 100% honesty? I have absolutely no control over them. There I said it. So I sublimate my energy into things I can accomplish. A house is a perfect solution. Now, if only my back with cooperate and somehow convince J to go study anywhere else besides home...

Alas, I get ahead of myself. First thing is first: those damn empty flattened boxes in the basement we saved from last year. Wouldn't you know I can't deafen out their cries any longer and have got to fill them with our treasures and worldly goods.

BOS to MKE

2009-06-12T11:24:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was a blur. I had less than 12 hours to fly from Boston to Milwaukee and back again. Put a 3 hour house inspection in my layover and well, there you have it. The flight there was uneventful...unless you count me spilling my Starbucks all over the German woman next to me during take-off. At least I didn't get her computer. We were below 10,000 feet. I think that's the only reason my clumsiness got off the hook from killing a thousand dollar corporate device.

Once our plane landed, our great realtor met me at the airport. It was his birthday. The least I could do was treat him to a chai latte before we went to the house. The other realtor was there with the house owners and their 2 beagles. It was a little awkward going through the bones of the house with them present. I would imagine it would be like visiting a plastic surgeon with your fitness trainer. "See, this is where you failed in taking care of your sanctuary." Yeah, not uncomfortable at all.

I tried to channel my husband through the whole experience. I'm the more visual person, but he is Mr. Detail guy. What would he be asking that I am missing? I learned more about step cracks, air leaks in insulation to prevent ice dams in roofs, and voltage/watt things than I ever thought was possible. I had to reflect back on my previous experience with house inspectors...ok, my only experience with house inspectors. 5 years ago. I realized if it weren't for the creepy crawl spaces, potential of spiders and bugs, and fear of falling off of steep roofs, I would make a really good house inspector. I underestimated my orientation for detail. I realized I would flag a lot more things than what this guy did.

"Is this a concern?" I'd ask pointing to something. The inspector would take off his baseball cap and make a face with an noncommittal grunt and shrug. Ooohkay....

Our real estate agent spent years in new home construction so he would often point out easy fixes for things to increase energy efficiency. That was helpful. I also learned there are differences in State to State code. For example: those grounded outlet plugs in bathrooms or kitchens near water are not a mandatory fix in older Wisconsin homes. Its mearly a suggestion. Preventing electrical shock is a "suggestion?" Wow.

While we were finishing up the inspection, the other realtor decided she would leave. She was one of those with her blue tooth attached to her highly frosted puffy hair and clip on pearl earrings. You know, the kind that has some sort of gimmicky line like, "Casadella Land, a moving experience." Seriously. It was at that point our agent shared our financing option of going with a FHA loan. Apparently bank assessors are ruthless with this type of loan. No peeling paint, no cracked glass, no nothing. Sounds like a really good idea for us. We get a home guaranteed in good condition. It's more work for the sellers who then have to get the extra work done if they want the deal to go through, otherwise everything falls flat. It's a risk. To put it mildly, the seller's agent was not thrilled with this. She cited the original offer with conventional financing. Yes, but as our mortgage lender said, the seller doesn't care where the money comes from. Now our agent is trying to smooth the waters. Deep Breaths.

After 3 hours of house education to prep future visits to Home Depot, our agent dodged the Miller Park ball day traffic to whisk me back to the airport. Fantastic. Weather delayed the return flight for over an hour. At least I had time to grab lunch...and stew about how long Edgar would be left alone. I envisioned him crossing his legs and hopping around the house doing the I-need-to-pee dance.

Once we boarded I had an odd argument with the guy in my seat.

"I'm in 13 A."

"Yes, I'm in 13 B." I said pointing to the aisle seat.

"Riiight. A stands for Aisle." He said shoving his backpack under the seat.

"Um, no A is next to the window." I said pointing to the diagram. He looked up and recognized the faux pas.

The rest of the flight was a struggle over the armrest. Good times.

When I arrived J was late...to my plane that was over an hour late. Quickly my anxiety shifted from the messes around the house to carnage on the highway involving twisted metal and an ambulance carrying my husband off to the hospital. I began to call his cell phone every 1-3 minutes. Sure enough he pulled in and was not in a good mood. Call it the lack of a promised half academic day off, the traffic, the rain, or simply that it was Thursday. "I need to you stuff your stress," was his direction. Somehow his arrival and assertion calmed my anxiety.

By the time we arrived, Edgar was thrilled to see us and sure enough he spent a loooong time outside looking extremely grateful for our reunion.

To Do: Don't Create a To-Do List

2009-06-09T15:14:00.002-05:00

It's a little surreal going from daily structure to absolutely no structure what-so-ever. All within one week I was discharged from physical therapy and wrapped up a masters degree. Dude. Those were the only two things I had that kept me grounded and not a complete recluse. My day was structured around things like the 3 hours of physical therapy, rewriting papers, and reading insane volumes of texts with ideas that made my head explode.

Initially I was a little concerned about my unstructured, but task focused time in the fall. I figured it all out employing some old grade school tricks of the trade. Read - reward self with playing Wii - go to physical therapy - throw ball for Edgar - remember to eat lunch at 3:00 because you are so grumpy - write paper - think about dinner somewhere around 7:00. This was pretty much my life. Intersperse that with doctors appointments, Oprah, random spurts of household chores, web browsing and phone calls and literally that was it. It was actually pretty challenging, truth be told, when I was on all of those medications. Once I was free of pain meds, the "routine" began to feel like a scam. My husband was out everyday making a living and I was writing about emotional intelligence and leadership development. I didn't feel like I was holding up my end of the bargain. Because I began to feel better in the late winter/early spring I thought about doing more, but by then we had landed the gig in Wisconsin. No point in looking for a job in Boston if you are going to move. Call it rationalization or just plain reality.

I'm one of those people who likes to be busy. I never did downtime very well. I don't fall asleep easily at night because I'm thinking too much. I structured my weekends with gardening or a weekly ritual of cleaning. When I had my appendicitis in 2004 I went back to work early because I was so bored. Most people look forward to time off; I volunteered for extra shifts. It wasn't until I dated my husband did I understand what downtime was. He was perfectly ok with meandering through a Sunday in his pajamas doing whatever struck his fancy. I was raised that if you were still in bed or your pj's at 10:00 AM, you were wasting the day. I type this now as I'm still in my pj's and it's 4:30. However, I did swiffer the floors, made mortgage decisions, and call for eye doctor appointments. Small victories here. Tiny, in fact.

Last night I realized how much I really don't like being alone with myself. I get pretty anxious and start to figure out ways I can fill up that unused time into productive activities I can cross off a to-do list. All of my structured unstructured time is a very good way of distracting myself. If I'm preoccupied I don't have to really figure out what is bothering me. There may be some dark stuff down there that I'm not really sure I want to face. I can just say I'm too busy. This week I'm doing an experiment of trying to fall asleep naturally and not put a lot of "shoulds" on my "to-do" list. I feel pretty guilty to tell you the truth.

Intellectually I put a lot of double binds on myself: damned if I do, damned if I don't. I should clean. I should pack. I shouldn't over-do it physically. I should be in tune with my body for knowing when I am on the verge of over-doing it. I should allow myself to relax and do nothing. I shouldn't feel guilty if I actually succeed at doing nothing. No matter what I do, or don't do, I have a solid reason/justification for beating myself up. I know its not healthy. I get it. It's a habit and I've got it down to perfection. I haven't used my journal in a while because I noticed that while I felt better after I got everything on paper, it all looked very negative from a birds eye view.

This month has a lot of unstructured time and a lot of things to do...in moderation. I'm not one for moderation either, but I need to learn how to embrace it. I learned how to tune out my body's signals at a very young age. As an athlete you push through the pain to move past the plateau. Do this for a number of years and you wind up with two knee surgeries by the time you are 17. I think I mentioned in a previous post that only once my back pain was gone did I notice how much pain I had been in. That's how out of tune I am. In order to be discharged I had to promise I wouldn't move any boxes and stop if I became fatigued. Became fatigued? How will I know that? I mean, seriously? This is the girl who can't figure out why she's so irritated, running into walls, and feeling fat every 3 weeks or so. Typically her husband has to remind her to go look at the calendar. It's not rocket science, its just endocrinology.

My game plan for this month is to try to learn how to give myself grace. But you know what will be difficult? Trying NOT to put that on a to-do list.

Graduation with High Honors in Attitude

2009-06-08T11:31:00.003-05:00

Last night I was fit to be tied. I'm not really certain exactly what this phrase means, but Ginny always used it when she was frustrated with something. I think I was beyond frustrated. I attended graduation.

Graduation speeches are usually filled with trite "inspirational" quotes they insert between personal anecdotes. There are usually popular authors that are used over and over again. For example: Marianne Williamson, Walt Whitman, Ghandi, etc.. Let me say it again: trite. Perhaps I'm a little cynical. After all, this is my 5th graduation if you count junior high to high school. Including that awkward junior high commencement, this was the worst. I can attribute many colliding factors into this ranking dead last in my personal experience:

1) It was run by psychologists. I have nothing against psychologists; after yesterday officially I am one, but that gives me a bit more of a leg to stand on with my argument. Let me dig my own grave a little deeper. In my professional past I have known psychologists to be a bit tedious, perseverating upon the smallest details and over-inflating their egos. I know one who threw a tantrum after he didn't get the office with a window. His logic was he was a doctor, NOT to be confused with a M.D. because that would be insulting - in his most humble opinion, of course. This logically outranked everyone else so he was entitled to the window office. By far they are the most egotistical and self unaware profession of the psychosocial field - in my most humble opinion, of course. So, you can imagine that given their natural tendencies to perseverate and be ego-centric, the program was all about them.

2) I'm not certain how the commencement speaker was selected, but she was terrible. I knew it was bad when I began plotting ways to insult her publicly after 40 minutes of her monologue. This woman was a nun who tangentially gave a historic timeline of how she saved the world post-Katrina in Louisiana. There was nothing mentioned about the various degrees being conferred. Nothing about how we can be the change we want to see. Nothing remotely in line with organizational psychology, school psychology, counseling, or PsyD. This woman actually credited all of the art therapists who came from CALIFORNIA. Multiple times. Hello? We are in MASSACHUSETTS. I was in the front row and didn't bother to hide my boredom, frustration, and lack of interest. I tapped my shoes, whispered to my classmate, stared/rolled my eyes/made exasperated faces at the President on the dais (who was also fidgeting with his robe and checking his watch), and began to slouch. (I know, super mature, right? Whatever, man, I'm on my way out!!) One of my classmates leaned over to me in the middle and whispered, "I'm not even excited to graduate anymore." How daft was this nun? There were small children in the audience waiting to see mom or dad graduate, pregnant women, and yes even some of the graduates got up from their seats to get water or go to the restroom in the middle of her speech only to return and find she was still rambling on about Renaissance Village in October of 2006. Annoyed? I'm beyond annoyed and when I get there I kind of get a steam roller attitude: flatten, survey the damage, and then evaluate if you want to apologize. The woman was, and perhaps still is, in my direct path of steam rolling. The "speech" lasted somewhere around 50 minutes. It's hard to be happy when you are raging.

3) Because the ceremony was over 2 hours long to graduate roughly 100 students, I was extremely embarrassed for my invited guests. How dare I waste a Sunday afternoon of theirs? One of my guests bought a new gizmo to videotape the graduation so my parents could watch the ceremony later. Ironically, it ran out of space just before we were announced and I went up on stage to receive my diploma and get hooded. There was no memento mori because of that stupid nun, the inefficient program organizer who perhaps neglected to give time limits in her directions, or the ego maniac speakers who disregarded the limits they may or may not have been given in the first place. I spent the reception basically apologizing to my guests and commiserating with other graduates. Several just left because they were running late. Even one of my professors left half way through because it was running so long and she had child care issues.

4) No alcohol at the reception. After that pain we should have had an open bar. I saw one person with a glass of wine and wondered if she had snuck over to the adjacent hotel bar.

5) It was held in a hotel ballroom. The whole academia mystique gets lost when you are not in some marble hall on campus, but in a conference center/wedding reception site/generic jejune room with folding walls. The academic snob comes out in me. When I was at Tulane it was a magnificent event. It was efficient (e.g. 1 hour), in a stately location (an estate building on campus), not held on a Sunday afternoon when rates were probably lower, and perhaps it was just more special because it was my first masters. I also gave a speech that year as president of the school. For the record: it was actually geared towards the audience and lasted only 10 minutes. This leads me to my next point.

6) The student speaker gave a speech that was equivocal to something I composed for my 6th grade Reflections competition. He used the schools acronym, MSPP, to elucidate what each letter stood for and meant to him personally. The large discordance occurred with the letter "M" standing for Multiculturalism. There were 3 Black students and only a handful of Latinos. Seriously? After that obvious glare I tuned out for the rest of his talk. It was a bit of a controversy that they selected a non-doctoral student to be the speaker this year. On a plus side, it was like living in a Sesame Street episode. Today's graduation was brought to you by the letters, M, S, and P.

There were a couple of highlights, don't get me wrong. My name was pronounced correctly. This is big because you could be surprised how many people get it wrong. Another plus was having my Boston family there. They sacrificed a weekend afternoon so the least we could do was treat them to some tapas in Waltham. Judy, my adopted Boston mom, was so excited about my accomplishment she brought roses, the new video camera, a card, and two books with very touching inscriptions. J has hood envy. Apparently he didn't get to keep his hood from medical school. I told him since I now have two we can share. In fact, I now have two robes as well so we could dress up as pseudo Harry Potter characters for next Halloween.

After it was all over, my anger shifted into something that resembled December 26th as a child. It was kind of like, "Really? That's it? I'm done? You seriously mean I don't have anymore text books, papers, team projects, class, nothing? Really?! Huh? So now what do I do?" As I began to spiral, J also began to sink. He started feeling guilty he didn't get the exact video or that a lot of his shots were blurry or that he was being a stealth paparazzi and took angled photos off from the side vs. going up the center aisle and being obvious. Don't worry, though! Judy had no problem marching up to take my photo with the president. When he asked if she was family it was all I could do but say, "Yup." Close enough. I couldn't manage two spiraling people so J went to bed early. That was smart. Me? I sat up for a while staring at my new diploma, putting my hood back on and trying to get Edgar to sit still while I took a photo of him wearing my graduation cap. It was just one more blurry shot.

Undercover Confidence

2009-06-03T16:36:00.004-05:00

So much has happened and yet there is little time to share everything, but for starters I'll give my readers a quick synopsis: caught up with an old friend who I haven't seen in 15 years, learned Edgar was a terrible play date, replaced ball that Edgar destroyed traumatizing friend's child, finished a paper my professor said was worth publishing, J got sick, we went to Milwaukee to find a house...in 3 days, put bids on house, learned lawyer+for sale by owner = no art of compromise, put bid on another house, won the house, I got sick, I went to my last class for school, I got even more sick, I landed in the doctors this afternoon, I used "rest and drink fluids" as an excuse to rent Twilight. Oh. My. God. I swoon for Robert Pattinson. How pathetic is that? Swoon, people, swoon.

After looking at that last paragraph, my husband would say I'm the queen of run on sentences. I can't disagree on this. I tried to pick up "Elements of Style" for some light and fun reading. It's not light and fun. It reminded me why I threw away my copy from 1986 from my Great Aunt Ada who was an English professor at UNC. Not exactly what a 11 year old likes to read. Not exactly what a 33 year old likes to read. However, I can't help but re-read all of my sentence structures in the past paragraph and cringe. I know I can do better.

All of this aside, I must share a very funny story. Our very last weekend-in-residence was an emotional one. I brought a box of tissue and by the time the weekend was over I only had 3 left. On Saturday each of us had to present their final project to the class. Several did some sort of self reflection. One peer mentioned that when she is in difficult situations, ones that require sweater sets or Ann Taylor suits and boardrooms, she carries around a little of *Sue*

with her. All of us looked particularly confused until she enlightened us with the story.

*Sue*, now a senior VP at a very reputable business, used to be a VP of a very stuffy old-boys-club, well established, international financial institution. When she knew she was going into a very difficult meeting or long boardroom discussion she would put on her sexiest pair of red lace panties and think to herself, "Yeah, you don't even know what's going on under this." Apparently she shared this story in confidence to our peer, who then went public with it during her presentation. *Sue* was the color of her now infamous panties...but, I felt worse for our professor - the only male in the class. Something else that made it even more funny? The Dean was sitting in on these presentations. (Yes, yes, I realize I'm now taking it a step further by putting it out into cyberspace, but names and situations have changed.)

It took a long time for our professor to compose himself to stop laughing. He tried to gain control back by stating, "Look, this is how we uncover our hidden talents." Well, that started us all off laughing again. Nothing like a Freudian slip, but he was determined. We gave him outs to break for lunch, etc, but nope, he was going to continue his agenda.

That evening we had a graduation party over at *Sue's* house. We invited the professors and my husband was the only honorary significant other who was welcomed. The team decided he almost was part of our team considering how he was carrying in my things for me, picking me up, and bantering with everyone in the autumn/winter with my stupid back problems. He also met us for drinks a few times. By the time we arrived, everyone had a few in them. Everyone was telling stories sitting out on the deck and enjoying the beautiful early summer evening.

As we were gearing up for dinner, our Dean stepped up wanting to recognize the class and professors. She passed out individual gifts to all of the students and said that she wanted us to have a significant reminder of all of the hard work, qualifications, and expertise we have learned in the past 10 months. With that we each opened our gift: red lace thong panties. From the Dean. I was now laughing so hard I was crying. I kept trying to explain this to my husband who just kept telling me he didn't want to know. One teammate actually modeled them over her jeans while several took photos. I kept thinking: uh oh, this is the problem with Facebook. Sure enough, the photos were posted within 15 minutes. In the land of Hahvard, I went back for my graduate degree in organizational psychology and I wound up with a pair of red lace panties from the Dean.

One thing's for certain: my whole class will be debuting their secret weapon of confidence underneath that graduation robe next Sunday afternoon.

The Cycle Continues

2009-05-10T11:58:00.004-05:00

Growing up with younger parents had its perks. For example, how many parents took their kids to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Oingo Boingo in concert? Mine did. Granted, Dad thought Flea jumping off of the feedback speakers in his stuffed animal head pants was a little off kilter, he still hung in there and can now actually claim to like some of their songs. Mom and Dad were 23 when they had me and 25 when they had my brother. They never listened to soft rock when it was their turn to carpool us to school and honestly I was quite proud of how hip they were.

As we got older, they kept up with the trends. One of my favorite memories was driving down to my National Honors Society dinner with my Dad and watching him turn up the volume to jam out to MC Hammer's You Can't Touch This. He also had a date night with Mom to go see 8 Mile and loved that rap theme song. Neil Diamond, Dan Fogerty, and others of similar genre were not allowed in our house. My parents had their own music "classic" influences, but The Beatles and Led Zeppelin were more likely to be found in our vinyl collection next to Peter Gabriel and Prince. I truly had hip parents.

Don't get me wrong, we had some bumps along the way. When I was in junior high my Mom went to the music store wanting to get the new "Michael George" album for me and "Moon Javi" for my brother. Thank God she has a marvelous sense of humor and retold the story of the confused clerk trying to decipher her "Momisms." Little did I know this phenomenon isn't just relegated to my Mom. Last night SNL ran a funny skit that had me literally laughing so hard I was crying. I couldn't wait to get up this morning and call my brother and my parents so I could email them the links.

I realize that the cycle is inevitable, especially since I will be a much older, further removed generation from my future kids. We don't even have kids now, but last weekend J asked about that new song by "Gabagooga." When I looked caught off guard he then began to sing, "Joker Face." Ah!!! You mean Lady GaGa and Poker Face. We don't even have kids and already the signs are there: we are getting old.

Awaiting a New Chapter

2009-05-09T14:12:00.003-05:00

I'll state it again: living out of cardboard boxes is overrated. Don't get me wrong; it's filled with adventure and possibilities, but after 4 moves in 3 years the process begins to wear on a gal. J and I knew Boston was most likely be a short lived chapter in our lives. We were guaranteed 12 months for fellowship and even when the chance of settling our roots here became available, we passed. Everything from cost of living to the commute outweighed the benefits such as living by the ocean and being in a culturally diverse liberal metropolis.

Somewhere around the end of June and beginning of July moving trucks will park outside our residence and Edgar will undertake his 3rd relocation road trip. This time we're moving to Milwaukee. I honestly didn't think we would return to the Midwest, but somehow the stars aligned just so.

Milwaukee is known for such things like Wayne's World's dialogue (thanks, J.B., for reminding me), Harley Davidson, Laverne and Shirley, the Fonz and Cunninghams, cheep beer, and unfortunately Jeffrey Dahmer. It also has some up's: Lake Michigan, the historic third ward district, good public schools, universities, tons of summer festivals, and unique neighborhoods. If we really need a good big city fix, Chicago is only 80 minutes away. My great grandfather actually attended Marquette University for medical/dental school. Back then, both professions spent the first two years of their education together before declaring their "speciality" of dentistry or medicine. Times have certainly changed. It will be kind of comforting knowing I'm returning to a place where I have distant roots.

Moving to the Midwest means that we'll be closer to Utah and to family, but it's not the same as being in the same neighborhood. There, of course, are pluses and minuses to this. This move will also be different due to my physical limitations. Last year I was packing like a mad woman and this year I'm recovering from back surgery. Although my pain is almost nil, everyone is truly worried I'm going to wreck havoc on my spine by lifting too much, twisting, leaning, etc. I suppose they do have a point as I'm not even 6 months out from surgery. It truly is aggravating to see the list of things to do get longer and feel so helpless about checking any items off of it. A lot of tasks can only be accomplished by my husband.

We've also begun a bucket list for Boston. What do we want to see and do before we leave? The list is composed of such items like: restaurants to visit, friends to see, and historical places of interest worth exploring. We had a similar list for Indy and we only were able to cross a couple off before we departed. Now we get a second chance to do the same process here. Hopefully we'll be much more successful with this new list.

What's also a bit up in the air is how long we will be in Milwaukee. Will it become the place we set up roots or just another stop over for a few years? That kind of limbo makes it a bit difficult to answer practical questions such as: do we rent or buy?, what about our rental in Utah?, what are we doing with the kid thing without being so close to family? Lots and lots of questions remain, but I suppose it wouldn't be life without them.

Physical Therapy: The Challenges of Counting and Compliance

2009-04-29T13:50:00.004-05:00

I've been going to physical therapy twice a week for the past 3 months. On average, each visit lasts about 2.5 hours. Yes, that is 2.5 hours. I've been through a lot of physical therapy over the years: knees at 16, 17, etc; back starting in 2007, and then this surgery. When I tell you I think these guys are the very best physical therapy team, I'm not kidding.

I typically go in the mornings when its a bit more quiet and there are fewer distractions. Most of my colleagues are well into retirement and are nursing fixed broken hips, replaced shoulders, total knee replacements, etc.. There are a lot of characters. Today I sat next to Chuck, a big African American guy with white hair and an AC/DC tee-shirt. He was doing his exercises while singing along to the radio: U2, Midnight Oil, and yes, even the B-52's. He even knew all the lyrics and did some solo air drums in between sets. I was amused.

When my physical therapist was stretching me out I started a new conversation thread asking him what the most difficult part of his job was. He said it was those patients that want to legislate the program he designs for them. For example, someone is referred because of hip and back pain but refuses to do the exercises because it hurts. Or, another extreme would be someone who keeps pestering him for new exercises, harder drills, or excessive sets. It was almost on cue when Pat showed up at the door.

Pat, a 65+ year old female with a thick Boston accent, came in on crutches and immediately began talking about the games last night. How if her hips were better she would have gone out to shoot the pitcher of the Red Sox because it was pitiful to see how he missed whatever x-y-z play. She then announced that she decided to not do the "clam shell" exercises at home yesterday because she was sore. Pete, my P.T., asked how she was sore and how many she did.

"Oh, abouht 75."

I couldn't help but bust out laughing in the middle of my painful hip flexor stretch. 75?!? Is this woman mad?

"Paht, we told you 3 sehts of 10. That shoulda been thirty. Where'd ya get this wicked idear of 75?"

"Wherz Woody? Woody! Cohm heahr a minute, would ya? You had me doin 25 last week."

Woody, another physical therapist, meanders over. "Yeah, I told you to do 30, as in 3 sets of 10."

Pat shrugged her shoulders and picked off some imaginary lint. "Well, you see I gotta whole systim figgred ouht. I gotta have somethin' ta do durhing tha commercials of that awful game, which I still woulda shot that pitchar if I could. But I do 3 sets of 25 on each side."

"Paht, that's not 75, that's 150 total. You see? And you wondah why youz still hearh since Nohvemba."

"Acutally I started in Octoba. See? That's what you know."

Patriot's Day

2009-04-21T17:28:00.005-05:00

We couldn't have asked for a better day. After spending the morning relaxing over coffee and conversation, J and I finally got out of the house. I have to say this is an amazing feat! Typically we talk about what we'd like to do for the weekend, but if we're still in our pj's at 4:00 you can pretty much bet our plans were defeated.

As our time here in Boston wears down, our interest in playing tourist at home goes dramatically up. On Saturday we actually made it to the battle in Concord. In case you didn't know (and really, who does when you aren't from here) the place where the American Revolution began is now a National Park. Minute Man National Historical Park was a mere 15 minutes away from our house and yes, we just barely got our butts in gear. Its even more surprising because during our caravan from Indy to New England, J and I would practically salivate every time we saw a sign for a National Park. Growing up in Utah will do that to a person: love for the National Parks seems genetically embedded.

As we briskly walked down battle road I realized I wore the wrong shoes. I wasn't in stilettos or flip flops, but I wore my standard Dansko clogs when I probably should have worn tennis shoes. The sound of gun fire drew us closer until we finally found a few tents housing the British soldiers. There was even a surgeon tent and he seemed to lack business but he wore the costume with gusto including an apron with fake blood on it. The rangers had us roped off and the crowds were busy. This particular battle lasted an hour, but we only saw about 30 minutes of it. The Brits played their part well lining up to be easy targets and then firing their muskets. And sure enough, the Minute Men in their colonial dress flanked the roads, came from behind, and closed them off. The cannon fire was very loud and I have to say that gunpowder is not one of my favorite scents. J informed me that since its illegal to bring firearms into National Parks, our US government paid and provided all of the gunpowder needed for this reenactment. This was the 113th reenactment. Apparently there was only one year that was missed and it was during WWI.

All was good and well until I realized two things: 1) No one was aiming at the other side but really just shot into the air, and 2) No one pretended to die or be wounded. With all of that gunfire one would think a few would play dead. I watched the crowd filled with families and boy scout troops. Little ones ran around in tri-cornered hats, like the colonists and had wooden muskets bought at the gift shop. The muskets were twice the size of the kids pretending to shoot the suckers. And others who didn't con mom and dad into buying a $22 piece of wood carved to be a gun, they were just using sticks on the ground. It was disturbing. Here was a perfectly good opportunity to show why guns are NOT play toys by showing the wounded and the dead, but nothing like that happened.

As the battle finished and the Brits retreated, the colonists yelled, "Huzzah!" to let us know the show was over. We wandered back to the British post where the mock soldiers picnicked on potato chips and sandwiches. We listened to the gruesome tales the surgeon told the kids about how they sawed off legs and fished around for veins with their tools for a bit. God help me, I can't believe I actually wanted to be a doctor at one point in time. The drums and piccolo began to signal the troops to assemble and their general announced:

"Great job, soldiers! You fought bravely. Now we're going to continue our journey to Boston. So we're going to get on a bus...um...whatever that is and head to Lexington! And for those of you who haven't had enough of the battle, we start again at 4:00. Three cheers to the King! Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!"

Sure enough both sides loaded up on the waiting school buses to head to their next mock battle. J and I took the opportunity to wander a bit around the historic houses. One thing that dawned on me is that they never yelled, "The British are coming!" Its kind of like a well, duh. EVERYONE was British at that time! So instead, what they really cried was, "The regulars were coming!" We read one historic marker about some dimwit house builder named Josiah. On the eve of Paul Revere's ride he opened the door and somehow, and I really mean SOMEHOW he missed the guy dressed in the red soldiers outfit because he asked if the soldiers were coming. He got knocked in the head by the soldier (call it Darwinism if you must) and died a few days later. I try to give him the benefit of the doubt: it was during the night, but the moon was 3/4 full according to history.

J and I drove around Concord where we stumbled across Louisa May Alcott's home and other historical sites only to return home exhausted. So the Mormons pull their handcarts through State Street, the Indy fans camp out on race day near the track with their RV's and cold Bud Light, the Mardi Gras folks drink daiquiris and flash for beads, and here they battle all paid by the US taxpayers where no one dies.

Local Traditions

2009-04-15T10:27:00.003-05:00

When I was counseling drug addicted teenagers I learned all about 4/20. Even though I was in a sorority in college I didn't have a clue what this was. It was anticipated that we would have runaways from the program every year on this day. Now that I'm living in Boston I realize this day has a different meaning.

Has anyone heard of Patriots day? Believe it or not, its a real holiday here. It's analogous to Mardi Gras in New Orleans or Pioneer Day in Utah: a real regional holiday. Businesses close to observe this day and over in Lexington there is a reenactment of the Minuteman's rise up against the British at some God awful hour in the morning on Saturday. I think I may actually struggle out of bed and in true local fashion head over to Dunkin' Donuts for coffee and a treat before heading to the battlefield. J thought of bringing Edgar, but I think gunfire might be a bit scary for him.

Before I lived here I was vaguely aware that the Boston marathon happened every spring, but I had no idea it was always on Patriots day. J's dad ran it once in the 80's. When he helped us move here he called somewhere along the turnpike and said that the marathon began out in Framingham or somewhere. All I know is it was out in the boonies. That's a long way to run. This year I have a friend who is running in the marathon. I hear it's a blast to find a place on Commonwealth Avenue to cheer on the runners. Perhaps I'll make it out to cheer her on just like a local.

Wildflowers, Schlitz, and Possibilities

2009-03-24T16:59:00.002-05:00

This month has been filled with trips...ok, well only 2. This is quite a different development considering I spent 4 months on my back in pain. The one visual I kept in my foresight was a spring trip to Austin. Visions of hanging with Ms. AP in the sun or visiting boutiques, enjoying REAL Mexican food with J, potentially renting a car to visit one of my bff's and her newborn in Houston, and showing off one of my favorite cities to my husband kept me focused on what was important through the pain.

Its been 10 years since another one of my bff's and he-who-shall-not-be-named rented a Geo and drove from New Orleans to Austin on spring break. It was kind of like National Lampoon's Vacation. We showed up to Six Flags in Houston only to find it was closed. We drove to Austin and spent one day hanging out by the University and hanging in awesome clubs only to retire early because we were tired. We then drove to NASA's command central near Houston to tour space shuttles, attempt a simulation of landing a shuttle (I totally was the best even though I still crashed the sucker), and find out how fast we could get a sunburn on other planets as well as our relative weight. One of my best memories was pulling over the car to frolic in the wild flowers on the side of the highway. We even took photos.

I doubt J and I will have photos of us frolicking in wild flowers on the side of the road, however I am hoping to capture his very first horseback ride on film. I can't believe my husband grew up in Utah and has never rode a horse in his whole 34 years on earth. The whole purpose of this trip is to "attend a conference." The conference is on death and dying. Not very uplifting, but I need the continuing education units and he has to attend so its a double tax ride off. Believe me, I'd rather be going to eat Texadelphia sandwiches and laying by the pool. But I should attend a few sessions if even just to network.

I haven't seen Ms. AP since 2006. My Ya Ya's mean the world to me and I am in serious withdrawal from their influence. All of them are strong willed, beautiful, professional, witty, and absolutely the most amazing women I know.

The first trip I took this month was to balmy Milwaukee in late February. I know, I know, hold back your jealousy that I visited the capital of old school breweries like Schlitz, Old Milwaukee, and Pabst. And, no, I did not see Laverne or Shirley or even the Fonz. However I did see a sausage making factory. I also visited some fabulous boutiques in the Third Ward District. The lake is beautiful and if I liked it this much in the dead of winter I'm guessing my appreciation will multiply in the spring, summer, and fall. Its a good thing because its on our radar of a potential relocation. Yes, relocation.

As J's fellowship winds down, the job hunt rev's up. I knew when I was dating him that I would be putting my career secondary...Milwaukee isn't the center for healthcare organizational consulting but it may be just the amazing experience for us. There are other locations on the radar as well like staying here in Boston. The one thing about limbo is that it can make you completely overwhelmed by the lack of anchors and yet it can be so inspiring as anything is possible.

Edgar's "Frienemy"

2009-02-21T08:15:00.004-05:00

It's a balmy 25 degrees here in Boston and yet I have all of my windows open. Why, oh why? Let's go back to last night.

After an evening of icky leftovers (go us being thrifty) J and I decided to watch an episode of "Scrubs." As he got the DVD ready I let Edgar out while I finished the dishes. I expected Edgar to be waiting for me at the back door but he wasn't there. As soon as I opened the door I heard scuffling in the bushes by the fence and frantically began to call his name. Sure enough he came running towards me shaking his head, grumbling/growling, and foaming at the mouth. It seriously smelled like he doused himself in paint solvent. Let the panic begin!

I yelled for my husband to come help because Edgar had been skunked. But then I smelled him. It didn't smell like skunk. It smelled like some volatile chemical compound. All things being common and me being uncommon, I began catastrophic thinking - or not thinking as the case may be. Racing thoughts of neighbors deliberately poisoning our dog (although everyone LOVES Edgar) ran through my head. Or perhaps our landlady (who also loves Edgar) left out some chemical solvent in the backyard even though she is not the handy type. I wanted to scoop Edgar up into my arms and rush him to the vet. By now I just knew he was poisoned and we needed to get him help to immediately induce vomiting. After all, he was foaming at the mouth so perhaps he ate something. As you can see, I am not the rational person in our marriage. Thank God I have J to balance me out.

J stopped me from embracing our paint solvent pet and offered to get a towel. He then wrapped our highly pissed off surrogate child into the towel and put him in the bathtub. I'm rushing around finding suitable clothes to rush Edgar to the vet. I had my purse out, keys ready, and was freaking out why J wasn't hurrying. Instead my husband was outside with a flashlight trying to find the source of this chemical nightmare. I began to rinse Edgar off, who was now trying to barf unsuccessfully. J came back inside and suggested the whole skunk idea. I'm checking Edgar's eyes, his gums, and his nose like a good ex-vet tech would. J also began to do a physical exam. Skunk, huh? Ok, but it still didn't smell like a skunk. The smell was stronger on his face than on his back. I've never seen gray squirrels until I moved back east - only brown ones - perhaps the skunks here are different too. I was set on going to the vet when J decided to call one of his best friends for advice who happens to be a vet...but he lives in Australia. It was mid-afternoon there, but he was probably doing something fun like sea kayaking and J did not leave an emergency message. We thought about calling his wife who is also a vet, but J pointed out they don't have skunks in Oz - where she is from - so she wouldn't have a clue.

I've only had one other skunked dog experience: Henry. I think I was in junior high when this happened. Our Scottie roamed free in the neighborhood because Dad didn't want to fence the new house he built up on the mountain. He thought it would be ascetically unsound. Henry found more trouble than he was looking for. Once he ate a whole turkey carcass after Thanksgiving he found in a neighbor's compost pile and I swear I've never seen a more bloated dog in my life. Then he got into a cactus. Dad duct taped his mouth shut so he wouldn't bite while Mom pulled out the spines with pliers. The whole time Henry was making noises like a wounded cow. That was highly traumatic to watch. And then he got skunked one night. Remember, Dad didn't want a fence so he certainly didn't want to stink up the house by bringing Henry in to get bathed. Like a good protector of the family domain, Dad slept in his comfy bed and had poor Mom sleep outside on the flimsy lounge chair with Henry chained to the deck rail. What kills me is that Mom never objected. We laugh about it now, but inside I've got issues. The next day I think we did the tomato juice routine with the hose outside and then the groomer. When Henry was put down, Mom insisted a fence was put in with locks before getting another dog. Dad acquiesced.

All I can say is thank God for the Internet. My rational side began to emerge and I sought out home remedies for the noxious pooch who is now looking like a drowned rat in the bathtub. I'd also like to give a shout out to "Mythbusters." J and I love this show because its all about putting science to crazy ideas. Things like will an airplane take off on a conveyor belt or will bullets go off in a stove (because people do stupid things like store their loaded guns in the oven) or are bulls really attracted to the color red? These are all fantastic questions and highly amusing to watch them try to debunk or confirm the myth. Sure enough they had conquered the skunk issue.

Ladies and gentlemen, always and I mean ALWAYS keep hydrogen peroxide in your house. Not only is it good for cuts and scrapes, but it is an essential part for de-skunking a dog. You will also need dish soap and baking soda. J carefully applied the solution to Edgar's skin and fur avoiding the eyes at all costs. Hydrogen peroxide can also cause blindness, FYI. It was a relatively smooth venture. I acted like a scrub nurse and J did the procedure. Edgar, our patient, was actually highly patient. We repeated this several times and it took us about 90 minutes. By now I'm also noticing that our house stunk. We opened windows, burned candles, and searched the Internet again. Edgar was freezing, but what are you going to do? His eyes were red, gums swollen, but he was breathing fine. The whole time this is happening J keeps asking me, "And you are sure you want to have kids?"

Females have a higher sense of smell than males so I was the designated sniffer to see if anymore skunk anal gland "perfume" remained. We did the best we could and while J dried him off a second time after passing my test for "good enough," I did laundry. It was midnight by the time we finished.

The smell lingered through the night, but I don't think it was from Edgar at that point. I slept terribly and Edgar kept having nightmares where he was crying/growling/running. Poor little guy. And to think he was probably just trying to make friends with the big black and white striped nocturnal "squirrel."

This morning I'm typing in gloves, wool sweater, and socks with slippers. I have bowls of vinegar set around the house, the shower curtains are being washed, and I have cinnamon in the oven. I've also hand washed the vacuum filter and am letting it dry before putting vacuum beads in and running it through the house.

It was another bonding adventure instead of our boring Friday night "date."

Swift Kick from Karma in the Keister

2009-02-03T17:55:00.003-05:00

I've gotta stop bragging prematurely or giving out advice like I know what in the hell I'm talking about. Remember that whole clutter jag I was rambling on and on and on about? Why didn't anyone tell me to shove that swifter duster into my mouth (or at least jam my keyboard with it)? My enthusiasm dwindled. My attention had to be diverted to another pressing project called doing my masters thesis.

Years ago I thought I had a hint of an idea worth exploring. And I did. A little bit. And then it got put on hold. But see I was just waiting for THE time to pull out my folder o' research and delve knee deep into it again. Years later and months into my masters I'm clavicle deep and there is no end in sight. See, now I've let others onto the idea and it has taken a life of its own. As one of my classmates put it ever so eloquently, "I've swallowed an elephant."

So while I would rather be dusting, boxing up books that no longer reflect who I want to become and tossing out things that literally are bogging me down, I'm instead re-reading titillating titles like, "Qualitative Research Methods for the Social Sciences." I seriously thought I would never ever have to use these books again. Oh, how wrong I was. And, lesson learned (again), never say never. I also said I would never follow some guy because I had my own career (then I fell ass over teakettle for someone). I said I would never move back east (where I am now a proud resident.) Any other lessons there Universe? No, you think I have my hands full? I wouldn't know because I can't see my hands as they're beneath my clavicle.

Clean Wisdom

2009-01-22T11:08:00.002-05:00

Well, Internet, its taken me some time but I'm finally beginning to attack all of the clutter. There are some rules of enlightenment I've been following that I thought I'd share.

1) Don't clear the clutter of your spouse/roommate/child/etc without their permission. Why? Because it will make your life hell. Hell. Not only that but it won't create the uplifted feeling you are going for. However, they may notice when you lead by example. On Tuesday I decided to start small and begin with the bathroom. I threw out old tubes of shaving cream 1/2 way empty and rusting in the cabinet, cleared the shelves, placed like-use items together, and left out only the essentials. I cleaned all surfaces of the gummy grime that was collecting and washed the windows. When J came home the first thing he said was, "Wow! It feels like a spa in here!" It took him a bit to realize why. The chaos was gone.

2) Put on fun music and bright clothes. Make it intentional the type of energy you are infusing into the area. Dance while you are putting things away or releasing them.

3) Follow 3 simple rules when deciding what to do with Aunt Betty's casserole dish or some God-awful painting you got for a bridal gift.

Does it lift my energy when I look at it or even think about it?
Do I absolutely love it?
Is it genuinely useful?

If your answer is a resounding yes to the first question and an equally resounding yes to the second or third question, keep it. If it doesn't, let it go. Another equally fantastic question is: Does it reflect who I am or want to become?

4) There is something to the bagua and its symbolism. For example, remember all of those boxes I have on the floor in the back bedroom? Yes, that really embarrassing photo I posted awhile back. All of those boxes are contents of previous jobs I have held. In them I have conference binders, books about clinical supervision, plaques given to me for awards or certifications. Guess where they are in my house bagua? My marriage and love sector. I've been unable to really move on from my identity with my past career positions. Gee, I wonder why? No wonder its hard for me to live in the present with my relationship or often think that there has to be a choice between career and marriage. It is the sector and project that I am the least looking forward to but only because of the emotions that are tied to it. Once I recognized that, the task became a bit easier in my mind.

5) Have you noticed that depressed people generally have a lot of clutter on the ground? Stuff weighs them down. Stacks of books, paperwork, things under the beds, etc. Move the stuff, change your mood.

24, My Style

2009-01-15T16:54:00.004-05:00

Well, its been....a day. A long, long 24 hours might I add. I expect it to grow longer, that's the worst part. For starters, take last night. J and I went on a date. A real live date where you get dressed up and put on your makeup while singing and dancing in the mirror. I had that much excitement. However, J looked like a train wreck when he walked through that door. I convinced him that dinner would be the high point and so we braved the 12 degree weather to scrape the car and venture to Waltham. There we were going to try a Zagat reviewed hot spot that featured French Cambodian cuisine. There was a tasting menu that couldn't be beat and the first 2 courses were amazing. However when we tasted each others main course I had severe regret I even put that bite into my mouth. There was some sort of flavor in his dish that was revolting. Literally. Yup, it was an expensive diet meal.

Cut to Act Two: me forgetting to call my professor this afternoon. I called 34 minutes late absolutely mortified and got an incredibly icy reception. Even after I apologized multiple times, it was clear I wasn't going to get tossed a bone. Nothin'. Hard to move into a mentoring/coaching role after that.

And yes, our beloved Act Three...I'm certain you are just dying to know. Edgar has been running low on food for awhile now and this morning we were scraping the bottom of the kibble bin unsuccessfully. In my infinite wisdom I decided it was smart to leave the house in 19 degree weather, drive to the place, hobble over the snow piles and ice to the store and then carry the 28 pound bag back over the snow and attempt to put it in the car without bending over. I'm happy to say I didn't fall, by the grace of God might I add. However I did leave the bag in the car for J to get out later. When I got to the front door, my frozen red fingers fumbled for the key in the lock, twisted it ever so slightly, and with a slight snap it broke off in the door. After calling the landlord I sat in the car waiting for a 21 year old kid with orange hair and baggy jeans to arrive. He tried to get the key out then attempted to pick the backdoor lock. 15 minutes late he said, "Well, its official. You are safe here. No one can pick this lock." When I asked how he got into the locksmith profession he told me I didn't want to know. I suppose it was a don't ask/don't tell policy. He finally drilled the core and put in a new lock. He explained that the problem was the deadbolt which was so old there aren't parts to fix it and the door is so thin they don't make hardware to re-fit it. Bottom line: expect to get locked out again. As I mentioned this to our landlord later that evening she told me she would put that higher on her to-do list.

Abundance

2009-01-13T11:23:00.002-05:00

I've been in a state of the I-Want's but what I realize is I need to be in the state of I-Have's. It is about appreciating what you have but also getting to the state of mind of abundance. There are small luxuries that I crave. Some are attainable, others are memories or goals.

A pedicure at Sorelle Spa in Salt Lake City
A facial at the Cliff Lodge at Snowbird
K. Hall Fig reed diffuser
A collection of the Barefoot Contessa's cookbooks
The bologense sauce at Mama Corolla's in Indy
Strolling the farmers markets with girlfriends
A lavender scented bubble bath
A novel I get so engrossed in that I stay up until 2 AM to finish it
Ah-ha moments of ingenious creativity
Clean sheets
The sound of the ocean
Organization
Fresh flowers
My Real Simple magazine and a cup of chai in front of the fire or outside on a warm summer day
Craniosacral therapy
A yoga class
River rafting the Colorado
Space mountain at Disney
The angel hair pasta at Harry's Bar in Los Angeles
Snorkeling at Shark's Cove
Skiing at Alta or Deer Valley
Any tarot, psychic, or astrological readings for insight and guidance
Snuggling with Edgar
Chatting on the phone with girlfriends
Williams Sonoma's winter forest candle
Pine Cone Hill's pajamas

Lemon Trees and Clutter

2009-01-09T12:27:00.006-05:00

It is an understatement to say that I have a penchant for cleaning. A clean house is better than a dip in a pool on a hot day or the smell of crisp mountain air for me. Wouldn't you know that I married a guy who has a propensity for clutter. I call this one of my *life lessons*. How to find balance between the two. The need to find order and clean on a weekly basis has been challenged even more so during the past 4 months with my physical limitations. Again, *life lesson*.

For years I have struggled in blending his hoarding and my purging. I've concluded that the behavior is fear based. (See? I've intellectualized it so I don't get the emotion of raging insane fury and pull my hair out.) His logic: What if we may need x-y-z someday? My logic: if we haven't used it in ___ amount of time, we don't need it and chances are we won't remember where we put it. During our first 6 months of marriage, J came home one day to find all of our clothes on the floor and me hanging them back up on nice wood hangers, color coordinated and sorted by article type. I resisted throwing out his Cosby sweaters although it was beyond tempting. When we moved last summer I also resisted throwing out his 90's rugby shirts, but I did get him to agree in giving 2, yes 2, ties away to goodwill. I even tried throwing out my own medical lab coats only to find them somehow in our front closet in Boston. When I inquired how they got there he said he was concerned about my name being embroidered and someone stealing them out of our garbage to impersonate me. Seriously this man thinks I'm that awesome that someone would want to pretend to be me and walk around a hospital giving out referrals to meals on wheels. He's a cute and dedicated husband.

On Wednesday we traveled to the surgeon for my 1 month check-up. I got a timid green light to "advance activities as tolerated." J, being his usual careful self, had the doctor emphasize the slow progression to prevent me from thinking I could vacuum, mop, and haul 30+ pounds of stuff around the house. Its been 2 days now and I have resisted the inclination of taking down that damn Christmas tree by myself and finally doing my seasonal recycling of my wardrobe. Its like an itch I can't scratch. Compound this with my premenstrual dose of crazy and ooh, golly, I'm a good time.

On a parallel track, one of my best girlfriends has (finally) launched a website exposing her talents as a master stylist. She is one who instinctively knows what are lasting trends, classic impressions, and soulful paths. Plus she can do this on an individual level or for your home. She even does this with feng shui. This year she made a pact with herself to stop giving away her brilliance for free. (I've linked it over on my faves.) Women have a tendency to underestimate their skill worth mostly because the bulk are intangible. How do you define your skill set? (Note: I did not say "your worth.") But, I'm getting off track.

I could handle the hoarding if it were selective and organized. For now what we have is a lot of clutter. (Yes, I am posting pictures so hold me accountable of cleaning them up. Motivation via embarrassment.) Piles of papers sit on desks next to computers that bit the dust first almost a year ago and then again in August. Bookshelves are jam packed with others lying on top of the vertical rows because there isn't any more space. Intuitively I KNOW it is bad feng shui. What do you do with so much stuff and no place to put it? I will totally admit that the majority of the stuff on the floor is stuff from my office...that is when I actually had a job. No job = no place to put it.

This is where the lemon tree comes in.

This morning I called Ms. AP about various things like the sudden termination of home health (yes, I was upset and had a small cry over it), mini diva's impending birth on Monday (go Stace!), her leadership of the daisy troop (Brownies for 5 year olds), and the luscious fragrance of lemon trees. We both agree that our favorite flower is the stargazer lily not only for their sturdy blooms and brilliant center hue, but the fragrance will perfume your whole house. My third favorite on the fragrance line is the tuberose. I was telling her about my second favorite flower scent is the lemon blossom by referencing my mom's that she diligently nurtures. Its an indoor tree and Utah isn't exactly known for their citrus so she hauls it outside on the front stoop in the summer and on warmer days spring and autumn. She gets rewarded with ambrosial flowers and one or two tiny lemons. I went on to say that I really wanted a lemon tree to call my own.

When I was younger the good Catholic family that I came from would have a recurring conversation called, "What do you want to be reincarnated as?" Mom and my bro would always say a bird, Dad would always point to the family dog, and I would say a lemon tree. I thought feeling the warmth of the sun and soft taps of the rain then giving pretty sunny fruit sounded like a good gig. Getting a lemon tree of my own will probably be the closest thing I can get to in this lifetime. I noticed that Williams Sonoma are selling them this winter for outrageous sums, but I was determined to get one. This was especially true once I heard that yellow is a perfect color for the center of your house as it represents the health section of your bagua and living things accentuate it. Good hell. What do I have to lose? Its not like my spine (aka "back bone" of my health) has been totally awesome these past few months. I then found a wholesale website that was having a sale. Hello? Serendipity? I then bought a couple of used books on amazon about de-cluttering your house, de-clutter your life. I think I may start with the 9 things like AP suggested come Monday when I'm out of school...

New Years

2008-12-31T19:27:00.002-05:00

It always seems arbitrary. That whole setting goals/resolutions/crap. It also seems pressured. The kiss at midnight, champagne celebration, big party scene. Well, I've been through a ton of these (ok, only 33 of them, but still). There are some that stand out as my favorites, and others I wished never had happened. Here are a few:

Best:
2002 Had dinner with my parents, dear friends from New Orleans, and my husband (although this was technically our first date). We met at my apartment in the avenues, drove to my parents house for dinner of prime rib, mashed potatoes, and Caesar salad. Then we went downtown to see my brother's band play at a fun bar. There J picked up most of the liquor tabs, he didn't drink to be the responsible driver, Kristina and I ended up on stage singing with my brother, and then J and I had our first real kiss at midnight. We went back to my apartment where my friends slept on a blow up bed in the adjacent room while J and I talked until dawn. He left the next day back to medical school. The rest is history.

Other fun times:
2000 Went to my friend, Kara's, house where she was a wonderful bartender of cosmos and other martinis. Sushi was ordered in. I met a really nice Scottish guy who later ended up becoming a boyfriend of one of my friends. I drove home and spent the countdown to midnight alone in my bathtub with a bubble bath of plumeria from San Francisco. I listened to the fireworks from downtown and savored choosing to be alone.
1980's Being up at the ranch with my cousins. We got a little cream de minthe from Pop. At midnight (or 10:00) we would take pans and bang them outside to welcome the new year. Then we would cuddle into bed.

Worst time:
1997 Travelled home from grad school. Went out to the old Green Street with sorority sisters and fraternity friends with a large cover charge. At the time I was just beginning to date he-who-shall-not-be-named and really wanted to give it a solid go (aka not do anything to jeapordize the potential of a future relationship). I met my ex who wasn't particularly smokin' hot, but we had a lot of chemistry. He wanted to hook up and I denied him. When I went home he called multiple times during the night cursing me. My parents had learned to move the phone to the office where they couldn't hear it, but I could.

This year J is barely making it home from work at 8:00 PM. We will be lucky if we make it til New Years. We will probably do something easy for dinner, drink some Veuve Cliquot, kiss and go to bed. I doubt we'll make it until midnight.

Life is so much easier without the pressure. I used to think it was just the pressure of being single, but it also exists when you are married. Price fixed meals at savory restaurants, first night buttons, fireworks, hot musical acts at bars with high cover charges...none of it is worth it. For me, New Years is about new beginnings, but on a smaller more comfortable scale.

My Christmas Gift

2008-12-29T12:17:00.002-05:00

Christmas came a day late for me this year. The thrill of anticipation, counting down days, and getting details set up just right for the expected visitor. My visitor was a 60-some year-old jolly man with white hair, fantastic hugs, obscene humor, occupation as a children's hospital chaplain, and my former bridesmaid. He and his wife were traveling on the East coast for Christmas visiting family when they decided to invest in the journey of traveling to Boston. They did so just for the sole purpose of seeing me. It was exquisite delight.

These two have become integral parts of my chosen family. Michael has guided me through terrible breakups, family drama, love drunkenness with my husband, and work mishaps. I advised him through marital issues, adult children antics, work challenges, and personal discovery. I didn't know if I liked him when I first met him almost 9 years ago. He was ambitious, happy, extroverted, and reflective. It only took me a few months to discover how similar we were. In many ways we mirrored our desired characteristics and our personal flaws. We navigated a very close friendship despite the 30 year difference. One of my favorite memories was during the rehearsal for my wedding Michael blurted out to the Priest, "Are we going to sing the song, 'I gave her a ring and she gave me the finger?'" While I thought my MIL was going to faint, while laughing I said a silent prayer of thanks that Michael and Father Stan were good friends.

When J would come into town we made a point of having dinner with Michael and his wife. We made dinner a few times and went over to their house as well. One thing was for certain: Scotch was always involved. The man was a connoisseur. He would host tastings by donning a kilt, educating the masses about regions of Scotland and the people who made each brand whilst describing the nose and the flavors left on stinging palates. This visit was no exception. Talisker 18 from the Isle of Skye flowed freely.

It was their 26th anniversary on December 26th and we were their invited guests for the celebration. I took an excruciating taxi ride downtown to the Union Club. They were staying in the 1863 establishment, originally designed to be a place of strategy during the Civil War. Its opulence and elegance was everything I could have imagined for it was on Boston Common, steps away from the Massachusetts State House. We talked and shared the liquid gold while J rushed from the hospital to meet us. A short walk to Winter Street and we entered Locke-Ober, a historic restaurant filled with dark mahogany corners, crystal stemware, brass railed bars, lush ruby carpet, and waiters in bow ties. We dined on Lobster Savannah, French white burgundy, bisque, and Caesar salad with fresh anchovies. Michael out did us all with the Baked Alaska. He also pocketed the cork to write down the occasion and date as a concrete reminder of great memories. Another shared quirk that was discovered. It was unseasonably warm for a Boston December night, but J offered Susan his coat for the walk back.

The following night I wanted to host them to dinner at our house. Its a tricky prospect given my recent surgery and unreasonable restrictions. But I was determined even if it meant defrosting soup my Mom made, throwing a salad together, but serving it with linen napkins by candlelight. It was our elegant invalid dinner party complete with a flannel pajama wearing hostess on pain killers and the others with colds. Susan was out for the count with her cold in full force, but Michael caught a ride with J after work. We finished off the small bottle of Talisker and opened a bottle of our collected wine selection (now we both have a cork). Alas the dinner ended early as we were all worried about Susan. I kept my tears in until the door shut as I do with all my good-byes.

Catch-up

2008-12-23T20:47:00.004-05:00

Y'all can stop holding your collective breath, holding candlelight vigils, and whatnot. I made it through the surgery just fine. I was just neglectful of posting the success on the blog. That is totally my bad.

The surgery itself was uneventful with the small exception of it taking a bit longer than expected as the herniation was bigger than what my surgeon expected. I spent 2.5 hours in the OR and 2.5 hours in PACU. They gave me dose after dose of meds and my pain was still awful. I've learned to accept that I'll never be pain free so on a scale of 1-10, a good old fashioned 5 is quite manageable. I asked to be put on the floor of my original admission, but was denied the request and got put on the surgical unit. There the nurses were habitually late with pain meds requested 30-45 minutes ago. The aides never identified who they were and their, "Can I help you," had the tone of an impatient teenager. My 2 days there felt like an eternity.

During my 2 day stay there were eventful things happening outside of my realm. For one, Mom somehow got lost on the Mass Pike. I find this extremely interesting because the hospital isn't even near an on-ramp. She called lost and was giving me unfamiliar street names asking how to get home. Because I was in the hospital my signal was weak and my GPS never did find the network. I was quite the site standing by the window (for a better signal) tethered to the IV pole, cursing my phone and becoming anxious about my Mom, and an open gown in the back, when my nurse came in. I gave up and hobbled back to bed. She finally found a fire station and went in to ask the nice men how to get home. She made it and then poured herself a large pineapple and vodka, easy on the juice. Its kind of like how chips are just a mere vehicle for salsa to land in my mouth. You go for the good stuff. Hell, I could have used a cocktail at that point too.

Another choice event was my home health nurse calling the physicians assistant and telling him what the orders should be for my pain. Good times there. Upon discharge, I was handed two scripts for pain meds along with a laundry list of things I cannot do for 2 months. 2 months. I have to say it again because it blows my mind: 2 months. No lifting anything over 4 pounds, no twisting, no torquing, no bending forward (they even drew me a diagram with stick figures showing what this looks like...because apparently I am daft), no driving, no household chores, no cooking, no laundry, no baths, no walking Edgar (as he pulls). etc.

Mom and I ventured to the pharmacy only to be told that they couldn't fill the oxycontin right now. They had to wait 24 hours. Are you freakin kidding me?!? My anger wasn't directed at the pharmacists, but at that stupid nurse who discharged me and my doc who wrote the script in the first place. I called the nurse and played lawyer. It didn't get me far but I felt better pointing out that she knew of a hospital policy of faxing the script a day in advance of the discharge, but didn't follow it. Humph. So there. Thank God for my bossy home health nurse. I called her as a desperate crying patient looking for help. She somehow talked another pharmacy into filling the script regardless of the guidelines. God bless the Lucy's in this Charlie Brown world.

The days blur together. Things I think happened actually never took place. And things that were real get mistaken for dreams. Mom was awesome making meals, doing laundry, making homemade candy (as is the tradition of the Temple legacy at Christmas), walking Edgar, and the best part is she washed the floors. This seriously was one of my top wishes on my Christmas list and it came true!!! However all good things come to an end like the last piece of sweet almond roca or the last drizzle of (also sweet) boxed wine and Mom went off to the airport. I think she was happy to return back home. "Are you sure you don't want to reschedule now and go tomorrow when the conditions are better?" We'd ask looking at the weather reports of heavy snow. "Oh, no. I'm certain its fine," she said carrying a bag bigger than she was out the door. Sure enough her flight was canceled, but she got re-booked on another one 2 or so hours later, waited on standby in Minneapolis, and took a taxi home at midnight from Salt Lake International.

Mom and J even got Christmas up while she was in town. It took 4 nights but who's counting, right? I am just so grateful that on the one Christmas without family we had a tree with lights all a glow and sparkling lights. They tried the first night, but I looked up the store hours only to find that it closed an hour before so they made the best of it and went to Costco. The second night it was race against the clock to get the tree, wreath, eggnog, and some cranberries to boot. J decided to saw the tree for better water uptake and began to drill the hole into the bottom when the electric drill lost power and he almost melted into a puddle of frustrated tears. The third night everyone was too tired so the tree just looked awfully pretty leaning up against the outside of our house. The fourth night we spiked the eggnog and the tasks were completed! The tree was a leaning spectacle of glory and J was ambitious enough to begin stringing the garlands (not my idea) when by garland #2, his frustration levels were maxed and now we (still) have a hanging garland draped from the ceiling over the TV, down by the candles, and onto the floor. That was over a week ago.

There was some miscommunication about the stockings. Ginny made my stocking for my first Christmas. It has a narrow patchwork front with my name and year of birth on the front and a red velvet backing. Its hung on the mantle every year and J got his own, also with his name embroidered, the first year of our marriage. I thought Mom was going to bring them, she decided to leave them home. I wondered if it was because my Dad was afraid he'd never get them back. Both he and Mom got theirs from Ginny after they married. In the dilemma of the missing stockings, Mom suggested we hang festive pillowcases. Pillowcases. I decided to embroider them. Its no pottery barn, but that class Mom made me go to after school when I was 6 paid off. J's looked like a lot of love went into it, something perhaps a 10 year old would do. They hung next to the fallen garland.

On Christmas Eve, we were invited up to our landlord's house (upstairs) for dinner with her family. I was excited, RSVP'd, and asked what we could bring. The dream was fun while it lasted until Jon reminded me that I'm not able to do stairs yet and my physical therapist agreed. The fear of me falling and wrecking my back caused me to cancel. She vowed to bring food down and said she felt so bad for me, but she understood. J came home that night in a puddle of goo. Some sort of virus was making merry in his sinuses and we settled on soup and bread for dinner. It wasn't the festive madness that Christmas Eve typically is for us. Usually we try to hit 2 to 3 family houses on Christmas Eve night. The best one we always look forward to is my dad's side of the family. Its low key, but high fun. Everyone still exchanges small gifts and its usually the dogs who make out like bandits. Treats, toys, etc. By report of my mom, this year was no exception and it was a blast.

I set my alarm for early Christmas morning. Even though I'm not supposed to cook (lifting and torquing issues), I had prepared a brunch casserole and wanted to give J a festive breakfast before he went off to see patients. Problem is, I slept through my alarms...3 of them apparently. J didn't. He got up and wasn't quiet about things (I heard the oven door slam in one of my dreams), but he got it in the oven. I woke from my slumber about an hour later. I could smell the eggs. A 30 minute casserole had been cooking for double the time. However, it was still edible. We both hoped for an early day which probably jinxed it. Poor J didn't come home until about 9:00. We opened presents and had a glass of wine. We talked to our parents and finally decided to do something for dinner. Hours before, I had made a Merlot reduction sauce (again, not supposed to cook and have a 2 -4 pound weight limit for lifting), and attempted salad dressing (harder than it looks with the shaking/whisking), and literally tossed potatoes into the oven for baking (can't bend forward). All of these were terrible ideas brought on by my compulsive need to make things special for Christmas. By 10:30, the steaks were mediocre (mine was awful), the potatoes were hard, and we decided a complicated salad would be too difficult but a handful of spinach would do just fine.

Usually I get the let-down feeling after Christmas just because of all of the activity is over. This year I just feel relief.

Red Light, Green Light

2008-12-09T18:15:00.006-05:00

When I was little I never understood the game, "red light, green light." The person in charge knows that they will be tagged and really it is to their advantage to just keep everyone on "red light." As an adult I still don't get it and yet somehow I keep playing the game.

After the big scare of an emergent admission Thanksgiving weekend, J sent out an email on Friday asking his attendings and program directors who they would seek out for a second opinion. Within hours the head of trauma spine surgery at one of the big teaching hospitals wrote he would be happy to see me on Monday in between surgeries. GREEN LIGHT. Talk about fast results.

On Monday J managed to get a block of time free to come with me to this appointment. For a doc, he spent a considerable amount of time explaining the mechanics of the back, what the surgery would do, and a few options in where to go from here. His pager went off numerous times and yet he didn't answer them. I was impressed eventhough he spoke doctor-speak most of the time and did most of the consulting with my husband. Hellloooo? I'm the patient? Right? When we pressed what he would do, his reply was: "If it were me, I'd have the surgery. (GREEN LIGHT) But if it was my wife, I'd have her do a nerve block." RED LIGHT Before I knew it, I had an appointment for a nerve block for later in the month. GREEN LIGHT

I told my home health team what happened and my pain nurse pointed out I already had 2 nerve blocks already. Why would I need a third? RED LIGHT They suggested I call my doc to see when surgery could be scheduled. The "biddys" as I like to call them, are the gatekeepers of the neurosurgeons office. The two older ladies are cordial to patients on the phone, but if you are sitting in the waiting room you hear them talk bad about whoever just called: "Whatever Mr. Wilson, like you will ever get another prescription refil,." or "Yeah sure Mrs. Montgomery, I'll jump right on it," as they crumple up the memo note. My faith was low, especially after one of the biddys told me that they were booked through the holiday season, but she'd talk with my neurosurgeon and call me back. BIG TIME RED LIGHT

When I didn't hear back from them in days and days my pain nurse joined forces with my primary care doc. They told me the plan was to just show up in the ER with a bag and be admitted. That way I would be forced onto the schedule. GREEN LIGHT Logical, right? Well, thank God I know the medical system because I know it doesn't work that way. I called my primary care directly to ask whose service I was going to be admitted to (hospitalist, neurosurgeon, ward team, her private patients) and why would I go to the ER vs. admitting? She paused. RED LIGHT. I suggested she do a doc to doc phone call and see if that would move things forward without me hanging out in the ER for 9 hours while they played "hot potato" with my care.

In the meantime, I thought I would let my school advisor know what was going on so we could figure out what to do about the upcoming weekend-in-residence. I got an email from my professor and the program director to "just take care of myself and we'll worry about school after." GREEN LIGHT

I heard back from one of the biddys within hours of the doc-to-doc and sure enough, my surgery had been scheduled. GREEN LIGHT It was scheduled for 12/11...the same week J was on vacation and booked to go to Utah. RED LIGHT He hasn't been home in almost a year and we decided almost two months ago that he should take advantage of the time off and go alone. I couldn't sit for 5+ hours on the plane. I asked, cautiously, if the surgery could be moved to the following week. It was a risky move as it seemed highly greedy of me. It felt like, 'Hey, can you rearrange the world just to put me onto the surgery schedule, but then can you also do it on my terms?' It was met with a resounding No. Ok, surgery on the 11th it is! GREEN LIGHT

Back in October after my original hospitalization, Mom offered to come out to help me the week after my surgery if one was needed. There was a condition: I kept down. I was hoping to see if she would be willing to extend the time and cover the surgery day and 1-2 days in the hospital. I even offered to buy her plane ticket for her. I'm telling you, this woman is a saint. She is currently on her way for a 10 day stay with yours truly.

J had another huge decision and it had the theme song of The Clash's, "Should I Stay or Should I Go." The man was angry he was forced into this decision, but I decided to isolate my real need first. I needed someone here with me who loved and cared for me greatly. Someone I could trust. Both my husband and my mom were solid choices. Once I got my needs met, he could decide what felt best to him.

When I tell you that he still hadn't made his decision until 3:00 AM and his supposed flight's scheduled departure was at 6:00 AM, I'm not kidding. That isn't an exagguration. The stress of it all left me with a little case of the sniffles, which I'm not labeling a "cold." We processed this decision for over a week with high intensity. He hasn't seen his mom, sister, or grandparents in over a year. As I lost both of my remaining living grandparents this year I completely understood the draw and pull of seeing them. BIG time. My grief probably got in the way and pushed the point of the importance of connecting with them. But, then again his wife is having surgery. His wife. Spinal nerve surgery. Then you layer all of society's conventions, otherwise known as "the shoulds," on top of the decision and what you end up with is just a plain big emotionally laden mess. I finally started packing for him at 11:00 last night. That way the man could do it his way and make the decision the very last possible minute but at least I knew he had things like socks, Christmas gifts for his family members, and his cell phone charger.

Even this morning as he was sitting on the plane he called to ask if we made the right decision. Mom and J will cross paths today in the skies. Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow at 12:20 and I'll be staying in the hospital for at least one night, maybe two. GREEN LIGHT

Too Many Cooks

2008-11-28T16:01:00.002-05:00

I figured this was an appropriate title of a blog entry the day after Thanksgiving even though the subject matter will have nothing to do with drumsticks, lumpy gravy, or green bean casserole. Hang with me. You'll see.

In Utah or Indy, it was pretty easy to know who were the medical experts in the field. I'm not putting either location down. It was just easier to identify. Although there were several hospitals, you knew where to go for cancer, eyes, orthopedics, etc. Now that we live in the medical mecca, there are just too many choices. Everyone is an expert and everyone has an opinion.

Last week I had a follow up appointment with my neurosurgeon. He looked at my films, did another exam and remarked that he strongly suggested I mull things over with my husband and consider surgery. Herniated discs typically resolve on their own within 6 weeks so so. I'm on week 9 and still there hasn't been much relief. I decided to schedule a second opinion at the multiple suggestions of my pain nurse practitioner and my therapist.

"Oh no, you definitely want to go to the Baptist. Lemme put it this way: one does not go to the local community hospital for spine surgery. You want to go where the sheiks of the middle east travel for orthopedics. You want the best when working on your spinal column." Proclaimed my therapist, obviously not doing the traditional non-directive, reflective work that I consider good psychotherapy.

My pain nurse worked there for 12 years and put in a few phone calls to get me prioritized on the list. Upon requesting a prior authorization from my primary care, she called and left me some rambling message about staying with my neurosurgeon as he has been excellent with my care and has not been quick to cut.

Last Tuesday I went in for my 4th round of spinal injections. The prior weekend I was beginning to notice other problems.

"Hey, would you hold my right foot? It feels cold." I said to my husband one night while sprawled out on the couch.

"Just your right foot?"

"Yes, it feels colder than my left. Is it colder?"

"No. Let me ask you this: why would your right foot be colder than your left? Is it really colder or are you just perceiving it to be cold?"

Sometimes its helpful to have a logical doctor type in the house. Another symptom has emerged and it isn't a good one. When I mentioned this to my neurosurgeon on Tuesday along with the increase of pain his response was to emergently admit me to the hospital and do the surgery the day before Thanksgiving. Well, I panicked and said no. Flashbacks of my knee surgery flooded my brain where I went through a similar situation. Instead he wrote me a prescription for narcotics and said to call the next day and get the surgery scheduled. After the injections he watched me carefully and asked if I was going to pass out on him again. Even the nurses remarked, "Hey! Its the fainting girl!" when I checked into the cath lab. Good times there.
I managed to stay upright and left the hospital in a cab while talking on the phone to my husband.

"Excuse me, miss, but I couldn't help but hearing you had some distressing news." Said the cab driver. "I realize its not my business and you didn't ask my opinion but I too have had back issues. You don't want to get the surgery there. No, let me give you the name of my surgeon. He is short on the bedside manners but he knows how to wield a knife."

The following day I went outside to take the recycling out when I ran into two of my neighbors.

"How's the back?"

"Yeah, I heard about your back. Is it better?"

"Oh, she had a walker and everything but I notice you aren't using it anymore."

"A walker? No kidding?"

Notice I haven't had a chance to get a word in edgewise.

"Have you done the injections? My niece had those injections and it helped."

"Yes, I've had 4 rounds and it still isn't better. My doctor thinks I should go to surgery." I said.

"Surgery? My God, well you know who you should see is Dr. so-and-so at the Brigham."

"Or, I could give you my doctor's name at the General."

"You know in Indy we knew who to see but living here in Medical Mecca, everyone has an opinion. I even got a suggestion from the cab driver yesterday."

"Oh, is that why he was outside of your house yesterday for such a long time?" Good God, I'm beginning to think that this one neighbor is the sole neighborhood watch.

Seeking clarification I called my primary care for her thoughts. After all, she was from here, did her residency here and was in the medical community. She gave her input that I should only see a neurosurgeon, not an orthopedist, even though the surgery was essentially the same. She also said I should just stay with the doc I was with as he had an amazing reputation despite his practice residing at the community hospital. Chances are, I would be guaranteed he would be doing the surgery not some resident. That was a huge benefit. I felt like my mind had been made up.

That night my husband came home with more options. He had reached out to his program directors and attendings. They all had suggestions and offered to pull rank if needed to get me a consultation. They also agreed that time is of the essence as there is also a window of time that the surgery needs to happen before my nerves re-wire and think that this level of pain and sensation is the new normal. That deadline is 12 weeks on average. I didn't realize it, but my window is closing quicker than I thought. We decided to send the docs emails but aren't holding our breath.

I think its pretty safe to say that I'm on my way to the operating table. This Christmas could very realistically be: Ho, Ho, Ho, off to surgery you go!

Dr. Teeth

2008-11-14T08:15:00.002-05:00

I have spent years of my life living in different states across this Nation. And while I think nothing of it to get a new primary care doctor when I move and establish care, I have always kept my same dentist back in Salt Lake. Why not? You only see them 2x a year and quite frankly, that's pretty easy to schedule in when you routinely go home to see family. My husband has the same mind frame I do, although we keep different dentists. "Routinely" has turned into "annually" in the past couple of years which sucks.

I've only had 2 dentists in my life. The first was Dr. Simonsen who talked about being a big helper and "mister toothy" and inevitably you got a prize at the end of the visit. I went to him (as well as my pediatrician) until I graduated college and was forced out of the practice. It made sense as I hung off of the exam chair that was made for pint sized people.

I tried one adult dentist who was on my plan when I paid out of pocket for insurance and was horrified that they, a) actually scraped my teeth, and b) never offered me fluoride to rinse with at the end. Horrified. To the point that I didn't consider him to be a real dentist. I wrote letters to both the dentist and the insurance plan about the sub par care I received. Dr. Simonsen never did either of those! Little did I know, that was adult dentistry.

So, I joined the rest of my maternal and paternal grandparents, parents, and other relatives into the practice of Dr. Sorbonne. It was comforting to have such a geeky guy with a squeaky clean image peering into my mouth. My hygienist was usually pregnant regardless of when you saw her and had a brood at home. She was happy, giggly, and could talk non-stop. This took the edge off of her ruthless flossing.

Typically our moms call the dentists the minute our plane tickets are booked for a trip home in hopes of a cancellation. I was fortunate enough to see my dentist last November when I took Edgar home before flying to Australia. When Ginny died around the 4th of July this year, I wasn't so lucky. However, I did see "The Jerry" and haven't cut or highlighted my hair since. Pathetic, I know. At any rate, J's dentist has been known to do special appointments like the morning of Christmas Eve just for J if that is the only time schedules will allow. However, last year nothing worked and as a result he hasn't seen a dentist in (gasp) 2 years. All of this gets compounded by my stupid back. I still can't sit so although J's vacation is in a few short weeks in the middle of December, the reality of me sitting on an airplane for 5 hours is impossible.

Believe it or not, we had foresight before all of this and in fact, J started asking his colleagues and mentors about dentists in the area about the time we moved here. One came highly recommended and he called. The wait time was 3 1/2 months out. I'm not kidding. But, he scheduled and finally I did too. After favorable reviews from my husband I was looking forward to going. How I was going to sit in that damn chair was beyond me, but I certainly knew that in this town rescheduling is NOT an option.

Luckily for me, the staff were considerate of the fact and I spent most of my 2+ hour reclining. I was escorted back through the busy office, offered a magazine, and the purple bib was clipped around my neck. Things seem really normal. Typical family photos line the wall so I can tell he has 2 daughters and 2 grand kids. Well, in walks my new dentist. Imagine Patrick Dempsey with salt and pepper wavy hair, looking appropriately messy, and it is quite obvious in his scrubs that he works out. Of course, he has a killer smile. He introduces himself to me.

"Ok, lets get this party started!" He says sitting down on the rolling stool and immediately turns on Jimi Hendrix. I'm not kidding.

The guy is doing things that I have never had a dentist do before like take measurements of my teeth, my bite, and my gum line. I finally ask what he's doing.

"Well, I'm pretty anal I guess, so I do this with every patient. But lets say you are in a car accident, God forbid. I can completely reconstruct your teeth to where they were. For example I know that your overbite is exactly 3 millimeters over your bottom teeth. Your mid line is perfect, and your gums are 2 to 3 millimeters, which is awesome. Any more than that and we know there's a problem." By now Jimi is over and on pops the Grateful Dead. "Bet you never had a dentist who liked to rock out to Hendrix while you were in the chair."

I couldn't answer him as he now was holding my tongue with gauze and examining the floor of my mouth. Again, a first for me. The guy even palpated my salivary glands and examined my jaw movement.

"Guess I'm just stuck in the 60's." I have to say it was a lot better than listening to the elevator music I was used to in dentists offices or the inappropriate Christmas station blaring in the waiting room. Its not even Thanksgiving yet, people! Come on!

He even gave me the name of his back surgeon in the area and spent a considerable time talking to me about his own back adventures. Turns out he also had the L5/S1 mess and hasn't had a problem since the surgery in '84. He also talked about how he loves dentistry, but hates being late which he apparently is due to how he's crammed back to back with patients. The guy was personable. Someone you'd like to go have a beer with.

The rest of the visit went according to plan. The hygienist cleaned and polished my teeth. She flossed (gently) and gave me a toothbrush. I even got molds for a new night guard so I don't keep mashing and grinding away my little to no enamel I have left on my molars. (J thinks is oh so sexy with my night guard, by the way. Ha ha.) I shattered 3 of them in my life. While I was sleeping and they were in my mouth. Not kidding. Its gotten better with me not working though.

Besides the psychedelic rock, the rippling hair, and the minuscule measurements of my teeth, the only other thing that struck me was the sticker shock of my bite guard. I remember my parents talking to me about how expensive orthodontics were, but holy cow. Maybe its just the town I live in or perhaps I've been in the dark ages for so long, but I wasn't expecting it to cost the same amount of a pedigree Scottie puppy with papers and genetic testing. Not kidding. Thank God they do payment plans.

At least I didn't get a parking ticket on a two hour meter when I only had enough change for one hour and I was there closer to three. That was a major bonus.

Traffic

2008-11-08T09:07:00.003-05:00

As a landlord, I can completely appreciate the availability of my tenants to give access to such people like electricians, handymen, plumbers, and the like to solve whatever problem may be occurring at said residence. As a tenant, I get the inconvenience just to get things fixed. "Could you be home between the hours of 8-4? We'll fit you in." Gee, let me just take a day of paid time off to do this, no problem. Knock on wood, my house has been in great shape with really responsible tenants whom I wish would live there forever and ever and ever until I want to come back. However, I digress. I just had to get that little magical thinking/superstition thing out of the way.

I believe my landlord is quite grateful I've been laid up. I can give 24/7 access to the house and it is not a true inconvenience for me whatsoever...I mean not in the traditional sense. This week has been a zoo.

First, we had the oil dudes show up. Now, I had never in my entire life heard of actual oil STILL being used to heat houses until I moved here. It was like someone telling me that they use the back fat of a pig or whale to heat the house. I suppose I thought that the method went extinct somewhere when the EPA was created. Not so much. Just move to the East where all things historical reign. I could almost charge admission to families visiting the area and show them the large oil tank in my basement and the 5x6 bright red oil shut off valve in my kitchen. They could make the stop after visiting Paul Revere's house. The problem with my money making scheme, its not so novel around these parts. Just about every house in the neighborhood has oil tanks and there is free enterprise among oil providing companies in the area. Its not like the electric company where you only have one choice. Good hell.

So, the oil dudes show up. They are trying to figure out the leak in our bathroom radiator. I, myself, would have called a plumber to do this, but my landlord assured me these were the right guys to call. At 5:00 on Wednesday some burly dude with a handlebar mustache and a wrench large enough to clobber Col. Mustard in the library, rings my doorbell. There were no introductions made or identification shown. Just a: "I'm here about a problem." For all I know he was the singing barbershop quartet hit man, but I let him into my house like a stupid trusting soul and showed him to my bathroom. It took maybe 5 minutes for him to work his magic and he was out the door. Edgar didn't even get a chance to smell the dude. He did let me know there was a small flood in the basement, to which I said I would let my landlord know.

I don't do stairs well these days, but I decided that I should venture down the rickety timbers to check it out. And, well, since I was going down there I may as well throw a load of laundry in at the same time. Down I go to find that yes, there were some small standing puddles of water and damp concrete, but it didn't stop me from throwing my load of towels into the washer. I did curse my overestimation of my abilities as I hobbled back up the stairs one at a time.

Later that night I let my landlord know who looked discouraged and exhausted from a long days work. It seems a lot longer now because of daylight savings and it gets dark at 4:00. What the hell? I have reached the conclusion that just about everyone in New England must have Seasonal Affective Disorder. How could you not thinking that you are a slave to your company working until dark every night not seeing the light of day? To add to my vision I like to think that the cafeteria at work only serves gruel. She also mentioned the fire marshal is going to stop by as well on Friday.

Sure enough bright and early two very good looking gentlemen in tight tee shirts with "Watertown Fire" embroidered across their chests ring my doorbell Friday morning. Edgar is going nuts and I'm regretting my post-wake up wardrobe selection of a Rush Pike '94 tee shirt, flannel pj bottoms, and hospital socks.

"Oh hey, lil doggie. Weez here about checkin tha fuhrnace fourh fiah code." The first guy said in perfect South Boston drawl.

"Ok, sure, come on in." Once again letting strangers into the house. Edgar is rooing and standing firmly behind me like a fierce protector. "Don't mind him. He's all talk."

The two guys follow me into my very messy house to the basement door. Again, 5 minutes later they emerge to have Edgar still grumbling and pacing.

"Hey, remembah tha one cohl abou' tha' dawhg?" The first guy says to the other and they both start to laugh. "Yeah, it waz so funny. Ourh captain reached dohwn to pet it and it bit him in tha crawtch."

Both are wiping their eyes with laughter in the middle of my kitchen that looks like a tornado hit it.

"Yeah, he had ta goh get a tentus shaut an' everythingh."

"Hey, yous not from ahround hereh, are ya?" The second guy says after regaining his composure. I wasn't aware we were having a chit chat visit and began to wonder if there were kittens in trees these guys had to go rescue or something.

"No, I'm originally from the West. We just moved here a couple of months ago."

"Whll, hey! Welcome to tha neighbahood. Its really nice hereh. Its just yous an' yah huzband?" He looked at my left hand. Well, that was a good sign I thought. Maybe he was checking me out, all bed-head, morning breath, and all. (At least this is what I'm telling myself to boost my ego.)

"Yup, and Edgar." I gesture to my black mop of a dog who is still protesting these strange men in his house.

"Ehdgah. What a ghreat name. Like tha poet? I'z read a lot a him in college. Mahjohd in English lit." Oh good God, the fireman is a scholar. I was expecting him to launch into "The Raven," at any minute.

"No, no, he just looked like an Edgar."

"Hey, youh gettin caught up on tha Sopranos?" Motioning to the tv, paused on Uncle Junior's face.

"Yeah, yeah, I should be studying." It was only at this moment did I notice the bright red huge firetruck parked outside my house. How I missed this earlier I'll never know.

"Noh kiddin? What cha studyin'?" The guy picked up one of my text books.

"Getting my masters in organizational development and psychology."

"Wow. Good luck tuh yah then." He puts it back down on the table. I'm beginning to wonder how busy this department really is as they took the one fire truck from the station leaving the rest of the crew just to go check a furnace and if perhaps I should offer them tea for our visit since it doesn't seem to end.

"Wells, it waz a pleasure." The poet fire dude hands me some signed document indicating everything is up to snuff. I almost expected them to imitate the SNL skit of Mark Wahlberg and say, "Say hi tuh yah mutha fohr me." But instead I got a handshake.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

2008-11-04T10:58:00.003-05:00

Its been an eventful week. For one, I went back to the neurosurgeon for more spinal injections. That visit went something like this:

"So do you hurt here?" Dr. presses sharply on my back. "As in, does it aggravate the pain?"

"Well that certainly doesn't feel good." I'm wincing.

"Yes, but does it aggravate it?"

"Um, yes? I mean it doesn't make the shooters come." I'm getting frustrated with this whole subjective pain scale anyway.

"Aggravation?" As if repeating it 3x will make it better.

"Yes."

Dr. decides to inject only 2 of the 3 sites that hurt. I don't get it.

"Could we do all three?" I ask as he's swabbing betadine all over my lower back and pelvis.

"No. I'm concerned about the level of steroids you've had already. That level messes up a lot of body functions."

"Yes, but it hurts and I just want to feel better. What happens if I come back for my follow up and I'm still hurting. Are we then doing surgery?"

"Are you pushing for surgery because if you are, then I'm not going to do it." (Did you catch the I'm-in-charge-and-you-can't-make-me line?)

"No, I can't see why anyone would push towards surgery. I just want to feel better. I don't care how it happens. Would we do more injections?"

"I see that you are emotional right now and frustrated. Medicine is an art and a science. Now my intuition, or the art part, is telling me only to do 2 of the 3 sites."

I could have pointed out that we were both arguing from emotional sides, but I decided to let it go. Later after the awful, awful sadistic injections, I was instructed to go sit in the waiting room of the cath lab. Since I cannot sit, I stood. In the waiting room there was a family who was waiting for their 87 year old mother who apparently had a heart attack and went down in front of a few family members. I stood there listening to their stories, trying not to be intrusive, when a nurse came by and said, "Honey, are you ok? You don't look so well." I couldn't respond because I passed out. Yup, I went down in front of the startled family thus re traumatizing them. The staff put me on a gurney, gave me juice and crackers, took my vital signs and asked where my responsible adult was who was taking me to and from the appointment. I responded that my husband could not get time off work so I just took a cab. Let me tell you the kind of lecture that followed. It was all very embarrassing. They made me lie there for awhile and then had me stand and then followed me out to the cab. Way too much drama and I still have a big question mark as to my plan of action with my back.

The second thing that happened was that I made it to school this weekend. Administration was highly accommodating and put a couch in the classroom for me. I had a great time. Exhausting, but great. The next class is about Self as Practitioner. There are a lot of assessments and understanding of styles and impact of it. It seems to be highly introspective so you could see my confusion when one of the assignments is for all 13 of us to work on a business plan for a consulting agency. Ummm, is it me or does that not meet the learning objectives? Somehow I became the mouthpiece for the class leading this revolution. The same thing happened 10 years ago when I was at Tulane and they took away choice of our professors when registering for classes. I was the voice for that one too. How is it that I end up in these stupid roles?

The third thing that happened was this morning and standing in line for 40 minutes in my pajamas to vote. The line wrapped around the school and I truly believe that history will be made today. It won't be the outcome that is historic for me, although it will be noteworthy that a minority (either racial or gender) will be in office, but it will be the record turn out. I've always had a passion for getting out the vote, or GOTV as they call it in poli sci circles. It makes me proud to see people actually caring. It also made me wish I kept my status in Indiana to vote there by absentee. However, even though it would have been legal, I wouldn't have felt very ethical about doing it.

And the fourth thing that will happen today is visiting the perinatal psychiatrists. Who would even dream that there is a speciality out there like this? Its a complete dream come true like believing in unicorns or something. I suppose living in the mecca of advancing medicine is like living in Oz and having little green men running around everywhere. If you dream it, it exists. Now, while it is a dream come true, I will not be visiting Glinda today but more like her sister. I have experienced zero compassion from them. Originally I had an appointment in early October, but J canceled it as I was in the hospital. They rescheduled it and then canceled only to reschedule to today. When I realized that J could not make it and getting down there for me would be a feat I tried to reschedule. They told me that if I couldn't make it they would never see me and deny rescheduling me ever. Even as I explained the circumstances of the rescheduling they were rigid beyond belief. I was within policy of the 24 hours and yet no leeway. Oh yeah, we're off to a raging great start with a therapeutic alliance that needs to happen between psychiatrists and patients. But, I will make it there and stand with my walker for my one hour intake assuming that they are on time, that is. I'll make sure my point is made. For their sakes, I hope I don't pass out.

Damn Tub

2008-10-19T12:00:00.004-05:00

I blame the tub. I could blame genetics, my stubborn tenacious nature, my knee surgeon, or anything else that remotely seems relevant in my way to explain what happened, but I think I'll settle on the claw foot tub. If it wasn't so damn wide, I wouldn't be in this mess. I realize its not entirely true, but whenever doctors or nurses or literally anyone asks what happened I always go back to the story of the tub.

About a month ago I simply leaned over the claw foot tub to move the shampoo bottles off of the windowsill. Perhaps my hips weren't squarely aligned, perhaps I didn't counterbalance very well, but I felt a snap of sorts, sharp pain and I literally went down in agony. Somehow I made it to the bed moaning, groaning, and gasping. I stayed lying prone for 5 hours on heat, ice, Advil, and Tylenol debating if an ER visit was warranted. I tried to get out of bed twice to pee. I fell because my legs couldn't support my weight with the pain the first time. The second time J lifted me there and I almost passed out with the pain so I hung out on the floor of the bathroom for about a half hour. I didn't want to be labeled as a drug seeker in the ER or as a drama queen. I've been on the other side of the ER and the word "cynical" doesn't even begin to describe how the ER caretakers view the world. Finally I gave in and told J I needed to go to the hospital.

He pretty much carried my weight as I hung onto his neck and he guided me to the car, 8:00 on a Saturday night. The car ride was excruciating and it was a joke trying to get me into a wheelchair to transport me into the triage area of the ER. I looked miserable and yet I could see the looks of disbelief on the nurses faces as they checked me in. I bought myself a MRI, a semi-private room in the ER, and concoctions of pills to try and manage the pain. When they took me to the MRI and the tech tried to move me I grabbed her so hard in my pain I left bruises. "Gee, I don't think your pain is managed, "was all she could say rubbing her arms while I apologized profusely. J and I spent a romantic night in the ER, a hot Saturday date if you will, listening to my roommates come and go. First a man with an abscess in his ass, unsure if it was caused by a bug bite or a sliver from his porch. Then we had two girls from a rugby game with a broken nose and needing stitches. The amount of narcotics given to me should have snowed any other person into respiratory distress, but I just sat there able to carry on a normal conversation and keep awake. This told them how high my pain threshold was and how much pain I was in. Clearly I wasn't going to just get a script of vicodin and sent on my way. By 3:00 in the morning they decided to admit me. It was just going to be for a day or two to get my pain under control.

I was moved upstairs and shared a room with a little old woman who did not speak English and was clearly scared. She snored while she slept and had conversations in her native tongue. I asked for ear plugs on the second night and somehow they hunted them down. But when a private room came available, without asking, they just moved me. I was so grateful, but I felt bad for the woman. Did she think I was abandoning her? She was probably happy to get the room to herself. My one or two days of pain control turned into 11. I was on the hospitalists team (read: not interesting enough of a case to be assigned to a team of residents and interns). This meant I got "real" doctors, not those in training, but I also got their egos. Every 12 hours a new doc would come on service and switch up my meds because only they knew what they were doing. By the 3rd day my husband had enough. His frustration limits had been hit and he couldn't watch me be under medicated for my pain control because they were all afraid. He began to do the math himself and advocating for certain orders. The minute he got involved I began to improve. You can see his math to help educate the attendings on how to do proper pain control.

J came nightly and we ordered two dinner trays so we could eat together and get caught up on the day. Often he would speak to the hospitalist and confirm the plan of care. He would always bring chocolate so I could have something to offer the staff when they came into my room. I have to say, environmental services and the food service people were so greatly appreciative and I sometimes would get an extra dessert, a shout out hello from them passing in the hall way, and my room looked nice. One hospitalist stopped by to eat 4-5 pieces of candy as "lunch" in between several admits waiting for her in the ER. And once a night nurse and I had a shared candy break and get to know you session during my 2:00 AM meds. Chocolate was a brilliant plan. J also brought a few gifts from home: a pumpkin (to remind me its Fall), flowers, aster (again, its Fall), a stuffed animal dog toy of a squirrel (from Edgar, really for Edgar when I came home), cookies, truffles (beginning the staff quest for more chocolate). J had a hard time giving up control, realizing that he wasn't the doctor writing orders and then watching his wife struggle with her pain. It was a humbling journey. In the end, we found out that I have a herniated disc of L5/S1, which is essentially right near your sacrum. I can't sit; I can only stand and lie down. Neurosurgery gave me injections in my spine to help decrease the swelling and instructed me to follow up in 3 weeks or so after discharge to see if I've progressed or if surgery will become part of the discussion.

In addition to the pain, my bowels became a source of discussion...several discussions while I was in the hospital. I'm normally on the slow side but with the amount of narcotics on board, I'm at a heavy stand still. The regimen I'm on now still has little progress, but a normal person would be essentially living in the bathroom. It was so slow I have gone through 4 clean outs in bowel preps normally reserved for people going for colonoscopies. I should be squeaky clean. Not so much.

I had some great caretakers and some not so great ones. One personal care aide, Mohammad, was exemplary. He was kind, considerate, respectful, and treated me with dignity. Mohammad was in his 60's and had 5 children. He was not originally from the States. He helped manage the embarrassing moments, the vulnerable situations, and took interest in me as an individual. He got to know my husband and would inquire about my dog. He asked me questions about my knee scars and talked about the surgery in ways a personal care aide couldn't. My husband caught on and asked what he did. In Afghanistan he was a premier orthopedic surgeon. People came from all over to get surgery and care from his expertise. When he moved to America, he looked into doing another residency, but decided it was too much work. Giving up his career to be in America was worth it, he said. He was just happy being able to take care of patients. Here is a man who was used to giving orders in an OR and now was finding meaning in giving patients sponge baths and changing bedding. He said that sometimes you have to give up something to get something greater and he was happy with his choice. I couldn't imagine how hard it was. I found out later from his son in law, who also was a care aide and studying to go to medical school, that Mohammad was going to school to become a physicians assistant in addition to working full time. The man was incredible and I looked forward to seeing him everyday. I cried a little saying goodbye to him when I was discharged.

My discharge was tenuous at day 11. They wanted to keep me longer or transfer me to rehab. If anyone knows, rehab is a nursing home with physical therapy. That's about it. To avoid this, my mom put on her Supermom cape and flew out to stay with us for about a week. She cooked several meals and put them in the freezer, cleaned, took Edgar for walks, drove me to my doctor's appointment, got my home health visitors in line, did all of our laundry, made sure my medication schedule was accurate and on time, navigated the small winding roads of Boston to get to the pharmacy and get my prescriptions, found her way to the grocery store and stocked our fridge, and most importantly, just took care of me.

My medication schedule is a nightmare to keep straight. I look like a poly pharmacy all by myself. One med for the zinging pain, another for the burning pain. Muscle spasms? Are they caused by the myoclonic jerking of the morphine or the reactions to my pain? Don't worry...there's another Rx for that. Oh, and are all of these causing reflux because I'm flat on my back while digesting all of these meds? Don't worry, they gave me something for that too. And don't forget my bowels. I've got more meds for that. This is just a photo of one of my 3 daily med dosings. I keep a journal of what I take and when otherwise I would never keep things straight. Its no wonder old people have a hard time. Look at how Western medicine works! They give you more pills for every side effect the first pill causes. I hate being on so much medication. I've been asking for help on how to come off of the morphine. I need a schedule and my first doctor wasn't helpful (she got fired by my mom, me and my pain nurse from home health). My second doctor clearly fell into the realm of not knowing pain management either because her schedule she wrote out scared the beejesus out of my husband and my pain nurse. The pain nurse wrote out a different schedule and got it approved by the doctor. I'm about 4 days into the weaning and its going pretty well. I can't wait to not feel so foggy all the time.

In addition to feeling so young and spry with my medication requirements, they've added insult to injury. I was discharged with a walker. Yup, like those you see 90 year olds using in nursing homes. A walker. I wish I could say it is the aerodynamic speed cruiser 2000, but really I just need to add the two tennis balls on the back legs and I'm granny. Its hard to feel all cool and sexy to your husband when you are tethered to a walker and need a pill box to keep your meds straight. The only thing I can do is laugh. I have been letting the sucker gather dust the past few days and only use it when I'm going out of the house. But, as you can imagine, going out of the house is rare as I cannot sit. Can't sit to go out to dinner with my husband, let alone stand a car ride without being reclined. I have to take baby steps otherwise I get those zingers down my butt so I would get run over if I tried going to Costco with my walker. Could you imagine? And then, I can't carry anything. I need a basket or something because carrying my purse on one shoulder misaligns my spine and that is dreadfully painful. Incapacitated? Yup, that's me.

The home health team has been a God send. I have an amazing pain nurse who has held several jobs in premier hospitals and helped write the pain management guidelines for the State. She said that medical schools aren't teaching how to deal with pain. They aren't. They threw narcotics at me when my true pain is originated in my nerves. Narcotics only work on 30% of nerve pain. No wonder I was still functional and in pain with such high doses. She advised that I be prescribed nerve pain pills and wouldn't you know, I was a different person within a matter of a few days. Docs are so afraid of dependence they don't give the right dose to begin with in traditional pain cases. Its the under medicating that causes the dependency. No wonder we have a problem with opioid dependence in the United States. I've also been assigned an incredible physical therapist. She is helping me work out my muscle spasms. Once I got these under control I was able to tell the difference between nerve pain and muscle pain. I couldn't believe it. Once I identified the difference I realized I've been in pain for a long time and just ignored it. That was an emotionally painful realization.

School has been a saving grace for me. It is what I work on while I'm flat on my back. I read, I finish papers, I do small assignments, I post to the threaded discussions. It is what is keeping me sane. The program director is worried that if I miss another weekend in residence that I will not be able to keep up with the contact hours and I'll have to withdraw. Right now I have all A's. Withdrawing scares the hell out of me. My follow up appointment with my neurosurgeons is Wednesday and if they throw me into surgery ASAP, missing another weekend may be a reality. Going back inpatient may be another reality. Going back up on the narcotics may be another reality. I've decided I don't like reality.

The Dark Side

2008-09-22T10:06:00.002-05:00

Growing up, I was exposed to an upper middle class lifestyle with a lot of perks. My brother and I enjoyed back stage passes to big rock concerts, exclusive dinners for the US Gymnastic Olympic Trials, condos and skiing at Deer Valley, and even a vacation to Disneyland. The perks were all due to my father's job. While he was schmoozing with execs, we knew to be on our best behavior and still have fun. It was a love/hate experience. It was a lot of fun but it just felt, well, phony.

When I tell people I'm married to a doctor, a set of assumptions pop into their heads. They assume there is a lot of money for one. I should set the record straight here that during all of J's training I was always the breadwinner when working full time. This is very difficult to do when you are a social worker. Social worker, folks.

Furthermore, not all medical practices are reimbursed equally. Here's a good rule to follow: procedures to bill = money in the pocket. This is why surgeons, radiologists, gastroenterologists, etc, make quite a bit of cash. Your general primary care doc, you know, the one you go to when you have green snot, vomit, and odd chest pain? Yeah, that one? They make next to nothing. Another good rule to follow is to follow market demands. If pharmaceutical companies, bio tech industries, and medical equipment organizations have something to market then that specialty generally earns more. Palliative care doctors (aka Dr. Death) don't exactly spawn repeat customers from the drug companies. They also function as general practitioners in the last stages of life.

It is a bit annoying when people assume so much. Doctors have not had a income adjustment to the quality of life since the 1970s, but school costs have risen significantly. Our student loans are the equivalent of a second mortgage. Needless to say, I will not be the country club wife, with hobbies of shopping and lunching, and tennis lessons. And you know what? I am way ok with that. I am actually quite proud of J's choice not to sell out and be seduced by the dark side. He is staying true to the roots of medicine; serving those who need care and being ethically aware.

Last night one of J's friends from medical school was in town for a conference. He chose a different path: Radiology oncology. These are brilliant individuals who like physics theory and the human body. They are not well known for their human relation skills. J's friend invited us down to the hotel where a talk was just finishing up. Something about proton accelerators and chest wall tumors. We grabbed a free Sam Adams and excused ourselves from the break-out session to catch up.

As this session was ending, Dr. Rad-Onc suggested we catch one of the other parties around town: the aquarium, science museum, or museum of fine arts. I had to pause for a moment because with my profession I'm just grateful for a continential breakfast at one of my conferences. Here the sponsors have enough in their advertising budget to rent out several huge attractions for a private party, have it catered, free bar, and live entertainment. What is ironic about this is that these individuals have enough money to pay for admission to these attractions and yet companies shell out big bucks for them.

Typically we avoid all drug rep dinners. The "educational component" are an exchange for the free steak and wine. Its product pushing by college grads who do not know how these chemicals work but are taught the "research" that was sponsored by the drug companies in the first place. Are you really going to think about that drug when prescribing because it is in the best interest of your patient or because its in your memory from the dinner?

Right or wrong, we headed with our friend and his growing entourage to the aquarium. What I first noticed was my incredible concern for the penguins. Here they are tired from being gawked at by children all day long and now they have a sound system pushing baselines into their faux ecosystem. Poor guys! They just want to sleep and instead Phillips, yes the electric light bulb company, is pushing their new MRI/gamma ray/technology gadget, and have taken over their habitat. We had drinks, a flight of nations hors d'oeuvres and wandered the usual $20-something admission attraction. We hung out there for awhile and then went to the science museum. There the reception was catered by Wolfgang Puck. I never did find out who sponsored this event. By 11:00 we were saturated, morally conflicted, and tired. I was more than tipsy. It was time to go.

Dr. Rad-Onc invited us back to crash another party tonight sponsored by someone else. The dark side is quite alluring, but I think we'll abstain. While I know that the big wig companies don't feel the financial impact of me crashing the party and having 2 glasses of wine and a small plate of dim sum, but I feel it in my soul.

Crazy Busy

2008-09-19T09:30:00.002-05:00

I've. Been. Busy. There, I admit it. I no longer have a full plate. I have a buffet. What's crazy is that I'm considering adding more.

On my birthday earlier this month I decided it would be a great idea to pursue another masters. After some highly disappointing rejections from doing organizational development as a full time job, I recognized that Boston is not the land of where you can spin your educational degrees. Either you have it, or you don't. I do not have a degree in organizational development...but I will!

My first masters in social work was in an accelerated 16 month program. I thought I was crazy for attempting this and truly it sucked the life out of me, but also enriched me in ways I cannot even begin to express my gratitude. 16 months to achieve a masters. I always was one to work part time through school. I worked in various jobs from a receptionist to a pastry chef and a vet tech in high school and college. It was such an amazing breath of fresh air to just concentrate on school when I was in New Orleans. I had never been happier because I was so balanced and focused.

A decade later (ouch, that one makes me cringe) I return to school as one of those non-traditional students. You know, the older person always with his/her hand raised and always, always prepared. This was the person I loathed in my previous academic careers. Oh. My. God. I've turned into that person. I cannot wait to tackle the 260+ pages of reading a week. I actually offer my opinion in class. I am prepared for my assignments. This is a drastic change for me as I used to wait until the night before papers were due, watch back to back Law and Orders on TNT, clean my room, and then somewhere around 11:00 PM I'd start on the paper only to finish it at 5:00 or so and have a roommate turn it in during class so I could catch up on my sleep. I have turned a corner somewhere.

Whilst I thought 16 months was crazy (and still do), you can officially take my measurements for a straight jacket now. I'm now enrolled in a 10 month Masters of Arts program for Organizational Development and Psychology. I'll have my second masters by June 1st. C.R.A.Z.Y. What makes it even more psycho is the fact that it is a program supposedly designed for working adults. The program has attracted such talented individuals who are already the Vice Presidents of some national companies from around the country. Somehow they are making their weekly business trips to Antwerp for a company merger and going to school. I don't know how successful they feel about it, though and that is a huge point. I truly anticipate a few dropouts before the end of this first month.

In the meantime of drowning in action process models, papers, discussion boards, and online lectures, I'm considering taking a full time job essentially creating a new program in medical social work. I'm beginning to wonder how smart of an idea this truly is. Something will have to give whether it be the housework, individual down time, sleep, eating, my marriage, social supports, etc.. To say I'm concerned is an understatement, but (un)fortunately, I don't have the time to think about it.

Dining Differences

2008-08-21T08:49:00.004-05:00

Last night my husband and I took advantage of restaurant week here in Boston. It should be noted that the city is so dense and has so much culture that restaurant week actually spans two weeks, not just one. They do exclude the weekends, capitalist bastards. Oh well. It was quite the feat just putting a plan in place and following through with it as J and I are well known for our dreams of doing stuff, but never actually doing the activity because we're so overwhelmed with options.

For example, last weekend we spent two days talking about going to a beach, or Walden pond, or a National park, or the city, or downtown, or a historic tour, or...well, you get the idea. In the end, we finally made it to Costco and Trader Joes. Yes, folks, that was our final outing.

We've been tracking and counting down restaurant week here as it was one of our most favorite things to do in Indy. There was some serious web browsing and research as to which restaurant we should dedicate our finances and taste buds. In the end, we chose Harvest.

A very interesting phenomena occurs when we are out to dinner. I've noticed this doesn't happen just to us, but it happens to most people. We do not order the exact same item even if it is what we really want. God forbid we should have two orders of duck on the table. Turns out there is a Harvard professor who actually wrote a book on this. I ran across it at the Harvard Coop (kind of like their bookstore). Its all about how we sabotage our own happiness. I know, a really uplifting subject, right?

So here we are in the elegant courtyard of a restaurant in Harvard Square last night at the only available reservation left: 8:30 PM.

J: "So what are you going to get?"
A: "I was thinking of starting with the corn soup with Chantilly mushrooms and crab."
J: "Damn."
A: "You know, you could get the same thing."
J: "What else were you thinking about for your entree?"
A: "The sole with the heirloom tomato and cannelli beans."
J: "Well, I guess I'll get the pork then."
A: "Why not order what you want?"

In the end, we did both end up with the soup and it was delicious. There were some striking differences between restaurant week here vs. in Indy. For one, the crowd was remarkably divergent. Our dining partners were decked out in Topsiders without socks, button downs with V-neck sweaters, long hair with product (guys), long hair without much make-up and product (girls), pre-labor day white trousers, hobo bags, messenger bags, and theoretical discussions. It was about as obnoxious as the wine pairings with each course. Somehow it fit, but seemed pretentious none-the-less. One thing was for certain as we eavesdropped on our dining companions and sipped our Willamette valley pinot noir: we certainly weren't in Kansas (or anywhere near it) anymore.

Hocus Pocus

2008-08-12T09:51:00.002-05:00

Boy, how does one really follow up the last two postings that were both extremely dark? Well, I can begin by reassuring my readership that life out here isn't as dark as it was. Its still a bit more overcast and shadow dwelling than I prefer, but it certainly isn't as bleak. What changed? I don't know. Time? Perspective? Magic?

I like that last one. A little bibbity bobbedy boo, if you will. If it were only that simple, right? But seriously, I got a really nice shot of hope the other day by finding out that research shows that I can get pregnant on my current anti-depressants and not cause any harm to the fetus. I swear, only at Harvard would there be a whole perinatal psychiatry program. Talking about being in the right place at the right time. Seriously, that news was like angels singing down from heaven above.

Who Am I and What Have You Done With Me?

2008-08-03T09:13:00.000-05:00

"In search for your destiny, you will often find yourself obliged to change direction."
(The Fifth Mountain ~ Paulo Coehlo)

This past week has been rough. Ok, "rough," doesn't begin to cover the truth. That makes it sound like I've been frolicking about fields of daisies with friendly elves and bunnies compared to what it has really been like. The toll of all of my losses have begun to accumulate and weigh heavily: the loss of my professional identity and belief that I was a solid professional when I left my job from hell, the loss of two of extremely close and influential grandparents, the loss of a home and space I loved that represented happiness, the loss of yet another career momentum and direction, the loss of an anticipated job offer, the loss of staying connected to family of origin through important rituals like weddings... Granted, several of these are self-inflicted through choices, but they are losses none-the-less. When one is faced with so many losses it is easy to find your perspective shifted unconsciously from expecting happy doors to open to simply pure dread and anticipating when the next shoe will drop.

That perspective changes the way you view the world. All of a sudden life is not filled with opportunity, but instead isolation. It is not a pleasant way to exist. It brings everything under a microscope to be questioned, examined, and calls for judgement to take place. In this past week I have questioned my purpose in life, my true desires, my own limitations, my marriage, and even my own will.

After my last post with failure being out in the open, I wrote to mentors and friends asking for a different perspective on the latest loss and being rejected. I shared my sorrow, my hopelessness, my grief, and self-scorn. One wrote, "Job, Shmob. Something is trying to find you and it wasn't that job. Yeah, I know, easy for me to say. But I do have to look at your life and see that the universe is helping you to shift your focus. You're right that a career is different than a job, but sometimes, it's "just a job" that shows you something new about yourself." At times I forget that just as much as I'm trying to find my destiny, my destiny is also trying to find me. It was a blissful reminder.

Others reminded me that while it may seem like a failure now, it opened up doors and awareness I didn't have before. It would have been a short term solution, but may have perpetuated a long term problem. "Problem" being not being 100% clear about my intention and life desires. Going along blissfully in ignorance is not a solution. And not knowing what you want is a massive problem. I am able to tell you what I don't want better than what I do want. I have ideas, but no lines in the sand or force. Furthermore, I feel so deserted its hard for me to muster my strength and will anything. I worry that anything I put on the table right now as a potential solution is just a band-aid. Its like putting a band-aid on someone who needs a kidney transplant.

My friends and family have been my best allies. It is clear how much they love me and want me to be happy. They don't want me to lose who I am and compromise what I hold dear. They rage at the thought of me selling myself short and compromising too much. I think that the problem is right now, I don't know who I am or what it will take for me to be happy. They have been my fierce cheerleaders, advisors, and sounding boards. I am so lucky to have them.

Its ironic that my presentation I gave at the job interview was on managing transitions. Change may be the physical situation, but transition is the psychological adjustment to the change. People have no problem with change; its the transition people resist. All beginnings start with endings. Endings must be grieved. I must be on the verge of a lot of beginnings, then, because the losses are swallowing me whole.

I can imagine I've been a nightmare to live with. Hell, I haven't liked living with me this past week either and I can't exactly leave me. I'm certain my conversations have been filled with projections: accusing decisions are being made through fear, wondering where the strength is in our vows to get through this, anger and rage about compromise and purposefully inflicting loss, insolence about violated plans (not agreements or commitments, just plans), accusations of selfishness. I will not discredit me solely; I believe there is validity and truth to what I ask and perceive as well. If it looks like a duck and talks like a duck then it is a duck. I'm certain I have acted as the crazy woman perfectly this week. Crazy isn't the right word: grief stricken is 100% accurate.

Failures

2008-07-31T11:17:00.003-05:00

When I was in graduate school I dated a guy who kept all of his rejection letters because it was "character building." At least, that is what he called it. I called him delusional. While failing is character building, in an extreme psychotic optimistic point of view, hanging onto those unsubtle reminders of your shortcomings, is not.

I have to remind myself that the Universe or God or whatever has a plan. Que Sera Sera, right? This is an easy life motto to have when things are going your way, but it sucks rotten eggs when you don't get what you really want.

When I was rejected from a job I really wanted this past week, I debated about blogging my experience. Why pour lemon juice, salt, and carbonic acid into my already gaping wound in front of the masses? I should instead go quietly into the night and lick my wounds in private only to emerge with a small scar later and pretend like nothing ever happened. That was my first instinct. Let my failures be private; let my successes be public. However, that's not real.

Real is the feeling of being ashamed and embarrassed by not being awarded the position. "The" position, mind you, not just "a" position. That was my first reaction. Its raw and ugly, but its real. I can console myself by stating that there is a reason why I didn't get it; reasons I don't know now, but it is for the best. I can also re-frame things into a place of self-reflection as to what the larger meaning is behind this and what life lesson I need to learn.

Self-reflection can often quickly spiral down to self-massacre. Examining every detail of the exchange, revising answers to questions, analyzing minutia from degree qualifications down to simple interview wardrobe selection. The process is nauseating and disheartening. And then, you get to the real meat of the issue: Is this really what I wanted? Did I really believe that this would not just make me happy, but bring fulfillment in my life?

If I were to have succeeded in securing this role, I would not have questioned anything. I would have opened a bottle of champagne, taken myself out to a nice restaurant, and reconstructed the budget to allow small indulgences. A gift for myself, I would rationalize, because I deserve it. But did I really? If I had succeeded I would not have learned anything. And that, would be the ultimate failure.

Beauty In the Eye of the Beholder...

2008-07-27T18:31:00.003-05:00

J: "Ooh, Van Halen." As he flips through the music channels on our cable.
Me: "Its classic rock? When did it become classic rock?" Noticing the channel.
J: "Its been classic rock since like 1987. It was on Z 93. Ooh, you have to admit he's kind of sexy."
Me: "David Lee Roth?!?"
J: "Yeah!"
Me: "You have no taste in men."
J: "You're right."

The Concept of Family; Redefined

2008-07-22T07:02:00.004-05:00

Nothing like a good month of life altering events to raise the emotions in a family. A death and now a wedding. My brother and his fiance are days away from the "I do's."

I remember being this close to my wedding and honestly, I wasn't that panicked. I was more concerned about the details and things going right. A bunch of wasted energy, truly, as things still went wrong no matter how much time I spent worrying about them. But, emotions run high.

After returning from Ginny's farewell, both J and I spent a good portion of our time playing creative finances to see how we could fund the plane fare to get me back to Salt Lake over Pioneer weekend. No matter how we flipped the budget, it just isn't in the cards for us. Perhaps I was dreaming a bit thinking it was even possible. Living on one salary that doesn't kick in until the end of the month, a rent payment that outweighs the SLC mortgage, and all of the moving expenses has its challenges. I find myself counting change for bus fare, coasting down hills without A/C in the car to improve gas mileage, and packing J lunch just to save a few dollars. I couldn't tell you the last time I went to Starbucks.

I dreaded telling my family that I wasn't going to make it...especially my brother. It went as well (0r as poorly) as it could be expected. I haven't spoken to him since my dreaded phone call. Honestly I'm afraid of the intensified guilt I would feel talking to him. I also don't know if he would even take my call.

I feel good about my decision on a rational level, but I also know come Thursday night about the time of the rehearsal dinner I'll feel waves of sadness that will intensify by the time of their nuptials on Friday. That's pretty damn natural. My parents spent a lot of their energy instilling the value that family comes first. For a marriage that has lasted over 35 years, I think they've done a pretty good job. What a shift to realize that instinctively your concept of family shifts to your partnership quite quickly. I would do anything to fiercely protect J and the success of my marriage. I'm honored that he chose to be my family.

I'm thrilled that my brother found someone who loves and values him. You can see how much he adores her too. When you are with them, its tangible. Perhaps my absence during their wedding is a larger message about family, the success of values, and faith in marriage. I may be physically absent during their wedding, but it certainly isn't a statement about my belief and support for their marriage.

Domestic Diva Preparing to Depart

2008-07-12T10:38:00.003-05:00

While I was gone, J sustained himself with frozen burritos and yogurt. He would tell me of his plans for dinner when I would call him.

Me: "So, have you had dinner?" Noting that it was now 11 o'clock his time.
J: "No. I might have a spoonful of peanut butter before I go to bed."
Me: "Are you kidding me? You did live by yourself and cook for yourself before we married."
J: audible sigh "Yeah, well I did have two yogurts at 4:00 for linner."
Me: "You didn't have lunch either?"
J: "I thought of making a burrito that we bought at Trader Joe's, but they go in the microwave. Our house doesn't have a microwave."
Me: "So put it in the oven."
J: "On a plate?"
Me: "No. On a cookie sheet."

I don't know what happened when the I-do's went into effect, but somehow my husband forgot how to turn on a stove. Ok, that truly isn't fair. It didn't happen immediately after the wedding. It happened after I left my job from hell and became a semi-permanent homemaker.

As the unspoken deal (or briefly mentioned arrangement) went after I left said hell, he was ok with my new part time jobs and more time at home in exchange for him not having to worry about pesty little things like dinner or laundry. I have to admit, once I settled my internal feminist battle, I really embraced my new full time role of nurturing. I began to actually enjoy making grocery lists, sorting laundry, using fabric softener, etc.. We took a huge hit financially, but our quality of life improved dramatically.

Every once in awhile my inner Gloria Steinem freaks out and I start to worry about equality being reflected monetarily in the long run, but then I figure out I just need a little bit more acknowledgment of appreciation. A recent study showed that a full time homemaker would be earning a salary of over $120 K for duties performed. Yeah, I'd say that earns a bit of appreciation...with interest. Once I get that appreciation I feel fine about the arrangement. Don't get me wrong, J would HAPPILY be the house husband.

Ever since I've been home, in Boston, I've been a cooking mad-woman. Every day I typically ask J if he has a craving for dinner. His usual answer is, "not really." I was shocked when he asked for salad the first day I was home. I set about researching the Brown Derby's Cobb Salad. The thing calls for 4 types of lettuce, herbs, a special dressing, two meats, an egg, tomato, avocado, and expensive cheese. My "no cook" salad put me in the kitchen over hot burners for 3 hours. However, it was so greatly appreciated.

The following day I made the awesome chicken enchilada recipe in this month's Real Simple. I also thought to make a fresh berry cobbler. I used Ginny's recipe on that one. Things were going great until I realized that I couldn't tell if the berries went in first or the batter. My first thought: call Ginny. I almost had fit of panic when I realized I couldn't call her. This simply wasn't right. My next thought was: call someone else in the family who makes cobbler. After eliminating all of my aunts, my mother-in-law, my sister-in-law, etc, I could only rely on my Mom. I began to call all of her numbers unsuccessfully. Now I was alarmed. Who else could advise me on cobbler? I finally called my Dad, who thankfully, was with my Mom. She cleared things up, johnny-on-the-spot. Jon appreciated the cobbler as well.

This next week I'm moving forward with my job quest. Part of me is sad, I hate to admit it. I LOVE my professional identity, but I also relish my time dedicated to domestic life. Who would have thought I would say that? Not me. Once I get this particular job of my dreams, J and I will be back to staring at one another at the end of a long day amid piles of laundry and wondering who remembers how to turn on a stove.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

2008-07-10T10:51:00.002-05:00

I can honestly say it wasn't the trip I intended to take, but it ended up being the trip that was supposed to happen.

I thought my time would be dominated by the matriarchal hierarchy, but really I only saw them once at Ginny's celebration. Even then, I felt a bit of the cold shoulder. I suppose it wasn't intended; I get a little oversensitive when hormonal and grieving. However, it did shake me a bit when my Mom and I would try to check in daily and see what the plans were with my aunts and cousins only to find that it wasn't to get together. Odd, odd, odd.

I spent a lot of time with Mom. That was the healing part. We visited our old haunts for lunch, shopped a bit, and of course reminisced about Ginny. I also got to spend quite a bit of time with my brother and his fiance. They really made it a point to hang out as there won't be any time to do this when the nuptials take place later this month. There were some wonderful bright spots of my time there: 4th of July, lunch and a movie with Dad and Mom, playing hearts one evening, and grilling steak for Sunday dinner.

Most of the time I felt stunned by the lack of interaction from such a tight knit group. Perhaps its because we're all getting older and have families of our own? Perhaps it was just too painful to get together without Ginny?

The celebration went extremely well...extremely drunk, but extremely well. Early on (thank God) by in-laws came by, which touched my heart that they would take the time. The event was catered and several family friends showed. Somewhere mid-party, my cousins had organized a gin martini toast. It ended up just being shots of Bombay gin with 4th of July tinsel toothpicks spearing Spanish olives in cordial glasses. The waiters passed them out and my cousin gave a quick speech. It was exactly what she would have wanted.

My Dad's side of the family is infamous for their abrupt departures at family parties, although most are getting better at this now that its just the siblings. My father is the main exception to this. He dined and dashed somewhere around 7:00. He offered to take us, but we all declined and he cited needing to take care of the dogs. While I kept switching from wine to beer to gin to wine again (just like everyone) I was extremely grateful when my soon to be sister in law drove us home. She and I went on a taco run for the family although I ate more than my share. I also drank a ton of water. I remember my brother sharing a story about organic vodka to which my mom sarcastically replied, "Gee, that's important when you are poisoning yourself."

The party was wonderful as I got to reconnect with my cousins. All of them showed up with the exception of one who couldn't find a flight with a reasonable lay over from Hawaii. She has a two year old. My aunts were all business and there wasn't much connecting at all.

I find it odd that I came home one week after Ginny died. It feels like its been a month. I missed J a ton and am happy to be back where its humid, green, and the air is clean. The California forest fires have done a number on SLC valley thus far. I can't believe I'll be making that 5+ hour flight again out West in just a few short weeks...need to buy that plane ticket...

Awaiting Adventures of Healing

2008-07-02T19:25:00.004-05:00

I have the most wonderful friends imaginable. I have received more support, phone calls, emails, and I even had my closest friend give me frequent flier miles so I could make the trip. Even just writing this makes me overwhelmed. All of my Ya Ya's know how important Ginny was to me. All of them met her at my wedding or earlier.

At one particular dinner party with Ginny and my friends I remember she had no qualms playing the fortune cookie game "in bed" while at the dinner table. I thought my guest was going to fall over in shock, but he loved it and the two of them had a mutual adoration of one another ever since. Another time, one of my ya ya's heard exactly what Ginny thought of my ex-boyfriend in no uncertain terms. All of my friends come from strongly dominated matriarchies. Each of us are destined to turn into our mothers and carry the torch when that time comes.

My matriarchy was thrilled to hear I was coming. Cousins and aunts are busy planning the Celebration of Life to be held on Saturday. Her obituary will be published tomorrow and Friday. I miss my aunts and cousins. Tonight they are all gathering for dinner as my aunt from Hawaii arrived this morning. As usual, the Temples are using their humor to cope. My mom relayed this story to me:

The women were sorting through some of Ginny's belongings when they came across her mink coat. Ginny was very clear that she thought it should go to either myself or my glamorous cousin. My mom spoke up and said that she knew I wouldn't want it. Besides, I wouldn't have anywhere to wear it. I'm mean really: can you imagine me on public transit in the land of intellectuals out here in Boston in a mink??? All of this is true. When I was younger Mom would voice her desire to have a fur coat and I would exclaim in horror, "Oh Mom! How could you! Its just like wearing Henry!" Henry was our first dog. Needless-to-say, Mom never got a fur. My glamorous cousin was happy to take the mink off of every one's hands and at that point noticed that Ginny's name was embroidered into the lining. Apparently, this is standard for all furs. Hell, you spend that kind of cash, you should have your name in gold thread as far as I'm concerned! As my Aunt was explaining this to the rest of the family she said, "Of course that's true! I have my name embroidered on my beaver." You can imagine the amounts of giggling going on there.

Tomorrow I'm going on an "adventure." I call it this because I don't know how many times I'll get lost in the process. I get to find my way up to Manchester, New Hampshire to catch the flight. Seeing that we only have one car and I haven't really spent any time with J, my husband offered to wake up before dawn with me to drive me the hour north and then come home in time for work. I think he is also highly concerned with non-existent sense of direction and venturing into a new State. Oh, and did I mention that the price is horrendous for a rental car to go one way? With this plan, he will get the car for the 5 days that I'm gone. I'll hang out at the airport until my flight leaves at 11:30ish to Las Vegas. Who knows...I may even put a quarter or two into a slot machine as I catch my connecting flight into Salt Lake. It will be a day of travel.

I worry about leaving J and Edgar. I know they are big boys and can handle themselves just fine, thank you. However, it is J's first week of fellowship and he actually has the 3 day weekend off. He works the following weekend. I also worry as I'll be flying back to SLC for my brother's wedding later this month. That's a lot of time away from one another. (I can hear my readers collectively groan for the sappy couple.) But, its true. And its a holiday. Again, I know they will be fine. I don't know if he actually thought I would take my girlfriend up on her offer of the free ticket when he said, "Do what you've got to do." Perhaps I'm just worrying about it because it seems to be the one area of my life where I feel a small inkling of control.

I know the trip will be healing for me and that, ultimately, is exactly what I need to do.

Sans Matriarch

2008-07-01T11:11:00.007-05:00

Ginny was always a bit intuitive. She had a dream that my cousin was pregnant the night before she announced it. She also saw the ghost up at the ranch a few times. Not once did she doubt or try to rationalize away any premonition I've had. Recently, she's been perseverating on July 3rd for about a week now. It is the anniversary of her brother's death. Dale died pretty young from a brain tumor. She apparently has been telling stories of how they cared for him in his last stages and kept the 4th of July as normal as possible.

Ginny died this morning.

(I've been working on another post complete with photos of our new house, but this rather derailed my attention. I'm a bit jumbled, so bear with the disorganized writing.)

At Christmas, Ginny signed herself up for hospice. She slowly let a few of us know and we all affirmed her decision. Her COPD has been extremely uncomfortable and I think her last hospitalization in October was proof in the pudding for her. Never very spiritual, she actually loved her chaplain and told us all that she now had a new Indian doctor. Ginny accepted the fact that she was never moving out of my cousin's house to live independently. She apparently fell (stroked? passed out? seizure?) Friday and re injured her back. She refused to go to the hospital when the paramedics came and her pain control has been terrible. She slept all day Sunday, which was a bit alarming for me and by yesterday my Mom told me that she was in the process of shutting down.

I didn't react well to this news and instead resorted to two coping mechanisms: cleaning the hell out of the house and drinking. I was missing my matriarchy and knew that they were probably gathering at my cousin's house, opening wine or mixing gin martinis (Ginny's signature drink), talking, and of course laughing. Remember on that side of the family grief always calls for a cocktail party. Its a rather ya ya Temple tradition thing to do. Even though I couldn't be there with them, it didn't mean I couldn't join them. Cleaning is my own coping mechanism. I knew I wasn't functioning well when I wasn't registering the effects of the alcohol. I felt fine. I was just the weeping woman armed with disinfectant and dusting cloths. I slept fitfully to say the least. My Dad tried to dismiss my Mom from the 4th of July party duties this year to which she replied, "The last thing Ginny would want is to disrupt a holiday tradition." She's right.

This morning I got another call from Mom and was greeted with more disturbing news: my tenants have given their notice and I have to find new ones. (Oh sure, like I can handle any more right now.) Later she called to tell me that Ginny was in the last stages and would call when it was over. She apparently, like Pop, waited until all family was out of the room before she went. Instead, the bath lady from hospice was there.

I've been having dreams about Pop constantly for the past week. He usually shows up in my dreams when I'm having business issues or need advice. He wasn't doing any of his usual things. Now I know why he's been hanging around, so to speak.

What I need the most right now is to be with my Mom, my aunts, and my cousins. The problem is we can't afford it. I'm still trying to figure out how to swing getting out later this month for my brother's wedding. I'm so close to my Mom that its ripping me apart not being near her as we just lost our matriarch.

I suppose in the meantime all I can do is remember what I love about her:

Small things like the smell of double mint gum, chlorine from the backyard pool, fresh coffee, and rich musty leather. Phrases like “hey you two, knock it off,” or your sing song way of “well…” The way she would brush her hands against her pant leg repetitively, mindlessly brush the counter tops for non-existent crumbs or swirling her martini glass letting the ice and olives meld against the gin. (I catch my Mom doing the exact same motions at times.) She always had tissues stuffed up her sleeve and the silver toe nail polish. She had an endless supply of cookbooks even though always sticking to a familiar repertoire of recipes: hamburgers on Saturday nights, scrambled eggs with chives, sharp cheddar, and mushrooms, oven roasted bacon and homemade raspberry jam for brunch. She once almost threw me into a dumpster when we came across a moose while camping in the Unitas. She was worried it was going to charge if we had separated it from its young.

She taught me to love stray animals, herb gardens, Tahiti, small pleasures like looking for deer and Sunday car rides by the toilet lady’s house in Oakley (maybe stopping for ice cream because we all “deserved a treat.”) She taught me how to identify Queen Anne's Lace, Indian Paintbrush, and Bleeding Hearts (aka "Lady in the Bathtubs"). She kept all of us packed up with Snickers and Coke during the summer days and ice cream for breakfast on the 4^th of July. She would tell us stories of searching for Watercress as a girl and what new great deal found on QVC. (I swear, UPS should be sending her flowers.) She was the one I called when I didn’t know how to care for peonies in a frost warning. I spent hours in the garden weeding or shelling peas with her. "Hot damn!" was an expression of glee. She taught me how to be a hospitable hostess and the joy of a sleigh ride. She kept a lucky chestnut from our relative who marched in Sherman’s March to the Sea in her purse. She was proud of being from “The Greatest Generation.” Once J asked what her proudest life achievement was. She answered, “The war.”

I remember stories of her waiting out a tornado in the middle of a golf game in St. Louis, holding a Roman Candle between her teeth at the 4^th of July, and visiting her Wisconsin grandfather with a peg-leg (and a raging alcoholic who passed out while ice fishing, hence the wooden leg). I remember hearing she used to play the trumpet in the marching band in high school and later watching her play my brother's trombone one Christmas. Ginny was lucky; she would rub her lucky jade and then win at slot poker. She helped mom make gingerbread houses and counseled my father over rough life decisions. She was an incredible non-judgemental listener. She never missed a beat, betrayed her thoughts/emotions, or give unsolicited advice. She was able to just be present.

When I was getting impatient about getting engaged she told me, “I don’t know what it is with you kids looking to find your soul mate. You know, Bob and I didn’t have one thing in common. Not a single common interest. He loved horses and the ranch and I loved golf. But you know, we made it work and we were married for over 60 years.” When I asked how she selected Pop she told me she just knew he was going to be a good provider.

Ginny trusted people to a fault and they took advantage of her emotionally and monetarily. Despite that, she hung onto the times that she felt she made a difference. She once gave a young soldier money to get home after talking with him on a train. Turns out that young soldier was Johnny Carson and he later thanked the anonymous young lady on the air while retelling the story. When asked why she did it, she said, "Well honey, that's just what you did in my day and age: you helped each other out." Her door was always open to the neighborhood kids and even my father came over on Saturday nights to play cards with Ginny when Mom was going on dates with other guys during one of their "breaks". She laughed until she peed coming home from the grocery to find herself locked out of the house with Mom and my aunt loudly singing dirty songs out of the windows to the Mormon neighbors.

The stories and memories just go on and on.
My grief right now is raw and more than my heart can hold. Tears seem to just fall without blinking.

Temple Tantrums

2008-06-26T12:15:00.003-05:00

I think its safe to say that this move has been particularly emotionally draining on me. I had the equivalent of 7 Temple Tantrums yesterday. This is what my maternal side of the family affectionately calls our own style of hissy fits. They can be endearing if you look at them in the right light, but for the most part they just draw more attention to how the crazy genes get passed on through the generations.

I had to call my Mom several times through the day for coaching through these. Only the very stupid little things would push me over the edge. For example: wearing shoes in the house, or art supplies in the bedroom closet not the hall closet, or my personal favorite is the recycling "system" J put into place. It really consisted of him piling garbage around the trash bin according to material. This was truly unacceptable. For my first few tantrums, J would wander over and put his arms around me. But by the last one he was just rubbing his head and wandering away.

Typically these Temple Tantrums indicate that I am hungry. I don't register hunger. I register bitch. However, as I was fixing "lunch" at 3:00 I was convinced that I shouldn't be eating because perhaps I was soothing my emotions by eating which could then potentially yield a food addiction. Can you see how crazy this is? I can...24 hours later.

At dinner my husband looked as if he was going to crumble. He mentioned that this was supposed to be his "vacation" and that moving is hard on both of us. I immediately felt quite ashamed of the way I had been carrying on and on and on. Here we are: broke, new to the area of crazy drivers and amazing history (we stumbled upon Sam Adam's grave just the other day), and both are essentially "camping" at home until we get things unpacked. The only difference was, he has a deadline of when to report to work and as he put it: go back to where my time is no longer mine. He will once again be a slave to the system only this time, the 80 hour work week law doesn't apply. That one only protects residents, not fellows. I felt lower than low once I realized the full picture.

This morning one of my girlfriends called and explained that moving last August was her relationship test from hell. We both married and moved into our husband's existing spaces. For the first time we were moving into neutral territory. I had never thought of it like this, but it makes complete and total sense. The dynamics completely shift! No wonder I'm frustrated. I'm in uncharted territory. Somehow her explanation alone downshifted my anxiety.

When Math Geeks Move

2008-06-24T12:18:00.001-05:00

There were several stressful points along our move and again, more stylistic differences. This one exemplified that whole “apple-doesn’t-fall-far” theory:

“If we make this the plane and this the hypotenuse then we only need to rotate it on the axis 180 degrees to get it in the door, see?”

“But the isosceles triangle will only work if the side is 8 feet and we have 7 feet 8 inches instead.” Both father and son pull their handy dandy tape measurers off the belts to check.

“Right, but that’s why we’re flipping it 180 degrees not the 150.”

I, myself, would have just shoved the couch through the door. See? Stylistic differences.

This morning J held math class 101 for N=1 (just me as the student). We were trying to hang the mirror. I actually employed the Pythagorean theorem to figure out the length of one side of a triangle for the exact length the piano wire needed to be cut. You know that whole, A squared + B squared = C squared? Turns out, my 8^th grade teacher was incorrect when she stated I’d never have to use this in real life. Again, this would have not been my method. I would have just strung up my mirror, prayed to the Gods to keep it suspended, and called it good.

J never knew that my artistic hanging of three hooks to hang his wool caps wasn’t done with math. It was actually done while he was on call and I had have several glasses of wine. He praised my abilities the next day when he came home and liked the outcome mixing the masculine English driving caps with my feminine Anthropologie wrought iron hooks in a nice “equidistant” triangle. Um, ok. Again, I think I was groovin’ to some 80’s tunes and using hardware to the best of my tipsy ability that December night.

Now, I too have some anal qualities that drive him nuts. For example: I alphabetize our spice cabinet and CD collection so I can find what I want in a timely manner. I also do this according to genre and/or types of spice. You would never find the garlic powder next to the fennel seeds. Oh no! That would be an atrocity. Those faux powders, lemon pepper, and other flavored salts/seasonings would never be found next to the tried and true dried leaf variety. Blasphemy, I tell you! Again, with that apple-falling-far theory, I can go back generations and actually attribute this quality to my mother’s mom, Ginny.

You would also never find Tori Amos in the same alphabetizing system as LL Cool J. I can’t see angry white female next to a black man who prides himself on seducing women…perhaps that is just my issue because I was that stupid angry white girl who was seduced by a womanizing black guy. Ok, well, perhaps I should be finding a good therapist instead of organizing my CD collection…note to self.

Another odd quality I have is the color-coding of my pillows when I’m making the bed. We have several types of pillows and it is important that they are in the corresponding pillow case cover that matches our preference and way their fluffiness standard goes when I’m making the bed. You can’t have a mushed up flat (although well loved) pillow at the back of the pillow stacking…it needs to be in the front of the line against a more firm background. Also, our two favorite pillows that we sleep on need to match in case cover as well. J remarked last night that he is never making the bed again in fear that he would do it wrong according to my standards.

As I’m finishing this entry, J’s expert arranging of piano wire and molly bolts culminated into, “Well, even though I used math to get this done, I completely forgot about physics. Oh well, let’s see what this does.” I suppose this quote is equivalent to me just shoving the couch through the door.

Stylistic Differences

2008-06-12T08:35:00.003-05:00

Well, several of you have been kind enough to ask how the box count is coming. Its coming. Slowly, but surely, our house is being disassembled. The pace is not matching my expectations, mind you. I'm a kind of get-up-and-go-girl. My husband is not. We have "stylistic differences." I think that is the nicest way to say: You drive me absolutely fucking nuts.

Have you ever noticed that you can get away with saying just about anything if you add on the phrase: "Bless his heart," or "God love him"? Well, you can. Its a phrase that has crept into my vernacular since living in Hoosierville. For example: "Him had to go beat der dog wit' a baseball bat n' bashed his skull in after he bit my hand. I is grateful. Can't have nones that wit da baby comin', bless his heart." I wish I was exaggerating, but this is pretty much verbatim what J and I heard riding the short bus from our take out point in the Blue River back to our cars with our fellow canoe adventurers. Thank God the Lord loves all sides of the bell curve.

Yesterday morning there weren't enough "God-love-him's" to get me through without having a minor Chernobyl experience. It just doesn't work as well when you try to say, "God love him, he spent just as much time picking through the garbage looking for his to-do list as he could have spent just typing up a new one." I appreciate my Tetris man, I do. (Bless his heart) I also just want to kill him at times. Very normal feelings in a partnership and marriage, I know.

J spent time arranging space saver bags in an empty box to just see the spacial relations and then pulled them all out again. He has also spent time "supervising" my packing skills to make sure I maximize the space and am padding the layers correctly. I have told him that we would get a lot more done if he would just go do his own thing. So he did: he sorted through his sock drawer to match socks (again, not helping the packing cause) as well as sorting through papers from medical school (again, not sure if anything got thrown away) and then decided it was too anxiety producing so he surfed the internet to look up the latest J porn obsession: the iPhone. I realized I needed to leave the house. It was either that or say many attacking things that I would regret. The whole time I'm storming away he kept saying things like, "You are so adorable when you are mad." And, "We should talk about this." Fucking no! No more talking! Action! Do Something!! That was all I had running through my brain.

I vented to friends, got lunch, and went to the mall to feel like a normal being. About 2 hours later I got a trepidatious call from my husband.

"Honey, are you feeling better? When are you coming home? Bubba dog and I will be here and we would love to see you. I fixed the money problem, so you don't need to worry about that any more. Have you had anything to eat? I love you."

Really, how can you stay angry at this? You can't. Bless my heart.

Denial isn't denial when you know what it is

2008-06-08T10:16:00.003-05:00

T minus 7 days and counting.

Here I am on the supposed "day of rest" and thinking, "Gee, all I've done is rest." One would think I would be swimming in a sea of cardboard and chaos. Oh, no. Life is pretty much status quo denial. I've discovered the miracle of space bags (think vacuum sealed sweaters condensed down to the size of your dog). They are lined up nicely by the door. Last night over a mojhito I began to disassemble my summer sand scape with shells and votive candles on the living room table. Didn't get too far with that.

I was honestly counting on and looking forward to my mom coming out. She is a wonderful and willing companion when addressing insurmountable tasks like refinishing the deck at 5 AM before scorching heat hits when the sun rises and breaking down long arduous processes like packing a whole house. Often, as a bonus, she'll show up with fun food like bagels and coffee. She also always makes me laugh through the whole process. She is a 5 foot package of humor and encouragement all in one.

I haven't seen my mom since Christmas. This makes me incredibly lonely and sad as I used to spend every Saturday with her when I lived out West. The plan was for her to come out and help, but circumstances are what they are and I suppose being alone with this process is just another step in christening me into adulthood. It totally sucks and I am angry that I didn't get my way and rebelling as much as possible. I know, super mature, right?

My rebellion isn't going as well as it should. Rebellion should be fun! Like binge drinking when you are a freshman in college or driving 10 miles over the speed limit. Nope, this rebellion is losing its appeal quickly. My body is in the process of breaking down and I have for the very first time in my 32 years, a cold sore. I feel like the Tide commercial that was run during the Superbowl. Its worth viewing. Thank God I only have two more days of work. I love my work, but I feel like I'm 14 with my hyper self-centered outlook and hyper hygiene. I also managed to rack up another $500 in vet bills this past week by being over reactive to Edgar's nausea. It also cost me 3 hours of potential packing time.

I spent another 2 hours in the new Indy film...yes, there was flooding involved just like in real life Indiana. We tried to get our friend to drive up from Seymour, Indiana to join us. Apparently none of us had watched the news because we were all baffled when he couldn't get onto I 70 due to the police blockades. Then again, none of us live in areas that were hit with 10+ inches of rain.

Other time suckers include, but are not limited to: playing the Wii, reading and completing 3 novels, more work, surfing the internet, sleeping, going to J's graduation, drinking, more obsessing about my lip sore, beating myself up over being so neurotic, deciding to make elaborate meals, researching HSV1 on the internet and medical school texts, freaking out about selling my car, listening to tornado sirens, the Sims, wondering if I should actually heed those tornado sirens, researching a/c units for Boston, deciding that it must be a hoax of the tornado warning as it doesn't look that bad outside, going to Costco, waking up to Mom asking me about the tornado to which I reply "what tornado?," applying to jobs in Boston, researching my car price online, helping my husband decide which internet provider/medical texts to purchase/cell phone/etc to go with (I know nothing about any of these subjects by the way), wondering if we have enough boxes but not doing anything with the existing empty ones, playing with Edgar, and being chided by my neighbors for not watching the weather reports.

I realize that blogging this post, for example, is just another way of delaying the inevitable. I don't know if I'm expecting tiny organized elves or packing fairies to appear when I'm sleeping. While I am tempted to go pick up my book and finish "just one more chapter....or twenty" I should probably go find the packing tape and take the Nike commercial advice of "Just Do It!"

Down the River, Up a Creek

2008-05-30T13:32:00.004-05:00

I will admit it. I am a total procrastinator. I was that girl who would watch reruns of Law and Order until 11:00 PM the night before a major paper was due and then be up all night constructing the sucker. Thank God I had fabulous friends who would meet me at my dorm door to get my paper and turn it in for me while I slept through class. Somehow I always pulled high grades out of my ass at the last minute. I even became a bit superstitious about it. A few times I would actually plan out my semester project weeks in advance. 9/10 times I would get a lower grade. Something about waiting until the last minute brought me luck or I performed extremely well under a deadline. I suppose my ritual of procrastinating drove people nuts (hi mom!). Alas, it works for me.

Why am I bringing this up, you ask? Well, remember that whole move thing going down in a few weeks? Yeah, didn't pack a single box the whole weekend. Instead I spent Saturday in my pj's reading a book. Sunday was just too dang pretty to be inside laboring, so instead we took Edgar on a 14 mile canoe trip down the Blue River in Southern Indiana right outside Louisville, Kentucky. That is a 2.5 hour car ride one way from our house. Edgar did fantastic. He loved the rapids and swam around the river whenever we stopped on the bank. The only bad part was he ate something funky on the bank. Of course as we were yelling, "Edgar! Edgar!," he wolfed it down faster, resembling a snake swallowing his prey whole. Whatever that tasty morsel was, it didn't agree with him. By Monday, he's having some soft stool and was a pooped puppy (pun intended). I spent the day cleaning the house. I figured I couldn't start packing the mess until the mess was organized. This was my rationale and to be honest, a coping mechanism I employed frequently before papers or projects were due. Organize the exterior while you organize the interior thoughts.

On Tuesday morning, we awoke to find several diarrhea spots around the bedroom, including in the bed. It went from bad to worse. He then threw up three times and continued to have the runs although there were copious amounts of blood as well. By now, I'm thanking my lucky stars we already had a vet appointment to check on his skin infection from a few weeks ago. While I was trying to calm him down from all of the spewing of both ends (ok, and calm me down too) I was petting his back only to then find a tick! I am completely freaking out about this now. It was what pushed me over the edge. All of a sudden I kept deteriorating from a calm professional ex-vet tech to a raving mother panicking about her child. J did his best to ignore the lunatic he married and kept his wits about him. All the while, he's muttering under his breath that he is definitely not ready for kids.

I finally got Edgar to the vet only to have him admitted to the hospital. They got the tick out, started IV fluids, and gave a bunch of different meds. While I knew it was the best place for him, I was a bit off kilter. By the afternoon it was clear he was going to have to stay the night and we transferred him to the emergency vet hospital with staff 24/7. It was necessary as he chewed out his catheter in one arm already and they were hosing him down every 30 min or so. They diagnosed him with Hemorrhaging Gastroenteritis. Very scary for a little dude. At this point I'm just weeping on and off and J's asking what I did with his wife and could he get her back, please. The next morning Edgar was transferred back to the other hospital. I think I drove the clinic crazy as I called every 3 or 4 hours. By 5:00 on Wednesday, he was discharged to home with a new special bland diet, several meds, instruction sheets, and a very very expensive vet bill.

As you can see, Wednesday evening was shot for packing as I was just focused on being a mom. And well, yesterday night after work I was on call, so that was obviously out. Tonight we're going to try to catch In The Mode, an exhibit at the Indianapolis Museum of Art borrowed from LA as it is their last night of the exhibition. See? Packing still postponed. Perhaps tomorrow I'll start with the cardboard boxes. Too bad I'm not getting graded. That would be motivation enough for me.