Thanks, Y'all

It's the end of a crazy fun week. My daughter and I are in Nashville, having a little girl time, and that leads me to my Ten Things of Thankful.

1. I'm thankful for my friend Terri, who opens her house up to me and lets me visit whenever I can.

2. I'm thankful for old friends, ones who knew me long ago, saw me through some of my stupider times, and still love me.

3. I'm thankful for new friends who are so comfortable to be around that they seem like old friends (yes, that's you, Kayla, along with Mac, J. and J.).

4. I am thankful that I have amazing parallel parking skills, because I had to put them to good use when my daughter and I went downtown to visit a friend. Not only did I perfectly park with three-point accuracy, I did it with a guy in a pick up truck breathing down my neck. If I'd known it would be such a spectacular feat, I would have made my daughter stand on the sidewalk and videotape it.

5. I'm thankful for restaurants that are still here and still delicious (shout out to South Street Restaurant and San Antonio Taco Company).

6. I'm thankful for the comic relief provided by my daughter, whether intentional or not, while we were traveling. Case in point: we stopped at Dairy Queen for lunch on our way to Nashville, and while I was paying, she took our cups to the drink station to fill them. Since DQ only has Pepsi products (and that sucks), she asked me if I wanted Diet Dr Pepper, and I said yes. As we sat at our table, waiting for the food to arrive, she commented that the root beer at this place was really bad. It was so bad, in fact, that it didn't even TASTE like root beer. As she continued her diatribe about the quality of her drink, I picked up my cup and took a sip of... root beer.  I reached over and switched cups with her. She stopped in mid-sentence, and we laughed and giggled and snorted until our sides hurt.

7. I am thankful for thrift stores. I used to hate, hate HAAAAATE them, but now, I find I enjoy the thrill of the hunt, although I have to be in the MOOD to thrift store shop, or forget it. (My husband, on the other hand, is a thrift store shopping BEAST.)

This little find is going to become
an accessory for a certain cat....

8, I am thankful for my fabulous sense of direction. The streets in Nashville are set up like a wagon wheel, with downtown as the hub of the wheel and all the streets branching off of it the spokes. Not an easy place to get around if you're used to your town's streets being laid out the NORMAL way, which would be in a grid.

9, I am thankful for the Stones River Greenway. I try to walk on it every time I come to visit, and it's really lovely. Well, except for an ugly little incident today. I BEGGED my daughter to walk with me (her excuse being that it was too hot and she didn't want to sweat). After I finally talked her into going with me, we drove over to the trailhead and set out. We had seriously not gone 100 feet when a group of about 6 bicyclists coming toward us each shouted, "Snake!" as they swerved their bikes to avoid running over it. As the last bicyclist passed, we saw that the "snake" was really a "SNAAAAAAKE!!!" The part we saw, as it slithered slowly off the path toward the river, was about three feet long and as big around as my daughter's arm and appeared to be a water moccasin. And it was HORRIBLE. We were both nervous wrecks for the rest of our walk, eyes constantly darting from side to side, flinching at every noise from the sides of the walkway. It was not my most relaxing, enjoyable Greenway trail walk, and I will probably never, never, EVER get my daughter to do it with me again.

10. I am thankful that we still have two more days before we have to leave!

Happy weekend, y'all!

18 Years Ago Today....

Eighteen years ago, as I was getting pregnanter and pregnanter with my first child, I attended childbirthing classes with my husband. Oh, I read up on them  first. And then I chose the Bradley method of childbirth, because the only other option available was Lamaze, and, as I have stated before, I am not a woo girl and knew I wouldn't be comfortable with all that "hoo hoo hee" crap.  The Bradley method stresses nutrition and relaxation and avoidance of all drugs. I was just SURE this was going to be the thing for me.

But as it got closer and closer to my due date, and closer and closer to the end of the childbirthing classes, we were shown the childbirth videos. And everyone around me was oohing and ahhing over this miracle of childbirth without use of drugs (even my husband, although he drew the line at cutting the cord, sure that it would make him pass out). See how RELAXED and CALM the birth mother is? See how she is controlling the pain with her breathing and other relaxation techniques? 

And all I could think of was the laws of physics that told me the disproportionate difference in size between the baby's head and my hoo haw would render such an act completely impossible.

I spent the next few weeks with a slight sense of panic that hovered just under the surface of my being. 

On June 20, which happened to be a Tuesday, if you'd care to know, I had an appointment with my ob/gyn (Dr. Rubino, ob/gyn to the rock stars' wives/girlfriends, and a delightful man). Had an ultrasound to measure the baby, who had grown pretty darn big in the last month. Then Dr. Rubino sat down with us in his office.

The measurements he made during the ultrasound indicated the baby was quite likely going to be over 10 pounds *gasp*

And I had a narrow pelvis (who knew?).

And a 10+ pound baby trying to exit through a narrow pelvis often got stuck, requiring an emergency c-section. 

Best case scenario would be that the baby would make it out on its own, but the baby's collar bone would break in the process. His recommendation was to schedule a c-section.

Sweet baby Jesus, the answer to my prayers!

My husband, on the other hand, got all concerned about the potential complications for me from the c-section. I kicked him and hissed, "Shut up!"

THIS WAS EXACTLY WHAT I WAS HOPING WOULD HAPPEN!

I wanted to schedule it for the next day, because it would be Summer Solstice, and the baby's birthday would be on the longest day of the year. Alas, the doctor was unavailable that day, so we scheduled the c-section for the day after, which was June 22.

The next thing that happened was ALL DR. RUBINO'S FAULT, because if he had been available to do the c-section the very next day, I wouldn't have walked into a random beauty salon and asked for a haircut like Kathie Lee Gifford's. I left with a haircut that did not belong to Kathie Lee, nor did it belong on any head in the history of ever.

My c-section was scheduled for 2:00 the next day. I had to be at the hospital by noon, with no food or liquid after midnight the day before. Now, it's hard enough to do that when you have an early morning surgery, but when the surgery isn't until afternoon, it's just plain brutal. I was STARVING.

I was one of only a couple scheduled c-sections for that day, which was fairly typical. However, another 20+ babies decided this was the day they were going to make their entrance the old-fashioned way.  The nursing staff couldn't have been kinder, but they certainly were crazy-busy.  Even when my husband dropped his scrub shirt in the toilet when he was changing, and the nurse had to go in search of another one in his size, although that was probably pushing it. 

At long last, I was wheeled to the operating room, then had to stop in the hallway in a holding pattern until the room was free. Dr. Rubino and my husband talked shop about my husband's publishing clients and the music business in general while I lied there, bored. 

Then it was my turn. And in a matter of moments, I was hooked up to IV's and prepped for surgery. And shortly before 3:00, Dr. Rubino opened up the trap door and pulled a baby out. "It's a boy!" he announced, as my son came into the world and proceeded to pee all over the doctor. 

My husband was still sitting next to me, until someone asked him if he wanted to cut the cord, at which time he made a complete about-face from his proclamation that it would make him faint, jumped up and cut it.

And, untethered, that baby boy was ours to keep and nurture and raise the best we possibly could.

Today, he is 18. We made it!

And now, killing two birds with one stone, I am combining my birthday tribute to my son with this week's 10 Things of Thankful, this time, devoting it to him:

1. I'm thankful the ultrasound measurements were a little off, because if the doctor had known he was going to be 9 lbs., 13 oz., he might have called it good and not done the c-section.

2. I'm thankful we didn't find out the sex of our baby before he was born. It was fun to be surprised (although everyone in the doctor's office could tell with one look at the ultrasound; fortunately, we were too dumb to notice.).

3. I'm thankful that, in spite of all the problems he had with nursing and projectile vomiting, he thrived and grew. And grew. And grew.

4. I'm thankful he had the best reading teacher in our school system for first grade, because she made him into a reader, which made him into a brilliant student.

5. I'm thankful that he figured out after two seasons that t-ball just wasn't the game for him, because know what? It's FREAKING HOT at those ball fields.

6. I'm thankful he got over his dinosaur phase before Mommy had to be locked up in the psych ward.

7. I'm thankful he was really good at math, because by the time he was in 6th grade, I couldn't have helped him if he'd needed it.

8. I'm thankful he has a tender heart.

9. I'm thankful he didn't catch on that I only gave him the orange, green and yellow pieces of  candy and saved the red, pink or purple ones for myself. 

10. I'm thankful he survived being the first child, from breastfeeding to college applications. 

Sweating To, Make That WITH, The Oldies

All right, my worst fear has been realized. The side effect that I have most dreaded (once I learned I didn't have to have infusion chemo and lose my hair, anyway) and tried to avoid has happened.

I'm fat.

Both drugs I take, Zoladex and Arimidex, can cause weight gain. Not for this girl, I thought (erroneously, it turns out). And I held it off for 10 months.

And then BOOM - 12-15 pounds in the blink of an eye. Okay, it doesn't help that I had also taken a sabbatical from my exercise regime at that time, but I didn't increase my calorie intake, so I can only imagine (shudder, shudder, shudder) what would have happened if I had starting pigging out as well.

Two weeks ago, I vowed to resume my workouts. Hauled my sorry ass out of bed every morning for the past two weeks (and even got my husband to join me), and the beast has been unleashed! Elliptical machine and weights in the mornings, Zumba on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.

Then I saw that a new class had been added to the Y's line-up on Monday and Wednesday evenings - AquaZumba. (Fortunately, the ability to swim is not a requirement of the class). And I LOVED it. No sweat exercising - how much better could it get? Here's how much - there's also a class on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings as well. I am ON IT. 

So, Monday morning, I arrived at the Y about 8:45. The lap lanes had several elderly people paddling around with pool noodles and aquatic weights. I didn't see anyone there for the AquaZumba yet, but I went ahead and eased into the water. 

Another elderly woman showed up, then another and another.

A very bored looking lifeguard was sitting in a chair on the pool deck where the instructor had been for the afternoon AquaZumba class I had attended. Seemed odd. I kept watching for the teacher to show up. And the class.

Right at 9:00 this, shall we say, pleasantly plump woman came over to the edge of the pool and tossed pool noodles into the water. Now, I had never met the morning AquaZumba instructor, but I knew her name was Whitney. And this woman did NOT look like someone named Whitney who taught Zumba and AquaZumba.

The elderly ladies began to gather and each take a pool noodle. And that's when the reality set in.

This was not AquaZumba.

This was Aquacise. 

AquaZumba is at 10:00, not 9:00.

And there was no way to escape gracefully, especially after the instructor approached me to ask if I were new.

"Have you ever done Aquacise before?" she gently asked.

"Nooooo," I answered, while inside my head, I screamed, "BECAUSE I'M NOT 80 YEARS OLD!!!"

The little old lady next to me said, "Don't worry, we'll help you with the moves."

Oh, dear God....

We held the pool noodles and walked sideways, back and forth, across the pool. 

We hooked a noodle under our foot and used it to move our knee up and down.

We stood on one leg and swung the other leg to the front and back.

We did jumping jack moves with our legs (which caused some very weird whooshing of water in my nether regions, in a douchey way,  not in a good way, or I would say I have figured out why these old ladies do Aquacise).

We held the side and kicked our legs.

As we did each move, the instructor came over to me to show me how to execute it. I felt like I was 10. Or 110. (I did bring the median age of the group down by about 25 years.)

It was the longest 45 minutes of my life. The only thing that kept me from slipping under the water and drowning myself were the words, "blog fodder, blog fodder" going through my head. (God knows I could have done it; the lifeguard had her eyes closed half the time.) I mouthed "Help me" to the lifeguard, but she had her eyes closed, probably also wishing she weren't there.

When the class finally ended, I climbed out of the pool, dried off, and, with a Mona Lisa smile pasted to my face, serenely left the building, got in my car, and then laughed until I cried. 

I'm not sure why I'm surprised about this whole mix-up, since I'm the one who showed up a month early for my ob/gyn appointment a few months ago. 

Maybe I've finally, FINALLY, learned my lesson.

In Thanks of Daddy

Since it's Father's Day, I'm devoting this week's "10 Things of Thankful" to my Daddy:

1. I'm thankful that my dad has never noticed things like hair or make-up or clothes or that colors match or whether they should be worn out of the house at all. When I was in high school, I could have gone out in anything short of a hooker ensemble, and he wouldn't have stopped me. 

2. I'm thankful that my dad's family moved all over the country until he left for college, because he never did that to us. He was very shy and didn't like the moves, so he never moved us away from our friends and family.

3. I'm thankful that my dad has always been handy. Age has slowed him down quite a bit, but until recently, he always fixed stuff that was broken around the house, including plumbing and  electrical issues (and taught me to be a pretty fair plumber, myself). My grandma once told me a story that when he was around five years old, he got a new wagon for Christmas, and the next thing she knew, he had taken off the front wheels, turned it into a trailer, and hitched it to his tricycle.

4. I'm thankful my dad had (HAD) a full head of curly hair, because that's what I have now. 

5. I'm thankful my dad is a practical joker. One of his famous pranks was pulled on my Uncle Gale (his sister's husband). My aunt and uncle's family went on vacation and left their guinea pigs with us to pigsit. When my uncle dropped them off, he told us the black one hadn't been acting right, and if it died, just quietly bury it in the backyard and don't save it for them. 

The day before they were due back, my dad took an empty half-gallon milk carton, cut the top off, filled it with water, and submerged a piece of black fake fur in it. He then put it in the freezer, and when my uncle came to pick up the guinea pigs, my dad said, "Well, we have some bad news," and handed him the milk carton.

I can still see the look on my uncle's face. 

When my dad couldn't stand it anymore, he started laughing and confessed it wasn't really the guinea pig. My uncle (and here's where it all turned south) thought it was GENIUS and decided to pull the same prank on my aunt and two cousins. To say it didn't go over well at their house is an understatement. I suspect my cousin Cynthia may still hold a grudge about it to this day. 

6. I'm thankful my dad liked black licorice, because he taught me to like it, too. And when you have black licorice, not very many people want a piece of your candy, so you hardly ever have to share.

7. I'm thankful my dad made the decision to take over my grandfather's farm supply store when my grandfather became ill and then passed away. While it was hard on my mom (and this is the ONLY time they moved away, from our suburban Kansas City neighborhood to a small town 100 miles to the south), we have all enjoyed "the store" and were all very saddened when he chose to liquidate it two years ago and retire. I have many memories of growing up in the store when it belonged to my Grandpa, and my kids have them from when it belonged to THEIR grandpa.

In the office of his farm supply store.

8. I'm thankful my dad taught my husband and son to fish for trout. It's been a fun father/son activity for them.

9. I'm thankful for all the goofy sayings my dad has had over the years. Two of my favorites are "Two zeroes don't add up to one" (which he usually said to me when a friend and I were going to attempt to do something he didn't think was going to work out so well) and (this one is for my friend Christine) "What's time to a pig?"

August 1993

10. I'm especially thankful that I still have my Daddy around. He is 78, and his health is meh, but he and my mom are still plugging along, still an active part of our lives, and still has much to teach us.

Daddy's weekend uniform.

BRA Day: Remixed

I already posted to Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop with one of this week's prompts, but I couldn't let an additional writing prompt saying to write a post inspired by the word "bra" go by untouched. Just couldn't. Because I wrote one a few months ago, and I think it bears repeating (or is it BARES repeating?). Welcome to:

BRA DAY (AND IT'S NOT WHAT YOU THINK): REMIX

(originally posted 12/3/12)

There's a Breast Reconstruction Awareness Day and I MISSED IT?! HOW DID I NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS?

This past December, an article in the Kansas City Star about breast reconstruction stated the American Society of Plastic Surgeons launched the first BRA Day (cute, I know) on October 17, 2012. The purpose of the campaign was to promote awareness and patient access to breast reconstruction. May I say, American Society of Plastic Surgeons, LOUSY JOB WITH THE PUBLICITY! If our local newspaper hadn't picked up a truncated version of this article (probably as filler), I wouldn't have known about it still.

The article went on to talk about a woman who visits cancer patients at KU Med Center who are facing mastectomy and breast reconstruction and talks to them about her reconstruction procedure, allowing them to take a look at her own reconstructed breasts. And the article also talked about a "show and tell" in New Orleans, with reconstruction patients revealing their new breasts to other cancer patients.

Apparently, it is NOT usual for women who have had breast reconstruction to show their new breasts to others.

WHAAAAA???

You have NO IDEA how much I would like
to own this shirt.

My breast reconstruction is a miracle of modern medicine (thank you, Dr. Geter!), and I will gladly, GLADLY, show anyone who wants to see them. Hell, I'll even let you feel them if you want. (Hey, they're mostly numb. I can close my eyes and usually never even know that you've touched them.) 

While it's an individual choice for each breast cancer patient, all it takes is one look at a photo depicting mastectomy without benefit of reconstruction to make you understand just how important of a step this can be for a woman's recovery. Thanks to my awesome reconstruction, I can almost forget that I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Almost.

I won't let it get past me NEXT year... 

Just The Two Of Us

My husband, as a general rule (okay, as a rule), doesn't particularly like to be mentioned in my blog. So, shhhhhh! don't anyone tell him that this post is about him. Well, and me. As in the two of us. Our 20th wedding anniversary is this summer. 20 years. 20 YEARS. Whoda thunk? To commemorate this occasion, here are six random facts about the two of us:

1. We met on the phone, when I was working for a record company in Nashville, and he was working for a publishing/artist management company in Los Angeles, and got married a year and a month later.

2. He is way more romantic than I am.

3. Before we had kids and were living in L.A., we used to go to foreign movies and restaurants with no children's menu and flea markets and antique shops and art galleries.

4. We take turns driving when we're on trips. When we're going through a strange city, he has to be the one driving, because he can't read a map for shit, nor can he interpret highway road signs. 

5. When we were trying to come up with a boy name when I was pregnant with our son, he vetoed about 99% of the names on my list because of associations he had had with someone with the same name OR because it was the name of someone I once dated or thought about dating or just thought was cute at one time. (The joke's on him; the name we settled on was on the list because of an actor of the same name who I thought was hot.)

6. We named our daughter before we were ever married.

Now, remember, keep yer pie holes shut....

A Kitchen Mystery and Proof That My Cats Are Dumb Like Foxes

For your Monday reading enjoyment, a mystery and a musing:

The Mystery

Why is there a knife missing from my kitchen knife block, where is it and who put it there?

It's a Chicago Cutlery knife with maybe a 7" blade. It's been gone for months, but, naturally, NO ONE knows where it is. I have checked every drawer in the kitchen, thinking someone put it away in the wrong place (which is a joke, really, since I'm the only one who ever actually puts stuff away in the kitchen). I looked behind the stove, although it would have been quite a fete to have gotten it back there. No knife. WHERE THE HELL IS IT?  It was my favorite one, next to my completely awesome Wusthof one. 

The Musing

My cats eat from a continuous feeder, so it's a 24/7 kitty buffet around here (which explains Pete). All is copacetic until the silo part of the feeder (the cow analogy is not lost on me here) starts to get low. When this happens, the dish doesn't fill. I don't understand why it doesn't, gravity being what it is, but it doesn't and that's that. It is a simple matter to force the food to fall into the dish by (a) gently giving the reservoir a shake (if you have opposable thumbs) or (b) sticking a paw into the opening, WHERE YOU CAN SEE THE FOOD HOVERING, causing the food to dislodge and fill the dish (for those of us with paws and half a brain). 

Then there's the third option: act like cutting horses and herd me into the kitchen to the empty bowl, sit beside it with pitiful kitteh eyes, and throw in a mournful yowl or two. Don't help yourself by poking it with a paw (and this is doable, because my previous cat did it, and she was no rocket scientist genius fool).  They just stare at me when I say, 'STICK YOUR STUPID FOOT IN THERE AND GET IT YOURSELF, YOU MORONS!"

And then I give in and shake the food down.

And, smugly, they dine.