Tag: personal

Bloggy Style

Your Blogging Type Is Clever and Witty

Of all blogging types, you’re the best with words.

Almost every blog post you write has legendary quality.

You have a perverse sense of humor and often play devil’s advocate.

Impatient and picky, you tend to go off on funny rants from time to time.

Aren’t these Cosmo-style quizzes meant to stroke blogger egos? I mean, as though the blog wasn’t about ego from the get-go. This four-question quiz supplies only two answers per question, neither of which fully apply to my style, if indeed I had one. Since I started this blog, I’ve actually put some thought into what I hope to accomplish. What is my niche? I can honestly say that I have none. Although, the characteristics in my blogger type quiz result may be fitting descriptors of some of my old MS blogs, which are safely tucked away from the multitudes who would wish to do me harm. Yes, I’m talking to you. No, not you. You.

Point is, I’d like to see a result that reads, “Your blogger type is boring and sophomoric.” Perhaps, “Your blogger type is mushy and pointless.” I would also appreciate the honest, “Your blogger type is arrogant and self-indulgent.” My blogger type quiz result is a little more than a load of crap. But, honestly, aren’t I just the tiniest bit witty and clever? or was it clever and witty?

Oh, and since I’m feeling all quizzey. I took the what would Sarah Palin name you quiz and apparently Mommy Palin hates her little Puck Mule. Thanks to Rocks who directed me to that one some weeks back.

Now the truthy blog, I don’t think the hubster likes to be mentioned in my blogs. Even so, I’m thinking quite fondly of him since he’s the morning parent. He’s also running off some paperwork I need so I can sit on my behiney, drinking spicey creamed tea, on a slightly chilled evening while inflating my ego.

“I ate your chocolate.”

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I don’t think I believed that Jesse was going to abandon me until he called from the plane. I overhear the flight attendant say it’s time to buckle up for safety. I’ve just finished a lesson on voting and my mind can’t wrap around my husband’s leaving. “I ate your chocolate,” he says and then the phone goes dead. This is the last coffee scribbling I’ll get until his return and I’m feeling very sorry for myself.


How could he do this to me? I’m sick! I have children! My computer buddy is coming to save my behiney at work by fixing the website and database and I have to have a clear head for that. The house is a mess. Most of all, I’m completely emotionally fragile – like that cracked old rib bone in the photo. I need Jesse to glue me back together. (In case you are some freak who doesn’t know me and think this is your opportunity to come visit while the hubster is away, think again. He left his gun in my care. BANG! BANG! “I like you America.” Get it?) And the worst part, the darkest chasm, the void he left can’t even be filled with chocolate. The horror!

See the lovely little thank you note from Mz. Molly for helping with the Borton Community Garden’s chicken coop? Some people may question my contribution, and Mz. Molly may have regretted my contribution, but I got the punk rock pink and black ribbon anyway. A la la la.

And lastly, on a wholly unrelated note, Max, who should totally start a blog of his poetry but doesn’t just to hurt my feelings, was sighted at the intersection of Speedway and Alvernon. George would like to know when he started wearing glasses. And Max, thanks again for the three volume “mixed tape” CD collection of 80’s “alternative” music. It’s come in handy over the years.

Identity Crisis

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Do you ever get hit upside the head by a reality of yourself that you didn’t recognize? I’ve been studying issues of culture in one form or another since pretty early and formally beginning in high school. I know all the dimensions of communication. Okay, some. The field has advanced since 1999 when I buried my head under a rock contrary to the way I tote out my intercultural background when writing grants. Anyway, I am SO polychronic when I thought I was entirely monochronic.

What else do I not recognize about myself? I like to try new ideas on for size, but, guess what, I have a low risk tolerance. Honestly, I have no clue who I am and it’s causing uncertainty in my interpersonal interactions. I’m having some major communication huh-whats as of late and I think it’s because I’m being all high context when I should hang low for a while.

And so now my attempt at being more low context while holding true to my need for a great deal of field dependence, face-saving, and conflict resolution. How do I say this without offending the offensive? By that, I mean how can I say this without having to deal with these actual people anymore ever? Person 1, quit taking money from hungry people because you want fancy drapes. Person 2, is it possible that you could put your offense/defense in your pocket for a second and look at the community surrounding you? You are loved, but your targets can sometimes get hurt. Persons 3 and 4, maybe YOUR children need therapy because you’ve closed their minds. Oh, and look up jingoistic. I think you are using it incorrectly.

This is what helped me sleep this past week. It’s so wrong, it’s right.


This was the second place winner in craftster.org’s ironic cozy contest.

Happy Birthday to Me!

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For some reason I dressed all in shades of brown with black and white highlights today. I likely look like a monkey, but as my big bro points out, I don’t have to smell like one too. I could shower. But I didn’t, because it’s my birthday and I didn’t want to. Happy birthday to me, I live in a zoo, I look like a monkey, and I smell like one too. Oh, wouldn’t it be awful if I smelled like “one/TWO”? Eegads! Then again, I’d fit in at the park where I cruse the homeless cliques in my never ending search for a good source of TB.

I also didn’t want to drive the kids to school so the hubster did it. I stayed in my jammies until 9:30 in the a. to the m. Then I bought myself a full-fat iced mocha from a local joint who gave me a 15% discount on account of how awesome I am (and how I rocked my Catcard). Heck, for all I know the coffee wasn’t even Fair Trade and it came in a one-time use (but recyclable) plastic cup that didn’t even drip on my shirt. Afterward, I went to my son’s school on the premise that I would train to volunteer in the library. I was really only going to hang out with Anna who was casual cool in a Japanese coy T. We went to lunch.

Food was a big part of my big dia. I got some backyard tomaters from Molly and popsicles for FOUR kids plus myself from Kathy and hung out with Cassandra and Yvonne. Then Todd-o and Jesse took me and the ankle biters out for dinner. YUM-O and no dishes bitches! Please excuse my tone. I think my husband’s near beer has gone to my head. Luckily, he limited himself at one. That was his joke, btw. He’s hilarious.

Even the chickens helped me celebrate. They each gave me a perfectly shaped and colored egg. Thoughtfully, Flower treated me to an egg from the nest and not one randomly left in cacti or the coop floor. Jesse’s aunt sent me a pewter photo frame and of course my grandmother sent me a check for $25. Kari sent me a cardi and so did the dentist and a restaurant. My dad wished me happy birthday on his blog and my mother sent me a “card is in the mail” e-mail. I live a fat life!

Finally, because it’s my birthday, I’m not going to bother with “visual interest” on my blog. Now it’s time to leave you now (right bro?).

Blog Envy

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I’m grumpy, exhausted, and pissed off for whatever reason. Ergo, no blogs. I keep thinking I’ll blog because of my narcissistic belief that someone else will find funny the things I find funny, or interesting, or annoying and that will eventually lead to universal acceptance of my complete irresistibility. But before I can write, I get distracted by the soothing flicker of the cathode tubes.

It’s all moot now. I found Whiskey In My Sippy Cup and I don’t know if I’ll ever blog again. WIMSC is the blog I wish I were writing.

My dearest husband recently posted this photo of me from my own brief flirtation with whiskey in my sippy cup. People must need beer goggles because our eyes close right up in correlation to consumption. I’ve taken worse pictures. Maybe I should revisit whiskey.

Needle Craft

My girlfriends report that their 1930s wife scores are in the 30s and their rating is poor. Their modern attitudes are exactly why I want to be their buddy. I like to bask in their liberation. I guess I’m not all that superior by second millennium standards.

Naomi takes the cake with a score of -7. Who knew that was even possible? Interestingly, she has been married for at least as long as I have and seems quite content in her marriage. I’d be more confident in asserting her marital happiness if her husband was an equally rotten 1930s hubby. The other interesting thing is that she teaches preschool. You would think that would be in her favor score-wise, but you’d be wrong. She spends too much of her time talking to kids about fair and equitable treatment in addition to respecting others.

This begs the question that if I’m in this fast crowd with fast womyn, why is my score skewed toward traditional wifeyhood? I have a few answers. My first is that I’m a good test taker. I think I mentioned this. The second is that the questions are problematic. For example, “Do you wear a dirty apron?” I don’t wear an apron, therefore I don’t wear a dirty one. I have been salivating over some aprons recently, so that might change. For now, no apron. The third is that I have romanticized the traditional roles of women because I have never known a traditional woman.

Skip past this paragraph if you already know the family history. My great grandmother was a widowed mother of 3 girls. My grandmother was a widowed mother. My mother followed her family path for women and also worked to support the family. My dad’s family set the same example for me. My grandmother owned and ran her own store with no man in her life and my grandmother worked all the way up to executive vice president of a major bank with little more than a high school diploma.

Somewhere those women learned some important domestic skills. My grandmother sewed the most beautiful French seams. It just never came to me. When I was in my 20s, my mother decided to teach me “huck toweling”, which I’ve heard others call “Swedish toweling.” Yes, it’s a child’s craft, but I have childlike skills. Anyway, she had towels but no good floss and she wasn’t looking to make anything beautiful anyway, just clean out her closet. The floss we used came from the friendship bracelets I made instead of paying attention in Algebra.

My mother decided that we would do “pattern samples” rather than create something that either of us would cherish. We thought about making more, but huck towels are TOO EXPENSIVE and the idea faded. Now that I have a daughter, maybe I should rethink that. Let me know if you find a good price on real huck towels, not the terry/huck blend or the stiff junk. ANYWAY, my mother’s attention to detail on the project was still impeccable considering they are just pattern samples. She had us do smaller designs on the no-show backs and she fringed the edges. Nice, huh?


I DO cherish these stained pattern samples. I liked the time with my mother. She’s like the rest of the women in my family and can do pretty much whatever she puts her mind to doing. I’m not sure that these generations of women were particularly fond of men. My great grandmother didn’t wash boys and girls clothes together because boys were dirty. My grandmother (not the French seams one who was a widow) housed her husband in a bedroom as far from hers as she could get. My mother tried, but after a couple of generations of widows ahead of her, maybe she didn’t expect my dad to live as long as he has.

Now, for the peek into my 1930s superior wifesmanship, perhaps I have romanticized the traditional marital roles as a rebellion. Sometimes, it’s not worth the bother. Most of the time, it pays off. If Jesse didn’t appreciate my efforts, they would go by the wayside a long time ago. As it stands, I get coffee with love notes delivered to my bedside in the morning and ice cream sundaes in the evening. Also, I think a person’s score will change on this kind of quiz over time. I won’t always be a superior 1930s wife. Right now, I am. I did my first ever embroidery project to give to Jesse to show him my gratitude for not giving me crap for being imperfect.

I used George’s Klutz book for inspiration and direction. The saguaro, native to the Sonoran Desert, is a couch stitch with four strands on the top thread and two to pin it down. The ground, which should be more brown, is a four-strand stem stitch, and the sun is a four (?, I can’t remember) strand back stitch. Since the hankie was a delicate close weave, I used a delicate needle.

And now back to my wifely duties….

Unremarkable

I posted these on my other blog, but thought I could share it more broadly. Maybe my folks want to be updated on my medical status.

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Otorhinolaryngology. I didn’t even make up that word. I’ve been trying to see an ear, nose, throat (ENT) doctor for 20 years now. Mostly I was un- or underinsured for it. Then I got insured, but an ENT requires a referral and how am I gonna get that if I can’t even see my PCP when I have been hospitalized? Fortunately when I’m illin’, I’m crafty!

While being seen for pneumonia at the “same day” clinic, I complained about my ears. I went into my big ol’ long history of ear trauma and pathetically asked for my referral. Then I breathlessly insisted on it at my follow-up “same day” clinic appointment. I couldn’t walk for long distances or stand up, but I was highly motivated even in my decrepit state. If I survived flu, cocci, and pneumonia, by gum I was going to hear!

Oh, the world of difference between the office for poor sick folk and the office for rich people who can afford hearing aids! The primary difference is the big yellow sign in all caps reading, “YOU WILL NOT BE SEEN WITHOUT YOUR CO-PAYMENT, CURRENT REFERRAL, AND VALID INSURANCE CARD [sic] THANK YOU.” They are all about money. Other signs warned about service charges for bounced checks and processing fees if you left without making a co-payment. Lots of advertisements for hearing aids were on display. “TV Ears saved our marriage!” I had the vague fear that better hearing may negatively impact mine. I know for sure that Jesse’s artillery ear has helped us avoid fights after I’ve muttered grumbley grumbles under my breath, behind Jesse’s back, in a different room.

The secondary difference is that the specialist’s office is plush. They had a television and it was on Paula Dean. There were magazines. The wait was only 20-30 minutes. Of course they both had special signage, welcome windows, and time slots for drug reps. Next time I get sick, I am going to make a drug rep appointment rather than trying to see a doctor for my health.

Long story short, the ENT looked into my ears and said I had a hole in my eardrum – not the head, just the ear drum. Then he sent me for a hearing test, which I failed. DUH! But my hearing loss had the pattern of a brain tumor or something that sounded like “manure’s disease.” I’ll say. I’m real sick of all this manure about the best health care in the world. What he actually said was “meniere’s disease” but I couldn’t hear him because of the hearing loss. I later found out that Van Gogh likely had this disease and that’s why he chopped his ear off. So either my brain is screwed or I’ll soon lose my ear. Alternatively, and this is my own personal diagnosis, I’m perfectly healthy and it’s just a hearing loss related to that hole in my ear drum. I suspect the hole is the result of an ear drum that tired of bursting and rehealing in the absence of a doctor’s care and figured it might as well be permanently busted.

In the meantime, it’s a hearing aid for me and an MRI. More on that later, but as way of a preview this story ends happily for everyone except my children’s empty bellies. I’m currently teaching them the request, “More porridge, please.”

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Last Thursday was my make-up MRI. Of course it required a needle and “contrast”, which set me right off to the water fountain. I was going to be hydrated to the max to ensure my veins were pumped up and therefore less vulnerable to multiple puncture wounds. I didn’t want a repeat of the hospital horror leading up to the CT scan. The radiologist assured me the kind of needle used was different and “the dye isn’t nearly as dangerous.” How trustworthy is someone who radiates people for a living?

My brother already had me freaked out based on his surmise that if the radiologists had trouble with something as mundane as scheduling that I might really be in trouble when that big magnet was turned on and my brain was pounded. To add to my anxiety, at this point in my telling Jesse the toxic dye story he said, “Of course it’s fatal. Why do you think they call it die?” So I’m waiting for my father, son, or other important male in my life to say something slightly threatening to my life.

Needles aside, I was taken to a large room filled with a larger machine (I recognize that’s not possible). “Do you have anything in your pockets? Do you have any metal objects lodged in your body?” No, no. “Do you have your hearing aid on?” No. “What kind of music would you like to listen to?” Didn’t you just hear me say I’m not wearing my hearing aid? “Are you claustrophobic?”

Then they lay me down on the table. They lock my head in a mask. They give me a bubble to squeeze if I freak out. They strap me down, but insist the strap isn’t to keep me down. I’m pretty sure if I tied my kids down in bed like that, a CPS call would be in order. Then they proceed to blast my brain to what I think could have been Fir Elise. The process isn’t unlike early morning weekend sleep while the neighbors cut down a tree, tear down a storage shed, build another storage shed, or generally find something entertaining to do with power tools.

Halfway through -(dun dun DUN!)- The Needle. They slide the table out and stab me while still strapped down with the Hanible Lecter mask on. My arm goes numb and wonky. “You’re doing fine.” Really? It’s true the needle wasn’t as bad, but it wasn’t all that great either. And what does not doing fine look like? I’m strapped down on a table with my head in a vice, shoved in a giant machine with my brains exposed ala x-ray goggles from the back of an Archie’s Comic.

A week later, today, I get the results. The ENT’s aid calls to tell me “I’ve got good news. The results of your MRI came back and you have brains. Further, there is nothing at all wrong with them.” The gloating on my part was short lived. The letter from the radiologist with the results came in the mail. “IMPRESSION: Brain appears unremarkable….” The bubble bursts.

Been Sick

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The shortish story…

Apparently, I let myself get sick. Then I refused to admit I was sick. After weeks of such nonsense, I agreed to go to see my primary care physician. She should be called something else because none of those descriptors fit – not primary, not care, not physician. I’d change her identification to Dr. “I don’t care I just want you out of here” or “I hate my life M.D.”

My chest x-ray was hazy so I was sent to the ER where the nurses repeatedly asked what interaction I had with the homeless population. About the third time I replied, “Have you been in your waiting room?” The nurse tells me that sometimes a security guard with a dog will come and shoo the indigent away.

When the triage nurse called my name, Jesse and I began lumbering toward her careful to avoid the drunk and detoxing. She greeted us with her outstretched arm holding a mask. Dr. Cancerscare’s warning call that we were on our way carried the threat that I had TB. A cursory glance at the chest x-ray indicated that the apexes of my lungs were clear. So, NOT TB! But no one looked at my x-rays (apparently, not even my PCP). They just operated on the cancer/TB idea because it’s more fun that way. Besides, who ever heard of the flu turning into pneumonia? That never happens. I got a mask because the hospital didn’t want me to offend the homeless population in the waiting room with Rebecca germs. Apparently, that’s a one-way homeless-to-Rebecca privilege. Jesse requested a mask for himself on principle.

Eventually, Doogie Houser partially slid my x-ray out of it’s envelope took off his mask and said, “This isn’t TB.” He wrote a prescription for antibiotics and kicked us out. I was instructed to re-contact my PCP.

And so I made the attempt, but the doctor didn’t want to see me. “I was there on Thursday. I have pneumonia.”

“Still, you are a new patient. We can’t accommodate new patients until April.”

“But I have pneumonia now. The hospital told me to follow up with your office.”

“And we can see you in April.”

“But I was admitted to the ER under Dr.’s name.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I need follow-up for PNEUMONIA!”

I did go in for follow-up with one of Dr.’s colleagues who gave me a relationship appointment for March and a referral to an ear doctor, which never materialized.

My friend betts brought this for me when she heard I was sick. How sweet is that? That drink is the yummiest yum ever – candied ginger, lemon juice, and honey. It made me feel better, but didn’t cure my pneumonia.

My step-father called in a personal favor with the head of pulmonary care at the University Medical Center. Ahhh… real health care. I think the good doctor is operating on the theory that I had the flu, then while in compromised health I contracted cocci, and that came with a complication of pneumonia and pleurisy. How unfortunate is that? Cocci and pleurisy without so much as a kiss. Unfortunately, insurance gave me trouble with the tests so the good doctor saw that I was admitted to the hospital.

I don’t remember much about the hospital because I was sedated after a series of nurses attempted with a series of blown and elusive veins to put in an IV. Since I’m terrified of needles, I had a mini-breakdown in hour two of this process. I do remember receiving a wellness blessing with rancid ointment from my priest, protesting a TB test, more needles, having to pee after my CT scan, and begging to be released.

And after two hours haggling with the insurance company over what meds they will allow, we decided upon a cocktail of drugs that the insurance company is willing to gamble I won’t have an allergic reaction to, though I have previously. I’m not taking the pain meds but I am on two antibiotics that have only caused a minor rash and nausea. That’s where things stand until early March when I see the good doctor and the evil doctor for follow-up.

So, that’s where I’ve been.