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Totally on top of things

Because I know everyone is terribly concerned about the state of my bladder, I’m happy to report that all is well. I am also somewhat perplexed to report that—after going to the doctor first thing last Wednesday morning for this issue—I didn’t get a call from the doctor’s office until the following Monday evening to confirm that yes, indeed, my urine culture had grown bacteria and I had an infection. (To my credit, I didn’t respond to that with, “No, REALLY?”) I mean… nice of them to let me know… three days after I finished the antibiotics. When I questioned the need for the call at all, the nurse said, “Uh, well, we wanted to make sure you were feeling better.” Thanks?

In other, unrelated, news: Nothing in the world makes me feel dumber than parenting teenagers. Seriously, Mother Nature is a stone cold bitch, making babies all adorable and kids intriguing and delightful and then being all, “HAHAHAHA, you’re all invested in these people who just TURNED INTO SOUL-WITHERING ALIENS! Suckers!!” I hear I’ll become smarter again in a few years, but in the meantime, oof. Sometimes I write about stuff to remind myself that I am not a complete failure when it comes to them. For example, today on Alpha Mom I share that I am pretty good at getting my kids to do their chores, and I don’t scream or beat them or anything. So I’m still stupid, but at least we don’t live in squalor. (I’ll take my points wherever I can get ‘em.)

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Pro tips, free of charge

When I wrote about our trip to Atlanta on Monday and all of the traffic we encountered, I included the tidbit about desperately needing to pee to illustrate how very unpleasant the whole ordeal was. When I reread what I had written, I had a moment of, “Do I really need to talk about how much I had to pee?” Because: pee. (I sure am saying “pee” a lot, here.) But I left it, because what’s a little pee between friends? Also, WOW was that uncomfortable in the extreme.

Well HEY, GUESS WHAT! Today I learned that if you wait a really long time to pee when your bladder is full, that can give you a bladder infection. NEAT, HUH? You’ll never guess how I found out! It’s no big deal, though, because if you’ve never had a bladder infection, I can assure you that it only makes you wish for death during the time when you’re awake. (Never had one? Imagine having a mild stomachache and feeling like you have to pee ALL THE TIME, but then every time you DO go it feels like someone is jabbing broken glass into your urethra. YOU ARE WELCOME.)

So after peeing in a cup for my doctor this morning and then heading to the pharmacy, it turned out my meds weren’t ready, and I was a very sad panda. BUT THEN while I was waiting, the cops came in to have a chat with a woman who apparently had a forged prescription for narcotics. Today was WAY more exciting than anticipated, is my point.

Moral of the story: Find a way to urinate as soon as you need to go, lest you find yourself sitting at the pharmacy with crotch pain in the middle of a drug bust.

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Food, pain-in-the-ass foooooood

If you’ve been around here for any length of time, you know that food and I enjoy a close, fulfilling relationship. Other than that whole gluten thing, food has generally been good to me (maybe a little TOO good to my thighs, but it means well) and I love to eat. I eat just about everything. Food good! Food delicious! I very much like food!

(I’m not sure how or why I turned into a bizarre cross between Cookie Monster and the Hulk just then. Forgive me.)

Having a kid who has a complicated relationship with food has been one of those things where my internal How To Handle It computer simply returns a “COPING METHOD NOT FOUND,” 404 Error style. Because it’s FOOD. And food is DELICIOUS. Also COMFORTING and did I mention DELICIOUS and also what do you MEAN you’re not hungry? I am not innately programmed to deal with this. I don’t know if anyone is. You can like food, love to cook food, like to bake, enjoy feeding your family, and BAM! Here comes life, and its various fangs and claws, and hey, howzabout you figure out how to get this kid to gain 15 pounds like, right now?

Life is kind of a demanding asshole. (more…)

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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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