7 Things I love

My phro5ggy friend tagged me with this meme.  I get to list 7 things I love, and then tag my other friends to do the same.  I’m going to skip the most obvious thing here – my family (including the dogs).  That should go without saying.  So here goes.

1.  I love silent numbers.  They add sophistication to everything.  Even amphibians.

2.  I love to knit.  I’m so thankful for Karin who taught me this lovely hobby just a little over two years ago now.  I may not be prolific.  I may never even be good.  But I finally have something in my life that I enjoy for the sake of doing, not perfecting.  There’s something very zen about that.

3.  I love reading.  I’ll read anything, anywhere.  And I almost never have read something that I didn’t like on at least some level.

4.  I love writing.  Writing gives me an opportunity to think of a subject or an object in a different manner.  I get to disect it.  Often times I come away from a writing project thinking and feeling about the topic differently than I did when I began.

5.  I love annoying stupid people.  My definition of stupid people are those who don’t realize I’m annoying them because they are stupid.  It’s a lovely little cycle that provides endless entertainment.  I am not afraid to tell you this because even the stupid people I know who read this blog won’t realize they’re who I’m talking about…even though they’ll be annoyed at this little confession and not be able to put their finger on exactly why.

6.  I love Christmas.  I don’t care if Walmart cashiers won’t say the word, or public schools can no longer produce plays where children dress up in bathrobes and fake beards to worship a plastic doll on a bale of hay.  This is not what Christmas time means to me.  It is sacred because it’s the one time of year that general good will is felt towards all mankind.  Peppermint and snow and pine trees and sparkles and fire places don’t hurt, either.

7.  I love that this meme is over.  I don’t do intimacy very well.  I use humor to distract from this flaw and it’s very difficult for me to be irreverent about things that I love.

Now, I tag Karin, Dawn, Melissa, Michele, and Steph.

A day walking and talking with Jesus.

I spent this past Wednesday hanging out with my son and Jesus, studying life and nature with a backdrop of melodies from a wild bird sanctuary.

Sound peaceful?  Serene?  Let me fill in a few more details.  The soundtrack was just a smidge too loud and the life we were studying had already been snuffed, but expertly skinned and glued to form by a highly skilled taxidermist.  My son was severely disappointed that the dinosaur heart fossil we spent half an hour searching for looked remarkably like a rock – any old rock; and Jesus was hyper from the school provided PB&J sack lunch, running wild and pretending not to understand English when I called out, “Jesus, no jumping on the escalator!”  and “Jesus, quit banging on the rattle snake tank.”  or my favorite, “Jesus, get your hand out of the deer’s butt.” 

I don’t even want to know why the taxidermist gave Bambie an anus, let alone such a large one.

Next time I chaperone a field trip, I’m trading Jesus for Gracie.

Memoirs of a Hirsute Woman

It was ten or so years ago when I first began noticing little pricklies on my chin.  One here, one there at the rate of just a hand full a year.  I’d pluck them and enjoy a few prickle free months before having to do it again.  But that’s how it starts, isn’t it?  Just like Robert Downey, Jr. I imagine.  One or two every now and again evolves into plucking daily until the next thing you know you’re on an EKTORP chaise snorting heroin off a hooker’s ass.

But today I took a stand and put an end to the vicious cycle.  I sat down for my first IPL (laser) hair removal treatment.  Despite the surprisingly similar sensation of having my chin tattooed – or so I imagine – I am doing it again in two weeks.  Already, I notice a marked decrease in the number of prickles, but only time will tell if that’s because they’re gone for good or if they ran from this battle so they could live to fight another day.

It’s an embarrassing problem; more difficult for me to reveal here than my newly acquired sexual dysfunctions.  But it isn’t entirely anomalous.  With my father being of middle eastern descent, I suppose I should count myself lucky that I don’t resemble a werewolf by now.  My back is clear and I possess two distinct and separate eyebrows.  And that’s gotta count for somethin’.

Still, when the chiney-chin chin is sufficiently depilated, I plan on sitting down and discussing another interesting item I saw on the Laser Hair Removal Menu; Brazilian Bikini.  And if I want to prepare myself for that sensation, I can always spatter hot bacon grease on my nether regions.

Curse you, fair haired Scandinavians with your lack of embarrassing hygiene issues and Ikea.

My final political post.

It is no secret that I was not a supporter of the Obama campaign.  Some misunderstood this to mean I was in support of the McCain campaign, which I also never was.  It’s my opinion that there was no good candidate.

That said, I’m excited and inspired that this country elected its first black president.  This is awesome and I’m glad the day has come.  The way I look at it, neither one represented me and both were going to annoy me…might as well do some good and break down racial barriers while they’re at it.

I’m hopeful that Obama’s policies won’t be as bad as I feared.  If he doesn’t have an answer to the economic mess we’re in, it’s my hope that he surrounds himself with people who do.  I’m not so worried about any of his other socialistic policies because frankly, with the mess we’re in right now I can’t imagine he’d be able to afford them.

What is now grating on my last nerve are those from the republican party who don’t truly understand why they lost the election.  You’ve had 3 days to moan and groan.  Now go re-group.  Start grooming some upstanding citizens and turn them into leaders who can have a chance in the 2016 election.  Eight years isn’t nearly enough time to do this, so get busy!

*oh, and for the lady in the grocery store yesterday that I overheard call Michelle Obama a whore; Really?  You find it ok to degrade a woman – all women this way?  Shame on you!  You’re no better than the creeps who are tearing down Sarah Palin at the moment.

It’s not that I’m unfocused…

signage courtesy of my friend Danielle.

It’s just that I’m not focused on the same thing everybody else is.

Que Freddy Mercury. I Am The Champion.

With all the due pride you give a situation like this, I took back the “Most Fucked Up Family” trophy from my dear, sweet LoveMonkey.  And it’s going to be next to impossible for him to ever (EVER!) get it back this time.

Tonight, the M-FUF award gets super-glued to my nightstand because of this entry in the Watauga Democrat, courtesy of my second cousins (on my mom’s side) -

http://www.wataugademocrat.com/2008/1027/1031siblingsarrested.php

The obvious omission from this article is what sort of club involves hazing by high school drop outs at the Fairfield Inn.

The not-so-obvious and incredibly sad omission from this article is that both teens (who each have children of their own) have already been convicted of other less heinous, but serious crimes.

So as I accept this award tonight, I’d like to thank all the fucked up people who made this possible.  I couldn’t have done it without you.

5 jars of mayonnaise

After two phone calls home from the grocery store (once in the jelly aisle, and again in dairy) she still can’t get the goddamned grocery shopping right.  Yes, we needed more jelly.  No, we didn’t need another tub of sour cream.  She should have called from frozen foods because now we’ve got way too many Eggos.  Or better yet, she should learn to grocery shop.  It’s about damn time.

It’s been four years, seven months, and nineteen days since being told that most people don’t survive past five years but, “you, Mrs. Welsh, are very sick.  Let’s just try to get you through delivery and to transplant.”

And oh how I did my best to push the obvious out of my mind.  Five years?  But you diagnosed me 25 months late!  While I tried very hard not to live as if I was on a count-down, I tried even harder not to live as if the clock had been wound forward 2 years from the start.

I don’t feel 1 year and 8 months dead, or 4 months and twelve days from it.  Though admittedly, I probably wouldn’t recognize the feeling if I did.  See?  I’m fine.

Except that I’m not.

Those medications that made the transplant unnecessary and probably extended the expiration date indefinately have taken their toll.  I used to be able to recall conversations from years prior, verbatim.  I could tell you not only what the speaker was wearing, but what direction they were facing.  I could recall texts, word-for-word, like looking at a photograph. 

But now?  Now I visit the pantry for I-Can’t-Remember-What-Reason and am confronted by the 5 jars of mayonnaise. 

My husband is not fully understanding of the BetaBlocker effect.  He’s tried, but he just doesn’t.  With his blood pressure running just barely over the acceptable limit, I’ve held onto both the hope and sadness that very soon, he will understand, too. 

After yeas of having to answer the same question repeatedly, he’s weary.  Why should he have to wait two weeks for me to remember to pick up the 1 hour dry cleaning?  He’s become angry with me that my trips to the grocery store more resemble a scavenger hunt for the ADD afflicted – even when I have a list in hand.

So when he opens the pantry door and is confronted by the 5 jars of mayonnaise, he is reminded that his wife’s mind is going.  Or perhaps he still occasionally thinks I’m just a horrible shopper, derelict in my house-wifely duties.  Either way, the 5 jars of mayonnaise elicit feelings of anger in him.

They just make me sad.  And I still can’t remember why I’m standing inside the pantry.

News from the home front.

And the home back.  And everything in between.

I can now tell you what’s brewing because yesterday it became official:  We are moving back to the DC area.  The personal pictures have been taken down and the For Sale sign has gone up. 

If you know anyone looking for a home in Raleigh, please direct them here.

So aside from living our normal, hectic life whilest keeping the home clean and show ready just in case we get that moment’s notice that someone wants to view, I am busy looking for the new home and falling in love with every fifth one I find on Realtor.com.  Wish me luck with that.

Medical miracle

It’s a good thing I sought medical help when I did.

Had I waited three or four more weeks, and had it been back in the 1800’s, I probably wouldn’t have survived my nameless virus.

Thanks to early intervention (but not so early that doctors still thought drilling holes in a patients skull would alleviate them of all forms of illness) and a hefty dose of Tamiflu, I will live.

That’s right.  The mariachi band can be put on hold.  The chewed socks can be re-knit.  The blog will continue…

Stay tuned.  There’s some really interesting stuff brewing that I just can’t wait to tell you all about.

Hint:  It’s not meth.

Farewell, world

Since I’m such a strong advocate of self diagnosis, especially when you can use the internet to help (sarcasm, people…don’t forget who you’re reading, here) I thought I’d give it a try.  Last night I looked up my 3 main symptoms on a nice little website called www.wrongdiagnosis.com .  How incredibly nice of these people to let you know right up front that you’re going to get a WRONG DIAGNOSIS from using their site.

I chose my three VERY COMMON SYMPTOMS from their multiple symptom checker.

• Fever – check
• Backache – check
• Diarr – nevermind.  You don’t really want to know.  -  Check

It turns out there are only two causes of all three symptoms.  Only two!  Either I have Listeriosis or the Hantavirus. 

I could have gotten Listeriosis from the coleslaw I ate following our PigNic last weekend – but presumably everyone else would have gotten it, too.  Unless I got it from the LEFTOVER coleslaw I ate for a few days following said PigNic.  Either way, Listiriosis left untreated this long does not bode well.

On the other hand, I could have gotten the Hantavirus (which is spread through rodent droppings) from any number of things.  Drinking from soda cans that have been stored in filthy warehouses and garages comes to mind.  So does McDonalds.  Hantavirus can lead to hemorrhagic fever which, again, does not bode well.

If I were an episode of House, this is where they’d mention that the patient is a bit of a hypochondriac, but then – just for a twist - que the rectal bleeding.  Let’s see….um…no check.

I’ve taken the fools and wimps way out and made an appointment with my GP for this afternoon.  In case this doesn’t turn out to be something pedestrian and easily curable with antibiotics, sterroids, or Vodka – and in case they figure out which improbable combination of two rare diseases I’m currently incubating, but only after I’ve already crossed the great divide, thanks for reading my blog.

The notebook with all my funerary instructions is in the office on the shelf above the printer.  Don’t forget the mariachi band.