Six Word Saturday #405

still searching for peace after election


Sorry for the issues with Mr. Linky. I set up this post from my phone in the car and apparently Mr. Linky was carsick. Or something.

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Want to play along? All that's necessary to participate is to describe your life (or something) in a phrase using just six words. For more information, try clicking here. Feel free to explain or not explain. Add an image, a video, a song, nothing. I love seeing what everyone does with their entries.

Each week (probably on Sunday or Monday), I use random.org to select a bunch of entries to visit.  Or I visit everyone. Or even numbered entries. Or odd numbered entries. Or multiples of three. Depends on what's going on that week.  In addition, please visit the person ahead of you on the list (or visit everyone if you like!). That way everyone receives at least one visit!

If you play along in your blog, please add a link to the Mr. Linky. I appreciate a link back. Otherwise, you're welcome to leave your six words in this post as a comment.

Please be sure to link either to your main page or (preferably) directly to the 6WS post. Links to blogs that do not contain a 6WS entry will be removed (sorry, just the button in the sidebar doesn't count as participating).

Spooky Six Word Saturday #403

nothing is scarier than the election

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Want to play along? All that's necessary to participate is to describe your life (or something) in a phrase using just six words. For more information, try clicking here. Feel free to explain or not explain. Add an image, a video, a song, nothing. I love seeing what everyone does with their entries.

Each week (probably on Sunday or Monday), I use random.org to select a bunch of entries to visit.  Or I visit everyone. Or even numbered entries. Or odd numbered entries. Or multiples of three. Depends on what's going on that week.  In addition, please visit the person ahead of you on the list (or visit everyone if you like!). That way everyone receives at least one visit!

If you play along in your blog, please add a link to the Mr. Linky. I appreciate a link back. Otherwise, you're welcome to leave your six words in this post as a comment.

Please be sure to link either to your main page or (preferably) directly to the 6WS post. Links to blogs that do not contain a 6WS entry will be removed (sorry, just the button in the sidebar doesn't count as participating).

Six Word Saturday

The roller coaster's name: atypical depression.

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Want to play along? All that's necessary to participate is to describe your life (or something) in a phrase using just six words. For more information, try clicking here. Feel free to explain or not explain. Add an image, a video, a song, nothing. I love seeing what everyone does with their entries.

Each week (probably on Sunday or Monday), I use random.org to select a bunch of entries to visit.  Or I visit everyone. Or even numbered entries. Or odd numbered entries. Or multiples of three. Depends on what's going on that week.  In addition, please visit the person ahead of you on the list (or visit everyone if you like!). That way everyone receives at least one visit!

If you play along in your blog, please add a link to the Mr. Linky. I appreciate a link back (shiny code below if you like!). Otherwise, you're welcome to leave your six words in this post as a comment.

Please be sure to link either to your main page or (preferably) directly to the 6WS post. Links to blogs that do not contain a 6WS entry will be removed (sorry, just the button in the sidebar doesn't count as participating).

Six Word Saturday

U.S. elections: Embarrassment to the world

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Want to play along? All that's necessary to participate is to describe your life (or something) in a phrase using just six words. For more information, try clicking here. Feel free to explain or not explain. Add an image, a video, a song, nothing. I love seeing what everyone does with their entries.

Each week (probably on Sunday or Monday), I use random.org to select a bunch of entries to visit.  Or I visit everyone. Or even numbered entries. Or odd numbered entries. Or multiples of three. Depends on what's going on that week.  In addition, please visit the person ahead of you on the list (or visit everyone if you like!). That way everyone receives at least one visit!

If you play along in your blog, please add a link to the Mr. Linky. I appreciate a link back (shiny code below if you like!). Otherwise, you're welcome to leave your six words in this post as a comment.

Please be sure to link either to your main page or (preferably) directly to the 6WS post. Links to blogs that do not contain a 6WS entry will be removed (sorry, just the button in the sidebar doesn't count as participating).

The gift of obligation

First, we'll address the elephant in the room.

Hello, Elephant. Thanks for joining us. On a weekday. And I'm blogging. I realize that's odd. In fact, it hasn't happened since September. Once every six months isn't bad, right? But I'm glad you were able to join us for this special occasion.

Ok, can we move on now? I'd like to have a discussion.

My question is one of gracious gift receiving and obligation.

My birthday is at a time in the semi-future and a family member has sent me a cash gift. This isn't a family member I'm particularly close to in terms of relationship, though the branches on the family tree would indicate otherwise. (I suppose that applies to most of my family.) I say this mainly to indicate that this person is old-school and doesn't send the gift so much because they adore me but because in their day and age (they're older), their social norm dictates that this is the proper amount to send for a gift for me on this occasion. Not to say that I'm not thankful to receive the gift because he isn't required to give me anything and many don't.

His expectation is that I use the gift to buy a fancy dinner for me and my husband (the gift giver emphasizes fancy). It's not a big enough amount to do that - but it is enough that I could spend an afternoon lost in a used bookstore or shopping for myself or doing something else I would rarely do but really enjoy.

So the options are:

1. Go somewhere "eh" for a meal with my husband that the gift will pay in full.
2. Put the gift towards a fancy dinner, make up the difference ourselves (we can afford this, it wouldn't be a burden).
3. Spend the gift entirely on me in some indulgent way that would bring me great joy. 

Which would you choose? I just thought it might be interesting to hear how some of you might handle it. Truthfully, I can say "thank you" and he'll never know the difference. But I'm curious how you feel about gifts like this.

I know as a gift-giver, I may have an idea in mind of how someone would use a gift when I give them cash and I might make a suggestion ("I thought you might want to buy some more craft supplies but know you like a couple of local shops" or "Maybe you'd like to buy a new game for Collin."). But ultimately, it's up to them to decide how they want to spend a cash gift. If I feel so strongly about them spending it somewhere specific, I make sure I buy a gift card to a specific merchant. Otherwise, all bets are off.

Let's chat in the comments!

Six Word Saturday

Go away, Santa. It's too soon!

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Want to play along? All that's necessary to participate is to describe your life (or something) in a phrase using just six words. For more information, try clicking here. Feel free to explain or not explain. Add an image, a video, a song, nothing. I love seeing what everyone does with their entries.

Each week (probably on Sunday or Monday), I use random.org to select a bunch of entries to visit.  Or I visit everyone. Or even numbered entries. Or odd numbered entries. Or multiples of three. Depends on what's going on that week.  In addition, please visit the person ahead of you on the list (or visit everyone if you like!). That way everyone receives at least one visit!

If you play along in your blog, please add a link to the Mr. Linky. I appreciate a link back (shiny code below if you like!). Otherwise, you're welcome to leave your six words in this post as a comment.

Please be sure to link either to your main page or (preferably) directly to the 6WS post. Links to blogs that do not contain a 6WS entry will be removed (sorry, just the button in the sidebar doesn't count as participating).

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A few thoughts on Boston from the wife of a runner

The details emerging from Boston are still jumbled today. They continue to be a mix of horrifying, confusing, and sometimes incorrect. Like the photo of the little girl who was reportedly killed. Or the misreporting of the JFK library fire being connected. I’m glad sorting those details is up to someone else – and I hope they do an amazing job of reaching the proper conclusions, finding the responsible party, and keeping them from doing further harm.

But some things do stand out for me.

The main detail that caught my attention as I read the reports yesterday was this: “The explosions occurred approximately an hour after the first runners crossed the finish line.”

When you’re married to a runner, here’s what you learn from attending race after race after race – elite runners fly like the wind. They finish far ahead of the crowd. Indeed, the winner of the 2013 Boston Marathon finished in 2 hours and 10 minutes. The first female crossed shortly after (2 hours, 26 minutes). These are the people who run for a living. They do this competitively. Running IS their life.

And then there are the “regular” folks. The ones with day jobs. The ones who run as stress relief to survive those day jobs. They run a few miles several times a week or maybe even every day before or after work or on their lunch breaks. They do longer runs on the weekends. Don’t misunderstand me - they’re dedicated, serious runners to be able to run 26.2 miles. I certainly can’t do it. But these are regular people like you and me. Like my husband. A very common goal among this crowd is to finish a marathon in under 4 hours.

As I looked at photos of the finish line, post-explosion, the race clock displayed 4:09:44. At that time, a very steady stream of runners would've been coming through the crowded space. The timing of the explosions probably could not have been much worse.

The second detail sticking in my mind is a quote I read last night summarizing injuries. Apparently because of the nature and placement of the explosive device used, most damages sustained were low to the ground. There were a lot of amputated and severely injured lower limbs on that list.

My husband hasn't been able to run for the past six weeks due to a simple stress fracture. It’s healing well but he’s facing another four weeks without running. I’m not sure anything is more torturous to a runner than not being able to run. Permanent loss of a limb? I can’t imagine.

And the other details emerging from Boston and elsewhere since yesterday’s senseless incident are of another sort – the kind that actually give some feeling of hope. Stories of people helping, whether it’s medical assistance at the scene, offering local help in the form of a place to stay or a warm meal, strangers arranging donations for flight changes, or simple displays of support in the form of tweets or wearing race shirts today.

Those are the details I’m choosing to focus on.

Because I’m the wife of a runner. I've stood at the finish line. I've felt pride for my husband but I've also felt pride for complete strangers. I've also felt concern for other racers I don’t know as they've struggled over the finish line. I've cheered them on. I've cried for them. I've bonded with people I don’t know as we've waited for our racers and cheered for people none of us know. I've offered my phone and water and whatever other help I can in-person at the finish line and my heart is going out to those at the finish line in Boston yesterday.

The running community is tight. They won’t stand for this and they won’t be beaten by it. Joe’s in DC right now and even though he can’t run, he went for a walk on the Mall. There were a lot of runners out. There was a real atmosphere of respect and camaraderie. There were many around the Reflecting Pool. Reflecting. Praying. Talking. Angry. Sad. Hopeful.

I may only be the wife of a runner, but I’m glad to have a place in the community as a supporter. Sometimes it’s a fun role, sometimes it’s not. This is one of those times when it’s not a particularly happy time. But it’s also a time when I witness that spirit that keeps them going as individuals through each run, one foot in front of the other, and as a group, each person supporting the rest as they keep going to reach the finish line.

Spirituality in The Artist's Way

In my review for the "My Artist's Way Toolkit," I mentioned that the book and accompanying site had a spiritual aspect to them that I would address at a later time. That post was already far too long.

Before beginning The Artist's Way book, I noticed the subtitle, A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity. Wanting to know what that meant, I did a little digging. The book has multiple references to God. The author of The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron, is most likely a Christian. I'm not sure if she ever states that outright. 

However, on the first pages of the book, she addresses the way in which she is using God and suggests ways for others to think about it. If a religious God isn't your thing, she recommends thinking of God instead as the Universe or whatever higher power you do believe in or even as an acronym for "good orderly direction."

This worked for me. I was raised in a strict, conservative, Christian home. As an adult, I'm not sure how I would define my beliefs exactly. I believe in something. I believe in treating others with kindness. I believe in a certain moral code. I believe in allowing others to live within theirs. So substituting the Universe whenever she referenced God was okay for me. The Universe provides me with creative ideas. That kind of thing.

So to my friends who asked for a report regarding the spirituality aspect of the book, I can say that for me, it was okay. I think she actually managed to present the ideas in a manner that could work for most people, which I'd imagine was tricky. If that concession of substituting your own idea for God isn't something you're comfortable with, or if you don't believe in any kind of higher power or general order, it might be more difficult.

I also said in that other post that I'd address how I tackle self-help books/instructional guides/how-tos. I'll do that tomorrow or Friday.

Sweaty Seppuku

I've blogged before about my gym, including my freakout when they announced a move to a new location because I was afraid there would no longer be a dark workout room.

For those of you who don't remember and/or are too lazy to click that link, my gym has a "cardio getaway" room that involves several levels of cardio equipment, a few tvs on the front wall (pre-tuned, you can plug-in to listen but you can't change the channels), and no light. Well, not NO light. But no BRIGHT lights - it's all just ambient light from the tvs and some windows. And they did eventually create a similar room at the new location.

Anyways, I have been timing my trips to the gym for 11am so I could workout while watching Tiny Drew because The Price is Right is kinda fast-paced with bright lights, and it's easy to watch while sweating on the elliptical for an hour. It also continuously humbles me because I would be the worst contestant ever. But then, someone in the control booth changed around the channels and there was no longer TPIR on tv #1. Instead, I had a choice of two sports channels, Comedy Central (which is always in the middle of a movie at that hour), Bravo, CNN, and Fox "News".

Ugh, seriously? Fox "News"? Not only do they take away my Tiny Drew but they have to put Fox "News" on tv #5.

I found myself watching either tv #2 (Bravo) or #6 (CNN), trying hard to avert my eyes from the ickiness on tv #5. In fact, I was watching some show about starving bitches America's Next Top Model last week when suddenly there was a horrible CRASH and something came FLYING OFF THE WALL!!!

Since this room is usually so quiet (just the whir of the machines while everyone works out with headphones on), the crash and resulting obscenities shouted by the other lady in the room made quite an impression. I, of course, with my nerves of steel, may have peed myself a bit barely reacted.

So what was the noise? Seems tv #5 was shared my anti-Fox "News" feelings and decided that rather than continue displaying such atrocious programming, it would commit harikiri, hurling the cable tuner box from the top of the tv onto the floor below.

Despite my usual annoyance at the sight of non-functioning equipment at the gym, considering how much they charge for membership, I must admit to a big grin every time I see the dark tv #5. I may stop by the front desk to ask when they expect it to be fixed. And maybe suggest that they use that opportunity to restore Tiny Drew to avoid any further fatalities.

Punishable by Death

Bart calls Moe's Bar.

Moe: Hello?
Pause
Moe: Uh, is I.P. Freely here? Hey, everybody, I.P. Freely!
Bart: Bwahahahaha!

So I have a confession. I pee frequently. Not freely, mind you. Just frequently.

This is my father's fault. As a child, every time we would go anywhere, he'd ask me if I had used the bathroom first. In fact, he insisted that I always used the bathroom before I got in the car.

Once I was old enough to start giving this some thought, I asked why.

My father, my hero, said, "Well, once there was a family in a car accident. They all would've survived. Except they didn't pee before they left home so when their car crashed, their bladders all burst, causing them to die. And that's why it's so important for you to use the bathroom before you get in the car, every time. Also, you never know if the place you're going even has a bathroom. Or if you might be stuck in traffic. The longer you go without going, the greater the chances that your bladder might burst!"

At thirty-ahemthroatclearing-years old, guess what? I still run to the restroom EVERY time we go somewhere, every time there is an opportunity. Because some part of me is still afraid that I might get in an accident and I'll die. Or that I might end up in the Land of No Bathrooms.

Why am I sharing this? This past weekend, Joe and I took a road trip from our undisclosed location. We were on the road for several hours. And at (almost) every rest area, Joe would ask if I needed to stop. "No!" I would proclaim, somehow proud of something so stupid as not needing every restroom (Sidebar: This is actually quite an accomplishment for a girl who has had to stop frequently in the past due to the travel anxiety making me sick as hell).

So proud, so awesome. That is, until we pulled off the highway and onto the country sideroads. Aka, The Land of No Bathrooms. Which resulted in this tweet:

Tired of being in the car. And of course I didn't have to pee until we left the highway. No rest areas here. Just tractors.

To which the ever-wise Beth from C. Beth Blog responded thusly:

Yeah, I suppose a farmer would get mad if you peed in his tractor.

Totally true.

So I realize the whole "you're gonna die if you don't pee before we leave the house" was probably just my father's misguided way of avoiding unscheduled pit-stops on the road. Probably it isn't true that your bladder will burst and you will die. However, being so desperate that you resort to peeing on a farmer's tractor? That might not be a traffic accident, but it could still result in death if it makes the farmer angry enough. I guess Dad is always right, even if it's for the wrong reasons.

Exhausticate

Main Entry: ex·haust·i·cate
Pronunciation: \ig-'zȯst-ə-ˌkāt\
Function: verb

1: to tire Cate extremely or completely
2: to drain Cate of strength or energy, wear out, or fatigue greatly
3: to deprive Cate wholly of useful or essential properties

Definition #3 is my personal favorite. Yes, I'm completely exhausticated. Sometimes this is worse than migraine mumbles and I do stupid brilliant things like this:

SomeMonkey (after reading something sad I sent her): oh man. that's awful
me: yeah :)
me: omg worst typo EVER
SomeMonkey: snort
me: i meant :(

After traveling to see family and attend a reunion, I came home last Monday, did laundry, packed Joe's bags and sent him off before 5am the next morning for husband work training and then spent a day and a half cramming for a final exam. I then took the actual exam, stayed up too late on Thursday waiting for Joe to arrive back home, and jumped right into another weekend and another brand new class.

At least my typo was good for something:

SomeMonkey: well, it kept me from crying, so i vote it best typo ever
me: i WIN!

That's what a good friend does - takes your foot out of your mouth for you and laughs at it. Or something.

Anyways, there's been far too much exhaustication lately, which is why posts have been sparse. I need a week-long nap.

P.S. Just so you know, exhaustication isn't actually in the dictionary but I was determined to create a correct pronunciation guide. For when, you know, the masses want to use my word. How did I manage this amazing feat, you may ask? I combined pronunciations of two words. Exhaust and fornicate. Yeah. SomeMonkey assures me that this is the good kind of exhaustication so I guess it all works out.

Day Tour

Last Monday, we joined a tour group for a day wandering Girona, Pals, and Costa Brava. The locations were fantastic and lucky for us, no Eternabus! The tour was conducted on a van instead of a mini-bus and there were only eight passengers. Plus one totally professional and knowledgable tour guide. Ed.

Ed, the young Brit (complete with accent) who decided two years ago (at the tender age of 23) to relocate from Northern England to Barcelona.

Ed, who quit working for "the man" in order to lead tours in Spain.

Ed, the helpful, informative, and personable tour guide.

Ed, stunt double for Jake Gyllenhaal and Tobey Maguire.



Ed, short for Edible.

Rawr.

P.S. Don't you love that of all the stories and all the photos from my trip, I start with this one?

P.P.S. You know you love it. (Joe, however, might notsomuch)

P.P.P.S. Do we think it is coincidence that after I drooled over Ed, Joe decided to stop shaving?

P.P.P.P.S. Aren't we all glad TMC didn't talk me out of going on a nice tour?

P.P.P.P.P.S Ed, if you're reading this, it's all in good fun. I respect you as a person. I was seriously impressed with your tour guide skills. call me

I'm the only one...

Am I the only person in the world who really doesn't care about the position in which toilet paper is loaded onto the little spinny thing?

It wasn't long ago that SomeMonkey asked me "over or under" because apparently there's a right and a wrong and I think I was going to once again vote with her to prove that her husband (like all husbands) is some weirdo that should consider himself blessed that she graces him with her continued presence in his life.

Anyways, my answer? "As long as it's within reach of the toilet, I don't much care." For some people, this is equal to kicking puppies. I guess we have to have a preference. I couldn't care less if the roll of toilet paper is sitting on the floor next to the toilet instead of on the holder.* If it's somewhere nearby when I need it, I'm happy. If it's not nearby? I scream for Joe. Because somehow it's probably his fault.

I just don't think the over/under of the toilet paper is a battle worth wasting energy over. Also, I don't care if the lid is up and down. I'm not so lazy that I can't put it down myself. And I'm not so tiny that I'm going to fall in and be flushed into the sewers. It's just not worth fighting over or working myself into a tizzy about.

That energy is better spent on more important offenses - like leaving the top off the toothpaste or putting the butter not in the butter compartment of the fridge. Because that? Is just wrong.

Anything like this that you just don't care about at all?

*Unless company is coming. The bathroom downstairs always has the toilet paper on the holder where it belongs. I do pretend to have some standards.

Clarification about my "hypothetical baby"

Last night, I tweeted the following:

Also, in our hypothetical pregnancy, Joe wants it to be a surprise. And then he wants it to be a boy. Eww.

Then I went to bed.

This morning, I woke up to multiple tweets of this nature:

ZOMG babies? Did I miss something? Congratulations, you're having babies?!?!?!?111one!?!

Back that pony up!!! HYPOTHETICAL babies. As in we were watching a show (The Office) and there was baby-related content and we were talking about "someday, if WE ever have a kid, blah blah blah".

And Joe said that he wants the gender to be a surprise. But then he wants it to be a boy. Yuck. MY hypothetical baby is female. I like to tell him that I'll insist on naming her Gertrude and he won't be allowed to argue with me because I just carried this hypothetical baby in my belly for nine months.

But it's just a "maybe someday" baby. Unfortunately, when you're as screwed up in the head as I am, especially when it comes to mother-issues, it's just not as easy as it ought to be.

So settle down, folks, and cancel BabyWatch2010 for this uterus. No babies here!

Going to See the Pope

We've booked another European adventure. Let's hope that this time, my anxiety cooperates and I don't spend half the trip in a hotel room praying to the porcelain gods and puking my fish n chips.

We like to fly into London because we can do that directly from our undisclosed location. Once there, we usually wander around London for a bit before hopping a discount airline to another destination. We've done Paris, Dublin, and Western Ireland. This time, we were choosing between Italy and Spain.

Here's the thing about both locations but specifically Italy and even more specifically Rome - our trip is right around Easter. As in Catholics flocking to the Vatican to see the Pope. As in a gazillion people in a small space and fewer hotels and restaurants and it's a holiday and now it's going to cost a fortune.

What I really want to know - is Rome like Disney World? At Disney World, I had special Mouse ears with a veil attached and it said "bride". If I pack my Pope-hat equivalent, will people give me free desserts? Maybe move me to the front of the ride line?

It'll either get me discounts or deported. Either way, it'll make a great blog post!

P.S. In the end, we chose five days in Barcelona and then two days in Edinburgh. I guess the Pope didn't want me there because he made sure it was impossible to make arrangements.

P.P.S. And that's probably Joe's fault because he's been eating meat on Friday. I think the Pope is angry at him and taking it out on me.

Going Home

This weekend, Joe and I are flying to hell "home" to visit our families. Primarily, to visit my sister Tina and her kids. Collin is now about 21 months and Caley is about 3 weeks old. If nothing else, I figure the experience will be good for at least one blog post.

I haven't been "home" since Collin was a month old and that trip didn't go well. I was so anxious that I spent the entire trip being miserably sick. But that was before my friend Lexapro. And before Xanax. And beyond the medication, I think I've made great progress with my other coping mechanisms.

Still, I find myself very on edge. It usually starts to hit me when we're packing. It's an early morning flight and I'm not an early morning girl. Travel makes me more nervous than it should but between security, layovers, and possible weather, I can't seem to put away all of those antsy feelings.

Assuming we arrive in one piece, I'm hopeful the weather will cooperate. I'll have enough to keep calm about without weather worries. I've identified two major stress areas for the trip so that I can compartmentalize them and get past them.

The first is visiting my grandmother. She never misses an opportunity to rehash all of the family history and her bitterness at my parents. She's totally entitled to her feelings and I won't disagree with them. I share many of them myself. But it serves no purpose to talk about them again. It only freaks me out. Gramma is also getting quite old (she'll be 80 in April) and always tells me that it's good to see me because she thought she might die before we visited again. Stuff like that. Very pleasant.

The second big stress event will be Sunday morning. My sister is having the kids dedicated (think Protestant for baby baptism) at the family church that day. It's a pretty big deal and I'm excited that she's planning it for a time when we can be there. But the idea of going to my parents' church makes me want to vomit. They are a tiny rural church, totally judgmental and totally in everyones' business. They hate gays, they hate dancing, they miss the days of Prohibition, they hate Catholics (I'm still going to hell for marrying "one of those heathens" as my mother's friend told me on my wedding day). And since they're all my mother's friends, she has badmouthed me to them for years. That's not paranoia; that's a fact. My brother's and sister's weddings were both extremely uncomfy for me as a result.

On top of it all, I weigh 70 lbs more than I did last time I was there. But no way do I say to any of them "it's called depression and medication". Instead, family and "friends" can just think "wow, Cate's really a fatass!" Believe me, I know I'm overweight. It's hard to not let the depression get the best of me so I can do something about it.

But despite all of that, I'm really looking forward to seeing my brother, SIL, sister, and niece & nephew. I'm trying to work out the possibility of doing a bit of spoiling. I'm also trying to work out a plan to abscond with my sister alone for a bit because I think that time would serve us both well.

And the best thing you can all do for me is hope that Gwen will have coverage in Northeast Nowhere. Because Gwen is my lifeline. If the plane lands and I can't find the little Verizon guy, it's not going to be pretty.

The Elephant

This may be one of those entries people have no idea how to respond to and that's fine - I think I'm writing it more to hear myself talk. Please feel free to respond but don't feel obligated because Cate's losing her marbles again. Really, I'm not losing my marbles. I'm just trying to figure out what to do with them.

You know that saying about everyone ignoring the elephant in the room? Even though the elephant is completely obvious and there's no way you could possibly ignore it?

I have my own personal elephant that tags along behind me and it's hard for me to be comfortable enough to share with many people. I think a lot of people realize there is an elephant of some sort but they have no idea what it is. Just that there's something.

As an adult, I've only shared the details of my elephant with a handful of people. A few others have gotten just the most basic of information. All of them internet "folks" that I'm quite close to (well, minus one who had a kid and dropped off the face of the earth when I wasn't all excited about the *wiggle wiggle poo report*). And, really, that's fine. It's my elephant. I can share or not.

But I just realized recently, someone I thought I had shared with long ago, apparently I did not. And now it feels kind of awkward to me. This isn't just "oh, hey, did I ever tell you about the time I was in the high school cafeteria and milk shot out my nose?". It's more like "oh, hey, know how you always listen to me rant and rave about the gazillion issues I have? I have an elephant that explains about 99% of those and I kinda forgot to mention it."

Part of me wants to get it off my chest. Part of me really isn't up to talking about it in the amount of detail it would take to explain. A huge part of me is thankful for those few friends I've told because if I'm having a bad day, all I have to do is utter two words and they know exactly what's on my mind. No further explanation needed.

So what do you do about your personal semi-invisible elephant in this situation?

P.S. My elephant would be pretty pissed to be referred to as an elephant. But then, wouldn't we all?

Breastseses

Today, I'd like to talk about breasts. Specifically, my breasts. In fact, I can narrow it down even more than that - we're going to talk about my left breast.

When I was just the tender age of 26 (doesn't that seem so long ago?), I faithfully shaved my legs and hauled in for my annual physical. AKA The Yearly Poke and Grope. I do this every 12 months like a good girl because I haven't figured out any other way to get a doctor to prescribe my birth control pills care about my health.

That particular year, I had gone to general practitioner (GP) because I feel she gives a more complete exam and I have a real love/hate relationship with my gynecologist's office. All was well until the GP asked if I had noticed the small lump in my left breast. Umm, no. She wanted to know if I was doing my monthly self-exams, which I kinda do or don't but I don't know what I'm looking for really. Once she helped me feel the lump, it was very obvious to me. As shocked as I was to have a lump in my breast, nothing could've prepared me for what the doctor said next.

"Just ignore it."

Wait, what? Ignore it?

"Yeah, you're young. Chances are it's nothing. Just ignore it."

This, the official medical advice of my doctor.

Joe and I talked and the more I thought about it, the more that didn't sit well with me. Plus, I'm like a kid that doesn't notice I'm hurt until you point out that little scrape on my knee and then OMG I AM IN PAIN, HELP, I CAN THINK OF NOTHING ELSE!!!

This is getting long so I'm gonna give you the Reader's Digest Condensed version. I scheduled an appointment with the ob/gyn for a second opinion. He felt it was probably nothing but unfortunately he had seen too many people with small lumps at my age ignore them until things had advanced and there was nothing he could do. An ultrasound indicated that it was probably a benign cyst. The doctor left it up to me if I wanted to have it removed at that point or if I wanted to just monitor it closely.

I think I only lasted about 6 months constantly poking at that lump and thinking about it before I called and scheduled the surgery. It was the only way to be 100% certain that there was truly nothing to be concerned about. And when I saw the surgeon, she was concerned enough that she said she wanted to do a needle aspiration that day unless I scheduled the surgery before leaving the office.

The surgery itself wasn't a big deal. It didn't take long and I was lucky with the location of the lump - it was small and near the surface. Scarring was minimal and not somewhere visible to anyone but the husband. Recovery wasn't too bad. And after all of that, it turned out to be nothing. But for my peace of mind, it was necessary to follow through.

So as we enter October, which is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I just wanted to add my reminder to the many others you'll be seeing. It's important to not only to have regular exams but to trust your instincts.

And that concludes today's discussion about my left breast.

Six Word Saturday

Describe your life (or something) in a phrase using just six words. For more information, try clicking here. Feel free to explain or not explain. Add an image, a video, a song, nothing. I love seeing what everyone does each week with their entries.

My six words:

Your ghost won't leave me alone

All that's necessary to participate is to post your own six words. You can post an explanation if you wish but it's certainly not required. If you play along in your blog, please add a link to the Mr. Linky. I appreciate a link back (shiny code below if you like!) but I'm not going to delete your entry or punch you in the face if you don't. Otherwise, you're welcome to leave your six words in this post as a comment.

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I have an STD (Update)

Yesterday, my doctor told me I have HPV which is an STD. Now, since Joe and I both profess to have been virgins when we were married and claim to have been faithful all these decades eons years, you might wonder how this happened. Likely, the STD was picked up in a hotel. And I'm the one at fault.

Nope, it's not quite what you're probably thinking. I've had a weird bump thingy under my toe for the past year or so. If I happen to smack it or step on something wrong, it's like needles shooting up through my body from my teensy toe into my teensy brain. Yeah, I realize a year is sorta a long time to not have something like that taken care of but I was a bit busy dealing with reflux and not sleeping and spazzing the hell out and crazy therapists, thankyouverymuch. (I'd link to some "spazzing out" but that's pretty much the whole blog - pick a post at random, it likely proves my point.)

Anyways, turns out the bump is a plantar's wart, caused by HPV. So I have an STD on my foot. Except my foot is a virgin as far as I know. Ew, that's gross now that I think about it. More likely I picked it up waltzing around barefoot in a hotel somewhere.

Of course since I'm such a complete freak of nature calm individual, I definitely didn't spend the entire hour leading up to my appointment imagining worst case scenarios while SomeMonkey tried to talk me down off the ledge. Then what's the first thing my awesome doctor (who looks like the next door neighbor from Empty Nest which is a show I never watched but for some reason I think that guy was a pedophile and now I think my doctor is a perv) says upon examining my toe?

"We're gonna have to amputate."

Haha doc, very funny. Only now since I'm associating him with the man-whore from that sitcom, I'm thinking maybe he somehow gave my foot an STD just for the job security.

While I'm busy pondering this, he's busy stabbing my toe and dumping "blistering agents" on it. Which he now expects me to do for the next two weeks at home. Yeah, I think Joe will be in charge of toe-doctoring while I close my eyes tight and swear at him. Because really, it's probably all his fault for taking me to a hotel frequented by skanky people with foot diseases.

And if blistering and chemically burning my toe off doesn't work, he said our next step is lasers. LASERS!!! Serious BOOYAH right there.

P.S. I should make it clear that my foot doesn't ACTUALLY have an STD. There are over 130 identified strains of HPV and only about 30 of those are sexually transmitted. This is not me having an STD that's manifesting in my foot. This is just me having a foot yucky, kinda like athlete's foot.