RICE, RICE Baby

Tonght I took my Little Sister out for dinner, at that very fancy restaurant whose initials are JITB. Good old Jack is the biggest corporate sponsor of Big Broters/Big Sisters, and they give all new pairs of Bigs/Littles (because that is what we are called now, Bigs and Littles) these little coupons for free food so we can hang out and get to know each other.

(And let me tell you, that little girl can put it away. She straight ordered an Ultimate Cheeseburger and ate pretty much all of it. I think she's about to have a growth spurt or something.)

Anyway, after dinner we decided to walk over to the grocery store and see if they had any cool nail polish colors for us to stock up on for future nail poilishing adventures. And I was not paying attention to where I was walking and....oh, you can guess what happened next.

Yep. Stepped in a pothole and fell. AGAIN. Scared the daylights out of my Little Sister, too. Didn't break anything this time, at lest, but I seem to have sprined the heck out of my right ankle.

The ankle which happens to have been my GOOD ankle. Because my left ankle, the one I broke 5 years ago? It has been bothering me off and on over the past couple months.

Luckily for me (and my ankle) I've been through this often enough that I was able to come straight home, dose myself with some Aleve, and kick back in the recliner with my foot up and covered in ice, followed by digging out my ankle brace and putting it on. I am a total RICE Protocol Expert. I'm a good person to have around when you hurt yourself, because I have had to take care of my own self so many damn times.

But hey, at least I didn't break my wrist again, right?

Right.

Case Study #32957061

I have a very funny story to tell tonight, my lovelies. And it's nice and long,so enjoy it.

I've been jumping through a Byzantine maze of hoops trying to get all my ducks in a row for the surgery, and one of the things I had to do was go and be evaluated by a psychologist. A little chit chat, a couple personality assesment, nothing too big. So my surgeon gives me a referral to this guy we'll call Dr. D because his last name starts with a D and and I am not creative enough to come up with something else.

First of all, the dude is the same age as me. THE SAME AGE. Second of all, fucker makes $325 an hour doing this stuff. (And yes, I am now really starting to regret giving up on the whole being a psychologist thing.) So I went in there one afternoon after work, after having fought my way through traffic and trying desperately not to get lost. And I discovered that Dr. D's office was inexplicably in a pediatrics office. Seriously. It was very strange, sitting there waitig for a shrink in an office full of small, ill children and a bunch of toys. It was even stranger to find that this guy, this doctor who performs enough bariatric pre-surgical evaluations to be referred by my surgeon, had tiny chairs WITH ARMS that my ass would barely fit into. And you know, I have a big ass, but in the world of bariatric patients, my ass is on the small end. So if I had a hard time with it, I cannot imagine how other patients fit in there.

Anyway, Dr. D and I had a nice long conversation and he was enthusiastic about me being perfectly okay for the surgery. In fact, his exact words were "I see no problems here." So he shuffled me off to another room so I could sit and complete my required personality assessments, one of which was the MMPI. Now, I have a BA in psych and some master's work in education; not only have I seen the MMPI more than once, I've even taken it a couple times. And I was wondering what part I'd score high on this time; I had my money on anxiety, what with my worries about my ass getting out of the chair and all.

Fast forward a couple weeks to this past Monday. Dr. D calls to discuss my test results. And the conversation went something like this:

"Yeah, I got your results and they were valid but I wanted to clarify a few things with you before I write my report."
"Okay, what's up?"
"Well, you answered true to this question: 'I sometimes want to do harmful or shocking things.' Um, could you explain that?"
"It's mostly the shocking things. My friends and I are kind of exhibitionistic and we do goofy, shocking things around each other."
"Okay, well how about 'I am afraid of losing my mind'? Could you tell me about the situation that made you feel that way?"
"There wasn't a situation, that's just one of my general fears. Like, I'm afraid of being homeless. I'm afraid of dying. I'm afraid of losing my mind."
"Oh, well that makes sense. But see here's the thing. Your test score came back with a really high score in the anti-social section. Like, REALLY high."
"Anti-social? Really?"
"Yeah, it was so high that I sent it back and asked them to rescore it because it just didn't jive with what I've seen from you so far."

Commence laughing, because apparently I scored high enough that on paper, I am the next Unabomber. Or as I told the lovely Suzanna Danna, my profile should now say I am a Unabomber trying to get skinnier so as to fit into a smaller shack. So yes, my MMPI score indicates an inability to have a steady job (wrong), limited social circle (wrong), limited education (wrong) and lack of close relationships (wrong). In light of the 5 years I've had with my current company, the almost five years I've been with my husband, my rather large social circle and my current volunteering activities, my actual life is a direct contradiction to my MMPI results. And it kind of broke Dr. D's brain.

I think that maybe, just maybe, Dr. D should write me up as a case study about how the MMPI can be totally, completely wrong. He could totally get famous for it I think.

Oh, and for the record, his report was totally favorable. We're at all systems go for the surgery.

I suppose it could be worse

There's more than a few things that I just choose to not write about here. I don't discuss any fights that Kevin and I have because quite frankly, they're none of your business. And I don't talk about work because I happen to actually like my job and would like to keep it. And also, I would have to kill all of you if I tell you too much about the people who pay me. And for the most part, I do not talk about the dramas in my family, because these days they are small blips on the radar (and also, I'm pretty sure that my mom is reading this on occasion. Hi Mom!)

But today I finally reached the point where I simply Do Not Care about breaking that last rule a little bit because people, my father-in-law has reached new levels of assholery and therefore, I must rage about it.

Asshole and I have never had a great relationship. Not for lack of trying on my part; I'm a big believer in family and spending time together so I made sure that we made an effort to see them on a regular basis. We spent Christmas Eves with them, remembered to celebrate birthdays and other holidays with them on occasion. I didn't really understand why Kevin was always dragging his feet about calling them. But I understood after a few times with them.

The crux of the matter is that Asshole is the king of guilt throwing and passive-aggressive zingers. And man, he pissed me off every time we got together with them. His more stellar moments include:

-Neglected to invite his only son to Christmas Eve dinner with the rest of the family until we called to arrange something. He did invite us after that, and then right after he arrived hollered out to his sister "Hey J, tell Melinda about that diet you're on!" (The implication being that maybe the diet would work for me too.)
-Declared during another family gathering (with his side of the family) that the only reason he didn't get into UCLA was "because it was the 60's and affirmative action was starting and he wasn't a chink so he didn't get in". What. The FUCK.
-Became one of only two major stressors around the wedding due to his obesession with making us feel guilty for asking for money AFTER HE TOLD US TO TELL HIM WHAT WE NEEDED so he could write a check. Also, he did not come to the unrehersal dinner (and I suspect he blew us off so he could go to an SDSU alumni dinner, but that has not yet been proven).
-Tried to guilt us into inviting Kevin's cousins to the wedding...two weeks beforehand.
-Had the nerve to lecture us about his sisters "not getting enough face time" with us at the wedding....when his sisters left the wedding without saying anything to us, before dinner was served and without even waving hello to me.
-Asked Kevin if I didn't like him while they were out golfing. Oh, and then his wife sent a letter to my (totally awesome) mother-in-law to say that she didn't think I liked HER (the second wife). And repeatedly both Asshole and his wife has told people they see Kevin less now than they did when he lived in Sacramento (not true).

So basically, Kevin's father's side of the family seems to think that I am an evil bitch who has stolen Kevin away from his family. Kevin said it perfectly when he told his mom during one of our discussions about this mess that he's still the golden boy, the only son of the only son, and where it used to be Kevin's mom turning him away from them, now it's me. Well fuck them very much is what I have to say about that, because Asshole went way too far today.

See, The Procedure is happening on Friday, and Kevin told his dad about it when they went golfing a couple weeks ago. His only response then was that his wife had been hoping Kevin would change his mind about not having kids so that she'd have grandkids (never mind the fact that Kevin and I agreed long ago that if the world tuned upside down and we became parents, any child of ours would never be left alone with them). Then today, Asshole calls Kevin to see if he had a ride to The Procedure, because he "didn't want Melinda to have to miss any work." This from the same man who did not call once to offer to help out when I broke my wrist, despite the fact that he is home all day and Kevin was missing work left and right to take me to all of my doctor's appointments. Apprently, he thinks I'm such a cold hearted bitch that I won't even give my husband a ride to the doctor on the day his balls will be disabled.

AND THEN! Then he went on to mention that "some people go through okay but some people end up swollen like balloons." Way to be supportive, DAD. Sheeit. Kevin figures Asshole's just trying to psyche him out so he won't destroy his glorious family's bloodline and name from dying out. Well, the joke's on him because instead of scaring Kevin away from it, he just gave us more reasons for not passing on those genes.

I'm sure that Asshole blames me for Kevin getting a vasectomy, just like I'm sure he blames me for his son not wanting to spend time around him. Little does he know that I'm the one who reminds his son to call him, who makes sure that we get together for holidays, who sends the Christmas cards. And for some reason, they don't seem to realize that treating his wife like crap is really not going to make Kevin want to spend copious amounts of time with them.

But I'm done. I'm done convincing Kevin to keep in touch with them; he's a grown man and I'm not going to force him to stay in touch with someone who makes him cringe and swear every time he talks to him, and I certainly don't feel like making an effort to hang out with people I can only tolerate if I'm drinking.

Fuck it. We are blessed with so many family members who love us and support us and who we have fun with. My mother-in-law is beyond super fantastic, and my aunts and uncles have welcomed Kevin with open arms. Life is too short for me to keep trying to win these people over, and they're just not worth it.

Man, it's hard being a grown-up.

There but for grace

It's gross and rainy and cold outside, which is odd for the middle of April in San Diego but seems more than appropriate.

It's been a bad week, full of entirely too much death. One coworker lost his father. Another, the other admin who I team with and who covered for me while I was out on disability, lost her mother. She's gone home and will be gone indefinitely (as well she should), which has meant I've had plenty to keep me busy. And being busy has kept me from being able to obsess over the other deaths that happened this week.

But my company is based in Virginia, and we have a lot of Hokies in the company family so I haven't been completely sheltered from it. There was a lot of maroon and orange seen around here today,and one of the other admins made ribbons for those of us without orange or maroon clothing to wear. And everything I've read on CNN has made me even sadder about the whole thing. The one aspect of it that I keep coming back to is the story about how his fellow classmates were so disturbed by his writings that they didn't want him in class with them. And the reason I keep going back to that part of the story is simple: because I was one of those nervous students once.

Back in 2001, I was taking a creative writing class at a local community college. I took it just because I wanted to write, to have someone teach me how to do it better. It was an evening weekday class so there were a lot of people like me in there...9-5ers looking for a creative outlet, and maybe some socializing. That class was where I met Otter, who I'm still friends with these 6 years later.

She and I had dinner together on Monday night in the course of playing "remember when?" about that class, the topic of the two really strange guys in the class came up. They were both middle aged, loners, generally unkept guys who tended to keep to themselves. One wrote horrible sci-fi and hated everything written by anyone else in the class. He was an asshat, but harmless.

The other guy rarely spoke and had a penchant for picking his nose in class, seemingly unaware of the people around him. He also had a penchant for writing violent, rambling stories.

The second story Nose Picking Guy submitted for critique by his group made all of them so uncomfortable that the entire group went to the teacher to warn her about it. It was basically a story involving a mass murder at a school, interspersed with violent rapes and mutilations.

It was worlds worse than anything I've read that was written by the VT gunman.

Our teacher was disturbed enough to report him to the Dean of Students. I remember the dean came to class and asked to see Nose Picking Guy outside. They were out there for a good 15-20 minutes, and then Nose Picking Guy returned to class. I have no idea what was said to him, but I do know he sat and seethed through the rest of class. All of us were uncomfortable about the whole situation. I don't know if any actions were taken other than that discussion. If I remember correctly, the class was almost over so I'm not sure if Nose Picking Guy was asked not to come to class anymore. I do know that no one tried to interact with him after that.

Thinking back on it in light of what happened Monday, I can't help but wonder what happened to that guy in my class. Did he stay creepy but harmless, writing violent slash fiction on his computer at home? Did he become a serial killer that no one knows about? Did he kill himself?

In this essay, Stephen King says "On the whole, I don't think you can pick these guys out based on their work, unless you look for violence unenlivened by any real talent."

Cho Seung-Hui fit that description. So did Nose Picking Guy. So do a lot of other kids and adults out there. I'm lucky I've only come in contact with a few of them.

Virginia Tech was unlucky enough to come in contact with one of the worst of them.

So yeah, the rain and gloom fits my mood today. I'm too tired to cry, so let the sky do it for me.

For $5 I'll tell your fortune too

Last night, right before I went to bed, I suddenly had this horrible shooting pain in my arm bone, right around where the screws went in. It was definitely bone pain, and there was no apparent reason for it since all I was doing was sitting there watching TV. No knitting, no reading, just sitting there being lazy when all of a sudden whomp, pain!

"Ow", I said, trying to rub it away. "Why the heck is my arm hurting for no reason?"

Then I shrugged my shoulders as the pain started disappearing.

"Eh. It's gonna rain tomorrow. Or at least be cold and damp."

I was only halfway joking, but I don't think Kevin took me even halfway seriously. Until this morning, when the morning weather man on the TV said "You'll want to grab a jacket, and make it a rain jacket." Sure enough, it had been drizzling since the early morning hours.

Score one for my Bionic Wrist of Powah!

Guess I better look into becoming a meteorolgoist, huh?

One year down, 59 to go

One year ago....

This:



Plus this:



Became this:



Happy anniversary, Hubben. Can't wait to see what comes next. (Here's hoping it involves less injuries!)

Love, Woompty

Zen, Zen, baby.

Yesterday a coworker of mine told me that my personality had changed over the past couple of months, that I wasn't the same peppy person I used to be. In fact, he said I seem stoic these days.

And I promptly told him to get out of my office before I sold him to pirates because he had insulted my honor.

Not really, but I did pretty much tell him he was wrong. He has mistaken my current Zen mood for stoicism. I'm actually more calm and content and happy than I've been in a very long while. As I explained to him, I came back from my injury much less invested in my job. I don't take it as personally anymore. I just come in, I do my job, and I go home. I don't gallivant through the hallways avoiding work ebcause I hate my job, and I'm no longer as spastic as I used to be. Why?

Because I just don't care as much anymore.

Don't get me wrong, I still care about doing a good job and keeping my people well taken care of but I've realized that it is what it is: a job. It pays my bills, it keeps my clothed and fed, and on occasion, it teaches me something. But I don't have stress dreams anymore and I don't feel guilty for leaving early or coming in late because I had to take care of something in my personal life.

I've found that I tend to have this attitude about most of my life these days. And you know what? It maks life so much easier.

Life is what it is. You are who you are. All I can do is be the best person I can and hope that other people like being around me. And so far, they do. What more could I ask for?

Ommmmm.

Boredom sucks the life out of me

You know what's amazing?

Kevin and my one year anniversary is only 3 weeks (and 2 days) away.

Talk about your time flying fast. I guess we better start making some plans or something so that we don't end up celebrating with mac & cheese and reruns.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Today was extraordinarily boring. I got in to work and there were only 3 new emails in my inbox. There wasn't a single voicemail on my phone and no one was asking me for anything. The only urgent work I had to do was 2 last minute travel plans and even those only took me something like 5 minutes. So instead I entertained myself with emails to far-flung friends who are much busier than me but seemed to welcome the distraction.

Boring days make it really hard to write a blog entry, even if you are trying to hold yourself to writing an entry every other day no matter what. When I get that bored I forget all about all the funny stuff that has happened lately (and I'm sure there has been funny stuff, there's always funny stuff) and it makes me too worn out to write an impassioned entry about all the stupid political crap going on so I just give up and write some meta-tastic tripe and call it an entry.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Have I mentioned it's been sunny and in the high 60's/low 70's? No? Well, that's probably because I don't want you all to hate me.

But the weather's good for getting out there and walking, which oh my god, I need so badly right now. I had no idea what kind of horrible shape that 3 months of ass sitting did to me but I do now. It took me 45 minutes to walk almost 2 miles the other night. Not acceptable if I want to survive the 3-Day in November. So I've gotta get my ass in gear to get back up to my 15 minute miles.

Oh, and I need to register. And come up with fundraising ideas.

Maybe that will unbore me.

Yes, you should

I have accomplished the nearly impossible.

I have finished and mailed all 130 of the Christmas cards I sent this year. (And envelope glue still tastes really nasty.)

Among those cards were a few that held the distinction of being Should I cards. You know the ones I'm talking about. They're the ones that you send to people who you haven't talked to in ages, the ones you send to people who you've maybe had an argument with or who have done something that hurt your feelings. You'll be flipping through your address book and you'll see the name of one of those people and you'll wonder "Should I send them a card? Will they read it or just throw it away? Do I want to get back in touch with them or should I just let things be?"

Those Should I cards are a tricky thing. Sometimes it's a family member who's been out of touch, but you feel like you should send one even though you don't particularly like the person because if you don't one of your parents will have something to say about it. Or maybe it's someone who you're not sure you're still friends with, since they haven't been returning your calls and maybe things were a little strained the last time you talked because you don't have as much in common anymore. So you hand pauses over the envelopes you're addressing as you wonder.

"Should I?"

I had a few of those this year. Family members who hurt us with their passive aggressive misbehaviors. A friend who RSVP'd for the wedding but then never showed up, a friend I haven't heard from in any way shape or form since then but who's got a habit of dropping contact when she is embarrassed about her own behavior. Another friend who I had an angry, bitter, hurtful falling out with a few months ago but who still floats through my mind from time to time because there were more good memories than bad before that falling out.

And when I asked myself "Should I?", I answered yes, to all of them. They may be thrown away without being opened, but I feel better for having made the effort. It's a simple thing, the sending of a card during the holidays. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that life is too short. If people matter to you even a little bit, the answer should always be yes, you should. And that's why I hope my Should I cards don't get tossed into the trash with the junkmail.

Who knows, you may start rebuilding a burned bridge for nothing more than the cost of a stamp.

So many shoulds

I should be doing a lot of things right now.

I should be balancing the checkbook and paying bills so that I can finish the Christmas shopping this week. And I should also be going through this gigantic pile of bills and other mail that needs to be sorted and filed so that I can get control of the desk sooner rather than later.

I should also be working on my stacks of Christmas cards that still need to go out(I signed up for my usual two exhange lists again, putting the total to get out somewhere around 120). I'll probably have a few left after it's all said and done since I always over order, so let me knowif you want one; all I need is an address!

I should maybe be checking out my closet to figure out what I'm going to wear to work tomorrow. I'll only be working 4 hours a day for the next month, but hey, I've still got an iamge to maintain.

I should be doing an awful lot of things, but really, I probably won't do much of any of it, because there's a chill in the air, an empty apartment, two cats waiting to cuddle up on the couch with me while I watch episode after episode of Nip/Tuck on DVD and a couple of overly frosted cupcakes waiting for me courtesy of my friend.

Hmm. Maybe I should get started on that last bit right now.

Because yes, I'm a wimp

It's no secret to the people who know us that Kevin and I are planning on moving out of California sometime within the next 5-7 years. Neither of us has lived outside of the state since we were born, and I've never lived farther north than Los Angeles. We want to live somewhere with actual seasons at some point in our lives.

Right now the two top contenders on our Places To Move list are Wisconsin (probably Madison) and Georgia (probably outside Atlanta somewhere). We've been to Wisconsin and we like Wisconsin. We have friends in Wisconsin and we'd still be close enough to Chicago for me to get my big city fix but with enough space to satisfy my husband's craving for less people. On the other hand, we have family in Georgia; my Most Awesome Aunt & Uncle are there, along with their kids and grandkids. Our company has tons of offices in the state, so it'd be easy to transfer. We've been there, and Kevin has declared Georgia acceptable.

Lately, it's been a pretty neck and neck race between the two states. Compared to California, it's worlds cheaper to live in either of them, we're familiar with both of them and we know people in both of them.

But then today I saw this:

Temps rise in storm-stricken Midwest
...and I have to say, I think Georgia just eeked a little bit forward in the polls.

(But don't tell my husband, because I think he's already dreaming of white Christmases.)

Doctor, doctor, gimme the news

Yesterday I had a doctor's appointment, but for once it wasn't for my wrist. This time I was there to meet my new Everything Doctor, and luckily for me, she's fantastic. It's really amazing to me to have good doctors who actually listen to me when I talk and don't just blame every little thing on my weight. I mean seriously, my coughs do not happen because I'm fat, despite what my old doctor seemed to believe.

Of course, we did talk about my weight (and my sexual history because it was also Time For A Girly Parts Exam). I can't deny that my weight's an issue for me, and since I've managed to gain back everything I lost (and then some) it's time to take some more drastic actions. She was totally behind it (weight management is one of her areas of expertise) and gave me a referral to my healthcare group's weight management people. So before I left, she says that hey, let's go ahead and do an EKG and a whole bunch of blood work because the weight management group is going to want that info.

You'll be happy to know that the EKG showed that my heart beats with a totally normal rhythm and rate. What I was not happy to find out was that she requested to much bloodwork that they had to take SIX vials of blood from me. SIX! Man, I might as well have given blood while I was at it.

The worst part was that she also requested a urinalysis. There is nothing I hate more than peeing in a cup. There is no way in hell for me to pee into a 2 inch wide cup without peeing all over myself in the process. I don't usually wish I was a man because I happen to really like being a woman, but when they want me to pee in a cup all I can do is think "Man, this would be easier if I had a penis."

This experience was even worse than usual, since not only was the cup a teeny tiny one, the bathroom was totally awkward. It had obviously been retrofitted to meet federal ADA guidelines, and it was obvious that they had done the very least necessary. The toliet was crammed into the corner, with the handicapped railing sticking out sort of over the toilet seat. So I crammed myself in and realized that I didn't have room to manuever the cup down into position for the attempt at pee catching. I had to sit sort of sideways on the seat, and sure enough, peed all over my hand.

Have you ever tried to thoroughly wash your hands with a cast on one of them? Nearly impossible, but I somehow managed it because ew, pee covered hand! Ew! So I got that all cleaned up and opened the little cabinet where they have you leave your cup only to discover that it was already pretty full. Apparently, whichever tech was supposed to be collecting the pee cups that day was totally slacking, because they were actually stacked on top of each other. And it's not like it was locked or anything. If someone needed some pee to use to pass a drug test, it would have been really easy for someone to just come on by and steal some.

As icked out as I was, I have to admit that I was kind of proud that my cup was pretty much full, unlike the vast majority of the cups in there. Slackers.

So here's hoping that all the blood work comes back normal, eh? I'd hate to find out I was dying right before Christmas.