I'm A Lucky Duck

Every morning when I wake up, I pick up my phone and delete the endless emails from Old Navy and Kohls and Bath and Body Works and all the other messages from stores that browbeat me into giving them my email address at checkout time. I check Twitter. Instagram. Facebook. And I save the best for last.

I check my Time Hop.

Do you have the Time Hop app on your phone? Because you should. Every day, it compiles the posts, tweets, and pictures posted on social media on that date, going back about five years. I see pictures I forgot I had even taken. Posts about fun times with friends or family. Reminders of silly things my preschoolers said or did. Status updates or tweets where I think, "Man, I'm pretty damn funny sometimes!"

This morning, after verifying through Twitter that we did, indeed, have to go to school IN SPITE OF THE ICE AND SNOW ON THE STREETS, my Time Hop included a (I thought) hilarious tweet from a year ago, a couple of pictures from a volleyball tournament two years ago, and the following status update from three years ago:

This was pretty exciting stuff! My son was a junior in high school; my daughter was in 7th grade, and they both qualified for State with their National History Day projects. 

The awards ceremony had ended around 5:00 p.m. My daughter and I left together in my car, heading to Academy Sports to purchase a pair of volleyball shoes. My husband and son went home to change clothes, then play tennis at a park near our home. 

And while Emma and I were at the checkout, paying for her shoes, my cell phone rang, the call coming from the surgeon I had visited earlier in the week about yet another new lump in one of my already lumpy and bumpy fibrocystic breasts with the results of my biopsy.

"You have cancer."

Higher than a kite on opiates,
post-bilateral mastectomy

And that fast, life would never be the same again.

I had a bilateral mastectomy with free tram flap reconstruction.

Being the poster child for early detection was probably the reason I didn't have to have infusion chemotherapy, but I didn't know that until almost three months after the diagnosis and surgery, when all the pathology reports were in.

I began what is projected to be five years of chemo treatment with an aromatase inhibitor (Arimidex), which works to block the enzyme aromatase from turning the hormone androgen into estrogen in post-menopausal women.

I was not post-menopausal; therefore, my ovaries had to be stopped from producing estrogen. This was accomplished with monthly injections of Zoladex, also projected to be for five years. The injections are into my lower abdomen, near my tram flap scar (which is fortunate, as that area is numb anyway), where a capsule about the size of a grain of rice is deposited.

I take copious amounts of calcium, Vitamin E and Vitamin D to counteract the side effects of the Arimidex and Zoladex.

I also take Fosamax once weekly (like an 80 year old, hump backed old woman) because the chemo drugs caused a 13% depletion in my bone density within the first two years of treatments.

And every day, every little ache or pain, every tender spot, every glance in the mirror at the miracle that is my reconstruction, I wonder if it's cancer cells returning. Then I brush the thought away, because that's what Scarlett O'Hara would do. 

I'm not complaining here. I'm just reporting. I know how lucky I am. I've seen friends go through infusion chemo and radiation, and I thank God often and profusely that I did not have to go through that.

Early detection.

I believe in it.

Girls, check your girls. Know your girls. Boys, make sure your girls are checking their girls. And check your own while you're at it. Men are not immune to breast cancer.

Two Times The Fun

Funny thing happened last month when I arrived at my annual ob/gyn appointment. Seems I was a wee little bit early for the appointment, as in, um, one month early.  A waiting room full of people got to witness my humiliation as I slunk out of the office and went home. The worst part was I had already gotten myself psyched up for the procedure to come, only to have my efforts wasted. WASTED. And exactly one month later, I have to do the whole thing all over again.

Due to my proven poor calendar skills, I went on to discover I had scheduled my monthly oncologist appointment for the same day as my ob/gyn appointment (the REAL one this time), with very little turn around time between the two. The silver lining here (you KNEW there'd be one, didn't you?) was I got out of dressing like the Easter bunny for the preschool Easter parade and egg hunt (and I was sooooo looking forward to it). 

Trial run as the Easter bunny. Probably for
the best I had to give up the gig.

The morning of my appointments, I took a nice, long shower, cutting my legs to ribbons when I was shaving them. Picked out pretty underpants, which is stupid, because NO ONE sees them. Slapped a little polish on my toenails. Lotioned myself up with Philosophy Amazing Grace (WHY IS IT THAT I DON'T GET PAID BY THEM TO ENDORSE THEM SO MUCH?!). Picked clothes based on how heavy they were first, how cute they were second (I was going to be weighed TWICE after all, if there's any fairness to that. Once at each doctor's office.) First stop: oncologist's office.

The oncologist asks the same basic questions about my overall health. "Feeling okay?" (Yes.) "Any menstrual bleeding?" (Oh, believe me when I say you will be the FIRST to know if THAT happens.) "Bone pain other than the aches you've already been experiencing?" (Nope.)  Then he'll ask me something I wasn't expecting. "Any dizziness or heart palpitations?" (What?!) We still go through the whole "look up, look down, look at my thumb, gee, you're dumb" routine each time I'm there. If I'm not careful, I get ahead of him. This visit, I had the added pleasure (said with sarcasm) of getting a breast exam.

The breast exam is weird because (a) the boobies have no feeling, but there's pressure when he's examining them, and (b) he was my friend first and my oncologist second, so it's still a little awkward to have him do this, as clinical as it is. So I stare at the ceiling and wait for it to be over. At one time, there was talk of me having an MRI to be used as a baseline at my one year anniversary, but Dr. Croy told me that insurance companies are balking at this procedure as unnecessary. As much as I detest having an MRI, I find this a little unnerving.  There's still breast tissue there; it's impossible for every bit of it to be removed during the mastectomy. But unless a lump of some kind is felt through a manual exam, then the insurance companies aren't interested in spending money on screenings. Sigh.

From the oncologist's office, I go to the infusion center for the shot of Zoladex in my stomach.  The nurses let me choose the spot for the shot each month, which I do by closing my eyes and poking around on my ahem, flat tummy for the numbest area. (Yeah, the area from about an inch below to two inches above my abdominal incision is still numb, just like the boobular area.) Then it's out the door and off to the next appointment.

Nekkid except for this snazzy gown.

I have technically been a patient of Dr. Lacey's for about six years, but I have always seen his nurse practitioner, Susan. (I talk a little about her and the roll she played in my diagnosis here, if you're interested.) I've only seen him once, right before he performed a d&c and endometrial ablation on me in early 2012, and I don't remember that very much, because I had already been given some happy juice, followed by general anesthesia. But I felt as though he and I needed to have a face to face meeting (insert your own joke here) and talk about my ovaries.

So, there I sat on the exam table, naked except for the gown (open to the front) with a paper blanket over my lap, chatting about my ovaries with Dr. Lacey.  The first words out of his mouth?  "I don't want to touch that tram flap." Removing the ovaries (an oophorectomy, which is a silly sounding word) would require three incisions in my beautiful tummy, and then it wouldn't be so beautiful anymore. And insurance probably wouldn't be real keen on it, since the Zoladex injections were working for me. (Apparently, going down through my throat is NOT a viable option, although you never know until you ask.) He asked if I were having any menstrual bleeding. (As the ablation he did was supposed to take care of that, he would be the SECOND one to know if I had, right after I got off the phone with the oncologist.) I shared with him the 37 day siege that started in the hospital, two days after my bilateral mastectomy, and that I had been laying for him at the time, and he did look properly chagrined. (Feel free to brush up on THAT story here.)

Exam time, part one. Enough said.

Ugh.

Exam time, part two. Breast exam. Twice in the same day. In fact, twice within two hours. Not really that much less weird when you don't know the doctor than when you do.

Exam over, and Dr. Lacey's conclusion? I have THE BEST TRAM FLAP RECONSTRUCTION HE HAS EVER SEEN. In fact, he proclaims it "amazing." Shout out to Dr. Geter - I love youuuu!

Do you believe me now when I tell you the entire package is awesome?

And I'm resigned to the fact that the ovaries are here to stay. No phorectomy for my oo's. 

11 Zoladex injections down, 49 to go.

Happy Birthday, Boobies!

Another anniversary. Today, I'm celebrating (celebrating? commemorating?) the one year anniversary of my bilateral mastectomy with tram flap reconstruction. That translates to BOOB JOB AND TUMMY TUCK THAT IS COVERED BY INSURANCE. Okay, the drawback might be that pesky cancer, but you know I'm a look-on-the-bright-side Pollyanna. And as such, I have decided to list ten positive things about having breast cancer, and, in the interest of equal opportunity, ten negatives.

10 POSITIVES OF HAVING BREAST CANCER

1. Obviously, the boob job and the tummy tuck. The incisions have healed nicely and the scars are fading. Boobs perky. Tummy flat.

2. No more pain from the fibrocystic disease. And I had constant pain, which varied from mildly uncomfortable to can't stand for my clothes to touch me. No more boobies, no more pain.

3. New friends (Vol. 1), from SueAnn at the infusion center to Suzanne the Tattoo Guru at the plastic surgeon's office.

4. New friends (Vol. 2). These are my bloggy friends, whom I have met because I sat down at the computer and decided to spill my guts and publish the results on-line.  All of them are brilliant and funny and unbelievably supportive of my little efforts, such as:

     Your Daily Dose of Damn!
     A Fly On Our (Chicken Coop) Wall
     My Half Assed Life
     renee a. schuls-jacobson's blog
     Don't Chew On The Dinner Table!
     Underachiever's Guide To Being A Domestic Goddess

5. Old friends. I have the BEST support system ever. EVER.

6. Several friends have come to me to say they got their long-overdue mammograms because of me. REMEMBER, IF YOU CAN'T SET A GOOD EXAMPLE, THEN SET A REALLY, REALLY BAD ONE.

7. A continuation of #6 - several friends have come to me for advice when their routine mammograms showed something "suspicious."  The first thing I tell them? Don't borrow trouble. (See? Pollyanna.) Thankfully, each time, my friends have checked out just fine. Which is why you don't borrow trouble in the first place.

8. I don't have to wear a bra. Did you hear that? I DON'T HAVE TO WEAR A BRA. A cami will do nicely, thank you.

9. Thanks to my treatments, no more visits from Aunt Flo. 

10. FLAT TUMMY AND AWESOME BOOBIES. I realize I already listed that, but it bears repeating.

10 NEGATIVES OF HAVING BREAST CANCER

1. No feeling in the boobular area. None. Nada. Just peripherally. They're all show, baby.

2. Continued pulling and pain in the tummy tuck area, mostly when lying down and trying to sit up. Or turning over in bed. Oh, and when I SNEEZE. Will I EVER feel like my innards aren't ripping apart when I sneeze?!

3. This is my daughter's legacy. I thought it was bad enough when fibrocystic disease was going to be her destiny, but now she'll most likely have that along with an increased risk for developing breast cancer. And words cannot express how much I wish I could change that for her. I'm sorry, baby girl. This is one thing Mama can't kiss and make better.

4. The calf pills (also known as calcium supplements) I have to swallow every morning, along with Vitamins D and E. Plus the Metamucil I gag down to counteract the side effects of the calcium. The wee little aromatase inhibitor tablet I take every morning as part of my treatment is nothing by comparison.

5. The side effects of being chemically thrown into menopause. Hot flashes. Weight gain. Loss of muscle tone. Hot flashes. Occasional moodiness (in a not-ordinarily moody person). Hot flashes. Did I mention hot flashes? And side effects just from the Arimidex and Zoladex treatments. Bone aches. Insomnia. Brittle fingernails. Dry skin. 

6. Okay, the occasional moodiness needs to be addressed further. Most of the time, everything is fine, and I'm my usual optimistic self. But if something upsets the status quo, I fall apart. You're not likely to see it. I don't like to cry in front of other people, because I am a hideous crier, so I've grown pretty good at holding it together until I am alone. Then one tear escapes, then another. Sometimes, it continues until there's not a drop left. And sometimes, I wouldn't even be able to tell you why I'm crying (that is, if you saw me and asked, which you wouldn't because I'm a ninja crier).

7. I haven't slept the night through since two nights before I had my surgery. That's one year plus two nights of lying awake every night, sometimes for hours at a time. Oddly enough, once I get myself out of bed in the morning, I don't feel sleep-deprived. But it's a sleep pattern that I am not happy with. I used to have vivid dreams all night that I would describe with great detail the next morning to my husband. (I know HE doesn't miss my crazy-ass dreams, but I do!)

8. My medical expenses are astronomical. That monthly shot of Zoladex alone is $1,400. 

9. I can never donate blood again. Or be an organ donor. I'm tainted.

10. Every single day, I'm at least a little bit scared that the cancer is going to come back somewhere else. It's a shadow that will always dance over my head.

And there you go. Happy birthday, boobies! 

Me, completely lit on narcotics, 3/30/12

.

I Yam What I Yam

Several of the bloggers I follow have posted blog entries telling readers a little more about themselves than they would find on their "About" page. Since there is virtually nothing ON my "About" page, here are a few facts you can mentally pencil in. (Since most of my readers actually KNOW me, I'm not sure I can come up with much to surprise them.)

Who am I, anyway?

I have three hard and fast rules that I will not break regarding my children, particularly relating to sports or other competitions. I will not wear a shirt that says "______'s Mom". I will not write messages on my car. (Have seen such delights as "Go, Caitlyn! Shake it, baby!" on a minivan at a dance competition for kids 12 and under. That's just wrong on so many levels.) And I will not go "woo!" I am not, nor will I ever be, a Woo Girl. (This includes wooing during  Zumba.)

Robin and the Woo Girls, "How I Met Your Mother"

I hate, hate, HAAAAAAAATE coffee. I hate the way it tastes. I hate the way it smells. I hate the way it looks. I hate it when someone tries to get me to taste something that "just has a little coffee in it - you won't even taste it." YES, I WILL! BECAUSE IT'S DISGUSTING AND CANNOT BE HIDDEN IN ANY WAY WHATSOEVER.

I collect snow globes. Not fancy, music box snow globes, but the cheap, plastic ones that you find at souvenir shops. Or try to find them. They aren't easy to find these days. I look for one everywhere we travel. I love snow globes so much that, if I find out YOU are going somewhere I haven't been before, I will probably ask you to bring me one back with you. (Ironically, although they are MADE in China, you cannot BUY one in China. Not that I've ever been to China. But I know someone who has....)

I love to sing. I sing in the car like I'm a rock star. I sing in the shower. I sing when I'm cleaning the house. I just DON'T do it in front of other people. Except for preschoolers. They don't judge. (And Melissa, who, by virtue of her job helping me with the preschoolers, is subject to my singing as well. Sorry, Melissa.)

I don't have a poker face. And I'm a terrible liar. I blame it on the dimples. They always give me away.

While I am very patient with preschoolers, I'm very impatient with other things in life. I touch wet  paint. I open the oven door multiple times to peek at what's baking. I CAN'T WAIT for the microwave timer to get to zero. I flip hamburgers and pancakes too soon. I make a right on red and take a different route to avoid sitting at a red light. My nail polish always has a finger print in it from checking it. I refresh my facebook page, blog stats, and email a hundred times a day (well, that might be a slight exaggeration). 

I love to read, especially murder mysteries. In fact, I get so involved in the mysteries that I read that SOMETIMES, I dream I have killed someone and hidden the body. HEY, THEY'RE JUST DREAMS, PEOPLE! RELAX!

I'm a fairly good cook when I'm in the mood. (Too bad for my family that I'm not in the mood more often.)  I'm even better at the fun stuff. I love to bake: cookies, cakes, muffins, breads. I also make candy (like, for real, with a candy thermometer and everything). Except divinity. Can't make divinity. I can also decorate cakes, if the need arises. And I make the best caramel popcorn you will ever eat. No lie.

I've only thrown up three times in my entire life. The first time was when I was in kindergarten. Second time was when I was 7 and got my tonsils out (I SAID it was a sad story). The third (and final) time was December 23, 1971. I was in 6th grade. It was so very horrible that I vowed it would never happen again. And it hasn't. There were naysayers that said I wouldn't make it through pregnancy without throwing up, and when I was pregnant with my son, there was even an office pool to predict when that would happen. NO ONE WON. I'm in it for the long haul.

I have food rules. Many food rules. Like my food can't touch (I have divided plates to prevent this). And I eat one food at a time from my plate, after tasting each one first and determining the order of preference (least to best - which is the opposite of my dad, who eats the best thing first, then the best of what's left, continuing that way because, he theorizes, he is always eating the best thing on his plate that way, even when it gets down to something he doesn't like). My hamburgers have to be plain and well done. Except for McDonald's ones, which I eat as-is. I hate cheese on my burger. And don't even get me STARTED on celery. I separate M&Ms and jellybeans into colors before eating them (by color, of course). Three Musketeers bars?  I eat the chocolate coating off first, of course. Eggs are for holding cake batter and cookie dough together and never to be consumed on their own. When eating out, all sauces must go on the side, because chances are I'm not going to like them anyway. I only drink milk if it's in a real glass (no plastic). I don't drink soda out of a can or bottle. Must. Have. Ice. There are more, I assure you. IT'S AN ENDEARING QUIRK.

Now that you know all this, don't you feel us growing closer...?

I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends

Is there anything much more delightful than spending time with an old friend? (And by "old," I mean long-established, not advanced in age. NOT.)

Last week, I got to do just that with my friend Dana. She and I have known each other since we were 12. We only lived about a block away from each other then and spent a lot of time going back and forth to each other's houses. I liked to go to hers, because her mom bought Hostess Ho Ho's and Ding Dongs and kept them in the freezer for us. Dana liked to come to my house, because my mom baked cookies.

We were close friends throughout junior high and high school. CLOSE. Like teach-me-how-to-use-tampons close.

Then we graduated from high school and our lives diverged. Dana chose marriage and kids, raising two very amazing boys and trying to raise her husband (they really were just babies when they got married). I don't know how she did it, but she also managed to attend college in between all that and then became a writer. A real one. Not just newspaper articles, which she did as well, but she's written BOOKS. 

I went straight to college, then out into the big world. Our lives could not have been more different.

(And make fun of Facebook if you will, but it is a wonderful tool for getting back in touch with old friends, ones you wish you'd never lost track of, ones who were an important part of making you who you are today. Dana and I reconnected several years ago, thanks to Facebook.)

And it's as if we were never apart. Some friendships are just LIKE that.

Dana lives near Los Angeles now (ironically, very near where I lived when I was out there, although we didn't live in the area at the same time), but, lucky me, was in St. Louis to visit her first grandchild (a darling baby girl, in case you wondered). We arranged to meet in the middle for a good visit.

We took over a booth at a Panera for hours. We laughed. We cried. We looked at my boobs (in the bathroom, in a handicapped stall, and not without raising the eyebrows of a woman who was in the next stall, who probably thought she had somehow stumbled into a bus station restroom).

It was hard to say goodbye at the end of the afternoon, but the good news is Dana plans to make frequent trips back to see that sweet baby girl. And when she does, we will make arrangements to meet again. We also have another girls get-away in the works with our high school friends Abbie and Melody (watch out, Vegas, we may be heading your way).

JUST KIDDING!!!

My friends have been so very important to me since my diagnosis. Not that they weren't BEFORE, but since then, they have been an invaluable part of my recovery, regardless whether they are a few blocks away or a few thousand miles away. They make me laugh. They build me up. They let me spill my guts. They take my mind off of things I don't want to think about. They pray for me. They admire my boobs. 



Never doubt how much I value all of you. 

Now, bring it on in for a group hug.

Me vs. Machine: Part 2

An addendum to my previous post:

Verrrrry old building

Tonight, I decided to venture to the top floor of the Y to confront the elliptical machines there. Now, the downtown Y is in an ancient building, probably close to 100 years old. You get quite a workout just walking up three flights of stairs to the floor with the weights and cardio machines.

The top floor, I discovered the other night, has mood lighting. Yep. It looks kind of like an indoor mini golf course. There is a running track that loops through the middle, then tucked away in corners are some treadmills, ellipticals, and stationary bikes. 

I approached an area that held four elliptical machines. One was occupied by a woman. I climbed on a machine. And nothing happened. The control panel didn't light up. It was really dark up there, so I couldn't READ any of the buttons, but I pressed them anyway. I shuffled my feet. Nothing. So I moved to the next machine. Climbed on. Pressed buttons. Shuffled my feet. Aaaaaand nothing. 

Seeing me waving my arms at the machine and talking smack to it, the woman next to me said the machine would start up as soon as I started using it (which, in turn, feels like you're trying to steer a car after the power steering has gone out). After a small struggle, I got it going. But with every step I took, there was a loud squawk that sounded as if I were stepping on a bird. Even with earbuds in and music playing, I could hear the squawk, so I got off THAT machine and moved back to the first one I was on. I decided to watch a little tv instead of listening to music, so once I got the control panel activated, I turned on the little tv that is mounted on the top. Chose the Colbert Report to watch. Unplugged the earbuds from my phone and prepared to plug them into the tv. Aaaaaaaaand no earphone jack. Anywhere. Of course, since the dim lighting meant I couldn't SEE anything that wasn't a brightly lit LED message, I had to feel all over the control panel for a jack. Then I used my flashlight app on my phone and looked. Still nothing. I decided I wasn't cut out for the combination of mood lighting and elliptical machines, so I got down, gathered up my stuff, and moved back downstairs.

I felt like an old pro when I clambered onto the elliptical this time.

I tried sticking my phone in my sports bra instead of my waistband, as suggested by my friend Dawn, and my boob tried to make a phone call. Phone went back to waistband of my yoga pants and only fell down my leg one time. Progress.

I did learn something (besides that my eyes are too old to operate machinery in dim lighting). I discovered if you think you're all that, you do the elliptical without holding onto the machine. Apparently, this makes it easier to flirt with the weight lifters. That's okay. I out-boobed her. 

And if I had stayed on the top floor, I would have missed the young woman of questionable sanity in the weight machine room, sitting on a leg press machine in the corner, eating chips and drinking from a can of Pepsi, then shoving the leg press with her feet and then allowing the weights to crash down when she released it. All of this was done with a variety of sound effects, none of which I care to think about ever again.


Best part? I made it thirty minutes IN A ROW on the elliptical machine without passing out. I. Am. AWESOME.

Me vs. Machine

Looking over my list of goals, it appears I stand a better chance of moving to Nashville WITH Jimmy Carter than I do of mastering the elliptical machines at the Y.

I've been on two different machines at two different locations, and I've been an "I Love Lucy" episode every time. 

In three days of workouts, I have fallen off the machine, knocked my phone off more times than I can count, gotten tangled in my earbuds, and tried to remove my fleece pullover with my earbuds still in my ears. I've stood on it, trying to figure out how to program something that has NO DIRECTIONS on it and talked to myself out loud. (I've also talked to the elliptical machine out loud to no avail - it's not coughing up its programming secrets). I've tried, nonchalantly, to look at my elliptical neighbors and see how THEIR machine are programmed, but I can't make them out. And they are pointedly ignoring me, perhaps even wishing I would just give it up and go home. (They obviously don't know me at all.)

I always forget to plug my earbuds into my phone and open Pandora until I get on the machine, then have to stand there and balance while pushing buttons on my phone (think balancing while having each foot in a different canoe). Because I don't have one of those cool arm bands to hold my phone, I have to tuck it into the waistband of my yoga pants (as yoga pants have no pockets). Then, at least once during my workout, sometimes more often, the phone works its way loose and falls down my pant leg, hanging by the earbud cord. Be assured there is NO graceful way to retrieve it.

I'm not going to go into the rest of the workout. How I forget that just because I can't hear anyone else while wearing the earbuds, they can certainly hear ME when I sing out loud. How, once you get the hang of the machine and think you're all bad ass, you find that you're panting after a minute and a half. And that each minute feels like about twenty. And that stopping is awkward at best, putting you squarely back in the feet-in-two-canoes scenario. And, if you forget that you have put your phone on the little ledge of the control panel because you were tired of fishing it out of your britches, then you might, MIGHT yank it off the ledge when you step off, violently popping the earbuds out of your ears and sending the phone crashing to the floor, usually landing right under the foot pedals.

I have only begun to fight.

It's A Goal, Not A Resolution

I hate New Year's resolutions. I think a bucket list is negative, since it implies that I am going to die and that's not something I wish to contemplate at this time. So instead, as one of my blogging heroes suggested, I am going to make a list of goals that I wish to achieve, if not this year, then SOME DAY. (There's a chance some of them might not really be considered "achievable" by some of you nattering nabobs.)

1. Achieve a well-toned body.  I was on my way there when the stupid cancer drugs that caused the stupid menopause and screwed up the stupid hormonal balance caused my muscles to go to mush. I WILL be back.

2. Go back to LA to visit. 

3. Meet Jimmy Carter.

4. Be a mentor for other women facing breast cancer, and especially so for women who are planning to have tram flap reconstruction. I am a wealth of information on that! 

5. Take my daughter to NYC to see plays on Broadway and see the Rockettes.

6. Make a decision on a paint color for my bedroom and then actually paint the room. It's only been 14 years since we moved here. I think it's time.

7. Finish my son's scrapbooks before he graduates this spring. And since I'm, oh, about 9 years behind, this MIGHT be considered one of those unattainable goals.

8. Move back to Nashville. In lieu of this, then visit Nashville way more often than I do now.

9. Figure out Twitter. The learning curve is a steep one for me. Although I totally didn't get Pinterest at first, either, and now I'm one hell of a pinner, so there's hope.

10. My husband recently pointed out that pretty much everything I eat has a bar code, as in I eat a lot of processed food. So, instead of just PINNING vegetable recipes on Pinterest, I'm going to make an effort to actually cook and eat them. (He also says potatoes don't count, which is a shame, because one-third of the veggie recipes I have pinned do, indeed, include potatoes.)


Ready, set, go!

Out With The Old, In With The New

Buh-bye, 2012! Can't say I'm going to miss you much.

This is not a good picture.
We're cuter than this, usually....

You brought me some good stuff, like bringing my person back into my life, reminding me often that I have two very bright and witty children, introducing me, via my friend Dawn, to Philosophy Amazing Grace (I should be paid by them for plugging their products so much).

You also brought me some crap. Well, really, one big ol' piece of crap that you dropped in the middle of my life, where it proceeded to ripple outwards, ring upon ring. 

I walked into 2012 with cancer, although I didn't know it at the time. I'm leaving 2012 without it. Okay, without my boobies, too, but that's all good, because I have the new ones now (they're AWESOME - have you heard?). And the flat stomach. 

In retrospect, I guess ALL those ripples weren't bad.

But I'm done now. Keep your crap, 2012.

And bring it on, 2013. I can take it.

This Is My Winter Song

What would you think if I were to tell you that I really hate the week between Christmas and New Year's? 

After all the anticipation, the parties and events, the endless sweets, the shopping, the stress of getting the gifts just right, there is such an emotional let down after the last package is opened.

Christmas decorations start to look pathetic to me. Driving around town, I see wreaths looking bedraggled, strands of Christmas lights drooping, outdoor holiday displays in disarray. The sky and the landscape are all in shades of gray and brown, making it difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins.

It's downright depressing.

And then my personal soundtrack during this time of limbo plays this song by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson. The melody is haunting and causes me to feel cold down to my very core. And that's without even paying attention to the lyrics, which I don't because they are so very sad.

Come on, New Year. I'm waiting.

And Then I Don't Feel So Baaaaaaad

Snapping out of my funk. Going to think of a few of my favorite things (cue Julie Andrews):

Preschoolers.

Unexpected messages from friends.

Okay, ANY messages from friends.

Finding money in a pocket.


Baby toes.

Good hair days.

Warm, snuggy pajamas on a cold night.




Paying for something in a store, only to find out it costs even less than marked.

Reading a really good book (that obviously excludes the "50 Shades" trilogy).

Hearing a song on the radio from high school and enjoying the memory attached.

Pretty underwear.

Spending time with my person.

Grilled cheese sandwiches.

Having my hair washed at the hair dresser's.

The smell of a hardware store.



Bubble baths. 

Working with bread dough (very Zen of me, I know).

Double stuffed Oreos.

A brand new box of Crayons.





The Peter Pan ride at Disneyland.

Cousins

Do I even have to say "Diet Coke" or is that a given?

Okay, Diet Coke.

Yep, feeling better....

Still Stuck And It Still Sucks

Continuing my pessimistic and whiny streak with more things that suck....

Itches that can't be scratched because the nerves don't connect.

Having to pee when the cat is all comfy and cozy on your lap.

Spilling sugar on the floor.

Cute sweaters that turn out to be 100% acrylic.

Crying in front of people.

Cheap tissues.

Clif bars.

Bridges that go over any kind of water, from ditch to bay.

Static electricity.

Coconut flavoring.

That a knife has been missing from the knife block in the kitchen for MONTHS and NO ONE in the house has any explanation for it.

Hiccups.

Infomercials.

Easily accomplished in JoMo....

Sitting at a railroad crossing, waiting endlessly for a coal train to go by.

Not being able to drive across town without crossing at least one railroad track, increasing your odds of having a coal train cross your path and having to wait endlessly....





Cancer.

Little rubber bands from braces lying ALL OVER THE HOUSE.

Matching socks.


The price per pound of bacon.

Friends who live too far away to see regularly.

Maybe I've gotten it all out of my system now. Then again, maybe not....

Not Feeling It

Frame of mind still decidedly pessimistic; therefore, a list of things that suck:

Hot flashes.

Stupid people who are given driver's licenses and who then proceed to GET IN MY WAY when I'm trying to drive somewhere.

Sweet salads that turn out to have cottage cheese in them.

Wet newspapers.

YUUUUUUUUCKY

Eggs.

Hot flashes.

Scooping the litter box.

Sinus infections.

Anything involving car repairs.

Doing laundry.

Hot flashes.

Feeling left out or forgotten.

Cheeseburgers.

Charlie horses.

Realizing you really need reading glasses.

Tornadoes.

Hot flashes.

Hitting your head hard on something and having no one to blame but yourself.

Celery.

Insomnia.

Constantly misplacing stuff. Constantly. 

Achy bones. 

Achy anything.

I'm done for now. There WILL be a sequel....