tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59961283900094666252024-02-22T04:34:58.626-06:00Strained ConsciousnessUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger414125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-11110143575699525142018-10-11T14:13:00.000-05:002018-11-01T14:40:46.046-05:00For the past 10 years, or so, my neurologists have treated my migraines with the front-line medications in the war on migraines: anti-depressants.<br />
<br />
About 2 years ago, my neurologist referred me to a psychiatrist to manage the anti-depressant prescriptions, because he knows more about them than she does. It's a common thing to do with patients who have intractable, daily migraines.<br />
<br />
My "shrink" put me through a few different regimens of medications, depending on the side-effects the drugs caused. Oh, that one causes me to have tremors, so I can no longer needlepoint?<br />
<br />
Next.<br />
<br />
Oh, this one is causing constipation, which happens to be a migraine trigger for me?<br />
<br />
Next.<br />
<br />
Oh, that one obliterates any interest you have in physical intimacy?<br />
<br />
Next.<br />
<br />
It's a process, and at times can be a very frustrating one.<br />
<br />
And then, back in January, the side effects became overwhelming.<br />
<br />
I was the most depressed I'd ever been in my life: I had no desire for intimacy, which caused feelings of guilt; I'd gained 30 pounds since my wedding and hated the way I looked; I felt like my presence on earth was really just a burden to everyone, but particularly to my husband, who had to deal with the brunt of my migraines and their effect on my moods.<br />
<br />
It was bad, folks.<br />
<br />
As a teenager, I sometimes self-harmed - cutting myself when I was particularly anxious or depressed, because the sight of the blood calmed me, somehow. It was a physical manifestation of what I was feeling. Following my cancer diagnosis, I stopped completely, and hadn't ever had the urge to do it again. Until January of 2018. Fortunately, a card from my niece on the refrigerator declaring "I love you SO SO MUCH!" caught my eye as I made for the knife block, and I turned around and went back to bed, skin intact.<br />
<br />
Whenever you see ads for anti-depressants on TV, there's always a disclaimer about how they can, in some patients, cause suicidal thoughts.<br />
<br />
Yeah, that disclaimer is aimed at me.<br />
<br />
My psychiatrist realized how depressed I was and took me off the drug I'd been taking, without success, for about 6 months, and he gave me another drug to try out. I had an allergic reaction to the new drug, and stopped taking it, meaning that I was 100% off anti-depressants when I went back to see him a month later.<br />
<br />
I was an entirely different person: happier, more cheerful in outlook, and able to take a step back from all of the horrible thoughts I'd been having and to realize that things aren't so awful, after all. In fact, they're pretty wonderful, despite the migraines.<br />
<br />
My migraines aren't as debilitating as they were while I was on anti-depressants. I still have them, but I'm still able to function to some degree, meaning I can usually still make a healthy dinner for my husband and me despite the migraine.<br />
<br />
I've also lost all the weight I gained since <i>meeting</i> my husband, which amounts to about 45 pounds. If I tried on my wedding dress, today, it would probably just fall off.<br />
<br />
The last drugs we tried before I quit taking any had weight gain as a side-effect, and without them in my system, I no longer have the urge to eat as many sweets, or to binge on snacks. I'd tried to lose the weight while I was still on anti-depressants, not realizing that it would be nigh on impossible.<br />
<br />
So now, we're trying to manage my migraines by being more careful about what I eat and practicing healthier sleeping habits: I wear a sleep mask at night, try to go to sleep at the same time every day, and have an evening "ritual" that I follow, which involves a warm bath, reading, taking melatonin, etc., though we joke that there's a goat slaughtered in there, somewhere, too.<br />
<br />
I'm still having more days with migraine than not, but the migraines aren't weighing so heavily on me, now. Add to that the fact that my leather pants fit again, and things are looking up.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, the best drug for what ails you is no drug at all.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-41000240325287231142017-11-11T16:17:00.000-06:002017-11-11T16:17:10.169-06:00Like an 18th Century InvalidAbout 3 months ago, I decided to hang an IKEA shelving system in one of our Guest Room closets.<br />
<br />
No problem, I thought, I've done this <i>many</i> times before. How could anything possibly go wrong?<br />
<br />
After climbing up and down a stepladder all day, I went to bed, and awoke the next morning with a terrible pain in my left foot.<br />
<br />
I considered going to the ER - you don't mess around with feet! - but was dissuaded from going by my husband. "Maybe it's just a sprain, or something, or a cramped muscle. Just keep off it for a couple of days, and it will get better, I bet," he said.<br />
<br />
I didn't go to the ER. I waited a week, and then went to a doc-in-a-box clinic, where they took some X-rays.<br />
<br />
Nothing showed up on the X-rays, so the doctor told me it was probably a sprain, and - like my husband suggested - told me to ice it and not walk around too much.<br />
<br />
I like to be busy. If I feel well enough to be up and about, then I will be up and about, damn it, because days where I feel great are not ones to be wasted.<br />
<br />
I went to IKEA the next day.<br />
<br />
My foot hurt horribly that night. And for the next week.<br />
<br />
I waited another week, and made an appointment with a podiatrist, because "walking it off" was obviously not working.<br />
<br />
I chose a podiatrist whose website stressed conservative care, versus the ones I saw whose home pages discussed their cutting edge surgical skills. Surgery should be a last resort, in my not-so-humble opinion.<br />
<br />
The podiatrist took X-rays, and nothing was visible. After quizzing me about my activities, and hearing that I'd been climbing a stepladder, he said that he thought it was a stress fracture.<br />
<br />
He, being a foot expert, told me that if it was a stress fracture, it might not show up on an X-ray film for a few weeks, if ever, which explains why the doc-in-a-box didn't see a break. He gave me a choice: he could either give me a boot/cast to wear for 3-4 weeks, and we could see what happened, or he could have me get an MRI of my foot to determine 100% if it was a stress fracture.<br />
<br />
I went for the boot. Sure, 70% of the MRI would be covered by insurance, but that's still possibly a few hundred dollars, and the boot cost $30 (after insurance).<br />
<br />
After three weeks, I walked around without my boot/cast and felt great. No foot pain!<br />
<br />
At least, while I was walking around sans boot, there wasn't any pain. That night, however, I was in a lot of pain.<br />
<br />
I hadn't worn shoes while walking around. The doctor had neglected to mention that I have to always wear padded shoes while walking on hard surfaces, like our wood and tile floors.<br />
<br />
Oh.<br />
<br />
I re-fractured my foot.<br />
<br />
Ow.<br />
<br />
Another 6 weeks passed, and I felt secure enough to go sans-boot, again. I wore some comfortable, sensible-heeled boots for a day, and felt fine.<br />
<br />
Then, I wore my adorable leopard-print ballet flats, and all (foot) hell broke loose.<br />
<br />
I immediately put the boot back on, and called the podiatrist again.<br />
<br />
A second round of X-rays showed that there was definite healing where I'd fractured my metatarsal - the bone there is thicker, now - but there were no visible breaks.<br />
<br />
"Maybe there's just a spot that hasn't healed yet," he said. "It's been 10 weeks since I first saw you; insurance won't cover a bone growth stimulator until 3 months, give or take a few days. Let's give you a new boot" (mine was worn out, and the cushioning air bladder no longer held air) "and see you back in two weeks. Also, you might want to try to completely stay off of it, if possible. If you have to be up and around a lot, try using crutches or a knee walker."<br />
<br />
Determined to be careful, I rented a knee walker, and I've been using it if I have to walk a long distance. Mostly, though, I've been camped out on the living room sofa, with my foot elevated and an ice pack strapped to my foot, trying to keep it from swelling too much.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, my poor, wonderful husband is doing what he always does: stripping old latex paint off the woodwork throughout the house, patching cracks in walls, and generally slaving away to make our house a home.<br />
<br />
While I lie on the sofa. Drinking La Croix and playing games on my phone.<br />
<br />
Yes, I feel guilty.<br />
<br />
But, you know.<br />
<br />
Doctor's orders.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-4937719537003322482017-09-12T15:10:00.000-05:002017-09-12T15:10:25.401-05:00BoringAfter some reflection, and feeling listless, at wit's end, and unfulfilled, I decided to write a biography.<br />
<br />
I would write about one of the Dollar Princesses, those wealthy American heiresses who married (mostly) British aristocrats, whether by their own choice, or when forced by social-climbing mamas eager to pry their way into Mrs. John Jacob Astor's 400.<br />
<br />
The New Money of the Vanderbilts and the Goulds couldn't buy their entry to the social elite of Gilded Age New York City, so they bought their way in via a roundabout route: marry their daughter to an impoverished Duke or Earl with a large estate and an ancient lineage, and pay the Duke or Earl for the privilege. An impeccable European pedigree guaranteed entry to Mrs. Astor's 400, so the newly minted Duchess or Countess provided her mother with a foot in the door, as well.<br />
<br />
There were a few Dollar Princesses who weren't nouveau riche, of course, and it was one of these women that I wished to write about. I spent a great deal of time gathering information from online journals, ordered a few obscure books that would be nigh on impossible to acquire from a library, and finally, after finishing a couple of weighty books - I didn't want them to distract me - I set about my research.<br />
<br />
And then, I made a terrible discovery.<br />
<br />
No, not that there were already rafts of biographies about the woman. I'd researched that aplenty.<br />
<br />
No, there wasn't a court injunction banning anyone from writing about her.<br />
<br />
Yes, there seemed to be plenty of information available, on the surface of things - though another author mentioned on an obscure interior design and real estate blog that her modern family was less than helpful when asked if they would contribute information about their illustrious ancestor.<br />
<br />
The terrible discovery was this: she was boring.<br />
<br />
Now, I'm sure she was a lovely person. Indeed, all sources seemed to point to her being a lovely woman: excellent manners; a streak of charity - but not one outlandish or particularly noteworthy; wisdom beyond her years when selecting a mate for herself, which she was able to do because she was in possession of her own estate, by the time she wed. She was a lovely, lovely, lovely woman.<br />
<br />
Lovely.<br />
<br />
Her marriage was a success, too! No scandalous affairs, no marital separations. No law suits about dowry, or yearly allowances, or economic strife due to her losing millions during a stock market bust, and thus engendering feelings of resentment on the part of her husband.<br />
<br />
Nope. Everything was smooth sailing.<br />
<br />
Nobody wants to read about smooth sailing.<br />
<br />
Seriously.<br />
<br />
Readers want a bit of drama , and "Sorry honey, I have to sit in the House of Lords: I'll be gone for a month"/ "Oh, darling, I'll miss you. Don't forget your umbrella" doesn't cut it for drama.<br />
<br />
Sure, her husband went to war. And he came back. And all was well, again. Onward and upward.<br />
<br />
I was bored just reading about her life, which seemed too perfect. It out-fairytaled most fairytales, which usually involve some form of conflict, even if there aren't any actual fairies. Everything was ideal: no mean stepmothers, dark fairies suffering from #FOMO, or even impractical footwear to trip her up!<br />
<br />
Pun totally intended, BTW.<br />
<br />
So I scrapped the idea of writing a biography. And now I'm slowly circling the idea of taking up a novel, again. I have five pages written, and a few pages of notes, and that's about it.<br />
<br />
Hopefully, something will click, soon, whether it's another idea for a biography, or this novel.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-39763370801344855472017-03-27T18:40:00.000-05:002017-03-27T18:40:13.472-05:00Homeowners Once MoreDear Husband and I close on a house this Thursday.<br />
<br />
I haven't been this stressed in a looooooooong time.<br />
<br />
Add to the stress the fact that I've been terrible at eating Paleo - too much indulging in cheese via gluten-free pizza - and I'm having almost daily migraines. It's... rough.<br />
<br />
And it's my own damned fault.<br />
<br />
Once we've moved into the new house, however, I fully intend to get back to the super-Paleo lifestyle Dear Husband and I led when we first met and began dating. I'm not particularly looking forward to it - cheese is SO delicious! - but my body and my skin will thank me for it.<br />
<br />
Particularly as the forehead of 13-year-old Ms. Strainedconsciousness is back in all it's unhappy, oily, bumpy glory.<br />
<br />
Ugh.<br />
<br />
I've been busy, lately, making purchases for the new house - because those wood floors aren't going to sprout rugs on their own (and I now have a new phobia that will probably haunt my dreams); lining up contractors to tune-up our current house's HVAC system, and doing the same at the <i>new</i> house; arranging for an appliance repairman to come look at our range in the <i>new</i> house (because it doesn't work); scheduling our new roof installation, fence demolition, and fence reconstruction; etcetera.<br />
<br />
I feel like all I've done the last two weeks is make phone calls and take the dogs to the vet (Ginger's been a bit gimpy).<br />
<br />
After 4 weeks - or possibly more - without a manicure or pedicure, and my feet <i>still</i> wearing the nail polish from that last appointment, I finally was able to do a little self-care, today, in the form of a mani/pedi. Because my doctor cancelled my appointment. Apparently, she was still in surgery, and couldn't leave her unconscious patient for a few minutes to come take care of me. Pshaw.<br />
<br />
I'm joking, naturally.<br />
<br />
It was fortunate, though, because as I told her scheduler, "This makes my day much less stressful." Despite the fact that I was already in the doctors' office parking lot when she called.<br />
<br />
It meant I had time to shoehorn a little foot time into my day. Rescheduling for a month down the road was totally worth it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-84995307613893109402017-02-21T10:44:00.003-06:002017-02-21T10:44:31.594-06:00"And God said...<i><b>... Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in the which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed..."</b> <span style="color: #999999;">Genesis 1:29.</span></i><br />
<br />
Dear Husband and I are currently in the "Option Period" for buying a new house. Here's hoping everything turns out okay (and that the sellers are willing to work with us on some repairs that need to be made!).<br />
<br />
Since all of this is happening - so so quickly! - we're in the process of getting our current shack ready to put on the market. Housekeepers came yesterday (and the photographer for the HAR.com website. He was a week early, though), and today a gentleman came by to give me an estimate on the cost to clean up our flower beds and yards, and then to do weekly maintenance.<br />
<br />
I hadn't seen his email from last night, so I didn't realize he'd be here at 10:00 am. It wasn't until he knocked - and freaked out the dogs - that I got out of bed, threw on some clothes, and really started the day. Because I had a migraine, this morning.<br />
<br />
Yay.<br />
<br />
I apologized for making him wait, explained that I had a migraine, and then we got down to talking about our flower beds and the (patchy) state of our grass.<br />
<br />
After I'd told him he was hired, he asked me how often I had migraines, which I thought was odd. I told him it varied, but sometimes it was daily.<br />
<br />
He nodded his head and said, "I always know when someone contacts me through Angie's List that it's because they have a need."<br />
<br />
He didn't mean a need for a nicer yard, either.<br />
<br />
He asked if he could pray for me, and when I said, "Yes," he held my hand, and it was all I could do to keep from crying as this complete stranger prayed for me and my health.<br />
<br />
I'm not a particularly religious person, Dear Readers, but I appreciate when others who are religious pray for me, and what it means for them. And so, Mr. Baptiste prayed for me, and said he will pray for me at church, like he does his other Angie's List clients who "have a need."<br />
<br />
I hope his other clients appreciate it as much as I do.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-11517513296333661192017-01-27T19:10:00.003-06:002017-01-27T19:10:51.760-06:00You Can't Win 'Em AllWe put in an offer on the house we loved after I dragged Darling Husband to see it.<br />
<br />
We didn't get it.<br />
<br />
But it's okay! Really!<br />
<br />
Actually, yeah, it's okay, because on our last showing, we realized that part of the upstairs was a bit...off.<br />
<br />
And by "off", I mean that the cantilevered hallway joining the upstairs bedrooms was sagging. Because it might not have been built properly.<br />
<br />
The potentially catastrophic cantilever is the reason we made them an offer - <i>ahem</i> - $39,000 below their asking price. That cantilever fix could have been a $16,000 issue.<br />
<br />
We honestly didn't think the owners would go for it, and they didn't. We found out 1/26, and I've already bounced back from the quasi-disappointment.<br />
<br />
Our poor realtor has a list of 5 houses we'd like to see, and there are three open houses we might visit, as well.<br />
<br />
So I guess getting all those tile samples was a bit premature. I'm still keeping my Design Boards, though. Would you like to see them?<br />
<br />
How silly of me! Of <b><i>course</i></b> you want to see them! Your life revolves around my blog, right? <i>RIGHT?</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJk5YQh82QrhAVexvSfEZxnx8TXgBl4XMQvXMzRIe5EKyDQ-_2XrSDe_VdERHGal_FZetMU1z3Qj1QLSm0ZWegseyNnBbW1UBZmQQ7E4e0fzbKB4tCnQ4Yro58yF38T2WR7mObSqQSxY1Z/s1600/Master+Bedroom_Board.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJk5YQh82QrhAVexvSfEZxnx8TXgBl4XMQvXMzRIe5EKyDQ-_2XrSDe_VdERHGal_FZetMU1z3Qj1QLSm0ZWegseyNnBbW1UBZmQQ7E4e0fzbKB4tCnQ4Yro58yF38T2WR7mObSqQSxY1Z/s400/Master+Bedroom_Board.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
And before you ask: YES, Darling Husband gave me permission to paint the walls pink! When I first asked if he'd be okay with it, well, his expression spoke for itself.<br />
<br />
It said, "No."<br />
<br />
But then I showed him the lovely design above, and he saw that the pink walls would be in contrast to the more masculine feel of the bed (deep olive velvet & navy coverlet, but note the "feminine" sheets), and the imaginary bedside tables that are bigger than the ones in the picture, but have the same "campaign"/"captain" look to them. And the lamp bases (I have two) are antique ceramic insulators from a power transfer station.<br />
<br />
Because I'm an amazing shopper. And Darling Husband - who knew I'd been stalking them at the antique store, which was having a sale - was kind enough to agree that I should get them. It helped that the lamps were on sale.<br />
<br />
Purchases are more fun when they're on sale, no?<br />
<br />
The only downsides to my ceramic insulators are that: 1) I have to pay someone to make them into lamps; 2) they have old power transfer station grease inside them that I have to clean out.<br />
<br />
So cleaning is the plan for Saturday afternoon/evening, depending on how exhausted I am after lunching with a friend and then flitting to open houses.<br />
<br />
Like a greasy social butterfly.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-15342684111735280432017-01-15T15:43:00.001-06:002017-01-15T15:43:52.574-06:00The Times, They Are A Changin'<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
A brief recap since August of last year, when I last wrote:</div>
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1. Still married! Darling Husband and I adopted a female dog, née Sara, who we renamed Ginger. She and Fred are inseparable. When she wants to play but Fred is ignoring her, she sits on his head until he gets so annoyed he stands up, and then she goes in for the kill. She's a mischievous little thing.</div>
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2. I started a website - Curated Houston - and just as quickly shut it down when I realized the workload required wasn't congruent with the migraines I have. In theory, it would have featured profiles of Houston (and surrounding) interiors shops, educational articles ('What to Look For When Buying A Farm Table', for instance. Real hard-hitting gritty realism stuff), and musings/adventures in interior design. Even at one article per week, I was struggling, and I realized I couldn't keep up with it. So I have written a "farewell message" and posted it on the website, but the posts are still available if you want to read them (www.curatedhouston.com).</div>
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3. Darling Husband and I are searching for a house, and I believe we've found one. It's farther from downtown, so his commutes will be longer, but he's planning to drive out that way, Tuesday morning, SUPER DUPER early to see just how long the commute will be. If it isn't a Donner Party situation - trapped on Interstate 10, eating his own shoes and car upholstery for sustenance as the days pass - we will most likely put in an offer on the house. </div>
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And here's the best part: I<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>dragged him</i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>to the house. He didn't want to go AT ALL, but I slipped it onto the list of houses anyways. We both walked in and thought "This feels like a home," and to be honest, even the kitchen - which hasn't been updated since the early 1990s - feels homey and perfect, for now. Eventually, we'll renovate, but for now, it's adorable. I have a lifetime of "I told you so" to deliver, in other words.</div>
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4. I might get to go to New York City for the first time in my life. Darling Husband has to attend an awards dinner thingy, and he would be flying back on Friday<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>except</i> I subtly suggested I go with him and we make it a weekend.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><b>I AM SO EXCITED.</b> Hopefully no wrenches will find their way into the works to prevent me from going (unless that wrench is us moving into our house, in which case, bring on the wrenches!!!).</div>
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<br /></div>
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5. I've begun "bullet journaling", and it's everything an OCDesigner could want: neatly organized lists and schedules, the opportunity to color and decorate the lists and schedules, etc. It takes a little time, but that time is fairly meditative, so I have no problems with that.</div>
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6. Oh, and I'm officially considered 'Disabled' by the US Government and the State of Texas, now. It's one of those 'Good News/Bad News' deals: The Good News is, I receive a disability check every month to help defray the costs of healthcare. The Bad News is, I receive a disability check every month because I'm incapable of working.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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I'm trying to decide what to do to give my days more structure, something like researching and writing a biography, etc. I like to set my sights low, as you well know, Dear Reader. In the meantime, I do house-wifey things (on days I'm able): buy groceries, drop off/pick up dry cleaning, pay bills, take the dogs to vet appointments, do laundry and iron clothes, etc...</div>
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<br /></div>
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And crossword puzzles. I work a lot of Sunday New York Times crossword puzzles.</div>
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<br /></div>
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That's it, so far. I'm excited by and still obsessive about design in all its forms, possibly more so than before, now that I have the chance to realize my obsessions in physical form. And, oh, Dear Reader! I hope the dream designs turn out to be as wonderful in person as they are in my mind!</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-56990975761700135842016-08-21T14:39:00.001-05:002016-08-21T14:39:17.720-05:00You'll Never Guess Where You Can Get a Migraine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnLF3ycwVUC5mswudwbR9mEBvRZIWJ1IM4hLGAqV3rBy8z2AV8cTC9rZIwVKsJBWDS68YUXcGqHetaPV0Bbt0QWiQ_A1K295S73xJ87NnJy5McRbZi25ndQ7tUQtWrEgoXmI7SWz9Enumn/s1600/bluegel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnLF3ycwVUC5mswudwbR9mEBvRZIWJ1IM4hLGAqV3rBy8z2AV8cTC9rZIwVKsJBWDS68YUXcGqHetaPV0Bbt0QWiQ_A1K295S73xJ87NnJy5McRbZi25ndQ7tUQtWrEgoXmI7SWz9Enumn/s320/bluegel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
A few weeks ago, I went to an Ear/Nose/Throat doctor on the advice of one of the other members of my Stable O' Docs. The ENT seemed a bit confused when I told him why I was there - minor sinus discomfort in my left sinuses and chronic migraines - because he'd never had someone come in to see him for migraines.<br />
<br />
So he looked at my sinuses, and informed me that the inside of my sinuses was completely clear*, but they looked dry. So, no infection (which I'd suspected, because: no drainage). He sat and looked at me with his head cocked to one side, but instead of smiling (and resembling a dog expecting a treat) he frowned.<br />
<br />
"Chronic migraines? Hm. I think you're having a migraine in your sinuses."<br />
<br />
Wait, I'm what?!?!?!<br />
<br />
Apparently, the trigeminal nerve (which is often incriminated in migraines) splits and runs down your face alongside your sinuses and into your jaw: thus the reason a lot of migraineurs have TMJ. But it can ALSO cause pain in your sinuses, and is, in fact, part of your migraine. Or, if it's a "mini migraine" day, it can be the <b>whole</b> migraine.<br />
<br />
So you now know something <i>else</i> about migraines, which I apparently experience in my nose, now.<br />
<br />
As a way of helping me, the ENT told me to go buy a product called Ayr, which is a gel made specifically for use in and around the nose. So I did, and now I clean my nose in the morning with a Q-Tip, then use another Q-Tip to apply a coating of Ayr inside my nostrils.<br />
<br />
The first time I did so, I didn't really check to make sure I applied it carefully - it was more of a dab and dash kind of thing.<br />
<br />
The second time, however, I checked before I left the house, and then before I went to run errands post-breakfast.<br />
<br />
I had something gray-ish blue on my face. I wiped it off, and it was sticky and kind of... gel-y.<br />
<br />
Apparently, the Ayr doesn't stay <i>exactly</i> where you want it, but will migrate around, a bit, leaving you with the appearance of someone who stuck blueberries up her nose and is reaping what she sowed (or stowed or shoved).<br />
<br />
So that's a new thing to be aware of.<br />
<br />
Fun.<br />
<br />
*<span style="font-size: x-small;">I also have a seriously deviated septum, which explains why I assumed my right nostril was constantly stopped up, and will probably require surgery in the near future, and may be contributing to the pain in my left nostril/sinus because of the increased volume of air flow passing through that one nostril.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-12452583058005572472016-07-21T16:14:00.001-05:002016-07-21T16:14:42.547-05:00It's One of THOSE DaysToday has turned out to be one of "<i>those</i>" days.<br />
<br />
One of "<i>those</i>" days when nothing quite seems to go right, yet it isn't so horrible that I can justify sitting down in the middle of the living room in a huff and crying.<br />
<br />
It's tempting, but not justifiable.<br />
<br />
Yet.<br />
<br />
I had an appointment this morning at 10:30 with one of my legions of doctors, and since I typically show up in gym clothes (intending to proceed there immediately after my appointment), I decided I would dress <i>nicely</i> today: J. Crew blue-&-white striped shirt, skinny jeans, sandals, jewelry.<br />
<br />
Casual, but nice.<br />
<br />
My hair disagreed with my planned outfit, however.<br />
<br />
I didn't wash it last night, and I didn't plan to wash it this morning, because if I wash it more frequently than every other day, my scalp mutinies, and I have to appease it with lots of Benadryl.<br />
<br />
I hoped I'd be able to spray it with a little dry shampoo and get it to obey my will.<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
By the time I realized my hair was a lost cause, it was too late to wash it and blow dry it and style it if I wanted to be able to eat breakfast before my appointment. I tried on a baseball cap with my planned outfit, but it just didn't work.<br />
<br />
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />So the cute J. Crew shirt was jettisoned in favor of a chambray maxi dress, hoping I could pull it off with the baseball cap.<br />
<br />
Chambray maxi dress had stains all down the front, that I apparently missed during the last laundry blitz, despite the fact that I specifically checked the dress for stains.<br />
<br />
Finally, I tossed on one of my husband's cast-off T-shirts (which I've claimed, and wear more frequently than formerly due to my, um, well, my little belly. And love handles. Yay).<br />
<br />
So now my doctor probably thinks I just run around in super-casual clothes all the time, rather than wearing more civilized, ladylike garb.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
I ran a few errands, post-appointment, and came home. I took off my baseball cap.<br />
<br />
My hair looked perfect.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
Time to do laundry, bake, monitor the crock-pot, pay off the rest of the taxes the IRS claims we owe them, but that Turbo Tax said we didn't, and work on my Mystery Blog (with perfect hair).<br />
<br />
Several items in the laundry needed stain treatment, so I applied Shout spray like a mad woman, and made sure to add OxyClean to the load, as well.<br />
<br />
The load of lights finished washing, and I pulled out the clothes to toss them in the dryer, being sure to check each and every garment that was spot-treated before tossing it into the dryer.<br />
<br />
All of the garments looked great, except - of course! - my favorite shirt, a white J. Crew button-down identical to today's intended blue-&-white shirt, which is the inspiration for my house-wife "uniform".<br />
<br />
Of course, the spot on my favorite shirt - iced tea, a little tiny amount - was darker. And bigger.<br />
<br />
What. THE. HELL?!?!?!?!?!?!<br />
<br />
Lots of angry fuming, cursing, and stomping around the laundry room ensued (it's a huge laundry room, relative to the size of our house). I tried spraying more Shout on it and rubbing it with a white cloth.<br />
<br />
No dice.<br />
<br />
I rinsed out the Shout, and poured liquid OxyClean on it, waited 15 minutes, and then rubbed it with a white cloth.<br />
<br />
Nada.<br />
<br />
I poured a leeeeeeeeeeeeettle bit of full-strength bleach onto it and let it sit a few minutes, then rubbed it gently with a white cloth.<br />
<br />
Nil.<br />
<br />
So it's now sitting in a bucket filled with water and bleach, while I pray that my fairly expensive shirt isn't ruined forever.<br />
<br />
I started working on my Mystery Blog, and was experimenting with different layouts/visual themes for the site. Unlike this personal blog, I want my Mystery Blog to be immaculately laid out and designed, because I intend to try to make money off of it, damn it.<br />
<br />
I had one scheme I kind of liked, but wanted to look at another, so I wrote down what I thought was all the pertinent info, design-wise, and began monkeying with the font, text size, background color, etc.<br />
<br />
At which point I realized I hadn't exactly written down all the pertinent info. Fortunately, I had taken a screen shot of the first design, so I was able to MacGuyver the information I needed, using PhotoShop and Apple Preview, but it was a tense few minutes, there, before I found the HTML color code converter I needed.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
I also used a bit of Barkeeper's Friend to clean some rust of the washing machine interior (it's now going through its Clean Tub cycle to remove any residue), and I happened to get a tiny bit of the liquid cleanser on my thumb. No big deal. I rinsed it within 30 seconds.<br />
<br />
But my skin doesn't care. My skin is angry. It is livid. Specifically, it is a livid shade of red, and it itches, because it's a primadonna.<br />
<br />
And I haven't eaten lunch, yet.<br />
<br />
So I'm going to go throw myself onto my sofa, now, with a slice of coconut-flour pound cake and a handful of cashews - which I'm calling "lunch" - and I'm going to watch <i>Parks and Rec</i> on Hulu while I finish my niece's Christmas stocking.<br />
<br />
Because I'm obviously not meant to succeed at being a housewife today.<br />
<br />
Unless that housewifeliness involves sabotaging my diet, because the pound cake turned out <i>perfectly.</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-17432394149145319772016-05-21T12:13:00.000-05:002016-05-21T12:13:57.010-05:00Life With a Little More "Life"I've been completely off of opiate pain medications for a few weeks, now. So far, I'm happy about it. I feel different without the constant haze of brain-fug I experienced (unknowingly, mostly) for the previous four years of my life.<br />
<br />
I wake up, now, when the sun's brightness wakes me up - usually around 7:30-8:00 - as nature intended, instead of sleeping until noon because my body responded to when the drugs wore off. I have a true circadian rhythm to my life that I previously lacked.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vlcpwXBBofQVHWDaFCRZ7grLlOUYM5jV6pd5tbPaf9a_i3MtgGzwrjCfB4-VsUeL7djTCHnsu81h0Kaya4A_PB2EGUGASl8LVEIDPBSxB-imL2EpVolfj2QMzt3pqAq-2vMDH_fKsLqJ/s1600/Wake_Up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vlcpwXBBofQVHWDaFCRZ7grLlOUYM5jV6pd5tbPaf9a_i3MtgGzwrjCfB4-VsUeL7djTCHnsu81h0Kaya4A_PB2EGUGASl8LVEIDPBSxB-imL2EpVolfj2QMzt3pqAq-2vMDH_fKsLqJ/s320/Wake_Up.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Alarm_Clocks_20101107a.jpg" target="_blank">Wikimedia Commons</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When I sleep, my sleep is more restful, and I'm dreaming more often - and remembering more of my dreams - and having more pleasant dreams, as opposed to nightmarish head trips that prevented me from sleeping soundly. Some of these nightmares were probably hallucinations, in truth, rather than me actually sleeping and dreaming.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvHcPyDtCYzEsymIyoVmtxEy8SsFGkvrpN2A0F2ZtSEv8xNsNNQmM0t6Q3GwZ5SZL4DxbXrz-EXNG1Ea_I93d91eS5M40tQCtYmmUhn3ltS7zXj4ZjN1VogXwYY0_LtwFd20zafTkDycuH/s1600/optical_illusion_1_by_theguywho3433.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvHcPyDtCYzEsymIyoVmtxEy8SsFGkvrpN2A0F2ZtSEv8xNsNNQmM0t6Q3GwZ5SZL4DxbXrz-EXNG1Ea_I93d91eS5M40tQCtYmmUhn3ltS7zXj4ZjN1VogXwYY0_LtwFd20zafTkDycuH/s320/optical_illusion_1_by_theguywho3433.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.deviantart.com/browse/all/?section=&global=1&q=TheGuyWho3433" target="_blank">TheGuyWho3433</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
You know those commercials for medications to treat opiate-induced constipation, known as OIC, apparently, because <a href="https://www.relistor.com/" target="_blank">giving a disorder an acronym</a> makes it less embarrassing? Yeah, so good old OIC is a serious issue for people on pain medications for chronic illness. Even more so when the migraines - for which you take opioids - is also a source of, um, "C" (see above OIC, and just remove the C, because: <i>acronyms</i>). Though it isn't exactly happening quickly, the gastrointestinal effects of constant opiate use are slowly working themselves out.<br />
<br />
I'm not living in fear of the medication completely working its way out of my system all at once, leaving me with a shock of pain bad enough to make me writhe around, incapable of relaxing and resting. The anxiety of running out of opiates is also gone; the government's strict controls and occasional drug shortages rendered this a serious concern, especially if a new patient began filling a prescription for the same drugs and the pharmacy wasn't prepared for it.<br />
<br />
Psychologically, I'm dealing with the migraines better. I'm taking very little in the way of medication, just some muscle relaxants when it's <i>really</i> bad, and maybe a couple of Tylenol. I'll also pop on the good old Cephaly if it's bad and I can stand to have something on my head. In Europe, the device is marketed as an "acute" treatment, instead of simply preventative, so it's worth a shot, right? And it did seem to help, that first time I tried it, when I caught the migraine early enough, so...<br />
<br />
The only downside I've noticed so far has left me with mixed feelings.<br />
<br />
I'm having difficulty with creative endeavors.<br />
<br />
I used to write for an hour or two each day, most days, typically at night once my pain medications kicked in, or in the afternoon if I had to take them to get me through a particularly rough spot. About 30 or 45 minutes after taking the drugs, I'd feel a surge of creative energy and feel as if I <i>simply had to write. Now.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
That's gone, the creative urge evaporating into the ether, so to speak.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VmEqnSggDslgtg1WlLiEyGt5k6Weh3R5fRQO-Gq2ZX7uHR_HQwZ5K1VdwIeJn137i6ZP-rSEOFOebByRw5FuC1-Ix8qPM-dVxdfnIgmb2iwmg2tb8yV8aclI8mOzwiXvPUXD39gDVp5d/s1600/Calligraphy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VmEqnSggDslgtg1WlLiEyGt5k6Weh3R5fRQO-Gq2ZX7uHR_HQwZ5K1VdwIeJn137i6ZP-rSEOFOebByRw5FuC1-Ix8qPM-dVxdfnIgmb2iwmg2tb8yV8aclI8mOzwiXvPUXD39gDVp5d/s320/Calligraphy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Or into a Photoshop gradient. One of those two, definitely.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Ever since I kicked the habit, the books I was working on - all those ideas, fictional and non-fictional - have dried up. I don't feel the same inspiration that I previously felt.<br />
<br />
It's unnerving.<br />
<br />
I used to believe that <b>real</b> artists didn't require chemical assistance to create masterpieces. I'm less sure of that, now, mostly because to accept that my writing was mostly the product of a opiate-induced fever-dream would force me to see it as less valuable.<br />
<br />
Maybe.<br />
<br />
For now, I'm trying not to think about the significant drop in "creating" that I'm experiencing.<br />
<br />
To distract myself, I watch stand up comedians and comediennes on Hulu and NetFlix, or take quizzes on Sporcle, both very productive.<br />
<br />
I go to Whole Foods and buy groceries to feed my husband and myself, because eating at home is healthier than eat at our favorite local fast food joint, El Rey (even though their Havana Plate is <i style="font-weight: bold;">so f!&#ing delicious</i>).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrOMYFWGYZxeJyhWqC72mg7IPneyJnj0OtWkPQe6HPqU5fIEAYCY2AARJwjReRbhWOC_aexu06R_zVwDmYUumibJO124LP9LRlLsRtTgIIfh6EQsnDNBLK8SfGAr7n4zSuMtMxDjQHoTnH/s1600/havanaplate_bayoucitybites.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrOMYFWGYZxeJyhWqC72mg7IPneyJnj0OtWkPQe6HPqU5fIEAYCY2AARJwjReRbhWOC_aexu06R_zVwDmYUumibJO124LP9LRlLsRtTgIIfh6EQsnDNBLK8SfGAr7n4zSuMtMxDjQHoTnH/s320/havanaplate_bayoucitybites.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.bayoucitybites.com/2011_07_01_archive.html" target="_blank">Bayou City Bites</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm also mentally caching ideas for a <i>new</i> blog - one that would relate to my professional field instead of a personal blog - and trying to come up with a name for it.<br />
<br />
On Monday, I'll start doing a bit of contract work for my dad, editing photos of his products for brochures and website use. This will most likely take place at a Starbucks, because only <i>suckers</i> work from home when they can go to Starbucks and pretend to be cool, hip, self-employed graphic designers that <i>totally</i> have a thriving business and aren't just doing some work for their dads since they have some time on their hands.<br />
<br />
And I'll mentally wrestle with whether I want to pick up my Montblanc, again, and continue writing that fantasy novel, or maybe start researching that history of the British in Kenya once more.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-66203832622740236632016-04-29T06:52:00.000-05:002016-05-02T14:55:42.441-05:00Get Your Trek OnIt's 6:30 am on a Friday morning, and I have yet to fall asleep.<br />
<br />
This happens occasionally - once every two or three weeks - and I'm fine with that. I will sleep exceptionally well, tonight - Friday night - and be ready to "go get 'em" Saturday.<br />
<br />
The insomnia - being awake all night - is either a precursor to a developing migraine, or is the direct cause of a migraine. I tend to think it's the latter, due to the other migraine precursors that accompany it: thirst, difficulty concentrating, restlessness, etc.<br />
<br />
For a couple of weeks, now, I've been trying to limit my caffeine intake. In some people, caffeine can apparently cause migraines rather than helping end them. Or so my migraine tracking/recording app tells me. So I've cut out caffeine: no iced tea <sob>, no coffee, no chai, no chocola-</sob><br />
<br />
Oh. I made pecan-flour brownies the other day. I've eaten one per day since Tuesday.<br />
<br />
Oops.<br />
<br />
Okay, so after tomorrow, I'll be better about the whole "I'm not ingesting caffeine" trial. I promise.<br />
<br />
Yesterday - Thursday, for those of you playing along at home - I began my application for government disability payments. Seeing as I'm unable to work, and my beloved husband is paying for everything, right now, including medical bills and student loans, money is growing ever tighter. At the least, I'd be able to pay down my loans and cover my own medical expenses, if I received Social Security Disability.<br />
<br />
I'm conflicted about applying for benefits. On the one hand, my husband has a good salary. On the other hand, feeding both of us costs a lot of money, particularly as I can't just eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch every day. So food, medical bills, transportation to and from the doctors, etc., all adds up quickly, not to mention the joys of home ownership, where you "get" to pay someone to come repair your roof and a hole in the ceiling of the laundry room.<br />
<br />
Regardless, it will be at least two months before my Disability Application is judged and either approved or denied.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I have a new device with which to experiment that is supposedly helpful for migraines. My dear aunt sent me information about a device called the Cefaly about a month ago, and I have since discussed it with my neurologist, who gave me her blessing to try it (she also gave me a prescription, because you can't just buy it without a doctor sprinkling the transaction with holy signatures and whatnot).<br />
<br />
The Cefaly arrived last night, to my surprise - I thought it would arrive Friday - but I haven't tried it, yet. Its inaugural use will take place tonight, during which time I can role play a character of my own imagining from the Star Trek universe, because this is what it looks like:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocf6UfEcxwUpV-9oFGGwkDW1ozKHle4h_tztxu8luld9uLe88U0xl3bSRs4gwthxXbrhPIg2Pf_D0VYIqZBiYARUfkerj9Lz7BctAAx8PssPZki6yJBrU-7oeZPCXFvGV0_c9MIeqlsil/s1600/just+call+me+jordi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocf6UfEcxwUpV-9oFGGwkDW1ozKHle4h_tztxu8luld9uLe88U0xl3bSRs4gwthxXbrhPIg2Pf_D0VYIqZBiYARUfkerj9Lz7BctAAx8PssPZki6yJBrU-7oeZPCXFvGV0_c9MIeqlsil/s320/just+call+me+jordi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
That's just a couple of inches away from making the user look like Geordi La Forge's sister from another mister, right there. Seriously, lower it 2.5 inches, and BAM! Star Trek: The Next Generation, I'm ready for my walk-on role!<br />
<br />
Supposedly, the Cefaly stimulates the trigeminal nerve running from your brain into your forehead, which decreases the number and severity of migraines. There's an electrode that's applied to the forehead before the Cefaly device is lowered into place. My electrodes are fancy blue hypoallergenic ones, because I'm a delicate flower, and also, blue is more futuristic and (I imagine) Trekkie approved.<br />
<br />
There's a chance the thing might not work, of course, and if that's the case, I can return the device within 60 days for a full refund (except for the electrodes). It's a no-lose situation, the way I see it.<br />
<br />
And maybe - just maybe! - this futuristic diadem will allow me to conquer my migraines once and for all.<br />
<br />
Keep your fingers crossed, Dear Reader.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-24715980752022552882016-04-21T11:38:00.003-05:002016-04-21T11:38:35.843-05:00Drying OutHouston has recently been inundated by sever storms, leaving parts of the city flooded. Three days ago, I watched on TV as civilians rescued their fellow Houstonians using their duck-hunting pirogues (flat-bottomed boats, for those not raised in the South).<br />
<br />
I also saw the "most cowboy" thing possible for a cowboy to cowboy: roping a calf that was swimming desperately in deep water, pulling the calf into a boat, and hog-tying it so it wouldn't flail and capsize the boat. I tried to find video of the most amazingly cowboy thing ever, but failed. I have failed not only you, Dear Reader, but all the cowboys in the Houston area who spent the last several days roping cattle and horses in an effort to save them. They deserve to be viewed online and admired for their sheer... cowboyness.<br />
<br />
Which is now a word.<br />
<br />
Really.<br />
<br />
I'm sure the OED will add it any day, now.<br />
<br />
As the city of Houston attempts to dry out (hampered by the thunderstorm raging outside my house as I type), I'm also drying out, in a number of ways.<br />
<br />
I'm drying out literally, because I had to take all of 6 steps from the car door to our front door in the pouring rain, after I went out for breakfast.<br />
<br />
I'm also drying out metaphorically, because I've stopped taking the narcotic pain killers that have kept me going for the past few years.<br />
<br />
About a year ago, I began thinking about it. I have a wonderful sister who is unable to take opiates (which we discovered after an emergency appendectomy back in 2008). They make her incredibly nauseated and ill. See as we have a lot of the same intolerances to foods, I began to wonder if, perhaps, we shared an intolerance to opiate pain medications.<br />
<br />
"But, Ms. StrainedConsciousness," you say, "if you began considering this a year ago, why are you <i>just now</i> quitting the medicine?"<br />
<br />
That's a good question, Dear Reader, and the answer is: fear.<br />
<br />
I've been taking them because I feared pain, and was scared that quitting the pills would lead to an automatic resurgence in pain.<br />
<br />
After a full year battling migraines, sciatica, and neuropathy stemming from the chemotherapy I had as a teenager, I decided to suck it up, and I found myself discussing the idea of quitting pain pills with my Pain Management doctor a week ago.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3c7817PvlBfS65YK05kVqBc2IQz7tSUYmOxJ04xykP0mSJ_blSTXcdoXsP1EZXDY7Awg1t7Apdtm_dJeNwLHHXO-op5Pj0cyQfMlpMN6hF2hdpVEzQa3ALTvMsaLbbCuDA7-Yjt5SoHEC/s1600/pills.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3c7817PvlBfS65YK05kVqBc2IQz7tSUYmOxJ04xykP0mSJ_blSTXcdoXsP1EZXDY7Awg1t7Apdtm_dJeNwLHHXO-op5Pj0cyQfMlpMN6hF2hdpVEzQa3ALTvMsaLbbCuDA7-Yjt5SoHEC/s1600/pills.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
As a result of our discussion, she wrote me a prescription for 10 pills (as opposed to the usual scrip for 84), and told me how to wean myself off of them.<br />
<br />
For the past week, I've decreased the amount taken: 1 pill per day for 3 days, then a half pill for 4 days, and finally, Tuesday night, no pills at all that day.<br />
<br />
Before quitting the narcotics, I was typically taking a full pill every night before bed, and then sleeping for 9-11 hours. I'd wake up groggy, and usually fall back asleep for a couple of hours after 30-45 minutes of perusing the internet.<br />
<br />
For the past two days, after not taking any pain medication the night before, I've awakened after 7-8 hours of sleep feeling refreshed and awake.<br />
<br />
It's amazing.<br />
<br />
I feel more lucid during the day, and I fall asleep more easily at night.<br />
<br />
I'm still using muscle relaxants to help with spasms in my neck, shoulders, and piriformis, but mostly extended-release ones that don't make me groggy. Before I go to sleep at night - and if I have a migraine during the day - I'll take 1-2 of the "acute" muscle relaxants my doctor still prescribes (these render me unable to drive, as I'm considered impaired, so I try not to take them during the day, if I can help it).<br />
<br />
The weather this past week has been a real challenge to my migraines, since rainy weather and high humidity tend to set them off. Despite the pain (and the fact that there isn't an acute migraine medication out there that works for me), I've managed to survive without taking pain meds during the day.<br />
<br />
So far, so good.<br />
<br />
There's the possibility that the withdrawal symptoms can continue to rear their ugly heads for the next two months, but I'm being vigilant, and also listening when my body says, "You know what? I know you really <i>want</i> to go for a walk with your husband and dog, but you can't. You're dizzy and your blood pressure just dropped. Go home, while you still can."<br />
<br />
So for now, I'm waiting for my body and the weather to stop freaking out.<br />
<br />
Hopefully sooner, rather than later.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-8611299900020234442016-04-15T22:57:00.002-05:002016-04-15T22:59:15.268-05:00A New ExperienceOn Sunday, April 3, 2016, I did something I never thought I'd do in a million years.<br />
<br />
I went to the WWE's 2016 Wrestlemania in Arlington, TX at the AT&T Cowboys Stadium.<br />
<br />
It lasted almost 7 hours.<br />
<br />
It was pure insanity.<br />
<br />
You might be thinking how I survived it, what with my migraines and all. I wondered how I'd survive it, before I went in. I imagine I lasted as long as I did because I was completely hopped up on adrenaline, the way I imagine soldiers are going into war. Also, I had pain medicine with me, so that had some bearing on the fact I'm not dead.<br />
<br />
Since that occasion, my husband - without whom I wouldn't be interested in Wrestlemania in any way, shape, or form - have discussed why it is we weren't immediately agoraphobic upon entering the stadium, given that we dislike places like amusement parks (shudder) and rodeo fairgrounds. I finally settled on this answer, though I'm not sure if I should share it with the public:<br />
<br />
The fans at Wrestlemania were "our people."<br />
<br />
They're the same otherwise mature, responsible adults, who watch Monday Night RAW. They have decent-paying jobs (otherwise they can't afford the tickets) and enough to pay to travel to Arlington, Texas for a weekend, and most likely miss work on Monday.<br />
<br />
I admit, I was nervous going into the whole thing. I considered claiming a migraine and not going. But I felt pretty good the day of the event, so I sucked it up and went. With a couple of pain pills in my pocket just in case all of the pyrotechnics took their toll. Which they eventually did.<br />
<br />
Among the amazing, unexpected things I saw at Wrestlemania were:<br />
<br />
Shaquille O'Neal wrestling in the Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royal (he didn't win).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEOa_F7v7CQ65IeS1yWpT0RNMKCZkkmbIxHPavMAQ4tkRY3sOeLYx-M0dG2QYarS4b07pDF9CRfz-UqyP7Vwu1C6pL_wmULL2tPTy4PuXOA9AqAd3H_i-ezBfbO7CmrKspZB0BTUhveNc/s1600/IMG_1396.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEOa_F7v7CQ65IeS1yWpT0RNMKCZkkmbIxHPavMAQ4tkRY3sOeLYx-M0dG2QYarS4b07pDF9CRfz-UqyP7Vwu1C6pL_wmULL2tPTy4PuXOA9AqAd3H_i-ezBfbO7CmrKspZB0BTUhveNc/s320/IMG_1396.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Joan Lunden appearing, because she was inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame. Because of COURSE she was...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-B5D5wsrwmGPp-NPUoji3aB1gMe13Zfp0ADBxI7B0oxUdFwh1YNFeGTFbHb6LHIF8-38mPjHyIXqQ7Pe5JEOtsZ7jHswBpQpMiFnyLCuuIEesW2ea29pXpx-qcEVAOsc-9Th8CeOlCftt/s1600/IMG_1353.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-B5D5wsrwmGPp-NPUoji3aB1gMe13Zfp0ADBxI7B0oxUdFwh1YNFeGTFbHb6LHIF8-38mPjHyIXqQ7Pe5JEOtsZ7jHswBpQpMiFnyLCuuIEesW2ea29pXpx-qcEVAOsc-9Th8CeOlCftt/s320/IMG_1353.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The Rock (aka Dwayne Johnson) came out to interfere in a brouhaha, ripped off his pants and shirt (no complaints here!), and wrestled a bit.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAqht29WgO0cFpnplxcCi9yOdePJkNqvntuiSynlFxdenCCOAUPmgRXI2jAASi9QsBxn-DMinoCk5yepRVOd7R-MP_C7rTpo0Ddq9Dkd3qIh5P0Vi-0UuMdQGBFhpw_VcBtrkNIp5RzC8/s1600/IMG_1415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAqht29WgO0cFpnplxcCi9yOdePJkNqvntuiSynlFxdenCCOAUPmgRXI2jAASi9QsBxn-DMinoCk5yepRVOd7R-MP_C7rTpo0Ddq9Dkd3qIh5P0Vi-0UuMdQGBFhpw_VcBtrkNIp5RzC8/s320/IMG_1415.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Three guys jumped out of an enormous cereal box while wearing unicorn horns on their heads.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Stephanie McMahon (Chief Brand Officer for WWE, daughter of WWE founder Vince McMahon, wife of Triple-H (HHH), who is the COO of WWE) appeared in what I like to imagine is her typical office attire. It involves a mask and a leotard...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8tGmdAuzDnObLtTMQzlJaC4GP8ttkv43crDe9-hC8E4EWmQp7HF7qhW3CmgcOqnfY42EsWGVqW9iR3cxem0GXoJgzXVhA0zQXbIUPFBGkhM5C7aWRW84f7CAYEkjC4zvC2T5VdtUQRhsW/s1600/IMG_1421.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8tGmdAuzDnObLtTMQzlJaC4GP8ttkv43crDe9-hC8E4EWmQp7HF7qhW3CmgcOqnfY42EsWGVqW9iR3cxem0GXoJgzXVhA0zQXbIUPFBGkhM5C7aWRW84f7CAYEkjC4zvC2T5VdtUQRhsW/s320/IMG_1421.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Stephanie McMahon</span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8gXWGRVQRFmhM9F_b32Mt66hk4XU7vZQ5PocECR3W8Fh1nQumzdKwxhEU8PRQgMCa-mmEDuG0zfooqxNTuo14_in5qLH2yYepbuZpE4tsEDKJEKramG4dIhS1jWQO2mnE37MPH26XtMm/s1600/IMG_1427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8gXWGRVQRFmhM9F_b32Mt66hk4XU7vZQ5PocECR3W8Fh1nQumzdKwxhEU8PRQgMCa-mmEDuG0zfooqxNTuo14_in5qLH2yYepbuZpE4tsEDKJEKramG4dIhS1jWQO2mnE37MPH26XtMm/s320/IMG_1427.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Also Stephanie McMahon</span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTc9NiixYNEGI1RlcPeB2k-9wY-zH8JFtku3yuK4Ze96lwqehZSFNbWAr78TJhVqby-dnxBPl2XSonOwATpf4d0R9xB-2S-HBdt9SF230u6OD5PV94LskpvGbaIS8aH86evmTPOGY4KGR-/s1600/IMG_1434.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTc9NiixYNEGI1RlcPeB2k-9wY-zH8JFtku3yuK4Ze96lwqehZSFNbWAr78TJhVqby-dnxBPl2XSonOwATpf4d0R9xB-2S-HBdt9SF230u6OD5PV94LskpvGbaIS8aH86evmTPOGY4KGR-/s320/IMG_1434.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Stephanie McMahon's husband, HHH, in typical office attire</span></div>
<br />
<br />
The usual sort of thing you expect to see. Especially from multimillionaire business executives.<br />
<br />
Around 9:30 pm, the large quantity of aforementioned pyrotechnics took their toll. I downed some medicine, along with a bit of cotton candy and some water.<br />
<br />
Overall, it was more fun that I'd expected. I'd been anxious about wandering a stadium where grown men are dressed as deceased pro wrestlers, but it was amazingly entertaining. I walked behind one fellow dressed in full Macho Man regalia, and every fifth person shouted "Oh, yeah!", which earned an identical response from the costumed carouser.<br />
<br />
I'll say one thing for Wrestlemania: it's a spectacle.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-34929401704037131622016-03-25T19:20:00.001-05:002016-03-30T18:04:15.603-05:00Book Review: The St. Simon Trilogy and a Feminist RantI was in my early teens - possibly not even into the technical teens, but what is now referred to as a "tween" - when I first read the St. Simon trilogy by Eugenia Price. The first volume, entitled <i>Lighthouse</i>, tells the story of James Gould, a young man who leaves his family in late eighteenth century Massachusetts, and travels to Spanish Florida to make his fortune. The spell in Florida, traveling to Baltimore, and a stopover in Georgia are all steps on the way to James achieving his dream: to build a lighthouse.<br />
<br />
As a youngster who was beginning to understand what architecture was, I was enthralled by <i>Lighthouse</i>, and the way that the author spoke about James's struggle with proportion and materiality. (Later, I would learn that the most accurate portion of the novel is actually the bureaucratic entanglements and unreliable contractors.)<br />
<br />
In the years since I first read the novels, which were originally published in the late 1970s and early 1980s, they remained in my imagination as the pinnacle of architectural romanticism, if that makes any sense. In my early 20s, I read Ayn Rand's <i>The Fountainhead</i>, and briefly fell in love with Howard Roark, before deciding that the whole "screw everyone else, just worry about yourself, and the others can all go to hell" idea was callous and selfish and inhumane.<br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
After my love affair with Ayn Rand came to an end, my passion for the <i>Lighthouse</i> novels was rekindled, and I decided to reread them, after twenty-something years.<br />
<br />
I ordered the books on Amazon - all three of them - and eagerly awaited their arrival two days later.<br />
<br />
The books arrived, and I withdrew from the cardboard box the pastel volumes with their impressionist portraits of anonymous ladies in white tea dresses and straw hats. The fact that <i>Lighthouse</i> - a book set in the late 1700s to early 1800s, I remind you - was adorned with an impressionist portrait of a woman in 1890s-era clothes on the cover should probably have been a tip-off.<br />
<br />
Either my memory was sorely damaged, or my taste in novels has changed entirely since my tween years.<br />
<br />
I was a die hard romantic as a young girl - I mean "sweep me off my feet", "tall, dark and handsome", "night in shining armor" romantic. As I've grown up, I've learned more about what it means to be controlled by men, and how important it is to NOT be controlled by men. I was raised to question everything I was told, to think for myself, and not to be afraid to ask "Why?".<br />
<br />
For those reasons, the books are now almost impossible to read.<br />
<br />
Almost, I said. Because I will force myself to slog my way through a book, even if I end up writing notes on the book's shortcomings on the fly leaf to keep me sane.<br />
<br />
The women in the books - who are not the main characters, despite the prominent pastel wasp-waisted women on the covers - are insufferably meek. The author seems to think that the ideal woman is child-like, incapable of thinking critically, and in need of a man to tell her what to do.<br />
<br />
In the second book, <i>New Moon Rising</i>, the protagonist's sister is held up as a paragon of womanly "can-do" spirit, because she runs a plantation single-handed. And yet, despite the fact that she undoubtedly has to make decisions about her land and crops based on the national and local economy, she still has to ask her brother, Horace, for his advice at every turn. When war looms (we're in the mid-1800s now, folks), she questions whether the South will really go to war with the North.<br />
<br />
Honey, the South has already shelled Fort Sumter and captured the Federal Navy. Yes, we're going to have a bloody war.<br />
<br />
In <i>Lighthouse</i>, one of the secondary characters - a woman, of course, because women are second-class citizens - has a husband who is constantly chasing "big ideas" that invariably lead to their financial ruin. He's a terrible businessman with little intellect, but a ton of bravado and a pretty face, so he's likeable. He makes his wife's life a living hell because he won't go find a job working for someone else.<br />
<br />
And his wife just says, "Oh well. I love him, so I'm happy."<br />
<br />
She's just <i>blissfully </i>happy while her children are malnourished, and under-clothed, and sponging off of her poverty-stricken mother. Because a wife shouldn't stand up for the physical needs of herself or her children if it might <i>embarrass</i> her husband. No, it's the wife's job to support the husband no matter how selfish and inadequate he is.<br />
<br />
One of the biggest things about the St. Simon Trilogy - and I mean, something that really sticks in my craw - is its treatment of the slaves held by just about everyone in the South.<br />
<br />
Every slave in the books, with one short-lived exception (he gets mentions on 5 or 6 pages, tops), is a "happy darky" caricature. They are all grinning, happy, contented people, who adore their masters and don't want to be freed. The author, Price, writes her dialogue in dialect, but <i>only</i> when the slaves are speaking. And though I myself write in dialect when I compose dialogue for my characters (who none of you have encountered, because I'm a closet novelist), the way she writes her slaves' spoken words upsets me. Example:<br />
<br />
Horace (white slave owner): Are there any more hot biscuits?<br />
Larney (slave): Yes, sir, Mausa Horace - jis' one minute! ...Larney's boy wants more biscuits, an' dey ain' nobody gon' stop 'im- an' ah's got another pan ready to put on de fire.<br />
<br />
There's reams of dialogue written in the slave's dialect, and I feel slightly queasy every time I read it. There's something about it that's just so... patronizing. Condescending. Maybe it's the fact that everything they say adds to the depiction of Georgia slaves as happy children who <i>need</i> to be taken care of by their white owners.<br />
<br />
Add to the blackface atmosphere (the slaves literally sing and dance for the reader's enjoyment, in dialect, of course) the fact that almost all of the slaveholders depicted don't <i>want</i> to own slaves, and it's all a little too saccharine sweet. The men who are slaveholders are <i>good</i> men, because they don't <i>want</i> to own slaves, but they <i>have</i> to, you see, or they can't compete economically with their neighbors. And they only bought their slaves because they felt sorry for them, in the first place.<br />
<br />
No, really.<br />
<br />
One of the characters buys something like fifteen slaves, and since it's illegal to free them in Georgia, he just decides he has to keep them. Aw, shucks. Because it would be <i>impossible</i> to take them to - just spitballing, here - <i>Massachusetts</i>, maybe, to free them. You know, send 'em up to his relatives who live in the northern states and free them.<br />
<br />
Just an idea.<br />
<br />
Another thing that's driving me nuts about these books is the fact that the characters are all fairly static and lack depth. They're all too perfect, from the strong, handsome manly men, who know how to operate sawmills and plantations, and can capably manage "poor white trash" employees, to the sweet little wife, whose highest ambition in life is to pop out a baby each year, like a pre-antibiotic version of the Duggars (but not as creepy). All the women - even the intelligent ones! - are written as "dumb bunnies" who worship their husbands unquestioningly and live only for baby-making. And if there's a gal who doesn't meet this cartoonish standard, she is immediately portrayed as a virago who makes her husband miserable, or she's ugly, and therefore unworthy of either the characters' or the reader's attention.<br />
<br />
Since I first read the books, my spiritual outlook has changed. Sort of. It had nothing to do with the books, this change, but it has altered my viewpoint of the books.<br />
<br />
I didn't remember the St. Simon's Trilogy having such heavy-handed Christian undertones, and though they probably didn't rankle as a tween, they sure do, now.<br />
<br />
[EDIT: Okay, they're not undertones, by the third book, they're the whole story, essentially.]<br />
<br />
Up until I was in high school, I struggled with my faith. I was confirmed in the Methodist church as a 12 year old, but I didn't exactly believe everything I professed at the confirmation ceremony.<br />
<br />
I don't know many 12 year olds who will stand up to their parents and say, "Hey, guys? I know you believe this, and that's great, and I respect your beliefs, but I'm not sure I buy this. Can we wait a few years to have me join the church? Until I've really had time to figure this out?"<br />
<br />
Heaven knows, I didn't say it.<br />
<br />
I felt guilty, up until my final year of undergraduate education, because I didn't feel the whole "Christ is Risen!" hallelujah thing. I wrestled with my spirituality, sometimes deciding I could maybe force myself to believe, or at least to pretend, and other times realizing that I would be lying to myself and to everyone around me if I claimed to be a Good Christian.<br />
<br />
As a 12 year old who was frequently exposed to Christianity (church and those confirmation classes, all of my friends at school being either Baptist or Catholic or Nondenominational aka Southern Baptist), I probably went right along with the Christian messages of the books.<br />
<br />
That Christian message is that, if you believe in God and Jesus, then your life will all get fixed up, somehow, and you'll be happy. Believing in God, in the <i>Lighthouse</i> universe, is literally a <i>deus ex machina</i>: when the male protagonists turn to God, their problems are solved almost immediately.<br />
<br />
The "god from the machine" is literally God, you guys!<br />
<br />
And it's never the women who doubt God. [EDIT: In book 3, it's a woman. Mea Culpa.] No, women unquestioningly believe that God will save them, no matter if the hurricane just destroyed all the cotton, or the Indians near the sawmill are scalping and burning settlers.<br />
<br />
But it isn't enough for the women to believe, because ladies aren't strong enough to flag God's attention with our feeble little arms.<br />
<br />
Lady arms are made for holding babies, not signalling monotheistic deities.<br />
<br />
Duh.<br />
<br />
No, our big, strong husbands/brothers/fathers have to believe that God will save us, otherwise nothing will happen.<br />
<br />
Because God is a misogynist.<br />
<br />
Apparently.<br />
<br />
I'm almost finished with the second volume, and I was wrestling with whether to read the third volume or not. I've decided I will read it, despite my reservations.<br />
<br />
That is, if my feeble lady arms can support the volume's weight.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-27049547898064147792016-03-12T00:54:00.001-06:002016-03-25T17:57:56.627-05:00Wide AwakeIt's a little before 1:00 am on a Saturday morning, and I can't sleep.<br />
<br />
I've never been "a good sleeper." As I've aged, the insomnia has only worsened. In theory, there's a physiological reason for it: a calcified pineal gland, preventing my body from properly synthesizing melatonin. So I take melatonin at night, so I can sleep.<br />
<br />
Tonight, however, my insomnia is super awful. I'm wired. I need to be making, or doing, or something, but I don't know what I want to make.<br />
<br />
I tried reading, but I'm not 100% into the book I'm reading, and I couldn't force myself to continue slogging through it in my current frame of mind.<br />
<br />
I tried writing, but I've been bogged down lately on that, and am having trouble pushing myself forwards in my story. I don't know how George R.R. Martin does it, frankly. <br />
<br />
I tried to order wedding photos online, but had trouble with my account, so that failed, too.<br />
<br />
And I'd love to be organizing our office, re-styling the bookshelves and cleaning out the boxes of wedding ephemera that will go in our album (once I succeed in ordering photos), but that would be noisy, and my exhausted husband has long gone to sleep.<br />
<br />
In all probability, the insomnia is a forewarning of a migraine to come. It's common for me to have a night of awful, restless insomnia, and to have a full-blown migraine, next day.<br />
<br />
Or, the inability to settle myself down is a symptom of my anxiety and depression, which can also cause migraines, which then cause anxiety and depression and insomnia, and...<br />
<br />
I'm still having migraines and am unable to work, and I've made a decision about my treatment: I want to cleanse myself.<br />
<br />
I've been on so many drugs for so long that I no longer have any idea what it's like to just feel like myself. Back in 2010 - or possibly 2009 - my neurologist/best friend took me off of everything, so we would know what my baseline was. Since then, I've been on oodles of medications for various reasons: antidepressants and antipsychotics to prevent migraines, pain medicine for sciatic pain, muscle relaxants for muscle tension due to migraines.<br />
<br />
I no longer know what it feels like to be me, without any chemical alterations.<br />
<br />
For years, between the end of my chemotherapy and 2011, when a doctor put me back on antidepressants, I had very strong emotions. When I was happy, I was amazingly happy. When I was sad, I was completely devastated. But my emotions were true, and they were mine. I feel, these days, like I'm completely numb. I don't really feel, anymore. I try to, but really the only thing that gets through is sadness and anxiety.<br />
<br />
I don't know if taking myself off of my medications* will make a difference. I don't know if I'll feel happier again. I don't know if my migraines will grow worse, or better, or stay the same.<br />
<br />
But I do know that I'm tired of not feeling.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*taking myself off of my medications under doctor supervision and with their blessing, because some of this stuff will f*&$ you up if you just stop taking it</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-89960516921318691582016-02-01T15:22:00.000-06:002016-02-08T18:13:20.959-06:00Smart Phones and Credit Card FraudAbout six months ago, I was perusing the Cracked website when I came across an article in their "personal experience" series. The personal experiences range from <a href="http://www.cracked.com/personal-experiences-1298-5-truths-about-sexual-fetishes-a-dominatrixs-perspective.html" target="_blank">being a professional dominatrix</a> to <a href="http://www.cracked.com/personal-experiences-2020-it-can-rot-5-realities-hand-transplant.html" target="_blank">what it's like to have a hand transplant </a>(that's rejected).<br />
<br />
Six months ago, the personal experience series was about <a href="http://www.cracked.com/personal-experiences-1762-5-reasons-i-lost-249000-iphone-game.html" target="_blank">a guy who spent $9,000</a> playing Game of War, famously advertised using the breasts of Kate Upton and Mariah Carey.<br />
<br />
And can I just say that it's awesome that they're using Mariah Carey as a sex symbol? I mean, aside from the whole "objectifying women to get money" thing, she's 46 (or 45, depending on who you ask), and she totally rocks that metal bustier. Look out, Wonder Woman, she's gunning for you!<br />
<br />
More to the point, though, I thought that someone spending $9,000 to play a game on their phone was absolutely stupid. How the hell could someone sink that much money into their phone? I thought there was no game on earth that could make me drop that much cash - or, you know, credit - on a silly game. That was what happened to people who had no self control.<br />
<br />
Ahem.<br />
<br />
No, I haven't lost $9,000 to an iPhone game, but I did spend about $50 over the course of 3 days, without even realizing it. I was playing Bejeweled a lot, and kept seeing ads for Township, which seemed like a more involved version of the Farmville game that initially launched on Facebook 8 years ago (and which I enjoyed playing for a while). I thought, 'That would be a nice change. Something I can dip in and out of periodically throughout the day." I downloaded it. It was free, after all!<br />
<br />
Within about three hours, I was out of the valuable T-Bills (not treasury bills, but Township bills) that are required for... everything. Almost everything. I'd misunderstood how they were used, and only realized my error when they were all gone.<br />
<br />
No worries, I thought. I'll just buy some more, just this once. Two dollars later, I was charged up, again. Easy.<br />
<br />
But things have a way of snowballing, don't they? Instead of checking it occasionally, the game is timed so that some things are ready to be harvested after 1 minute, and some after hours have passed. So if you didn't constantly check in, you might miss the harvest, and with it the opportunity to earn more coins - not T-Bills - that were needed to do... stuff.<br />
<br />
You could pay to build a market using the coins, but when you don't have enough building materials at the end of construction - and no contractor to chew out and threaten with a lawsuit - you have to use the T-Bills to buy materials.<br />
<br />
And they go quickly.<br />
<br />
One building required 100 T-Bills to complete, because the damned train kept delivering the wrong materials. (100 T-Bills is about equal to $5.00)<br />
<br />
Fortunately, despite the fact that I eventually spent $50 on the game, I stopped myself after only three days. Three obsessive, <i>can-hardly-watch-Sherlock-because-I'm-playing-the-game </i>days.<br />
<br />
This morning, I deleted the game - and the 1500 citizens for whom I'd worked so hard to create a lovely town. I'd started thinking, the night before, 'I need to delete this app. It's a money pit." But I didn't, because then the money I'd already spent would be <i>wasted</i>.<br />
<br />
But I decided to drop the game at 6 am, after suffering a night of severe insomnia, possibly (probably) worsened by the game that had become somewhat addictive.<br />
<br />
And then it happened.<br />
<br />
At 9 a.m. I received a phone call from my credit card company, alerting me to possible fraud.<br />
<br />
'Oh, good grief!' I thought. 'This is <i>just</i> what I need!'<br />
<br />
Can you see where this is going?<br />
<br />
The credit card company had noticed two suspicious transactions from 'a record store' (also known as the iTunes App Store), close together and for larger amounts than were typically charged 'at that location.'<br />
<br />
So this afternoon, after guiltily informing my husband that the app had been deleted, and looking sheepish when he said, "It's not like you spent $20 on the game, or anything, right?", I called the credit card company and said, "Nope, that was me."<br />
<br />
Except I said it to an automaton, not a real person.<br />
<br />
Granted, I downloaded Tetris for my phone, but that doesn't require in-game payments to get ahead, just quick fingers.<br />
<br />
Hey, a girl needs some variety in her digital life, right?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-78067737340193372472016-01-26T18:06:00.002-06:002016-01-26T18:06:46.701-06:00"Just Okay" is Sometimes Awesome<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidQFz80awuiuEHd4rKahdoDYfI-bEogmzMIuNSlHL-0mSln3b2tCXHDiDwOoIfybds3y-5W3UQ7DSEoCkfPwBHCGfFhiGhRLj5pDZ76f_0099b8IwN_JgCbBSTHcAVl3E3eYgArtcGW0wT/s1600/MigrainesGotMeLike.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidQFz80awuiuEHd4rKahdoDYfI-bEogmzMIuNSlHL-0mSln3b2tCXHDiDwOoIfybds3y-5W3UQ7DSEoCkfPwBHCGfFhiGhRLj5pDZ76f_0099b8IwN_JgCbBSTHcAVl3E3eYgArtcGW0wT/s1600/MigrainesGotMeLike.png" /></a></div>
One of the things about being chronically ill is that I have a lot of bad days. There are a lot of days where I'm stuck in bed all day, feeling as if a vise is squeezing my temples, and the pain medicine I take only gives me so-so relief. And don't even get me started on migraine medications... Triptans are useless.<br />
<br />
So when a day like today comes around, and I'm headache-free (knock on wood), and my neck is only hurting a little bit, it's an okay day.<br />
<br />
Before this all started - AKA 6 years ago - if I woke up bloated and hormonal, with two or three zits sprouting on my forehead, it was <i>disastrous</i>.<br />
<br />
Now, if I wake up bloated and hormonal, with a single zit on my forehead (being Paleo means I rarely break out, now), some slight back/neck pain, and sore legs, that's an okay day. It isn't great, but it's okay.<br />
<br />
Okay has become, for me, the new great, is what I'm saying.<br />
<br />
Okay is when I have the energy to go to the grocery store by myself, to put a roast in the crock pot, to clean out my car, and work on our taxes.<br />
<br />
I need to take a moment to just process the fact that I'm filing an income tax return with a husband this year. Ack!<br />
<br />
The thing about being "okay", though, is that I still have to pace myself. When I was huffing and puffing by the time I got to the car, my plans to take the groceries home and head out from the house again had to be cancelled. I realized I needed to rest, lest I work myself into a migraine, so my trip to Williams-Sonoma would just have to wait.<br />
<br />
So, today was "okay", and I'm fine with that. I'm fine with the burning in my back muscles and neck from leaning over a pile of papers that desperately needed to be filed properly.<br />
<br />
I'm fine with the fact that cleaning out my car left me winded - despite the fact that I sat down the whole time.<br />
<br />
I'm fine with the sore legs, and the puffy stomach that's retaining water.<br />
<br />
I'm fine with it all.<br />
<br />
In fact, I'm more than fine: I'm great.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-29337745675549766162016-01-20T20:12:00.000-06:002016-01-20T20:12:09.388-06:00My Role in a Jane Austen Novel: Bedridden Lady of LeisureI'm lying in bed with my dog, Frederic, curled up next to me. In a few minutes, I'll be working on a story I've started - for the tenth time, actually, but I think I really have it, this time - and drinking water.<br />
<br />
I'm married, now - Frederic is actually my step-dog, I guess - and my husband is in the living room of our tiny three bedroom house in Houston. I can hear the narrator of Ken Burns' "Civil War" faintly, and last time I peeked into the living room, my beloved husband was working on a needlepoint project: a pillow with "Home Sweet Home" in blocky text at the top, with two palm trees flanking a smiling Predator below.<br />
<br />
It's amazing.<br />
<br />
No, he didn't know how to needlepoint before he met me. He learned about two months ago, first starting with a kit geared towards 5-year-olds that depicted a dog. The dog is named Toby, and will eventually be framed. The Predator is named Theodore, because we have a thing about naming stuff. (Frederic's current favorite toy is a stuffed fabric bone that has a handle for playing tug-o-war. It's named Bonaparte, because it's a bone that comes apart).<br />
<br />
The last time I wrote was about a year ago, I think. Maybe a little less. I was still planning a wedding, at that point, preparing for the best day of my life.<br />
<br />
That day has come and gone, and I still feel amazingly blessed. Even more so than I did before.<br />
<br />
Our first 6 months of marriage haven't been easy. I was suffering chronic migraines - still am, actually - and my doctor at the time had decided I was faking it, seeing as she couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. I guess she thought struggling to live on the 60% pay that came with my short-term disability insurance while paying $500 per month in medical bills was a walk in the park.<br />
<br />
I (and my migraines) went back to work, and I averaged 3 days per week, for a while. Then that dwindled to two days per week. I was struggling to make the 30 hours per week I needed to keep my insurance. <br />
<br />
I have since found a doctor who believes me, but we aren't any closer to my migraines going away. I was able to take Family and Medical Leave for three months, but when those were up, I ended up resigning my position, with support from my husband.<br />
<br />
I have mercury toxicity, which could be contributing to the migraines, and I've since quit eating fish - unless I know where it comes from - and had the mercury-containing fillings in my mouth removed.<br />
<br />
Despite all of that, I've had no relief. Occasionally, I'll feel awesome, but if I'm not careful, awesome can turn really quickly into just-kill-me. So I tend not to get out and do much. I'm afraid I'll be thirty minutes from home in my 10-year-old Civic and not be able to get back to our little bungalow.<br />
<br />
I'm also seeing a new neurologist, whose office is five minutes away from Chez StrainedConsciousness. She specializes in headaches, unlike my old doctor who treated headaches alongside other neurological illnesses.<br />
<br />
So we're still trying to figure out what's wrong with me, and hoping we'll find out sooner, rather than later.<br />
<br />
And if that's "sooner", then my old job is still waiting for me. My wonderful boss told me, the day I cleaned out my desk, that the firm wants me back, once I'm healthy again. Even if it's just part-time, at first, I have a place (barring some economic catastrophe that wipes out all of the company's work).<br />
<br />
I'm incredibly lucky that my boss is a kind, caring man, who I believe truly cares about his employees. It probably doesn't hurt that he has a daughter my age, either.<br />
<br />
While I've been home, I've done a lot of reading - lots of different genres - and a lot of writing. I want to simultaneously write three different stories, but I don't know if I'm capable of that. I'm afraid I'd have difficulty maintaining the individual "voices" each book requires, because one is a young-adult fantasy book, one is an adult fantasy book (but not, you know, <i>bow-chika-bow-wow adult</i>), and one is historical fiction, set in the 1910s-1950s.<br />
<br />
I've also considered opening an Etsy shop - don't laugh, now! - to sell embroidery. Not needlepoint, because I doubt people would want to pay $400 for a Christmas stocking, but simpler embroidery that could be framed. I'm still considering it, though my sister's voice is in the back of my head reminding me that I have yet to finish the needlepoint stockings I'm making for my niece and nephew.<br />
<br />
So there's simultaneously a lot going on, and <i>nothing</i> going on. Lots of different stressors, but not a lot to do.<br />
<br />
So if you have any ideas for what I could do without having to stare at a computer screen, all day, and also ones that I can do while completely horizontal (because sometimes, just sitting up hurts), I'd love to hear them.<br />
<br />
Hopefully, they'll give me more to write about than just, you know, whining about my health.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-17202008636029653342015-03-26T22:19:00.000-05:002015-03-26T22:19:01.643-05:00Mawwiage is what bwings us togevah today.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRm7fbztiTXZvQxk8I699-hjjdVxkkib45508GhMge82hNvYr-3OoFkhdIsY0k8FdBDy6XG0sh5H2Hx7YJSNlssUUP-s02FLnFEw70l0CkJbqsajycmw8e_qjRYo1wCaMduP8DBzPlh_3p/s1600/ihadaprofessorincollegewhotalkedjustlikethis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRm7fbztiTXZvQxk8I699-hjjdVxkkib45508GhMge82hNvYr-3OoFkhdIsY0k8FdBDy6XG0sh5H2Hx7YJSNlssUUP-s02FLnFEw70l0CkJbqsajycmw8e_qjRYo1wCaMduP8DBzPlh_3p/s1600/ihadaprofessorincollegewhotalkedjustlikethis.jpg" height="320" width="228" /></a>I mentioned in my last post - just yesterday! - that I'm engaged to be married.<br />
<br />
For a while, it seemed like it would never happen. I contemplated buying the China I wanted bit by bit, because I started to see myself as hip, single Aunt StrainedConsciousness for the rest of my life.<br />
<br />
I'd been dating a fellow for a few months, and had informed him, on our third or fourth date, that I had some health problems, and that they weren't fun to deal with (I went whole hog and told him about the intestinal fungal infection, because that's attractive). His response was, "No problem."<br />
<br />
At least, it wasn't a problem until it was a problem, until I didn't want to go to a concert because my infection was back, and I felt awful and exhausted and nauseous. And then, he just... stopped calling. Because five months of dating didn't warrant more than that, apparently.<br />
<br />
When I realized that he had no interest in continuing to date me, I was <i>pissed</i>. Pissed that he didn't have the <i>cojones</i> to tell me himself, and pissed that I'd wasted my time on him, particularly since I'd straight up told him, in detail, how the infections affected me, when they happened.<br />
<br />
I got on eHarmony that night, and responded to several messages that had been dropped into my InBox in the past two weeks.<br />
<br />
One of those messages was from the man I will marry on May 30, 2015.<br />
<br />
He was cute, judging by the picture, and wrote exceptionally well, and seemed to have a well-developed sense of humor. We met for coffee a few weeks later - we began corresponding over the Christmas holidays of 2013 - and I liked him immediately.<br />
<br />
Except he needed a haircut. But hey, that's easily fixed, right?<br />
<br />
He had a good sense of humor, a wide range of interests, and he was exactly like his picture on the eHarmony website. Except more handsome, so hooray!<br />
<br />
Our second date was at the Museum of Natural History in Houston. I'd been wanting to see their Egyptian Hall, so we went. We also went through the butterfly exhibit, which was fun, but the best part was definitely the Egyptian Hall.<br />
<br />
Why? Because of all of the amazingly hilarious jokes that can be made at the expense of mummies.<br />
<br />
Yes, I know, I'm going to hell for mocking dead people. Or, at least their canopic jars.<br />
<br />
As we wandered through the gift shop on the way out, a Triceratops mug caught my eye. Not just any triceratops mug, though: an over-sized triceraCHOPS mug, showing the different cuts of meat on a triceratops. My Future Husband bought it for me, and I still use it every day at the office.<br />
<br />
By our fifth date - when he made me dinner at 9:30 at night because I was exhausted, on my anti-candida diet, and had just left work - I was hooked. I had to drive to my parents' house, the next day, and when I got there, I cancelled my eHarmony account. I'd found the one.<br />
<br />
By our fifth date. Because I didn't feel like breaking my dad's record (He told my mom on their third date that he was going to marry her. She laughed at him.)<br />
<br />
Jump ahead fifteen months, and I'm two months away from our wedding.<br />
<br />
It's going to be pink. If you'd told me two years ago that I'd be having a pink wedding, I would have laughed in your face.<br />
<br />
<i>However, </i>My Future Husband and I attend the Unitarian Universalist Church in Houston, and its interior is painted in two different tones of pink, with soft green accents and beautiful mid-tone wood paneling. It's a very Frank Lloyd Wright-ian building (as are many Unitarian Churches), and I'm thrilled to be having our ceremony there.<br />
<br />
My niece was initially excited about it, because that means that her flower girl dress will be pink. Except she just told my sister/Matron of Honor that she wanted a gold dress.<br />
<br />
TOO BAD, KIDDO. YOU WILL WEAR YOUR FAVORITE COLOR AND YOU WILL LIKE IT.<br />
<br />
Anyways, we're having a morning ceremony - 11:00 a.m. - with a luncheon to follow at Ouisie's Table, a Houston institution, and also site of the one and only instance in which I've had a waiter pour a drink on me (it was a Bloody Mary, for the record, on my birthday. I think I was 22).<br />
<br />
And then, the next day, My Future Husband and I will leave for almost a week in Santa Fe, New Mexico, one of my absolute favorite places to visit.<br />
<br />
We've been living together since shortly after our engagement - I was very ill, unable to work, and could no longer afford the rent on my apartment - and My Future Husband has been doing an excellent job of dealing with Wedding Decisions.<br />
<br />
For instance, he chose the wedding invitations. I stood in the living room, with six different invitation samples in hand, hemming and hawing about which ones I liked, and he took them, sorted through them, and held up the one we are about to mail out to our guests. "I like this one," he said.<br />
<br />
It's pearlescent pink with black lettering. I would never in a million years have thought he'd pick it, but he did! And I like it.<br />
<br />
When we went to pre-shop for our registry, I couldn't decide on the Formal Flatware I wanted, and he opened a drawer of flatware, said, "I like this one," and <i>voila!</i> It looked better with our China than any of the others I'd seen.<br />
<br />
And then we bought chocolate at the fancy candy counter in the store where we registered (if you're ever in Houston, check out Bering's Hardware: you can buy chocolate, Herend porcelain, William Yeoward crystal, and lawn mowers).<br />
<br />
It's nice to have someone who can defuse some of my OCDesign. And he hasn't built a bonfire out of my design magazines, either.<br />
<br />
Yet...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-67231773800277656182015-03-25T21:28:00.003-05:002016-02-08T18:23:01.178-06:00Sisters. Sisters. There were never such adoring sisters.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxzP9IwxCAxT9D12R8mFRgMpW26z-14CJ6ukXtQZT4UPogoQQHe4jHPPXhkW3yWwgoCG4hnlIQjDCeG9agiBARo7cn7pFBGefEwn5RnsLXOPcZWe5Z_GgMQv5KHQzhRuIptGkLYR7ClmT/s1600/Sisterhood-Award.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxzP9IwxCAxT9D12R8mFRgMpW26z-14CJ6ukXtQZT4UPogoQQHe4jHPPXhkW3yWwgoCG4hnlIQjDCeG9agiBARo7cn7pFBGefEwn5RnsLXOPcZWe5Z_GgMQv5KHQzhRuIptGkLYR7ClmT/s1600/Sisterhood-Award.png" /></a>I received a message via Facebook, today, informing me that I had been granted a "Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award." The awarder...<br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
The awardor...<br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
The award giver? Granter? Grantor? Grantor, according to Merriam-Webster.<br />
<br />
Okay, here we go again. The award grantor is my third cousin, the daughter of my Cousin Thom. After Thom's death, she took over his blog, <a href="http://bluedollarbill.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">To Gyre and Gambol</a>, and has definitely lived up to his legacy.<br />
<br />
Since I blogged about <a href="http://strainedconsciousness.blogspot.com/2014/09/for-thom.html" target="_blank">Thom</a>, I haven't written another entry, although I've meant to do so. I've mentally composed several posts, but then didn't get around to writing them.<br />
<br />
I've been busy. I met the man of my dreams, and on May 30, 2015, I will marry him in a smallish ceremony here in Houston. We now share a home, and he has been through a round of everyone's favorite game: "Megan's Bedridden Again!" <br />
<br />
So we have the whole "in sickness and in health" thing covered.<br />
<br />
Lots going on. And that's part of why I haven't blogged: I felt there was too much to catch up on.<br />
<br />
But now, I've been given an award, and so I will blog, tonight, for the first time in six months.<br />
<br />
So here are the questions <a href="https://plus.google.com/109445477231831272434/posts" target="_blank">Amy</a> sent me to answer:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><b><u>Why did you start blogging?</u></b></li>
</ul>
My sister suggested it. I was unemployed in 2008, and had nothing to do. I would write these loooooooong emails full of details about what it's like to be unemployed to her, and she told me how funny they were. I was reading constantly, and wanted a way to "discuss" my books with people, and so when my sister (also named Amy, by the way - total fluke in the family naming thing) suggested I start a blog, I decided to do so. I initially had a schedule: Monday was a review of the bar I went to on Friday for Architects' Happy Hour, Tuesday was some amusing anecdote related to being unemployed, Wednesday was also some amusing anecdote related to being unemployed, Thursday was often a book review, and Friday was either another random story or a picture of alcohol, because I was too busy going to Happy Hour at 5:30. Don't knock it. It's how I got my next job. "You can hold your booze and won't put up with alcoholics' shenanigans? You're hired!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><u><b>Do you have a favorite scar? Tell us its story</b></u></span></li>
</ul>
I actually have three favorite scars. Is that cheating? Maybe? I never claimed not to be a cheater, you know.<br />
<u><b> </b></u><br />
Three favorite scars: one beneath my right breast - 1.5" long and 1/8" wide; quasi-symmetrical ones fanning out from my waist down to my hips. The fan-shaped scars used to be bright red, then purple, but now they're a shiny flesh-tone, almost invisible unless you see them in the right light. Or wrong light, depending on your feelings about scars.<br />
<br />
All three come from chemotherapy treatment as a 17 year old. I got all of them within a three month period of time. On December 4, 1999, I had surgery to implant a port-a-cath, which is usually implanted <i>above</i> the breast in teenage patients, so it doesn't interfere with brassieres. When I was diagnosed, however, I weighed a skeletal 105 lbs, so there wasn't enough fat over my rib cage to implant the port-a-cath above my breast. So the placed it below my right breast, but out of the way of the band of my bra.<br />
<br />
The other two scars are also related to my being 105 lbs of nothing when I was diagnosed with leukemia. My doctors put me on steroids, you see, as part of my treatment, and I proceeded to eat all the food ever. I would go through a gallon of whole milk and 1.5 lbs of ham in two days. And that doesn't include the 3 a.m. scrambled eggs I would make for myself, or the Oreos, or the microwaved frozen broccoli.<br />
<br />
I gained a lot of weight in a short period of time, and after three months of chemotherapy and steroids - and the puffiness that comes with being on steroids - I noticed that I was getting funny marks on my hips. Stretch marks. From gaining weight.<br />
<br />
I used to be ashamed of the scars on my hips. It's helped that they've faded, with time, but I also see them as a symbol of what I went through, and who it helped me to become.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><u><b>Are you sunrise, daylight, twilight, or night?</b></u></li>
</ul>
I am the walrus. Koo koo ka choo.<br />
<br />
I used to think I was night. I'm still a bit of a night owl, but something I've learned in the past six months is that I crave sunlight. I've actually cured migraines by sitting in the sunlight and resting, so I think I'm now daylight.<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><u><b>What's the best meal you've ever had?</b></u></li>
</ul>
The best meal I've ever had... I've had lots of great meals, memorable meals, but I think the best one was on November 1st of 2014. That was the day The Love of My Life asked me to marry him, and we went to Ruth's Chris for dinner, that night. (I thought he was going to propose at dinner, but then he stole a march on me and proposed before we went to lunch.) When we arrived, one of his friends had called the restaurant, told them what had happened, and paid for us to have a bottle of champagne. At first, I thought Robert - the fiance - had ordered the champagne. But then he asked if I'd done it. Nope. There was a card on the table, and that straightened things out pretty quickly. I had filet mignon, mushrooms, and asparagus with hollandaise with creme brulee for dessert.<br />
<br />
It wasn't the best food I've ever had, but the company couldn't be beat.<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><u><b>If you wrote a book, what would it be about? Write the inside front jacket.</b></u></li>
</ul>
I've actually written a book, but it's nowhere near being publishable. There's a ton of work to be done on it. If I had a year without a job, I'd work on it, and probably get it polished up in a couple of months. It's a fairy tale about a benevolent witch - it's a matriarchal society, and men are kind of (really) looked down on - who has to go on a journey to find a cure for the coven's matriarch, who will die without this cure. So she leaves, and eventually finds the cure, and on the way decides that neither humans nor males are so bad (in fact, some of them are smokin', but in a totally PG way), and she is also disappointed in some things. The character, as I initially wrote her, is too perfect, though, too cold, and too remote. She isn't someone you really want to read about. I've grown better about having relatable characters, in the intervening years (I wrote it 5 years ago), so I think I could turn it into something publishable, if I had the time.<br />
<br />
<u><b> </b></u><br />
But as for writing the inside front jacket? I don't know if my late-night mental muscles are up to that taxing task...<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><u><b>Tattoos: yea or nay?</b></u></li>
</ul>
I certainly don't have any! Long ago, I wanted to be tan, but then I had cancer, and I decided I didn't want to get cancer again, so now I'm perfectly happy being fair-skinned. It isn't pale, it's <i>porcelain</i>, and I'm rocking it. And I work pretty hard to keep it nice, especially after the time I ended up with a striped sunburn after floating the Comal River in San Marcos, TX. No ink shall mar this creamy canvas.<br />
<u><b> </b></u><br />
<ul>
<li><u><b>What do you wish you were better at?</b></u></li>
</ul>
Wow. There are so many possibilities here. One: getting off my duff and exercising. Two: socializing. I sort of have social anxiety, especially after bouts of illness, and then the idea of going out with a group of people can send me into a panic. Fortunately, my lifemate is good at talking me down (even when he thinks it's just me "not having anything to wear", which is a very convenient excuse for me). Three: riding a bike, snapping, and whistling. That's I lie, I wish I could actually do those things, not just be better at them. That's right: I refused to learn to ride a bike. I need three wheels under my caboose, or it's game over.<br />
<u><b> </b></u><br />
<ul>
<li><u><b>Which young-adult bestseller-turned move do you dislike the most?</b></u></li>
</ul>
I can't really speak to this one, since I haven't seen any of them. I've heard the Hunger Games movies are actually really good, but I'm so madly in love with the books that I'm afraid I'd be disappointed if I saw them.<br />
<u><b> </b></u><br />
<ul>
<li><u><b>Public school or private? Interpret whichever way you like.</b></u></li>
</ul>
I went to public school. I found out, within the past two years, that a lot of students in my district perceived my school as "ghetto". I couldn't figure out why, initially, and then I realized that we were one of the few schools on my side of town that had a racially diverse population. We had Hispanics and African Americans at my middle school! Gasp! It was good for me to be in a diverse population. I didn't realize until my parents pointed it out that two of my friends were Hispanic. ("Huh? Oh. I guess they are. Whaddaya know.")<br />
<u><b> </b></u><br />
<ul>
<li><u><b>What fashion decision do you most regret?</b></u></li>
</ul>
Dream-catcher earrings in the sixth grade. Hands down.<br />
<u><b> </b></u><br />
<u><b> </b></u><br />
I'm supposed to pass this on, now, and award it to someone else. The difficulty there is that I'm out of practice with reading blogs. I never really read other peoples' blogs, much. This blog was just a way for me to vent, and to be creative and maybe have 100 people read an entry on <a href="http://strainedconsciousness.blogspot.com/2011/02/maddaddam-trilogy-by-margaret-atwood.html" target="_blank">Margaret Atwood's MaddAddam</a> series (which she <a href="http://www.amazon.com/MaddAddam-Maddaddam-Trilogy-Margaret-Atwood/dp/0307455483/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1427336422&sr=8-1&keywords=maddaddam" target="_blank"><i>finally</i> finished</a>. Helllo! That took a while!).<br />
<br />
So I'm going to be a bad sister, in this Sisterhood of Bloggers, and break the chain.<br />
<br />
Hopefully I don't have 7 years of bad luck.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-50034784889437897872014-09-05T16:58:00.000-05:002014-09-05T16:58:23.039-05:00For ThomI haven't written since January.<br />
<br />
There's a reason for that. Not a good one, necessarily, but here it goes.<br />
<br />
I essentially wrote for one person. And that person was not, at least after a time, myself.<br />
<br />
I wrote for my second cousin, Thom, who encouraged me, laughed at my posts, and made me feel like I had some impact on people out there in the great beyond. His own blog posts were funny, poignant, insightful, and witty (not necessarily the same as funny, mind you). He was a wonderful and warm human being, and I hadn't seen him since I was about 15 years old, when he swung through Texas for some reason or another from the state of New York, where he was a professor of psychology.<br />
<br />
Thom and I reconnected after a span of years when he joined Facebook and "friended" me. He was funny and conversational, with excellent jokes and commentaries on society, and I enjoyed getting to know him through an electronic medium that made him feel close by, despite the physical distance between us.<br />
<br />
Thom sent me all the figurines from the Happy Meal's partnership with the Ice Age III movie to decorate my cubicle when I worked with Oldsmobile, Radio, Pacman, and Scooter (I'd received a couple because, um, I used to eat Happy Meals for lunch on the way back from the construction site). He sent me links to migraine research he'd dug up when I was so very, very ill in <a href="http://strainedconsciousness.blogspot.com/2010/11/human-pincushion.html" target="_blank">November</a> and <a href="http://strainedconsciousness.blogspot.com/2010/12/dr-useless.html" target="_blank">December</a> of 2010, along with humorous Facebook posts that made me laugh (a difficult feat to accomplish, at the time).<br />
<br />
And then, on February 9, 2014, Thom died suddenly. And I was completely and totally devastated.<br />
<br />
As is the case when I am upset or experiencing great loss, I shut down whatever portions of my life dealt with that loss. In this case, my blogging went by the wayside.<br />
<br />
Without Thom to read it, what was the point? For me, there wasn't one. Not for a very long time.<br />
<br />
This wasn't a decision I consciously made, however. I just avoided StrainedConsciousness. I would think about writing, but then all the emotion I felt thinking that Thom wouldn't be around to read it would overwhelm me, and I'd decide not to.<br />
<br />
A couple of months ago, my mom mentioned that I hadn't written in a very long time, and I softly told her that no, I hadn't written since Thom died. She teared up, and asked why, and I told her he wouldn't be around to read it. And I cried.<br />
<br />
And then I realized that Thom would still want me to keep writing, even if he isn't around to comment on my posts. And I decided it was time to get back to it.<br />
<br />
Part of the reason I've decided to get back to it is that, at present, I'm in another period of time where I'm unwell.<br />
<br />
I'm back to daily migraines, again, albeit not ones as traumatic as those of 2010. They're still debilitating, though, and I'm currently on leave from work while my Wellness Doctor tries every trick up her sleeve to see what's wrong with me (my neurologist performed Botox, but he's stumped, otherwise).<br />
<br />
My micronutrient assays are fine, for the most part, so it's not something there that's causing the issue.<br />
<br />
My candidiasis is in control (woohoo!), so that's not the culprit.<br />
<br />
But still, I'm chronically exhausted and have awful migraines.<br />
<br />
By now, I have tears streaming down my face, and my migraine is hellacious, but I'm pressing through for a few more minutes before I take my drugs - I'm back to "snowing" myself, because acute migraine medicines aren't working.<br />
<br />
And I need some sort of outlet. So I decided, at a point in the afternoon that my migraine wasn't raging (about an hour ago, honestly) to get back to blogging.<br />
<br />
Not only for myself, but for Thom.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-47090289051347809062014-01-24T20:33:00.001-06:002014-01-24T20:33:19.790-06:00A Wee Bit ProductiveA blustery cold front hit Houston, Thursday afternoon and evening, accompanied by the ever-dreaded 'sleet'. I was aware that it was a possibility, so I arose earlier than usual to check the weather and road conditions before heading to work.<br />
<br />
At 6:30 a.m., there were five wrecks on Houston highways caused by ice on the roads, and the roads leading from my little apartment to my office were hella iced up.<br />
<br />
I emailed my supervisors and our receptionist to tell them that I would not be in the office, due to ice. Did I mention that the drainage runnel that flows through the middle of my apartment complex's parking lot was also full of ice? And that the funny fabric awning over my balcony had icicles danging from its scalloped edges in a slightly obscene manner?<br />
<br />
No? Well, there was ice and icicles everywhere.<br />
<br />
So. Home.<br />
<br />
I did get out around 1:00 pm to pick up a feather-bed I'd had dry-cleaned, and I briefly considered going in to the office. It didn't happen, though. Instead, I will be in the office on a Saturday - hopefully with heat, but possibly not. I'll make sure I take my gloves and a hat.<br />
<br />
Instead of going to the office, I stayed home, cleaned my kitchen, un-bagged tons of dry cleaning that never quite made it into the closet, and pulled a few things out of my closet that I can't wear, these days (mostly because my chest decreased in size, along with my waist and twigs - er - thighs, and so they're now obscenely low cut).<br />
<br />
Saturday morning, prior to going in to the office, I will run to the recycling center and then to a goodwill depository, because I'm not going to bother trying to consign two silk blouses.<br />
<br />
In repentance for staying home from work, I worked on my taxes, too.<br />
<br />
Did you know that $10,000 of medical expenses when you've made more than $40,000 in a year will get you absolutely jack squat of an income tax return? But add in $6000 of tuition paid, and <i>voila!</i> Enormous return.<br />
<br />
Hopefully, that return will pay off the $3000 of health expenses that have been sitting on my credit card, accumulating interest, for the past few months. And, hopefully, TurboTax's return estimator is as accurate as it seems.<br />
<br />
After I pay all of that business off, I'm going to try to go credit-card free for a while.<br />
<br />
I've been paying for <i>everything</i> with credit cards, but I'm starting to realize that I don't pay as much attention to my monthly spending as I do when I pay with a debit card or cash. So I'm considering switching to a debit card, even though it means I won't get all of the free money - er - points, that I get when I use my credit card.<br />
<br />
We'll see if this actually happens, because those points sure are handy when I want to buy, say, two chairs and a ceramic garden stool so I can sit out on my balcony on beautiful days the week before we get an ice storm.<br />
<br />
Hooray, Houston.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-9689163261684133252014-01-18T13:39:00.003-06:002014-01-18T13:39:48.767-06:00Health BlogIn the past two months, I've had the flu twice.<br />
<br />
The first time, it was probably swine flu (but not a definite thing, because I wasn't tested for it at the time: I was too sick to get myself to the doctor, and too sick, literally, to pick up the phone for a period of about 24 hours. Terrifying. The "probably" comes from the doctor I saw for my second bout). The second time, it was probably Influenza Type B.<br />
<br />
Get your flu shot people. I didn't think I could, because I'm egg-intolerant, but the doctor told me that, so long as I'm not deathly allergic to eggs (I'm not. My body just dislikes them intensely), I can get a flu shot.<br />
<br />
Wish I'd known that back in October...<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, as a result of my Flu Type B, I had to go on antibiotics - hooray, secondary infections! - and that brought back my candida infection.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
It isn't the first time it's come back (that was in October, and the guy I was dating broke up with me as a result of it).<br />
<br />
When I was first diagnosed and went through the first yeast cleanse, I lost about 10 pounds - I weighed in at 135 pounds, at the time. I was a healthy weight. At 125 lbs, I was still healthy.<br />
<br />
However, since getting the flu - twice - I've lost another 10 pounds, and I'm down to a frighteningly skinny 115 lbs.<br />
<br />
I know. Wah. Poor Ms. StrainedConsciousness is too skinny.<br />
<br />
But here's the thing: if you get too thin - which I am now - you'll start having health problems, not just now, but in future (<i>hello</i>, osteoporosis). And I'm getting ready to start another serious yeast cleanse, with no fruit for two weeks, 6 tbsp. max of coconut creamer per day (and no other coconut products except for coconut oil because of the sugar content), no sugar, and one serving of sweet potato per day.<br />
<br />
For a normal person who could eat eggs and gorge themselves on almond butter, this wouldn't be a problem: just buy some egg white protein powder, drink 1 or 2 protein shakes per day with some almond butter thrown in for healthy fat, and <i>voila!</i> no unhealthy weight loss.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I don't have that option, though, and I can't have whey protein either, because I'm allergic to that, too.<br />
<br />
I'm allergic to everything, essentially.<br />
<br />
I just spent the past hour scouring the internet looking for breakfast-appropriate foods that will help me gain weight (yup, actively trying to gain 5-10 lbs. Quite possibly the only woman I know with this problem).<br />
<br />
I finally found a source for it, too. Thanks to the <a href="http://detoxinista.com/recipes/candida-cleansing-recipes/" target="_blank">Detoxinista</a>, who actually understands that you shouldn't have ANY dairy or fruit or a full cup of coconut milk when you're doing a yeast cleanse. You better believe I'll be whipping up an avocado-based chocolate shake, every day, from now on!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-6720962946918547522014-01-16T20:16:00.004-06:002014-01-16T20:17:11.497-06:0017 Shades of Gray<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I'm currently working on a project that I first worked on back in 2007. Back then, I lived in Dallas and worked for a different firm, and I was master-planning the project.<br />
<br />
Then, of course, 2008 had to go and happen, and I lost my job, and the project was shelved for a couple of years.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to 2013.<br />
<br />
When I graduated, I began work at an <i>amazing</i> firm in Houston, and I love it there. Here. Wherever. I'm also back on that 2007-era project, albeit designing apartment units for the client, instead of laying out the site.<br />
<br />
I confess, I'm happy I'm no longer a part of the master-planning shennanigans. They were pretty miserable, because of all of the codes, covenants, and restrictions governing what could be done on the site, where, and how.<br />
<br />
The client decided that they wanted us to design the units' interiors, as well, which is a bit of an unusual request, for us. Typically, the interior designer who handles the amenity spaces - the club room, lobby, gym, etc. - also does the apartment interiors.<br />
<br />
Not this time around.<br />
<br />
Since we technically don't have any interior designers working in our multi-family studio, I was nominated to the post of temporary interior-designery-type person.<br />
<br />
It's been crazy. For three weeks, my desk - and the table I technically share with three coworkers - was drowning in a sea of carpet, tile, quartz, and cabinetry samples. Now, fortunately, I just have a few cabinetry samples and a few errant tiles lying around, because I claimed space in the Resource Center for my very own: a basket, labeled with the project name, containing samples of everything needed for three separate buildings.<br />
<br />
I didn't mention that, did I?<br />
<br />
Yep, three buildings, with three price-points for rental, three target demographics, and three distinct characters.<br />
<br />
It's fun, but a bit overwhelming.<br />
<br />
In a few days, I'll be drowning in 17 paint samples, because trying to go through the fan decks in our Resource Center to find a decent shade of white and a nice shade of gray was just overwhelming, so I ordered some that looked likely from the Benjamin Moore professional website.<br />
<br />
Also, it's almost impossible to tell what a color's going to look like from a tiny little swatch on a fan deck.<br />
<br />
The process of choosing a perfect white and a passable gray reminds me of this fall, when I helped my sister select whites for her new house (it's gorgeous. Seriously.). We painted umpteen-million swatches of paint on the wall in search of two whites - one for the wall, and one for the trim and cabinetry.<br />
<br />
I think we did a good job, though the contractors probably thought we were insane, what with all of the whites we went through (a bazillion, in case I failed to mention).<br />
<br />
I look forward to the next few days, when I'll receive my new paints - which will hopefully be neither too green nor too blue nor too pink, because apparently, gray can be too pink, as can white <shudder> - and meet with two product reps about engineered hardwood floors, which I'm having some trouble pinning down for one building.</shudder><br />
<br />
Fortunately, right now, all I have to do is pick fixtures for the bathrooms and kitchens - two of the buildings will probably end up with the same fixtures, because it's difficult to find ones I like and that I think the client will also like. The mid-priced building and the value-priced building already have their floors selected, fortunately.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, I wouldn't be able to afford to live in even the value-priced building. Good thing it's in Dallas, so I don't have to worry about it!<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5996128390009466625.post-80850747202312994492014-01-05T18:21:00.000-06:002014-01-05T18:21:13.578-06:00Once in a Blue Moon...Once in a Blue Moon, I'll decide to post something, come onto the ole blogsite, and then sit in front of my keyboard, absolutely clueless about what I'm going to write.<br />
<br />
It's been about 6 months since I last blogged. The reason for my lack of blogs is that I now have a job, and I often work overtime at said job (and get paid for said overtime, at that), and when I get home, the last thing I want to do is sit in front of my computer and stare at the computer screen.<br />
<br />
And when I am at home, looking at my computer screen, it's because I'm: 1) still working (but in bed); 2) looking online for things for my sister (like bedspreads for my niece's bedroom in my sister's and BIL's new house); 3) researching stuff for the story I'm currently writing; 4) on eHarmony, scoping out the hunks.<br />
<br />
Yup, still on eHarmony.<br />
<br />
Or, should I say, <i>back</i> on eHarmony.<br />
<br />
For a while, I was "inactive", because I was dating someone (for about... 4 months? ish?). I really liked him, even though he was an architect.<br />
<br />
Okay, he <i>is</i> an architect, but he's dead to me, now, so we'll say <i>was</i>.<br />
<br />
Our relationship was going well: I'd told him about my health problems - which is always terrifying for me, because I've had guys find out that I have them and *poof* disappear - and he seemed okay with it. He was cute and funny and intelligent and could fix things himself.<br />
<br />
And then, my candida infection came back as a result of antibiotic treatments during which (like an idiot) I ate a less than stellar diet.<br />
<br />
It took 6 weeks of treatment - medication again, super-strict diet again - before it was cleared up, and during that time, I was really tired and weak.<br />
<br />
And the now-ex-boyfriend found out exactly what I meant when I said "I have health problems" and explained them to him.<br />
<br />
Essentially, after I got better, he disappeared. He just quit calling me.<br />
<br />
At first, I thought that maybe he felt like he was having to make all the effort at communication, and so I called and texted him just to check in, and suggested we have a meal, or something.<br />
<br />
We met for breakfast - for the first time in two weeks - the day before Thanksgiving, after which I went to a doctor's appointment and then flew to Dallas for the holidays.<br />
<br />
Once I returned to Dallas, his lack of communication continued. And then he was busy.<br />
<br />
I made one last-ditch effort - texted on a Sunday afternoon to see if he was free any night that week - and his response was "You can come over after I go for a run, tonight, if you want to."<br />
<br />
In other words, if I wanted to see him, I'd have to drive 30 minutes (he didn't live close to me). And I had to work that evening - as I'd been doing quite a bit, at that time, because of a looming meeting. I was trying to plan my week - rearrange my schedule if need be - so I could see him.<br />
<br />
When I told him I had to work that night but was free any other night, his response was "Bummer." There was no suggestion that I come over another evening.<br />
<br />
I waited an hour to see if he'd suggest I come over another evening, and then said, "Screw you, a*$#@*%!" <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(but not in a sexual way)</span> and reactivated my eHarmony account immediately.<br />
<br />
I've since been on two dates - one was a definite "Aw, <i>hell</i> no!", but today's was excellent if I pretend his hair is different - and I'm okay.<br />
<br />
Oh bla dee, oh bla dah, life goes on.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(But seriously, f**k that guy.)</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0