Super Short But Possibly Still "Too Much Information"

It's been eight days since I was opened up and had chunks of me removed.

I wanted to write a long account detailing various aspects of my surgery and recovery in hopes of helping others who may someday face the same fate, but frankly, I feel like crap so just a few lines of text feels like an accomplishment. Here's to hoping they make sense!

Oh, look! I managed to include a photo:

No, the above picture isn't me; it's Gillian Anderson in "Great Expectations", but hers is a fair representation of me right about now.

I'm convinced that the neighborhood children are going to start rumors about the creepy, hunched-up, disheveled lady who can be seen on dark, dreary nights stumbling up or down the staircase, the mere glance of whom can turn you into stone...

I hope no one has any expectations of me right about now, 'cause it ain't happenin'. Sorry, but pain, healing and a medication haze are making sure of that.

Anyway, the surgery itself  took over twice as long as the surgeon expected since the masses were FIVE times what he expected and he ended up removing THREE POUNDS of tumors and tissues from my poor little overwrought abdomen. THREE POUNDS!!!

Yeah, that was hard for me to believe, especially since I'd had an ultrasound done just a few weeks ago. I mean, fibroids can't grow by 500% in a little over a month, can they???

He explained it to me (and I'm sure it made sense to him), but what I think he said is that there were a bunch of previously undetected fibroids woven into the actual walls of my uterus which turned a run of the mill abdominal hysterectomy into something on par with the evacuation of a small nation like Luxembourg.

He gave me a photo per my request. It's rather shocking. I'm confident that for the rest of my life, purchasing three pounds of anything from the butcher will have a whole new meaning to me.

Okay, before I once again retire to the couch where I will watch an episode of Mythbusters (which I may or may not have already watched at some point in the past week. Who knows...) I must give a whole-hearted (though physically pathetic) shout-out to all the dear people who clearly love me.Thank you so much to everyone who has helped me and my family out. I'm so thankful for each and every one of you.

Now, time to rest...some more...

With Toes Tightly Curled

Last week I had the pleasure of enduring an endometrial biopsy. If you aren't familiar with that term, I'll simply tell you that it involves a speculum, a cervical dilation, sharp tools to cut off chunks of your living flesh and a complete lack of propriety and modesty. If you aren't familiar with any of those then consider yourself fortunate.

It actually wasn't as painful as I feared. Still, I was not able to relax. My feet were like arthritic claws propped up in the stirrups. I'll bet that doctor and nurse see a lot of curled toes.

Next week holds more fun with the removal of my uterus and its multiple tumors. Then the following six weeks are going to be spent recuperating from the whole ordeal. Yeah, my summer's pretty much shot. (Any suggestions on how to spend time lying in bed, toked up on pain-killers while your severed abdomen knits itself back together?)

Lots of hysterectomies aren't too big of a deal because they're performed laproscopically which involves a few little incisions in the abdomen. Unfortunately, this isn't an option for me due to the size of my fibroids. See?

 the artist's interpretation of her uterus 

Though the tumors are being represented by an orange, two pluots and a lemon in the above photo, their dimensions are similar to the real beasts as proven by the ultrasound I had.

You know how when an extremely overweight person needs to go to the hospital but they can't fit through their front door so a wall has to be busted out and heavy duty ramparts need to be constructed over which to convey said morbidly obese patient?

Well, just call my womb "Large Marge" and my doctor the wrecking crew.

Yeah, I'm basically having a c-section but without the cute little bundle of joy at the end. (Doc did say he'd take photos of his findings for me, though, since I asked.)

After the doctor described in detail what the surgery and recovery would be like, I asked if he really thought this was all necessary. I mean, yes, I'm having symptoms, but I'm not miserable and this solution is quite a big deal. He reminded me that the final decision was mine to make, but his educated opinion is that the fibroids will just continue to grow and cause more and worse problems.

*sigh*

So, let's look on the bright side, shall we? I have access to excellent medical care. That's something for which to be extremely grateful. Yep, my summer may be shot, but my autumn (and the next couple of decades, hopefully) will likely be free of sciatica, pressure on my bladder and a whole host of other unpleasantries.

Oh, let's not forget no more menstrual cycles! Yes! This Independence Day I declare myself independent from that annoyingly loyal ball and chain!

Happy Fourth of July, everyone.

The (Most Recent) Fruit of my Womb

My uterus has done some great things in its time.

After all, it played an indispensable role in the production of these two beauties:

(one of my all-time favorite pics of my kids)

Well, perhaps because it's dissatisfied with its negligible existence as of late, my womb has taken up a new hobby.

It's called: growing fibroids.

Apparently it has quite a knack for this new pastime as it has produced four of them, the largest of which is the size of this 8 cm orange:

That's huge!

To say I'm bursting with pride over my uterus's talent would be a grossly inaccurate statement. I am, however, bursting with something as I'm starting to look a wee bit pregnant.

I think I'll take a sharpie to one of these shirts...

 

 ...cross out "BABY" and write in "QUINTUPLET FIBROIDS", just to clarify.

I won't give details about my symptoms (although I probably lost the guy-readers at the second word of this post already), but let's just say I'm glad that something can be done to halt them.

What is that something, you may wonder...

A hysterectomy, most likely.

It's my understanding that if fibroids are removed, wily and determined uteri like mine have a tendency to start cultivating a new crop, sometimes even more bountiful than the first. 

No thanks.

That's alright. I'm done with my uterus. I'm pushing 40, which doesn't feel that old, but in baby-producing terms it's practically ancient. My womb is a relic, really.There's probably an inch-thick layer of dust enveloping the detested-in-utero-masses at this very moment.

So I'm wondering if my doc will let me take it home. My growth-filled uterus, that is. Maybe I could dry it out, fully intact and then hang it up in a tree as a pinata to festively celebrate my looming 40th birthday. Swing, batter!

Okay, sorry. That was possibly the most disgusting thing I've ever included in this blog o' mine which dates back to 2008, but at least I didn't post any photos of actual fibroids. The internet is rife with them (if you know where to look), and let me tell you: they are FOUL.

FOUL!

Therefore, I would like mine out, please, along with the dastardly womb that has nurtured and grown them for who knows how long within its dark, inner sanctum. 

Geez, an organ gets bored and this is what happens? I mean, I know it's been out of the spotlight since it evicted Delaney 15 years ago, but seriously, couldn't it do something more beneficial than sprout massive blobs of useless and cumbersome tissue?

Sneaky, unprincipled womb! What's next on your "Secret Garden" list? Cannabis???

Anyway, I've got a doctor's appointment tomorrow so hopefully I'll get some answers to all of my fibroidal queries...

My Lenten Epiphany

It's only in the past few years that I've become aware of Lent. Not having grown up in a religious household, I knew nothing of it as a child. Though I became a Christian at age 12, I have been involved in a denomination which never references the season, at least not that I can recall.

I enjoy hearing what people partaking in Lent decide to give up and why. However, though I've considered it many times, I've never taken part in it myself.

My reason?

Pride.

This is in no way a pronouncement on others who do observe Lent, but I've just known for myself that if I succeeded in the 40 days of abstinence from *fill in the blank* that I would feel... 

...quite proud of myself.

Um, who does that sound like?

Hmmmm...could it be... 

...Satan?

Where's the spiritual value in feeling like Lucifer right before he was cast out of God's presence?

Happily, today I had a Lenten epiphany that has given me a new and valuable perspective. It was spawned by the words of a pastor. He said something to the effect of: "It is good to exercise the 'say-no-to-self' muscle because sometimes it is very important to say no to yourself."

Hmmm...yeah. Lives are regularly ruined when people don't choose to say no to themselves.

Several times a week, I jog, but not because I enjoy it. In fact, I can honestly say (in a very whiny voice) that I don't enjoy it. Sure, there is a small sense of pride when I'm finished with the three miles of bad attitude, but that's not my motivation. Rather, I know it's important to exercise all the muscles involved in the somewhat distasteful process so that they continue to function well. I want to be healthy physically. So, too, do I want to be healthy spiritually.

Remember this guy?

He was the captain of the spaceship in the movie, WALL-E. He was piloting an entire city-sized-craft of people who thought they never had to say no to themselves.

Maybe it's a bit silly of me to reference a fictional work to prove a realistic point, but I thought the movie-makers did an excellent job of showing us in an amusing manner where people who have no sense of self-denial can end up: planet-less, weighing 500 pounds and having lost the ability to walk across a room.


I do believe that I could now observe the season of prohibition for a right reason (and not feel like the Father of Lies afterward).

Will I? And if so, in what manner will I deny myself?

I'll get back to you on that...

;)

Ruing the Day

A couple of years ago, I happened upon a very entertaining blog by a woman who lives somewhere out there in Cyberville. Her posts were witty and full of great photos which she had taken herself. It was good stuff. Additionally, I was impressed by her honesty and straightforwardness. I became a regular reader.


After a while, I began to wonder if she was sharing too much. What she had to say about other people often painted them in a bad light. Of course, I didn't know these people (though I saw what they looked like from her prodigious supply of pics), but lots of people who read her blog did know these people. Her life wasn't a sit-com or a drama where we could all watch and feel fine about our intense feelings for the different "characters". These were real people who didn't have an effective way of answering for themselves if they felt misrepresented.


Anyway, one day I was greatly saddened to read a post in which she referred to her teenage son as an ***hole and a ****head. Now, I don't for one instant doubt that those were the words that popped into her mind when he committed whatever nefarious act upset her so much and I'm not saying there's never a time for her to share that sentiment with a couple of close friends, but to declare it on her public blog?!?!

I am a huge believer in acknowledging reality. I find it vital to think about and discuss many issues even if they are uncomfortable or distasteful.

Not, however, in any situation nor in any manner.

There are times when the recognition of subjects is inappropriate. For example, if doing so will result in an unnecessary burden for the hearer, then what is the point? Also, we need to consider who ought to hear the things we say since it can be very destructive to involve others needlessly.

This notion greatly influences what I write about here. I realize that readers who don't know me well may come here and get the idea that I live a nearly perfect life without trial nor tribulation. That is not at all the perception that I want to give. However, due to the completely public nature of this blog (anyone with internet access can come here, though not many actually do!) I don't lay out all my issues for others to see.

Why?

It's primarily because most of my problems have to do with people and I don't deem it appropriate to fill your computer screen with my own one-sided dirt.

Take my children, for instance. They are wonderful and I love them more than life itself. However, my relationships with them are regularly upsetting. I'm not denying that reality by not including details of these trials here for you all to see. In fact, I often would like to type up some situation because I think it could be helpful to other parents to read about my experiences. Yet, I am very cautious in doing so.

The reason: I value my relationships with my kids and I don't want to jeopardize them. Whenever I include something about my kids (or my husband) here and I wonder if it will embarrass or offend them, I ask them to read it over before I hit the 'publish' button. I ask them, "Do you mind if I share this? Do you feel I represented you fairly?"

Then, according to their answer, I may or may not alter the post.

Again, the issue isn't: "Is what I'm sharing true?" but rather: "Is my sharing of this appropriate?"

Once my kids are grown and off enjoying their own adventures in parenting, I may very well write a book about our previous years together full of lots of amusing and/or distressing illustrations. Now, however, we are still in the midst of it and I don't deem it proper to do so.

Once you have declared something, you can't undeclare it. You can deny it. You can apologize for it. You can even claim temporary insanity...

...but it'll still be stuck in the minds of everyone who heard or read your original proclamation.

A few years back, someone I love very much appeared to be making (what I considered to be) a huge mistake. In my intense desire to keep "Pat" (do you like how I'm using a unisex name to help maintain this person's anonymity?) from making this beyond-a-minor-blunder, I decided to be honest...ferociously honest.

I explained what I saw as a likely outcome on the road Pat was treading. To add credence to the reasonableness of my opinion, I included references to some of Pat's past blunders and present foibles.

It was not a pleasant conversation. It was not a conversation that I wanted to have. I looked and sounded like a first class witch and I knew it.

The only reason why I was willing to say what I said was because I sincerely love Pat and thought that my ruthless onslaught of reality could save him/her from an even more intense heartache than what I was presently inflicting.

Well, my friends, I regret a lot about that situation. Sadly, I believe that I will until my dying day.

Yes, what I said to Pat was true and my intentions were excellent, but those aren't inherently good reasons for saying just anything.

Thank God it was a private conversation. Publicity would have exponentially compounded the problems resulting from my savage dose of honesty.

Now, with all this said, I acknowledge that there is most definitely a time and a place for us to go to war verbally in both private and public settings. We just need to make sure it's the correct time before doing so...

...or there will be regrets.

The Unintentional Liposuction Procedure

There is a spectrum of mortification on which all of our shameful experiences fall.

Some instances are embarrassing but you can laugh about them almost immediately (like when you're putting groceries away from your reusable market bags and you find a pair of underwear clinging to the inside of one as if it was desperately trying to survive the laundering process and thought itself safe there and you wonder if the box boy was blushing whilst bagging up your bread and mushrooms).

Other occurrences are so embarrassing that you internally (or even externally) shudder every time you recall them (which you try very hard not to do). In fact, the word "embarrassed" isn't adequate. Extremely "distressed" or even "emotionally damaged" are more apt.

And then there are the things right in the middle which are genuinely embarrassing and you really hope they never happen again, but you can sorta kinda laugh about them...eventually.

One of those latter experiences is that with which I shall now regale you.

A few years ago, I was on a team of women from my church fellowship who were going to Romania on an outreach. We were going to work with disadvantaged Roma (that's the PC term for "gypsy") children and put on a one day women's conference. In order to raise funds needed for said-trip, we offered to clean houses in exchange for a donation toward our cause.

Let's just say that on this team of house cleaners, I was not the MVP. Nor, at the end of the season, was I likely to be awarded the "most improved" trophy.

You see...I hate cleaning.

Don't misunderstand. I'm not a sick slob. My home is fairly tidy and devoid of clutter and any mess which is sticky, stinky, crunchy or slippery is cleaned up immediately. However, if the mess is of a dusty, linty or even somewhat grimy nature, it will probably be there for a while. Sometimes a long while.

And when I do clean, I have a sort of good enough attitude.

*swipe* *wipe* *primp* *fluff*       Uhhh...yeah, that's good enough.

So, as you can imagine, I was a bit nervous about cleaning houses in the name of Jesus, so to speak. Can't I just edit some term papers in the name of Jesus or even bake some homemade rolls? Those are endeavors I can excel in but cleaning?

It's not that I think I'm too good to clean. Rather, I know that I'm no good at cleaning. I don't try to do a crappy job--it just comes naturally.

Anyway, I warned the other ladies that I don't have a good cleaning eye and that if they saw something I should scrub a little harder or sweep a bit more thoroughly then they should feel free to tell me.

We arrived at one particular house and I was given the job of vacuuming for which I was very grateful because it's kind of hard to screw that up.

Or so I thought.

There I was, vacuuming away in one of the two living rooms, trying to suck every last misplaced particle off of the carpet when I felt the roaring appliance bump into the base of the coffee table.

Now this wasn't just any old dinged up wooden coffee table. By the looks of it, I think the homeowners purchased it at a garage sale in Vatican City. In fact, the pope himself may have propped his feet up on that very table.

You see, it was similar to these:























When the vacuum bumped into the coffee table's base, it wasn't just a wooden leg it hit. It was a cherubic leg and horror of horrors...

...there was a big chunk missing from the thigh!

Little flakes of white plaster littered the floor. My stomach lurched.

What should I do!?!?!

First, I sucked up all the little white bits of carnage, careful not to inflict more damage in this accidental case of liposuction.

Mental mayhem ensued:

I wasn't being careless or rough! How could I have busted that thing so easily? People shouldn't own furniture that can't withstand a little bump from a vacuum. What do I say? Do I say anything? I have to say something! But this is ridiculous! I wasn't being careless or rough! How could I have busted...

If I was already uneasy at the idea of doing a crummy cleaning job, I was now thoroughly distressed.

By the end of our cleaning time, I had determined to admit to what I had done, so I pulled one of my friends aside and confided in her. She practically held my hand as we approached the man who had hired us to clean his home.

Standing before him, I looked up into his face (he was very tall, his eyes at least an entire foot above mine so I felt like a naughty second grader confessing to the principal) and said:

"I'm so very sorry but I damaged your coffee table while vacuuming."

Well, that's what I intended to say. Unfortunately, I only got about four words in before I began to blubber like a baby, rendering my speech nearly unintelligable.



(I don't cry very often, buy when the urge strikes, it is nearly uncontainable. In books, you read about the hero or heroine expertly controlling their facial muscles and tear ducts in spite of their entire family just being dragged off by wolves or some equivalent trauma. Not me. I knock a chunk off a plaster thigh and fat tears start slipping down my trembling cheeks while my voice squeaks out in barely decipherable Morse code.)








 


 Somehow, the words "broke", "vacuum" and "table" must have been discernible.

The man looked down at me with such care and concern in his eyes that I lifted my arms and said,

"Hold me, Papa."

Okay, not really, but he was really cool about it as he calmly suggested that we go look at the damage.

All of my cleaning friends, the man and myself made our way into the living room where I shamefully pointed out the afflicted heavenly limb, my eyes still dripping.

"Oh, that?" he said, waving his hand. "You didn't do that. My daughter did that months ago."

What?!?!


I'm innocent?!?!?

It actually made sense. The missing piece was a good inch long gouge and there hadn't been any chunks on the floor, just the little flakes which I must have bumped loose.

Although the moment had turned to one of immense relief, I was still horribly embarrassed and additionally now felt rather stupid.

Since that day, I haven't seen that guy once and (although he was very kind and I do wish him well in life)...

...that's fine by me.

Random Memories: Circa 1990

The house I grew up in was long. My and my sister's bedrooms were at one end and my parents' room was at the other.

Once my sis and I became talkative teens, my parents had the bright idea to get us our own phone line so that they, too, could actually get some time on the phone.

After my sister went off to college, the phone was pretty much mine. (Yes, these dull details are relevant.)

One night at about 2 in the morning, the phone rang. I stumbled out of bed and grabbed the receiver.



I don't recall the first words that passed between myself and the person on the other end, but whatever they were, it was clear that it was a wrong number.

I just wanted to go back to sleep. He, however, was intrigued at his dialing mistake and decided it was time to make a new friend.

Okay, here's the really stupid part: I thought it would be rude to just hang up.

Yeah.

Duh.

So there I was, exhausted, sitting across the room from my nice warm bed (this is pre-cordless and cell phone days, friends), shooting the midnight breeze with some completely socially backward stranger.

I remember a few things from the conversation. He had an accent and I soon discovered that he was calling from New Zealand (or so he said), he claimed to be an excellent tennis player and at one point he referred to NZ mailmen as "posties" which I thought was funny.

Then he asked me a thought provoking, meaningful question.

"So...are you fat?"

Charming, no?

(What weirdo doesn't ponder the appearance of the sleepy teenage girl he has managed to keep on the phone for far too long?)

"No," I responded. "But presently my hair is a rat's nest and the smell of my breath could fell a rhino."

Okay, so I didn't actually say that. I have no idea what I did say 'cause what teenage girl doesn't think she is fat?

Finally, he tired of our conversation and we said goodbye.

Ahhh...back to bed.

However, a few nights later, he decided to while away a few more minutes by calling me again. Somehow, he didn't even have the decency to figure out when would be a convenient time for me. Again, it's 2 in the morning and my phone is ringing.

Grrr...

I will point out the completely obvious which is that I had the power to squelch this whole unchivalrous situation and yet I didn't. Again, I thought it would be rude to tell this asinine stranger who deemed it appropriate to call me in the middle of the night because he was bored and wanted to chat.

What was wrong with me?

That brings me to why I bother sharing this story at all--I want my daughter to be polite and sweet, characteristics which she naturally exhibits, but I only want her to be polite and sweet to good people who won't use those attributes against her.

There are people out there whose morality ranges from whatever's-convenient-to-me (like the aforementioned oaf of a Kiwi) to those whose sole desire is to commit horrific acts against others.

We need to teach our girls to protect themselves, but how do we do that without scaring the crap out of them?

My own folly wasn't the fault of my parents. I don't think they left out some vital element when teaching me about dealing with strangers. I just had an over-active-must-be-polite-at-all-costs mentality.

Actually, when I was a young kid, my parents were of the it's-important-to-let-your-kid-express-herself mindset. In other words, I was, at times, a brat. (Once, when I was about seven, I basically told one of our family friends that he was a loser because he smoked. Nice, huh? Poor guy probably wanted to express himself by throwing me over his knee and spanking my butt. Sorry, Leonard. We were both victimized by a pop-psychology theory from the 70s.)

Looking back, I don't think my drive to be super-sweet-in-all-situations began until I became a Christian at the age of 12. In my naivety, I interpreted Jesus's commandment to "love others as myself" to mean that I needed to behave unwisely and too trustingly.

Now I know that God doesn't want me to be stupid in hopes of "winning others into the kingdom". If that means I'll be misinterpreted occasionally, then so be it. God knows my intentions and His Spirit is the One who does the truly effective work in others anyway.

There's peace in that realization.

So what happened to my "friend" on the other side of the world?

Well, he called back a third time, but I wasn't home that night. I don't know if he let the phone ring and ring and ring or what, but somehow my dad woke up and answered my phone. As you can imagine, Dad went off on the heavily-accented guy who was asking to speak to his teenage daughter at dumb o'clock in the morning.


And that was that.

Since both of my random memories thus far have focused on my interactions with foreign men, I may as well complete the trilogy with the following tale--

A few months after my phone calls from that Place-East-of-the-Land-Down-Under, I had the pleasure of being a foreign exchange student to England.

One day, our group of about thirty went into London to take in the sights. At lunchtime, we made our way to Covent Garden to eat.


It is now that I must confess to yet another of my failings: my natural tendency to not pay attention to important information whilst others are imparting it to me. (Since this experience, actually hugely due to this experience, I have made huge strides in improving in this area.)

Therefore when the meet-up time and place were announced to the group, I was apparently not paying attention because when I turned around, I suddenly realized that I was all alone and had no idea where to find anyone in my group. (Remember, these were pre-cell phone days.)

Lost in London.

It was not as titillating as it may sound.

Trying not to panic, I attempted to look around the general area without getting too far away from the last spot at which I had been surrounded by familiar faces.

It was at this time that a man approached me. He introduced himself and informed me that he was from France.

(No, not an actual photo.)

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice thick with his accent.

"Yes," I lied, suddenly suspicious of everyone.

"You look sad. Are you sure you are alright?"

Sad? I look sad? I'm not sad! I'm freaked out 'cause I'm lost and scared of weird men like you!

"No, I'm fine."

He then invited me to join him and his friends who were sitting at a table on the sidewalk nearby.

I thanked him, but declined, just wanting to get away from him.

"Well, perhaps we can meet up later, then. Take in a show?"

It was time to get blunt with this creepy fellow, show him the error of his ways.

"Ummm...I'm only 16."

His eyes lit up. "Oh, then you are a woman, old enough to make decisions for yourself and...live life."

WHAT???

I think I literally snorted in my aggravated-amused-verging-on-panic disgust and walked away.

I may not have been the smartest lost girl in London but I wasn't a complete moron. I knew when some guy was behaving inappropriately toward me.

Unless, perhaps he did so over the phone...

To Buy or Not to Buy

My grandma used to tell the following story about her friend, Maude:

One day, as Maude was liberally applying lotion to her face, her 6 year old grandson was watching.

"What is that stuff, Grandma?" the little boy asked.

"It's anti-aging cream. It's supposed to keep me from getting wrinkles."

Upon hearing this, the boy's face took on an expression of pity and incredulity and he declared emphatically, "Grandma! It's NOT working!"

Poor Maude.


I don't believe in anti-wrinkle cream.

However...

...I use it everyday.

Isn't that lame? I'm one of the sheeple fueling the bonfire of superfluous marketing with my hard earned dollars.

Every time I find that there are only a couple of squirts left in my little tube of Oil of Ol' Lady, I ask myself, "Am I really going to spend another $18 on youthful wishes? Why don't I just flush the money and wish upon a star? It'll be just as effective. "

Well, until now, I have just gone out and purchased a new tube of fake-fountain-of-youth (aka "chump cream"), but this time, I decided to do a little experiment before I spend any money.

For the past couple of weeks, I've been applying the remnant of my ointment to the area around only my right eye. Around my left eye, I've just been slathering on some regular old face cream. You know, the cheap stuff.

Here you see the results:







Yeah, I know.

Dumb.

Sorry.

But seriously, what if I stop using anti-aging "serum" (they try to make it sound all scientific) and in a few years I look like this:



I suppose I could invest in a really good iron.

My Night of Blondness

Ever heard of a midlife crisis?

The above photo is not evidence of one. (Or if I am having one, it's not manifesting itself on my head.)

How about a Maltese Manhunt? Ever heard of one of those?

Our junior high church group recently had one. It involved me (and three other sponsors with whom the kids are familiar) disguising ourselves and then attempting to blend in with the other shoppers at a local mall. Teams of jr. highers combed the crowds looking for us. When they thought they had found one of us, the bravest soul of their group would approach and ask for a code phrase. (Mine was 'tea and crumpets'.) Once the secret phrase was obtained, they would text it to Kym (the gal in charge). The team to text her all four phrases first won the game...

...thus my donning of a wig, prop glasses and scrubs. (Thanks for the loans, Linda and Veronica.) Voila!


Upon seeing my newly disguised self, Jeff commented, "It's amazing how unattractive you can look."

Ummm...thanks?

I wish I had photos of my partners in disguise, but we couldn't afford the $900 fine for taking pictures in the mall. (Isn't that absurd? Especially since most people have cameras on their phones anyway and can discreetly snap photos all over the place.) Alas, my mere descriptions will have to suffice.

Erik--bleached his black hair until he was as blond as a black-haired individual can get.

Jason--wore a long black, super shiny wig and looked like a has-been rock star. (Sorry, Jay, but you know it's true.)

Phil--dressed up like a cowboy, complete with hat and drawn-on sideburns. Yeah, he didn't look suspicious at all. At one point, one of the shop keepers approached Phil and asked why he kept walking around and around in circles. Ummm...because I'm hiding from a bunch of jr. highers...


This whole venture really was a stretch for me. As I roamed the mall for about two hours, I kept thinking someone was going to point and ask, "You're wearing a wig, huh?" or just snatch it off my head and run, waving it in the air.

At one point, I purchased something with my credit card and the salesperson asked to see my ID.

Uh oh, I thought.

"Ummm...I'm wearing a wig right now," I confessed as I held my driver's license out to her.

She didn't bat an eye or even look up at me as she said, "Don't worry about it. I just need to make sure the names match."

Oh, okay. So much for safety in purchasing.

So do blonds have more fun?

Hmmm...

Well, my night of blondness was fun splashed onto a backdrop of paranoia and embarrassment, so I guess this experiment was inconclusive.

Let's see that one shot again:


So explain to me how Sidney Bristow made every disguise look soooo good? I try it once and end up looking like Nurse Ratched's plain jane hench woman!

I see no career in espionage in my future.

Short But Stupid

Last night I had a bad dream.

No, it was not technically a night terror.

In this dream, my garage was on fire!

Naturally, my first instinct was to call 9-1-1.

Unfortunately, every phone I grabbed...


...turned out to be...


...a calculator:


Sorry. It was just too dumb to keep to myself.

Surprising, Annoying, Yet Slightly Amusing

Remember this post ?

Well, a couple of nights ago, I woke up screaming again.

Jeff's the one I really feel sorry for. I mean, would you rather wake up screaming or wake up 'cause the person next to you is screaming? As soon as I'm truly awake, I realize that everything is okay, but as soon as Jeff wakes up, he thinks he needs to morph into the Hulk and defend the entire household.

His first words to me were a frantic, "Are you okay?" followed shortly afterward by a pleading, "You've got to stop doing this."

For better or worse, Babe. :)

This time I couldn't recall the dream I was having just prior to the vocalized horror that lasered out of my throat, but I was inspired to hop on the Net and research "night terrors".

At the first site I visited I read, "In a typical episode, you will sit up in bed and pierce the night with a 'blood-curdling' scream or shout."

Well, at least I now know what ails me, although I'm really surprised. I would think that only people under extreme stress or who have suffered severely traumatic experiences would experience this.

Really, does this look like the face of someone who would suffer from such a thing?


Acne? Obviously. Plantar Fasciitis? Sure. Occasional bouts of self-loathing? Why not? But something called "night terrors"? Now that's just weird...

The two screaming incidents have been by far the worst, but there have been multiple other occurrences. Too many to count, in fact. It all started about a year and a half ago.

I'll suddenly wake up from a dream (that isn't necessarily frightening, coincidentally) and think that a spider is dangling just inches from my face or that a person is standing by my bedside or some other startling variation of a similar scenario.

The crazy thing is that my eyes are wide open and I truly believe that I'm actually seeing something. On the less severe occasions, it takes me a couple of seconds to realize that it's just the nightstand or a shadow in the doorway and I calm immediately. At other times, I gasp in fright or even call out "Jesus!"

(One time when Jeff woke up, he was a little perturbed that I was calling out to Jesus when he was right there beside me. Ummm...let's see...Jesus is omnipotent, omnipresent God and you, darling? Yes, you're incredibly manly, but at 2:00 AM you're a (very studly), drooling, drowsy dude wearing nothing but a wedding ring and hair.)

The various websites I read made me thankful that I'm not suffering from a more severe case. Apparently, some people not only scream, but run around their house while doing so. (Wow. That would really suck. Jeff might accidentally clobber me in the unlit mayhem thinking that I'm the home invader.) In fact, the advice was given that the poor souls who sprint and scream keep their bedrooms clean to keep from tripping over things. Encouragement indeed.

There wasn't much advice given as to how to avoid having the terrors in the first place. They simply said to go see the doctor.

So I've decided to start keeping a sleep log, taking note of all the various factors that may be contributing, everything from what position I'm sleeping in to whether or not I ate too much sugar on the previous day. (Yes, I know. It'll make fascinating reading. I'll be sure to post it right here in it's entirety.) Hopefully it will help me establish what I can do to keep myself from "piercing the night with a blood curdling scream".

One website said that about 14% of children suffer from night terrors and most of them outgrow it in their teen years. It went on to say that only about 2% of adults experience them and it usually clears up by the time they're 65. Great news! Only 29 years to go!

The Horrific, Yet Minty Fresh, Phantasm

Okay, so last night I dreamt that we signed up for this service where someone would come into your room each night as you slept and leave a piece of candy or a quarter under your pillow so that when you awoke in the morning you'd have a little treat waiting for you. It was like the tooth fairy, but every night and no tooth required, just a credit card number. (Like I'd ever opt for such a thing.)

We were warned not to be startled if we ever woke up when the goody deliverer was in our room because, after all, it's just the "treat guy".

Well, in my dream, I awoke in the middle of the night to see this man (wearing a tie, no-less), bending over me, trying to stuff a mint under my pillow.

I screamed so loudly and shrilly that I woke myself up. (You know, to real reality). It wasn't a 'Hey, knock it off' kind of a scream. Jeff later described it as sounding as if I'd just found a dead child. :(

Poor Jeff was tripping out. "What's going on? Wake up! Are you okay?"

I mumbled something about a guy with a mint as all the dogs in the neighborhood barked frenetically outside our open window.

My first clear thought was, "Delaney probably thinks I'm being murdered!" so I jumped into my robe and ran down the hallway, calling, "Everything's okay, Honey!" I threw open her door and the hall's light fell across her face, revealing shuttered eyes and a lax mouth. Yeah, she was sawing some serious logs.

(Tobias is at camp this week, so I wasn't concerned about him.)

I went back to bed and laid there with my heart racing for about five minutes as I listened for the sirens of approaching cop cars. What would I say if questioned?

"No, Officer, there was no home invasion, I was just scared of the business-man-tooth-fairy-guy."

I never did find the mint...

This One'll Put You to Sleep

The following statement is yet more proof that I am no fun at all:

I LOVE to sleep.

I realize that sounds like an incredibly lame thing to say about one's self.

New Person: "Nice to meet you, Aimee. What do you do?"

Me: "Well, I occasionally cut my toenails. Oh, and I LOVE to sleep."

(Good thing I don't have aspirations to go 'speed dating'.)

Yet, I really do love to sleep. Perhaps it's because I often struggle with sleeping. (I've posted about my insomniatic ways before, so I sha'n't bore you all again with them.)

When I awaken from a deep and gloriously satisfying slumber, it's on the same level as when I've just finished a fabulously delicious meal. My sense of well being abuts on resplendence. (I really like it, okay?)

Sometimes when I'm lying in bed and I suddenly realize that my thoughts are becoming increasingly weird, I recognize that I'm on the verge of a dream. Mmmm...I happily smile and slip into a blessed lack of consciousness.

Recently, my sleep has become even more enjoyable. You see, someone gave me a ridiculously generous gift card to a place that I shall henceforth refer to as CostInc.

(My feelings about CostInc. are numerous enough to have their own post, but that would be rather dull reading--yes, even duller than what you are presently reading--so it will suffice to say that I love some of their products, their return policy and their cash back credit card, but I hate maneuvering those trailer-sized shopping carts in the midst of the over-excited masses who are all waiting for their eighth food sample. Oh, and I don't have a family of 10 to feed so those massive cans of corn and 108 ounce boxes of cereal are about as impractical and unnecessary to me as a 12 seater van would be.)

*ahem*

So, knowing that I had some cash to spend at CostInc., we went down there to see what caught my eye.

Behold...
there it was...
on an eye-level shelf...
in it's cardboard boxed glory...

...a memory foam mattress pad.

I've been looking for a mattress pad for our guest bed for a very long time, but they're so expensive.

Let me explain something about our guest bed: It used to be our bed, but several years ago, I grew tired of having to carefully arrange my various limbs upon the mattress to avoid the 'sprung-springs' with which the bed was riddled. Inspired, I said, "Hey Jeff, how about we get a new bed and move this one into the other room for our occasional guest(s)?"

Though he was shocked that I was actually suggesting we spend money on something, Jeff found the idea agreeable and we soon possessed a brand new mattress.

The guest bed has been used a number of times, but that is much to my chagrin since I can easily recall how uncomfortably one spends a night upon it. I don't want our guests to involuntarily grab their backs and groan every time they remember sleeping at our house. Thus, I've wanted to get a memory foam pad for years. But the expense kept it a dream and not a reality.

Then, there we were at CostInc. with money we had to spend and...

suddenly...
there it was...
the cure for all (or at least one) of my hospitality woes...
and it was only $138...
and it was three inches thick!

I heaved the cumbersome box off that shelf and lumbered over to where Jeff was waiting in line. (Did I mention how LONG the lines are at that place?)

Okay, here comes the part where you all realize how truly selfish and ridiculous I am: On the way home, as I pondered the absolute fabulocity of my latest purchase, I began to think. It occurred to me that the guest bed is only used a few times a year and that a mattress pad of that quality and luxuriance should be thoroughly appreciated on a more regular basis.

Therefore, when we got home, I unrolled the thing of beauty...

...across the top of my bed.

And there it has stayed for about two weeks now.

Regrets?

Nope.

Shame?

Maybe a little, but then I just lie down and it all drifts away on a velvety cloud of cushy malleableness.

Is it okay to describe a mattress as 'yummy'? I say, 'Yes!'

I'm telling you, if you've got $138 to upgrade your sleeping quarters, just drive down to you-know-where and buy one of these magnificently doughy rectangles. It's SO WORTH having to dig your club card out of your wallet and shoving past all of those food-samplers.

I must warn you that at first, every time Jeff rolled over, he'd gripe about the chemically smell the pad emitted, but the tupperware odor is gone now and the squishy wonderment remains. Also, deep pocket fitted sheets are an absolute must now because the mattress is three full inches higher.

(I've posted no pictures because the thought of a photo of my bed on the internet is slightly disturbing to me for some reason.)

I justify my recent actions by telling myself that when I expect guests, I can simply remove the mattress pad from my bed and put it on the guest bed.

I really think I'll be willing to... :)

Attention Mike M and Tamara J:

I'm not much of a cell phone user.

I mean, I have one, but it's not on very often. If you want to get a hold of me, dialing my cell number isn't likely to help you achieve your goal. You can leave a message, but I probably won't notice it until next Thursday or the following Sunday.

Additionally, my phone is an example of embarrassingly archaic technology. It's not a flip phone. It has no internet capabilities, nor a snazzy text keyboard. It doesn't even have a camera. *gasp*

It is utilitarian.

And that is all.

See?


(I heard your embarrassed, ill-concealed titter just now, but I forgive you.)

A number of times, Tobias has loudly decried it as a sham of coolness. (Oh, well. For decades, I've been anti-cool. I'm the gal who used to cut the Guess labels off of her stylish overalls back in high school, remember?)

Anyway, when I do notice that I have a message, I will listen to it.

Yesterday I had two messages. (I don't think that's ever happened before.)

One was for Mike M. (Full last name withheld to protect his identity.)

Mike, if you are reading this, you owe a lot of people a lot of money and they want it NOW. They are threatening legal action. Apparently, you had my cell phone number before I did...

...and didn't pay your phone bill.

Would you mind calling all these businesses you bilked and informing them about your change of phone number?

(Yeah...didn't think so.)

The second message was for Tamara J. Amazingly, her troubles are even worse than those of Mike M. Whoever was threatening legal action against her in the past is now making good on their threats.

Tamara, apparently you are now a defendant in a court case. (They gave the case number, but I declined to write it down.) The man said you had 48 hours to contact him on your own accord or a warrant would be issued for your arrest. He seemed to know where you work. Too bad he doesn't know your real phone number...

Is It Enough?

The other night I was feeling uneasy about how I'm living my life.

I've been here for 36 years now and although I have a good family life and a right relationship with God (which are the two most important things to me), I haven't really accomplished much else.

I haven't distinguished myself.

I'm just me.

Now this is not some feeble attempt on my part to get the comment section full of nice encouraging sentiments from you, my friends. I'm just being honest that I sometimes wonder if I'm doing everything that I should be doing. Am I being a good steward of all that God has granted me?

For example, am I, as a mom, investing in my kids as I should? Am I helping them develop their God given talents to honor Him? Am I teaching them the value of hard work? (I think I'm doing pretty poorly on that one.) Am I giving them the tools they need to lead a successful life? What risks should I let them take and what things should I protect them from?

Tobias will legally be an adult in less than three years and Delaney isn't far behind. I have so little time left being their full-time mom. Soon they will be responsible for themselves. Have I done what I should to prepare them for that?

Anyway, Jeff and I prayed about this a few nights ago, asking God for wisdom and guidance. In the morning, I sat down for my morning time of prayer and study and was greatly encouraged by the following verses:

"I live my life in this earthly body by trusting in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. I am not one of those who treats the grace of God as meaningless." Galatians 2:20b-21a

This reassured me because I know that while I live this earthly life I can and should trust in Christ because He loves me so perfectly and powerfully. Also, I know that I do greatly value His grace.

While I'm trusting in Him and valuing His grace then I can't help but live the way I ought to. No, my life won't be perfect and yes, I will sin and botch situations, but if I am trusting in Him and valuing His grace then that's pretty much all that He wants from me.

He'll bring things together in His time and through His ways.

Thank God I don't have to be my own god. :)

Behind the Door

So I opened my freezer's door to retrieve a bag of flash frozen chicken tenders and THIS is what greeted me on the other side:


Can you believe I'm posting this?

Here's a close up for the full effect:

Yes, I claim full responsibility for the chaos chillin' in my deep freeze. I'm strangely okay with it.

Feeling better about the state of your own freezer's contents?

That's what I'm here for...

...making other people feel better about themselves since 1974.

(A job well done, no?)

A Source of Shame No More

I've shared with you before the hideousness of my thumbnails:


No, the above is not the result of a mental disorder that inspires thumbnail mutilation, nor is it a prop that I picked up at the Witches' Corner at a Halloween shop. It is my actual thumbnail in it's natural state. (You only get to see Lefty 'cause Righty was busy helping to take the picture.)

Well, Lefty (and Righty) had an extreme makeover today, but they're the only two of my phalanges who were spoiled with such treatment. You see, about a year ago I had a manicure, my first and only one in my entire 35 years.

Did I love it? No. In fact, I never wanted to do it again.

I don't know if the guy (yes, guy) who did it was super rough or what, but my fingertips were throbbing later that night when I laid in bed. Also, my nails were so thick that I couldn't use them in the ways I was used to. Worst of all was when I'd try to scratch an itch. It was torture!

Therefore, I said never again.

However, along with the nasty ridges on my nails, I also have cracks that tear down into the nail bed. They snag on things and rip further. No matter how short I keep them, they continue to split. I've tried every product I could find that promised to strengthen and protect nails. Also, I swallow calcium pills religiously, but all to no avail.

So today, weary of my annoying and painful thumbs, I walked into a salon (not the one where the fingertip abuser works) and set myself down in a chair at the station of a lovely Asian woman. I explained that I only wanted acrylics on my thumbs and why. I kept my deformities out of sight in my lap until necessary.

When I finally did produce the offensive members, she looked at them for a long time.

"Oh, they are... they are..."

I could tell that she was running through her mental English Rolodex, looking for a euphemism for "repulsive".

She finally settled on "They are weird." which sort of surprised me, but I just laughed. I can take it. (I mean look at them.)

I guess I was expecting her to not be astonished at their appearance since she looks at different people's nails all day long. I asked her, "Have you ever seen any other nails like mine?"

"Ah...one other time, but...it because of...uh...injury."

Great. I guess this means I'm special.

Anyway, here's Lefty after her date with my new friend Kim:


And yes, Righty looks just as good.

8 becomes 4

My friend, Veronica, recently challenged me with the number 8, but I felt a bit overwhelmed at the prospect and have chosen to turn it into 4.

4 things I look forward to are:

1. VACATION! VACATION! VACATION! It's coming...
2. Getting our air conditioner fixed. (On Sunday, it was 89 degrees...at 5:45 in the morning!)
3. Having a new garage door installed (although I have no idea when we'll be able to afford one since overtime at Jeff's work is now virtually non-existent.)
4. The day that there will no longer be any kind of misunderstanding between people. We won't hurt each other any more and there will be neither confusion nor wondering.

4 things I did yesterday:

1. Finally made the coleslaw with the beginning-to-brown cabbage that I bought for that purpose about a week ago.

2, 3, and 4?

Okay, if you sit at the computer for more than five minutes and can't remember anything even slightly interesting from the previous day then it's time to move on...

4 things I wish I could do:

1. Handwrite beautifully instead of with the barely legible scrawl that my forever-cramped hand scribbles out.
2. Know how to be a bit more realistic on this blog of mine. Most of my posts are quite cheerful which isn't necessarily bad, but I know that life has some major difficulties that can't be ignored. However, I often don't feel like it's my place to post things that are going on in my life or in the lives of people around me because it might violate trust and confidence. So please know that my life is not some perfect bubble and that I'm simply careful about what I share in a forum as public as this.
3. Speak, understand and write German fluently. I must confess that it has been just about a year since ich lerne Deutsch and although I have put a lot of time and effort into this (what most would consider meaningless) task, I still can't go to Sowieso.com (a German online newspaper for kids) and truly get the meanings of the articles. Frustration...
4. Enjoy cleaning. My house would sure look differently.

4 shows I watch:

(Keep in mind that ours is a cable-free house, so what ever I watch has to be online or on a motel's TV.)

1. I Survived a Japanese Gameshow. We love this show! It is so ridiculous and culturally inspiring. From the Sayonara Mob to the lubricated sumo wrestlers to the bad English (which I'm sure if compared to my German is far superior), this show keeps my whole family laughing. The studio audience even bangs on various hand held musical instruments when returning from commercial breaks which greatly reminds me of my fourth year of life, marching around the preschool room in a cacophonous "parade". Be warned; there are occassional bad words (these are real people, after all) and every now and then you'll see someone in their underwear as they frantically change from one crazy costume to another. Confused? Go to abc.com and find it in the episodes section. Enjoy.
2. The Dog Whisperer. I've watched several episodes, but I fear I won't truly have control of Duncan until Cesar pays me a personal visit. Are you reading this, Cesar?
3. Wife Swap. Aside from the tastless name, this is actually a fascinating show. I can't believe how differently people live. There are so many variations of family life in America. Tobias wants our family to call and apply to be on the show, but I fear that either a) our family would prove to be rather dull viewing or b) we'd suddenly realize that our family is a lot weirder than we were ever aware. You know that those families think they are normal and admirable. Why else would you offer yourselves up for possible public humiliation on a national scale? Some nuts aren't locked up, Wife Swap proves it.
4. Wipeout. However, it's not the favorite that it was last season. You can only watch someone try to cross the punching wall so many times. What? They fell into the mud? Wasn't expecting that...

So, I'd love to read any of your 4s (or 8s of the truly interesting). There's plenty o'room in the comment section.