The majority of you may not know that I have NEVER, EVER stepped foot into those pink-flavored Vicki's Secret stores. NEVER. I figure I've made it 50 years without going into one, what's the point of starting now? I've walked by them at the mall but I have never crossed the threshold into the land of panties and under wires. The whole thing makes me nervous. I'm not kidding. Obviously, one can live quite thoroughly and happily without ever stepping into a Vicki's pink pantie party, so this has not been a problem...
....then, I drew the wife's sister's name for the family Christmas exchange. My excitement of getting her name was quickly tempered when I saw the top of her list: she was asking for a sweatshirt specifically from that Vicki's Secret place. Just reading that made me sweat. I was going to have to expand my horizons. This meant I would have to take drastic measures. I was going to have to employ a professional.
I called on MJagger.
MJagger is the queen of the Pink Vicki. She drips in that stuff. I knew she would help me not only succeed in my mission to secure the perfect gift but she'd also respect the terror I would feel upon my virginal trip to her Mecca.
Me: So, will you go to the mall and help me get this gift?
MJagger: What does she want?
Me: A pink sweatshirt.
MJagger: A PINK sweatshirt or a pink sweatshirt?
Me: Huh?
MJagger: does she want the brand Pink or an actual pink sweatshirt?
Me: Blank stare. Um, I dunno. This is what is says--medium pink sweatshirt from Vicki's Secret.
MJagger: Well, you need to know which it is she wants.
Me: I guess we should go with a pink Pink sweatshirt. That covers all bases.
We went to the mall during our lunch our. MJagger drove as I was rather terrified and on the verge of hyperventilation. Once parked, MJagger pointed me in the right direction. With a decisive stride and purse in hand, she took me to her home. I dragged behind, keeping my eyes on the ground and my hands shoved in my pockets. I took a gulp of air and....
.....I entered the store of which I had yet to ever enter.
Dear god, it was an explosion of pink. I followed MJagger, eyes not looking anywhere but at the back of her coat. She stopped abruptly, held up a pink Pink sweatshirt and asked me what I thought. It looked normal enough, it was pink, it was medium. Sold. I asked no questions. I did not ask to see other sweatshirts. I just wanted out of that store. I said it was perfect and asked where we paid.
It was at that point MJagger took a good look at me. "You really haven't ever been in one of these stores, have you?" I shook my head "no," assuring her this was my virginal experience. Even though she knew this, seeing my reaction confirmed that I hadn't been kidding. I didn't even know where the registers were located.
I think I made her day.
Going to the registers was like bellying up to the bowels of lingerie hell. I looked up to see where I would need to pay. The four salespeople working the counter were all wearing tape measures (STAY.AWAY.FROM.ME WITH THOSE THINGS!), were beautiful and had big.....blue eyes. Behind them were giant photos of models demonstrating the magical powers of the Vicki Secret specialties. I turned to look at MJagger and noticed I was surrounded by photo after photo of scantily-clad models. I couldn't see the front of the store. MJagger pushed me toward the counter so I could pay.
Well, I was befuckled beyond measure. I just wanted to pay and get out. The lady asked me if I wanted a gift bag and gift receipt. I kept my eyes on the counter and nodded yes. She asked me if I had found what I was looking for. I again nodded yes but remained speechless. She then asked if I had an Angel card. I looked up, quizzically and then turned to MJagger. I asked, "you have an Angel card, don't you?" She had a REALLY confused look on her face. She slowly nodded yes. I said, "Well, let me use it." I stuck out my hand and waited. She slowly opened her purse, all the time with this weird look on her face. I knew she looked confused but I figured she was just so surprised that I actually would be considerate enough to "let" her get points for my purchase....
See, I thought an Angel card was like one of those reward cards. You know, those credit-card looking cards that they are always asking if we have when we approach the check out. I have them for pet stores, drug stores, bagel shops, sandwich shops. I thought I was getting her bonus points toward getting some free underwear. She handed me the pink rewards card and I handed it to the cashier. I pulled out my charge card as the lady handed the Angel card back to me....
....Imagine my surprise to learn that an Angel card is a CREDIT CARD, NOT a rewards card. I just demanded my friend to let me use her credit card.
I.was.mortified.
It was too late. The transition was complete. I stood there feeling like the biggest ass on the planet. Why MJagger said nothing, I do not know. I wish she would have barked out, "hey asswipe, use your own charge card." I blame the lace and under wire madness.....
I didn't catch on to what happened until the pink bag with the pink tissue paper with the pink handle with the pink Pink sweatshirt was being handed to me.
I took my pink bag with the pink tissue with the pink handle with the pink Pink sweatshirt and skulked out the door. I wasn't sure what the hell I could possibly say that would explain demanding of her Angel card or how she had just paid for my Christmas gift purchase. I am sure I muttered out a few words but they probably weren't in the English language and they certainly didn't convey my thought process.
I'm not sure MJagger will go shopping with me again for a long, long time.
Well, not at least until her charge card bill has been paid.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Festive Buns
We're still here! I spit on the Mayans and their stupid round calendar. I guess it's time to start Christmas shopping. I'd like to say I put it off due to the Mayan rumors or the winter storm, but I'd be lying. I cannot lie to you, my beloved readers. I'm just behind schedule. How did this happen?
The 2012 Not-so-Great winter storm Draco has come and gone, leaving us with a meager three inches of snow. Judging from the pre-storm media panic, you would have thought we were in the path of certain doom; in fact, my cell phone let out an earth-shattering warning blare at 3:48 AM (yes, you read that right--3:48 AM) to warn me that a blizzard warning had been posted for NOON. It scared the bejesus out of us. We'd never received a weather warning from our phones before. I still am flummoxed as neither of us have changed our phone settings. I'm telling you, that warning was LOUD and had a tone I had never emit from my iPhone....
....the wife sprung out of bed to see what was the matter, because out on our phones rang out such clatter.
The wife: "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?"
Me (falling out of bed, reaching desperately for my glasses and cell phone): "Dear god, I don't know! I think it's my phone! Your phone is doing it, too!"
Will someone please alert the powers-that-be that I would appreciate a warning like that if a tornado or violent storm is heading my way in a few minutes, but I really don't want a blizzard warning in the middle of the night for something eight hours from starting. Just sayin.'
It's three days until Christmas. That means I do indeed have to get a move on with my shopping. I did most of my holiday shopping on line (dear goodness, I adore the Internet), but there are things that (1) I've forgotten and now it's too late to order on line; (2) I changed my mind about and now have to get something else; (3) I couldn't buy ahead of time--think perishable; or, (4) I've just been filled with even more Christmas cheer and I feel a need to spend money that I didn't spend before the predicted end of time. I've also got some gifts to return--can you believe I have returns to make before the holiday actually happens? Poor MJagger. She's top of the must-return-her-gift list.
Now that there is snow on the ground and carols on the radio and lines at the store, I am once again reminded of Christmases past. I know I've blogged about many of them, recalling favorite memories, favorite foods and favorite gifts. I'm not sure if I have ever blogged about favorite holiday fights, but I think I'll skip those since I'm in such a festive mood. After all these years of couple-dom, the holidays are actually rather boring in a very welcomed manner. Christmas planning in the early days used to feature yelling and glaring, blaming and crying, silent treatments and hurt feelings. Now, as evidenced in the previous blog entry, it's all candy canes and gay apparel, only a silent argument now and again, only about money. Thank you, Baby Jesus, for bringing use peace and cheer for the holidays!
Back in the early 1990's, the wife and I decided to skip our usual bout of holiday angst by skipping town. We were sick of not being together for the holiday, so we scheduled a trip to a tropical island where we would finally have our first Christmas Eve and Day together. By flying out in the wee hours of Christmas morning, we'd be able to avoid the "who is going where on Christmas Eve" screaming match--we had to stay at a hotel near O'Hare on Christmas Eve in order to get to the airport on time for our flight. I will never forget that night because (1) both of us were feeling rather miserable that we weren't with our families; and, (2) the hotel had no heat. How the hell a hotel in the Midwest in winter doesn't have heat, I don't know, but we had none. They were nice enough about it but that get us any heat--"I'm sorry, but none of the rooms have heat." Since we'd only be there for a total of seven or so hours, we decided to stick it out. We were cold in a non-descrip, non-decorated, sad and lonely hotel room. It was a lonnnnng, very cold, strangely sad, mostly sleepless night, not exactly the way we had planned on starting our tropical trek.
Thankfully, we were cured of our holiday blues as soon as we exited the plan on said tropical island. It was a marvelous but confusing. After all, two Midwestern girls don't exactly know what to do with 90 degree temps on Christmas Day.
For the record, I must mention that we were slapped back into reality when we got back to O'Hare the day after New Year's. The day before we returned, it had snowed six or eight inches. Unfortunately for us, we were wearing shorts and gym shoes as we trudged through the remote parking lot. It's usually quite a feat to find your car at O'Hare after being gone a week--it's a much more harrowing event when you and your luggage are calf-deep in snow and all the cars are covered with a deep blanket of snow. Everything looks the same. We were literally knocking snow off of license plates in an effort to find the car.
Note to self: Do not wear tropical island clothing when returning to the Midwest in the winter.
This year will not feature a tropical island but it will feature heat. Lots of warm, happy, glowing, furnace-blasting heat. We are so fortunate in so many ways. We have family and a home and jobs and our health and heat. Too many others have only some or even none of these.
Many of "my" clients do not have family or jobs or health. They are accustomed to getting up on Christmas Day knowing that it is just another day. Santa won't be visiting. They will get up, take their meds, eat a bowl of cereal and probably go back to bed. They won't think to look under the site Christmas tree because they know there will be nothing to see....
.....Well, not this year!!! Thanks to a few special friends, "my" clients are going to have a much, much, much better Christmas than usual. Santa will be visiting them. They will get gifts. They will be mighty surprised. I'm telling you what--my hands are sore from all the wrapping I did. Fun gifts, useful gifts, ridiculously generous gifts. I received yet another call yesterday, this time from a friend wanting to give money or gift cards to the guys without family.....
...She cried, I cried, it's like a god-darn hormonal love fest around here. I can't wait for Christmas Day morning!!! I wish I could share photos but confidentiality demands I behave. Pooh.
Speaking of pooh (you didn't think I could end this blog on such a serious, heart-warming note, did you?), Mr. Hankey the Christmas Pooh has made his way back to my office. It's a big part of the holidays at work. Well, okay--it's a big part of MY holidays at work. My co-worker made me a Mr. Hankey in 1999 and he's accompanied me to every holiday since. I was a bit worried I had lost Mr. Hankey but I thankfully found him hidden in a locked filing cabinet in my office (while organizing my tampons, I kid you not). Mr. Hankey is a huge hit with the guys and they ask for him every year. I am the queen of poop, as you know--the holidays are no exception. I'm sure Mr. Hankey will be present when the guys find that Santa Claus has come to town. I'm going to put him in the tree, right over those presents, kinda like he's the Star of Bethlehem, calling them to the tree.
I end with a few of the lyrics from Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo. Don't worry--I will let you know how it goes with the guys when they see and open their presents from Santa. Until then, may you have an amazing Christmas and may your poop be corny or nutty or firm or....well, you know. Merry Christmas!
"We've all heard of Rudolph and his shiny nose, and we all know a Frosty who's made out of snow...
But, all those stories seem kind of.....gay....'cuz we all know who brightens up our holiday....
Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo! Small and brown, he comes from you
Sit on the toilet, here he comes, Squeeze him 'tween your festive buns!
A present from down below, spreading joy with a howdy ho, he's seen the love inside you
'cuz he's a piece of poo!"
If that doesn't warm your cockles, I don't know what will.
*********************************************************************
The 2012 Not-so-Great winter storm Draco has come and gone, leaving us with a meager three inches of snow. Judging from the pre-storm media panic, you would have thought we were in the path of certain doom; in fact, my cell phone let out an earth-shattering warning blare at 3:48 AM (yes, you read that right--3:48 AM) to warn me that a blizzard warning had been posted for NOON. It scared the bejesus out of us. We'd never received a weather warning from our phones before. I still am flummoxed as neither of us have changed our phone settings. I'm telling you, that warning was LOUD and had a tone I had never emit from my iPhone....
....the wife sprung out of bed to see what was the matter, because out on our phones rang out such clatter.
The wife: "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?"
Me (falling out of bed, reaching desperately for my glasses and cell phone): "Dear god, I don't know! I think it's my phone! Your phone is doing it, too!"
Will someone please alert the powers-that-be that I would appreciate a warning like that if a tornado or violent storm is heading my way in a few minutes, but I really don't want a blizzard warning in the middle of the night for something eight hours from starting. Just sayin.'
It's three days until Christmas. That means I do indeed have to get a move on with my shopping. I did most of my holiday shopping on line (dear goodness, I adore the Internet), but there are things that (1) I've forgotten and now it's too late to order on line; (2) I changed my mind about and now have to get something else; (3) I couldn't buy ahead of time--think perishable; or, (4) I've just been filled with even more Christmas cheer and I feel a need to spend money that I didn't spend before the predicted end of time. I've also got some gifts to return--can you believe I have returns to make before the holiday actually happens? Poor MJagger. She's top of the must-return-her-gift list.
Now that there is snow on the ground and carols on the radio and lines at the store, I am once again reminded of Christmases past. I know I've blogged about many of them, recalling favorite memories, favorite foods and favorite gifts. I'm not sure if I have ever blogged about favorite holiday fights, but I think I'll skip those since I'm in such a festive mood. After all these years of couple-dom, the holidays are actually rather boring in a very welcomed manner. Christmas planning in the early days used to feature yelling and glaring, blaming and crying, silent treatments and hurt feelings. Now, as evidenced in the previous blog entry, it's all candy canes and gay apparel, only a silent argument now and again, only about money. Thank you, Baby Jesus, for bringing use peace and cheer for the holidays!
Back in the early 1990's, the wife and I decided to skip our usual bout of holiday angst by skipping town. We were sick of not being together for the holiday, so we scheduled a trip to a tropical island where we would finally have our first Christmas Eve and Day together. By flying out in the wee hours of Christmas morning, we'd be able to avoid the "who is going where on Christmas Eve" screaming match--we had to stay at a hotel near O'Hare on Christmas Eve in order to get to the airport on time for our flight. I will never forget that night because (1) both of us were feeling rather miserable that we weren't with our families; and, (2) the hotel had no heat. How the hell a hotel in the Midwest in winter doesn't have heat, I don't know, but we had none. They were nice enough about it but that get us any heat--"I'm sorry, but none of the rooms have heat." Since we'd only be there for a total of seven or so hours, we decided to stick it out. We were cold in a non-descrip, non-decorated, sad and lonely hotel room. It was a lonnnnng, very cold, strangely sad, mostly sleepless night, not exactly the way we had planned on starting our tropical trek.
Thankfully, we were cured of our holiday blues as soon as we exited the plan on said tropical island. It was a marvelous but confusing. After all, two Midwestern girls don't exactly know what to do with 90 degree temps on Christmas Day.
For the record, I must mention that we were slapped back into reality when we got back to O'Hare the day after New Year's. The day before we returned, it had snowed six or eight inches. Unfortunately for us, we were wearing shorts and gym shoes as we trudged through the remote parking lot. It's usually quite a feat to find your car at O'Hare after being gone a week--it's a much more harrowing event when you and your luggage are calf-deep in snow and all the cars are covered with a deep blanket of snow. Everything looks the same. We were literally knocking snow off of license plates in an effort to find the car.
Note to self: Do not wear tropical island clothing when returning to the Midwest in the winter.
This year will not feature a tropical island but it will feature heat. Lots of warm, happy, glowing, furnace-blasting heat. We are so fortunate in so many ways. We have family and a home and jobs and our health and heat. Too many others have only some or even none of these.
Many of "my" clients do not have family or jobs or health. They are accustomed to getting up on Christmas Day knowing that it is just another day. Santa won't be visiting. They will get up, take their meds, eat a bowl of cereal and probably go back to bed. They won't think to look under the site Christmas tree because they know there will be nothing to see....
.....Well, not this year!!! Thanks to a few special friends, "my" clients are going to have a much, much, much better Christmas than usual. Santa will be visiting them. They will get gifts. They will be mighty surprised. I'm telling you what--my hands are sore from all the wrapping I did. Fun gifts, useful gifts, ridiculously generous gifts. I received yet another call yesterday, this time from a friend wanting to give money or gift cards to the guys without family.....
...She cried, I cried, it's like a god-darn hormonal love fest around here. I can't wait for Christmas Day morning!!! I wish I could share photos but confidentiality demands I behave. Pooh.
Speaking of pooh (you didn't think I could end this blog on such a serious, heart-warming note, did you?), Mr. Hankey the Christmas Pooh has made his way back to my office. It's a big part of the holidays at work. Well, okay--it's a big part of MY holidays at work. My co-worker made me a Mr. Hankey in 1999 and he's accompanied me to every holiday since. I was a bit worried I had lost Mr. Hankey but I thankfully found him hidden in a locked filing cabinet in my office (while organizing my tampons, I kid you not). Mr. Hankey is a huge hit with the guys and they ask for him every year. I am the queen of poop, as you know--the holidays are no exception. I'm sure Mr. Hankey will be present when the guys find that Santa Claus has come to town. I'm going to put him in the tree, right over those presents, kinda like he's the Star of Bethlehem, calling them to the tree.
I end with a few of the lyrics from Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo. Don't worry--I will let you know how it goes with the guys when they see and open their presents from Santa. Until then, may you have an amazing Christmas and may your poop be corny or nutty or firm or....well, you know. Merry Christmas!
"We've all heard of Rudolph and his shiny nose, and we all know a Frosty who's made out of snow...
But, all those stories seem kind of.....gay....'cuz we all know who brightens up our holiday....
Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo! Small and brown, he comes from you
Sit on the toilet, here he comes, Squeeze him 'tween your festive buns!
A present from down below, spreading joy with a howdy ho, he's seen the love inside you
'cuz he's a piece of poo!"
If that doesn't warm your cockles, I don't know what will.
*********************************************************************
Friday, December 14, 2012
Wrap This
It is said the number one thing couples argue about is money. (I know they also argue about the TV remote, channel surfing vs. not channel surfing, the temperature in the home and sex, but I'm not hear to talk about any of that--well, not this blog, anyways.) The wife and I are no exception; in fact, it is probably the only thing we really argue about. (Disclaimer: Yes, we are affectionately known as "The Bickersons," but that's because we bicker constantly and it's usually in good fun--an out-loud processing of our couple-dom thinking, differing communication styles and minor disagreements.) Christmas and birthdays bring out the best of arguments. With the holiday season upon us, our differing views on money are in red-hot mode.
Suffice it to say we disagree mainly on how much money to spend on gifts (total cost per person) and who actually should be getting gifts. Please do not misconstrue what I write...the wife is not Scrooge-like; it's that she is thoughtful, practical, fiscally-prudent and from a whole different world than the one in which I was raised. Is has nothing to do with generosity--the wife is a very generous person. She's just a wise owl who'd like to have a nest egg, whereas I just hope I have a nest in which to squat some day. Whereas I think you have to spend $50 per family person these days, she would say $30 was plenty and maybe even too much. (This is retail value, by the way--if she can get it at a discount store for $10 and it's $30 value, it counts as $30. To me, it means I have $20 dollars to spend.) You can see how this can lead to more than a bicker now and then.
Don't even get us started on co-workers. I am a boss to 12 people this year (down from a high of 27--shoo!). I want to give each of them something because I value their work and effort. I also find it the right thing to do in the Christmas spirit. The wife says I should give little or even nothing, again not because she is full of the Grinch but because she is wise with her money and knows the spending needs to stop somewhere.
There is no fiscal cliff in our house besides the one I am going to be thrown off if I spend too much money.
I've been fretting how much to spend for my minions and prefer to give gift cards; after all, I don't want to give someone making minimum wage a box of cheap, waxy chocolate they don't want, stuffed in an over-sized holiday mug they'll never use. Giving a gift card, though, means you have to really think about it....it is what it is. That box of chocolate in a mug might cost $5.00 but no one really knows how much it is. A gift card has the number right on it. Because of our banter and because I'm still fretting, nary a work gift has been purchased.
As for when to "cut" people off of the gift list, I'm going to have to consult with a professional--my mother. I never really thought about it until we started arguing about when you stop buying relatives (mainly the "kids" such as nieces and nephews) presents. I thought it was NEVER. You never stop. She says the cut off is age 18. I was mortified by this. This is a new argument, as "my" three nieces are now 19, 18 and 16. We didn't have to think about this before and I had no idea she had an approach like this. She had no idea I didn't think you stop giving presents after age 18. I have NO plans of EVER stopping the gift train. The gift train, in her mind, has pulled into the station and come to a stop. I can tell you that this is going to be a bone of contention. Again, she's just being practical and money wise and is probably right. I probably should listen to her but I just can't....
The wife: When did your aunts and uncles stop giving you presents?
Me: Huh. I dunno. (I really don't. I never thought about it.)
The wife: See? They stopped giving you presents.
Me: But, two of these three are our god children! You can't stop giving to your god children! And you can't just give to two of the three!
The wife: when did your god parents stop giving to you?
Me: (glaring, because this is an unfair argument. I throw the yellow FOUL flag. She accepts the infraction and focuses on herself.)
The wife: My god parents stopped when I turned 18. So did my aunts and uncles.
Me: Well, I'm not stopping.
The wife: (Silence.)
Me: (Silence.)
The wife: (Silence.)
Me: (Silence.)
The wife: (Silence.)
Me: (Silence.)
Did I mention that our arguments tend to be REALLY quiet in nature?
And so, I bought the presents for my side of the family and she bought the presents for her side of the family and guess what? The total was the same.
So, to me the point is mute. To her, I spent way too much money because my family is so much smaller. In the end, we'll both be happy and our nieces and nephews will be happy and my co-workers will be somewhat happy (no matter what I give them, several will find it not enough--ingrates) and we'll all have a great Christmas.
...well, as long as she stays away from my checkbook and I stay away from hers, it truly will be a very Merry Christmas.....
Suffice it to say we disagree mainly on how much money to spend on gifts (total cost per person) and who actually should be getting gifts. Please do not misconstrue what I write...the wife is not Scrooge-like; it's that she is thoughtful, practical, fiscally-prudent and from a whole different world than the one in which I was raised. Is has nothing to do with generosity--the wife is a very generous person. She's just a wise owl who'd like to have a nest egg, whereas I just hope I have a nest in which to squat some day. Whereas I think you have to spend $50 per family person these days, she would say $30 was plenty and maybe even too much. (This is retail value, by the way--if she can get it at a discount store for $10 and it's $30 value, it counts as $30. To me, it means I have $20 dollars to spend.) You can see how this can lead to more than a bicker now and then.
Don't even get us started on co-workers. I am a boss to 12 people this year (down from a high of 27--shoo!). I want to give each of them something because I value their work and effort. I also find it the right thing to do in the Christmas spirit. The wife says I should give little or even nothing, again not because she is full of the Grinch but because she is wise with her money and knows the spending needs to stop somewhere.
There is no fiscal cliff in our house besides the one I am going to be thrown off if I spend too much money.
I've been fretting how much to spend for my minions and prefer to give gift cards; after all, I don't want to give someone making minimum wage a box of cheap, waxy chocolate they don't want, stuffed in an over-sized holiday mug they'll never use. Giving a gift card, though, means you have to really think about it....it is what it is. That box of chocolate in a mug might cost $5.00 but no one really knows how much it is. A gift card has the number right on it. Because of our banter and because I'm still fretting, nary a work gift has been purchased.
As for when to "cut" people off of the gift list, I'm going to have to consult with a professional--my mother. I never really thought about it until we started arguing about when you stop buying relatives (mainly the "kids" such as nieces and nephews) presents. I thought it was NEVER. You never stop. She says the cut off is age 18. I was mortified by this. This is a new argument, as "my" three nieces are now 19, 18 and 16. We didn't have to think about this before and I had no idea she had an approach like this. She had no idea I didn't think you stop giving presents after age 18. I have NO plans of EVER stopping the gift train. The gift train, in her mind, has pulled into the station and come to a stop. I can tell you that this is going to be a bone of contention. Again, she's just being practical and money wise and is probably right. I probably should listen to her but I just can't....
The wife: When did your aunts and uncles stop giving you presents?
Me: Huh. I dunno. (I really don't. I never thought about it.)
The wife: See? They stopped giving you presents.
Me: But, two of these three are our god children! You can't stop giving to your god children! And you can't just give to two of the three!
The wife: when did your god parents stop giving to you?
Me: (glaring, because this is an unfair argument. I throw the yellow FOUL flag. She accepts the infraction and focuses on herself.)
The wife: My god parents stopped when I turned 18. So did my aunts and uncles.
Me: Well, I'm not stopping.
The wife: (Silence.)
Me: (Silence.)
The wife: (Silence.)
Me: (Silence.)
The wife: (Silence.)
Me: (Silence.)
Did I mention that our arguments tend to be REALLY quiet in nature?
And so, I bought the presents for my side of the family and she bought the presents for her side of the family and guess what? The total was the same.
So, to me the point is mute. To her, I spent way too much money because my family is so much smaller. In the end, we'll both be happy and our nieces and nephews will be happy and my co-workers will be somewhat happy (no matter what I give them, several will find it not enough--ingrates) and we'll all have a great Christmas.
...well, as long as she stays away from my checkbook and I stay away from hers, it truly will be a very Merry Christmas.....
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
Kneedy Degenerate
Wow---less than three weeks until Christmas. I best get my sorry ass off the couch and over to the computer to get some shopping done.
I thought you might want to stay up to date with my knee. If not, just pretend. I spent a lot of money to find out what is going on with my knee, so humor me.
Dr. Kneedy came into the room with a half smile on his face, shook my hand, sat down and said the dreaded words: "Well, I have some good news and some bad news."
Right then and there I knew 100% that I didn't need surgery. I KNEW that was going to be his good news.
"The good news is that you don't need surgery."
SEE? I TOLD YOU!
I played my best poker face and coolly inquired, "and, the bad news?"
Suffice it to say he gave me all sorts of medical gobbly gook that indicated my issues are degenerative in nature. I knew I was a degenerate--now, I had proof. I wish I were Ellen Degenerate instead of Kneedy Degenerate. (Just a little humor there, emphasis on little. I'm trying to keep this light hearted.) My meniscus isn't torn but it degenerating. He showed me the MRI and pointed out the various concerns. Yup, there's my non-torn meniscus, smiling back at me. Yup, I see that white stuff. Yup, I see the areas of deterioration you are pointing to. All that nonsense and you don't do surgery for that. You have what you have. I have degeneration in a variety of locations, including the tibiofibular joint, which explains why I have pain there. Who knew there was even a joint there? Every time he explained something and pointed to it on my knee, I said, "uh huh" because he was pointing to right where I've been having various pains. Damn. An educational moment came when he spoke about Hoffa's fat. What the hell is Hoffa's fat? Does everyone have Hoffa's fat? Is it Jimmy Hoffa's fat? Is that where Jimmy Hoffa is? Well, whatever it is, I have fluid in mine. I don't know if that is good or bad or means that Jimmy is in a pool or what.
Good news, bad news. Who would think the need to have surgery would be better news?
As I don't feel I'm to the point of needing injections, I'm nowhere near needing knee replacement and I decided not to go to physical therapy, he gave me a list of exercises to do and then sent a PT in to show me how to do them. Simple enough to understand. Now, I just have to do them. He also told me to try glucosamine and chondroitin. He made no guarantees but thought it was worth a shot.
I'm not sure where this leaves my jogging. Part of me says to go ahead and pursue my goal and then hang up the shoes. Part of me says I'm an idiot if I don't stop before I do more damage.
Of course, there is the part of me that says go with the flow and let the Universe take care of me and my knees. I plan on walking as usual. I have no plan to start swimming. I suppose I could ride a bike. I wonder if Zumba is hard on the knees?
I have been researching metaphysical and spiritual information on what knee problems "mean." Inflexibility or unwillingness to bend are at the top of the list. I find this hard to believe. Even the wife says I am one of the most flexible people she knows. Maybe I'm inflexible in my thinking about being flexible. Others mention stubbornness. Ooooh, I am stubborn. (You can be flexible and stubborn at the same time, IMHO.) Another site suggested a "knee jerk" reaction. Or, perhaps it is a kidney issue, per another site. Unfortunately, knees can also represent pride. Ouch. I might need a slap in the head about that one. My research has led me to using Louis Hay's affirmation of: "I am flexible and flowing. Forgiveness. Understanding. Compassion. I bend and flow with ease and all is well." I'm all good with that.
And so, I remind young ladies once again to take care of your knees. Do your warm ups, strengthen your quads, be kind and gentle. Don't abuse them. Love them. Nurture them. Need them. And, I remind my sisters in the knee pain that we are flexible and flowing and that all is well, no matter what Dr. Kneedy says.
I thought you might want to stay up to date with my knee. If not, just pretend. I spent a lot of money to find out what is going on with my knee, so humor me.
Dr. Kneedy came into the room with a half smile on his face, shook my hand, sat down and said the dreaded words: "Well, I have some good news and some bad news."
Right then and there I knew 100% that I didn't need surgery. I KNEW that was going to be his good news.
"The good news is that you don't need surgery."
SEE? I TOLD YOU!
I played my best poker face and coolly inquired, "and, the bad news?"
Suffice it to say he gave me all sorts of medical gobbly gook that indicated my issues are degenerative in nature. I knew I was a degenerate--now, I had proof. I wish I were Ellen Degenerate instead of Kneedy Degenerate. (Just a little humor there, emphasis on little. I'm trying to keep this light hearted.) My meniscus isn't torn but it degenerating. He showed me the MRI and pointed out the various concerns. Yup, there's my non-torn meniscus, smiling back at me. Yup, I see that white stuff. Yup, I see the areas of deterioration you are pointing to. All that nonsense and you don't do surgery for that. You have what you have. I have degeneration in a variety of locations, including the tibiofibular joint, which explains why I have pain there. Who knew there was even a joint there? Every time he explained something and pointed to it on my knee, I said, "uh huh" because he was pointing to right where I've been having various pains. Damn. An educational moment came when he spoke about Hoffa's fat. What the hell is Hoffa's fat? Does everyone have Hoffa's fat? Is it Jimmy Hoffa's fat? Is that where Jimmy Hoffa is? Well, whatever it is, I have fluid in mine. I don't know if that is good or bad or means that Jimmy is in a pool or what.
Good news, bad news. Who would think the need to have surgery would be better news?
As I don't feel I'm to the point of needing injections, I'm nowhere near needing knee replacement and I decided not to go to physical therapy, he gave me a list of exercises to do and then sent a PT in to show me how to do them. Simple enough to understand. Now, I just have to do them. He also told me to try glucosamine and chondroitin. He made no guarantees but thought it was worth a shot.
I'm not sure where this leaves my jogging. Part of me says to go ahead and pursue my goal and then hang up the shoes. Part of me says I'm an idiot if I don't stop before I do more damage.
Of course, there is the part of me that says go with the flow and let the Universe take care of me and my knees. I plan on walking as usual. I have no plan to start swimming. I suppose I could ride a bike. I wonder if Zumba is hard on the knees?
I have been researching metaphysical and spiritual information on what knee problems "mean." Inflexibility or unwillingness to bend are at the top of the list. I find this hard to believe. Even the wife says I am one of the most flexible people she knows. Maybe I'm inflexible in my thinking about being flexible. Others mention stubbornness. Ooooh, I am stubborn. (You can be flexible and stubborn at the same time, IMHO.) Another site suggested a "knee jerk" reaction. Or, perhaps it is a kidney issue, per another site. Unfortunately, knees can also represent pride. Ouch. I might need a slap in the head about that one. My research has led me to using Louis Hay's affirmation of: "I am flexible and flowing. Forgiveness. Understanding. Compassion. I bend and flow with ease and all is well." I'm all good with that.
And so, I remind young ladies once again to take care of your knees. Do your warm ups, strengthen your quads, be kind and gentle. Don't abuse them. Love them. Nurture them. Need them. And, I remind my sisters in the knee pain that we are flexible and flowing and that all is well, no matter what Dr. Kneedy says.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Em. Are. Eye.
Yesterday, I had an MRI done on my knee. If you've ever had an MRI, you know they (1) shove you in a big tube; (2) are noisy; and, (3) tell you to hold still no matter what. I had an MRI done on my neck in the very early 1990's, so I had a good idea of what to expect: tube, noise, don't move. Although technology has come a long way, I figured not much probably changed. I was right--tube, noise, don't move.
Before getting shoved into the noisy tube, I had to fill out a form. They want to make sure you don't have any weird metal things inside of you--shrapnel, clips or clamps, pacemakers, etc. I quickly went down the list: no, no, no, no, no, no....then, I got to the last question, which inquired if I had any tattoos. Tattoos? My first reaction was why the hell would it matter if I had tattoos? My second reaction was, "oh shit, I am covered with tattoos." My third reaction was, "they didn't ask me this last time," but, then I realized back then I didn't have a tattoo so I probably didn't pay any attention to the question. I circled "yes" and hoped this would not delay my testing. My final thought was, "there are a bazillion people with tattoos that must need MRIs, so I'm not gonna fret about this." When the lady came to get me, I handed her the form and then asked about the tattoos. Her question? "Where your tattoos done in the United States?"
Huh?
She explained that tattoo inks used to be made with metal flakes in them; thus, those old-school kind of tattoos could technically heat up during the MRI process. She said this might happen in recent times if I had gotten my tattoos in foreign countries. Now, this sounded ridiculous, so I asked her if anyone had ever experienced this "heating of the tattoo." I didn't care about hot tattoos--I just didn't want ugly-from-the-test tattoos. She said no but added that in theory this could happen.
I am SO going to do research on this--both the metal flakes and flaming hot MRI tattoos.
She took me to the room and showed me where to put my belongings. I was confused by this as I was standing in a wide open hallway. Last time, I had to take every stitch of clothing off and they wrapped me up in hospital gowns. I was like, "I am not taking my clothes off while standing in this hallway." She must have realized this and said, "oh, just take off your jacket, jewelry, glasses and shoes." I got to keep my clothes on. Oh sure, I had donned my bestest, prettiest, newest undies for the event and no one got was going to get to see them. She didn't check anything. The only thing she confirmed was that I wasn't wearing a watch. I must have given the lady a worried look--after all, how did she know I wasn't wearing an under wire bra or a chastity belt? I tripled checked my jewelry and started to walk to the room when she stopped me and explained I'd have to leave my glasses.
Lady, I don't leave my glasses behind for nothin.' I can't see a thing without them. Those of you who think I am exaggerating need to look through my glasses. I honestly can't see a thing without them; in fact, I need my glasses to find my glasses. I have actually dropped my glasses on the floor and had to call the wife to help me find them. I keep a spare set in my car. So, when someone asks me to leave my glasses behind, I get mighty nervous. I told her I can't see without them. She assured me I should just follow her. Um, okay. I just told you I can't see. Thankfully, she was wearing bright blue and the MRI room was basically white, so I could see a blue blob moving in front of me. Follow the blueberry, follow the blueberry....
Before you have a tender moment of sadness about my inability to see without my glasses, don't waste your time--not being able to see when having an MRI is wonderful. If I were claustrophobic (and, I'm not, but if I were), it wouldn't matter as I really couldn't see much of the tube at all. It's a huge bonus. When I had my neck MRI done, they shoved me in the tube head first and it was not an open MRI. I didn't care as I couldn't see what the hell was going on. They explained it would be very normal to feel closed in. I didn't feel anything at all--just curiosity about the process.
I was ready to be all mummy-fied, as last time, they really wrapped me up and strapped me in. I couldn't have moved if I wanted to. I mean, they had my head strapped in place, my legs mushed between these pillow barrier things, my arms across my chest, placing a panic button in my hand. (I guess if you freak out during the testing, you push the button and you shoot out of the tube. I kinda wanted to push the button just to see what would happen.) This time, all the technician did was put this plastic thing on my knee and told me not to move, She sent me into the tube, legs first. So boring.
It was a rather uneventful event except for one thing....
...I've been desperately trying not to get the cold the wife has been enduring for the past week. I have willed myself not to get sick. In an effort to help myself, I've been sucking down Vitamin C and zinc lozengers all week long. If you've ever taken those zinc things, you know they can make you rather nauseous, especially if you eat them on an empty stomach. Well, I had THREE of them on the way to the MRI facility. (I told you I have been working hard not to get sick.) I hadn't eaten in five hours, as I planned on eating right after the test. Well, three zinc drops on an empty stomach is not a good idea. How do I know this?
I am laying in the tube, listening to bad country music when a wave of nausea came over me. It was awful. It was that zinc-on-an-empty-stomach nausea of which is not pleasant. I felt like I was going to throw up. I stopped and actually about this and realized....if I throw up, it is going to go straight up into the air and then rain down on my face.
It was right then and there that I decided I would NOT be throwing up. After all, who wants to vomit rain down onto their face, even if it is ones own puke? I did everything I could to think about anything that didn't involve my nausea. I concentrated on my non-hot tattoos. I thought about tattoos oozing out of my pores. I thought about new tattoo designs. I thought about how I was going to enjoy the DWTS finale tonight. I listened to the music, thankful for the awful commercials. I tried to see the blinking numbers (I think they were numbers) on the outside of the machine. I did every single thing I could think of that did not involve moving and that had nothing to do with zinc.
I am happy to report that I did not throw up and that none of my tattoos burst into flames.
The blueberry wasn't very much help when the test was over. She announced, "that's it!" zipped into the room, removed the plastic thing from my knee and kept on moving. She told me, from somewhere in the room, to be careful when stepping down in case my knee was stiff. Um, lady? Remember I told you I can't see? No, she obviously did not remember. The blueberry left me sitting on the edge of the table. I called out and reminded her I can't see. Thankfully, she heard me and accompanied me (well, walked quickly ahead of me) to the locker area. There I was reunited with my glasses.
And, so that is the story of my MRI. Rather mundane, don't you think? I anticipate the results will be just as mundane. You know how that goes--have pain, finally do something about it, stop having the pain. I anticipate the best. I know you do, too.
******************************
P.S. I emailed my boss today and told her I won't be at work tomorrow, because I have the winning numbers for tonight's record Power Ball. I assured her I would not be resigning as I would need productive things to do when not out on vacations or on altruistic adventures.
*******************************
Won't you be surprised.
Before getting shoved into the noisy tube, I had to fill out a form. They want to make sure you don't have any weird metal things inside of you--shrapnel, clips or clamps, pacemakers, etc. I quickly went down the list: no, no, no, no, no, no....then, I got to the last question, which inquired if I had any tattoos. Tattoos? My first reaction was why the hell would it matter if I had tattoos? My second reaction was, "oh shit, I am covered with tattoos." My third reaction was, "they didn't ask me this last time," but, then I realized back then I didn't have a tattoo so I probably didn't pay any attention to the question. I circled "yes" and hoped this would not delay my testing. My final thought was, "there are a bazillion people with tattoos that must need MRIs, so I'm not gonna fret about this." When the lady came to get me, I handed her the form and then asked about the tattoos. Her question? "Where your tattoos done in the United States?"
Huh?
She explained that tattoo inks used to be made with metal flakes in them; thus, those old-school kind of tattoos could technically heat up during the MRI process. She said this might happen in recent times if I had gotten my tattoos in foreign countries. Now, this sounded ridiculous, so I asked her if anyone had ever experienced this "heating of the tattoo." I didn't care about hot tattoos--I just didn't want ugly-from-the-test tattoos. She said no but added that in theory this could happen.
I am SO going to do research on this--both the metal flakes and flaming hot MRI tattoos.
She took me to the room and showed me where to put my belongings. I was confused by this as I was standing in a wide open hallway. Last time, I had to take every stitch of clothing off and they wrapped me up in hospital gowns. I was like, "I am not taking my clothes off while standing in this hallway." She must have realized this and said, "oh, just take off your jacket, jewelry, glasses and shoes." I got to keep my clothes on. Oh sure, I had donned my bestest, prettiest, newest undies for the event and no one got was going to get to see them. She didn't check anything. The only thing she confirmed was that I wasn't wearing a watch. I must have given the lady a worried look--after all, how did she know I wasn't wearing an under wire bra or a chastity belt? I tripled checked my jewelry and started to walk to the room when she stopped me and explained I'd have to leave my glasses.
Lady, I don't leave my glasses behind for nothin.' I can't see a thing without them. Those of you who think I am exaggerating need to look through my glasses. I honestly can't see a thing without them; in fact, I need my glasses to find my glasses. I have actually dropped my glasses on the floor and had to call the wife to help me find them. I keep a spare set in my car. So, when someone asks me to leave my glasses behind, I get mighty nervous. I told her I can't see without them. She assured me I should just follow her. Um, okay. I just told you I can't see. Thankfully, she was wearing bright blue and the MRI room was basically white, so I could see a blue blob moving in front of me. Follow the blueberry, follow the blueberry....
Before you have a tender moment of sadness about my inability to see without my glasses, don't waste your time--not being able to see when having an MRI is wonderful. If I were claustrophobic (and, I'm not, but if I were), it wouldn't matter as I really couldn't see much of the tube at all. It's a huge bonus. When I had my neck MRI done, they shoved me in the tube head first and it was not an open MRI. I didn't care as I couldn't see what the hell was going on. They explained it would be very normal to feel closed in. I didn't feel anything at all--just curiosity about the process.
I was ready to be all mummy-fied, as last time, they really wrapped me up and strapped me in. I couldn't have moved if I wanted to. I mean, they had my head strapped in place, my legs mushed between these pillow barrier things, my arms across my chest, placing a panic button in my hand. (I guess if you freak out during the testing, you push the button and you shoot out of the tube. I kinda wanted to push the button just to see what would happen.) This time, all the technician did was put this plastic thing on my knee and told me not to move, She sent me into the tube, legs first. So boring.
It was a rather uneventful event except for one thing....
...I've been desperately trying not to get the cold the wife has been enduring for the past week. I have willed myself not to get sick. In an effort to help myself, I've been sucking down Vitamin C and zinc lozengers all week long. If you've ever taken those zinc things, you know they can make you rather nauseous, especially if you eat them on an empty stomach. Well, I had THREE of them on the way to the MRI facility. (I told you I have been working hard not to get sick.) I hadn't eaten in five hours, as I planned on eating right after the test. Well, three zinc drops on an empty stomach is not a good idea. How do I know this?
I am laying in the tube, listening to bad country music when a wave of nausea came over me. It was awful. It was that zinc-on-an-empty-stomach nausea of which is not pleasant. I felt like I was going to throw up. I stopped and actually about this and realized....if I throw up, it is going to go straight up into the air and then rain down on my face.
It was right then and there that I decided I would NOT be throwing up. After all, who wants to vomit rain down onto their face, even if it is ones own puke? I did everything I could to think about anything that didn't involve my nausea. I concentrated on my non-hot tattoos. I thought about tattoos oozing out of my pores. I thought about new tattoo designs. I thought about how I was going to enjoy the DWTS finale tonight. I listened to the music, thankful for the awful commercials. I tried to see the blinking numbers (I think they were numbers) on the outside of the machine. I did every single thing I could think of that did not involve moving and that had nothing to do with zinc.
I am happy to report that I did not throw up and that none of my tattoos burst into flames.
The blueberry wasn't very much help when the test was over. She announced, "that's it!" zipped into the room, removed the plastic thing from my knee and kept on moving. She told me, from somewhere in the room, to be careful when stepping down in case my knee was stiff. Um, lady? Remember I told you I can't see? No, she obviously did not remember. The blueberry left me sitting on the edge of the table. I called out and reminded her I can't see. Thankfully, she heard me and accompanied me (well, walked quickly ahead of me) to the locker area. There I was reunited with my glasses.
And, so that is the story of my MRI. Rather mundane, don't you think? I anticipate the results will be just as mundane. You know how that goes--have pain, finally do something about it, stop having the pain. I anticipate the best. I know you do, too.
******************************
P.S. I emailed my boss today and told her I won't be at work tomorrow, because I have the winning numbers for tonight's record Power Ball. I assured her I would not be resigning as I would need productive things to do when not out on vacations or on altruistic adventures.
*******************************
Won't you be surprised.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Post Turkey Musings
Today, the day after Thanksgiving, I am thankful for successfully evading another round of "What I am thankful for" at the wife's family gathering. Actually, this year was rather uneventful, with much less crying than usual and an uncharacteristic disorganization. I did enjoy that one family was caught fleeing out the front door just as the thanking was about to begin. (For the record, they made it out the door unscathed and without professing their gratitude in a group setting. They rock.) I, of course, had nothing serious to say and did not mention the wife (or, anyone in particular, so she knew not to be offended). For some reason (probably because I was standing in plain sight instead of hiding on the floor in the corner), I got to go first. I said thanks, tried to make a joke but no one got it (sigh), made fun of my age and passed. The wife's family is very concrete and serious. I forget this. The majority of them do not "get" sarcasm or wittiness. Thus, most of what I say is lost. So much for me being voted "Wittiness" in my senior class. The wife was sick, so she had little to say and didn't shed many tears. I think she was just trying to survive. It looks like the start of a cold--so, you know how that first day goes. It's awful, with your throat burning and your head hurting and your body feeling like you got hit by a truck...a slight fever and waves of ickiness. If you can make it through that first day, you'll be fine, albeit snotty and sneezy and coughing. I kept trying to drug her. I believe in "take four, they're small" when dealing with issues of the body. She finally acquiesced and took some ibuprofen. I tried to get her to take four but she chose to take the recommended dose of two pills. Sigh.
I'm now spending the day after Thanksgiving at home as the wife throws her semi-sick self into the throngs of Black Friday shoppers. I have no time for such nonsense and am thus at home, getting ready to make our Christmas Cards. I have to get them out into the mail tomorrow, so I have much work to do, especially since I have to go to the store and get the final supplies needed to successfully complete this endeavor. Actually, I'm not sure I can get the cards out by tomorrow but the latest they will be sent is Monday. I want to get them out quickly in case the world does end. That would suck if I did all this work and then no one saw the card because we had all plunged into a vat of world-ending angst.
Because my 50 year old peri-menopausal brain can't always recall things, I am perusing this blog to see what we did this year to use as fodder in the card. It was an awesome year, in which I turned 50 and had my myo facial released. I can't say more because then I will ruin the surprise of the holiday card. Well, I suppose my four blog readers could go back and review the blog but I won't count on that.
As for the wife, I am 99% sure that she will return empty-handed from her Black Friday outing, not because she's sick with a cold but because that's how she rolls. She's one of those people who goes shopping for the love of shopping. I go because I need something specific. That's why I sit in the car and play video games while she is shopping. I shop, I buy, I go to the car. She shops, touches everything, wanders...and, three days later, leaves empty handed. I don't understand this. Why go if you are not going to buy something? As for me, I am all about Cyber Monday. Actually, I am all about Cyber-anything. Allow me to sit at home in my pajamas, drinking coffee and listening to tacky country music, while completing my shopping efforts. That's what I'm talking about.
Since I don't have to go anywhere crushed with crowds, I will take the dogs along for the ride. I mean, how many people can be storming the doors of Walls of Green? I'll get my needs met without harm and they'll get a ride in the car. Win-win! I'm sure my car will accidentally go somewhere that has ice cream. My car does that, you know. I have no control over it. I'm driving along and suddenly I'm in the drive through of somewhere selling ice cream. I don't understand.
The Addiverse hopes you had a great Thanksgiving. If you didn't, I hope you have a great Black Friday. If you don't, I hope you find some ice cream.
I'm now spending the day after Thanksgiving at home as the wife throws her semi-sick self into the throngs of Black Friday shoppers. I have no time for such nonsense and am thus at home, getting ready to make our Christmas Cards. I have to get them out into the mail tomorrow, so I have much work to do, especially since I have to go to the store and get the final supplies needed to successfully complete this endeavor. Actually, I'm not sure I can get the cards out by tomorrow but the latest they will be sent is Monday. I want to get them out quickly in case the world does end. That would suck if I did all this work and then no one saw the card because we had all plunged into a vat of world-ending angst.
Because my 50 year old peri-menopausal brain can't always recall things, I am perusing this blog to see what we did this year to use as fodder in the card. It was an awesome year, in which I turned 50 and had my myo facial released. I can't say more because then I will ruin the surprise of the holiday card. Well, I suppose my four blog readers could go back and review the blog but I won't count on that.
As for the wife, I am 99% sure that she will return empty-handed from her Black Friday outing, not because she's sick with a cold but because that's how she rolls. She's one of those people who goes shopping for the love of shopping. I go because I need something specific. That's why I sit in the car and play video games while she is shopping. I shop, I buy, I go to the car. She shops, touches everything, wanders...and, three days later, leaves empty handed. I don't understand this. Why go if you are not going to buy something? As for me, I am all about Cyber Monday. Actually, I am all about Cyber-anything. Allow me to sit at home in my pajamas, drinking coffee and listening to tacky country music, while completing my shopping efforts. That's what I'm talking about.
Since I don't have to go anywhere crushed with crowds, I will take the dogs along for the ride. I mean, how many people can be storming the doors of Walls of Green? I'll get my needs met without harm and they'll get a ride in the car. Win-win! I'm sure my car will accidentally go somewhere that has ice cream. My car does that, you know. I have no control over it. I'm driving along and suddenly I'm in the drive through of somewhere selling ice cream. I don't understand.
The Addiverse hopes you had a great Thanksgiving. If you didn't, I hope you have a great Black Friday. If you don't, I hope you find some ice cream.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Passing the gratitude pie
It's that time of year when people get sappy and start professing their love and gratitude for one and other. Soon, the wife and I will be sitting with her family around their Thanksgiving table, confessing our deepest feelings, passing the kleenex around as the love flows out faster than the rush on Twinkies at the end of last week.
Well, they will be doing that. I'll be sitting at the table listening, smiling, nodding. Then, when it's my turn, I'll just say one or two lines about how thankful I am to be there and then I'll pass the love fest along.
Now, before you call me an unempathetic, callous, ungrateful Scrooge, hear me out. After all, you're thankful for me, aren't you? I'm grateful for you. It's not that I'm ungrateful--heck, I am one of the more grateful people that I know. I really do have so much to say, to share, to express at times like the wife's family gathering. I really am blessed with a ridiculously amazing life. It's just that I am not the kind of person who is going to ooze feelings all over the Thanksgiving table in a large group of people.
Besides, I hate being vulnerable and I am not going to be vulnerable before the pumpkin pie is passed.... and, dessert is not served until well after the love fest had been completed.
Pass the home-made pie earlier and you might get a few more words out of me.
That said, I am grateful for many things of which I will share with you in this blog. I will keep it superficial. Very superficial. I'll save the sappy for the next blog entry....or, perhaps for the Thanksgiving feast.
I am grateful that I won the football pool one time this year.
I am grateful that my football pool "crash and burn" didn't start until Week 10--an all time personal best.
I am grateful for rent-a-cars, as they make the wife very happy on cold, snowy weekends (so she doesn't have to drive her Mustang).
I am grateful for a new work cell phone, as with my previous work phone I couldn't hear a damn thing, the caller couldn't hear me, I had to stand outside when I'm at my office in order to get reception, I dropped calls all the time (never good for times someone is in crisis) and I didn't get my messages.
I am grateful that Freckles eye boogers are much less nasty via the use of various eye products.
I'm glad Lucy got an "A+" on her dental check up.
I am grateful that our holiday cards are done and ready for action.
I am grateful that it is almost impossible to destroy a tungsten ring. (If you've ever seen what I "do" to my jewelry, you'd understand how important this is).
I am thankful that my Xena calendar purchase featured an autographed photo by Lucy Lawless.
I am grateful that it might not be the end of Twinkies, after all.
Mostly, I am grateful that I do not have to make Thanksgiving dinner.
Perhaps my next blog will be sappy. Perhaps not. Suffice it to say that I am a very grateful bitch. "See" you on Thanksgiving Day, when I will recall the Great Turkey Disaster of the 1990s!
Well, they will be doing that. I'll be sitting at the table listening, smiling, nodding. Then, when it's my turn, I'll just say one or two lines about how thankful I am to be there and then I'll pass the love fest along.
Now, before you call me an unempathetic, callous, ungrateful Scrooge, hear me out. After all, you're thankful for me, aren't you? I'm grateful for you. It's not that I'm ungrateful--heck, I am one of the more grateful people that I know. I really do have so much to say, to share, to express at times like the wife's family gathering. I really am blessed with a ridiculously amazing life. It's just that I am not the kind of person who is going to ooze feelings all over the Thanksgiving table in a large group of people.
Besides, I hate being vulnerable and I am not going to be vulnerable before the pumpkin pie is passed.... and, dessert is not served until well after the love fest had been completed.
Pass the home-made pie earlier and you might get a few more words out of me.
That said, I am grateful for many things of which I will share with you in this blog. I will keep it superficial. Very superficial. I'll save the sappy for the next blog entry....or, perhaps for the Thanksgiving feast.
I am grateful that I won the football pool one time this year.
I am grateful that my football pool "crash and burn" didn't start until Week 10--an all time personal best.
I am grateful for rent-a-cars, as they make the wife very happy on cold, snowy weekends (so she doesn't have to drive her Mustang).
I am grateful for a new work cell phone, as with my previous work phone I couldn't hear a damn thing, the caller couldn't hear me, I had to stand outside when I'm at my office in order to get reception, I dropped calls all the time (never good for times someone is in crisis) and I didn't get my messages.
I am grateful that Freckles eye boogers are much less nasty via the use of various eye products.
I'm glad Lucy got an "A+" on her dental check up.
I am grateful that our holiday cards are done and ready for action.
I am grateful that it is almost impossible to destroy a tungsten ring. (If you've ever seen what I "do" to my jewelry, you'd understand how important this is).
I am thankful that my Xena calendar purchase featured an autographed photo by Lucy Lawless.
I am grateful that it might not be the end of Twinkies, after all.
Mostly, I am grateful that I do not have to make Thanksgiving dinner.
Perhaps my next blog will be sappy. Perhaps not. Suffice it to say that I am a very grateful bitch. "See" you on Thanksgiving Day, when I will recall the Great Turkey Disaster of the 1990s!
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Knee-dee
About five weeks back, I was finishing a jog with MJagger when, just as we were taking our last steps, my left knee let out a scream like no other. I had to stop as my breath was ripped right out of my chest.
I had to stop and I could not walk. My knee locked firmly in place. Stuck and it wasn't unlocking.
It was rather awful but not earth-shattering. I mean, my leg was still attached, no blood was spewing from any orifices, I was fully conscious. I focused on the positive, limped the final half mile and hoped MJagger wouldn't end up carrying me the last few steps to the car. We were on the local bike path and there was no real way to "cheat;" I had to walk the final stretch. I tried not to limp but it was ridiculously impossible. I sucked it up and kept moving. I thought I was going to puke. One step at a time, one step at a time.
I got to my car, waved good bye to MJagger and then realized......
......it would be really hard to use a clutch in this condition.
Yes, I drive a stick shift. Call me old school, a throw back to the days of automotive old. I love my stick shifts. Every car I have purchased has been a stick. (The car I stole from my parents wasn't a stick but that doesn't count because I didn't buy it--I stole it from them.) It was hard enough getting into the car, let alone driving with a clutch. I thought about calling MJagger and asking her to come back and get me but I decided to give it a whirl. I pulled my seat up as far as I could, allowing me to shift by keeping my knee in the bent position and basically shifting from the hip.
It sucked but it worked.
I had to cancel my appointments for the afternoon because I was so miserable. Who wants a counselor who can't listen to you because they are in pain and can't straighten out their leg? I apologized to my client and asked him to stop talking--I had to leave. I limped back to the car and headed.....
.....headed where? Should I go to the ER? No. It wasn't an emergency. Should I head to the urgent care? I could, but that seemed like a giant waste of money. Should I call my doctor? Naw, the office is already closed and they would just tell me to come in tomorrow. Home? Yes, I headed home to the land of ice packs, ibuprofen and the Internet.
For four weeks, I sat on my fat ass and had a pity party, smothered in chocolate and bad movies. No one was really the wiser. MJagger and the wife knew, but otherwise, I was pretty undercover. I mean, I basically have a desk job. Counselors don't do knee bends or carry large boxes. We sit in a chair. Once the knee unlocked, I was able to get around without incident...however, at the end of the fourth week, I realized things weren't getting better.
I didn't want to but I made the call.
I made an appointment with an orthopedic doctor who specializes in knee injuries. I purposefully chose a doctor who was NOT a surgeon....after all, surgeons provide surgery. I was hoping for a non-surgical approach from a non-surgical doctor. I thought that was genius on my part.
I went and saw Dr. Knee-Dee today, the end of the fifth week. After a plethera of x-rays (done by a very lovely lesbian technician who engaged me in delightful conversation about my sweatshirt), I met the man who would manipulate my legs in ways that they should not be manipulated. Oh my.
I found it interesting that he had his eyes closed many times during the examination. He placed his hands on my knee and then shut his eyes. He traced out the various parts of my knee anatomy and announced them aloud. He also called out the names of the knee tests he was completing. I had no idea what he was talking about but do know that the knee is a very complicated and that some of those tests are not very fun. As he spoke, he casually noted that my clinical presentation and my report of symptoms suggested a torn meniscus.
No surprise there. I had figured that out during my tour of the internet, the mother of all medical information. I kept hoping I was wrong, but there are some things that aren't too hard to figure out, even on the Internet.
....imagine my surprise when he started talking about surgery. Hey--I picked you so you wouldn't talk about surgery! I'm paying you to say things like "physical therapy," not the "s" word!
Thankfully, the letters M-R-I followed the surgery comment.
(Side bar: Young women of the world, take care of your knees. I have been brutally hard on my body over the past 50 years--my knees taking the brunt of the beating. Look at my friends--we are the first generation of Title IX women limping around from all those athletic injuries. I say to you: be kind to your parts. You'll need them later.)
So, I will have an MRI in the next few days to see what is really going on in that knee of mine. There is still plenty of time to heal and find non-surgical options. In the meantime, I will continue my M&M-fueled pity party.
If I do need surgery, I am going to ask if I can stay awake and watch. I will also ask the surgeon to take photos. If I don't need surgery, I will do a happy dance--on my opposite knee, of course.
I had to stop and I could not walk. My knee locked firmly in place. Stuck and it wasn't unlocking.
It was rather awful but not earth-shattering. I mean, my leg was still attached, no blood was spewing from any orifices, I was fully conscious. I focused on the positive, limped the final half mile and hoped MJagger wouldn't end up carrying me the last few steps to the car. We were on the local bike path and there was no real way to "cheat;" I had to walk the final stretch. I tried not to limp but it was ridiculously impossible. I sucked it up and kept moving. I thought I was going to puke. One step at a time, one step at a time.
I got to my car, waved good bye to MJagger and then realized......
......it would be really hard to use a clutch in this condition.
Yes, I drive a stick shift. Call me old school, a throw back to the days of automotive old. I love my stick shifts. Every car I have purchased has been a stick. (The car I stole from my parents wasn't a stick but that doesn't count because I didn't buy it--I stole it from them.) It was hard enough getting into the car, let alone driving with a clutch. I thought about calling MJagger and asking her to come back and get me but I decided to give it a whirl. I pulled my seat up as far as I could, allowing me to shift by keeping my knee in the bent position and basically shifting from the hip.
It sucked but it worked.
I had to cancel my appointments for the afternoon because I was so miserable. Who wants a counselor who can't listen to you because they are in pain and can't straighten out their leg? I apologized to my client and asked him to stop talking--I had to leave. I limped back to the car and headed.....
.....headed where? Should I go to the ER? No. It wasn't an emergency. Should I head to the urgent care? I could, but that seemed like a giant waste of money. Should I call my doctor? Naw, the office is already closed and they would just tell me to come in tomorrow. Home? Yes, I headed home to the land of ice packs, ibuprofen and the Internet.
For four weeks, I sat on my fat ass and had a pity party, smothered in chocolate and bad movies. No one was really the wiser. MJagger and the wife knew, but otherwise, I was pretty undercover. I mean, I basically have a desk job. Counselors don't do knee bends or carry large boxes. We sit in a chair. Once the knee unlocked, I was able to get around without incident...however, at the end of the fourth week, I realized things weren't getting better.
I didn't want to but I made the call.
I made an appointment with an orthopedic doctor who specializes in knee injuries. I purposefully chose a doctor who was NOT a surgeon....after all, surgeons provide surgery. I was hoping for a non-surgical approach from a non-surgical doctor. I thought that was genius on my part.
I went and saw Dr. Knee-Dee today, the end of the fifth week. After a plethera of x-rays (done by a very lovely lesbian technician who engaged me in delightful conversation about my sweatshirt), I met the man who would manipulate my legs in ways that they should not be manipulated. Oh my.
I found it interesting that he had his eyes closed many times during the examination. He placed his hands on my knee and then shut his eyes. He traced out the various parts of my knee anatomy and announced them aloud. He also called out the names of the knee tests he was completing. I had no idea what he was talking about but do know that the knee is a very complicated and that some of those tests are not very fun. As he spoke, he casually noted that my clinical presentation and my report of symptoms suggested a torn meniscus.
No surprise there. I had figured that out during my tour of the internet, the mother of all medical information. I kept hoping I was wrong, but there are some things that aren't too hard to figure out, even on the Internet.
....imagine my surprise when he started talking about surgery. Hey--I picked you so you wouldn't talk about surgery! I'm paying you to say things like "physical therapy," not the "s" word!
Thankfully, the letters M-R-I followed the surgery comment.
(Side bar: Young women of the world, take care of your knees. I have been brutally hard on my body over the past 50 years--my knees taking the brunt of the beating. Look at my friends--we are the first generation of Title IX women limping around from all those athletic injuries. I say to you: be kind to your parts. You'll need them later.)
So, I will have an MRI in the next few days to see what is really going on in that knee of mine. There is still plenty of time to heal and find non-surgical options. In the meantime, I will continue my M&M-fueled pity party.
If I do need surgery, I am going to ask if I can stay awake and watch. I will also ask the surgeon to take photos. If I don't need surgery, I will do a happy dance--on my opposite knee, of course.
Saturday, November 03, 2012
Punk like Me
Shoo! It took me two weeks but I'm back. I have nothing to offer you about my disappearance. I was here the whole time, hidden in plain sight. I wish I could say I had been on a Caribbean cruise or hanging out with Mickey at the World of Disney or I was in Chicago getting a full body suit tattoo, but really....I was sitting on the couch watching anything that promised not to show me political adds, playing fantasy football, watching my niece play some brass instrument in the marching band, planning my Halloween costume, attending a Green Bay Packer game, trying out three new cell phones while still using the two I have every day (who the hell carries five cell phones? Me, that's who. Don't call me. Please. I never know which phone to answer). I've been avoiding Book de la Face like the plague, as I can't stand all the political bickering and partisan hate going on. (Do you really think your social network postings--ridiculous on both sides--will change my mind?)
Halloween was especially delightful this year. It's my favorite holiday (if you can call it a holiday--we don't get the day off and there's no holiday pay, so it's not really a holiday) and I have always enjoyed everything about it....what's not to love about chocolate and costumes? As we have a Halloween party at work every year (during work hours, designed for the clients), I always try to base my costume on something that the clients will like and to which they will relate. I've been Spongebob Squarepants (one of their all time favorites), Snape, Steve Irwin (before he died, thankfully), one of the evil step-sisters, Mr. Hankie the Christmas Poo...heck, I've even dressed as one of my coworkers one year (and she dressed as me). This year, I decided to go as a professional wrestler, as if there is one thing the clients seem to love, it's wrestling. No matter how fake, no matter how over-the-top, no matter how ridiculous, they love it. I have a love-hate relationship with this "sport." I have no interest in it, I don't watch it on TV, I've never quite understood the draw....but, we've gone to two live professional wrestling matches this year (the clients and me--not the wife-the wife does not find wrestling humorous or of any interest) and I have to say, it is ALWAYS a good time to go to a wrestling match. It's kind of like a Madonna concert--it's not a concert, it's an EVENT. That's how wrestling is--it's not a match, it's an EVENT. The whole thing is actually very hilarious, especially the part where people actually believe this stuff is real. Now, I mean no disrespect to the wrestlers, as they do end up beating the crap out of each other even while faking the fight, but really--it's so fake, you can see it from the upper sections of the biggest stadium. It is the crowd that makes the trip to a wrestling match worth it. I won't say anything more about the crowd, but trust me when I say it's colorful and the best part of the show. (I started to write about the attendees but couldn't find a way to say it without sounding incredibly judgmental, so I stop here--hell, I'm sitting there with them having a good time, so I have little room to talk.)
It's like a soap opera for macho men in tiny tights.
I decided to dress as my favorite (and I do use that term loosely) wrestler, CM Punk. I figure he's current, he's from Chicago, he has lots of awesome tattoos, he's the reigning champ (even though everyone says he's a cheater), he's easily recognizable by wrestling fans, he was featured in a recent article in my favorite tattoo magazine (does it scare you that I have a favorite tattoo magazine?) and he's a punk rock kind of guy. What's not to love about that? The only thing I had to buy was the championship wrestling belt, which I found at Wally World. (Little did I know it was the "wrong" belt, which was explained to me by many a fan--sigh. I had no idea. It was the only belt Wally World had and I thought it looked awesome so I went with it.) I donned my tattoo sleeves and snow-shoe gaiters, put my "only wear once a blue moon" contact lenses and slapped on some make-up to make a beard. Wa-la! Punk!
The wife kept calling me CJ instead of CM. Shame on her.
Let's see if you can tell which is the REAL CM Punk....
Not bad for a 50 year old woman using items in the house to create a costume, eh? CM Punk should be flattered.
....or not. He probably will need therapy if he ever sees this.
Maybe he should be tickled pink that I actually own his t-shirt. The wife can't even believe I wear it, let alone own it.
Anyways, it was great fun and I do believe my costume was a big hit. It was even more fun than usual because people didn't immediately recognize me....which I couldn't believe. I thought it looked like me with a bad beard, but people would stare at me with no recognition. It was only when I spoke that their eyes would light up and they would then laugh. And, laugh they did. I laughed right along with them. How can you not laugh when you are dressed up like a professional wrestler?
Had it been an "adult" party with friends, I would have worn little black undies in the true tradition of wrestling outfits, but since this was a work endeavor during daytime hours and since I hadn't shaved any of the parts that most definitely would have needed shaving, I stayed with black shorts.
Not as much fun but appropriate for the setting and took a lot less grooming time.
Triple crown winner, baby. That's me and my punk. As his website says, "WWE Champion! Loveable jerk. Often confused with Batman. Once tipped a stripper with a Filet-o-Fish."
Like I said...what's not to love?
Halloween was especially delightful this year. It's my favorite holiday (if you can call it a holiday--we don't get the day off and there's no holiday pay, so it's not really a holiday) and I have always enjoyed everything about it....what's not to love about chocolate and costumes? As we have a Halloween party at work every year (during work hours, designed for the clients), I always try to base my costume on something that the clients will like and to which they will relate. I've been Spongebob Squarepants (one of their all time favorites), Snape, Steve Irwin (before he died, thankfully), one of the evil step-sisters, Mr. Hankie the Christmas Poo...heck, I've even dressed as one of my coworkers one year (and she dressed as me). This year, I decided to go as a professional wrestler, as if there is one thing the clients seem to love, it's wrestling. No matter how fake, no matter how over-the-top, no matter how ridiculous, they love it. I have a love-hate relationship with this "sport." I have no interest in it, I don't watch it on TV, I've never quite understood the draw....but, we've gone to two live professional wrestling matches this year (the clients and me--not the wife-the wife does not find wrestling humorous or of any interest) and I have to say, it is ALWAYS a good time to go to a wrestling match. It's kind of like a Madonna concert--it's not a concert, it's an EVENT. That's how wrestling is--it's not a match, it's an EVENT. The whole thing is actually very hilarious, especially the part where people actually believe this stuff is real. Now, I mean no disrespect to the wrestlers, as they do end up beating the crap out of each other even while faking the fight, but really--it's so fake, you can see it from the upper sections of the biggest stadium. It is the crowd that makes the trip to a wrestling match worth it. I won't say anything more about the crowd, but trust me when I say it's colorful and the best part of the show. (I started to write about the attendees but couldn't find a way to say it without sounding incredibly judgmental, so I stop here--hell, I'm sitting there with them having a good time, so I have little room to talk.)
It's like a soap opera for macho men in tiny tights.
I decided to dress as my favorite (and I do use that term loosely) wrestler, CM Punk. I figure he's current, he's from Chicago, he has lots of awesome tattoos, he's the reigning champ (even though everyone says he's a cheater), he's easily recognizable by wrestling fans, he was featured in a recent article in my favorite tattoo magazine (does it scare you that I have a favorite tattoo magazine?) and he's a punk rock kind of guy. What's not to love about that? The only thing I had to buy was the championship wrestling belt, which I found at Wally World. (Little did I know it was the "wrong" belt, which was explained to me by many a fan--sigh. I had no idea. It was the only belt Wally World had and I thought it looked awesome so I went with it.) I donned my tattoo sleeves and snow-shoe gaiters, put my "only wear once a blue moon" contact lenses and slapped on some make-up to make a beard. Wa-la! Punk!
The wife kept calling me CJ instead of CM. Shame on her.
Let's see if you can tell which is the REAL CM Punk....
Not bad for a 50 year old woman using items in the house to create a costume, eh? CM Punk should be flattered.
....or not. He probably will need therapy if he ever sees this.
Maybe he should be tickled pink that I actually own his t-shirt. The wife can't even believe I wear it, let alone own it.
Anyways, it was great fun and I do believe my costume was a big hit. It was even more fun than usual because people didn't immediately recognize me....which I couldn't believe. I thought it looked like me with a bad beard, but people would stare at me with no recognition. It was only when I spoke that their eyes would light up and they would then laugh. And, laugh they did. I laughed right along with them. How can you not laugh when you are dressed up like a professional wrestler?
Had it been an "adult" party with friends, I would have worn little black undies in the true tradition of wrestling outfits, but since this was a work endeavor during daytime hours and since I hadn't shaved any of the parts that most definitely would have needed shaving, I stayed with black shorts.
Not as much fun but appropriate for the setting and took a lot less grooming time.
Triple crown winner, baby. That's me and my punk. As his website says, "WWE Champion! Loveable jerk. Often confused with Batman. Once tipped a stripper with a Filet-o-Fish."
Like I said...what's not to love?
Sunday, October 21, 2012
A day in the life
My job affords me many an opportunity to do things that I would not have otherwise had the chance to do: I've witnessed the birth of a baby up close and personal; I've held the hand of a person as she passed away; I've served as family to a client attending the services of his estranged mother; I've been in full hospital scrubs providing words of comfort & encouragement as a client received an angio-gram; I've successfully redirected a client in the process of being taken down by a pile of police officers. (We won't mention the opportunity I had to "rescue" a client off of the merry-go-round at Great America, although that should probably be included.) Now, a tone of you can say the same thing--after all, people are in delivery rooms all the time--but, you probably didn't do these things with persons with schizophrenia. I tell you that fact only because it changes the game.
It makes doing these things filled with even more gratitude than I could have possibly experienced otherwise.
This week, I drove a client out of town so he could attend the visitation and funeral of his mom. I can't tell you many details but, I can tell you that this particular person with schizophrenia asked many an interesting question and behaved in a manner that would catch most of your attention. Most of you wouldn't loudly ask questions about the coffin or the embalming process as you are standing in front of the casket. You probably wouldn't say aloud the things you were thinking, especially on a microphone in front of the mourners in attendance and you wouldn't be yipping the entire time you were serving as a last-minute pall bearer....
...those are all things I anticipated would happen--and, as anticipated, they did.
That's not what made being part of a client's experience so special and what touched me to my very core. I have tons of hilarious stories (told with not one shred of disrespect to those I serve), but that's not what these experiences are about. Here's a guy who experiences life in what I would consider a non-emotional, factual, logical, almost robotic fashion. There's data, facts, figures, questions, questions, questions, often what we would consider incongruent to the situation. There's a weird, odd slant to life that is grounded in some other place than where the majority of the world lives. So, when he was at the funeral, I was not surprised or bothered or concerned about his questions and relative-to-the-situation inappropriate behaviors. I stood in the foyer, ready to intervene or provide support or do whatever it was I thought I was going to need to do or what he asked me to do. I was the expert, present to ensure something of what I am not sure. The family knew who I was and why I was there, so really nothing was surprising whatsoever. As I settled in to my seat in the foyer, I heard something. It was loud and unmistakable. I stood up and went to the door.
All those things I anticipated....but, I didn't anticipate this...
...he sobbed. He sobbed openly and loudly and genuinely and completely....an incredibly appropriate and angst-filled response to seeing his mother for the first time in years.
I was taken aback. Here's a guy who shows no emotion on a daily basis and he's sobbing in front of the casket. I am ashamed to admit that I hadn't anticipated this or had thought otherwise--why I thought a person with schizophrenia would react in a manner any different than anyone else was just as judgmental and tainted with stigma as an a person uneducated about mental illness. Because he has schizophrenia and has a whole different take on the world doesn't make him less human, less capable of pain or feeling or angst or grief.
It was in that moment that I was completely and totally filled with emotion and reminded of why I am the luckiest person on earth to have a job as I do.
Another moment in life that I will never forget.
(It also served as a reminder that I can be an arrogant, judgmental, condescending ass. Sometimes the Universe needs to slap the humility back into me.)
After he finished with the intense and genuine display of his most personal emotion, he settled back in to his "normal" self. After the service, I drove him to the grave site and watched from my car, giving him the space and dignity that he so much deserved. I watched as they handed him a shovel. I could see he was thinking about this. He tentatively threw a shovelful of dirt onto the casket. And then, quite to my utter delight, he continued to throw more shovelfuls of dirt--others had thrown only one shovelful of dirt but he was gonna throw as many as he damn well pleased. When done, he handed the shovel to the next person and then wiped his hands on his pants.
He came back to my car, dirt all over his pants, hopped in and wondered aloud where he and I were doing for dinner. I took one look at his pants and laughed. This was the guy I know and love and anticipated.
I thanked him for the opportunity to be present at such a moment in his life. His response? "No problem."
I then silently thanked the Universe for the best job on the planet. I'm a better human being because of people like him.
*********************************************************
It makes doing these things filled with even more gratitude than I could have possibly experienced otherwise.
This week, I drove a client out of town so he could attend the visitation and funeral of his mom. I can't tell you many details but, I can tell you that this particular person with schizophrenia asked many an interesting question and behaved in a manner that would catch most of your attention. Most of you wouldn't loudly ask questions about the coffin or the embalming process as you are standing in front of the casket. You probably wouldn't say aloud the things you were thinking, especially on a microphone in front of the mourners in attendance and you wouldn't be yipping the entire time you were serving as a last-minute pall bearer....
...those are all things I anticipated would happen--and, as anticipated, they did.
That's not what made being part of a client's experience so special and what touched me to my very core. I have tons of hilarious stories (told with not one shred of disrespect to those I serve), but that's not what these experiences are about. Here's a guy who experiences life in what I would consider a non-emotional, factual, logical, almost robotic fashion. There's data, facts, figures, questions, questions, questions, often what we would consider incongruent to the situation. There's a weird, odd slant to life that is grounded in some other place than where the majority of the world lives. So, when he was at the funeral, I was not surprised or bothered or concerned about his questions and relative-to-the-situation inappropriate behaviors. I stood in the foyer, ready to intervene or provide support or do whatever it was I thought I was going to need to do or what he asked me to do. I was the expert, present to ensure something of what I am not sure. The family knew who I was and why I was there, so really nothing was surprising whatsoever. As I settled in to my seat in the foyer, I heard something. It was loud and unmistakable. I stood up and went to the door.
All those things I anticipated....but, I didn't anticipate this...
...he sobbed. He sobbed openly and loudly and genuinely and completely....an incredibly appropriate and angst-filled response to seeing his mother for the first time in years.
I was taken aback. Here's a guy who shows no emotion on a daily basis and he's sobbing in front of the casket. I am ashamed to admit that I hadn't anticipated this or had thought otherwise--why I thought a person with schizophrenia would react in a manner any different than anyone else was just as judgmental and tainted with stigma as an a person uneducated about mental illness. Because he has schizophrenia and has a whole different take on the world doesn't make him less human, less capable of pain or feeling or angst or grief.
It was in that moment that I was completely and totally filled with emotion and reminded of why I am the luckiest person on earth to have a job as I do.
Another moment in life that I will never forget.
(It also served as a reminder that I can be an arrogant, judgmental, condescending ass. Sometimes the Universe needs to slap the humility back into me.)
After he finished with the intense and genuine display of his most personal emotion, he settled back in to his "normal" self. After the service, I drove him to the grave site and watched from my car, giving him the space and dignity that he so much deserved. I watched as they handed him a shovel. I could see he was thinking about this. He tentatively threw a shovelful of dirt onto the casket. And then, quite to my utter delight, he continued to throw more shovelfuls of dirt--others had thrown only one shovelful of dirt but he was gonna throw as many as he damn well pleased. When done, he handed the shovel to the next person and then wiped his hands on his pants.
He came back to my car, dirt all over his pants, hopped in and wondered aloud where he and I were doing for dinner. I took one look at his pants and laughed. This was the guy I know and love and anticipated.
I thanked him for the opportunity to be present at such a moment in his life. His response? "No problem."
I then silently thanked the Universe for the best job on the planet. I'm a better human being because of people like him.
*********************************************************
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