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I’m awkward, and maybe a liar, but not a hipster

About two years ago, I went to a new optical place to have my eyes checked and to get new glasses. Some quick math reveals that I had already been living in Georgia for… erm… three and a half years, by then, and it was my first eye exam in this state. Prior to then, I’d just assumed my prescription was fine and not bothered with an exam. Oops.

But by the time I went in, I was having trouble seeing. I knew I needed an updated prescription. So off I went, and I was introduced to the wonder that was the ocular pressure testing wand and I got fitted for daily contact lenses and it was all very exciting. If you go back and look at that post, you’ll notice that I made absolutely no mention of having my eyes dilated at that exam. This will become important, later.

Anyway. A year after that last appointment, Dr. Eyeball’s office developed an unrequited crush on me. At first, postcards arrived in the mail. “Hi, Mir! We hope you’ve had a great year! We miss you here at Optical Place and you’re due for an exam! WHY NOT CALL TODAY YOU HORRIBLE PERSON?!” (I threw the cards out, of course, but I’m pretty sure that’s what they said.) Then there were emails. And finally, phone messages. (more…)

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Here, have some hand sanitizer

I was doing so well. Getting stuff done! Being a paragon of productivity! I should’ve known it couldn’t last.

So, uh, I don’t know if I mentioned this, but my therapist—who is awesome but seems to find sport in making me freak out about all manner of health-related things—asked me earlier this week if I’d gotten my flu shot this year. I am normally RELIGIOUS about my flu shot, seriously, but my primary care doctor has been out of vaccine and it kind of slipped my mind for a while. Anyway, my therapist was sure to tell me how this is the worst year for flu in a decade, blah blah blah DOOM DESTRUCTION AND CERTAIN DEATH (it’s possible she didn’t SAY that, but I am very good at reading between the lines), so naturally I realized I needed to get it done.

[Sidebar: Having a blog is handy, because I was able to go back and check and see that I last had the flu in March of 2007. What is funny (to me, anyway) is that I never did detail what happened, but I remember it like it was yesterday: I woke up one day with a fever of 104 and was pretty sure I was dying. BUT I was still single-parenting and had to get the kids ready for school somehow. This ended up with me sliding down the stairs and laying in the middle of the kitchen floor and exhorting my perplexed 7- and almost-9-year-olds to please, PLEASE, just eat something, take some money from my purse for school lunch, and for the love of God, DON'T TOUCH ME and DON'T MISS THE BUS. After they left I somehow managed to drive myself to my doctor's office and also talk my doc out of hospitalizing me. GOOD TIMES.] (more…)

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And that’s why I put away all the laundry

Monkey’s birthday was delightful. I didn’t even mind getting up early to make cinnamon rolls for him to bring in to school to share with his buddies, because he’s just so darn delighted by it, and it doesn’t hurt that our intrepid Hippie School head teacher always tells me what a great baker I am. Yes, it’s all totally selfless, when I do this. Pay no attention to my preening in the corner. (Hey, I take affirmations where I can get ‘em, people.)

I’d actually made the dough the night before, and done everything short of baking them and making the icing—the rolls were in the fridge proofing overnight in baking pans. This is the best way to do it, because 1) they end up really light and fluffy and 2) you get warm, ooey-gooey rolls first thing in the morning. AH-MAY-ZING.

Monkey awoke on Friday to a happy birthday phone call from his sister, then he padded downstairs and sniffed the air in the kitchen just as I was pulling the pans from the oven. “Nothing smells better than that,” he said, with a happy sigh. I slapped a big glob of icing on the largest roll and set it at his place at the table. Nothing but the best sugar coma for my birthday boy, you know. (more…)

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Exercising my whine muscles

So hey, the weirdest thing happened. Remember back when we did that group fitness challenge thing three years ago and I lost weight and cleaned my house and generally became shiny and new? That was awesome. And I was skinny.

And then time marched on and I stopped exercising and resumed eating everything I could cram into my mouth, and I am no longer shiny OR skinny, which really seems unfair. I mean, why shouldn’t I be fit and trim even though I completely neglect to do anything that might make me so? IT’S UN-AMERICAN, THAT’S WHAT IT IS!

It’s also what I’m talking about over at Feel More Better, today. Because me and my elliptical need to make up, or I need to come up with a new plan. Help?

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Are all physical therapists sadists?

We’re three+ weeks out from the beginning of Zombiehandapalooza, and I can now definitively say that I am absolutely tired of this nonsense. Sure, sure, if it was a simple break, I’d still be a cast (probably poking pencils down in there to try to scratch it, because that’s the sort of difficult patient I tend to be), but my understanding of this whole bionic being-screwed-back-together thing was that I would be FINE in record time. And while it’s true that I can type again (hallelujah!), it’s also true that 1) my left hand still has a chronic case of The Stupid and 2) it huuuuuuuuurts.

That said, today I am prepared to add “and physical therapy will hasten your recovery” to the list of Dirty Lies Surgeons Tell You.

Listen, my physical therapist is a lovely woman. I’m sure she’s a good citizen and kind to kittens and all of that. But she’s trying to kill me and that just seems wrong, especially because it’s just my HAND, it’s not like I’m recovering from a spinal injury or anything. In fact, the entire ROOM I am now spending several hours in each week is the Hand And Arm Clinic, dedicated specifically to torturing those of us with compromised digits, probably because our hands are too weak to slap her. (more…)

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Various non-hurricane things

I feel slightly ridiculous, updating on random minutiae when so many people I know and love are battening down the hatches in preparation for Sandy, but here I am. Nothing I can do from here can stop a hurricane, which seems unfair, really. That’d be a good superpower to have. My superpower, instead, is WRITE ABOUT NOTHING AS A DISTRACTION. It’s not as flashy.

[Sidebar: I wrote something on Facebook this morning about how, when weighing the pros and cons of letting Chickadee move away for the year, "life-threatening hurricane" hadn't even been on my list of concerns. As I wrote it I was wondering for the 1,000th time if I should ask my ex if he's properly laid in supplies or if I should continue to assume he's a capable adult and not, you know, be a worrywart jerkface even though I'm nervous. And then Tarrant commented that, "Oh geez, after the year you've had, you'd think you would have factored that in," and that made me laugh so hard that I forgot to be worried for a couple of minutes. Thanks, Tarrant!]

Anyway, our weekend was SUPER exciting, I’ll have you know. (more…)

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I’m pretty sure I’m dying

In case I haven’t mentioned it 72,000 times already, my hand is broken. I know, you haven’t heard this before. It’s totally new news! And so, complaining that my hand really really really REALLY hurts is also news. (Feel free to punch me in the face, now.) (Maybe it will distract me from the pain in my hand?) I have been a bit preoccupied with the pain in my hand, is my point. Because it hurts. DUH.

Unfortunately, life still requires that I do tremendously demanding things like get dressed, take care of my kid, leave the house for appointments, and work. Harumph. At this point, anything with a “simple,” no-fuss solution is a-okay with me. Basically the less that is required of me, the better I like it.

So when I was at the doctor last week and she said my thyroid was off, and she said she was giving me some medication, I thought that was fantastic! There was a problem; there was a solution; done. Perfect. (Also, I’m not gonna lie—it was vindicating to know I haven’t been imagining my symptoms.) (more…)

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Hey kids, drugs are bad!

This is not a post I wanted to write. I blog about many things, but I think I have yet to blog about this particular thing. And yet, here we are.

Let us briefly retrace my medical steps of the last week. On Sunday night, I broke my stupid hand on a stupid apple. I then spent many hours in the emergency room with my long-suffering husband, and when we left we had a prescription for a heavy-duty narcotic (Narcotic 1). I had told the ER staff that I don’t do well with narcotics; in fact, most of them make me throw up. So when I mentioned this, they threw in a prescription for an anti-nausea med to take with it. This was very nice of them. However, I was still worried about taking the medication they’d prescribed, because—in case you haven’t noticed from the years of my neurotically writing about it—I fear nothing as much as I fear vomiting. The next morning (Monday), I saw my primary care doctor. I mentioned that I had been given a narcotics prescription but that I was afraid to use it. My primary care doctor, who is very nice, gave me a prescription for something “non-narcotic,” and said that it was unlikely to make me ill (we’ll call this the Not-Narcotic).

I did a small victory dance. Surely this medication would be the answer to my (pain) prayers. When Otto came home that night, he’d filled my prescriptions. I happily popped two of the Not-Narcotics, looking forward without to my pain ending without any subsequent silliness. Within about 20 minutes, I was completely stoned. Why yes, I AM a cheap date, why do you ask? (more…)

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Being bionic feels a lot like stoned

I neglected to tell you that the night we went to the ER, Otto and I couldn’t stop laughing. I mean, really, what can you do?

“How did you hurt your hand, ma’am?”

“I was making apple crisp.”

The questioner would do a double-take, and then we’d burst out into fresh giggles. Also Otto kept me entertained while we waited with great suggestions like, “Sooo… wanna play Rock, Paper, Scissors?” (We later decided to change it to Rock, Paper, Scissors, Crisp, but then deemed it too dangerous to play. Cue further giggling.)

Eventually they wrapped me up and sent me home with an orthopedist referral. And lucky me, I just happened to have an appointment for a physical the next morning, anyway, so they told me to give the paperwork to my doc and have them get me an appointment.

Meanwhile, I was lucky to even make it to the doctor in one piece, because I ended up sleeping only about an hour that first night. It turns out that broken bones HURT. (more…)

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And so here we are

Left to my own devices, I don’t often find it hard to write. My head is always full of STUFF—some of it important, plenty not—and the STUFF gets tangled up with pesky FEELINGS and then there is something about the act of extracting those things from my skull and committing them to letters and punctuation and letting other people see it that helps me make sense of things. It helps me to make sense of ME.

That’s inherently selfish, and I know it. Then again, a lot of things are. I’m not convinced the way I’m compelled to write is any worse than anything else, but I know this about it. I do pay a lot of attention to how I involve others—my family, my friends, random people—when I write, and I am all-too-often aware that the human penchant for personalization means there is no avoiding pissing people off. That, too, is part of the territory. Most of the time I don’t mind; I am careful, and if you read something I didn’t actually write (or construct something I didn’t intend), that’s on you, not me.

During the last however many months of feeling like life would never, could never, be normal again, my normally crunchy exterior shattered and left me exposed to pretty much everything right when I most wished to be impervious to others. It would probably be a good time to shut up. (more…)

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