The lovely and talented Mrs. Flinger has issued an challenge invitation to get back to writing - really writing - well (or, as well as we can). This will be my first attempt. ;) Please go check it out: I'll wait...
{W}rite of Passage
The first topic for us over-achievers who wish to start early is our most embarrassing moment. Sadly, I've already told you that story. So, in the interest of not totally calling it in and completely obliterating my status as over-achiever, I'll dig a little deeper and try a little harder.
It was the Spring Prom in Grade 8. After suffering the indignity of THREE other girls wearing the same dress as me at the Winter Prom, I worked hard to find the perfect dress (bear in mind that the "perfect" dress was a navy blue patchwork quilt-looking baby doll dress - and yet I still thought I was hot shit *shakes head*). I had cute little flats that picked up the pink flowers in the material of the dress. I had gotten my hair cut and my glasses tightened.
I was ready.
I spent much of the evening tittering on the side lines with my girlfriends, each of us giggling behind our hands as we pointed out our crush du jour with our eyes (because HEAVEN FORBID these boys know we liked them!). On that given day week month, I was crushing hard on Brad. He was tall with dark hair, light eyes, and a killer smile. He was a little goofy, but I considered it part of his charm. The butterflies in my stomach did cartwheels anytime he so much as looked in my direction. He was all I could think about.
*sigh*
Imagine my need to throw up on his shoes sheer joy when he asked me to dance (during a slow song, natch). I giddily followed him as he led me to the dance floor, my hand in his. He placed his arms tenderly around my waist, while I stretched to drape my arms around his neck (I'm 5'2 and was wearing flats: it was a hell of a stretch). We swayed dreamily to the music for a blissful eternity before...
...a BOY - not another girl (damned girls anyhow) - tapped me on the shoulder to inform me that my dress was tucked up into my pantyhose and that every. single. person. in the gymnasium could see my white cotton Granny-panty-clad ass.
God. It STILL makes my face turn beet read with the heat of mortification. If I could have sunk into a hole and died at that exact moment, I'd be smiling down from Heaven (heh, who are we kidding? up from Hell) right now. *sigh*
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
And how I got to where I am
Part one
Part two
Part three
Around the time I turned three, The Donor took up with a stripper (for real) with a two-year old son. The one visit I remember was horrific. Her son - Bryan - was a little bastard who would literally hit, punch, slap, scratch, and bite me. When I had the gall to cry, Stripper Extraordinaire sent The Donor into the bedroom to spank me with the plastic spatula flipper - he actually apologized to me before slapping my ass repeatedly with it. I remember Stripper Extraordinaire locking us out on the balcony so she could get ready for work. I had to go to the washroom, so I knocked on the patio door; as I sat, cowering, on the toilet, she said something along the lines of "You better [expletive]-well have to go." I remember sitting in the corner of the living room, clutching an old family picture to my chest because my mom was in it, sobbing because I wanted my mommy and I wanted to go home. (They wouldn't even let me talk to Mom on the phone.)
After that disastrous visit, Mom started allowing me to make the decisions regarding whether or not I saw The Donor. Understandably, I wasn't too keen to revisit a place where I had been so miserable. Mom tried to help by encouraging The Donor to call me, thinking maybe speaking to him on the phone would help solidify a connection and keep it fresh in mind. Of course, being contrary, he did the exact opposite, as if NOT calling me served to spite anyone but himself.
The Donor had tried to make arrangements for a visit, but I didn't want to go with him. Instead of manning up and taking responsibility for his own actions and accepting my choice, he returned with the police. I swear I remember this, that it's not just through its retelling that it seems so familiar to me - I remember hiding behind Dad's legs, peering up at the seemingly tall, scary police men (that The Donor hid behind), hysterical because I thought they were going to throw my mommy in jail.
I didn't have to go with him. The police didn't take my mom to jail. I don't really remember a lot of him after that, just a few week-long visits in the summer that are so hazy, I have no idea when they occurred or how old I was. Along the way, Mom & Dad's relationship grew, even though it was fraught with unhappy moments. Grandmonster continued to get her nose into everything, wreaking havoc wherever she could manage.
(As an aside, The Donor and Stripper Extraordinaire ended up having a son. There was talk that Stripper Extraordinaire continued to drink throughout her pregnancy (there were also rumours of drugs, but I have no idea about the accuracy of said rumours). When their relationship went south, she abandoned both of her sons by basically forcing The Donor to adopt Bryan: she told him that if he didn't adopt Bryan, she'd make sure he never saw Luke again.)
When I was five, we moved to a town 20 minutes away. We lived in a townhouse complex, so there were lots of kids for me to play with. Most of the children were older than me and were all able to ride bikes; all I had was my little tricycle (apparently I made quite the sight as I peddled furiously in a vain attempt to keep up with them). Mom contacted The Donor just before my birthday to see if he could pitch in to help buy my first two-wheel bike. He said no. When she explained that I was having trouble keeping up with the rest of the kids, he said that it was too bad, but I'd have to learn that I wouldn't always get what I wanted.
Mom was pregnant with Nick before I turned six. Dad asked Mom to marry him; she was resistant, simply because she felt she must not have been "good enough" for him to want to marry BEFORE she was pregnant (Dad's uber-religious parents wouldn't come to our place to visit because Mom and Dad were "living in sin"). They were married in my grandparents' basement. The town house was only a 2-bedroom unit, and I refused to sleep in the same room with him: my parents would have to let me fall asleep on their bed and then move me to the couch when they went to bed. It wasn't long before we moved into a 3-bedroom townhouse in another complex (in the same town).
When I was seven, we moved back to my hometown. My parents bought a house. It was a constant source of discord for them because they were stretched to the limit money-wise. Before the school year was up, they separated. I don't know the hows or whys, but I do have an "odd" memory of going to some guy's house with Mom one night and being told to try to go to sleep on the couch, while they disappeared into another room (with a closed door); when we were on our way home, she promised me a pad of paper (I loved to draw) if I didn't tell Dad. I never did get that pad of paper.
Mom, Nick, and I moved into an apartment building close by (coincidentally enough, the building is next door to the one I ended up buying a condo in). Mom struggled to keep the roof over our heads with her job in the mall. Dad's sister was babysitting Nick while I was at work; Nick was PETRIFIED of her husband - at a year old, that little boy would become hysterical if the slime ball was home, but he was far too young to tell anyone WHY. (He was fired from multiple jobs for sexually harassment before everyone knew what it was, and in later years, there were molestation allegations from his daughter.) It made Mom physically ill to leave Nick there if she knew Faith's husband was going to be home. So, Grandmonster volunteered to babysit Nick. It didn't last long before she was telling Mom that she'd have to charge her - a single mother supporting two children (yeah, Dad was being a dick head about child support) - lest "anyone" think Mom was "taking advantage" of her.
Of course, Mom wasn't able to keep all the balls in the air for much longer. Nick went to Dad's one night and stayed there; Mom and I went to Grandmonster's. I was absolutely heartbroken when I learned that my baby brother wouldn't be living with us.
Part two
Part three
Around the time I turned three, The Donor took up with a stripper (for real) with a two-year old son. The one visit I remember was horrific. Her son - Bryan - was a little bastard who would literally hit, punch, slap, scratch, and bite me. When I had the gall to cry, Stripper Extraordinaire sent The Donor into the bedroom to spank me with the plastic spatula flipper - he actually apologized to me before slapping my ass repeatedly with it. I remember Stripper Extraordinaire locking us out on the balcony so she could get ready for work. I had to go to the washroom, so I knocked on the patio door; as I sat, cowering, on the toilet, she said something along the lines of "You better [expletive]-well have to go." I remember sitting in the corner of the living room, clutching an old family picture to my chest because my mom was in it, sobbing because I wanted my mommy and I wanted to go home. (They wouldn't even let me talk to Mom on the phone.)
After that disastrous visit, Mom started allowing me to make the decisions regarding whether or not I saw The Donor. Understandably, I wasn't too keen to revisit a place where I had been so miserable. Mom tried to help by encouraging The Donor to call me, thinking maybe speaking to him on the phone would help solidify a connection and keep it fresh in mind. Of course, being contrary, he did the exact opposite, as if NOT calling me served to spite anyone but himself.
The Donor had tried to make arrangements for a visit, but I didn't want to go with him. Instead of manning up and taking responsibility for his own actions and accepting my choice, he returned with the police. I swear I remember this, that it's not just through its retelling that it seems so familiar to me - I remember hiding behind Dad's legs, peering up at the seemingly tall, scary police men (that The Donor hid behind), hysterical because I thought they were going to throw my mommy in jail.
I didn't have to go with him. The police didn't take my mom to jail. I don't really remember a lot of him after that, just a few week-long visits in the summer that are so hazy, I have no idea when they occurred or how old I was. Along the way, Mom & Dad's relationship grew, even though it was fraught with unhappy moments. Grandmonster continued to get her nose into everything, wreaking havoc wherever she could manage.
(As an aside, The Donor and Stripper Extraordinaire ended up having a son. There was talk that Stripper Extraordinaire continued to drink throughout her pregnancy (there were also rumours of drugs, but I have no idea about the accuracy of said rumours). When their relationship went south, she abandoned both of her sons by basically forcing The Donor to adopt Bryan: she told him that if he didn't adopt Bryan, she'd make sure he never saw Luke again.)
When I was five, we moved to a town 20 minutes away. We lived in a townhouse complex, so there were lots of kids for me to play with. Most of the children were older than me and were all able to ride bikes; all I had was my little tricycle (apparently I made quite the sight as I peddled furiously in a vain attempt to keep up with them). Mom contacted The Donor just before my birthday to see if he could pitch in to help buy my first two-wheel bike. He said no. When she explained that I was having trouble keeping up with the rest of the kids, he said that it was too bad, but I'd have to learn that I wouldn't always get what I wanted.
Mom was pregnant with Nick before I turned six. Dad asked Mom to marry him; she was resistant, simply because she felt she must not have been "good enough" for him to want to marry BEFORE she was pregnant (Dad's uber-religious parents wouldn't come to our place to visit because Mom and Dad were "living in sin"). They were married in my grandparents' basement. The town house was only a 2-bedroom unit, and I refused to sleep in the same room with him: my parents would have to let me fall asleep on their bed and then move me to the couch when they went to bed. It wasn't long before we moved into a 3-bedroom townhouse in another complex (in the same town).
When I was seven, we moved back to my hometown. My parents bought a house. It was a constant source of discord for them because they were stretched to the limit money-wise. Before the school year was up, they separated. I don't know the hows or whys, but I do have an "odd" memory of going to some guy's house with Mom one night and being told to try to go to sleep on the couch, while they disappeared into another room (with a closed door); when we were on our way home, she promised me a pad of paper (I loved to draw) if I didn't tell Dad. I never did get that pad of paper.
Mom, Nick, and I moved into an apartment building close by (coincidentally enough, the building is next door to the one I ended up buying a condo in). Mom struggled to keep the roof over our heads with her job in the mall. Dad's sister was babysitting Nick while I was at work; Nick was PETRIFIED of her husband - at a year old, that little boy would become hysterical if the slime ball was home, but he was far too young to tell anyone WHY. (He was fired from multiple jobs for sexually harassment before everyone knew what it was, and in later years, there were molestation allegations from his daughter.) It made Mom physically ill to leave Nick there if she knew Faith's husband was going to be home. So, Grandmonster volunteered to babysit Nick. It didn't last long before she was telling Mom that she'd have to charge her - a single mother supporting two children (yeah, Dad was being a dick head about child support) - lest "anyone" think Mom was "taking advantage" of her.
Of course, Mom wasn't able to keep all the balls in the air for much longer. Nick went to Dad's one night and stayed there; Mom and I went to Grandmonster's. I was absolutely heartbroken when I learned that my baby brother wouldn't be living with us.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
HYC: Week 11
It really IS a journey, isn't it? I have realizations or clarifications all the time that I fear are going to make me sound like a broken record, but this is my space to "talk out" what I'm thinking, so... Yeah.
I had come across a number of articles and blogs yesterday that pretty much made "dieting," life style changes, exercising, etc. to sound like lost causes - that they wouldn't do any damned good anyhow, because maintenance sucks and it's too hard to, well, maintain. Needless to say, I was left feeling a tad discouraged. What's the point? If all the work, all the struggling, all the sacrifice are for naught, why bother?
I'm not even sure how exactly we got on the topic, but Chebbar and I were discussing eating and exercising habits after dinner, specifically our joint desire to never live a life that consists of lettuce leaves and carrot sticks. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't smoke, I don't do drugs, I rarely drink, and I don't have any big, exciting (or expensive) hobbies - if I can't enjoy a slice of pie or a piece of pizza, what do I have left to enjoy? I enjoy FOOD (as I'm sure is obvious just looking at me *wink*) - we both do.
We talked about finding balance between enjoying the things we love and over-indulging. We discussed activity and exercise and how we both need more. This gave me the opportunity to address my concern from last week. I was able to gently tell him that I worry about his health because he carries all of his weight in his midsection (as do I, although I also carry a fair amount in my ass and hips and thighs and bat wings and, oh never mind). I was also able to tell him that his health will ALWAYS take precedence over my pride - that while it might sting a little to see him drop 20 lbs without trying, I would be happy for him (and that it might motivate me and spur me on because he somehow manages to awaken a competitive streak in me I didn't realize existed before). As well, I was able to tell him that now that his worry had been addressed, I hoped he wouldn't fall back on it and use me as a convenient excuse to sit in front of the computer eating pizza and drinking Coke (don't worry: I used my words and said it in a much more diplomatic fashion).
After we retired to the office (I'm really enjoying my time in there with him, even if we are both just doing our own things), I read some more blog posts from some of the lovely people I've discovered via the Healthy You Challenge that helped clarify my earlier confusion. I know a few things: I know that I am not as fit as I could be, and that I need to work on that; I know that I could be making better choices food- and portion-wise, without depriving myself; and perhaps most importantly, being active makes me feel good in my skin and LIKE myself a little more. I need to find a way to ensure that I don't go overboard on working out like I did the first time I lost weight (I pretty much over-worked my poor body into giving up on me) and making smarter choices with food. I've done this before: I can do it again.
I don't believe that the maintenance period is impossible to uphold. If I make small, common sense changes that are easy to incorporate into my life and don't require HUGE effort and/or that I don't despise, it's going to be no different than "learning" to brush my teeth before bed or taking the recycling out on Tuesday mornings. I'm a creature of habit who craves consistency: it won't be difficult to do if I can get back on track. I lost 25 lbs (albeit slowly) over nine months or so by making little changes. I can do this.
I think I'm going to have to start the food journaling thing again just to get an idea of what I'm eating and when my trouble spots occur; I'm not ready to jump on the weighing/measuring everything in order to count calories band wagon just yet, though. I've also thrown around the idea of moving to six mini meals, as all I seem to want to do this time of year is eat. My biggest challenge will be convincing my head that my stomach will be fine after a few crackers and a couple pieces of cheese because I'll be able to eat again in a few hours. Overall, I realized that what I need to work on *the most* is learning to love me and how to be happy with who I am, not how I look (knowing that being active and nourishing myself are part of being happy for me).
As for last week, I had four workout days, including two walks with Chebbar. There's something particularly invigorating about walking in the rain, like you should get bonus points for getting outside in the crappy weather... lol The wind had died down (thank goodness), so it wasn't as awful as it had been. I've had a Non-Scale Victory (NSV) this week already, too (well, for ME, anyhow). I had a chiropractor appointment at 6:15 to work on my jaw (it seems I put it out of place last Monday by flossing my teeth - only me, I swear! *shakes head*). Normally, this would have been the perfect excuse to do nothing, but I managed to cram in a 20 minute session with the Wii Fit before I left.
Now, a few questions, if any of you made it this far. ;) If I were to look at trying to eat six mini meals over the day, what suggestions would you give me? Do you have any resources (books, websites, etc) you'd like to share? Can you give me some examples of healthy snacks? Thanks in advance! :)
Monday, November 23, 2009
Close calls
They say all it takes is a second.
That everything happens for a reason.
That red light when you were running late for work? There was a reason for that.
We had one of those moments on Saturday. We had dropped my car off to be serviced that morning and gone about our errands in Chebbar's car. At the end of the day as we made our way back to the dealership to pick up my car and we travelled through the new round-about (read: HUGE pain in the ass), I mentioned to Chebbar a statistic I had heard on the radio earlier in the week: in the less-than-a-month that the new intersection has been open, the province's vehicle insurance agent has had over half a dozen accidents reported in that round-about. We shook our head, muttering epithets about idiots and morons; as we arrived, I leaned over, gave him a kiss, and told him I loved him.
He was rather agitated when I got home. It seems that seconds after leaving me, he was literally thisclose to being T-boned by some asshole who was FLYING through the intersection and didn't even LOOK/notice Chebbar until he was almost past him. As Chebbar said, if we hadn't just been discussing the accidents in the round-about, if I hadn't delayed him a few seconds with a kiss, if he hadn't been paying enough attention to slam on his brakes... I shudder to think of how differently the afternoon could have played out.
Take your time. Be patient. Trust that everything happens for a reason. And don't forget to say "I love you" before you walk out the door.
That everything happens for a reason.
That red light when you were running late for work? There was a reason for that.
We had one of those moments on Saturday. We had dropped my car off to be serviced that morning and gone about our errands in Chebbar's car. At the end of the day as we made our way back to the dealership to pick up my car and we travelled through the new round-about (read: HUGE pain in the ass), I mentioned to Chebbar a statistic I had heard on the radio earlier in the week: in the less-than-a-month that the new intersection has been open, the province's vehicle insurance agent has had over half a dozen accidents reported in that round-about. We shook our head, muttering epithets about idiots and morons; as we arrived, I leaned over, gave him a kiss, and told him I loved him.
He was rather agitated when I got home. It seems that seconds after leaving me, he was literally thisclose to being T-boned by some asshole who was FLYING through the intersection and didn't even LOOK/notice Chebbar until he was almost past him. As Chebbar said, if we hadn't just been discussing the accidents in the round-about, if I hadn't delayed him a few seconds with a kiss, if he hadn't been paying enough attention to slam on his brakes... I shudder to think of how differently the afternoon could have played out.
Take your time. Be patient. Trust that everything happens for a reason. And don't forget to say "I love you" before you walk out the door.
Friday, November 20, 2009
It's Meme Friday!
So, the noble Matt from The Kingdom of Matt (*snort* see what I did there?) done tagged me. And I'm nothing if not a meme whore people pleaser. Please send comments of gratitude to my inbox, and complaints to Matt's. Thanks. ;)
1. Name someone with the same birthday as you.
Well, first and foremost, I have the honour of sharing my birthday with my grandmother. <3 Oh, and the Queen. How d'ya like them apples?
2. Where was your first kiss?
Down a hill by the wooden fence at the back of the school in the winter (snow) in grade 6. His name was Allen. He was a tool. I'm not sure of his tool status now.
3. Have you ever seriously vandalized someone else’s property?
No. The worst I did was drive the car that a friend hung out the passenger window of to very angrily throw a beer bottle at someone's driveway.
4. Have you ever hit someone of the opposite sex?
Yup. Really long, 14-year old hormone-driven story short, a boy called me a slut (SO far from the truth it's laughable. Now.), so I hauled off and slapped him across the face. It was loud enough people heard it down the hallway and it left a nice, red hand print on his face. Evidently "slut" is a button-pusher for me.
5. Have you ever sung in front of a large number of people?
Other than the obligatory elementary school Christmas concert (done as a group, BTW), no. And I haven't sung in front of a small number (one) of people since I was 12 and my mom asked me to stop singing because I sounded like a frog. (In her defence, I had a cold. And it WAS Wilson Philips I was warbling along to. So, there's that.)
6. What’s the first thing you notice about your preferred sex?
Eyes/smile
7. What really turns you off?
Liars. Cheaters. Bad breath/obviously uncared for teeth. Mouth-corner-crusties. Eye boogers.
8. What do you order at Starbucks?
Probably a mocha because it's the only thing I "know" and I only darken Starbuck's door *maybe* once a year.
9. What is your biggest mistake?
I dunno: I like to be one of those assholes who views everything as a learning experience. *ahem*
10. Have you ever hurt yourself on purpose?
Not unless tattoos count.
11. Say something totally random about yourself.
I really, really have to pee right now.
12. Has anyone ever said you looked like a celebrity?
*snort* Um, no.
13. Do you still watch kiddie movies or TV shows?
I don't watch children's cartoons, but I'll watch "adult" ones. And any animated movie is fair game.
14. Did you have braces?
*sigh* Yes. Damned orthodontist originally told me I'd have them for a year and a retainer for six months. TWO YEARS LATER (and grad pictures in the can), I was threatening to slash his tires if he didn't take them off before the banquet & dance. Still had to deal with the damned retainer for a year on top of that. H.E.L.L.
15. Are you comfortable with your height?
Kind of pointless not to be, isn't it? But yes, I am: at 5'2, I've never had a problem finding long enough pants or tall enough boyfriends.
16. What is the most romantic thing someone of the preferred sex has done for you?
Snuck down to the car after I was asleep to stick a Post-It note on my steering wheel that said "I love you" the night before my first day at a new job.
17. When do you know its love?
When you're comfortable enough to pee with the door open? I don't know. Again, one of those assholes who "just knew."
18. Do you speak any other languages?
Ihay eakspay eatgray igpay atinlay. Sadly, after four years of high school French, I retained very little.
19. Have you ever been to a tanning salon?
Yup.
20. What magazines do you read?
I have subscriptions to Chatelaine and Canadian Living (mostly because they were super cheap). When I'm feeling particularly trashy, I'll pick up a Glamor or Cosmo.
21. Have you ever ridden in a limo?
Once. With my dad. LAAAAAME. (And my sis, but she's NOT lame.)
22. Has anyone you were really close to passed away?
Yes, and very recently.
23. Do you watch MTV?
*blarglegagfrak*
24. What’s something that really annoys you?
People who scuff their feet when they walk. They're SHOES, people, not cross country skis. PICK UP YER DAMNED FEET ALREADY.
25. What’s something you really like?
Music
26. Do you like Michael Jackson?
Don't know him personally. Enjoy some of his music, though.
27. Can you dance?
If there's enough liquor involved, yes.
28. What’s the latest you have ever stayed up?
28-ish hours. And then I promptly got sick, so that happened a grand total of once.
29. Have you ever been rushed by an ambulance into the emergency room?
No, actually. *knocks wood*
30. Do you actually read these when other people fill them out?
Yes. It's an affliction of being a meme whore.
31. Tag 5 people!
Ohhhhh, man!
Sorry, guys, but IT'S THE RULES! ;)
Thursday, November 19, 2009
The Not-So Beautiful
Today's topic is actors/actresses you love even though they're not conventionally hot stuff. My list is short, mostly because my attention span is today, too. So, without further ado, I give you my "Fuglies" (who really aren't fugly).
Giovanni Ribisi
I have loved Giovanni since I first laid eyes on him in The Wonder Years. That being said, I hate to admit that a large part of my love has to do with his name: it just rolls off the tongue. Say it with me - Gio VAH Nee Ri BEE see. *sigh*
Woody Harrelson
Don't get me wrong: a cleaned up Woody (heh, I said "woody") isn't really fug. But a scruffy, dirty Woody? *growls* I love him as a bad-ass, too (we saw Zombieland last week, so the Woody-love is still fierce).
Heh. Woody.
Artie Abrams (aka Kevin McHale)
Again, out of character, Kevin McHale's quite the little hottie with his double earrings, but as Artie from the bestest show EVAR!!1!one! (*cough*Glee*cough*), he's got the dorky-underdog thing going on that find irresistible.
So, who do you find attractive that wouldn't be considered conventionally "hot"? Share with me, so I can flesh out my list a little. ;)
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
HYC: Week 10
Still here, just a day behind. The news yesterday that the beloved Anissa Mayhew suffered a stroke threw me for a loop, resulting in no blog post. If you can spare a minute to send her and her family love/support/strength/good thoughts/prayers/whatever you do, I know they would appreciate it.
I met my goal of three workouts last week. Again, it was all done on the WiiFit, but I'm sticking with my "better than nothing" school of thought. I saw my doctor last Thursday and she confirmed that it likely was a cyst and said we'd just have to keep an eye out for recurrences/worsening of symptoms. As well, since the new birth control pill seems to have brought me back to "normal" PMS, we decided that I'll stay on it for now (however, when I go back for my annual in January, I'm going to get a script so I can stack the pills as she originally suggested, simply because my cycles are running a little shorter now - not sure if it's the pill, a natural change in my body, or what, but if I can have LESS visits from Aunt Flo, I'm all over that).
During our talk on Sunday, somehow (seriously: neither of us ever knows just HOW we get to the tangents we do) we managed to work the conversation around to exercise - specifically Chebbar and his lack thereof (HE brought it up, not me, I swear!). After some hemming and hawing, he eventually admitted that part of the reason he hasn't tried any of the things he's mentioned in the past is me: he knows how hard I am on myself and how down I can get if I fall into a funk; he knows it's generally easier for men to lose weight than it is for women; and that he's worried if he tries - and is (more) successful than I have been - I might be upset and lose motivation.
I tried to assure him that that would never happen, but I didn't do a very good job. I started by telling him about how my mom had voiced (well, to me, anyhow) displeasure at the thought of my step-father going for walks with her because "what if he loses weight FASTER than me?!?" *eye roll* Unfortunately, that led to his regrettable comment that it's possible I *could* be like my mom... Yeaaaaah. In his defence, I wasn't being clear: I failed to portray just how flabbergasted I was that her own pride would take precedence over her husband's health (both Step-Dad and Chebbar carry their weight in their midsections, and we all know how dangerous that is). I told him I would NEVER do that, but I completely chickened out and failed to tell him that I do worry about his health/weight. I should have. I should have spoken up and told him there, in that moment, when we were both being serious and earnest. Instead, if I were to do it today, he'd slough it off with a joke.
Have you ever run into this situation? Have you ever worried about your partner losing weight faster than you? Have you ever had your partner admit that you're part of the reason s/he doesn't exercise? Have you ever not spoken up about a loved one's health? Do you regret it?
*sigh* Sorry for the heavy stuff this week. On a positive note, I started my Tae Bo again on Monday. We've resolved to start walking again, but we're in the midst of a Pineapple Express which has brought with it literally sideways monsooning rain. It's dry right now, but I have no idea how long it will last... Crazy Wet Coast weather. ;)
I met my goal of three workouts last week. Again, it was all done on the WiiFit, but I'm sticking with my "better than nothing" school of thought. I saw my doctor last Thursday and she confirmed that it likely was a cyst and said we'd just have to keep an eye out for recurrences/worsening of symptoms. As well, since the new birth control pill seems to have brought me back to "normal" PMS, we decided that I'll stay on it for now (however, when I go back for my annual in January, I'm going to get a script so I can stack the pills as she originally suggested, simply because my cycles are running a little shorter now - not sure if it's the pill, a natural change in my body, or what, but if I can have LESS visits from Aunt Flo, I'm all over that).
During our talk on Sunday, somehow (seriously: neither of us ever knows just HOW we get to the tangents we do) we managed to work the conversation around to exercise - specifically Chebbar and his lack thereof (HE brought it up, not me, I swear!). After some hemming and hawing, he eventually admitted that part of the reason he hasn't tried any of the things he's mentioned in the past is me: he knows how hard I am on myself and how down I can get if I fall into a funk; he knows it's generally easier for men to lose weight than it is for women; and that he's worried if he tries - and is (more) successful than I have been - I might be upset and lose motivation.
I tried to assure him that that would never happen, but I didn't do a very good job. I started by telling him about how my mom had voiced (well, to me, anyhow) displeasure at the thought of my step-father going for walks with her because "what if he loses weight FASTER than me?!?" *eye roll* Unfortunately, that led to his regrettable comment that it's possible I *could* be like my mom... Yeaaaaah. In his defence, I wasn't being clear: I failed to portray just how flabbergasted I was that her own pride would take precedence over her husband's health (both Step-Dad and Chebbar carry their weight in their midsections, and we all know how dangerous that is). I told him I would NEVER do that, but I completely chickened out and failed to tell him that I do worry about his health/weight. I should have. I should have spoken up and told him there, in that moment, when we were both being serious and earnest. Instead, if I were to do it today, he'd slough it off with a joke.
Have you ever run into this situation? Have you ever worried about your partner losing weight faster than you? Have you ever had your partner admit that you're part of the reason s/he doesn't exercise? Have you ever not spoken up about a loved one's health? Do you regret it?
*sigh* Sorry for the heavy stuff this week. On a positive note, I started my Tae Bo again on Monday. We've resolved to start walking again, but we're in the midst of a Pineapple Express which has brought with it literally sideways monsooning rain. It's dry right now, but I have no idea how long it will last... Crazy Wet Coast weather. ;)
Monday, November 16, 2009
Does familiarity REALLY breed contempt?
Chebbar is a gamer. He has been a gamer since he was introduced to his first NES. Nowadays, World of Warcraft is more his speed (yes, I'm a WoW Widow: shut it). That being said, ANY video game is good enough to try at least once. I knew this going in: he didn't hide the fact that enjoyed gaming. And while his multiple and desperate attempts to get me to play WoW with him have failed thus far, I am totally and completely obsessed with a little video game of my own *cough*Animal Crossing*cough*.
Last night, he started talking about this laundry list of PC games he wants to start (continue) playing. However, it quickly shifted into talk of how much time he spends on the computer and how that needs to change. For the record, we have discussed the amount of time he spends in the office twice in the past two and a half years; up until now, it has been me who has broached the subject when I start to feel a little neglected. And each time it has been addressed, he has been EXCELLENT about taking a step back, rearranging his playing schedule, and spending more time with me. Needless to say, it took me by complete surprise to have him say "Yeah, I've been spending too much time in the office and that has to change," especially when I was oblivious that it was a problem.
Although completely puzzled, it got me thinking and I came to the realization that I hardly even notice anymore that he comes out of the office long enough to cook, eat, and clean up before he's back on the computer for the duration of the night. (In the interest of full disclosure, he's currently not working (laid off) and hasn't started school yet (January, hopefully), so he's on the computer - or able to be - all day long.) It was like someone punched me in the gut when I realized that it's become habit for us to spend our evenings (and the majority of our weekends) in separate rooms doing our own thing, and that not only had we not noticed, but we were completely okay with it.
To be fair, we still holler back and forth to each other and pop in to say hello during washroom breaks and "blow" each other kisses from room to room, so it's not like we're completely ignoring each other. BUT. In total? We probably spend a whopping ten hours together all week - out of FORTY-EIGHT. And those are 48 hours free and clear from work and other obligations.
That's pathetic.
It's not that we don't *like* spending time with each other or anything; it's just become habit to split off after dinner and do our own things. Now, I know that it's "healthy" and a "good" thing to have separate interests, that we shouldn't necessarily be doing EVVVVVERYTHING together, but when our one hour per week night is spent eating dinner with the damned TV on, it can't exactly be considered quality time.
Anyhow.
I was still confused as to where this was all coming from. With some poking and prodding, Chebbar finally spit out that, while this may not be problematic now, he was worried that once he's going to school and the majority of his time will be filled with studying and homework it could develop into an issue. Of course, because I like to be a little asshole who can't see past the end of her own nose during conversations like this, I got my knickers in a twist and accused him of assuming that I don't know what the pressures of school are like and that I'll act like a spoiled brat and stomp my foot if he won't spend time with me.
Yeah. Guess what? TOTALLY not what he was getting at. *hangs head in shame*
His point was simply that we should be trying to make changes in how we spend our free time - together AND separately - now while we still can so we're a little more acclimated to making that effort once he's going to school. I repeated that I would NOT think twice about sucking it up and dealing with less time with him while he's going to school. However, I also pointed out that if, for example, he's doing school work four nights a week and wants to play WoW the other three nights a week, I'm not the only one who should be expected to compromise - that it won't kill HIM to compromise and give up one of those nights to spend time with me.
So far we've agreed that we'll play board games on Tuesday nights and do movie nights on Fridays. I had already been thinking about clearing off my table in the office so I could get back into card making, so that at least puts us in the same room. As well, all my home internetting is done on my laptop: there's no reason I can't take it into the office and sit with him.
Generally Chebbar is the strong, silent type and I'm the one who over-thinks things and borrows trouble and worries about things that haven't happened yet. To have him be the one to broach a potentially problematic situation certainly made me sit up and pay attention. And needless to say (again), he gets mad props for his forward-thinking and desire to prevent a problem from developing in our relationship (so much love for him). It will be a balancing act, but we'll do it.
So, fair readers, what do you think? Do you think his foresight was on the money? Do you think we're borrowing trouble by worrying about something that hasn't - and may not - happened yet? Do you think letting the status quo remain is a bad idea?
Last night, he started talking about this laundry list of PC games he wants to start (continue) playing. However, it quickly shifted into talk of how much time he spends on the computer and how that needs to change. For the record, we have discussed the amount of time he spends in the office twice in the past two and a half years; up until now, it has been me who has broached the subject when I start to feel a little neglected. And each time it has been addressed, he has been EXCELLENT about taking a step back, rearranging his playing schedule, and spending more time with me. Needless to say, it took me by complete surprise to have him say "Yeah, I've been spending too much time in the office and that has to change," especially when I was oblivious that it was a problem.
Although completely puzzled, it got me thinking and I came to the realization that I hardly even notice anymore that he comes out of the office long enough to cook, eat, and clean up before he's back on the computer for the duration of the night. (In the interest of full disclosure, he's currently not working (laid off) and hasn't started school yet (January, hopefully), so he's on the computer - or able to be - all day long.) It was like someone punched me in the gut when I realized that it's become habit for us to spend our evenings (and the majority of our weekends) in separate rooms doing our own thing, and that not only had we not noticed, but we were completely okay with it.
To be fair, we still holler back and forth to each other and pop in to say hello during washroom breaks and "blow" each other kisses from room to room, so it's not like we're completely ignoring each other. BUT. In total? We probably spend a whopping ten hours together all week - out of FORTY-EIGHT. And those are 48 hours free and clear from work and other obligations.
That's pathetic.
It's not that we don't *like* spending time with each other or anything; it's just become habit to split off after dinner and do our own things. Now, I know that it's "healthy" and a "good" thing to have separate interests, that we shouldn't necessarily be doing EVVVVVERYTHING together, but when our one hour per week night is spent eating dinner with the damned TV on, it can't exactly be considered quality time.
Anyhow.
I was still confused as to where this was all coming from. With some poking and prodding, Chebbar finally spit out that, while this may not be problematic now, he was worried that once he's going to school and the majority of his time will be filled with studying and homework it could develop into an issue. Of course, because I like to be a little asshole who can't see past the end of her own nose during conversations like this, I got my knickers in a twist and accused him of assuming that I don't know what the pressures of school are like and that I'll act like a spoiled brat and stomp my foot if he won't spend time with me.
Yeah. Guess what? TOTALLY not what he was getting at. *hangs head in shame*
His point was simply that we should be trying to make changes in how we spend our free time - together AND separately - now while we still can so we're a little more acclimated to making that effort once he's going to school. I repeated that I would NOT think twice about sucking it up and dealing with less time with him while he's going to school. However, I also pointed out that if, for example, he's doing school work four nights a week and wants to play WoW the other three nights a week, I'm not the only one who should be expected to compromise - that it won't kill HIM to compromise and give up one of those nights to spend time with me.
So far we've agreed that we'll play board games on Tuesday nights and do movie nights on Fridays. I had already been thinking about clearing off my table in the office so I could get back into card making, so that at least puts us in the same room. As well, all my home internetting is done on my laptop: there's no reason I can't take it into the office and sit with him.
Generally Chebbar is the strong, silent type and I'm the one who over-thinks things and borrows trouble and worries about things that haven't happened yet. To have him be the one to broach a potentially problematic situation certainly made me sit up and pay attention. And needless to say (again), he gets mad props for his forward-thinking and desire to prevent a problem from developing in our relationship (so much love for him). It will be a balancing act, but we'll do it.
So, fair readers, what do you think? Do you think his foresight was on the money? Do you think we're borrowing trouble by worrying about something that hasn't - and may not - happened yet? Do you think letting the status quo remain is a bad idea?
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Product review: Almay One Coat Mascara
This is not a sponsored or compensated review: I purchased this item with my own hard-earned pennies. Hell, I can't return the unused portion, so I can't even get my money back. ;)
A few weeks ago, I was crushed to discover that my mascara had been discontinued. So, I did what any smart person would do: I turned to Twitter. A few people had a hard time making a suggestion due to my imposition of a price limit - I'm cheap, so I'm not going to spend more than $10 on a tube of mascara. (As well, I've read enough beauty articles to be relatively sure that the $38 high-end mascara really isn't going to give me better results than the $8 drugstore brand.) To top it off, I am very picky particular about my mascara. I have long eyelashes, but the last 1/8" is blond, so they look a lot stubbier than they are. Personally, I'm not a fan of "tarantula" lashes; that being said, I want a mascara that enhances my natural lashes with as little fuss as possible. (I do use a spoolie brush to further separate my lashes.)
I got TONS of excellent suggestions, which I carefully noted (and kept, just in case). Bibliosaurus's suggestion of Almay caught my attention because I had used it in the past when I had issues with my eyes and sensitivity to what I had been using. I loved it back then, and I'm really not sure why I stopped using it; needless to say, I was rather excited to give this another try.
I purchased Almay's One Coat Nourishing Thickening Mascara for about $8. It is hypoallergenic and states that it is suitable for contact lens wearers because it doesn't smudge or flake. It boasts aloe and vitamin B5, claiming to condition lashes.
My first issue was with the length of the wand: it was rather short and stubby (please excuse my blurry, crappy picture).
That being said, that's a relatively minor annoyance and one that could be easily adapted to.
The mascara was quite thick and coated really well. Too well, in fact. I'm not sure if it's the nature of the one-coat formulation or what, but it dried EXTREMELY fast - so fast I couldn't get my spoolie brush through it immediately after, leaving it impossible to comb through and separate my lashes. In fact, all I succeeded in doing was yanking my eyelashes as I attempted to make some kind of order out of the tangled, clumpy mess. I ended up having to remove it and "dumpster dive" to grab my old mascara. I think if you were more careful (and likely patient) than I in your application, this would be a great, quick mascara. However, I will not be using this tube of mascara (and yes, I did go buy something else after work that day).
Outcome: pan.
Now, please go visit the lovely Grace Davis and her pardner (heh, get it? oh, you will!) Tiffany over on Product Review Roundup with their links to the best reviews (and more!) all in one place. While you're at it, be sure to send them links to the great reviews you've written or read.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
HYC: Week 9
I'm still not feeling 100%. In fact, not 12 hours after taking the last dose of the script, I had a couple of episodes painful enough for me to wonder if the stupid cyst had burst. I'll be very happy to talk to my doctor on Thursday to see if I can get a clearer idea of what's going on. That being said, I feel absofreakinglutely AWFUL about slacking off. Yet again, I had great intentions of starting the Tae Bo again yesterday, but after the pain attacks (seriously -- they were scary enough that I panicked realizing I was a) alone in the office and b) had no idea where the closest hospital was), I figured I'd better take it semi-easy, so I used the Wii Fit after work. Unfortunately, I'm up 1.1 lbs, but that's to be expected, considering I don't think I've done Tae Bo in a month (I don't think I've done it since I got sick right before Grandpa's funeral, which was the beginning of October). Add to that the comfort eating from stress and being ill, and I'm probably lucky it was ONLY 1.1 lbs! I didn't measure last night, but I will tonight.
I started out strong again yesterday, with my 10 glasses of water, work out, moisturizing, & flossing, but dropped the ball on the evening snacking. In the interest of getting back on track, my only goal this week is to be active five times. I know it's small (and SO unlike my normally lofty goals! lol), but it's what feels comfortable right now. I need to get back on track because I had a light-bulb moment last week when I realized that I haven't had anywhere NEAR the negative self-talk about myself/my body since I started making an effort to be active. I don't want to lose that and backslide, because the fall-out is so detrimental. I still feel like I'm calling it with the Wii Fit, but at least it's SOMETHING (as opposed to sitting on the couch and *hearing* my ass spread). I'm very hopeful that I can pick up the Tae Bo again next week. Onwards and upwards, right? :)
Friday, November 6, 2009
Make it snappy!
During a Twitter exchange with allconsoffun, she told me that when her mom was about 10, she told HER mother to "7-Up" as an inspired way to tell her to shut up. Didn't work, but still. (As an aside, my grandfather used to yell "cheese and rice!" when playing soccer as a youth instead of yelling "Jesus Christ." Heh.)
This reminded me of one of my favourite Chebbar stories, and considering it's Sesame Street's 40th Anniversary on November 10th, I thought I'd share.
Chebbar grew up watching Sesame Street, as many of us did. Unfortunately, along with his ABC's and 123's, he learned some undesirable things, too. You see, Oscar the Grouch was a bad influence on wee Chebbar. One day when he was about 6, Chebbar's dad asked him if he wanted a peanut butter sandwich for lunch. After some deliberation, Chebbar said yes, then followed his answer up with "And make it snappy!"
Chebbar's dad, being short on patience AND Sesame Street-watching time, did not get the reference, assumed his son was being a smart mouth, and sent him to his room without lunch. Poor Chebbar didn't stand a chance in explaining "But that's what OSCAR says!"
(I tried searching youtube for a clip of the infamous "make it snappy," but had no luck.)
This reminded me of one of my favourite Chebbar stories, and considering it's Sesame Street's 40th Anniversary on November 10th, I thought I'd share.
Chebbar grew up watching Sesame Street, as many of us did. Unfortunately, along with his ABC's and 123's, he learned some undesirable things, too. You see, Oscar the Grouch was a bad influence on wee Chebbar. One day when he was about 6, Chebbar's dad asked him if he wanted a peanut butter sandwich for lunch. After some deliberation, Chebbar said yes, then followed his answer up with "And make it snappy!"
Chebbar's dad, being short on patience AND Sesame Street-watching time, did not get the reference, assumed his son was being a smart mouth, and sent him to his room without lunch. Poor Chebbar didn't stand a chance in explaining "But that's what OSCAR says!"
(I tried searching youtube for a clip of the infamous "make it snappy," but had no luck.)
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
My foray into the depths of hell (aka "How to survive a visit to the walk-in clinic in the midst of a hamdemic")
Yes, I edited my post and knowingly gave you a duplicate entry in your blog readers simply because my title was WRONG and BOTHERING ME even when I wasn't looking at it -- sorry 'bout that. But I never hid the fact that I'm neurotic. Geesh. ;)
Over a week ago, I started experiencing pain in my abdomen on the lower left side. It was a cross between ovulation pain and gas pains. It wasn't really strong enough to be ovulation pains, but it was in the general vicinity; as well, even though being on the pill should technically rule out ovulation, this is a new pill, so anything's possible. I ignored it for the most part, as it was intermittent and more of a dull throb than a sharp stab. However, as the days wore on, the pain started to change and I started experiencing, uh, "other" symptoms.
*whispers* I felt MAD constipated, yo.
While I was still going, it wasn't like normal. I was under the misconception that as long as you're going, you're not constipated: not true. By Sunday, the pain was intense enough that it woke me repeatedly through the night. By Monday, the pain had spread from my left hip bone right across to mid-stomach; it woke me up during the night Monday, too. So, yesterday I resolved to see a doctor, even though I really didn't want to -- who wants to willing go sit in a room full of sick people who are likely carrying the hamthrax virus when she is just can't poop?!?
After poking Google and Twitter, I went with trepidation in my heart and hand sanitizer in my pocket. Luckily for me, some one was going in before me, so I didn't have to touch the door handle. They use a number system, so no sharing the community pen. I kept to myself, making a concerted effort to keep my hands off my face (I am a die-hard (allergy, not snotty, I swear!) nose-scratcher/eye-rubber). I was doing okay.
Until I had to pee.
Oh. My. Gawd. The public washroom?!? In a walk-in clinic??? *dies* Seriously: my head damn near exploded at the prospect of the germs. However, after a half hour commute and sitting there for an hour, I knew that if the doctor decided to palpate my abdomen, things could get a little, erm, wet. I totally did the paranoid germaphobe thing and used my paper towels (because, c'mon, who are we kidding? like ONE is gonna provide an adequate germ shield, especially after it's WET!) to turn off the tap, open the door, and turn off the light. *shudders*
Oh, funny? When I went up to register and the receptionist asked what I was there for, she asked if I had ever had a bladder infection (no). She then suggested I could go in and do a urine sample to get that out of the way. Had to tell her I had literally JUST emptied my bladder two minutes earlier. Heh. Well, WE both laughed. Maybe you had to be there.
The doctor was very abrupt and brusque, likely feeling ridiculously rushed, considering I was #10 and they were only on #81 when I got there. He had me crawl up onto the midget-sized table -- seriously: I'm only 5'2, but my legs from the KNEE DOWN hung over the edge -- where he poked and prodded (damn near making me levitate off the table, thankyouveddymuch) and declared I had an ovarian cyst. At this point, I hadn't even had a chance to tell him a) I'm constipated, b) my bowel movements have changed, c) Gas-X seems to alleviate my symptoms, and d) I'm on the pill, so I shouldn't be ovulating, dude. He wrote me a script for mefenamic acid and told me to follow up with my family doctor if the "issue" didn't "resolve itself."
*raises eyebrow*
Because of the rushed examination and my feeling of unease regarding the diagnosis, I called my doctor from the parking lot and made an appointment for next week (I should probably go talk about the PMDD stuff again anyhow).
AAAAANYHOW.
The second I got outside, I used the hand sanitizer. When I got home, I used the Neti Pot to rinse my nose and gargled with Listerine like that Dr. Oz email that's making the rounds suggests. I felt like a paranoid spaz, but if it keeps me from getting the swine flu, it's all good. The pills and the hot water bottle usage seem to be helping and the pain is abating.
Some notes:
Over a week ago, I started experiencing pain in my abdomen on the lower left side. It was a cross between ovulation pain and gas pains. It wasn't really strong enough to be ovulation pains, but it was in the general vicinity; as well, even though being on the pill should technically rule out ovulation, this is a new pill, so anything's possible. I ignored it for the most part, as it was intermittent and more of a dull throb than a sharp stab. However, as the days wore on, the pain started to change and I started experiencing, uh, "other" symptoms.
*whispers* I felt MAD constipated, yo.
While I was still going, it wasn't like normal. I was under the misconception that as long as you're going, you're not constipated: not true. By Sunday, the pain was intense enough that it woke me repeatedly through the night. By Monday, the pain had spread from my left hip bone right across to mid-stomach; it woke me up during the night Monday, too. So, yesterday I resolved to see a doctor, even though I really didn't want to -- who wants to willing go sit in a room full of sick people who are likely carrying the hamthrax virus when she is just can't poop?!?
After poking Google and Twitter, I went with trepidation in my heart and hand sanitizer in my pocket. Luckily for me, some one was going in before me, so I didn't have to touch the door handle. They use a number system, so no sharing the community pen. I kept to myself, making a concerted effort to keep my hands off my face (I am a die-hard (allergy, not snotty, I swear!) nose-scratcher/eye-rubber). I was doing okay.
Until I had to pee.
Oh. My. Gawd. The public washroom?!? In a walk-in clinic??? *dies* Seriously: my head damn near exploded at the prospect of the germs. However, after a half hour commute and sitting there for an hour, I knew that if the doctor decided to palpate my abdomen, things could get a little, erm, wet. I totally did the paranoid germaphobe thing and used my paper towels (because, c'mon, who are we kidding? like ONE is gonna provide an adequate germ shield, especially after it's WET!) to turn off the tap, open the door, and turn off the light. *shudders*
Oh, funny? When I went up to register and the receptionist asked what I was there for, she asked if I had ever had a bladder infection (no). She then suggested I could go in and do a urine sample to get that out of the way. Had to tell her I had literally JUST emptied my bladder two minutes earlier. Heh. Well, WE both laughed. Maybe you had to be there.
The doctor was very abrupt and brusque, likely feeling ridiculously rushed, considering I was #10 and they were only on #81 when I got there. He had me crawl up onto the midget-sized table -- seriously: I'm only 5'2, but my legs from the KNEE DOWN hung over the edge -- where he poked and prodded (damn near making me levitate off the table, thankyouveddymuch) and declared I had an ovarian cyst. At this point, I hadn't even had a chance to tell him a) I'm constipated, b) my bowel movements have changed, c) Gas-X seems to alleviate my symptoms, and d) I'm on the pill, so I shouldn't be ovulating, dude. He wrote me a script for mefenamic acid and told me to follow up with my family doctor if the "issue" didn't "resolve itself."
*raises eyebrow*
Because of the rushed examination and my feeling of unease regarding the diagnosis, I called my doctor from the parking lot and made an appointment for next week (I should probably go talk about the PMDD stuff again anyhow).
AAAAANYHOW.
The second I got outside, I used the hand sanitizer. When I got home, I used the Neti Pot to rinse my nose and gargled with Listerine like that Dr. Oz email that's making the rounds suggests. I felt like a paranoid spaz, but if it keeps me from getting the swine flu, it's all good. The pills and the hot water bottle usage seem to be helping and the pain is abating.
Some notes:
- Blowing your nose instead of snuffling and slurping your snot every 5 seconds is probably less likely to make me throw my hard cover book at your head
- Hacking up a lung even though there are LARGE signs in BOLD print EVERYWHERE telling you to wait outside if you are exhibiting H1N1 symptoms is likely going to net you death glares from everyone NOT hacking up a lung
- Not everyone is going to find Junior's whirling in the center of the waiting room, knocking into people willy nilly, while repeating the same phrase at the top of his lungs as "cute" as you do
- And when calling "Junior, come here!" "Junior, come here!" "Junior, come here!" 23 times OBVIOUSLY isn't working? Get. Off. Your. Ass.
- Because judging by the 80-year old smoker's cough and snot-on-tap, YOU'RE not too sick to move.
- The little girl who lifted her dress clear up to her armpits before sitting down made me smile
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
HYC: Hiatus (sort of)
It looks like I'm going to have to take some time and think of this Healthy "Me" Challenge literally. I have had pain in my abdomen on the lower left hand side for a week. Yesterday, the pain both spread and intensified. I was still stubborn and wouldn't go to the walk-in clinic. However, after a second night of being woken up by pain, I figured I should stop being such a moron and just go.
Of course, I couldn't get in to see my family doctor, so I had to go to the walk-in clinic. Part of the reason I was so resistant to going was the prospect of being exposed to the H1N1 virus -- I knew there was very little I could do to mitigate my exposure short of not going at all, but it still worried me. (Needless to say, I didn't touch much... lol)
The doctor VERY quickly diagnosed an ovarian cyst. He gave me a script for mefenamic acid, telling me to get in touch with my family doctor if the pain wasn't gone in five days. I called my doctor's office from the parking lot and managed to get an appointment for next Thursday: I wasn't entirely confident in his diagnosis based on his two minute visit which hardly included listening to my symptoms and almost resulted in him failing to make note of the fact that I'm on the pill.
So much as I h.a.t.e. skipping my workouts, it looks like I'm being forced to slow down. Again. But! I'll be back. /Terminator
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Of ghosts and goblins and things that go bump in the night
In honour of Halloween (yes, I know Halloween was yesterday: shut it), I thought I'd tell you about my ghosties. If you believe in that sort of thing, of course.
When my great grandparents moved into the retirement home, they had to downsize a lot. Along with the big-ass Precious Moments cross stitch I did for them (I still have it: anyone want it?), and the cast iron Scotty dog door stop I gave them as a gift (remind me to tell you about how that dog almost killed me), I was also given the first bed they bought when they got married, a metal 3/4 bed -- yes, 3/4: not quite a twin, and not quite a double. I swear the mattress and box spring were original to the bed (i.e. 63 years old? seriously, when you stood the mattress on its side, it flopped completely over and folded itself in half).
Regardless, I was ecstatic to get out of my twin daybed and into a "grown up" bed. I walked myself to the nearest mattress shop and was SHOCKED to learn that a custom-made mattress (3/4 isn't exactly a standard size, yo, and the Mattress Dude was looking at the bottom line when he failed to tell me I'd likely be able to set a (cheaper) double mattress on the frame... ) was going to be a WHOPPING $350. (Give me a break: I was 18 and working part-time (read: $6-ish/hour) at Retail Hell -- that was HUGE money for me.) After about six months of sleeping on the mushy mattress from hell while I made monthly payments, the glorious day arrived when the Big Mattress Truck of Awesome arrived at our house to deliver my preciousssss. Yes, they laughed when they dragged the old one away.
I slept in this bed for another two years before we moved to the new house, and in two temporary bedrooms (long story) for another four years with no ill effects. But then my step-dad finished my proper, spend-four-more-years-in-it bedroom and... well, weirdness started. It didn't happen often, but it scared the living hell out of me when it did. It took me a long time before I mentioned it to my mom simply because I thought I was going cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
Every once in awhile, I would wake up to what felt like someone grasping my foot through the blankets and gently shaking it to and fro. This would freak the freaking freak out of me because a) I'm a ridiculously light sleeper, so the thought of someone managing to get into my (pitch black) room without waking me about did my head in; and b) hi, over-active imagination much? Needless to say, I'd lie there holding my breath, trying to decide between laying still and hoping whoever (whatever) it was would just GO AWAY, and stealthily reaching over to flick on the lamp so I could confront the bastard. Flicking on the lamp won every time, except I was always alone in the room with the door shut just as I left it.
I don't remember why I found the gumption to mention it to my mom or exactly when (I know it was after my great grandparents had passed away), but when I did, I was shocked to watch the colour drain from her face. She whispered that, when she would stay with them when she was a child, in the morning Great Grannie would tip-toe into the spare room where Mom would be sleeping in MY bed, and jiggle her foot to wake her up.
O_O
Again, even though it was likely my Great Grannie, freaked my freaking freak out. I "dealt" by putting my fingers in my ears, yelling LA LA LA! at the top of my lungs, and putting it completely out of my head.
But it would seem that there was something to this... spirit thing. You see, my down payment consisted largely of the inheritance left to me by my great grandparents; Mom told me on a regular basis how proud my Scottish great grandfather would have been. When I got the keys to the condo, I took pictures of all the empty rooms. On the day of my house warming two months later, I took another set with everything painted and decorated. It wasn't until I printed a set off to send to my grandparents that I noticed something... odd in almost all of the pictures.
Orbs. But only on the second set of pictures (and orbs are not a common occurrence with my camera, FTR):
When my great grandparents moved into the retirement home, they had to downsize a lot. Along with the big-ass Precious Moments cross stitch I did for them (I still have it: anyone want it?), and the cast iron Scotty dog door stop I gave them as a gift (remind me to tell you about how that dog almost killed me), I was also given the first bed they bought when they got married, a metal 3/4 bed -- yes, 3/4: not quite a twin, and not quite a double. I swear the mattress and box spring were original to the bed (i.e. 63 years old? seriously, when you stood the mattress on its side, it flopped completely over and folded itself in half).
Regardless, I was ecstatic to get out of my twin daybed and into a "grown up" bed. I walked myself to the nearest mattress shop and was SHOCKED to learn that a custom-made mattress (3/4 isn't exactly a standard size, yo, and the Mattress Dude was looking at the bottom line when he failed to tell me I'd likely be able to set a (cheaper) double mattress on the frame... ) was going to be a WHOPPING $350. (Give me a break: I was 18 and working part-time (read: $6-ish/hour) at Retail Hell -- that was HUGE money for me.) After about six months of sleeping on the mushy mattress from hell while I made monthly payments, the glorious day arrived when the Big Mattress Truck of Awesome arrived at our house to deliver my preciousssss. Yes, they laughed when they dragged the old one away.
I slept in this bed for another two years before we moved to the new house, and in two temporary bedrooms (long story) for another four years with no ill effects. But then my step-dad finished my proper, spend-four-more-years-in-it bedroom and... well, weirdness started. It didn't happen often, but it scared the living hell out of me when it did. It took me a long time before I mentioned it to my mom simply because I thought I was going cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
Every once in awhile, I would wake up to what felt like someone grasping my foot through the blankets and gently shaking it to and fro. This would freak the freaking freak out of me because a) I'm a ridiculously light sleeper, so the thought of someone managing to get into my (pitch black) room without waking me about did my head in; and b) hi, over-active imagination much? Needless to say, I'd lie there holding my breath, trying to decide between laying still and hoping whoever (whatever) it was would just GO AWAY, and stealthily reaching over to flick on the lamp so I could confront the bastard. Flicking on the lamp won every time, except I was always alone in the room with the door shut just as I left it.
I don't remember why I found the gumption to mention it to my mom or exactly when (I know it was after my great grandparents had passed away), but when I did, I was shocked to watch the colour drain from her face. She whispered that, when she would stay with them when she was a child, in the morning Great Grannie would tip-toe into the spare room where Mom would be sleeping in MY bed, and jiggle her foot to wake her up.
O_O
Again, even though it was likely my Great Grannie, freaked my freaking freak out. I "dealt" by putting my fingers in my ears, yelling LA LA LA! at the top of my lungs, and putting it completely out of my head.
But it would seem that there was something to this... spirit thing. You see, my down payment consisted largely of the inheritance left to me by my great grandparents; Mom told me on a regular basis how proud my Scottish great grandfather would have been. When I got the keys to the condo, I took pictures of all the empty rooms. On the day of my house warming two months later, I took another set with everything painted and decorated. It wasn't until I printed a set off to send to my grandparents that I noticed something... odd in almost all of the pictures.
Orbs. But only on the second set of pictures (and orbs are not a common occurrence with my camera, FTR):
Mom's theory? My great grandparents "came" to my house warming party. If you notice how strong they appear in the last picture, it's interesting to note that the blanket on my hope chest in the corner? That's our family tartan -- my great grandpa's family tartan.
*shivers*
Well, if I'm gonna have ghosts, at least they're family.
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