I have NOT forgotten that I promised more chapters in my story of Honey Boo Boo and our cruise. I have lots of stuff to tell you about her floatings in Belize.
I wanted to pause a moment and reflect on what 25 years with the same awesome guy--the Hubs--has wrought in my life. Over the past 25 years, the Hubs and I have together:
Lived in four cities, three apartments, two townhomes, and three houses.
Driven seven cars.
Had five surgeries (all mine, but the Hubs had to deal with the recovery).
Owned two pools.
Taken approximately 20 vacations.
Had one pet.
Gained and lost countless amounts of weight.
Had one brush with death.
Owned two lawnmowers (sore subject for the Hubs).
Learned how to scuba dive and probably used 80 tanks of air.
Joined one church and visited many.
Held seven jobs.
Hired two real estate agents.
Lost four grandmothers, one grandfather, one aunt, and three uncles.
Gained two nieces and a sister-in-law (not in that order).
Graduated from pina coladas with a nice dinner to wine.
Earned two, post-graduate degrees (a masters and a doctorate).
Had four wedding rings.
Been estranged from two family members.
Cried (mostly me) and been loved through it (mostly by the Hubs)
Laughed at least once every day.
Purged and donated enough clothes, furniture, and housing goods to possibly provide for an entire, small country.
Tithed.
Started saving our money.
Got movie channels on our TV.
Sold a car to pay rent (thanks Mom and Dad for letting us keep the money from selling the car even though you bought it for me before I was married).
Gone to make dinner, seen one box of macaroni and cheese in the pantry, and knew we were out of money to buy anything else.
Owned nine TVs.
Started with huge cell phones, got down to tiny cell phones (some even had a retractable antenna), and then back to big cell phones.
Accidentally threw away my mother's wedding ring (OK that was just me, no Hubs, but I still feel awful).
Can quote the majority of "Fletch," "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles," "Coming to America," and "Christmas Vacation" from memory.
Had two beautiful daughters.
Cleaned poo from many surfaces (related to previous entry).
Learned how to fold a fitted sheet.
Learned lice hate tea tree oil.
Been each other's greatest fan.
Had two pediatricians (see daughter and poo entry).
Traveled by plane (all sizes), train, car, shuttle, subway, cable car, bus, limo, moped, and boat.
Suffered through food poisoning together (thankfully that townhome had two bathrooms).
Killed two aloe vera plants.
Made 25 (mostly unsuccessful) New Years' resolutions.
Expanded our food horizons.
Sat through countless games, recitals, programs, musicals, performances to watch our daughters.
Gone to the national championship football game (thanks Keith and Heather Behrens).
Saw Chris Webber's "time out" in the national championship BB game.
Saw the first Cowboys game at the "new" Cowboys stadium (thanks David and Carolyn Hennessee)
Saw baseball games at Yankee Stadium and Wrigley Field.
Seen three Broadway shows on actual Broadway.
Fell in love with Chicago.
Had two wedding ceremonies (one 25 years ago in Dallas and one 15 years ago in Vegas, which could be another blog entry all on its own).
Even with all of this, there is so much more I want to do with the Hubs. Europe, grandkids, a tricked out back yard, more laughter (he's one of the funniest people I know), more diving, more movies, more parties, more wine, fewer "have tos" and more "want tos." This is gonna be good.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Cruisin & Divin Fun: Part One
I realize my blog posts have been too much of a downer lately. Thank you for indulging me as I wallow in my mess. To switch things up, I have decided to regale you with the many entertaining stories I gathered while on my recent wedding anniversary cruise with the Hubs.
Yes, it's been 25 wonderful years with the Hubs. Can't believe it's been that long. Dear Hubs booked us on a seven-night cruise to Honduras, Belize, and Cozumel out of New Orleans as a surprise. What a guy! In our former lives as married, no-kids people, we used to go scuba diving at least twice a year. And we rocked it. We were awesome divers. We've been to Cozumel, Hawaii, Grand Cayman, Little Cayman, the Bahamas, and on, and on. We've seen rays, sharks, octopi, lobster, sea horses, eels, whales, dolphins, turtles, and more fish than you can shake a stick at. But once we had kids, our days of diving came to a screeching halt. In the last 15 years, we have gone diving about 3 times. Pitiful. Dear Hubs knows how much I love diving and swore we would dive our buns off.
After an awesome day in New Orleans (bloodies, anybody?), we boarded the ship ready for fun and scuba! Now, we cruise Carnival. It's a down-ballot cruise line but that's what I like about it. I can slump out to the pool in my Gap bathing suit and no-name flips and be right at home in the hot tub with all my peeps. Like Bobby the electrician and Susie the farmer. These are my peeps. You'll never hear better stories in a hot tub than those from these salt of the earth people. I'll tell you more about them in a later installment.
Today is about our dive buddies. Let me tell you about myself. I am what they call "well preserved." I am a woman of a "certain age" who has fought like hell to keep everything from going South. I work out 3 to 4 days a week and generally try to keep things well tended. I don't go overboard but I try. So, I figured I would be OK in my bikini on a dive boat. No lingering looks, but no sniggering either.
First dive: Honduras. We meet the dive master. A little uptight but no big deal. There's no talking under there anyway and I know what I'm doing. Then I look around at who will be diving with me from our ship. Well. First, I see Honey Boo Boo all growed up. I mean, imagine that deep South baby beauty queen at about 32. Weighing in at a buck 80 in a teeny weenie yellow bikini. She's in full make-up (to go diving, mind you) and has a 'Merican flag belly button piercing (it was July 4th, y'all). She's got her momma (who has a weird burp reflex that won't stop and sounds like she's about to urp that squirrel she had for lunch), her fiance (they are getting married on the ship in two days), and some other dude that doesn't seem to fit but LOVES to wear teeny running shorts as a bathing suit. And they are EXPERTS in diving, people. They will tell you EVERYTHING you are doing wrong. That's another installment as well.
But that's not all. There were two of the most gorgeous women I have EVER seen diving together. I'll call them Blonde and Brown. It's their hair color, people. That's it on our dive boat. Pageant hillbillies, me and the Hubs, and the professional hotties. Now by "professional" I DO NOT mean what you dirty-minded people are thinking. Blonde recently placed nationally in some sort of body competition and she's training Brown to do the same thing. I saw pictures. So did the Hubs. Blonde is even a personal trainer. My Gap bikini looked worse by the minute. They were the nicest, most fun people I have met in a long time. We became a foursome, and the Hubs was the envy of EVERYONE.
So I get ready to hit the water for the first time in a long time. Now, I do NOT put my own equipment together. I haven't done that since I got my certification. I mean, if I'm paying out the nose for a dive, I expect my dive master (who will expect a tip later) to hook me up. Well, Honey Boo Boo elbowed me right out of the way so she could hit the water first. For you non-divers, this is a rookie mistake. If you're the first one in, you have to struggle to stay up top until the entire dive party is off the boat and you can all start to go down. But whatever. But once she hits the water, her hillbilly running of the mouth still won't stop. She's screaming about, "PUFFERS! PUFFERS! PUFFERS!" This chick really wants to see some puffer fish. Whatever, we all get in and we start going down. Well, it was just as I feared, the Hillbillies talked a big game but they were horrible divers. By this I mean, they are all arms down there. That's bad in the dive biz because a flailing arm will take your regulator out of your mouth (that means no more oxygen for you) and knock your mask off your face (hello, salt water in the eyes). Yikes! Honey Boo Boo's fiance (I'll call him Lurch) decided wherever I was was the perfect place to try to dive. Sigh. On our first tank. He ripped my regulator out; got on top of me, grabbed my tank, and yanked me to his right; grabbed my fins to try to get me out of his way (he was BEHIND me); and was a general pain in my ass.
BTW, it was Blonde's first dive after getting her certification and she was diving like a BOSS. She was great. Brown was great. The Hillbillies . . . well . . . Honey Boo and her mother (Burpie) held hands the entire dive. I know that sounds sweet. It's not. When you are down there, you don't want a four-person wide object that wants to be FIRST TO SEE EVERYTHING. At one point they cut the Hubs off, still holding hands, to see a crab. Honey Boo Boo's bikini bottom had been eaten (if you get my drift). It was right in front of his mask. I laughed so hard I sucked in about a quart of sea water. It was worth it.
Surface interval. Honey Boo Boo proceeded to regale us with stories of everything she had seen and how everything was "so cute, I just want to take it hooooooome." Uh, HBB, we were on your exact same dive. Anywho, uptight dive master said we could snorkel during our surface interval. You would have thought he said we would all get a $1,000 check the way Honey Boo Boo wet herself: "What?! Oh my God!!! This is incredible!! Best surface interval EVER!!!!!!!" Burpie just urped. Uh, HBB, you could snorkel on ANY surface interval if you wanted to. You've got a mask, snorkel, and fins and you are floating on water. Have at it. Anywho, she jumps in and starts screaming "PUFFERS! PUFFERS! PUFFERS!" Well, hell, I've got to see this. It must be puffer soup out there. So I jump in. Nope. Starfish.
Second dive. Uptight dive master tells us there is an eel that hangs out here and she might come and check us out. She does. And for some reason, she digs my vibe. She slithers up my arm and pokes her face right in my mask to say "hello." Pretty cool. Until I remember that the Hillbillies will insist on being RIGHT IN THE FRONT TO SEE ANYTHING. I quickly put my hands up to my regulator and my mask and here comes Lurch and Honey Boo Boo. They are holding hands on this dive and they really want to see that eel. Well, their arm gestures freak poor Miss Eel out and she slithers down my front to get the heck out of Dodge. Wish I could.
Once we get back on the boat, Lurch proceeds to tell me everything I did wrong on both dives: Hey, you were in my way and I had to pull you out of my way. (Yes, I know. My ears popped because you threw me down about ten feet. Plus, I was below you and couldn't see you.) You kicked me with your fins. (I don't have a rearview mirror) You hit the eel with your fin. (Um, she was trying to get away from you and you hit me backwards into her). All I said was, "Oops, Bra. Gotta hang back from the volcano." I have no idea what that means. It was better than what I wanted to say, which was "Get your hillbilly arms away from my area and quit diving like you are in a performance of Chicago on Broadway, Jazz Hands!"
Anywho, nothing a few visits to the bar didn't cure. We hung with Blonde and Brown and some people on the other dive boat at a resort until it was time to head back to the ship. It was lovely. But when it was time to leave, we had to wait for Honey Boo Boo and the other hillbillies because they had ordered hamburgers (a hamburger in Honduras!!!!!!!!) that hadn't been served yet. Are you kidding me? We are going to miss our cruise ship so you can get a hamburger?! When they finally got on the shuttle with their stinky burgers, Brown said, "You owe us a beer." They didn't even acknowledge her or even say sorry to us. It was all the fault of "those people" at the resort. And they didn't even tip the dive master. THAT'S a crappy diver. And we got to hear Burpie urp her way back to the ship while eating a burger. Yum.
So, the next day is Belize diving. Gotta be better, right? Stay tuned.
Yes, it's been 25 wonderful years with the Hubs. Can't believe it's been that long. Dear Hubs booked us on a seven-night cruise to Honduras, Belize, and Cozumel out of New Orleans as a surprise. What a guy! In our former lives as married, no-kids people, we used to go scuba diving at least twice a year. And we rocked it. We were awesome divers. We've been to Cozumel, Hawaii, Grand Cayman, Little Cayman, the Bahamas, and on, and on. We've seen rays, sharks, octopi, lobster, sea horses, eels, whales, dolphins, turtles, and more fish than you can shake a stick at. But once we had kids, our days of diving came to a screeching halt. In the last 15 years, we have gone diving about 3 times. Pitiful. Dear Hubs knows how much I love diving and swore we would dive our buns off.
After an awesome day in New Orleans (bloodies, anybody?), we boarded the ship ready for fun and scuba! Now, we cruise Carnival. It's a down-ballot cruise line but that's what I like about it. I can slump out to the pool in my Gap bathing suit and no-name flips and be right at home in the hot tub with all my peeps. Like Bobby the electrician and Susie the farmer. These are my peeps. You'll never hear better stories in a hot tub than those from these salt of the earth people. I'll tell you more about them in a later installment.
Today is about our dive buddies. Let me tell you about myself. I am what they call "well preserved." I am a woman of a "certain age" who has fought like hell to keep everything from going South. I work out 3 to 4 days a week and generally try to keep things well tended. I don't go overboard but I try. So, I figured I would be OK in my bikini on a dive boat. No lingering looks, but no sniggering either.
First dive: Honduras. We meet the dive master. A little uptight but no big deal. There's no talking under there anyway and I know what I'm doing. Then I look around at who will be diving with me from our ship. Well. First, I see Honey Boo Boo all growed up. I mean, imagine that deep South baby beauty queen at about 32. Weighing in at a buck 80 in a teeny weenie yellow bikini. She's in full make-up (to go diving, mind you) and has a 'Merican flag belly button piercing (it was July 4th, y'all). She's got her momma (who has a weird burp reflex that won't stop and sounds like she's about to urp that squirrel she had for lunch), her fiance (they are getting married on the ship in two days), and some other dude that doesn't seem to fit but LOVES to wear teeny running shorts as a bathing suit. And they are EXPERTS in diving, people. They will tell you EVERYTHING you are doing wrong. That's another installment as well.
But that's not all. There were two of the most gorgeous women I have EVER seen diving together. I'll call them Blonde and Brown. It's their hair color, people. That's it on our dive boat. Pageant hillbillies, me and the Hubs, and the professional hotties. Now by "professional" I DO NOT mean what you dirty-minded people are thinking. Blonde recently placed nationally in some sort of body competition and she's training Brown to do the same thing. I saw pictures. So did the Hubs. Blonde is even a personal trainer. My Gap bikini looked worse by the minute. They were the nicest, most fun people I have met in a long time. We became a foursome, and the Hubs was the envy of EVERYONE.
So I get ready to hit the water for the first time in a long time. Now, I do NOT put my own equipment together. I haven't done that since I got my certification. I mean, if I'm paying out the nose for a dive, I expect my dive master (who will expect a tip later) to hook me up. Well, Honey Boo Boo elbowed me right out of the way so she could hit the water first. For you non-divers, this is a rookie mistake. If you're the first one in, you have to struggle to stay up top until the entire dive party is off the boat and you can all start to go down. But whatever. But once she hits the water, her hillbilly running of the mouth still won't stop. She's screaming about, "PUFFERS! PUFFERS! PUFFERS!" This chick really wants to see some puffer fish. Whatever, we all get in and we start going down. Well, it was just as I feared, the Hillbillies talked a big game but they were horrible divers. By this I mean, they are all arms down there. That's bad in the dive biz because a flailing arm will take your regulator out of your mouth (that means no more oxygen for you) and knock your mask off your face (hello, salt water in the eyes). Yikes! Honey Boo Boo's fiance (I'll call him Lurch) decided wherever I was was the perfect place to try to dive. Sigh. On our first tank. He ripped my regulator out; got on top of me, grabbed my tank, and yanked me to his right; grabbed my fins to try to get me out of his way (he was BEHIND me); and was a general pain in my ass.
BTW, it was Blonde's first dive after getting her certification and she was diving like a BOSS. She was great. Brown was great. The Hillbillies . . . well . . . Honey Boo and her mother (Burpie) held hands the entire dive. I know that sounds sweet. It's not. When you are down there, you don't want a four-person wide object that wants to be FIRST TO SEE EVERYTHING. At one point they cut the Hubs off, still holding hands, to see a crab. Honey Boo Boo's bikini bottom had been eaten (if you get my drift). It was right in front of his mask. I laughed so hard I sucked in about a quart of sea water. It was worth it.
Surface interval. Honey Boo Boo proceeded to regale us with stories of everything she had seen and how everything was "so cute, I just want to take it hooooooome." Uh, HBB, we were on your exact same dive. Anywho, uptight dive master said we could snorkel during our surface interval. You would have thought he said we would all get a $1,000 check the way Honey Boo Boo wet herself: "What?! Oh my God!!! This is incredible!! Best surface interval EVER!!!!!!!" Burpie just urped. Uh, HBB, you could snorkel on ANY surface interval if you wanted to. You've got a mask, snorkel, and fins and you are floating on water. Have at it. Anywho, she jumps in and starts screaming "PUFFERS! PUFFERS! PUFFERS!" Well, hell, I've got to see this. It must be puffer soup out there. So I jump in. Nope. Starfish.
Second dive. Uptight dive master tells us there is an eel that hangs out here and she might come and check us out. She does. And for some reason, she digs my vibe. She slithers up my arm and pokes her face right in my mask to say "hello." Pretty cool. Until I remember that the Hillbillies will insist on being RIGHT IN THE FRONT TO SEE ANYTHING. I quickly put my hands up to my regulator and my mask and here comes Lurch and Honey Boo Boo. They are holding hands on this dive and they really want to see that eel. Well, their arm gestures freak poor Miss Eel out and she slithers down my front to get the heck out of Dodge. Wish I could.
Once we get back on the boat, Lurch proceeds to tell me everything I did wrong on both dives: Hey, you were in my way and I had to pull you out of my way. (Yes, I know. My ears popped because you threw me down about ten feet. Plus, I was below you and couldn't see you.) You kicked me with your fins. (I don't have a rearview mirror) You hit the eel with your fin. (Um, she was trying to get away from you and you hit me backwards into her). All I said was, "Oops, Bra. Gotta hang back from the volcano." I have no idea what that means. It was better than what I wanted to say, which was "Get your hillbilly arms away from my area and quit diving like you are in a performance of Chicago on Broadway, Jazz Hands!"
Anywho, nothing a few visits to the bar didn't cure. We hung with Blonde and Brown and some people on the other dive boat at a resort until it was time to head back to the ship. It was lovely. But when it was time to leave, we had to wait for Honey Boo Boo and the other hillbillies because they had ordered hamburgers (a hamburger in Honduras!!!!!!!!) that hadn't been served yet. Are you kidding me? We are going to miss our cruise ship so you can get a hamburger?! When they finally got on the shuttle with their stinky burgers, Brown said, "You owe us a beer." They didn't even acknowledge her or even say sorry to us. It was all the fault of "those people" at the resort. And they didn't even tip the dive master. THAT'S a crappy diver. And we got to hear Burpie urp her way back to the ship while eating a burger. Yum.
So, the next day is Belize diving. Gotta be better, right? Stay tuned.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
It's not just you
I must begin with a disclaimer to this post: I am NOT looking for you to tell me that you like me, or that everyone else is a dummy, or that I am Batman. All I want to do is vent a little, save some therapist money, and let you know that crap happens to me too. It's not just you.
Do you ever volunteer to do something because it's the right thing to do? Do you spend a lot of time on this extracurricular, not-for-remuneration, volunteer activity? Are you then told your input is not welcome even though they begged you to volunteer and even though you are doing this in your free time? Well, it has happened to me.
I am now officially not in the cool kids club at my chosen place of volunteering. Let's call it the CPV. Yes, I am being intentionally vague. Protecting the innocent and all that. The CPV is governed by three, bull headed people. I'll call them Kool and the Gang. I was asked to volunteer at CPV in an area I have experience and significant expertise. So, I think, "Hey, Amy, this is something you are good at. Your CPV needs help in this area. You can help them and get good-people points in the process." I'm a firm believer in good-people points. You may call it karma. Or the Golden Rule. Or your heavenly reward. You get the idea. But then I think, "But, Amy, you hate volunteering. In fact, you really dislike sticking your neck out around people you have a modicum of respect for like Kool and the Gang, for example." The good-people points part of me piped in with, "But maybe this is God's way of saying you NEED to do this. You need to share your giftedness with Kool and the Gang and with CPV. They will appreciate you stepping in when they asked for your help." Humph, OK.
So I toodle off to CPV like it's the first day of school and sit down at the table with other, like-minded good-people-point humans and wait for all those good-people points to flow in. Well, reader, it was a $%&# storm of epic proportions. Month after month (and so far it's been 28 of em), Kool and the Gang shaded facts, misled, and generally treated me like something they found on the bottom of their shoe after visiting a public restroom in a prison. One member of the Gang will have no conversation with me without telling me how much he cannot get along with me. Seriously. It goes like this: "Listen, Amy, I know we don't get along and I think you know I cannot work with you. But I love you, man." I usually meet these pronouncements with silence. What do you say to someone who says I hate you, but I probably need to say that I love you or I won't get any good-people points? They were mean. They were dismissive. They turned their backs or doodled on their phones while I talked. They acted like they didn't see me in the halls of CPV. They were rude. But were they right? Was I doing the wrong thing telling them what they didn't want to hear? Was my straining for information too strident? Should I hold my tongue, bobble my head in a "yes" motion when they speak, and go along to get along? I think I should have.
See, my giftedness is seeing through the bull crap and getting to a nice, neat answer. But to do that, I need all the unvarnished facts in all their goopy, stinky glory. I don't judge the facts -- I only gotta know them to get to the solution. Unfortunately, my mining for facts made Kool and the Gang think I was attacking them and waiting for them to fail. I unfortunately could never get them to understand that I was like Jack Nicholson in "A Few Good Men": You want me on that wall; you need me on that wall. I want to protect. I want to immunize. I want to wrap up Kool and the Gang and CPV in bubble wrap and make sure nothing bad happens to them. Ever. They didn't know that the bubble wrap comes with a price. You gotta show me the warts. I wish I could have somehow conveyed to them that I know showing me the warts hurts but that my deep love for them means I can see the warts and love them even more. Bubble wrap is my giftedness. But obviously, telling them about the bubble wrap is not.
It all came to a head today when I was told that my current volunteering role will most likely be my last at CPV. It wasn't said directly. And it was said to a group of, I assume, similarly non-cool volunteers at CPV. And it's OK. Did it hurt? You bet. Did I rage against the machine? To be sure. But they are right. I am not cut out for this. I should have listened to the Grumpy dwarf inside and not volunteered to begin with. Even though Kool and the Gang CONSTANTLY talk about how to solve the case of the vanishing volunteer.
So, Kool and the Gang have prevailed. They were right in so many ways. I am not a good volunteer. I do not play well with others. I cannot go along to get along. I have no idea what I am gifted to do at CPV but it obviously is not what I have been doing. Maybe I need a new CPV. Maybe I need to be a pure consumer at CPV and let others do the heavy lifting. This doesn't feel right to me. But volunteering didn't feel right to me, and that was the correct solution. Don't do it. I won't ever get those years back of letting them make me feel less than. Less smart. Less good. Less valuable. Less valued. But I can step away when they ask me to in their kind, passive-aggressive, oh-so-quiet way. I can step back, let go, and not worry that they have no bubble wrap. In fact, I see lots of bumps coming that my bubble wrap would have prevented. But I can't impose on Kool and the Gang any longer. I'm sure God will send another good-people-points person to them who is more gifted than I to tell them what they need to hear. Good luck to you.
Now, really, I am not looking for atta girls. I don't need to be lifted up. I think me listening to Kool and the Gang and getting out of their milieu will help tremendously. I have 8 more months to serve at CPV and I will try my hardest to keep it eyes down and head nodding. It's hard for me, though. I'm not good at much except for passing out bubble wrap. I need to understand that Kool and the Gang and perhaps CPV don't care for my bubble wrap or me. And that's OK. What bothers me is that the number of people who think I'm one of the cool kids is getting smaller by the second. And I'm afraid it was never as many as I thought. And now I have no idea how to get good-people points. Hopefully, this post will help at least one person to feel not so alone when someone yucks their yum. And that can be my good-people point.
Do you ever volunteer to do something because it's the right thing to do? Do you spend a lot of time on this extracurricular, not-for-remuneration, volunteer activity? Are you then told your input is not welcome even though they begged you to volunteer and even though you are doing this in your free time? Well, it has happened to me.
I am now officially not in the cool kids club at my chosen place of volunteering. Let's call it the CPV. Yes, I am being intentionally vague. Protecting the innocent and all that. The CPV is governed by three, bull headed people. I'll call them Kool and the Gang. I was asked to volunteer at CPV in an area I have experience and significant expertise. So, I think, "Hey, Amy, this is something you are good at. Your CPV needs help in this area. You can help them and get good-people points in the process." I'm a firm believer in good-people points. You may call it karma. Or the Golden Rule. Or your heavenly reward. You get the idea. But then I think, "But, Amy, you hate volunteering. In fact, you really dislike sticking your neck out around people you have a modicum of respect for like Kool and the Gang, for example." The good-people points part of me piped in with, "But maybe this is God's way of saying you NEED to do this. You need to share your giftedness with Kool and the Gang and with CPV. They will appreciate you stepping in when they asked for your help." Humph, OK.
So I toodle off to CPV like it's the first day of school and sit down at the table with other, like-minded good-people-point humans and wait for all those good-people points to flow in. Well, reader, it was a $%&# storm of epic proportions. Month after month (and so far it's been 28 of em), Kool and the Gang shaded facts, misled, and generally treated me like something they found on the bottom of their shoe after visiting a public restroom in a prison. One member of the Gang will have no conversation with me without telling me how much he cannot get along with me. Seriously. It goes like this: "Listen, Amy, I know we don't get along and I think you know I cannot work with you. But I love you, man." I usually meet these pronouncements with silence. What do you say to someone who says I hate you, but I probably need to say that I love you or I won't get any good-people points? They were mean. They were dismissive. They turned their backs or doodled on their phones while I talked. They acted like they didn't see me in the halls of CPV. They were rude. But were they right? Was I doing the wrong thing telling them what they didn't want to hear? Was my straining for information too strident? Should I hold my tongue, bobble my head in a "yes" motion when they speak, and go along to get along? I think I should have.
See, my giftedness is seeing through the bull crap and getting to a nice, neat answer. But to do that, I need all the unvarnished facts in all their goopy, stinky glory. I don't judge the facts -- I only gotta know them to get to the solution. Unfortunately, my mining for facts made Kool and the Gang think I was attacking them and waiting for them to fail. I unfortunately could never get them to understand that I was like Jack Nicholson in "A Few Good Men": You want me on that wall; you need me on that wall. I want to protect. I want to immunize. I want to wrap up Kool and the Gang and CPV in bubble wrap and make sure nothing bad happens to them. Ever. They didn't know that the bubble wrap comes with a price. You gotta show me the warts. I wish I could have somehow conveyed to them that I know showing me the warts hurts but that my deep love for them means I can see the warts and love them even more. Bubble wrap is my giftedness. But obviously, telling them about the bubble wrap is not.
It all came to a head today when I was told that my current volunteering role will most likely be my last at CPV. It wasn't said directly. And it was said to a group of, I assume, similarly non-cool volunteers at CPV. And it's OK. Did it hurt? You bet. Did I rage against the machine? To be sure. But they are right. I am not cut out for this. I should have listened to the Grumpy dwarf inside and not volunteered to begin with. Even though Kool and the Gang CONSTANTLY talk about how to solve the case of the vanishing volunteer.
So, Kool and the Gang have prevailed. They were right in so many ways. I am not a good volunteer. I do not play well with others. I cannot go along to get along. I have no idea what I am gifted to do at CPV but it obviously is not what I have been doing. Maybe I need a new CPV. Maybe I need to be a pure consumer at CPV and let others do the heavy lifting. This doesn't feel right to me. But volunteering didn't feel right to me, and that was the correct solution. Don't do it. I won't ever get those years back of letting them make me feel less than. Less smart. Less good. Less valuable. Less valued. But I can step away when they ask me to in their kind, passive-aggressive, oh-so-quiet way. I can step back, let go, and not worry that they have no bubble wrap. In fact, I see lots of bumps coming that my bubble wrap would have prevented. But I can't impose on Kool and the Gang any longer. I'm sure God will send another good-people-points person to them who is more gifted than I to tell them what they need to hear. Good luck to you.
Now, really, I am not looking for atta girls. I don't need to be lifted up. I think me listening to Kool and the Gang and getting out of their milieu will help tremendously. I have 8 more months to serve at CPV and I will try my hardest to keep it eyes down and head nodding. It's hard for me, though. I'm not good at much except for passing out bubble wrap. I need to understand that Kool and the Gang and perhaps CPV don't care for my bubble wrap or me. And that's OK. What bothers me is that the number of people who think I'm one of the cool kids is getting smaller by the second. And I'm afraid it was never as many as I thought. And now I have no idea how to get good-people points. Hopefully, this post will help at least one person to feel not so alone when someone yucks their yum. And that can be my good-people point.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Long time, no nothing
It's been a long time since I last made any kind of entry here and my FB presence has been spotty at best. I still love you blog and FB peeps, it's just been a [insert adjective for crappy here] year. That's right, no breathless updates about my overachieving, award winning children or my perfection-on-a-cracker hubs. Each month has unfolded with its own exquisite torture that makes me feel hopeless and petty all at the same time.
It all started with a Bible study. Doesn't it always? I'm not even going to tell you the name of this study because, frankly, I'm still not sure if this is something I would wish on anyone I know or ever may know in the future. Suffice it to say that this study really pounds away on the reader and points out the sinfulness of acquisition, greed, gorging on stuff. Well, I looked around and thought, "Yuck." My closets, my garage, my unused game room, my unused small kitchen upstairs, my entry that was oodles of square feet of height and nothingness. Frankly, it made me sick. The hubs and I had been talking about downsizing for a while. Our 5,000+ square foot house was becoming an albatross. Financially, time wise, and it was becoming a sort of idol for me. Let me be clear --- I adored that house. If I could have taken it with me everywhere I went, I would have. It was my sun and my moon. It was my happy place. I could walk through the doors of my McMansion and just feel the happiness with a Grinch-y smile spreading to every part of my body and soul. Dangerous territory, my friend. So, I finished this Bible study and marched home and announced to the hubs that I was ready to lay down my idol, downsize, and begin living my life and stop living for my house. The hubs had been gently pushing for this for a while because he could see the day when my beloved house, which was too big for the four of us, would be just the two of us rattling around. And I think he knew how I was inappropriately attached to a thing. He could see the writing on the wall. He's smarter than me. He doesn't need a Bible study to feel what God is telling him. Me, I need a banner . . . with a loud speaker . . . and a parade . . . with a personally addressed invitation to said parade. You get it -- I'm fairly deaf.
Anywho, the hubs and I got the house ready and put it on the market Memorial Day weekend of 2014. The Friday of that weekend, the hubs and I went with our realtor and looked at some houses just to see what was on the market. Once again, the hubs was smart. He knew it would be harder for me to let go without some idea of what was waiting for me. The entire day I kept saying to the hubs, "What if it doesn't sell? What if I went through all of this and God makes me wait and I have to sit in what I love day after day, knowing that I have to leave?" The hubs just patted my back and said, "You wouldn't be you if you didn't throw a little worry at every issue." Humph. I found the cutest house that day. It was 3,400 square feet, still a significant down size, but it had a view of the lake and en suite bathrooms for the girls. If you have teenage girls, you know what a huge feature this is. But even that made me sad because I knew it wouldn't be there by the time we finally sold my dear house. You can probably guess that my dear McMansion sold in 36 hours on the market to the first buyer that looked at it. For our full asking price. It was scary but dang if that wasn't God saying, "You're doing the right thing. And I'm making it easy for you."
So was put an offer in on the house on the lake. There was some back and forth gamesmanship, which I hated, that resulted in a pretty big price reduction, which I loved. The hubs and I were able to basically pay cash for the new house. What a feeling to go from our McMansion mortgage to a teeny little mortgage that is about the same as a car payment. We were feeling on top of the world and on the right path. I had hired a decorator who put us in contact with a contractor. I'll call him Mr. No Hello. See the lake house, while well laid out, needed a little TLC and after the price reduction, we were ready to make her nice and pretty. Mr. No Hello as you can guess by his name was less than friendly. He was fine with the hubs but I could walk in and say "hello" directly to his face and get nothing. Not even one of those chin-up head bobs that dudes do to each other. But I didn't care. The hubs had shared our story with Mr. No Hello and had told him that we believed he was part of God's plan for us. He responded that he had started his business in faith and really listened to where God was leading. What suckers we were.
At this point, we were living in one Holiday Inn after another. We had moved out of the McMansion in late June and were waiting for Mr. No Hello to get our lake house habitable. It drug on and on. In early August, I was getting restless and wondered why the floors were not even started yet. It was still a concrete slab after they had removed the tile and carpet the first week we got the keys in mid-June. Mr. No Hello was pretty grumpy about the floors we wanted to have laid (a vinyl plank that looks like wood) and kept pushing us to put in tile. We told him it was no problem, we'd just have the place where we discovered the flooring product install the floors. He said that we either used his guy or he would walk off the job. Yikes! We were stranded in a Holiday Inn and we didn't have any options. He had us right where he wanted us. So we caved. We bought the product from the place he insisted on so he could (I presume) get a little kick back and we used his guy. Long story short: it's awful and we have hired a lawyer to get him to either come fix it or give us our money back. That's right, he won't even come and fix it. Granted, any "fix" would be a complete removal of everything they laid and laying something else down. Mr. No Hello won't budge. His response is always "tough $%^#@!"
So now I'm in a house with warped floors that have missing planks and we have only unpacked the kitchen, bathrooms, and bedrooms. That's right. We're still in 75% moving boxes after a year. It's awful. It's messy. It's gross. And it's embarrassing. Even my lawyer asked me if I ever thought Mr. No Hello was a bad contractor. Of course I did! But when you're living in a Holiday Inn and you've been wearing the same five outfits to work for six weeks, you start to not care that Mr. No Hello is a douche bag of epic proportions. You just want to get in your house.
All this has made me question why God made be feel so convicted about moving. Why was it so easy to sell my McMansion and find a horrible money pit? Why was it so easy to find a decorator who just happened to have a contractor who had a miraculous gap in his schedule for July? Why take me to a house where I can't see my kids because there's no family space for us to be in? Why does it now feel like I did the exact wrong thing? Did I totally read this wrong? Did I once again zig when God was telling me to zag? Why in the heck does God keep whispering when I need a good shout with a shove? Doesn't he know I one of his . . . well, let's just call it "less smart" creations?
One year later, I have no answers. I am more sad, more hopeless, more directionless, and more pissed than I have ever been before. The last years I will have my daughters living with me have been marred by this. I hate that. And I hate Mr. No Hello for doing that to us. He took away Thanksgiving and Christmas in my new home. He took away all our family time. How can he walk away fully paid and I am stuck in this hell hole? I finally understand when the Bible says "gnashing their teeth." That's exactly what I do when I think of Mr. No Hello and every time I enter my house.
So, my peeps, that's why I have been MIA in sharing anything about me, the hubs, Moo, and Gibby. We are wounded. And I am dealing with committees and other groups that seem to want me anywhere but around them. For example, I counseled one of my committees about the legal aspect of a decision and one member came back at me later with: "You know, I googled that and here's what it said." ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I don't know a lot about many things, but I can assure you that 23 years of being a lawyer has taught me a few things that maybe, just maybe, means a little more than Google. I mean, does Google give two craps what happens to you, Mr. I Googled That? Nope. But for some dumb reason, I still do. Granted, I am a tad on edge these days, but it would be nice if just once I felt my presence was not just required, but welcomed. Is that too much? Being welcomed at least one place on earth. Because it ain't my house any more that's welcoming. But my sweet family welcomes me, and that is usually enough.
In closing, don't give up on me. I'll be back. Maybe tomorrow or maybe in 10 months. Hopefully, I will finally rank my top most quotable movies.
It all started with a Bible study. Doesn't it always? I'm not even going to tell you the name of this study because, frankly, I'm still not sure if this is something I would wish on anyone I know or ever may know in the future. Suffice it to say that this study really pounds away on the reader and points out the sinfulness of acquisition, greed, gorging on stuff. Well, I looked around and thought, "Yuck." My closets, my garage, my unused game room, my unused small kitchen upstairs, my entry that was oodles of square feet of height and nothingness. Frankly, it made me sick. The hubs and I had been talking about downsizing for a while. Our 5,000+ square foot house was becoming an albatross. Financially, time wise, and it was becoming a sort of idol for me. Let me be clear --- I adored that house. If I could have taken it with me everywhere I went, I would have. It was my sun and my moon. It was my happy place. I could walk through the doors of my McMansion and just feel the happiness with a Grinch-y smile spreading to every part of my body and soul. Dangerous territory, my friend. So, I finished this Bible study and marched home and announced to the hubs that I was ready to lay down my idol, downsize, and begin living my life and stop living for my house. The hubs had been gently pushing for this for a while because he could see the day when my beloved house, which was too big for the four of us, would be just the two of us rattling around. And I think he knew how I was inappropriately attached to a thing. He could see the writing on the wall. He's smarter than me. He doesn't need a Bible study to feel what God is telling him. Me, I need a banner . . . with a loud speaker . . . and a parade . . . with a personally addressed invitation to said parade. You get it -- I'm fairly deaf.
Anywho, the hubs and I got the house ready and put it on the market Memorial Day weekend of 2014. The Friday of that weekend, the hubs and I went with our realtor and looked at some houses just to see what was on the market. Once again, the hubs was smart. He knew it would be harder for me to let go without some idea of what was waiting for me. The entire day I kept saying to the hubs, "What if it doesn't sell? What if I went through all of this and God makes me wait and I have to sit in what I love day after day, knowing that I have to leave?" The hubs just patted my back and said, "You wouldn't be you if you didn't throw a little worry at every issue." Humph. I found the cutest house that day. It was 3,400 square feet, still a significant down size, but it had a view of the lake and en suite bathrooms for the girls. If you have teenage girls, you know what a huge feature this is. But even that made me sad because I knew it wouldn't be there by the time we finally sold my dear house. You can probably guess that my dear McMansion sold in 36 hours on the market to the first buyer that looked at it. For our full asking price. It was scary but dang if that wasn't God saying, "You're doing the right thing. And I'm making it easy for you."
So was put an offer in on the house on the lake. There was some back and forth gamesmanship, which I hated, that resulted in a pretty big price reduction, which I loved. The hubs and I were able to basically pay cash for the new house. What a feeling to go from our McMansion mortgage to a teeny little mortgage that is about the same as a car payment. We were feeling on top of the world and on the right path. I had hired a decorator who put us in contact with a contractor. I'll call him Mr. No Hello. See the lake house, while well laid out, needed a little TLC and after the price reduction, we were ready to make her nice and pretty. Mr. No Hello as you can guess by his name was less than friendly. He was fine with the hubs but I could walk in and say "hello" directly to his face and get nothing. Not even one of those chin-up head bobs that dudes do to each other. But I didn't care. The hubs had shared our story with Mr. No Hello and had told him that we believed he was part of God's plan for us. He responded that he had started his business in faith and really listened to where God was leading. What suckers we were.
At this point, we were living in one Holiday Inn after another. We had moved out of the McMansion in late June and were waiting for Mr. No Hello to get our lake house habitable. It drug on and on. In early August, I was getting restless and wondered why the floors were not even started yet. It was still a concrete slab after they had removed the tile and carpet the first week we got the keys in mid-June. Mr. No Hello was pretty grumpy about the floors we wanted to have laid (a vinyl plank that looks like wood) and kept pushing us to put in tile. We told him it was no problem, we'd just have the place where we discovered the flooring product install the floors. He said that we either used his guy or he would walk off the job. Yikes! We were stranded in a Holiday Inn and we didn't have any options. He had us right where he wanted us. So we caved. We bought the product from the place he insisted on so he could (I presume) get a little kick back and we used his guy. Long story short: it's awful and we have hired a lawyer to get him to either come fix it or give us our money back. That's right, he won't even come and fix it. Granted, any "fix" would be a complete removal of everything they laid and laying something else down. Mr. No Hello won't budge. His response is always "tough $%^#@!"
So now I'm in a house with warped floors that have missing planks and we have only unpacked the kitchen, bathrooms, and bedrooms. That's right. We're still in 75% moving boxes after a year. It's awful. It's messy. It's gross. And it's embarrassing. Even my lawyer asked me if I ever thought Mr. No Hello was a bad contractor. Of course I did! But when you're living in a Holiday Inn and you've been wearing the same five outfits to work for six weeks, you start to not care that Mr. No Hello is a douche bag of epic proportions. You just want to get in your house.
All this has made me question why God made be feel so convicted about moving. Why was it so easy to sell my McMansion and find a horrible money pit? Why was it so easy to find a decorator who just happened to have a contractor who had a miraculous gap in his schedule for July? Why take me to a house where I can't see my kids because there's no family space for us to be in? Why does it now feel like I did the exact wrong thing? Did I totally read this wrong? Did I once again zig when God was telling me to zag? Why in the heck does God keep whispering when I need a good shout with a shove? Doesn't he know I one of his . . . well, let's just call it "less smart" creations?
One year later, I have no answers. I am more sad, more hopeless, more directionless, and more pissed than I have ever been before. The last years I will have my daughters living with me have been marred by this. I hate that. And I hate Mr. No Hello for doing that to us. He took away Thanksgiving and Christmas in my new home. He took away all our family time. How can he walk away fully paid and I am stuck in this hell hole? I finally understand when the Bible says "gnashing their teeth." That's exactly what I do when I think of Mr. No Hello and every time I enter my house.
So, my peeps, that's why I have been MIA in sharing anything about me, the hubs, Moo, and Gibby. We are wounded. And I am dealing with committees and other groups that seem to want me anywhere but around them. For example, I counseled one of my committees about the legal aspect of a decision and one member came back at me later with: "You know, I googled that and here's what it said." ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I don't know a lot about many things, but I can assure you that 23 years of being a lawyer has taught me a few things that maybe, just maybe, means a little more than Google. I mean, does Google give two craps what happens to you, Mr. I Googled That? Nope. But for some dumb reason, I still do. Granted, I am a tad on edge these days, but it would be nice if just once I felt my presence was not just required, but welcomed. Is that too much? Being welcomed at least one place on earth. Because it ain't my house any more that's welcoming. But my sweet family welcomes me, and that is usually enough.
In closing, don't give up on me. I'll be back. Maybe tomorrow or maybe in 10 months. Hopefully, I will finally rank my top most quotable movies.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Pre-Christmas Blues
I know, I know. This title does not exactly scream: "READ ME. YOU'LL LOVE ME!" I just wanted to write a few things down before I forget.
As some of you already know, yesterday was a banner day for the Hennessee clan. Recently, I have been having either pre-Christmas blues or some sort of faith crisis. Recent events have pulled me away from the body of Christ and made me question my service for the Lord. Am I doing what He wants? Am I going about my service in the wrong way? Does God want me to quit because I'm doing more harm than good? Didn't know if it was Satan's work in my life or God sending me a direct message, but I decided to pull away from Sunday services for a few weeks and see what happened. Answer: nothing and I became more conflicted about my walk with God. I seriously considered quitting everything to do with the body of Christ to keep from messing up or being a bad influence on others' personal walks.
Cut to Saturday night. We had a long day of watching Gib (the 9 yr old) play in a volleyball tournament. By the time the tournament was over, we only had time to eat some dinner, relax for an hour, and then hit the hay. As I lay in bed, I vowed to put on my big girl panties and insert myself back into the fold of God's people on Sunday morning.
I woke up excited to see what word God would speak to me. What would he tell me about my absence? What would I hear about our long expected Savior this Advent? How could I be a better servant? As we sat in the back of the church in the balcony, the service was all I could have hoped for. Gib and Moo (the 13 yr old) were not pestering each other (a rare event), and we sang some of my favorite Christmas hymns. The pastor preached an elegant and powerful sermon. As we sang the final song and the Hubs and Gib ducked out to get ready for Sunday School, I stood there with my arm around Moo and thought, "Yes, this is Christ's body. I am home." As we turned to leave after the final prayer, a man approached and said, "Excuse me, I don't mean to cause any problems, but your daughter was playing a game on her iPhone during the sermon. It was very distracting and we were all talking about it behind you. It was distracting for the whole section behind you. That is why I always tell my daughter to turn off her phone during church." I stood there like an idiot, smiled, nodded, and simply said "OK" to each poisoned word that fell from his mouth. As this man called me a bad parent, Moo was standing there watching the whole thing. When he finally ran out of steam, I said, "Thanks for telling me." Wow! Am I the queen of all comebacks or what? I might as well have said, "Thank you, sir. May I have another?" A woman who had walked up to me with Mr. Perfect Parent gained some courage from my sappy response and said, "Yes, it was very distracting and should stop." All I could do was put my arm around Moo and take her to her Sunday School class while I staggered off to mine.
Anyway, I am now flummoxed about what God is trying to say. Am I supposed to change service times (which would mean no longer ministering to newly married couples)? Am I supposed to not bring my daughters to the church service any more? Does God need me to step even further away than I have?
As I lay in bed last night, tears fell from my eyes. Some were grateful tears for friends who have spoken words of encouragement to me after hearing of this event. Some were bitter tears of hate for a man who could speak to me that way in front of my daughter. Some were tears of sadness that God could be telling me I am not an integral part of his body and I need to be "pruned" away. Pardon my French, but what the #$@#%& am I supposed to do with this? I finally fell into a fitful sleep around 11:30.
Midnight comes and with it Gib's sweet but pale face by my bed telling me she did not feel good. Long story short, my "distracting" angel and I spent the entire night (until 5:30 am) with Gib hanging over the toilet and me holding back her sweet blond hair. When she cried out, "Why won't it stop?" I wondered the same thing: why won't this all stop?
Now I am left with the shaky, adrenaline feeling you get after you have a near hit in your car. (Yes, I mean near hit and NOT near miss. A near miss is an actual wreck. Thank you, George Carlin). All I can do is pray that the glory and excitement of Advent will take over and that I will not again be an unwelcome distraction to others. Tall order for me.
OK, I vow to take time this Christmas and write a happy blog entry. I seem to recall I have never done my entry on the top 10 most quotable movies. Book it.
As some of you already know, yesterday was a banner day for the Hennessee clan. Recently, I have been having either pre-Christmas blues or some sort of faith crisis. Recent events have pulled me away from the body of Christ and made me question my service for the Lord. Am I doing what He wants? Am I going about my service in the wrong way? Does God want me to quit because I'm doing more harm than good? Didn't know if it was Satan's work in my life or God sending me a direct message, but I decided to pull away from Sunday services for a few weeks and see what happened. Answer: nothing and I became more conflicted about my walk with God. I seriously considered quitting everything to do with the body of Christ to keep from messing up or being a bad influence on others' personal walks.
Cut to Saturday night. We had a long day of watching Gib (the 9 yr old) play in a volleyball tournament. By the time the tournament was over, we only had time to eat some dinner, relax for an hour, and then hit the hay. As I lay in bed, I vowed to put on my big girl panties and insert myself back into the fold of God's people on Sunday morning.
I woke up excited to see what word God would speak to me. What would he tell me about my absence? What would I hear about our long expected Savior this Advent? How could I be a better servant? As we sat in the back of the church in the balcony, the service was all I could have hoped for. Gib and Moo (the 13 yr old) were not pestering each other (a rare event), and we sang some of my favorite Christmas hymns. The pastor preached an elegant and powerful sermon. As we sang the final song and the Hubs and Gib ducked out to get ready for Sunday School, I stood there with my arm around Moo and thought, "Yes, this is Christ's body. I am home." As we turned to leave after the final prayer, a man approached and said, "Excuse me, I don't mean to cause any problems, but your daughter was playing a game on her iPhone during the sermon. It was very distracting and we were all talking about it behind you. It was distracting for the whole section behind you. That is why I always tell my daughter to turn off her phone during church." I stood there like an idiot, smiled, nodded, and simply said "OK" to each poisoned word that fell from his mouth. As this man called me a bad parent, Moo was standing there watching the whole thing. When he finally ran out of steam, I said, "Thanks for telling me." Wow! Am I the queen of all comebacks or what? I might as well have said, "Thank you, sir. May I have another?" A woman who had walked up to me with Mr. Perfect Parent gained some courage from my sappy response and said, "Yes, it was very distracting and should stop." All I could do was put my arm around Moo and take her to her Sunday School class while I staggered off to mine.
Anyway, I am now flummoxed about what God is trying to say. Am I supposed to change service times (which would mean no longer ministering to newly married couples)? Am I supposed to not bring my daughters to the church service any more? Does God need me to step even further away than I have?
As I lay in bed last night, tears fell from my eyes. Some were grateful tears for friends who have spoken words of encouragement to me after hearing of this event. Some were bitter tears of hate for a man who could speak to me that way in front of my daughter. Some were tears of sadness that God could be telling me I am not an integral part of his body and I need to be "pruned" away. Pardon my French, but what the #$@#%& am I supposed to do with this? I finally fell into a fitful sleep around 11:30.
Midnight comes and with it Gib's sweet but pale face by my bed telling me she did not feel good. Long story short, my "distracting" angel and I spent the entire night (until 5:30 am) with Gib hanging over the toilet and me holding back her sweet blond hair. When she cried out, "Why won't it stop?" I wondered the same thing: why won't this all stop?
Now I am left with the shaky, adrenaline feeling you get after you have a near hit in your car. (Yes, I mean near hit and NOT near miss. A near miss is an actual wreck. Thank you, George Carlin). All I can do is pray that the glory and excitement of Advent will take over and that I will not again be an unwelcome distraction to others. Tall order for me.
OK, I vow to take time this Christmas and write a happy blog entry. I seem to recall I have never done my entry on the top 10 most quotable movies. Book it.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Cautionary Tale
As I'm sure you've heard by now, I was close to death two weeks ago. If you're like me, your 1st thought when you hear of this type of situation is: What happened to you and how can I prevent it from happening to me? I get it. The problem is there is absolutely nothing you can do to prevent my recent dance with death from becoming your future scare. Still, I always want to know details of others' health scares so my type-A self can hang on to the illusion of being prepared. To allow those who what to know to delve into the nitty gritty, I decided to blog about it. For those who don't want to know such deets, feel free to go about your day.
My nightmare started very innocently about five weeks ago. A slight upset stomach. Not nausea, just more of a burning, slightly crampy feeling. Because I hada big trial coming up and because an order I had drafted and been unusually proud of had been reversed by an appellate court, I chalked it up to stress. I did a few more Bible readings and deep breathing exercises and went about my business. My stomach refused to go about its business, however. It kept insisting that it needed attention with cramping pains. I finally broke down and saw my primary-care doctor on March 26. The dear man was puzzled with my symptoms: tenderness in my abdomen, no fever, no nausea, obvious pain. He ordered blood work and made an appointment for me to get a sonogram on March 28.
The night of March 26, I woke up in bad pain. Unlike my prior stomach pain, this pain would not ebb and flow. It was one long cramp. I took my temperature: almost 100. I found my insurance card and called the nurse help line on the back. After talking to me for about 5 minutes, the nurse said I had to get someone to drive me to the hospital ASAP. I woke dear hubs who drove me to All Saints. We got there about 2:30 a.m. All was quiet and empty. Good sign. They sent me for a CT scan, an ultrasound (upper and lower), a pelvic exam, and an internal sonogram. That's right ladies -- the dreaded dildo sonogram that I had piously explained to all that I had never had to have. CT scan came back negative for anything, ditto the ultrasounds. The tech who did my internal sono had trouble finding my right ovary, but it certainly wasn't for a lack of looking. He was so rough, I promptly threw up two bags of bile after it was over. The pelvic exam (done by the 14 yr old Doogie Howser ER doc) turned up "ulcerations" on my cervix, but nothing that would contribute to my current state. I suspected the techs "deft" maneuvers with the internal sono "wand" to be the cause of the ulcerations, but was still trying to be nice. I would have to follow up with my OB/GYN. Fantastic.
By this time, Hubs had to return home to get the girls to school. Once Hubs left, All Saints was ready to street me. They couldn't diagnose me and wanted me gone. The nurse who checked me out said without a fever there was nothing they could do for me. I told him I had 100 when I arrived. He said that didn't count as a fever. Oh. So they gave me 20 vicodin and kicked me to the waiting room for the Hubs to come get me.
That entire day (March 27) I kept getting worse with more vomiting. Did I mention I was not eating? So, the bags and bags of vomit were nothing but bile. Copious amounts of it. Steve drove me back to All Saints that afternoon where I sat crying and writhing in the waiting room for 2 hours before they got me back to triage. This time they admitted me to the hospital. I continued to not eat but throw up continuously.
The next day, they sent me for an endoscopy (tube down your throat to get a look at the stomach). The GI doc said they found nothing. She gave me a talk on cutting down on my stress. In other words, it was all in my head. I knew then that if I stayed there, they would let me die. This may be TMI, but they told me I had to have a BM before they would let me go. I hadn't eaten in two weeks, but they needed to see my pipes were working. I guess the bile wasn't enough of a clue that my pipes were definitely closed for business. I begged for a suppository, which they gave me. I sat in the bathroom all night of March 31 until I somehow got something to happen. I'm not being funny when I say that tiny BM was a gift from God. They cut me loose on April 1. By this time my stomach was so distended I looked about 7 months pregnant. The doctors told me it was the morphine they were giving me. As they were checking me out and giving me more vicodin, I was throwing up bile.
April 1 is a blur for me, but the Hubs was by my side all night. I think I spent most of it on the bathroom floor. The next day, April 2, he called my primary-care doctor and his nurse (dear Donna) told Steve to immediately take me to a different hospital because All Saints had written me off. A dear church friend came to stay with Moo and Gibby until my Mom could get to our house, and the Hubs drove me to Harris Methodist.
A minister from our church beat us to the ER and prayed with us. I cried because of his beautiful prayer for healing and bedcause I was afraid no one at Harris Methodist would believe me either. But they immediately took me back to a room where I met Dr. Trotter [insert angels singing here]. He crouched down to look me in the eyes (I could no longer sit up at this point) and asked me pointed questions. He immediately ordered another CT scan and a chest XRay and hurried off. By this time I was either throwing up or laying with my eyes closed. But any time I opened my eyes, Dr. Trotter was somewhere near looking at me. I could see the concern on his face. It was so dear to me to be believed. They quickly took me to get the CT and minutes later, Dr. Trotter came down and said, "You have a blockage and I have paged a surgeon." Someone said something about putting me under observation, but Dr. Trotter said, "No. She's going up to the OR as soon as the surgeon gets here."
Apparently, Dr. Trotter had paged Dr. Shabout. I did not know it at the time, but Dr. Shabout is apparently some sort of surgical rock star. My entire hospital stay, all the nurses were amazed that I had been so lucky to get Dr. Shabout to do my surgery in the middle of the night. I firmly believe Dr. Trotter demanded Dr. Shabout for me. He's just that kind of guy.
Dr. Shabout appeared and told me they had to remove the blockage in my small intestine by cutting out the blocked part and reattaching the pieces. Oh, also there was a worrisome spot on my liver that they would biopsy while they were in there. And bonus: if the blockage is too close to the large intestine, they would have to give me a colostomy bag. I began to cry, and they ushered the Hubs out. I don't remember getting to the OR except I grabbed the gas mask before they put it over my mouth and cried out, "I'm so scared. Help me."
The surgery lasted 5 hours. Poor Hubs sat alone through it all. I don't know how he did that. My first words coming out of surgery were whether I had a colostomy bag. I didn't. Hubs said I asked him that about 4 times. They had to take out two sections of my small intestine and they drained almost 4 liters of bile and backed up stuff from my intestines. One small-intestine section Dr. Shabout removed was completely blocked and contained a tumour. The other section had a small genetic "flap" that could cause a similar problem later. So now we had to wait for the biopsy results on the liver and the small intestine tumour.
On April 3 the day after surgery, I began to spike a fever. It was 102, so I guess it counted. One of my lungs collapsed. Dr. Shabout was afriad he would have to go back in, but he decided to try a million antibiotics first. They worked, so no 2nd surgery. Biopsy results came back negative, so no cancer. Dr. Shabout told me my internal organs were beautiful and could be in a text book. Thanks? I couldn't eat or drink anything until April 6. That first sip of water was pure heaven. Later that day, I had my first food in almost three weeks: chicken broth and a popsicle. It was delicious.
Bad news came early the morning of Saturday April 7: Moo and Gibby had strep throat and my mother was sick and had to go home. Dear Hubs had to shoulder it all alone. I cried because I couldn't be with my sick babies. It was a low point. But I had a dear friend visit me that day. I won't ever forget her kindness on a day that I'm sure did not include time for a hospital visit. Moo and Gibby, as all children usually do, bounced back quickly once they got some medicine.
They cut me loose on Easter Sunday after the doctors were assured that my pipes were back on line and working. Before I could go, the doctor wanted me to eat a real meal and see what happened. The Hubs brought me a turkey sandwich from Panera. The texture of it nearly sent me into a swoon. So delicious. I immediately called the nurse and told him to unhook me from my horrible IV. That was a good feeling to not have that trailing me everywhere.
Now I'm on the long road to recovery. I can't drive until May and who knows when I'll be able to get back to the gym. Sadly, all my muscles are gone and I have no idea how much weight I have lost. I have to say, though, that my church family did more for me than they will ever know. Praying with me in the hospital and checking in on my family reallly showed me how beautiful the body of Christ is. My work family also showed me great mercy. My huge trial continues to loom and my other cases lurk, but my co-workers have taken over my docket and just want me to recover. They are kind people. I am blessed. I am alive.
My nightmare started very innocently about five weeks ago. A slight upset stomach. Not nausea, just more of a burning, slightly crampy feeling. Because I hada big trial coming up and because an order I had drafted and been unusually proud of had been reversed by an appellate court, I chalked it up to stress. I did a few more Bible readings and deep breathing exercises and went about my business. My stomach refused to go about its business, however. It kept insisting that it needed attention with cramping pains. I finally broke down and saw my primary-care doctor on March 26. The dear man was puzzled with my symptoms: tenderness in my abdomen, no fever, no nausea, obvious pain. He ordered blood work and made an appointment for me to get a sonogram on March 28.
The night of March 26, I woke up in bad pain. Unlike my prior stomach pain, this pain would not ebb and flow. It was one long cramp. I took my temperature: almost 100. I found my insurance card and called the nurse help line on the back. After talking to me for about 5 minutes, the nurse said I had to get someone to drive me to the hospital ASAP. I woke dear hubs who drove me to All Saints. We got there about 2:30 a.m. All was quiet and empty. Good sign. They sent me for a CT scan, an ultrasound (upper and lower), a pelvic exam, and an internal sonogram. That's right ladies -- the dreaded dildo sonogram that I had piously explained to all that I had never had to have. CT scan came back negative for anything, ditto the ultrasounds. The tech who did my internal sono had trouble finding my right ovary, but it certainly wasn't for a lack of looking. He was so rough, I promptly threw up two bags of bile after it was over. The pelvic exam (done by the 14 yr old Doogie Howser ER doc) turned up "ulcerations" on my cervix, but nothing that would contribute to my current state. I suspected the techs "deft" maneuvers with the internal sono "wand" to be the cause of the ulcerations, but was still trying to be nice. I would have to follow up with my OB/GYN. Fantastic.
By this time, Hubs had to return home to get the girls to school. Once Hubs left, All Saints was ready to street me. They couldn't diagnose me and wanted me gone. The nurse who checked me out said without a fever there was nothing they could do for me. I told him I had 100 when I arrived. He said that didn't count as a fever. Oh. So they gave me 20 vicodin and kicked me to the waiting room for the Hubs to come get me.
That entire day (March 27) I kept getting worse with more vomiting. Did I mention I was not eating? So, the bags and bags of vomit were nothing but bile. Copious amounts of it. Steve drove me back to All Saints that afternoon where I sat crying and writhing in the waiting room for 2 hours before they got me back to triage. This time they admitted me to the hospital. I continued to not eat but throw up continuously.
The next day, they sent me for an endoscopy (tube down your throat to get a look at the stomach). The GI doc said they found nothing. She gave me a talk on cutting down on my stress. In other words, it was all in my head. I knew then that if I stayed there, they would let me die. This may be TMI, but they told me I had to have a BM before they would let me go. I hadn't eaten in two weeks, but they needed to see my pipes were working. I guess the bile wasn't enough of a clue that my pipes were definitely closed for business. I begged for a suppository, which they gave me. I sat in the bathroom all night of March 31 until I somehow got something to happen. I'm not being funny when I say that tiny BM was a gift from God. They cut me loose on April 1. By this time my stomach was so distended I looked about 7 months pregnant. The doctors told me it was the morphine they were giving me. As they were checking me out and giving me more vicodin, I was throwing up bile.
April 1 is a blur for me, but the Hubs was by my side all night. I think I spent most of it on the bathroom floor. The next day, April 2, he called my primary-care doctor and his nurse (dear Donna) told Steve to immediately take me to a different hospital because All Saints had written me off. A dear church friend came to stay with Moo and Gibby until my Mom could get to our house, and the Hubs drove me to Harris Methodist.
A minister from our church beat us to the ER and prayed with us. I cried because of his beautiful prayer for healing and bedcause I was afraid no one at Harris Methodist would believe me either. But they immediately took me back to a room where I met Dr. Trotter [insert angels singing here]. He crouched down to look me in the eyes (I could no longer sit up at this point) and asked me pointed questions. He immediately ordered another CT scan and a chest XRay and hurried off. By this time I was either throwing up or laying with my eyes closed. But any time I opened my eyes, Dr. Trotter was somewhere near looking at me. I could see the concern on his face. It was so dear to me to be believed. They quickly took me to get the CT and minutes later, Dr. Trotter came down and said, "You have a blockage and I have paged a surgeon." Someone said something about putting me under observation, but Dr. Trotter said, "No. She's going up to the OR as soon as the surgeon gets here."
Apparently, Dr. Trotter had paged Dr. Shabout. I did not know it at the time, but Dr. Shabout is apparently some sort of surgical rock star. My entire hospital stay, all the nurses were amazed that I had been so lucky to get Dr. Shabout to do my surgery in the middle of the night. I firmly believe Dr. Trotter demanded Dr. Shabout for me. He's just that kind of guy.
Dr. Shabout appeared and told me they had to remove the blockage in my small intestine by cutting out the blocked part and reattaching the pieces. Oh, also there was a worrisome spot on my liver that they would biopsy while they were in there. And bonus: if the blockage is too close to the large intestine, they would have to give me a colostomy bag. I began to cry, and they ushered the Hubs out. I don't remember getting to the OR except I grabbed the gas mask before they put it over my mouth and cried out, "I'm so scared. Help me."
The surgery lasted 5 hours. Poor Hubs sat alone through it all. I don't know how he did that. My first words coming out of surgery were whether I had a colostomy bag. I didn't. Hubs said I asked him that about 4 times. They had to take out two sections of my small intestine and they drained almost 4 liters of bile and backed up stuff from my intestines. One small-intestine section Dr. Shabout removed was completely blocked and contained a tumour. The other section had a small genetic "flap" that could cause a similar problem later. So now we had to wait for the biopsy results on the liver and the small intestine tumour.
On April 3 the day after surgery, I began to spike a fever. It was 102, so I guess it counted. One of my lungs collapsed. Dr. Shabout was afriad he would have to go back in, but he decided to try a million antibiotics first. They worked, so no 2nd surgery. Biopsy results came back negative, so no cancer. Dr. Shabout told me my internal organs were beautiful and could be in a text book. Thanks? I couldn't eat or drink anything until April 6. That first sip of water was pure heaven. Later that day, I had my first food in almost three weeks: chicken broth and a popsicle. It was delicious.
Bad news came early the morning of Saturday April 7: Moo and Gibby had strep throat and my mother was sick and had to go home. Dear Hubs had to shoulder it all alone. I cried because I couldn't be with my sick babies. It was a low point. But I had a dear friend visit me that day. I won't ever forget her kindness on a day that I'm sure did not include time for a hospital visit. Moo and Gibby, as all children usually do, bounced back quickly once they got some medicine.
They cut me loose on Easter Sunday after the doctors were assured that my pipes were back on line and working. Before I could go, the doctor wanted me to eat a real meal and see what happened. The Hubs brought me a turkey sandwich from Panera. The texture of it nearly sent me into a swoon. So delicious. I immediately called the nurse and told him to unhook me from my horrible IV. That was a good feeling to not have that trailing me everywhere.
Now I'm on the long road to recovery. I can't drive until May and who knows when I'll be able to get back to the gym. Sadly, all my muscles are gone and I have no idea how much weight I have lost. I have to say, though, that my church family did more for me than they will ever know. Praying with me in the hospital and checking in on my family reallly showed me how beautiful the body of Christ is. My work family also showed me great mercy. My huge trial continues to loom and my other cases lurk, but my co-workers have taken over my docket and just want me to recover. They are kind people. I am blessed. I am alive.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Uncle Stevie
I miss Stephen King. He used to write a column for Entertainment Weekly about all things pop culture. He told me what to read, watch, and listen to. Now I have no idea what to do. The last few books I have read with Uncle Stevie's advise totally blew. So I thought I would copy Uncle Stevie and start doing occasional updates on what I think is cool and worth your time.
First up: my favorite songs. A few ground rules before I begin. I really don't want a debate about why some song should not be on my list. I would love to hear about what you think should be added. Important caveat -- I don't dig on country music. Also, these are songs that make me happy. Songs that make me sing out loud in the car. Songs that make me sing out loud when I'm at the gym listening to my iPod. You know, songs that take all your inhibitions away. For me, these songs have stood the test of time. For example, last year I was totally into California Gurls by Katy Perry. But after about 2,000 listenings, not so much. The songs on my list have stood up to millions of plays. So, here goes . . .
1. County Grammar by Nelly. I dare you to listen to this song and not think about your days of double dutch on the playground.
2. Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye. Best. Love. Song. Ever.
3. Free Fallin by Tom Petty or John Mayer. It's so good anyone can sing it.
4. American Girl by Tom Petty. TP always hits it out of the park, but this one just makes me wanna sayng at the top of my lungs. Plus, it makes me think of that creepy scene in Silence of the Lambs before the Senator's daughter is kidnapped. What's she doing? You guessed it -- singing at the top of her lungs in her car.
5. Mo Money Mo Problems by Notorious B.I.G. Awesome remix of Diana Ross's I'm Coming Up. Can't hear this without doing a shoulder dance. Plus, title is so true.
6. Raining in My Heart by Buddy Holly. Shout out to my cuz. First rock musician to use violins in his music. Never better than on this song.
7. Boogie Shoes by KC & the Sunshine Band. Disco gave us a lot of great tunes (e.g., Jive Talkin by the Bee Gees), but KC put a special kind of happy spin on his tunes.
8. Signed, Sealed, Delivered by Stevie Wonder. The true master of happy music. I agree with Chris Rock -- can't we give the brother a peek?!
9. Under Pressure by Queen/David Bowie. Before Vanilla Ice messed it up, this was a really great song.
10. In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel. Come on -- John Cusak holding up a boom box outside his girlfriend's window? Classic.
11. Say by John Mayer. Such good lyrics. Say what you need to say before it's too late. Word.
12. Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Tears for Fears. Such a great guitar intro. This song has stayed at the top of my playlist for 20 years. Staying power, baby.
13. Ain't That a Kick in the Head by Dean Martin. Perfect song for martinis. Just cool.
14. Wild Life by The Talking Heads. I can't hear this song and not want to dance. "I'm wearing fur pajamas"? Come on, that's genius.
15. Descender by The Black Crowes. One of their more mellow tunes, but perfectly executed.
16. Dreamgirl by The Dave Matthews Band. Wow. Talk about being into a girl. Good lyrics.
17. Pink by Aerosmith. "Pink is my favorite crayon" sung by Steven Tyler. Need I say more?
18. Man in the Mirror by Michael Jackson. Great message with MJ at his best.
19. Troublemaker by Weezer. One of my more recent entries, but I can't stop listening to it.
20. Go to the Mardi Gras by Professor Longhair. Because I love New Orleans, and no song says "NOLA" like this one.
Well, there are more, but that's probably enough for now. Make a playlist out of em and see if you don't work out 10 times harder. Let me know what you think.
First up: my favorite songs. A few ground rules before I begin. I really don't want a debate about why some song should not be on my list. I would love to hear about what you think should be added. Important caveat -- I don't dig on country music. Also, these are songs that make me happy. Songs that make me sing out loud in the car. Songs that make me sing out loud when I'm at the gym listening to my iPod. You know, songs that take all your inhibitions away. For me, these songs have stood the test of time. For example, last year I was totally into California Gurls by Katy Perry. But after about 2,000 listenings, not so much. The songs on my list have stood up to millions of plays. So, here goes . . .
1. County Grammar by Nelly. I dare you to listen to this song and not think about your days of double dutch on the playground.
2. Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye. Best. Love. Song. Ever.
3. Free Fallin by Tom Petty or John Mayer. It's so good anyone can sing it.
4. American Girl by Tom Petty. TP always hits it out of the park, but this one just makes me wanna sayng at the top of my lungs. Plus, it makes me think of that creepy scene in Silence of the Lambs before the Senator's daughter is kidnapped. What's she doing? You guessed it -- singing at the top of her lungs in her car.
5. Mo Money Mo Problems by Notorious B.I.G. Awesome remix of Diana Ross's I'm Coming Up. Can't hear this without doing a shoulder dance. Plus, title is so true.
6. Raining in My Heart by Buddy Holly. Shout out to my cuz. First rock musician to use violins in his music. Never better than on this song.
7. Boogie Shoes by KC & the Sunshine Band. Disco gave us a lot of great tunes (e.g., Jive Talkin by the Bee Gees), but KC put a special kind of happy spin on his tunes.
8. Signed, Sealed, Delivered by Stevie Wonder. The true master of happy music. I agree with Chris Rock -- can't we give the brother a peek?!
9. Under Pressure by Queen/David Bowie. Before Vanilla Ice messed it up, this was a really great song.
10. In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel. Come on -- John Cusak holding up a boom box outside his girlfriend's window? Classic.
11. Say by John Mayer. Such good lyrics. Say what you need to say before it's too late. Word.
12. Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Tears for Fears. Such a great guitar intro. This song has stayed at the top of my playlist for 20 years. Staying power, baby.
13. Ain't That a Kick in the Head by Dean Martin. Perfect song for martinis. Just cool.
14. Wild Life by The Talking Heads. I can't hear this song and not want to dance. "I'm wearing fur pajamas"? Come on, that's genius.
15. Descender by The Black Crowes. One of their more mellow tunes, but perfectly executed.
16. Dreamgirl by The Dave Matthews Band. Wow. Talk about being into a girl. Good lyrics.
17. Pink by Aerosmith. "Pink is my favorite crayon" sung by Steven Tyler. Need I say more?
18. Man in the Mirror by Michael Jackson. Great message with MJ at his best.
19. Troublemaker by Weezer. One of my more recent entries, but I can't stop listening to it.
20. Go to the Mardi Gras by Professor Longhair. Because I love New Orleans, and no song says "NOLA" like this one.
Well, there are more, but that's probably enough for now. Make a playlist out of em and see if you don't work out 10 times harder. Let me know what you think.
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