"Just Okay" is Sometimes Awesome

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.

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.

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 disastrous.

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.

Okay has become, for me, the new great, is what I'm saying.

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.

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!

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.

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.

I'm fine with the fact that cleaning out my car left me winded - despite the fact that I sat down the whole time.

I'm fine with the sore legs, and the puffy stomach that's retaining water.

I'm fine with it all.

In fact, I'm more than fine: I'm great.

My Role in a Jane Austen Novel: Bedridden Lady of Leisure

I'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.

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.

It's amazing.

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).

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.

That day has come and gone, and I still feel amazingly blessed. Even more so than I did before.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

So we're still trying to figure out what's wrong with me, and hoping we'll find out sooner, rather than later.

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).

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.

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, bow-chika-bow-wow adult), and one is historical fiction, set in the 1910s-1950s.

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.

So there's simultaneously a lot going on, and nothing going on. Lots of different stressors, but not a lot to do.

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.

Hopefully, they'll give me more to write about than just, you know, whining about my health.

Mawwiage is what bwings us togevah today.

I mentioned in my last post - just yesterday! - that I'm engaged to be married.

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.

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."

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.

When I realized that he had no interest in continuing to date me, I was pissed. Pissed that he didn't have the cojones 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.

I got on eHarmony that night, and responded to several messages that had been dropped into my InBox in the past two weeks.

One of those messages was from the man I will marry on May 30, 2015.

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.

Except he needed a haircut. But hey, that's easily fixed, right?

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!

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.

Why? Because of all of the amazingly hilarious jokes that can be made at the expense of mummies.

Yes, I know, I'm going to hell for mocking dead people. Or, at least their canopic jars.

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.

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.

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.)

Jump ahead fifteen months, and I'm two months away from our wedding.

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.

However, 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.

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.

TOO BAD, KIDDO. YOU WILL WEAR YOUR FAVORITE COLOR AND YOU WILL LIKE IT.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 voila! It looked better with our China than any of the others I'd seen.

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).

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.

Yet...

I'm a Terrible Blogger

No, really. I am.

When I first began this whole "blogging thing," I was rigorous in my daily blogging: I had a plan. I had vision!

I did not, however, have a job, which left ample opportunity for coming up with witticisms for my own little corner of the interwebz.

Now, I have a job - 5 days of the week! - and I'm remembering what it's like to have a set schedule, when there are only two days of the week in which to get everything else done. Then, too, by the time I get home from work, I've been under icky fluorescent lights for 6-8 hours, often staring at a computer screen, and the last thing I want to do is tempt fate/migraine by booting up the old dell and clackity-clacking out another post.

But enough of my making pathetic excuses for myself. It's time to get down to writing.

TMoMD is no more. I finally wrote him a nice little note informing him that I expected to hear from my gentlemen callers more frequently than once every 45 days. I gently reminded him that I had the courtesy to inform him beforehand when I knew I was going to be out of pocket for a couple of weeks, and that I expected the same courtesy from the gentlemen I date.

I then dusted off my hands rather smugly as I realized that I had just dumped a good-looking 6'-0" tall polo player.

So I'm back to the drawing board, so to speak. I recently had a decent date with a man who I'll call Andre. His profile said he's 6'-6". I couldn't decide if that was awesome or terrifying, at the time.

Here's the thing about online dating: men rarely tell the truth about their height. If they're 5'-6", they say they're 5'-8", and if they're 5'-10", they say they're 6'-0".

Generally speaking.

Andre is the exception to the rule. The man claimed to be 6'-6". And yet, as I stood on the curb talking to him (in the parking lot after our first date), and he stood on the ground 6" below me, I realized he was still a good 6 or 7 inches tall than I am. And when we were walking next to each other, I barely came up to his shoulder.

In other words, Andre is probably the only man in THE WORLD who shaves 2-3 inches off his height so he doesn't scare people.

I'm not sure I like the idea of being so ridiculously tiny compared to a gentleman caller.

I'm not the sort of gal who demands that her beau be taller than she is in heels. I dated a guy who was 1 or 2 inches shorter than me for 18 months (to date, my longest relationship). I'm not hung up on height (though if a guy's 5'-6" or under, he doesn't stand a chance). I figure if I end up with a fellow who's shorter than the average bear, it's all Mother Nature's way of trying to even out the human height average.

Whether or not I could become accustomed to dating a gentleman as tall as Andre the Giant (as we will refer to my newest potential beau) remains to be seen. At least, with Andre, it won't be difficult to spot.

A Surgical Patient, a Single Lady, and A Fashionista Walk Into a Bar...

I'll cut to the punch: they're all the same person.

Moi.

I had surgery, this past Monday. In essence, the surgery wasn't particularly surgical: I had three needles inserted into my left posterior, one of which was electrified, and then had an injection of - er - something into my left piriformis muscle (it's beneath the gluteus maximus). I've had pain from my piriformis for a long time, mostly because it's wound tighter than a naval clock, and it's squeezing my sciatic nerve.

Fun, no?

Post-surgery, the BIL had to practically carry me into my apartment, because my left leg decided not to work for a while.

No big deal. I crawled around the apartment until my leg got back to business.

Problem: The Man of My Dreams suggested during Date #2, last night, that we go to a rather nice restaurant for Date #3, because I haven't been there, and it's been a few months since he's been, and damn a good steak will hit the spot.

I checked the prices on zagat.com. It will hit about 100 spots, per person.

I'm so glad I don't have to pay for anything when he takes me out.

The difficulty: I would normally wear a dress and heels. I haven't tried on any of my "nice" pants, but I'm pretty sure they're all too big. At present, I have three large, highly-visible bruises around my left knee, along with carpet-burn on both knees from crawling to the front door to lock it, then to the bathroom.

Yay, nylon carpet...

What's a girl to do?

I know: First World Problems.

A Little Inappropriate

I check a website called FailBook, on occasion, so I can groan at the stupidity of others, along with the thinly veiled spoof-stupidity people try to pass off as real stupidity.

One of the posts, this week, went something like this:

"Is it any wonder that women can't park when men are constantly lying to them about what 9 inches is?"

Haha. Genital jokes.

I think the writer has a point, though she doesn't realize its import: men have no idea what their true height is.

Take, for example, Date #1 (of a total of three dates, this week, and all within three days): his profile states clearly that he is 5'7" tall.

I am 5'7" tall, according to my internist. And I wore flats, so he wouldn't feel intimidated by my statuesqueness.

So why was I staring at his forehead when we spoke while standing?

Because, his ruler/measuring tape is different from mine. Obviously.

And so, just as pink/red/navy is the new black, so 5'5" is the new 5'7".

And 6'0" is the new 5'10", as my date today demonstrated (he's a repeat, but I hadn't noted the height difference on our first date. He was taller than I am: I wasn't going to complain).

So I eagerly await the unveiling of Wednesday's supposedly 6'0" tall fellow.

Also, you may be wondering: how did I go from two dates, yesterday, to three dates (as of approximately 1:15 a.m.) today?

Ahem.

I am a date-scheduling ninja.

My lunch date, today, tried to call me while I was on my date, last night. When my date visited the men's room, I texted in return, saying I was somewhere too loud to talk - out with friends, you know - and it was good to hear from him (and the restaurant was kind of loud). Yes, of course, I would love do lunch, but preferably Tuesday (I omitted the bit about not feeling up to two dates in one day). Before my (Monday night) date returned to the table, we'd fixed up the time and place, and established that I would drive myself as I would be out running errands during the morning.

If that's not ninja, I don't know what is.

At Least I Will Eat Well, This Week

I no longer eat gluten. My migraines occur less frequently, my skin is improved (or, at least, it is improved between the days when I have dates, but always seems to unleash its full fury the day of a date; I think my skin wants me to stay single), and I lost 10 lbs. without changing my exercise regime a single solitary bit.

Awesome, right?

Yes, in most ways. And now, I'm going to sound like the world's whiniest person.

Because I have very little to wear in the way of "Date Clothes."

I didn't date for about two years, and now that I'm dating again, I'm rapidly discovering that the clothes I wore pre-gluten-free-diet are, for the most part, too big.

I know: P.O.O.R. B.A.B.Y. (and then you make a gagging motion when I turn my back. It's cool, I understand).

(Also, with my broad, square shoulders, some of the things I used to wear when I was bigger now make me look like a freaking Greenbay linebacker).

For the date with Mr. Ihavenoideawheremylifeisgoing, I bought a shirt from Banana Republic to wear that goes with my limited color palette wardrobe rule/theory, wore it with my great-grandmother's gorgeous gold pocket-watch/necklace, and felt fabulous.

Too bad the fabulousness was sort of wasted...

But I can't go out and buy something new to wear every time I have a date. I'm a grad student. I don't have that kind of cash.

So I'm trying to figure out what to wear for the two first-blind-dates I have this week (one of which will take place with the Man of My Dreams. Pardon me while I run around the apartment shrieking at the top of my lungs for a moment. Okay. I'm better, now). I want to look like I tried, but not like I tried too hard.

Complicating matters is Houston's weather: it was in the 50s a few days ago, and now it's in the 80s... during the day. The temperature drops to borderline-chilliness in the evenings. Do I wear winter/fall clothes, or do I chuck the Southern Lady conventions and wear whatever the heck the outside temperature suggests?

I DON'T KNOW!!!!!

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have a panic attack in my closet, for the next 3 hours.

Lessons in Love

I've written up a few helpful hints for all the fellas, out there, who are looking to spiff up their profiles on dating sites. Here's a few of them:

1. If you want to impress "the ladies," you should definitely post on your profile about how much you LOVE LOVE LOVE flying your airplane, and how you do it every weekend. Every waking minute that you are not at work, you are flying your plane. This will cull all the girls who actually want to spend time with their potential boyfriend, leaving only those who will give you time with your one true love: the airplane.

2. Post pictures of yourself skydiving, preferably while strapped to someone else. This will impress the ladies with how much of a manly dare-devil you are, while also letting them know that you're not too obsessed with keeping up a manly visage to allow yourself to be strapped to some other dude like an overgrown kangaroo that can't give up mom, just yet. Also, it will let girls know that, after they've taken out a life insurance policy on you, it will be fairly easy to get some cash.

3. Say that you don't have kids at home, but then include your son(s)/daughter(s) in every picture you post and include them in the "Things I Can't Live Without". Because, you know, they're not always at your house (wink wink).

4. If a girl decides, post-first-date, that you're not really her type, be sure to send her a passive aggressive email letting her know that, really, you couldn't care less, even though you had already planned the activities for your next date and sent them to her. Also let her know that you are, however, offended that she doesn't want to hang out and be friends.

5. If the lady with whom you are communicating, or attempting to communicate, does not respond favorably (or at all), and you decide to send her a message letting her know how terribly terribly disappointed you are, do not punctuate or even spell out the words. After all, you don't want to seem desperate, do you?

Trials and Tribulations of Dating

In particular, this is The Trials and Tribulations of Dating (and Rejecting).

I had my second eHarmony sponsored date this past Thursday evening. I was nervous, as is to be expected, because there were a few things about which I was curious. For instance, my date had multiple images of him in Iraq, but I didn't know if he'd been in the Army reserves, or if, for instance, he'd been in the military for the past 20 years (I knew he'd been "out" for a couple of years, however).

I also couldn't tell what, exactly, he looked like, although in his pictures he appeared to be in rather good condition.

All the images were, apparently, from when he was in the military, as he was in considerably worse condition, now, than he was in his images.

I'm not saying he was outright fat, and I know it makes me sound incredibly superficial, but the fellow was a bit short, compared to me: 5'9" to my 5'7 3/4". I have a requirement if you're only 2" taller than I am: you have to be able to physically pick me up and carry me 20 feet.

I know, it sounds silly, but it makes me feel less enormously toweringly tall (which I'm really not) in comparison to whoever I'm dating. And for the record, the longest relationship I've ever been in was with a man an inch shorter than me, but he was, as I like to say, "an impressive specimen."

So, now that I sound really superficial and arbitrary...

(Did I mention the fellow from Thursday also had a bad goatee? No? Well, he did.)

And then I found out about the military stint: he'd been working for his father, but he and his dad had a huge row, so at the age of 33, he found himself without a job, and he decided to join the army for 4 years.

Hmmm...

And now he's working for his dad again, and they're not getting along... again...

So, not much stability, poor relationship with parents, and now he's getting a degree in engineering, but he's not sure which branch he really wants to be in, so he might change his degree...

It was just all so fly-by-night and unsettled. Quite frankly, with my health situation, I have enough instability in my life, so I've decided not to go out with this particular fellow again.

Except, on Thursday, he committed a cardinal sin of first blind dates: he asked if I wanted to see him again to my face (after I'd had a couple of glasses of wine).

How do you tell a fellow who is a good conversationalist and who has just paid for two glasses of wine and assorted meats/cheeses that, yeah, you had a good time, but you have no intention of dating him?

You don't. You say, "Um, sure!" with a distinctive lack of enthusiasm, and then go home kicking yourself because you feel guilty because you let him pay, knowing full well you didn't want to see him romantically.

And then you decide to break one of your own rules of dating (since he broke one - this way you're even) and email him to explain that you enjoyed his company, but that you can't see yourself dating him and back out of the date he's already proposed for Friday (and which you're dreading).

No, I haven't actually emailed him, yet. Because he has a test, this evening, and I don't want to upset his equilibrium beforehand. But you can bet your bippy he'll receive an email around 9 p.m. explaining the above situation in as nice a way as is possible.

And I won't feel guilty for emailing it, either. Because he communicates solely via text message.