Most of you who have been following this blog for some time know that I'm a devoted listener of the Bob and Brian Show here in Milwaukee. I'm especially a fan of their sports segment with Steve Czaben. I may not always agree with Steve when it comes to American Football...or the NHL...or the true importance of professional golf (There is none) but I do agree with one thing he says over and over: "It's time to leave the party when the football team arrives."
While Steve uses it as a caution to college coeds...I'd like to amend his statement a little.
When the Speedo shows up, it's time to get out of the pool.
Recently...yesterday...I started going back to Golds. I decided, after nearly a year of doctors, lawyers, specialists, appointments, and pills that I needed to do something for me. So yesterday I started going back to Golds gym.
As a side note, I was going to blog this week on how Tim McGraw and Lumbergh both made darn sure I didn't get to see Rick Springfield at Summerfest last week...but a trip to Golds made most of my rage over that incident melt away. How? Well, when I walked in to the gym, a place I hadn't been since November of last year, the first person I saw was KRAM, my some times personal trainer.
Kram saw me come and said, "Sarah Bradley!" You're back! You look great!"
I said, "No I don't. But thanks. I'm going to start looking great from now on."
And today, Kram again greeted me at the door and said, "Hey, two for two!"
I know, I'm shocked, too.
Anyway, so today I decided to hit the pool. Last year I got a new swim suit, a really cool one with shorts and a zipper and a snap at the waist that doesn't stay closed no matter what. I haven't worn it in a year.
I checked the pool for an available lane, and there was one...right on the end next to the fluffy couple who shared a lane and the very nice lady swimmer who was swimming laps quietly and minding her own business.
I got in the pool and started sort of walking/swimming. I was having a lovely time. The fluffy couple was having a lovely time. The very nice lady swimmer was having a lovely time.
Then I emerged from floating underwater and came eye to eye with it.
The SPEEDO.
At this point I have to apologize. Normally I have a ton of pictures but I seem to be having technical difficulties and cannot load pictures to the blog. Sorry, you're going to just have to imagine this blonde, twenty something, tan god in a teeny tiny red speedo.
And there I was, eye level with it.
I tried to ignore him. We all did. The fluffy couple kept paddling in their lane, the swimmer lady kept swimming laps, and I kept doing whatever weird mix of swimming and not swimming I was doing.
But, much like Glenn Close in "Fatal Attraction" this dude was NOT GOING TO BE IGNORED!
He set all of his gear at the end of the pool. He had a kick board (he brought one from home...couldn't use the millions they have a the pool) some weird flotation thingy for his feet, two towels, a stopwatch, and a water bottle.
A water bottle.
He set all that down. Then he started walking up and down the length of the pool on the deck. Again, we were all minding our own business. So Speedo started doing something I swear I've never seen before: He started walking while slapping his feet against the deck.
It's very noisy. Everyone HAD to look at him. I mean, what kind of flipper feet do you have to have to be able to make that kind of slapping sound?
The swimmer lady cracked first. She got out of the pool.
He kept pacing, slapping his feet on the deck. Then he added some airplane moves with his arms. I've seen Olympic swimmers do this. It's looks just as goofy in real life, especially when you're slapping your feet on the deck.
I got out of the pool. Hey, I'm an observer. I had to watch this guy and I couldn't get a very good view without my glasses.
The fluffy couple held on and I give them credit. Speedo then went back to the end of the pool and began what can only be described as HE-MAN STRETCHING!
He pushed, stretched, bent, squatted, and we all held our breath. That Speedo was being moved in a lot of directions..,and there wasn't much to it.
At some point during the HE-MAN STRETCHES, fluffy couple got out of the pool and joined me at the hot tub. I thought about asking if we should get popcorn.
As Speedo was about to get into the water...a darling, tiny, older woman tottered herself into the pool and began to swim laps.
This broke Speedo's prep. He started the slap walking all over again. Little old lady kept swimming. He did his HE-MAN STRETCHES again. She kept swimming. In a sort of petty display, he kicked his pile of gear over in front of a different lane.
Little old lady kept swimming.
Finally, after some twenty minutes of parading and preening like some sort of plucked peacock, Speedo had to get into the water. And he dove in with a great splash, clearly ignoring all the DO NOT DIVE signs around the pool. And, just as quickly as he dove in, he leaped up, breaking the surface of the water and arching much like a really graceful dolphin or whale or something and he splashed back into the water all noisy and messy.
And Little old lady kept swimming.
So friends, I'm back at Golds, which means there will be fun blogging. And I now have two rules to live by: It's time to leave the party when the football team arrives and it's time for Fluffy Folk to leave the pool when the Speedo arrives.
Showing posts with label car accident. Show all posts
Showing posts with label car accident. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
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
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!
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
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?) |
| Won't be needing this as much! |
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!
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
You can call it Physical Therapy...I call it getting to Second Base.
Good evening!
Many of you recall I was in a very serious car accident last July. Since then I've been through two completely different courses of physical therapy involving no less that 9 practitioners of that dark art, I've seen two medical doctors, (one of whom QUIT the practice after my case got to be too difficult for him, I'm not even making that up) one awful trip to the MRI, two sets of X-rays, and a trip to a spinal surgeon. I've also run through the complete talents of two very nice chiropractors, one of whom quit the practice shortly after he couldn't solve my case. (Again, I'm not making that up.) I've missed almost 2 weeks' worth of hourly wages due to doctor's
appointments. Oh, and there were two trips to the ER.
I've been on no less than four different kind of pain killers, wait, no, five. One made my legs swell up so bad I couldn't walk. One gave me such bad heartburn, I couldn't breath. Two were controlled substances that I couldn't take for an extended period...and they didn't really work anyway. I'm now on a muscle relaxer that sort of works and I have this nifty lidocaine cream I get to smear on my neck and shoulder 4 times a day. (I cover any hint of smell by covering my desk in Wint-O-Green Life Savers.)
I'm telling you this because I want you to understand that in the last 10.5 months I have done everything that was asked of me. I've been to every appointment, I've taken every pill, and I've done every weird exercise, even the one that makes me look like I'm trying to shake my brain back into place. (I'm supposed to do that one five times a day for five minutes. Sweet.) And yet, after all that, I still don't sleep through the night (10 months and counting...) and I still can't make a lane change to the left or a left hand turn in my car without great pain. Oh, and I get blinding headaches 3 out of 5 work days. So there's that.
So on Monday when Medical doctor #2 and chiropractor #2 came to the same conclusion ("We don't know what to do to help you, so now we're just going to try stuff and see what happens.") I realized this was not going to go well, but that I would probably get a good blog out of it.
I was not disappointed today.
They sent me back to Physical therapist #1 from PT course #2. I guess that makes her 2.1, which is what I'll call her.
2.1 is a very nice lady. She told me today that every time she drives through the intersection where I had my accident, she thinks of me. That's remarkable since I haven't seen her in three months, but she does drive through there a lot, so I guess I believe her.
I was sent back to 2.1 because, as I said, they are starting to run out of ideas...and pills...to help me. (The pharmacy at Sam's Club LOVES to see me coming. I always get the weird stuff...and they love reading the side effects of the meds to me. Given my recent reactions to many of the meds, they even get to read the really weird side effects to me, like "Your legs are going to swell up and you won't be able to walk if you take this."
Anyway, today I went to see 2.1 because she, I was told, can do some very gentle muscle manipulation on my neck and shoulders.
Doesn't that sound lovely? Gentle muscle manipulations. Almost sounds like spa time, right?
Very little could be further from the truth.
She had me lie down on the table. Oh yes, get me good an vulnerable with my soft, gushy belly facing the unflattering lights. Then she began her gentle manipulations.
"Does this hurt?" She asked softly touching a spot on my neck.
"It feels a little tender, but it doesn't hurt."
"Okay, HOW ABOUT THIS?" She then jams her retractable claw into my neck muscle.
"YES! That HURTS!"
"GOOD, then we're going to do THIS!" And with that, she jabs the neck muscle harder, while at the same time finding a good tender spot on my collar bone to shove with the heel of her hand.
This sort of thing went on for nearly an hour. She poked and shoved my skull, my cheekbones, my neck, shoulder, armpit, collarbone, some little bones near my throat she claimed were ribs, but they felt more like explosions of glass under her "gentle muscle manipulation."
It was when she moved down that tiny ladder of bone that I realized her definition of physical therapy and my high school definition of second base were a little...closer than I imagined. I mean, hey, if I knew I was coming in for a mammogram, I would have prepared better. I would have worn my good bra and the invisible deodorant. (Because, see, they don't want you to wear deodorant at a mammogram. The pictures apparently turn out better if the woman's humiliation is complete when she not only is half naked and in pain, but almost stinky.)
Apparently, there's a muscle that is attached to my neck, my skull, my armpit, the top of my girl gland and the bottom of my girl gland, and yes, also at the patch on my chin where my lovely hairs grow...and that muscle had to gently manipulated until I was left dizzy, weeping, and feeling a tiny bit violated. She asked me how I felt...I wanted to quote "The Princess Bride" because, well I like quoting that movie and because I wanted to say, "I've just gently manipulated away one year of your life. Tell me, how does that make you feel?"
The good news, I guess, is that 2.1 feels we made some good progress today. I get to see her once a week now for four weeks.
Meanwhile, I just can't shake the feeling there's a camera in the ceiling of that room and somewhere in another room there's a group of medical people, people who have attempted to fix what ails me, and they are watching this and they are laughing...just a little bit.
 |
| I'm your defense against the Dark Arts teacher. Today, I'll teach you the spell to ward off the gentle muscle manipulation spell cast by physical therapists. |
appointments. Oh, and there were two trips to the ER.
 |
| Covering the smell of muscle ointment since 1900...or whatever. |
I'm telling you this because I want you to understand that in the last 10.5 months I have done everything that was asked of me. I've been to every appointment, I've taken every pill, and I've done every weird exercise, even the one that makes me look like I'm trying to shake my brain back into place. (I'm supposed to do that one five times a day for five minutes. Sweet.) And yet, after all that, I still don't sleep through the night (10 months and counting...) and I still can't make a lane change to the left or a left hand turn in my car without great pain. Oh, and I get blinding headaches 3 out of 5 work days. So there's that.
So on Monday when Medical doctor #2 and chiropractor #2 came to the same conclusion ("We don't know what to do to help you, so now we're just going to try stuff and see what happens.") I realized this was not going to go well, but that I would probably get a good blog out of it.
I was not disappointed today.
They sent me back to Physical therapist #1 from PT course #2. I guess that makes her 2.1, which is what I'll call her.
2.1 is a very nice lady. She told me today that every time she drives through the intersection where I had my accident, she thinks of me. That's remarkable since I haven't seen her in three months, but she does drive through there a lot, so I guess I believe her.I was sent back to 2.1 because, as I said, they are starting to run out of ideas...and pills...to help me. (The pharmacy at Sam's Club LOVES to see me coming. I always get the weird stuff...and they love reading the side effects of the meds to me. Given my recent reactions to many of the meds, they even get to read the really weird side effects to me, like "Your legs are going to swell up and you won't be able to walk if you take this."
Anyway, today I went to see 2.1 because she, I was told, can do some very gentle muscle manipulation on my neck and shoulders.
Doesn't that sound lovely? Gentle muscle manipulations. Almost sounds like spa time, right?Very little could be further from the truth.
She had me lie down on the table. Oh yes, get me good an vulnerable with my soft, gushy belly facing the unflattering lights. Then she began her gentle manipulations.
"Does this hurt?" She asked softly touching a spot on my neck.
"It feels a little tender, but it doesn't hurt."
"Okay, HOW ABOUT THIS?" She then jams her retractable claw into my neck muscle.
"YES! That HURTS!"
 |
| See how his eyes are shining... Those are tears. |
This sort of thing went on for nearly an hour. She poked and shoved my skull, my cheekbones, my neck, shoulder, armpit, collarbone, some little bones near my throat she claimed were ribs, but they felt more like explosions of glass under her "gentle muscle manipulation."
It was when she moved down that tiny ladder of bone that I realized her definition of physical therapy and my high school definition of second base were a little...closer than I imagined. I mean, hey, if I knew I was coming in for a mammogram, I would have prepared better. I would have worn my good bra and the invisible deodorant. (Because, see, they don't want you to wear deodorant at a mammogram. The pictures apparently turn out better if the woman's humiliation is complete when she not only is half naked and in pain, but almost stinky.)
Apparently, there's a muscle that is attached to my neck, my skull, my armpit, the top of my girl gland and the bottom of my girl gland, and yes, also at the patch on my chin where my lovely hairs grow...and that muscle had to gently manipulated until I was left dizzy, weeping, and feeling a tiny bit violated. She asked me how I felt...I wanted to quote "The Princess Bride" because, well I like quoting that movie and because I wanted to say, "I've just gently manipulated away one year of your life. Tell me, how does that make you feel?"
The good news, I guess, is that 2.1 feels we made some good progress today. I get to see her once a week now for four weeks.
Meanwhile, I just can't shake the feeling there's a camera in the ceiling of that room and somewhere in another room there's a group of medical people, people who have attempted to fix what ails me, and they are watching this and they are laughing...just a little bit.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Forget time zones...it's a different day in my kitchen!
To say Skippy has an off beat schedule is a vast understatement. The boy is want to be up for stretches of 24-30 hours at a shot and then sleep for just as long. If he had any interest in medicine, he'd blast through those mega shifts in the first couple years.
But he works almost full time most weeks at a restaurant, and likes it well enough while he's trying to figure out what he's going to do with his life. We barely see him and even more rarely speak to him on the phone. He's sort of a shadowy figure that let's us know where he is by which shoes he leaves in the front hall.
The other thing Hubby and I rarely do is speak to anyone on the phone in the wee hours of the morning. We did that in the college years, when you stayed up until dawn debating pretty much everything, or, my case, trying to fit into things in the woman's dorm. (For the record, I could fit into the drier, not the washing machine.) We talked to our babies in the week hours of the morning when they woke and demanded food, diapers, cuddling.
Well our babies are 16 and 19 now, and can cook and feed themselves. And they have significant others to cuddle, so they don't look for it much from us.
Which means that at four in the morning, you can predictable find us asleep, in bed, with our phones quietly charging, waiting to jolt us awake at 5:30.
So imagine my shock when I woke to Hubby speaking to someone in the dark. No, it wasn't the State Farm people who will answer your insurance questions at 3 in the morning. (Did any of us ask for that service by the way?)
He said, "We're in bed."
I said, "Who are you talking to?"
He said, "Skippy."
Now Skippy will, at times, text us late at night to let us know he's home or to let us know he's staying over at a friend's house, or he's going to Denny's or something.
The last time he called either of us before dawn, he was on a cold Montana highway and his car was destroyed. I, of course, went into full on MOM MODE.
"Where is he?"
Hubby says, "He's in the kitchen."
"Our kitchen?"
Hubby waves me off and said into the phone, "It's 4 AM."
He chuckles and turns off the phone. "Apparently," he says, "Skippy woke up and saw that it was almost 4 and knew he had to work at 5."
Skippy never, ever works before 10 AM. His place of business doesn't open until 10:30. But he does sleep in a basement room with no windows. And he was asleep the previous day when I got home from work at 6 as he sometimes is on days he doesn't work or works and earlier shift.
So it stands to reason that his internal clock was a tiny bit off.
"But why did he call you?"
"Because," says Hubby, "he got up, got dressed came upstairs and saw all our cars in the driveway, but didn't see any of us. So he called to find out where we all were and why we were all home at 4."
"So what did you say?"
"I said we were all in bed. Then he asked why we were in bed at 4, and I told him because it was 4 in the morning."
"So where is he now?"
Hubby curled back up into a ball. "He went back to bed. He's got twelve more hours before he has to go to work."
Oh to have his schedule!
But he works almost full time most weeks at a restaurant, and likes it well enough while he's trying to figure out what he's going to do with his life. We barely see him and even more rarely speak to him on the phone. He's sort of a shadowy figure that let's us know where he is by which shoes he leaves in the front hall.
The other thing Hubby and I rarely do is speak to anyone on the phone in the wee hours of the morning. We did that in the college years, when you stayed up until dawn debating pretty much everything, or, my case, trying to fit into things in the woman's dorm. (For the record, I could fit into the drier, not the washing machine.) We talked to our babies in the week hours of the morning when they woke and demanded food, diapers, cuddling.
Well our babies are 16 and 19 now, and can cook and feed themselves. And they have significant others to cuddle, so they don't look for it much from us.
Which means that at four in the morning, you can predictable find us asleep, in bed, with our phones quietly charging, waiting to jolt us awake at 5:30.
 |
| Not Skippy, not his place of work. |
He said, "We're in bed."
I said, "Who are you talking to?"
He said, "Skippy."
 |
| Nothing says 4 AM like a Grand Slam. |
The last time he called either of us before dawn, he was on a cold Montana highway and his car was destroyed. I, of course, went into full on MOM MODE.
"Where is he?"
Hubby says, "He's in the kitchen."
"Our kitchen?"
Hubby waves me off and said into the phone, "It's 4 AM."
He chuckles and turns off the phone. "Apparently," he says, "Skippy woke up and saw that it was almost 4 and knew he had to work at 5."
Skippy never, ever works before 10 AM. His place of business doesn't open until 10:30. But he does sleep in a basement room with no windows. And he was asleep the previous day when I got home from work at 6 as he sometimes is on days he doesn't work or works and earlier shift.
So it stands to reason that his internal clock was a tiny bit off.
"But why did he call you?"
"Because," says Hubby, "he got up, got dressed came upstairs and saw all our cars in the driveway, but didn't see any of us. So he called to find out where we all were and why we were all home at 4."
"So what did you say?"
"I said we were all in bed. Then he asked why we were in bed at 4, and I told him because it was 4 in the morning."
"So where is he now?"
Hubby curled back up into a ball. "He went back to bed. He's got twelve more hours before he has to go to work."
Oh to have his schedule!
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
So, this is what I'm doing with my life now.
Good evening!
do you ever sit back and wonder about what got you to the point in your life where you are right now? Working for a company that works with plumbing, we get into some really mucky situations a lot. I know PM, who has a degree in music, sat back recently as foul water and various gunky matter spewed out of a shower drain and onto his shoes, and said, "So, this is what I'm doing with my life now."
Well, that happened to me today. To understand this conversation fully, all you need to know is that every time Noelle C and I contact a customer, or have contact with a customer we have to make a reminder note in the computer database so that everyone who reads that customer's file will know how often we contacted that customer and what the result of each contact was.
Now you know everything about my job. anyone want it?
Anyway, today Noelle C decided that my day wasn't stupid enough. I'd spent the morning fighting with my horribly outdated and woefully under powered computer. I only ask him, and yes my computer is a boy, to do two things a day and today he decided he wasn't going to do either. So after fighting with him for two hours, I then called the company IT department. Normally a call to IT fixes the computer in ten minutes or less.
Not today. Today I spent nearly 90 minutes on the phone, during which time the IT guy pointed out several times that I needed a new computer (it took me two years to get a new copier for the office, and that was something that everyone used. A new computer will probably show up the day I purchase it.) and also during which time Noelle C decided to announce to the entire office how SHE HAD TO COVER FOR ME NOW THAT I WAS ON THE PHONE WITH IT.
I wasn't shopping on Ebay. I was trying to get my stupid computer to work.
Anyway, after spending the bulk of my day trying to get things to WORK at my work station, I then had to play catch up on my customer calls...see, even though Noelle C told everyone she was covering for me and doing my job for me, the reality is, as it always is, that I'm expected to do my job, and her job, and no one is going to do much about it. She's far too busy these days deciding if she's still in love with her beloved Lumbergh or if the NEW GUY is really the one she loves. Thats' a topic for another blog.
ANYWAY, by the time it was time for my lunch, something else Noelle C likes to announce to the entire office. See, I go to lunch at 1:30 or when I finish what I know I absolutely must get done before I go to lunch. after working with her for nearly a year, this nit wit still doesn't get that. She still feels the need to call me (and what is more annoying when you spend your entire day on the phone than getting a phone call from someone who sits ten feet away from you?) and ask, "are you going to take a lunch today?"
ANYWAY, so I'm finishing up my pre lunch stuff, and I've taken a call from her about lunch and I'm headed to the back office where I hide from her while I eat my Lean Cuisine. She stops me, "I just have one question."
GRRRRRRRR
It's a stupid question asked by a woman who likes to play stupid. she asks these questions for one of two reasons: she either wants to try and get me in trouble or she wants show her beloved Lumbergh that she's really very careful and detail orientated.
I answer her stupid question quickly and flee to the back office. My head hurts because my physical symptoms from my car accident in July are back, the headache, the dizzy spells, that sort of thing. Yes, I have to go back to the spine care clinic. Again, that's for another day. My feet and hands are nearly numb because I'm forced to work in an office that is poorly insulated with man who judges how warm the building is by how warm his all glass office is on a sunny day. He sits in a greenhouse and turns down the heat. Meanwhile, I'm sitting nine feet away from him in the outer office, wearing four shirts, two pairs of socks and my snow boots. Today I was freezing. Freezing. I spent my 56 minutes sitting in the back office which is even colder than mine, but PM is back there most of time as are the install guys, who are all good guys. Good company tends to warm me.
After lunch I get the mail. Every day. I put on my coat and walk to the mail box and get the mail. Every day for almost a year. and every day for almost a year, it takes Noelle C by surprise, even though I tell her I'm getting the mail. "Oh, did you take a walk after you spent an hour at lunch?"
Again, she is the master at playing dumb to get other people in trouble.
But the number one thing she does that annoys me is this: she simply MUST ask me a question the minute I step within spitting distance of my desk after lunch. It's like while I was taking my company demanded lunch time (believe me, I'd much rather skip it and leave earlier.) the world fell apart and it's my fault and if she doesn't hound me with something the world will end and Lumbergh will have to blame someone so it might as well be me instead of her.
And now, my friends, that's the set up for the point of this blog. the whole point is this conversation that happened 15 seconds after I got in from getting the mail after lunch. She said, "Come in here, I have a question I need cleared up."
That is never, ever good.
I walk into her office, really in no mood for nonsense, given the 7 hours I've already had to live through.
"I don't understand the notes on this one. This was cancelled, but it doesn't say anything else."
I look at the notes in the customer's computer file. Yes, they had purchased from us, but had cancelled the order a day later. I took that call and killed the lead, meaning we were not to call this person ever again. My notes included these words, "dead lead. he is going in a different direction and cancelled his order."
So this is what I say, "Yes, he purchased from us. then he cancelled his order the next day and I refunded his deposit and he told me he was going in a different direction."
She says, "well, I wish I would have known that. I just called him to see if I can offer him a discount to go with us."
I point to the screen. "well, I did enter a reminder in the notes."
She says, "but I didnt' know anything of what you just told me about him cancelling his order and going with someone else. Next time can you tell me that or something?"
Again, I point to the list of notes. My name is right there, the words DEAD LEAD and the explanation are all there. "I did enter all that in the reminder note."
Have I mentioned she's told me several times she purposely doesn't read my notes? Oh yeah. It's only the main form of communication we have and she's told me she refuses to read my notes.
I look at her and realize that if I don't leave the office in that moment I will scream. I have zero patience for stupid at this point. So I say, "well, I entered all the information in the reminder notes." and I leave her office.
I take a stroll out to the shop where PM is working with a new installed. I figure if I have to be someplace cold anyway, I'm going to spend some time with people who don't make me insane. He apparently heard a bit of the conversation and asked me about it. I tell him. He knows. he has to work with Noelle c, too. His favorite thing is when she tells the customers anything they want to hear, whether we can fulfill her promises or not, and then passes the customers on to him. I've told her to stop doing that mostly because if PM isn't around I have to take those calls and then I get to be the one who tells the customers that no, we aren't going to fix what we installed in their home because they decided it was a good idea to clog dance in gold shoes all over it. "BUT THE OTHER GIRL SAID YOU Would."
The other girl is an idiot.
I return to my desk three minutes later, take a deep breath, and my phone rings.
"Come in here please."
for a woman who gripes about how she never gets to get up from her desk (she also likes to announce how many hours it's been since she used the restroom.) she does like to make me come to her a lot.
I go into her office and she hands me a note. "I hope you're not going to cop an attitude about what I said before. I was just trying to get all the information clear."
It is at that point, friends, that I step outside myself and say, "this is what I'm doing with my life. I'm forced to work with a passive aggressive paranoid nit wit who is in love with the boss and sees me as a threat for his affection and therefore must be cowed to at all times or suffer the wrath of her rage and angry paranoia.
the note she handed me reiterates that I'd better not be mad at her because she's just trying to do her job and that if I have a problem with that then maybe I'd better think about whether or not I am doing everything I can to communicate properly with her.
Yep. This is what I'm doing with my life now.
The upside is that I have a series of work place books that will probably never have an end, thanks to her. So there's that.
do you ever sit back and wonder about what got you to the point in your life where you are right now? Working for a company that works with plumbing, we get into some really mucky situations a lot. I know PM, who has a degree in music, sat back recently as foul water and various gunky matter spewed out of a shower drain and onto his shoes, and said, "So, this is what I'm doing with my life now."
Well, that happened to me today. To understand this conversation fully, all you need to know is that every time Noelle C and I contact a customer, or have contact with a customer we have to make a reminder note in the computer database so that everyone who reads that customer's file will know how often we contacted that customer and what the result of each contact was.
Now you know everything about my job. anyone want it?
Anyway, today Noelle C decided that my day wasn't stupid enough. I'd spent the morning fighting with my horribly outdated and woefully under powered computer. I only ask him, and yes my computer is a boy, to do two things a day and today he decided he wasn't going to do either. So after fighting with him for two hours, I then called the company IT department. Normally a call to IT fixes the computer in ten minutes or less.
Not today. Today I spent nearly 90 minutes on the phone, during which time the IT guy pointed out several times that I needed a new computer (it took me two years to get a new copier for the office, and that was something that everyone used. A new computer will probably show up the day I purchase it.) and also during which time Noelle C decided to announce to the entire office how SHE HAD TO COVER FOR ME NOW THAT I WAS ON THE PHONE WITH IT.
I wasn't shopping on Ebay. I was trying to get my stupid computer to work.
Anyway, after spending the bulk of my day trying to get things to WORK at my work station, I then had to play catch up on my customer calls...see, even though Noelle C told everyone she was covering for me and doing my job for me, the reality is, as it always is, that I'm expected to do my job, and her job, and no one is going to do much about it. She's far too busy these days deciding if she's still in love with her beloved Lumbergh or if the NEW GUY is really the one she loves. Thats' a topic for another blog.
ANYWAY, by the time it was time for my lunch, something else Noelle C likes to announce to the entire office. See, I go to lunch at 1:30 or when I finish what I know I absolutely must get done before I go to lunch. after working with her for nearly a year, this nit wit still doesn't get that. She still feels the need to call me (and what is more annoying when you spend your entire day on the phone than getting a phone call from someone who sits ten feet away from you?) and ask, "are you going to take a lunch today?"
ANYWAY, so I'm finishing up my pre lunch stuff, and I've taken a call from her about lunch and I'm headed to the back office where I hide from her while I eat my Lean Cuisine. She stops me, "I just have one question."
GRRRRRRRR
It's a stupid question asked by a woman who likes to play stupid. she asks these questions for one of two reasons: she either wants to try and get me in trouble or she wants show her beloved Lumbergh that she's really very careful and detail orientated.
I answer her stupid question quickly and flee to the back office. My head hurts because my physical symptoms from my car accident in July are back, the headache, the dizzy spells, that sort of thing. Yes, I have to go back to the spine care clinic. Again, that's for another day. My feet and hands are nearly numb because I'm forced to work in an office that is poorly insulated with man who judges how warm the building is by how warm his all glass office is on a sunny day. He sits in a greenhouse and turns down the heat. Meanwhile, I'm sitting nine feet away from him in the outer office, wearing four shirts, two pairs of socks and my snow boots. Today I was freezing. Freezing. I spent my 56 minutes sitting in the back office which is even colder than mine, but PM is back there most of time as are the install guys, who are all good guys. Good company tends to warm me.
After lunch I get the mail. Every day. I put on my coat and walk to the mail box and get the mail. Every day for almost a year. and every day for almost a year, it takes Noelle C by surprise, even though I tell her I'm getting the mail. "Oh, did you take a walk after you spent an hour at lunch?"
Again, she is the master at playing dumb to get other people in trouble.
But the number one thing she does that annoys me is this: she simply MUST ask me a question the minute I step within spitting distance of my desk after lunch. It's like while I was taking my company demanded lunch time (believe me, I'd much rather skip it and leave earlier.) the world fell apart and it's my fault and if she doesn't hound me with something the world will end and Lumbergh will have to blame someone so it might as well be me instead of her.
And now, my friends, that's the set up for the point of this blog. the whole point is this conversation that happened 15 seconds after I got in from getting the mail after lunch. She said, "Come in here, I have a question I need cleared up."
That is never, ever good.
I walk into her office, really in no mood for nonsense, given the 7 hours I've already had to live through.
"I don't understand the notes on this one. This was cancelled, but it doesn't say anything else."
I look at the notes in the customer's computer file. Yes, they had purchased from us, but had cancelled the order a day later. I took that call and killed the lead, meaning we were not to call this person ever again. My notes included these words, "dead lead. he is going in a different direction and cancelled his order."
So this is what I say, "Yes, he purchased from us. then he cancelled his order the next day and I refunded his deposit and he told me he was going in a different direction."
She says, "well, I wish I would have known that. I just called him to see if I can offer him a discount to go with us."
I point to the screen. "well, I did enter a reminder in the notes."
She says, "but I didnt' know anything of what you just told me about him cancelling his order and going with someone else. Next time can you tell me that or something?"
Again, I point to the list of notes. My name is right there, the words DEAD LEAD and the explanation are all there. "I did enter all that in the reminder note."
Have I mentioned she's told me several times she purposely doesn't read my notes? Oh yeah. It's only the main form of communication we have and she's told me she refuses to read my notes.
I look at her and realize that if I don't leave the office in that moment I will scream. I have zero patience for stupid at this point. So I say, "well, I entered all the information in the reminder notes." and I leave her office.
I take a stroll out to the shop where PM is working with a new installed. I figure if I have to be someplace cold anyway, I'm going to spend some time with people who don't make me insane. He apparently heard a bit of the conversation and asked me about it. I tell him. He knows. he has to work with Noelle c, too. His favorite thing is when she tells the customers anything they want to hear, whether we can fulfill her promises or not, and then passes the customers on to him. I've told her to stop doing that mostly because if PM isn't around I have to take those calls and then I get to be the one who tells the customers that no, we aren't going to fix what we installed in their home because they decided it was a good idea to clog dance in gold shoes all over it. "BUT THE OTHER GIRL SAID YOU Would."
The other girl is an idiot.
I return to my desk three minutes later, take a deep breath, and my phone rings.
"Come in here please."
for a woman who gripes about how she never gets to get up from her desk (she also likes to announce how many hours it's been since she used the restroom.) she does like to make me come to her a lot.
I go into her office and she hands me a note. "I hope you're not going to cop an attitude about what I said before. I was just trying to get all the information clear."
It is at that point, friends, that I step outside myself and say, "this is what I'm doing with my life. I'm forced to work with a passive aggressive paranoid nit wit who is in love with the boss and sees me as a threat for his affection and therefore must be cowed to at all times or suffer the wrath of her rage and angry paranoia.
the note she handed me reiterates that I'd better not be mad at her because she's just trying to do her job and that if I have a problem with that then maybe I'd better think about whether or not I am doing everything I can to communicate properly with her.
Yep. This is what I'm doing with my life now.
The upside is that I have a series of work place books that will probably never have an end, thanks to her. So there's that.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Sarah's (semi) triumphant return to Gold's!
Good afternoon!
As many of you know I was in a car accident this past July. Since then, my life has been a whirlwind of doctor's appointments, physical therapy, chiropractor's appointments, and rest. Well, finally, last week, the physical therapist cleared me to go back to the gym...to swim.
See, the injury to my neck was sort of mysterious for a while, and now that they've figured out I won't die if I exercise (which blows my theory about exercise) they feel it will be okay if I swim a little.
So, eager to be back at Gold's gym, I packed my bag and headed to the pool after work.
Here's the thing: It's November. It's Wisconsin. It's COLD right now. So I was cold when I get to the gym. I was cold when I checked in, cold when I went to the locker room, cold when I changed into my new swim suit which looks fantastic on me (well, it looks as good as a swim suit can on my body) except it has a snap at the waist band that keeps popping open. It's not like it's a load bearing snap, it's just there and it pops open all the time. Annoying. Anyway, I was cold getting to the pool and really cold looking at the water.
I stood there, telling myself that once I got into the pool I would be okay. I would swim a few laps and feel really good about myself. So I stepped down on the first step into the pool.
I'm not saying the water was cold. Maybe my foot was already in the first stages of frostbite. Who can say? All I know is, sticking one foot in the water was quite enough for one day. I decided we were going to take this return to Gold's slowly...baby steps...like today a foot in the pool, and maybe next month I'll go in up to my ankles.
Perfectly satisfied with my progress for the day, I hit the hot tub.
My time in the hot tub, because I have a weird form of eczema, had to be short as well, but being warm for the first time all day was sort of intoxicating, so I sat in the water a bit. Two young women (I'm guessing they were young, women over the age of 30 and the dress size of 12 shouldn't wear string bikinis, but I didn't have my glasses on.) entered the pool area. There was no one else in the entire space, no one in the hot tub, no one else in the pool. Not wearing my glasses, I had a hard time really making out features and was shocked at first to think that one of the women was bottomless. Then I realized that her string bikini bottom was the exact same pale pink as her skin.
The two women got into the pool and stood there. Just stood there, talking. Now, I've had a lot of conversations with friends, and many of them in the pool. But I can't think of one time I had a conversation with someone in a pool while I was standing completely still, unless watching children was involved. So here these two women are, in the tiniest of bikinis, each of them, standing in the pool at Gold's, doing nothing. (Which, by the way, is completely different from me...I stuck a toe in and moved along. That's doing nothing, but doing it out of the way of everyone else.)
I don't know if these women got annoyed that I was just sitting there, minding my own business, but I started to feel like they were not pleased that I was encroaching on their chat time. (Gee, sorry. Ya know, Starbucks is just across the parking lot, and THEY encourage people to do nothing and chat.) After a few minutes of trying to just enjoy the hot tub while unable to ignore the fact that both of them were staring in my direction the entire time, (and seriously...it's a big space, you gotta look at me the whole time?) I finally gave up and got out of the hot tub.
Now, pay attention here, because this is where Sarah starts to believe in Karma a tiny little bit. See, I was feeling all superior to these women because, hey, I came, I did something, and I was going. They were just standing there, doing nothing. So I had a rare moment of feeling superior to someone in a bikini. That doesn't happen often.
And it didn't last long. Did I mention I was NOT wearing my glasses? Oh, and if you have ever been to a gym pool, you know the doors to the men's and the women's locker rooms look waaaaaaaaaaay too much alike.
Do I really need to tell you more?
Okay, so there I was, feeling superior to the two do nothings who were STILL STARING AT ME. And, as I made the turn for the locker room, they burst into laughter.
You guessed it. I'd headed through the door to the men's locker room.
Yes, baby steps back to the gym. Like maybe next time I get the courage to go in there, I DON'T go to the men's locker room. That would be a magnificent next step.
As many of you know I was in a car accident this past July. Since then, my life has been a whirlwind of doctor's appointments, physical therapy, chiropractor's appointments, and rest. Well, finally, last week, the physical therapist cleared me to go back to the gym...to swim.
See, the injury to my neck was sort of mysterious for a while, and now that they've figured out I won't die if I exercise (which blows my theory about exercise) they feel it will be okay if I swim a little.
So, eager to be back at Gold's gym, I packed my bag and headed to the pool after work.
Here's the thing: It's November. It's Wisconsin. It's COLD right now. So I was cold when I get to the gym. I was cold when I checked in, cold when I went to the locker room, cold when I changed into my new swim suit which looks fantastic on me (well, it looks as good as a swim suit can on my body) except it has a snap at the waist band that keeps popping open. It's not like it's a load bearing snap, it's just there and it pops open all the time. Annoying. Anyway, I was cold getting to the pool and really cold looking at the water.
I stood there, telling myself that once I got into the pool I would be okay. I would swim a few laps and feel really good about myself. So I stepped down on the first step into the pool.
I'm not saying the water was cold. Maybe my foot was already in the first stages of frostbite. Who can say? All I know is, sticking one foot in the water was quite enough for one day. I decided we were going to take this return to Gold's slowly...baby steps...like today a foot in the pool, and maybe next month I'll go in up to my ankles.
Perfectly satisfied with my progress for the day, I hit the hot tub.
My time in the hot tub, because I have a weird form of eczema, had to be short as well, but being warm for the first time all day was sort of intoxicating, so I sat in the water a bit. Two young women (I'm guessing they were young, women over the age of 30 and the dress size of 12 shouldn't wear string bikinis, but I didn't have my glasses on.) entered the pool area. There was no one else in the entire space, no one in the hot tub, no one else in the pool. Not wearing my glasses, I had a hard time really making out features and was shocked at first to think that one of the women was bottomless. Then I realized that her string bikini bottom was the exact same pale pink as her skin.
The two women got into the pool and stood there. Just stood there, talking. Now, I've had a lot of conversations with friends, and many of them in the pool. But I can't think of one time I had a conversation with someone in a pool while I was standing completely still, unless watching children was involved. So here these two women are, in the tiniest of bikinis, each of them, standing in the pool at Gold's, doing nothing. (Which, by the way, is completely different from me...I stuck a toe in and moved along. That's doing nothing, but doing it out of the way of everyone else.)
I don't know if these women got annoyed that I was just sitting there, minding my own business, but I started to feel like they were not pleased that I was encroaching on their chat time. (Gee, sorry. Ya know, Starbucks is just across the parking lot, and THEY encourage people to do nothing and chat.) After a few minutes of trying to just enjoy the hot tub while unable to ignore the fact that both of them were staring in my direction the entire time, (and seriously...it's a big space, you gotta look at me the whole time?) I finally gave up and got out of the hot tub.
Now, pay attention here, because this is where Sarah starts to believe in Karma a tiny little bit. See, I was feeling all superior to these women because, hey, I came, I did something, and I was going. They were just standing there, doing nothing. So I had a rare moment of feeling superior to someone in a bikini. That doesn't happen often.
And it didn't last long. Did I mention I was NOT wearing my glasses? Oh, and if you have ever been to a gym pool, you know the doors to the men's and the women's locker rooms look waaaaaaaaaaay too much alike.
Do I really need to tell you more?
Okay, so there I was, feeling superior to the two do nothings who were STILL STARING AT ME. And, as I made the turn for the locker room, they burst into laughter.
You guessed it. I'd headed through the door to the men's locker room.
Yes, baby steps back to the gym. Like maybe next time I get the courage to go in there, I DON'T go to the men's locker room. That would be a magnificent next step.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
The Chronicles of Skippy: The final chapter
Good morning!
I've learned two things in the last few days:
1) You never, ever stop being a parent and
2) Your children really do inherit a lot more from you than you might even think.
Skippy got to Seattle last Thursday after several days on the road. He'd visited his last friend, he'd toured his last book store/record store/unusual fast food place/donut shop. (He really liked Voodoo Donuts in Portland OR) He was headed for home and he had a deadline: Minneapolis by 7 Pm Saturday or his cousin, Annalee, was going to punch him.
I should back up. See, Annalee got married this past June, you may have read my blogs about the hilarity we experienced on the wedding trip. But Skippy, through of series of events I have yet to decipher, did not get to the wedding. So, when Annalee her sister Dana planned a surprise B-day party for Hubby's sis Joanie, Annalee made it very clear that Skippy was to get his fanny to the party, or she would punch him.
Now you're caught up.
Skippy's plan was to drive, sleeping briefly in rest stops. We weren't too concerned, he'd done long driving trips before, so the 24 hours between him and the birthday party wasn't all that long.
He started the trek early-ish Friday morning with plenty of time to make it with stops along the way. He had his car loaded and Susan, his faithful GPS companion.
About 3 AM Saturday morning, he sent me a text. "It's Toasty" he said, and included a picture of the the local weather forecast in Montana. 18 degrees F. Quite the change from Arizona's 108 degrees F a few days earlier, but that's how things are in a country as geographically huge as the US. I sent him a motherly text (I'm fairly good at those now) and, as unlikely as it seems for me, I went back to sleep.
I should catch you up on that. Since my car accident in July I haven't been sleeping well. I can't fall asleep much before midnight, I always wake up in the middle, and I can't get back asleep. By 5 I'm up for the day. This non-sleep habit has actually worked out well while Skippy's been on the road, since he and I have conversed by text quite a bit in the wee hours of the day.
So falling sound asleep after a 3 am text was not normal for me. I woke at 7:30 thinking all sorts of good things, like how I might have turned a corner with my injuries, or how spending a couple hours with Dee, catching up on what's happening at Gold's gym (and I've been cleared to do a few things there, so I'm getting back to the gym soon! Watch out!) might have eased the load of the mental black hole I've been carrying around. Anyway, I was refreshed, awake, and in a good mood.
That did not last long. A text from Hubby, who was in La Crosse to get his mother to take her to Joanie's b-day party in the Twin Cities (are you following this travelogue?) changed everything.
"Call me when you get this. Everyone is FINE."
Well we all know that just isn't true. When you get a phone call that starts out with "everyone is fine," your first response is always "WHAT HAPPENED?"
Oh, see, Hubby and Peaches went to the B-day party. I was a last minute scratch since I just can't travel that far right now. Between the blinding headaches, the achy leg, and the sore neck, sitting up in the car for more than a couple hours sounded like far too much torture. So I'm in Milwaukee, Hubby and Peaches are headed to Minneapolis, and Skippy...
Well, it's like this: Skippy was driving down a mountain in Montana, going well under the speed limit since it was snowing. A truck in front of him was going far more slowly, so he moved into the other lane on the interstate. In doing so, his vehicle hit a patch of ice, spun, clipped the truck (seriously, there are two vehicles on the road, it's 5 AM...3 AM local time...and he manages to make contact? Yes, he is his mother's child.) spun again, and wound up on the side of the road.
He very suddenly had a new respect for my accident in July. He also recalled an accident I had when he was in kindergarten...and yes, check the back blogs, it's there. He wasn't hurt...until he got out of the car and fell on another patch of ice and bruised his leg. His car, however, was another story.
Skippy's a smart kid. instead of calling the parent he figured would probably be awake, he called the parent he knew wouldn't freak out. Which is why, by the time I called Hubby at 7 AM, Skippy was already ensconced in a hotel in Livingston, Montana. He was able to drive the 8 miles from the accident site, but it was clear from pictures that the Oldsmobile wasn't going much further, certainly NOT to Minneapolis.
Annalee was gearing up for a punch.
Hubby and I worked out a plan where Skippy would get on a Greyhound bus and get from Livingston to Minneapolis, sans vehicle. Hubby would contact a body shop in Livingston (there is one...but only one, we're told) and figure out what to do with the car.
Skippy didn't like the idea of leaving the car, and most of his possessions. That car has been home to him for almost seventeen days. I tried to assure him that bus travel is great...but having logged more bus time than everyone else in my house combined, I have to admit, it's not as romantic as one might think. Still, it was cheaper than a plane and faster than Amtrak. Thus, by 4 pm Montana time, Skippy had repacked only the most important items and got on a bus.
20 hours is a very long time to be doing anything, but riding on a bus with no headphones for the iPod, and very little juice left in the phone, and no way to charge it since his charger was attached to the car, that seems like an eternity. I hope Skippy took notes, because a trip like that can start a literary career. (I should know...)
His texts along the way were great. He had five transfers through the night, but his first one was probably the worst since a young gent approached him and asked him to "hold something of value" for him.
Skippy's text to me: Everything's great except this drug dealer won't leave me alone.
Oh yeah, bus travel...it's romance and adventure.
Skippy and the rest of us made it through the night. Joanie's party went off just fine, I'm told. Annalee was ready to punch Skippy at the bus stop at 11 AM Sunday morning. I was surviving on gallons of coffee, prayer, and a lot of pacing. (Hey, I got my steps in!)
He arrived, on time, in Minneapolis, to much rejoicing and yes, Annalee did give him a punch. But the family spent some quality time at Mall of America (I still haven't been there...) They made there way home at a fairly relaxed pace...while I was sitting at home, waiting and waiting and waiting! Sure, I was happy he was okay, and yes I was glad they were having a good time. But moms, you'll all understand this: I needed to hug my boy!
Finally, by 9 PM Sunday, a mere 38 hours after I got the first text, Skippy was home! He was a little funky...bus travel is too full of romance and adventure to include showers...but he was home.
He shared with us the high points of the trip, and the low points. I'm sure as the days go on, he'll share more stories from the road. He unpacked his bags, all the vital items he couldn't leave in Montana. He brought his lap top, the coffee mugs he'd purchased along the way, all his new shirts...
and a box of VooDoo donuts.
"I actually have another box, but I couldn't fit it with my stuff, so it's still in my car."
Other things he left with the car: The accident report sheet he's supposed to fill out for the state patrol...oh, and all his dirty laundry.
I pity the guy that has to open that car up once we decide what we're going to do with it. I can't imagine that a box of donuts, 14 days of dirty laundry, and a crate of semi non perishable foods are going to smell BETTER after sitting in a closed car.
Still...it's so great to have him home. This experience has taught me one thing: I'm not ready for my kids to leave the nest just yet.
Of course, check in with me in a week...the euphoria will probably be gone once I start tripping over Skippys' shoes in the living room again.
I've learned two things in the last few days:
1) You never, ever stop being a parent and
2) Your children really do inherit a lot more from you than you might even think.
I should back up. See, Annalee got married this past June, you may have read my blogs about the hilarity we experienced on the wedding trip. But Skippy, through of series of events I have yet to decipher, did not get to the wedding. So, when Annalee her sister Dana planned a surprise B-day party for Hubby's sis Joanie, Annalee made it very clear that Skippy was to get his fanny to the party, or she would punch him.
Now you're caught up.
Skippy's plan was to drive, sleeping briefly in rest stops. We weren't too concerned, he'd done long driving trips before, so the 24 hours between him and the birthday party wasn't all that long.
He started the trek early-ish Friday morning with plenty of time to make it with stops along the way. He had his car loaded and Susan, his faithful GPS companion.
 |
| Montana...Skippy gets there October 5 |
 |
| Arizona...Skippy got there September 25. |
That did not last long. A text from Hubby, who was in La Crosse to get his mother to take her to Joanie's b-day party in the Twin Cities (are you following this travelogue?) changed everything.
"Call me when you get this. Everyone is FINE."
Well we all know that just isn't true. When you get a phone call that starts out with "everyone is fine," your first response is always "WHAT HAPPENED?"
Oh, see, Hubby and Peaches went to the B-day party. I was a last minute scratch since I just can't travel that far right now. Between the blinding headaches, the achy leg, and the sore neck, sitting up in the car for more than a couple hours sounded like far too much torture. So I'm in Milwaukee, Hubby and Peaches are headed to Minneapolis, and Skippy...
Well, it's like this: Skippy was driving down a mountain in Montana, going well under the speed limit since it was snowing. A truck in front of him was going far more slowly, so he moved into the other lane on the interstate. In doing so, his vehicle hit a patch of ice, spun, clipped the truck (seriously, there are two vehicles on the road, it's 5 AM...3 AM local time...and he manages to make contact? Yes, he is his mother's child.) spun again, and wound up on the side of the road.
He very suddenly had a new respect for my accident in July. He also recalled an accident I had when he was in kindergarten...and yes, check the back blogs, it's there. He wasn't hurt...until he got out of the car and fell on another patch of ice and bruised his leg. His car, however, was another story.
Annalee was gearing up for a punch.
Hubby and I worked out a plan where Skippy would get on a Greyhound bus and get from Livingston to Minneapolis, sans vehicle. Hubby would contact a body shop in Livingston (there is one...but only one, we're told) and figure out what to do with the car.
20 hours is a very long time to be doing anything, but riding on a bus with no headphones for the iPod, and very little juice left in the phone, and no way to charge it since his charger was attached to the car, that seems like an eternity. I hope Skippy took notes, because a trip like that can start a literary career. (I should know...)
His texts along the way were great. He had five transfers through the night, but his first one was probably the worst since a young gent approached him and asked him to "hold something of value" for him.
Skippy's text to me: Everything's great except this drug dealer won't leave me alone.
Oh yeah, bus travel...it's romance and adventure.
Skippy and the rest of us made it through the night. Joanie's party went off just fine, I'm told. Annalee was ready to punch Skippy at the bus stop at 11 AM Sunday morning. I was surviving on gallons of coffee, prayer, and a lot of pacing. (Hey, I got my steps in!)He arrived, on time, in Minneapolis, to much rejoicing and yes, Annalee did give him a punch. But the family spent some quality time at Mall of America (I still haven't been there...) They made there way home at a fairly relaxed pace...while I was sitting at home, waiting and waiting and waiting! Sure, I was happy he was okay, and yes I was glad they were having a good time. But moms, you'll all understand this: I needed to hug my boy!
He shared with us the high points of the trip, and the low points. I'm sure as the days go on, he'll share more stories from the road. He unpacked his bags, all the vital items he couldn't leave in Montana. He brought his lap top, the coffee mugs he'd purchased along the way, all his new shirts...
"I actually have another box, but I couldn't fit it with my stuff, so it's still in my car."
Other things he left with the car: The accident report sheet he's supposed to fill out for the state patrol...oh, and all his dirty laundry.
I pity the guy that has to open that car up once we decide what we're going to do with it. I can't imagine that a box of donuts, 14 days of dirty laundry, and a crate of semi non perishable foods are going to smell BETTER after sitting in a closed car.
Still...it's so great to have him home. This experience has taught me one thing: I'm not ready for my kids to leave the nest just yet.
Of course, check in with me in a week...the euphoria will probably be gone once I start tripping over Skippys' shoes in the living room again.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Apparently, Biggest Loser isn't the only thing I'm not fluffy enough for!
Good morning!
Pardon the dangling preposition in the title, but somehow saying, "For which I'm not fluffy enough" seemed a little too formal, given the topic of discussion today.
Most of you know I was in a car accident two months ago, and since that car accident I've been on a very strict schedule of Physical Therapy, Doctors' appointments, daily headaches and dizzy spells. Well my doctor finally decided to read my physical therapists' notes two weeks ago, and now we can add MRI and Neuro surgeon to the list of medical professionals profiting from my love of McDonald's McChicken sandwiches. (which I have not had since the accident, BTW.)
So Wednesday was my MRI. For those of you not familiar which this process, Medical Resonance Imaging is where they shove the affected area of your body into a large tube which is, I'm told, loaded with magnets and they they take images of the affected area, tiny bit by tiny bit, sort of in layers. That way, if there's even the tiniest bit of your brain, or your neck, or whatever that's damaged, it will show up on the images.
Not so bad, right? Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.
Well let's back up. Two weeks ago I went to a completely...utterly...and ridiculously pointless office visit with my doctor. This is the guy who forgets what meds he's prescribed me for my hands, and always seems surprised when he reads my chart. "Oh, why are you taking Meloxicam?"
Dude, you prescribed it for me..and renew the prescription every other month.
Anyway, after a PT session, the therapist wrote another strongly worded email to Dr. Duh, as I will now call him, telling him, again, that I needed an MRI, that there was something really wrong with my neck. So his nurse, Nurse Also Duh, told me that we'd be doing an MRI at my next appointment. At least, I'm pretty sure that's what she said.
No, in reality, he wanted to see if I really NEEDED an MRI. Or something. But first, he wanted to be sure I was good an riled so the night of my appointment he made sure he was running more than an hour behind. We finally get into the room, and I'm already cranky, and he yanks on my head a little and they weigh me...why...why...WHY? And he says, "Yeah, you should get an MRI."
Doctor Duh...thank you for wasting two hours of my life.
The he says, "And here's a number for a nuero surgeon. Call him, get on his radar."
That's what he said, "Get on his radar."
WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?
Well I'm a dutiful soldier, so I called the Neuro guy...and left a message. Then I scheduled and MRI, for which Dr. Duh had not sent a note for preauthorization to my insurance company as he said he would. Which mean another phone call to Nurse Also Duh. All of this from the Culver's parking lot during my 54 minute lunch. (You now, because Lumbergh won't let me make personal calls during the day and doctors and lawyers don't answer their phones after 4:30 Pm.
A week went by, and no call from the nuero guy. So I called Nurse also Duh and said, "So what does, 'get on the rader' mean?"
"Oh, you're supposed to make an appointment with him. Dr. Duh called in a referral."
Clear, concise English. What a concept.
So I call nuero guy again, and this time his Valley Girl picks up the phone. (For those of you who don't know what a Valley Girl is, look it up.) Turns out Dr. Duh DID NOT call in a referral, so I have to spend 27 minutes of my 54 minute lunch going over everything with Valley Girl. But I have an appointment. All that's left is doing the MRI.
So Wednesday after work I don every piece of clothing I own that doesn't involve metal, right down to the jog bra. (I've been wearing them more often lately, funny how comfortable you can be when you really don't care how your boobs are positioned.) Hubby drove me to the hospital, three blocks away.
I should mention, I'm slightly claustrophobic. This was something I brought up with Dr. Duh. This was something I brought up with the scheduler. This was something I brought up with the skinny nurse who walked me into the room with the tube. Someone mentioned sedation...
Skinny Nurse gave me earplugs and the soft ear muffs...very sexy...and she explained the test. I lay back on the sliding table. Not bad, there was a picture of mountains and rivers on the ceiling. Then she handed me a squeeze thingy and said, "If you need anything squeeze this." Then the table started sliding into the tube.
The minute my hands brushed the side and top of the tube I was able to answer the question, "How claustrophobic are you?"
The answer: "I AM SUPER CLAUSTROPHOBIC!"
I think I broke the squeezy thing. I kept saying, "no, no, no I need out of this right now!"
They got me out and suddenly there was this lovely gentleman, we'll call him Gary, standing there. He had the look and sound of a younger James Earl Jones. Maybe not, but in my head he did. He and skinny nurse talked about doing the test a different day, maybe a day when Dr. DUH actually prescribed something for me that wouldn't make me feel like an Edgar Allen Poe character while in the tube.
Then I thought I about all the appointments depending on the results of this test. I thought about the lawyers and the doctors and the nurses who all needed this information and what a pain in the butt it would be if they had to wait. And how they could make my life even more jumbled and less my own than they all already have.
I stuck the earplugs back in my ears and said, "Do this quickly."
If you haven't had an MRI, this might be hard to imagine, but it's sort of like being stuck head first in a tiny garbage can while the cast of STOMP is beating the can on the outside, to the tunes of the soundtrack from everything loud, violent video game ever. There's cold air blowing on your head all the time, I think that's supposed to help the claustrophobia, but it just made my eyebrows itch, which I couldn't scratch because my arms were pretty much pinned to my sides which made the claustrophobia WORSE.
Every so often where would be a break in the buzzing, banging, whirring, pounding sounds and then Gary would say, "how are you doing?"
I wanted to be a smart aleck, but I also wanted out as soon as possible. So instead of saying, "How do you think I'm doing you sadist in scrubs? I'm living a nightmare and every movie I've ever seen about being buried alive is running through my head." I said, "Fine."
I started to wonder why I had so MANY movies about being buried alive in my mental repertoire. Seriously, it's shocking how many movies I've seen where being buried alive is the central theme. And it's shocking just how fast all those scenes flicked in my head like they were on a film loop.
At one point I knew I was starting to feel a bit less creeped out when Gary said, "How ya doin?" And I said, "Any chance we could get some Rick Springfield music pumped in here instead of all the banging?"
"Who?"
Oh sure...I get the one middle aged guy on the planet who doesn't know who Rick Springfield is. (Meanwhile, a Facebook friend of mine reports she got to have Rick's music playing while she had her MRI. Clearly, my medical system is sub par.)
Finally, the table slides out of the tube. Gary is there and he helps me sit up. "We3'd better be done," I say, "I'm not going back in there."
"No, I'm giving you a break. We have 15 more minutes. You were squirming too much."
At this point I'm about in tears. Skinny Nurse comes in and she says, "How did you do?"
"I don't know, I have 15 more minutes."
"What? No, you're done...right?"
"No, Gary says I was moving too much, I have to go back in."
Skinny nurse glares at Gary who says, "Uh, I was KIDDING."
Dude, you don't know who Rick Springfield is AND you're joking with me about putting me back in that high tech coffin? Strike one and two.
I will give Gary this...he came out later and talked to me about the test and about how he is also claustrophobic. I then asked about the open sided MRI machines I'd seen before. He told me there aren't many of them around, and really those are only for extreme cases, and the pictures never come out as good.
What I heard was, "Sarah, you're not fluffy enough for an open sided MRI."
Oh great...so I'm too skinny to be on Biggest Loser and I'm too skinny to be put in a tube that doesn't resemble a gigantic tampon holder...of DEATH.
So there's that.
And now we wait. We wait for someone other than Dr. Duh to read the tests. We wait for Valley Girl's boss to see me. And we wait.
I hate waiting...
Pardon the dangling preposition in the title, but somehow saying, "For which I'm not fluffy enough" seemed a little too formal, given the topic of discussion today.
 |
| The sandwich that changed my life... |
So Wednesday was my MRI. For those of you not familiar which this process, Medical Resonance Imaging is where they shove the affected area of your body into a large tube which is, I'm told, loaded with magnets and they they take images of the affected area, tiny bit by tiny bit, sort of in layers. That way, if there's even the tiniest bit of your brain, or your neck, or whatever that's damaged, it will show up on the images.Not so bad, right? Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.
Well let's back up. Two weeks ago I went to a completely...utterly...and ridiculously pointless office visit with my doctor. This is the guy who forgets what meds he's prescribed me for my hands, and always seems surprised when he reads my chart. "Oh, why are you taking Meloxicam?"
Dude, you prescribed it for me..and renew the prescription every other month.
Anyway, after a PT session, the therapist wrote another strongly worded email to Dr. Duh, as I will now call him, telling him, again, that I needed an MRI, that there was something really wrong with my neck. So his nurse, Nurse Also Duh, told me that we'd be doing an MRI at my next appointment. At least, I'm pretty sure that's what she said.
No, in reality, he wanted to see if I really NEEDED an MRI. Or something. But first, he wanted to be sure I was good an riled so the night of my appointment he made sure he was running more than an hour behind. We finally get into the room, and I'm already cranky, and he yanks on my head a little and they weigh me...why...why...WHY? And he says, "Yeah, you should get an MRI."
Doctor Duh...thank you for wasting two hours of my life.
The he says, "And here's a number for a nuero surgeon. Call him, get on his radar."
That's what he said, "Get on his radar."
WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?
Well I'm a dutiful soldier, so I called the Neuro guy...and left a message. Then I scheduled and MRI, for which Dr. Duh had not sent a note for preauthorization to my insurance company as he said he would. Which mean another phone call to Nurse Also Duh. All of this from the Culver's parking lot during my 54 minute lunch. (You now, because Lumbergh won't let me make personal calls during the day and doctors and lawyers don't answer their phones after 4:30 Pm.
A week went by, and no call from the nuero guy. So I called Nurse also Duh and said, "So what does, 'get on the rader' mean?"
"Oh, you're supposed to make an appointment with him. Dr. Duh called in a referral."
Clear, concise English. What a concept.
 |
| So, like you're gonna, you know, like fill out paperwork. |
So Wednesday after work I don every piece of clothing I own that doesn't involve metal, right down to the jog bra. (I've been wearing them more often lately, funny how comfortable you can be when you really don't care how your boobs are positioned.) Hubby drove me to the hospital, three blocks away.
I should mention, I'm slightly claustrophobic. This was something I brought up with Dr. Duh. This was something I brought up with the scheduler. This was something I brought up with the skinny nurse who walked me into the room with the tube. Someone mentioned sedation...
Skinny Nurse gave me earplugs and the soft ear muffs...very sexy...and she explained the test. I lay back on the sliding table. Not bad, there was a picture of mountains and rivers on the ceiling. Then she handed me a squeeze thingy and said, "If you need anything squeeze this." Then the table started sliding into the tube.
The minute my hands brushed the side and top of the tube I was able to answer the question, "How claustrophobic are you?"
The answer: "I AM SUPER CLAUSTROPHOBIC!"
They got me out and suddenly there was this lovely gentleman, we'll call him Gary, standing there. He had the look and sound of a younger James Earl Jones. Maybe not, but in my head he did. He and skinny nurse talked about doing the test a different day, maybe a day when Dr. DUH actually prescribed something for me that wouldn't make me feel like an Edgar Allen Poe character while in the tube.
Then I thought I about all the appointments depending on the results of this test. I thought about the lawyers and the doctors and the nurses who all needed this information and what a pain in the butt it would be if they had to wait. And how they could make my life even more jumbled and less my own than they all already have.
I stuck the earplugs back in my ears and said, "Do this quickly."
If you haven't had an MRI, this might be hard to imagine, but it's sort of like being stuck head first in a tiny garbage can while the cast of STOMP is beating the can on the outside, to the tunes of the soundtrack from everything loud, violent video game ever. There's cold air blowing on your head all the time, I think that's supposed to help the claustrophobia, but it just made my eyebrows itch, which I couldn't scratch because my arms were pretty much pinned to my sides which made the claustrophobia WORSE.
Every so often where would be a break in the buzzing, banging, whirring, pounding sounds and then Gary would say, "how are you doing?"
I wanted to be a smart aleck, but I also wanted out as soon as possible. So instead of saying, "How do you think I'm doing you sadist in scrubs? I'm living a nightmare and every movie I've ever seen about being buried alive is running through my head." I said, "Fine."
I started to wonder why I had so MANY movies about being buried alive in my mental repertoire. Seriously, it's shocking how many movies I've seen where being buried alive is the central theme. And it's shocking just how fast all those scenes flicked in my head like they were on a film loop.
 |
| I would have rescued Sarah from the evil tube. |
"Who?"
Oh sure...I get the one middle aged guy on the planet who doesn't know who Rick Springfield is. (Meanwhile, a Facebook friend of mine reports she got to have Rick's music playing while she had her MRI. Clearly, my medical system is sub par.)
Finally, the table slides out of the tube. Gary is there and he helps me sit up. "We3'd better be done," I say, "I'm not going back in there."
"No, I'm giving you a break. We have 15 more minutes. You were squirming too much."
 |
| Sarah...I am your radiologist. |
At this point I'm about in tears. Skinny Nurse comes in and she says, "How did you do?"
"I don't know, I have 15 more minutes."
"What? No, you're done...right?"
"No, Gary says I was moving too much, I have to go back in."
Skinny nurse glares at Gary who says, "Uh, I was KIDDING."
Dude, you don't know who Rick Springfield is AND you're joking with me about putting me back in that high tech coffin? Strike one and two.
I will give Gary this...he came out later and talked to me about the test and about how he is also claustrophobic. I then asked about the open sided MRI machines I'd seen before. He told me there aren't many of them around, and really those are only for extreme cases, and the pictures never come out as good.
What I heard was, "Sarah, you're not fluffy enough for an open sided MRI."
 |
| Yes Conda, I can hear you laughing at me. |
So there's that.
And now we wait. We wait for someone other than Dr. Duh to read the tests. We wait for Valley Girl's boss to see me. And we wait.
I hate waiting...
Friday, September 14, 2012
Five for Friday: Maybe God likes me Fluffy.
Good Friday morning!
Well, it's a good day for me. Why? First, NBM went to the Green Bay Packers game last night and stayed out past his bedtime. This means there will be no NBM in the office today. Also, it's a Noelle C Free day, so there'll be No whackadoodle doo. Finally, The Green Bay Packers WON last night over their arch rivals, the Chicago Bears in a game that was so fun to watch, it made me feel sorry for countries who DON'T have American football on a regular basis.
Today's Five list is the product of a lot of thought. I've got a birthday coming up in a few months and I realize that I'm really, really tired of a lot of things and fighting what is turning out to be a losing battle might just be one of those things.
Anyway, enjoy!
Five reasons I might be meant to be fluffy.
5) All my favorite relatives are fluffy.
Even as a kid I didn't enjoy the company of my less fluffed relatives as much as I did those who were fully fluffy. I'm starting to resemble my beloved God mother, my Aunt Carrie, and each day I look in the mirror, I realize that's not a completely bad thing.
4) Something always seems to get in the way, and it's not just that I'm slowly forming a physical bond with my couch.
I've been trying to lose weight for years, but the past nine months I wanted to train for a 5K. I never said anything about weight loss, I just wanted to train for the race. But it was one thing after another, starting with the speedy degeneration of my thumb joints earlier this spring to the car accident this summer. Now my after work time is filled with doctor's appointments and physical therapy and I'm starting to feel like maybe God likes me fluffy. (I don't want KRAM or any of my friends at Gold's Gym to fear, however. My PT has given me a laundry list of exercises I must do everyday. It's very nearly a 20 minute workout.)
3) Randy Mantooth, Rick Springfield, David James Elliott, and Russell Crowe aren't showing up on my doorstep to sweep me away and my Hubby loves me the way I am.
Ladies, we all do this: We all dream of a day our favorite actor/musician/whatever shows up and takes us away from everything...right after we lose twenty pounds. Shoot, it's a big part of the premise for my book Dream in Color. And while the daydream is nice, and a good motivator (How many years have I said I'm dropping twenty by the time Rick Springfield shows up in town? What do I really think is going to happen? He's going to look out over the of women and say, "hey, look, Sarah's lost some weight. I love her now."
Meanwhile, my Hubby loves me, and has loved me for more than 25 years, just the way I freaking am.
2) I'm starting to sort of like my clothes.
As much as I've griped over the years about the lack of selection for fluffy girls in normal stores (and seriously, TJ MAXX? You're a glorified rummage sale store....and the best you can do for 52% of the female shopping population is ONE RACK of fluffy clothes? Guess I won't be a Maxx-inista. And guess what? I drive my daughter and her friends shopping all the time. I don't go where I can't shop. Burlington Coat Factory is the same type of store and yet I've found some awesome clothes there. Ponder it.) I looked at my closet the other day and I realized I may have found my groove stylistically speaking. I have a wardrobe full of comfortable, semi stylish, clothes. Would I like to be a size 10 and shop in the normal departments? OH YEAH! But then, what would I do with all these great clothes I have NOW?
1) Just how ugly would I be if I weren't fluffy?
My fluff is filling out what would be wrinkles and my double chin is actually overlapping my unwanted facial hair. If I lost the fluff, I might be more hideous than I am now! I'm not sure I can take that chance!
Does this mean I'm going to stop going to Gold's altogether? No, of course now. Half my hilarious material comes from that place. My PT has moved into a maintainance phase, as we slowly realize that my neck injury may not get better. So they've got me working on some machines now, machines I can use at Gold's. (You know that thing you see on the health channel where the super obese people get their sweat on by pedaling with their hands because they're too huge to move anything else? Yep, that's what I can do now.)
What this does mean is that I might just stop beating myself up for my weight. Hey, who knows...maybe I'll get lucky and I'll be one of those old women who just sort of shrink as they age. By the time I'm 80 I might be my ideal size.
Meanwhile, maybe I just need to work on being happy instead of working on being thin.
Well, it's a good day for me. Why? First, NBM went to the Green Bay Packers game last night and stayed out past his bedtime. This means there will be no NBM in the office today. Also, it's a Noelle C Free day, so there'll be No whackadoodle doo. Finally, The Green Bay Packers WON last night over their arch rivals, the Chicago Bears in a game that was so fun to watch, it made me feel sorry for countries who DON'T have American football on a regular basis.
Today's Five list is the product of a lot of thought. I've got a birthday coming up in a few months and I realize that I'm really, really tired of a lot of things and fighting what is turning out to be a losing battle might just be one of those things.
Anyway, enjoy!
Five reasons I might be meant to be fluffy.
5) All my favorite relatives are fluffy.
Even as a kid I didn't enjoy the company of my less fluffed relatives as much as I did those who were fully fluffy. I'm starting to resemble my beloved God mother, my Aunt Carrie, and each day I look in the mirror, I realize that's not a completely bad thing.
4) Something always seems to get in the way, and it's not just that I'm slowly forming a physical bond with my couch.
3) Randy Mantooth, Rick Springfield, David James Elliott, and Russell Crowe aren't showing up on my doorstep to sweep me away and my Hubby loves me the way I am.
 |
| If you lost weight, I'd write a song about you. |
 |
| If you got skinny you could ride in the squad. |
 |
| Oh if only you'd lose weight, then I'd fly you off in my F14. |
 |
| Are you NOT THIN YET? ARE YOU NOT THIN? |
Ladies, we all do this: We all dream of a day our favorite actor/musician/whatever shows up and takes us away from everything...right after we lose twenty pounds. Shoot, it's a big part of the premise for my book Dream in Color. And while the daydream is nice, and a good motivator (How many years have I said I'm dropping twenty by the time Rick Springfield shows up in town? What do I really think is going to happen? He's going to look out over the of women and say, "hey, look, Sarah's lost some weight. I love her now."
Meanwhile, my Hubby loves me, and has loved me for more than 25 years, just the way I freaking am.
2) I'm starting to sort of like my clothes.
 |
| Don't let the double X fool you. There's no room for Fluffy. |
 |
| See the heart? Even their logo loves the fluffy girl |
1) Just how ugly would I be if I weren't fluffy?
My fluff is filling out what would be wrinkles and my double chin is actually overlapping my unwanted facial hair. If I lost the fluff, I might be more hideous than I am now! I'm not sure I can take that chance!
 |
| But I'm thin! |
Does this mean I'm going to stop going to Gold's altogether? No, of course now. Half my hilarious material comes from that place. My PT has moved into a maintainance phase, as we slowly realize that my neck injury may not get better. So they've got me working on some machines now, machines I can use at Gold's. (You know that thing you see on the health channel where the super obese people get their sweat on by pedaling with their hands because they're too huge to move anything else? Yep, that's what I can do now.)
What this does mean is that I might just stop beating myself up for my weight. Hey, who knows...maybe I'll get lucky and I'll be one of those old women who just sort of shrink as they age. By the time I'm 80 I might be my ideal size.
Meanwhile, maybe I just need to work on being happy instead of working on being thin.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Pictures and a few final bits of funny from the accident.
Good morning!
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, I've never been much of an artist, my art form is words, but I do want to share with you two pictures from my recent accident.
To catch most of you up, Friday was my wedding anniversary, but on my lunch break from work I was T-boned by a driver as I crossed an intersection. (I had the green light. You do the math.) I'm okay, very sore, bruised, but nothing broken.
Talking about nothing broken: I did go in for X-rays, and I forgot to mention how hilarious a process getting X-rays has become. The last time I was X-rayed was some 13 years ago when, if you follow this blog, I was also in a car accident, and had actually been hit by a car. Then it wasn't funny. Friday, getting a series done on my leg was hilarious. Why?
Because the technician, while situating my leg over the plates, handed me a very, very small lead apron, and told me to cover my...gonads.
I about died laughing.
"Hold still," she commanded from her booth offstage.
Folks, I love those who work in the medical field. But honestly, she had me contorted in an odd position, I was very aware that my toenail polish was in need of a touch up, and I was holding a lead apron the size of a doily in front of my nay-nay area. How was she seriously expecting me to sit still?
After several yoga-type positions, I did ask her if the X-ray series counted as a yoga class...see KRAM? Even when I'm not at Gold's, I'm thinking about it!
Here's the car: Yes, it has been totaled. Hubby says the passenger seat was blown so far to the left, he had to pry open the the center console to get some belongings out. When they towed it to his body shop yesterday, the tow driver handed him the tow slip and said, "I just rolled it off and left the keys inside. It's all bloody."
Those of you who follow this blog, or who follow me on Face Book, know that he had good reason to believe the brownish/reddish stains all over the seats, the ceiling, the dash, the floor would be blood. I mean, here's what my clothes looked like:
And yes, critique partner Marie, that tank is the one I wear under my favorite multicolored blouse. The blouse didn't show the stains, but it did stiffen nicely when coated with SLIMFAST. Everything's in the washer now, but I haven't a clue if it'll come out.
At least the accident didn't dent my sense of humor. Or Hubby's. He said he didn't fill the tow truck driver in on what was actually dripping from every corner of the car. But he did smile when he opened the door and the heavenly aroma of chocolate hit him. So there's that.
We are still waiting the police report, but we are confident that the other driver will be found at fault, so truly, with the exception that we are down a car for now, this accident could have been so much worse. Instead, I can look back and laugh, and I really hope you laugh with me.
Oh, and yes, we did find my glasses. I had to have the very nice fireman go in the car (admittedly, I was channeling every ounce of "damsel in distress" but I could not get in that car one more time) in dig around for them. I'm not even sure where those glasses wound up, but he was able to find them for me. The fireman saved the day again!
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, I've never been much of an artist, my art form is words, but I do want to share with you two pictures from my recent accident.
To catch most of you up, Friday was my wedding anniversary, but on my lunch break from work I was T-boned by a driver as I crossed an intersection. (I had the green light. You do the math.) I'm okay, very sore, bruised, but nothing broken.
Talking about nothing broken: I did go in for X-rays, and I forgot to mention how hilarious a process getting X-rays has become. The last time I was X-rayed was some 13 years ago when, if you follow this blog, I was also in a car accident, and had actually been hit by a car. Then it wasn't funny. Friday, getting a series done on my leg was hilarious. Why?
 |
| Beachwear? No, just the latest fashions in lead aprons. |
I about died laughing.
"Hold still," she commanded from her booth offstage.
Folks, I love those who work in the medical field. But honestly, she had me contorted in an odd position, I was very aware that my toenail polish was in need of a touch up, and I was holding a lead apron the size of a doily in front of my nay-nay area. How was she seriously expecting me to sit still?
After several yoga-type positions, I did ask her if the X-ray series counted as a yoga class...see KRAM? Even when I'm not at Gold's, I'm thinking about it!
Those of you who follow this blog, or who follow me on Face Book, know that he had good reason to believe the brownish/reddish stains all over the seats, the ceiling, the dash, the floor would be blood. I mean, here's what my clothes looked like:
 |
| Nope, these are not the clothes of a shooting victim. This is what happens when you mix Slim Fast with McD's. |
At least the accident didn't dent my sense of humor. Or Hubby's. He said he didn't fill the tow truck driver in on what was actually dripping from every corner of the car. But he did smile when he opened the door and the heavenly aroma of chocolate hit him. So there's that.
We are still waiting the police report, but we are confident that the other driver will be found at fault, so truly, with the exception that we are down a car for now, this accident could have been so much worse. Instead, I can look back and laugh, and I really hope you laugh with me.
 |
| WWJD: What would Johnny do? He'd get in that car and get my glasses! |
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Always wear fresh nail polish...in case you're in a car accident.
Hello all!
By the time you read this, it will be Saturday. Yesterday was my 22nd anniversary with my dear Hubby. We had a low key celebration planned, given how fractured the children's work schedules are these days, we were looking forward to pizza, ten pm, our house.
God, or nature, or a certain yuppie dingleberry in a little car had other ideas.
My lunch hour was delayed a little yesterday because NBM had to run out and placate a customer. So while my initial plan was to stay in the conference room and edit, by the time 2 Pm rolled around, all I wanted was a McD's chicken sandwich. For a buck, it's a lovely little pick me up. I poured a Slimfast shake into my travel coffee mug and headed out.
Through the drive through, no problems. Stopped at the light, no problems. Got the green, moved forward, big gigantic problems.
I remember spinning. I remember landing on the opposite side of the intersection, on the opposite side of the road, unable to breath. I'd been T-boned on the passenger side at a high enough rate of speed that my curtain airbags deployed.
Oh, and there was Slimfast dripping from everything.
By the time I started to catch my breath a very nice lady in a green shirt came up to the car and told me the police had arrived. (It's a busy spot, I'm sure they weren't far away.) She then noted that I was covered in...something. She asked if I was bleeding.
"Nope, that would be Slimfast."
I was unable to find my glasses. The spinning or the impact sent my glasses flying and I seriously couldn't find them. I got out of the car, and got to spend some quality time with a police officer and a very, very nice fireman. The fireman came up to see if I was injured and he took one look at my khaki Capri's and asked where all the blood was coming from.
"It's Slimfast."
He had a good chuckle.
So I gave my statement to the police, and then the very nice fireman ushered me over to two very nice paramedics. (Under different circumstances, this would have been a banner day for me.) As we got into the ambulance, one of the paramedics asked if I'd been drinking hot chocolate.
"Nope, Slimfast."
He chuckled, and said I smelled chocolaty. Probably the nicest thing any could have said to me.
They took a look at my right leg, which had a seriously nasty lump, and we all sort of decided that I could just as well go to my own doctor instead of the ER. (I was bummed, I've never ridden in an ambulance before.) They did however insist we hang out until Hubby got there, so for about twenty minutes we chatted about baseball (boy am I glad I speak "man") and, of course, the topic of the TV show "Emergency" came up. (Wonder who mentioned that????)
Hubby got me to the doctor's office, where several folks stared at me. You know how it is in those offices: you're bummed to be there, but you sort of check out who might be worse off. And then you think, "Well, at least I'm not that person."
I was that person. The people in the waiting area sort of looked horrified when I hobbled in. So I said to Hubby, "well, I'm super bummed that my clothes are covered in SLIMFAST."
That seemed to put everyone at ease.
We get to the exam room and the first thing the nurse wants to do is weigh me.
WHY?
Why...I was just there three weeks ago. It's not like my weight it going to fluctuate that much in three weeks. Would Dixie McCall demand to weigh someone covered in Slimfast? No, she would not. She would say something comforting, and then she'd get me some coffee.
So I have to get weighed, which is when I remove my shoes. Normally I wear sandals to work, but my nail polish on my toes was looking a bit less than awesome. Since I was too lazy on Thursday to touch up the toes, I opted to wear some cute summer shoes without socks.
Which means my terrible nails were visible during my exam.
I'm home now, very sore in the neck, back, and right leg regions. I haven't a clue if they're going to total my car, so I'm on pins and needles about a few things, but nothings broken, no one's dead, so I guess it could have been seriously worse.
One other little "It can only happen to Sarah" sort of thing: Because of the anti inflammatory meds I'm on for my hands, I cannot take any Aleve or Advil, or Extra Strength Tylenol. I can, however, have a glass of wine. I asked my doctor that. He said, "Sure, but with food of course."
I think I love my doctor.
So, my friends, I guess it's true what mothers have said for years: "Always keep your toenail polish fresh because you never know when you're going to be in an accident."
And I'll add: Keep a tighter lid on your Slimfast.
By the time you read this, it will be Saturday. Yesterday was my 22nd anniversary with my dear Hubby. We had a low key celebration planned, given how fractured the children's work schedules are these days, we were looking forward to pizza, ten pm, our house.
God, or nature, or a certain yuppie dingleberry in a little car had other ideas.
My lunch hour was delayed a little yesterday because NBM had to run out and placate a customer. So while my initial plan was to stay in the conference room and edit, by the time 2 Pm rolled around, all I wanted was a McD's chicken sandwich. For a buck, it's a lovely little pick me up. I poured a Slimfast shake into my travel coffee mug and headed out.
Through the drive through, no problems. Stopped at the light, no problems. Got the green, moved forward, big gigantic problems.
I remember spinning. I remember landing on the opposite side of the intersection, on the opposite side of the road, unable to breath. I'd been T-boned on the passenger side at a high enough rate of speed that my curtain airbags deployed. Oh, and there was Slimfast dripping from everything.
By the time I started to catch my breath a very nice lady in a green shirt came up to the car and told me the police had arrived. (It's a busy spot, I'm sure they weren't far away.) She then noted that I was covered in...something. She asked if I was bleeding.
"Nope, that would be Slimfast."
I was unable to find my glasses. The spinning or the impact sent my glasses flying and I seriously couldn't find them. I got out of the car, and got to spend some quality time with a police officer and a very, very nice fireman. The fireman came up to see if I was injured and he took one look at my khaki Capri's and asked where all the blood was coming from.
"It's Slimfast."
He had a good chuckle.
So I gave my statement to the police, and then the very nice fireman ushered me over to two very nice paramedics. (Under different circumstances, this would have been a banner day for me.) As we got into the ambulance, one of the paramedics asked if I'd been drinking hot chocolate.
"Nope, Slimfast."
He chuckled, and said I smelled chocolaty. Probably the nicest thing any could have said to me.
 |
Hubby got me to the doctor's office, where several folks stared at me. You know how it is in those offices: you're bummed to be there, but you sort of check out who might be worse off. And then you think, "Well, at least I'm not that person."
I was that person. The people in the waiting area sort of looked horrified when I hobbled in. So I said to Hubby, "well, I'm super bummed that my clothes are covered in SLIMFAST."
That seemed to put everyone at ease.
We get to the exam room and the first thing the nurse wants to do is weigh me.
WHY?
 |
| "No, I'm not going to weigh you. Would you like some coffee?" |
So I have to get weighed, which is when I remove my shoes. Normally I wear sandals to work, but my nail polish on my toes was looking a bit less than awesome. Since I was too lazy on Thursday to touch up the toes, I opted to wear some cute summer shoes without socks.
Which means my terrible nails were visible during my exam.
I'm home now, very sore in the neck, back, and right leg regions. I haven't a clue if they're going to total my car, so I'm on pins and needles about a few things, but nothings broken, no one's dead, so I guess it could have been seriously worse.
One other little "It can only happen to Sarah" sort of thing: Because of the anti inflammatory meds I'm on for my hands, I cannot take any Aleve or Advil, or Extra Strength Tylenol. I can, however, have a glass of wine. I asked my doctor that. He said, "Sure, but with food of course."
 |
| "No painkillers, but it says here you can have all the wine you can hold...just be sure you eat while you're drinking." |
So, my friends, I guess it's true what mothers have said for years: "Always keep your toenail polish fresh because you never know when you're going to be in an accident."
And I'll add: Keep a tighter lid on your Slimfast.
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