No Sympathy for Sarah...and a big old BOOO!

Good evening.

So two weeks ago I told you about my rather randy afternoon with my 98 pound physical therapist.

Today was round two.

Only today I was armed.  Last night I did a lot of soul searching while tennising with Hubby.  (On the court next to us, a father and his 8 year old daughter.  Number of times the 3rd grader hit the ball into our court: 0  Number of times I hit the ball into their court: 9) 

Since my car accident I've been spending lunch hours, and hours after work at doctor's offices.  I've been poked, prodded, stretched, x-rayed, MRIed, and medicated.  (more on that in a minute.)  I come home and pretty much go to sleep.  I'm in pretty constant pain from either the injury or from the treatment.

And let's talk about the pain killers.  The first one they put me on made my legs swell so bad I couldn't walk.  Not a little water weight...I COULD NOT WALK because I the bottoms of my feet were rounded and my feet and my shins met in a fleshy, watery, balloon way.  Think of one of those Right Angles from Geometry class....now fill that with over full water balloons.

The second one gave me heartburn in the middle of the night so awful I'd wake up gagging and vomiting.

The final one...well let's just say that Jamie Lee Curtis would probably just hook me up to an Activia IV if she could, but even that probably wouldn't




Won't be needing this as much!

help since this last one stopped waste disposal so completely for two weeks I am actually saving money on TP.  (Oh come on...that's not even the grossest thing you've read in this blog!  Do I need to remind you of the story where we bought a TV in the dead of winter?  HMMMMMMM?)

I will say this...I have finished two of the three Stieg Larsson books, so there's that...

Anyway, I'm relaying this to Cruella deSkinny and then I recount the effects her most recent treatment gave me:

I couldn't lift my left arm for two days.

I had a blinding headache for two days.

I had bruises on my chest, the back of my head, and my arm.

I finished my litany of woes, in tears, and she looks at me and says, 

"These sound like symptoms of depression.  Do you have depression?"

WHAT?????????????????????????

These are symptoms of someone who got hurt in a car accident 11 months ago and now no one seems to know what the #(*$%(*&%$^& to do with her!  There are the symptoms of someone who is angry, used, and fed up.

Oh, and this is someone who is currently being treated like a rented mule at work, but I'm still too angry about that to talk about it.

Then she said, "Well, I'm not sure I even want to touch you today."

Fine, thinks I, no pain for me today.

WRONG!

Cruella has me hop up on her table, set extra high just for me to hoist my fluffiness higher.  Then she begins with the "Does this hurt?  Let me JAB THIS IRON FINGERNAIL OF MINE INTO IT HARDER!"

I swear, the woman has fingertips of steel, weighted with lead.

At one point she actually lifted my rib cage and yanked it up to my chin while pushing on a tender spot in my arm pit.  Let's ignore the fact that I had some other woman's fist in my armpit and her claw wrapped around the bottom of my ribcage and let's forget that it felt like she was going to lift me off the table and twist me until I split.  Let's forget that and try to remember that she didn't want to touch me for fear of hurting me...five seconds earlier.

Afterward, she told me she wanted me to call her office tomorrow and tell her how I felt.

I couldn't help but think of dear Count Rugan after he sucked away a year of Wesley's life on the MACHINE:

How did it make me feel?

I'm pretty sure I'll never make a left hand lane change again...thanks for asking.

Nope, no sympathy from the 98 pound therapist.  I'm starting to think she's playing some weird online game like Words with Friends except for PT people only and it's more like, "Where did you poke this person and did they scream?"

***

Now, about that BOOOOO!  A big old Princess Bride sized BOO goes to the woman at the public library yesterday who was there with her small children at the same time Peaches, my daughter, was.

Those of you who know Peaches know that for her entire life she's had a certain flair for clothing and more recently for hair color.  Right now her hair is a bright candy apple red.  It's not cut in an odd way.  She wears it very neatly either in a pony tail or, when her eczema flares up, she wears it in a neat long bob around her face.  Yesterday she was wearing a short sleeved t-a pair of white shorts and, because she's Peaches, she was wearing some grey tights under the shorts.

The children must have looked Peaches' way, because Peaches says she waved at them.  She's a friendly girl, my girl Peaches.  She didn't speak to the children, she just waved in a friendly way and smiled and then went back to looking for books.

The mother, however, took one look at my daughter and gathered her precious perfect children around her and said in a voice loud enough for Peaches to hear THOUGH HER EARBUDS..."no, no children, we don't associate with them."

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The "How is this fair" awards goes to...

Good evening!

So last week Peaches got her very first honest to goodness, go to fill out a W2, job.  She's going to wash dishes one of my favorite eateries in downtown Waukesha. 

Those of you with teens who recently got their first job, you know what I'm about to ask:

How is it fair that the kid gets a job and before they can start, I've gotta shell out $100?

See, Peaches is 15, which means we need to get a work permit. Now, she could just get that from school, (fee of $10) BUT, she needs a copy of her birth certificate. THAT means one of us, Hubby this time, had to leave work early  (Hourly pay lost:  $20)  and pay $20 for a copy of the birth certificate because the records office is conveniently open ONLY from 8:30 AM to 4:30 PM M-F. 

THEN, Peaches is informed she'll need some clothes to wear to work.  No problem.  She needs some plain white shirts, a pair of black bottoms, something she can wear in the hot of a kitchen, and some non skid close toes shoes.

That involves a trip to Kohl's, because she apparently has none of those things.

Bill at Kohl's: $70.

And thusly, I'm out $120 and the kid hasn't started work yet.

For $120 I might have gotten my bathroom cleaned a couple times and maybe a week or two of laundry done. 

The real kicker is that I've offered to pay Peaches many time to wash dishes.  She loathes it.  Somehow, however, if you put a black apron on her and pay her minimum wage, she's all over it.

Meanwhile, the owners are getting married.  Now, I'm as happy for them as anyone, but Friday, after Peaches' first night at work, she got a little envelop addressed to her and to me.

It was an invitation to a wedding shower.

For the boss.

Whom we've known for one day.

I'm not going...but now I've gotta get a gift.

The kid is working, and I'm going into dept!

How is this fair?

I can't fix STUPID, but I sure would like to poke at it with a stick.

Good evening!

Well, I have been absent from my beloved blog, my friends, and not because I'm having a breakthrough on my newest novel. Sadly, not.  No, Instead, I've taken these several days and soaked up the Au jus of stupid that seems to glisten like moonlit waterfall on us all.

And how is it I'm not on the NY Times list?  Hmmmmm?

So today I want to just share with you three random acts of stupid from last week.

Random act of Stupid #1

It should come as no surprise to those of you who have been reading the last month , that the first act of stupid comes from none other than LCW, the woman I sit next to at work.

Let me say again, LCW is a dear woman with a good heart.  And one of these days she is going to drive me over the edge.



Have fun storming the supply closet
There is but one key...and I have it.



On Thursday NBM was out of the office for that big evaluation.  (Why are we #1?  Why is he so awesome?  I think it has something to do with the fact that the office supplies are kept locked and only he has the key.  Very "Princess Bride" if you ask me.  )

So anyway, Thursday we were supposed to bring in our insurance paperwork.  Everyone in the company had to fill out new paperwork for insurance.  And while the deadline was Friday, we were asked to bring it in on Thursday.  Now, LCW first of all was late getting to work because, and I am not making this up, she left her purse and her rollaway cooler, the one she always brings to work, in her driveway and didn't realize it until she was halfway there before she had to turn around and get it.

Which means, my friends, that the insurance paperwork was OF COURSE...anyone?  Anyone....NOT WITH HER when she walked in.

I asked her, "Do you have your paperwork?"

"No.  It's not due until Friday."

"Yes, but you don't work on Friday."

"I know but today is Thursday...the paperwork isn't due until Friday."  Says she.

"I know, " says I, "but you don't work on Friday.  So did you bring it with you today?"

"But it's not due until Friday."

This goes on for a few more minutes.  After I managed to show her that without having the paperwork on her person TODAY, she would have to make another trip, and after her episode of hysterics which always follows on the heels of a correction no matter how slight, I tried to tell her to take her lunch hour and go get the papers.  She lives 25 minutes away, it would be fine.

She didn't want to do that.  "I'll come back tonight and drop it off in the mailbox."

"You're going to come back, after leaving work at 8 pm, and you're leaving the papers in the mailbox on the street?"

"Sure.  I don't care.  I don't want to use my lunch hour going home."

Her logic was nothing short of genius...sort of. 

I let that sit for a few minutes and then suggested again that she take her lunch hour and do the errand.  Again, she refuses.  Saying she'll come back after work, that will make more sense.

TO WHOM?

An hour later, about the time I was thinking I should have a lunch break...you know since I'd been at work since 7 and she'd been there an hour...she said, "I think I will take my lunch and go get the paperwork.  When were you thinking of going to lunch?"

NOW!  I wanted to shout, but hey, I'll wait until 2:30.   Again.

So off she went.

105 minutes...yes, one hour and forty five minutes later, she arrives back at the office, with a white envelop in her hands.  "Oh good, you have them."  Says I.

Wait for it.

"No," says she.  "These are the papers from my OLD insurance company."

I know, you have 1000 questions.  Believe me, I mentally asked all of them.  Clearly we could not send her back home to get the papers, which, she was sure, were in her house. Probably.  "But before you go to lunch..."

No sweat.  It's only 2:45.  I do have to take a lunch before 5 PM.  That's when I leave.

Later, when I returned, the poor soul in charge of collecting our paperwork, let's call him PM, told me that her solution to the problem, in this day of emails, faxes, scans, and whatnot, was to white out MY PAPERWORK, make a copy of the now blank sheets, and fill in her information and then have me just fill mine in again.

Fortunately, PM stopped her from doing that.  It meant he didn't get to go home until 6 PM that night, going step by step with her over everything in what I can only imagine was the most tedious lesson he's ever taught...and he has two potty trained children who I believe can tie their shoes, but he got all the papers in.

And that's not the most stupid thing I experienced last week.

So on Friday, I realized on my way home from work, that I was out of my feminine products.  There's a Walmart on my way home, so I stopped in.  Now, if you've read this blog you know that purchasing feminine products, for me, is never quick because I have to weigh all the pros and cons of each product.  So it's a high concentration moment for me.

I'm standing there, in the Walmart, in front of the wall of feminine protection, and a young lad, of perhaps 17, walks up to me.  He is carrying a basketball and a clipboard.

Nope, still not making it up.

He says to me, "I'm collecting money for my school so I can play basketball.  Can you donate?"

I look at him, my concentration broken.  What I wanted to say was, "Oh great! Now my concentration is broken.  Do you see where you are?  Do you not realize that making a purchase of these products requires a significant amount of detailed study?  You want to play basketball?  I want to wake up not drowning in a puddle of gooey tissue slough because I couldn't pick the proper protection for the money I'm willing to pay.  You want to play basketball?  How about if you do my laundry this week?  How about that?  No?  No?  You don't want to chance it because it might be gross?  Oh I promise you it will be if I don't pick up the right package RIGHT NOW!  IT WILL BE GROSS!"

I didn't say that.

Instead, I said, "No, not today.  But congrats, you're in my blog."

Still not the most stupid thing that happened to me.

Out of Walmart, I decide, against my better judgement, that I'm hungry, too hungry to wait until dinner, which is more than 3 hours away, so I'm going to stop at the local Mc Donald's.  All I wanted...ALL I WANTED was a double cheeseburger.  I'm willing to pay the extra .25 they charge for that second slice of cheese.

So I roll up to the drive through and give the box my order. 

"That'll be $#$$&%$^"  she says.

Well it doesn't matter because I know, after buying double cheeseburgers for so long, that it's going to be $1.30.  I take out a nickel, a dollar, and a quarter.

So I roll up to the window and hand her $1.30.

"I need another six cents"  she says. "It's $1.36."

I hand her a nickel and a penny.

"No," says she, "It's $1.36."  and she hands me a nickel back.

So I hand her the nickel again.

"NO," says she, handing me back a nickel.  "It's $1.36.  I just needed a penny."

"You're holding $1.31."  says I. 

"Oh, wait...yeah.  I need the nickel."

And those...my friends...were the three most stupid moments of my week last week.

How am I not ruling the planet yet?



Forget wrinkles...aging isn't for sissies!

So this past Tuesday was my birthday,and I am now 43, firmly entrenched in middle age.

I've been thinking this week about how I was going to approach getting older.  Like most women in this time, I battle the physical creep of age.  Okay, I don't battle it that hard, but I do notice certain things aren't the same as they were a few years ago.

I've come up with 10 things that prove aging isn't an easy, graceful process.

1) Weight:  It's true, I think, for most women, that the metabolism is the first thing to go.  Sure, we all blame weight gain to child birth, to sedentary office jobs we take because it fits with kids' schedules, to raising kids and eating kids' food which is fine for children who have the metabolism of rabbits, but not so good for us.  I suppose I could point to the Internet too as a reason for weight gain.  Hey, if I can get everything online, why bother getting up, going outside, driving a car to a store, walk around?  That just seems wasteful to me!

Try as we might with gym memberships, pedometers and whatever latest shake fad diet there is, the weight sticks with us.

Well, I mean, I suppose we could eat that Special K cereal with the chocolate bits instead of inhaling half a gallon of extra creamy choco-marshmallow ice cream while watching "The Biggest Loser." 

Let's not get crazy!

2)  Aches and pains and energy...or lack thereof!

I can remember sleeping on the floor at a friend's house for about three hours, getting up, going to class, working a job, and coming back to my room to a late night pizza party, then going to bed at about three only to get up and doing it all again.  Other than being a little sleepy in class, I could live like that for weeks on end, so long as I got a four hour nap on Sunday afternoons. 

Now, if I'm not in a Tylenol PM coma by 11, that 5:45 alarm is all but missed.  Then I drag myself through my work day, boosted by coffee.  And forget about sleeping on the floor.  If I'm not a couch at the very least  (and my tempur pedic bed is definitely the better choice!) my back and hips ache all the next day. Not only that, but if I've been sitting too long, and then I get up to walk, thanks to my heal ailments, I stagger around for a couple steps like some old person...

But why get up from the chair at all?  It's sort of just easier to wait until a family member strolls past for me to request them to fetch something for me.  This plan has made it possible for me to spend large chunks of time on the couch without actually having to move off of the heating pad.

As for boosting my energy level with caffeine...I'm not the only mom at the soccer game with the Starbucks cup.  That's all I'm sayin' about that.

3)  Memory

I'm not saying I'm losing it or anything, but there are days I cannot remember things.  In writing this blog today I actually had to sit try to recall the word "metabolism."  It took me a couple of minutes.  But words aren't all you lose with age.  Hubby and I often have conversations that go something like this:

ME:  Do you remember that movie with the guy and the boat?

Hubby:  You mean that guy, what's his name?  The one with the hat?

Me:  No, the other guy...the one with the wife who did that song with that other guy.

Hubby:  Oh, yeah.  That guy. 

Me:  So do you remember that movie?

Hubby:  What movie?

Me:  What do you mean, what movie?

Hubby:  What are we talking about?

Me:  I don't know.  Is Sport Center on?

Personally, I blame a lot of things on my memory loss, but mostly I don't think of it as memory loss.  I believe the human brain only has so much space in it.  Mine is full of Princess Bride quotes, Rick Springfield song lyrics, and family birthdays.  I have phone numbers stored in my brain.  (Teen agers don't memorize phone numbers anymore.  So, when a cell phone dies, I am the smartest person in the room.)  So, if I forget where I put my purse  (which I do every morning) or if I forget what the word for "metabolism" is, I can't feel bad about it because if I actually memorized where I set my purse down, I would lose information I will definitely need later...like the complete lyrics to "Super Freak," or the real names of the cast of "Emergency."


4)  Hair

Yes, now we're getting to the crux of aging, aren't we?  The hair on my head is turning white, regardless of what I do to it. Hubby tells me to embrace the white hair, as he has...or as he would be if he had any visible white hair on his head.  (Men with white hair are distinguished.  Women with white hair...)  Meanwhile, the hair on my FACE is turning BLACK, and growing nice and thick! 

WHAT IS THAT ALL ABOUT? 

Well, I'm from German stock, so I'm a naturally hairy person.  My razor is my best friend.  I don't travel to warm places anymore because, thanks to 9-11 security, I'm not allowed to bring a razor on a plane.  A woman my age does not get into a swim suit without a touch up on the legs and pits.

But when the hair on my face started to betray me...especially on my cute as a button chin  (okay, chins...) I got indignant.  If I had to have black hair, why couldn't it be on the HEAD and the face?  Conversely, if I must go white, why can't the hair on my FACE be also white?  Why must my old age include a darling little fu-manchu dealie on my chin?  Hmmmmm?

So I have a couple of choices.  I can embrace the white hair on my head and battle the black hair on my face.  I can battle the white hair on my head AND the black hair on my face.  Or, I can just give up and hope that the white hear hair/scanty black beard look comes in for American women at some point.


5)  Fashion.

As if fashion for curvy girls isn't bad enough, now let's try to find something nice for a curvy girl who is over the age of 18 and under the age of 80.  Everything in the plus sized section of most stores either has puffy sleeves, something I gave up in my teens, or looks like cruise wear for the blue haired set.

I thought I was doing okay, shopping at CJ Banks the other day.  I love that store. The clothes are well made and if  you find a good sale, they aren't too expensive.  However, while trying on something I emerged from the trying on room to the disapproving eyes of Peaches.

"Mom, you cannot wear that," says she.

"Why not?"

"Because that's old lady clothes."

I was wearing a perfectly acceptable pair of jeans, but I was trying on one of those adorable sweatshirts with the collar and the cute picture of snowmen...you know, that triptych of pictures across the chest?  it's a top that's comfortable, but also a little dressy.  At least, that's what I THOUGHT.

So I walked Peaches around the store and she picked out...nothing. 

"It's all old lady clothes mom."

While I was flattered that she didn't want me wearing old lady clothes, I wasn't sure she meant it as a compliment.  After all, I've gotten some of my best outfits from CJ Banks.

After an exhaustive search of two more plus sized clothing stores, I've decided that it is actually easier to lose weight than it is to find something age appropriate in my size.  And if that's really true...shame on clothing designers because it's really hard to lose weight!

Maybe I'll just wait until I'm old enough for the snowman sweatshirt...or at least until Peaches is in college.  Then she can't tell me how to dress!

6)  Acne

I HAVE WRINKLES.  WHY AM I STILL GETTING PIMPLES.

7)  Find a moisturizer that works...really works.

There are 1000's of ads for moisturizers for women.  And not that many for men.  I've tried a ton of different products for women and have yet to find one that doesn't make my still somewhat supple skin oily.  I can't go without it because, thanks to Andie McDowell, I'm very aware of my deep set wrinkles.  (I call one Peaches and the other one Skippy.) 

That search continues...

8)  Stink

I live in a region where the weather can be super humid or super dry from day to day. After living in this region my whole life, my skin is starting to rebel against the constant changes in air moisture.  On humid days I'm okay, but when the air dries out, as it does in the winter, my skin dries out and I start to have issues with a burning feeling in my legs and back.  "Winter Skin" my mother calls it.  (Thanks for that clinical diagnosis doc.)  Again, I've tried all sorts of creams and lotions, and very little eases the burning.  One thing has helped a little, however.  Not showering every day.  The hot water dries out skin really fast, so not showering every day eases that exposure.

One problem, and I know middle aged women everywhere will agree with me.  By 40 there's a certain funk that women start to notice about themselves.  It's a funky stink that wasn't there in our 30's.  It's almost impossible to pinpoint.  It's no one certain body part that smells, it's everything.  So there I am, burning skin or funky stink?

Oh yes, that's a great choice to have to make at 5:45 AM.  And it's not a choice I can make unless I was in a Tylenol PM coma by 11, and in a bed the night before!

9)  Intolerance for food and drink

 When you're a kid, all you want to do is do what you want to do, eat what you want to eat and not have to listen to anyone.

Once you're an adult, you realize you have to listen to one very important being...your body. 

People in my age group live in fear of late night heartburn.  Don't believe me?  Turn on the TV.  Ignore all the Erectile Disfunction-female satisfaction-maxi pad-athlete's foot commercials and you'll see a huge glut of heartburn meds out there. 

Heartburn is our body's way of telling us party time is over.  I get heartburn if I drink too much wine.  I get heartburn if I drink coffee too late at night.  I get heartburn if I eat something involving tomato sauce.

Sometimes I just get heartburn just because.  And that's the biggest head scratcher.  As I'm clawing through the medicine cabinet at 3 in the morning  (why don't I have this sitting on my nightstand?  Probably because I forgot to put it there.  Hey, I do not have room in my brain to remember something like that...I have to keep the theme song to the Lawrence Welk show up there!)  looking for Tums or Rolaids, I go through my day's intake.  And, after being horrified by what I've shoved down my pie hole, I realize I didn't eat anything heartburn inducing.  Which is about the time I start cursing the aging process.

10) General uncoolness in the eyes of the younger set.

I am the coolest Sunday School Teacher my church has ever had. 

I am the coolest parent that ever walked.

Both of these statements were once true.  But, as I aged, I became less cool.  I don't know when it happened.  One day, my children decided that hanging out with me wasn't cool anymore.  My Sunday School kids no longer think of me as the shock jock of Sunday School.  Where once what I said or thought was absorbed, now it's ignored...if I'm lucky, or mocked.  I'm not longer cool.  Because I'm no longer young.

And that's the cruelest blow to anyone, isn't it?



So, hey, happy birthday to me.  Happy birthday to hairy, itchy, stinky, uncool me.  I'm going to go now, put on my snowman shirt with the collar, and take some Tylenol PM for all the aches and pains, and settle into bed.  I know I'll be up at 3 looking for some Tums, but I'm not going to go find them now for two very good reasons:  first, I don't have the energy and second...

...well, second I've already forgotten what I was looking for.

Would anyone like to hear the list of zip codes I've lived in?