tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30991354975920830302024-02-06T22:22:43.384-06:00Stories I'd Tell at a PartyFunny is the f-word here.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-55237487371264676022015-01-13T20:06:00.002-06:002015-01-13T20:06:50.726-06:00All I Ask For...is to be WrongMany of you have heard my nursing war stories over the years; I hope that the one thing you took away from those is how much I really love being a nurse--even when I say I don't. There are many things I love about it. I love that it's an honorable profession that may require a degree to fulfill, but often healing comes in the most fundamental of personality traits (i.e.: humor, holding a hand, putting off that bathroom break to get that warm blanket). I love that I worked really hard to get where I am, and I'm surrounded by a group of professionals who "get" me. I love that when I leave work, I will most likely go out knowing more than I did when I came in--because I learned it from my patient. <div>
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However, there are also things I don't love. </div>
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Sometimes I wish I didn't have all that knowledge. Sometimes, I wish I hadn't seen some of the things I saw. Sometimes, I wish I didn't have intuition. Because when you see those same things occurring in someone you love, it brings up some ugly feelings. But sometimes, you forget that in addition to being a nurse, you're human and actually allowed to feel those feelings. </div>
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In case you're wondering where all this is coming from, I got a call from my mom last Sunday morning around 11:30. What's the big deal about that? I'll tell you: a) she almost never calls me, and b) at 11:30 am on Sunday she's undoubtedly at church. Sure enough, my mom casually told me she had been in the emergency room the night before. "Okay, big deal," I thought to myself. She went on to tell me her symptoms of severe abdominal pain and a list of other things she'd probably shoot me for sharing. </div>
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Of course, I went into "nurse mode". <i>What did the bloodwork say? Did they do a CT scan? What about an ultrasound? Did they say anything was remarkable? What about LFTs, pancreatic enzymes?</i> I forgot for a second that my mom may not have been accustomed to those questions. Regardless, she basically said "they said they didn't find anything." Honestly, I don't know if I believe her. </div>
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Let me back up a minute and share an ungodly fear I've had for the last few months. My mom recently retired back in October after working ridiculously hard for 40+ years. She called me one day and told me she was retiring in two weeks. You hear these stories about people who retire and something happens that they don't have the chance to enjoy it. My wish for her has been that she really get to enjoy this time. She recently married (okay, it was almost 3 years ago, but I'm told that when you're her age, that's still pretty recent). She and I are finally close. All I've wanted is time for all of us to enjoy that. Now I get this phone call. While it may seem illogical for my mind to immediately go to a dark place, don't forget--as I often do--that I'm human. </div>
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You also have to understand that this has also been the pattern in my family. I grew up with four people in my house: my grandpa, my granny, my mom and me. When my grandpa got sick, it was so sudden between diagnosis (lung cancer) and death (eight weeks) that I'm still getting over the shock (16 years later--half my life). When my granny was diagnosed with cancer, she had been on such a slow decline that it had never occurred to me she was also going to be diagnosed with lung cancer. Diagnosis to death time? Eight weeks. My grandpa died before I finished high school. My granny died before I could finish nursing school. I'm hoping to start grad school in the fall. </div>
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Hopefully, this gives you some insight as to why I might be "freaking out." In the words of Johnny Cash, <i>"the needle tears a hole, that old familiar sting, try to kill it all away, but I remember everything." </i></div>
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I used to make jokes that the reason I didn't go to "doctor school" was so I could just say, "I don't know, I'm not a doctor. Go ask your doctor." To my doctor friends: I apologize. I know that isn't fair and I'm sorry. However, many other people take the same approach: that doctors--who are also human--know everything. </div>
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What do you do if they don't? </div>
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You pray. You thank God for the people you love and ask Him to guide the hands and minds of those who care for them. Honestly, I'll be begging for my will to be done (even though it may not be). In my case, it's been <i>"Please do not do this to me again"</i>, even though I'm fully aware of how it works. And you do everything you can to bat those negative thoughts away. But when the thoughts won't completely go away, you try to remember not to beat yourself up about it, because remember, you're human, too. And sometimes, you hurt. </div>
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And sometimes you're wrong. In this case, that's the one thing I want more than anything else. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-59774959666280561332014-06-04T01:23:00.001-05:002014-06-04T01:23:06.640-05:00Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-5257972766018681482014-02-18T20:22:00.000-06:002014-02-18T20:22:15.221-06:00To Whom it May Concern...<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Here's what happens when you aren't nice to the diabetes crowd...you get nasty grams. Austin City Limits: consider yourself warned. To get the rest of the story, read below. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><i>To Whom it May Concern: </i></span><br />
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<i>I am writing regarding my experience at the Rebirth Brass Band show last Saturday. It was a great show and I’m glad I had the chance to attend. However, I need to voice a serious concern. </i></div>
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<i>My friend and I came to the event, arriving somewhere around 7, because we’d planned to eat there. There was a laundry list of menu items listed on the website that would be served at this event, so we had planned to make use of that. That being said, we thought arriving at 7 was actually plenty early. As it was, there was only a little side table offering crawfish étouffée with dirty rice—and that was it. Just as we walked up to order, we were politely told that they had just run out. We couldn’t seem to find anyone in the place who knew about any other food, and the attendant of the table herself said she didn’t know if more food was coming. Therefore, we had to leave and make alternate plans. </i></div>
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<i>We knew the drill coming back in would be to check our bags at the top of the stairs. When I opened mine to check, the security staff asked me to remove items so she could see the bottom, and as I did, she saw a Big Bird juice box in my bag. I should probably pause here to inform you that I have type 1 diabetes, and that juice box is what I use as emergency treatment when my blood sugar is low to prevent more severe emergencies. She informed me of your policy of no outside food or drink—which I completely understand, but please take note that I don’t bring Big Bird juice boxes with me because I’m afraid I won’t like what you have. In fact, I would have really liked it if you had what you said you were going to; unfortunately, alcohol also doesn’t help a situation involving low blood sugar. I explained my situation multiple times, and in fact, as we were looking through my bag, there was other food that I had completely forgotten was in there. I offered for her to take it, and she said no. I offered to show her my MedicAlert ID—she said she didn’t need to see it. I offered to show her my meter—she said she didn’t need to see that, either. The only thing she really seemed to care about was that I had this juice box in my bag. She made me promise multiple times to only use it if I had an emergency. </i></div>
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<i>I completely understand that the times we live in have necessitated extra security measures, but I don’t think they have necessitated humiliation, which is exactly what I experienced. You may want to argue that I could use something else to treat low blood sugars, but honestly, I don’t think I should have to. I can assure you, my intention was not to sell said juice box or consume it out of boredom. If anything, I was being responsible, and while I don’t think that necessitates commendation, I do think it deserves dignity. </i></div>
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<i>In my 30+ years as a type 1, I have never experienced that level of humiliation surrounding my condition. I have fought hard to be “normal”, and to have your security staff--who probably has no knowledge of such conditions--detain me over a juice box when it’s been explained over and over what its intended use is, is nothing short of infuriating. To say that I have no desire to return to your facility anytime soon is an understatement. </i></div>
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<i>I really do appreciate your time and consideration in reading this. Please feel free to contact me with any questions, concerns or comments. </i></div>
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<i>Sincerely, </i></div>
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<i>Cassie Moffitt</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-40930444194730590972013-12-09T08:35:00.000-06:002013-12-09T08:35:40.947-06:00Miracle #3: The Party Starts NowI've been very humbled lately. Some of that is related to some upcoming things that I'll talk about in a future post (sorry to be mysterious, but I don't want to dilute its value). However, a lot of that is due to the season. Everyone knows this time of year is supposed to be joyous. We get presents, we get to see family, we get to watch any number of sporting events on TV, or we get to watch Uncle Whoever drink too much egg nog and it ends up on Facebook. For some people, this season is not so joyous--and I totally get it.<br />
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For me, it's a different kind of joy.<br />
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Just over a year ago, I hit a wall. My heart had been broken beyond what I thought could be repaired, and I didn't know what else to do. At some point, I literally threw my hands in the air, looked up at the ceiling and yelled "Fine! You win! What do you want from me?!?" I was talking to (yelling at) God. I did the only thing I knew how to do--Facebooked. I contacted a friend of mine who I've known since high school. She also happens to be one of the most Christ-like, non-judgmental people I've never met. One of the main reasons I stayed away from the church for so long was because I felt like Christians were too judgmental--and not a lot of fun. I knew she would happily help me and meet me where I was. I couldn't tell you where that was.<br />
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As it turned out, I was going to visit my family that weekend, while she was going to celebrate her baby shower. We happened to be going to the same town--not the town we knew each other from. God? I think so. Anyway, she took me to church with her that weekend, and I left feeling a little more uplifted than I did when I first came in. The only thing I knew for sure was that I wanted to find a church like it when I returned home.<br />
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After my five-and-a-half hour journey back to Austin, Texas, I went about The Great Church Search. My scientific method? Google. My search keywords went something like this: "Non-denominational+churches+Austin, TX" Luckily, Google returned results in English. I clicked on the link for the very first church and read every single page. The one that really spoke to me, though, was one that mentioned <i>"healing"</i>. Healing? I had done enough in the decade-plus up to that point to require healing, so of course my response was "Sign me up!"<br />
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I took on the role of "Miss Putoffski", until my parents came to town sometime in September 2012. My dad is a very holy man and was feeling a little antsy at the idea of not going to church that Sunday, so what perfect timing? Frankly, I was also out of excuses. We drove the 40 minutes to see what this church was all about. After entering and being greeted by no fewer than a half dozen people, I turned around right as the praise band was getting started. Just when I wasn't sure if this was for me, the band fired up How Great Thou Art--a song that my grandpa and I had sang solo many times in church (we each had our own take on it). I looked up at the sky and said, "Got it."<br />
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That was only the beginning. I can't say every day has been perfect, but I've found that there are a lot more meaningful things to do with life, other than Keep Up with the Kardashians. If you want to know the truth, I've found that there's a lot more joy, and a lot more to laugh about. While all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put my heart back together again, God could. He's the only one who ever could. I just had to let him. Some days, I forget that, but it's all about coming back around and trying again.<br />
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I have days where I say to myself, "Who am I kidding? I have no business doing this" or "People won't take me seriously because I haven't memorized scripture." The first one just isn't true. The second one is an ongoing thing, and what really matters here is that <i>I am serious</i>. I can also admit that I will not do this perfectly, and I hope others won't use that against me. All I can do is ask forgiveness, get back up and try again. I'm thankful to have people (spiritual mothers, if you will) I can be accountable to, people who encourage me, and still think I'm funny--people who have been there from the beginning, and new friends. If you ever start this journey, don't do it alone--make sure you have that support around you (particularly if you are funny--just kidding).<br />
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There are a lot more days when I say "Thank you, God, for insert-blessing-here…" It's a lot more fun to be able to do that.<br />
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It's also very humbling. When I look back at where I was just a year ago--that's not even counting a decade-plus before that--I am humbled this could have ever happened to me. I am humbled that God took a pretty crappy set of circumstances and turned them around.<br />
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I'm not here to get preachy, but as we celebrate the birth of Jesus at Christmas, I am humbled at this miracle birth and what it would later mean for Christianity. This birth became the ultimate sacrifice, as Jesus was went through a horrific Crucifixion, but arose from the dead and we are now set free because of it. How's that for taking something crappy and making it into something beautiful? By the way--did I mention that I was re-baptized on Easter Sunday of this year? I truly did not plan that, but I find it very symbolic, especially given what and where I had come from. For me, that is very humbling. For a very long time, I felt unlovable, and God sacrificed <i>His own son</i> so that wouldn't be true. That's the supreme happy ending. That makes <i>me </i>happy. It makes me <i>hopeful</i>. I don't know anyone else who would've--or could've--made that sacrifice.<br />
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This is not a pledge drive to try to get more believers by the end of the year. If you want to pursue that, awesome! But this is just my story, and I think it's a good one--even if I do say so myself. And if it's not a story for a party, I don't know what is. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-62985096497374467782013-12-03T20:24:00.000-06:002013-12-03T21:01:42.609-06:00Miracle #2: A Good Problem to HaveIf you look at Merriam-Webster's online dictionary (because really, does a print-version dictionary even exist anymore?), the definition of a miracle is as follows:<br />
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<span class="ssens"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>"an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs" </i>or</span></span></div>
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So what? I guess if I'm going to do thirty days' worth of miracles, I should at least define for you--mostly for myself--what constitutes as a miracle. We've all heard the stories of people who were brought back to life after near-death experiences due to illness or injury. We've heard about people whose lives were completely transformed by an act or gesture. Could it be, though, that small, everyday nuances could also be considered miracles? I think so.<br />
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Herein lies my problem. Today, I have more than one.<br />
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If you read yesterday's blog, you read that it was a real struggle for me to come up with anything before 4 pm. However, as my day went on today, I had a lot of little things that could've been entitled small miracles. Such as:<br />
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I survived the American version of Running of the Bulls. This is also known as the dismissal bell at practically every school in the country.<br />
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I managed to eat lunch without spilling half of it down my shirt. You have to understand, this is genetic. All Moffitt women do this. Therefore, I'm defying all kinds of laws.<br />
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I had a good day of blood sugars. <i>Let me have this one!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>I managed to get to and from all destinations without losing life or limb, or worse--getting a speeding ticket. You may wonder why that's considered a miracle, but let's look at two things. First, I live in Austin, Texas. Getting to and from anywhere in a car is a heroic effort, and cannot be taken lightly. I am thankful every day for my SUV to fight off the bad guys (other drivers).<br />
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The second would be my track record. We really shouldn't go into how many speeding tickets I've had. Honestly, <i>I</i> don't even know. I think it's somewhere around two dozen, but I've actually lost count. Somewhere, a major thoroughfare will be named after me because it will be paid for solely by me out of traffic ticket fines. I know that I used to get actual birthday cards from an online defensive driving website. Now, I just get birthday emails. That means I'm doing better, right? Right? RIGHT.<br />
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I already know what you're thinking: <i>"Why don't you just slow down?" </i>While I'm continually working on that, you do have to admit that if I didn't have my record, you wouldn't have someone to laugh at while you silently thank your lucky stars it isn't you. Not to mention we wouldn't have this blog. So I'll accept your appreciation in the comments below.<br />
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Anyway, there you have it. I am fortunate enough to have more than one thing to be thankful for and consider to be miraculous. All in all, a good problem to have.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">"Miracle." </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Merriam-Webster.com</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">. Merriam-Webster, n.d. Web. 3 Dec. 2013. <http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/miracle>.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-21755938451080871632013-12-02T17:10:00.001-06:002013-12-02T17:10:49.577-06:00Miracle #1: I Made it Out of BedI'm going to review some information that I posted on the Facebook page yesterday. As it stands, the month of December is important to a lot of people because of celebrations, family, fun, whatever. However, many others see this as a time to recount various miracles. I am no exception. If I wrote my entire life story right here, right now, I'd first tell you to get a hefty snack (because you would need it). Then, I would remind myself that my life is a walking miracle. Seriously. That being said, I thought I would try to blog a month of miracles. <div>
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As I said on Facebook, some will be very heavy, and others will be as simple as a Dallas Cowboys win. </div>
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Today is simple. Appropriate for a Monday. </div>
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I have to admit: it took some doing to really find anything that could be considered a "miracle". I woke up at 4:30 (two hours before my alarm was supposed to go off) because my insulin pump site decided to crap out, making me have to pee really bad and feeling like I was going to hurl. If I'm going to feel bad that early, at least let me have a fever or a hangover (actually, I'd prefer none of these). Anyway, I never really went back to sleep, which made me a grumpy monkey at 6:30. And again at 6:39. And again at 6:48. I hit snooze three times, in case you weren't sure about the random times. </div>
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<i>"I can't wait to go back to bed." </i></div>
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<i>"DIRK! Take your stinking heart worm pill! Eat the peanut butter!"</i></div>
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You know how it is. Admit it. You've had some similar Monday morning lamentations. At least admit it so <i>I</i> feel better. </div>
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If I were saying that the rest of my day was any easier, quite frankly, I'd be lying. Even by 3 pm, I still couldn't think about what I was going to say was a miracle today. </div>
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I was texting with a friend of mine about this, and this post was going to go in a completely different direction until I read this message: </div>
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"Cool idea. Sadly, I know someone that died today. Stupid cancer. :(" Apparently, this person had only been diagnosed a short time, but began experiencing complications earlier this morning. After going to the hospital, this person passed away peacefully. </div>
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Then it hit me. For all the grumbling and wishing my day away, I could at least say this: I made it out of bed today. That person didn't. I bet that person's family wished they had. </div>
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Those who know me well know that I am not functional--nor should anything be expected of me--until I've had a least two cups of coffee. I feel like there should be laws against having to do anything before 10 am. However, I'm forgetting some key pieces. </div>
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I have a few reasons to get out of bed, including my pups</div>
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Yeah, I'm going to shamelessly plug them. I have a job. I have friends who kinda like me, and a family that would probably be looking for me if I came up missing. As you can see above, I'm not hurting for food (unless it's 11 pm, and then my hunger clock boasts an angry roar). All in all, not so bad. </div>
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And one of the best parts? At the end of the day, I have a nice warm bed I can get back into. Better than that? If I wake up the next day, the miracle starts all over again. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-64799795790062146592013-11-30T19:40:00.001-06:002013-11-30T20:53:12.961-06:00Snoop Cass<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHWEzHPkbEOCQs5jt1LMxZUARlHk6vWUp0MTgaL5hRATFXjeL1jZz4_jBJvUFJAfbq4xmvas19FKhpUc0jgdH3FuJHhauCDwK3OjlIUxyd7_ZH7H1zXGw7BBeUGVZj7P37It8-6Qz0fU/s640/blogger-image--1687562851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHWEzHPkbEOCQs5jt1LMxZUARlHk6vWUp0MTgaL5hRATFXjeL1jZz4_jBJvUFJAfbq4xmvas19FKhpUc0jgdH3FuJHhauCDwK3OjlIUxyd7_ZH7H1zXGw7BBeUGVZj7P37It8-6Qz0fU/s640/blogger-image--1687562851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIO1u4ZSVTiDOzKurvbZhu1z3z1uIf9ArHIlYm-d00VlE5KvH0aYCtErYEeH3p_lRu9MCNtg-UVJAAPfVpCb4CMrVGgq8fKDAkTSPSfYbfto2djudwqbRsMkpnrMNC50oHX2xWhYJ3Jo0/s640/blogger-image--1861986153.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIO1u4ZSVTiDOzKurvbZhu1z3z1uIf9ArHIlYm-d00VlE5KvH0aYCtErYEeH3p_lRu9MCNtg-UVJAAPfVpCb4CMrVGgq8fKDAkTSPSfYbfto2djudwqbRsMkpnrMNC50oHX2xWhYJ3Jo0/s640/blogger-image--1861986153.jpg"></a></div><br></div></div><div><br></div>If any of you saw my daily proverb yesterday, you saw what I spend my time between Thanksgiving and Christmas doing: snooping. If you didn't see that on Facebook or Twitter yesterday, you're now all caught up. <div><br></div><div>That's right. I admit it. I am a snooper and have been proudly since about 1991. I only remember that year because that was my ninth year, in which I had begged and pleaded with my mom and all known deities to please, Please, PLEEEEEEEZE bring me a Game Boy. My mom wouldn't allow me to have any gaming consoles, so I figured this was the best compromise. Never mind the fact that I spent a great deal of time playing Super Mario Brothers at a friend's house, sometimes without her knowing. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Love you, Mom. Muah. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I guess the joke was on me, though, as I spent so long playing that game one day that I had a seizure (another story, another time). </span></div><div><br></div><div>Anywho, I <i>knew</i> as well as an almost-nine-year-old can that I was getting that Game Boy for my birthday. Then, one day, almost in a vision, it came to me where that glorious gift was: in the armoire in my mom's bedroom. </div><div><br></div><div>I trekked down the hall, <i>while everyone was at home and not asleep</i> to see if I could pull off the Great Gift Find of 1991. I snuck into my mom's room, and I couldn't have hit a better stroke of luck if I tried: the key to the armoire was <i>in the door!!!</i> Pay dirt! I looked in the armoire, and sure enough, that beautiful box wrapped in cellophane with the Nintendo logo beamed at me. I would put a pic here, but I don't have one. Let me tell you this, Kidlets, the Game Boy would've <i>killed</i> the DS any day of the week. </div><div><br></div><div>I would've wept with joy if I hadn't heard noise. I think I put everything back where it was supposed to be. </div><div><br></div><div>As I would find out at my birthday party, either I hadn't put everything back the way I should've, wasn't as sneaky as I thought, or my mother really did have eyes everywhere. Either way, she was onto me and she let me know by enforcing a number system that would ensure that the Holy Grail was the last thing to be unveiled. Dang! </div><div><br></div><div>I finally got to open the glorious package, and played with it so long I had another seizure. Oh well. That didn't stop me. Nor did it stop me from snooping. If anything, it just became a game between my mom and me. She worked hard to hide, I worked hard to find. I have to admit, the woman did well: one year, I got bonked in the head while taking the Christmas tree down. She hid one of the presents in the tree and I didn't find it until after New Year's. Nice. </div><div><br></div><div>This year is going to be a little interesting. I know what I'm getting because I <i>had to order it online myself</i> because my mom doesn't have a computer and doesn't know how anyway. She actually said "You're not allowed to go snooping, either..." Yeah, right. Silly Mom, tricks are for kids...or you. Heh heh heh. </div><div><br></div><div>**I know I'm not the only snooper out there. Who's with me?</div><div><br></div><div>**Addendum: my mother just informed me that I not only snooped, I also unwrapped, then wrapped the presents back. I'll buy that. And I won't have shame about it, either. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-37989776045379560602013-11-25T10:00:00.000-06:002013-11-25T21:59:39.697-06:00Priestess of PukeI spent a great deal of time this week being productive--productive in puking. I was puking like a champ for two whole days due to a stomach virus. Let me tell you this about myself: when I get a stomach virus, I go hard or go home. If you don't believe me, take a look at this earlier <a href="http://storiesidtellataparty.blogspot.com/2013/05/a-stomach-virus-by-any-other-nameis.html#.UpEn0qV2BuY" target="_blank">post</a> about international puking (make sure you have some time on your hands--it's worth it).<br />
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Between hurls of Exorcist proportions, I started thinking about my resume of puking. I have a fairly impressive one, but for whatever reason, LinkedIn doesn't find that to be a marketable skill. Whatever. They just don't know. You never know when you're going to need someone who can hurl across an entire yard and hit a target at fifty paces.<br />
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Five years ago, I would've been disappointed that the following tale hadn't been caused by drinking or something else fun like eating an entire pizza.<br />
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Anyway, at the beginning of sixth grade, there was a girl in my class that I was good friends with. We hung out, I met her parents, we bought each other Christmas presents, went to each other's birthday parties. At some point in the year, things changed, unknowingly for me. At one point, she wrote me a very long and articulate letter telling me what a terrible person I was and that she hated me. She also told me I dressed like a baby--a comment she would be very sorry about today. She had placed her heartfelt commentary through a locker vent, letting it hang out enough that I would notice it first thing. She hung out at her locker and watched while I read through it, and eventually started to cry. Nice, huh? I later found out that there was a teacher who facilitated the whole thing. Bad, Teacher--bad.<br />
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I got my revenge about a week later, though not intentionally. My only regret was that Teach hadn't been in the room when it happened.<br />
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As with any good stomach virus, I started feeling kinda weird on the drive to school. I didn't say anything because--you'll think this is weird--I <i>hated</i> missing school. Even back in the 90s, daytime TV was terrible. Maybe I should start telling kids this whenever they're faking sick to go home.<br />
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Anyway, I reached school and homeroom. At 7:45 am, it was like any class--utter pandemonium. It was not doing wonders for my symptoms. The more it went on, the worse I felt. Then, ex-friend came over and decided to hold a conversation right in front of me. It was probably about me, but that's not really pertinent at this juncture. I kept saying, "I don't feel good", and still she stood there.<br />
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I know you know where this is headed, but hang with me, because this is good.<br />
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I finally said, "You should really move." She was turned to the side and looked at me with eyes in narrow slits, and then it happened.<br />
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Oh yeah, I puked on her. But I didn't just puke <i>on</i> her. I puked IN…HER...HAIR <i>and</i> IN…HER...FACE. Oh yeah! I nailed it in <i>TWO</i> spots. <i>TRIPLE BONUS!!! </i>I hit someone in two spots, and it was someone I didn't like.<br />
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My mother has always said I have an impeccable sense of timing. The entire class came to a standstill.<br />
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At that point, one of us was screaming; the other was crying. You could try to guess who was doing what and you'd probably be right, regardless of the guess. We were both sent home from school immediately thereafter. It was a Friday. She spent her weekend getting her hair cut , and I spent mine continuing to puke. In fact, that was the beginning of a week-long puking stint during which I lost eleven pounds. Yeah (don't be jealous--it was no fun)!!!<br />
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However, I would be lying if I said nothing good came from this. I would cite the weight loss, but as I was only four feet tall at the time. That really wasn't healthy, nor would I recommend puking to do it. No. Now when kids come to me puking and crying because they're embarrassed about it, I tell them this story. They generally look at me in horror with the look that says, "Wow, no matter how bad this is, at least I didn't do <i>that</i>!" Even the little kids know that's gross.<br />
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That being said, I guess it would be a bad idea to encourage the young'uns to aim for someone they don't like the next time they feel the urge to hurl. It was just dumb luck that it happened for me. But it's probably still considered bad form, isn't it?<br />
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Dang.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-91653498123533409462013-11-18T10:00:00.000-06:002013-11-23T12:00:16.792-06:00"Squawk, Bacock!"A couple of years ago, I had a rare opportunity. Okay, it wasn't really that rare, but I was terribly excited about it. I went to see "The Muppets" <i>in...the...theater</i>!!! Kids of the 70s and 80s rejoice! Actually, I was really fortunate that I was able to convince my mom to take me. Did I also mention I was in my late twenties at the time? I should say what happened to me at the theater was rare (though not really for me), but keep reading.<br />
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Now, if you haven't seen "The Muppets", drop everything you're doing and go watch it. NOW! I adored it, watched it several times and currently own it. I have always loved and identified with Animal. Frankly, I love his passion for life, and we both have unruly hair, so it works. Observe.<br />
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I'm pretty sure we have the same facial expressions and make the same noises--especially when I'm sitting in traffic. Again, observe. </div>
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Anyway, while I love and adore Animal, he is not my main focus. Sad face. </div>
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I'll try to give a quick plot summary. The Muppets are reunited by three superfans in order to save their studio. They decide to have a telethon to raise the money. The Muppets perform their acts as they were known for during the series (example: Gonzo shooting out of a cannon). Oh, and by the way, this movie is really meant more for those who grew up watching the Muppets (age-wise), as opposed to the young'uns today. </div>
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I should also tell you: I don't remember Camilla and the Chickens very well as I watched the Muppets growing up. This movie gave me a new appreciation of them, and I now love them as much (I can't say "more than"...yet) as Animal. When I saw this, my whole world changed. </div>
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Y'all: when I saw this, <i>I...lost...it</i>. I don't mean I laughed--I <i>guffawed</i>. When I say I guffawed, I mean I was howling loud enough for the whole theater to hear it. Even now as I'm re-watching this video to post it, I'm laughing so loudly my dogs are wondering if I'm going to be dragged off to the Funny Farm before they get their dinner. </div>
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But then it happened. </div>
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I was laughing so hard, so loud, snorting with tears and snot, when <i>I rolled out of my chair</i> and onto the floor in fetal position. I was still "squawking and bacocking" and my mother was <i>mortified</i> to say the least. At least I was in the wheelchair aisle, so I had some room to roll around. My poor Mom was pulling on my arms, begging as much as one can beg in a whisper to <i>"Get up off the floor--YOU'REEMBARRASSINGME!!!" </i>Everyone: I was literally ROFLing.</div>
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I'm here to tell you that I was laughing so hard that my sinuses cleared out, and I very nearly peed on myself. My face actually swelled up. I'm not sure if it was because I was crying so hard or because I couldn't breathe. My nursing background tells me it was probably a combination of both. I missed a good five or ten minutes of that movie due to my inability to stop laughing--or breathe, for that matter. </div>
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I was only able to get out of the floor by putting my arms in the chair seat and weakly pull myself up with the help of my mother. She will no longer watch that movie with me. </div>
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That scene, compounded by my reaction to it, is one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my life. It's right up there with the Epileptic Cat or a friend of mine who was carried off by a bowling ball when said person went to bowl (other stories for another party). While it embarrassed the "pee-waddlin'"--as she would say--out of my mother, it was pretty glorious. It was glorious to laugh like that, and the fact that it embarrassed my mother was a double-bonus. </div>
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Please don't tell her I said that. She can still scare me with a fly swatter. But seriously, go see The Muppets--NOW. And imagine me rolling all over the floor as a crying, laughing, snotting mess with a red face. If that doesn't make you squawk and bacock yourself into oblivion, you may very well have Bell's Palsy. Go look that one up. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-53633483104628972122013-11-11T18:01:00.000-06:002013-11-11T18:01:02.770-06:00"Who Brought That Guy?!?"How appropriate that this story took place at where else? A party. Yep. So what we actually have here is a story I would tell at a party--about a party.<br />
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Wow, I'm barely into this story and I'm already digressing. Don't act surprised. </div>
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Anyway, before I get too far into this, I should tell you something about myself: I love basketball. I don't mean I enjoy watching it; I mean that, other than the weather, September through June gives me a new reason to live. When I have to go visit my parents for various holidays, I usually have to hide in a bedroom to watch a game, or chew on my nails while refreshing my ESPN app. When I worked in the hospital, I was thankful on days when I had a sedated patient so I could hijack their TV (don't worry, no one was harmed). People who know me joke about how I throw things at the TV when the game isn't going my way. I named one of my dogs--Dirk--after my favorite player, for crying out loud! </div>
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Get it? I'm a fan of the round ball. </div>
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One of my friends was having an engagement party and I was stoked for my friend and her engagement, but I was also a little proud to show off my date. </div>
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Isn't it funny how the joke's always on you? Keep reading. </div>
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Anyway, we were doing the usual party thing: eating, drinking, being merry, telling embarrassing stories--you get the idea. </div>
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I didn't realize I was about to become the embarrassing story. I was in the middle of giving my pre-season commentary regarding the Dallas Mavericks, when, at a break in the conversation, my date asks--in all seriousness--"Didn't Michael Jordan play for the Lakers?"<br />
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Oh...my...LANTA!! You know that cliche about hearing a pin drop? The silence came over the party in waves, and then it was totally true. I heard someone mutter, <i>"Who brought that guy?" </i><br />
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I don't know if it was the unmistakable shock on my face, or the fact that I dropped my cake and started to cry, but either way, it was soon evident that I was, in fact, the one who'd brought that guy. Luckily, someone brought me a new piece of cake without much hesitation.<br />
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I don't really remember how it was all resolved at the party, because there was too much visible pity. However, I do remember asking a few obligatory questions on the way home, such as, "Do you know <i>who Michael Jordan is?!?" </i>or "Do you know what city the Lakers play in?" and "Do you know that the basket in basketball is actually made out of net or chain, and not wicker?!?" Fortunately for all involved here, we weren't together much longer after that.<br />
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**Note to the boys in the yard: after this incident, several of my friends felt it necessary--rightfully so--to put together a dating application. If you can't correctly state the answer to the question of who Michael Jordan played for, or what sport (principally) he played, you're out. This is your fair warning.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-32427622296495065762013-10-24T19:38:00.000-05:002013-10-24T19:44:30.247-05:00Now What?I remember being four years old and people asking me, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I never had to hesitate before I would say, "a nurse." That changed in third grade when I had a teacher tell me I should aim higher, so I decided I wanted to be a doctor. Again, I was deterred when I was ready to go to college. After many twists, turns and six years of college, I finally realized my prophecy from toddlerhood: I became a nurse.<br />
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I began my career in the Medical Intensive Care Unit of a Dallas hospital, and continued from there as a pediatric nurse at Children's Medical Center Dallas--the very hospital where I was diagnosed with diabetes. I reached my dream and the pinnacle of my career four years ago when I became a pediatric certified diabetes educator. Now, I'm a school nurse and not a day goes by that I don't have a great story or some kid who makes me smile. My career--albeit short--has provided me with great reward, great stories, a fantastic knowledge base, fairly decent medical care for myself, and flexibility to move around, grow and attempt a work-life balance. Yes, there are circumstances that make you want to retire sometimes, but for the most part, the rewards are greater than the trials.<br />
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And you know what? I don't want to do it anymore.<br />
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WHAAAAAAAT?!? You may--or may not--be thinking one of the following: <i>But it's such a great career! You can do anything you want! You'll always have a job! Nurses make such great money! Nursing is such an honorable profession! </i>I don't want to make assumptions, but given that I hear these all...the...time, I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that, somewhere in there, I'm right.<br />
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If you think I haven't beaten myself up about this, you'd be sorely mistaken. My "granny" was a nurse--for 32 years...in a psych hospital. Many of the nurses I've met have withstood some pretty shoddy conditions to remain in their honorable profession for 25-plus years. Many others still that I graduated with not only stuck it out, but have gone on to earn advanced degrees. So what's wrong with me?<br />
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Absolutely nothing. There is nothing wrong with the fact that I am ready to move on. I've been in healthcare for the last twelve years. No, that's not my granny's 30-plus years, but by today's standards, that's quite a long stretch. It's not going to do me--or you--any favors to go into why I'm ready to move on. It should be enough (and it is for me) that it's time.<br />
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<i>So now what?</i> I don't know. That's okay, too. I just have a process to go through to try to figure out what's next. What am I good at? What would I want to wake up and do every day? How can I do that and still have medical insurance and buy dog food (yes, there are some logistics that remain)?<br />
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Maybe I'll arrange flowers. Or be a rodeo clown. Or a bricklayer. Or a basketball player. Or a hobo. Probably not a hobo, but I don't want to leave any stone unturned.<br />
<br />
The reason I'm putting this out here is because I know for a fact that I'm not the only one who feels this way. But I do think many times we're shamed into keeping quiet about it for a multitude of reasons; a lot of them boil down to keeping up with the Joneses (money, a "stable" career, making enough money for "stuff"). I'm not going to lie and say I'd be happy becoming a minimalist, but that just proves my point. All of this is <i>really</i> hard to say out loud, or put into print, where it will be <i>forever</i> (or until I decide my blog sucks and I want to take it down)!<br />
<br />
I don't know what your story is, but this is mine. And I'm going to bet there are many like it. I really thought I needed permission to for it to be okay to want to do something else, and I did. From me. Now I have it, and in doing so, I realize there's absolutely nothing wrong with that or me. So I would encourage you to do the same if you're finding yourself in the same "crisis". LIfe is too short not to.<br />
<br />
Wow, with all that wisdom, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted. That's the fastest ten pounds I've ever lost.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-72135066088763579492013-10-08T23:01:00.003-05:002013-10-08T23:03:13.130-05:00The Letter I Wish I'd WrittenToday, I had an experience that was nothing short of infuriating. In all honesty, it's been ongoing for about the last week, but today the fat lady sung. The fork was jabbed in. The camel's back was broken.<br />
<br />
How fitting, because this post has to do with my gimp back...and neck. For those of you not totally caught up, I was in a car accident back in May. According to doctors, I shouldn't have lived through it, much less walked out of the hospital (albeit on crutches, but I digress...). There. You're now caught up.<br />
<br />
Anyway, things seemed to be moving along in my treatment until last Wednesday. Then, I received a set of steroid injections that a) I didn't tolerate very well, and b) was the beginning of a downward spiral. The day of, they even asked me if I was okay, telling me that I looked like I didn't feel very good, and I confirmed that I was indeed out of it. I didn't think much about it, but little did I know, that was the beginning of the end. On Thursday, my back was burning at the injection sites, which, oddly enough, I wasn't too concerned about, as that can sometimes happen.<br />
<br />
Friday was a completely different story. Late Friday afternoon (of course it always happens on a Friday), I felt searing, burning, stabbing, constant pain in my lower back--almost like my tailbone and lower spine were going to poke right out of my back. I was wailing. I was actually contemplating asking other doctors I knew if a tailbone was really necessary and could they surgically remove it? I was in agony. Those who know me--and if you don't, I'm about to tell you--it takes <i>a lot</i> for me to say that. It takes even more for me to call the on-call doctor after hours, and more still, to actually make a trip to the emergency room for some relief. One thing I was <i>not</i>, however, was making any of this up by any stretch of the imagination.<br />
<br />
After several days of being made to feel like that was, in fact, what I was doing, the final straw for me came today when I followed up with my pain care doctor. What was so different? The physician's assistant called me a liar without using those exact words.<br />
<br />
This sparked a very eloquent but forthright nastygram to my attorney (minus profanity, even!), but in thinking about things, there are a few things, that, if those health care professionals were sitting in front of me right now, I wish I had said. When I first set out to write this, I wanted to tell these people what jacktards I thought they were, and what jacktards I thought their mother, and their mother's mother were, but we all know that wouldn't get me very far. I wanted you to know that if you were ever under my care, I would get back at you by hiding the key to the door that houses all the medications. I'm not going to publish what I wrote to my lawyer because of some confidential information, but I think this will get the point across as to what happened, and most of all, I'll get to feel better without violence or profanity.<br />
<br />
<i>To those of you involved in my events related to car accident-induced pain over the weekend: </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I am shocked. Shocked and sad. Over this past weekend, I have dealt with pain that, before last Friday, I didn't know existed, but I hope I will never know again--particularly after the way my situation was handled. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I'm generally not "that person" who complains often and because I think the "squeaky wheel gets the grease"; in fact, I'm usually the one that stays quiet because, as a nurse, I have a deep appreciation for what you do and how busy you are. However, after being treated as though I consulted you for a "score," I've been pushed over the edge. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>As I mentioned, I am part of your club. I am one of you, and as such, I always strove to be the gold-star patient, because, as I mentioned before, I get it. I know what it's like to be so busy you feel like you can't keep your head above water, and then to have someone come in with what seems like a menial complaint that adds to your workload is infuriating. But my pain was--and is--very much real. You have to know that as a healthcare professional, it took </i><u>a lot</u><i> for me to even seek help in the ER. I didn't want to be there, but again, I was trying to play nice in the sandbox and do exactly what my doctor suggested I do. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>As it turns out, your colleague who saw me back in my room treated me like a real person who felt secure in her convictions that she was indeed in pain and it was in fact severe. She didn't cut me off at every sentence and let me know just how annoying I was because I had come in with a menial complaint. Perhaps you could take a lesson from her. To the physician's assistant in the ER who saw me, thank you for understanding that I had to think things were </i>B-A-D<i> to even darken your door. I don't think I should have had to push through "please don't blow me off--I'm not a drug-seeker" while crying and hyperventilating at the same time, but you didn't require that of me. </i><br />
<br />
<i>To the PA who saw me at the pain care clinic today: I hope you're never in my position, because I guarantee you that, if you ever were, you wouldn't like it at all. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you did something worse than write a nasty-gram. Surely, as a professional working in pain care, you recall that pain is subjective. It is exactly as bad as the person experiencing it says it is. Perhaps you missed that lesson in your studies, but I guarantee you that was drilled into my head in nursing school. Then again, maybe you haven't had the greatest of teachers if your boss' response to complaints of pain is, "Ice is the best pain reliever." By the way--I asked him how it was possible that he has a job if that's actually the case; someone as smart and well-educated as he is didn't have an answer. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Anyway, back to you. I don't know if you were having a bad day or what, but you had absolutely no right to take it out on me, and I won't stand for that. Just so you know, I've also told my attorney this, and I'll be curious to hear what she has to say about it. The thing I really want to say to you right now is </i>How dare you?<i> How dare you call me a liar and try to put me down for a) doing what I was told, and b) feeling how I feel? Again, I guarantee that if you had been in my position, you wouldn't have liked it very much. I don't know where you lost your bedside manner, but you'd better either reclaim it or find another job, because you absolutely cannot treat people the way you treated me today. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I'm sure I could go on and on about this, but I think I got my point across. Do I think these people will ever see this? I doubt it. Do I deserve an apology? You'd better believe it. Am I going to hold my breath waiting for it? No. I've always been a firm believer in my industry and those who perform within it, but I can finally understand why people get so frustrated and angry; right now I'm both of those things, and it hurts my heart to say it. My feelings are hurt, which only adds to my pain. Thanks, guys.<br />
<br />
In all honesty, though, my hope is this: if these people ever find themselves on my side of the coin--regardless of the condition--I hope they have better clinicians and caretakers than they were to me.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-74951909374097175022013-08-26T20:46:00.004-05:002013-08-26T21:11:43.615-05:00Back to School, Back to SchoolToday was a much-dreaded day across the state. No, there was no legislation against football, fishing or the death penalty. It was...well, the first day of school. School brings out the school supply nerd in all of us, or the worst Oscar the Grouch for us non-morning people.<br />
<br />
As I watched multitudes of elementary school children be dropped off and photographed by their parents, I thought back to my own first days of school. Then I realized, I can't remember them. I was five. One of the few things I remember about Kindergarten were my Alf and McDonald's lunch boxes (those were so cool!). So I asked my mom to refresh my memory.<br />
<br />
When I asked her to tell me about my first day of Kindergarten, her answer was short and sweet: "I don't know." Huh? How did she not remember?<br />
<br />
"You wouldn't let me come with you. When I told you I wanted to take you, you said, 'don't go, Mama. <i>I can do it myself!'</i>." I don't know that I would have been that blunt... Oh, who am I kidding? Yeah, that sounds like me. I was saucy even then.<br />
<br />
Here's another one from my earlier files that I'll share before I turn it over to you.<br />
<br />
Did you know I have a little brother? No? Neither did my mom. Neither did anyone else. Except my first-grade teacher. Supposedly, he was almost run over by a car, but I pushed him out of the way. Aren't I an amazing older sister? Of course I am!<br />
<br />
Were my heroic efforts documented in the town newspaper for all to read and then everyone adored me? No. You know why? Because there's no little brother. Now, why would my teacher make up such a story? She didn't. I did. Some people have imaginary friends. I had imaginary siblings.<br />
<br />
And then my mom found out. And she was displeased--especially when my teacher wanted to know if her "other child also had diabetes." And it wasn't good.<br />
<br />
How did I forget the story of <i>MY FIRST KISS?!?</i> It was so sweet. I changed schools in the middle of kindergarten for a semester. On my first day, one of the cutest boys in the class introduced himself to me by kissing me on the cheek.<br />
<br />
You know what I did in response? I SLAPPED THE SNOT OUT OF HIM. And then I told on him. And then he got in trouble. And I was happy.<br />
<br />
I'm sure there's a plethora (actually I know there is) of other bizarre, farfetched and downright mischievous tales from my school files, but I want to give you the opportunity to share. If you have a great story from your's or your kiddo's career, share it below! It doesn't even have to be great. You don't even have to spell it right.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-70037999263651022012013-08-19T12:11:00.001-05:002013-08-19T12:11:14.290-05:00How I Became the Whiz KidI like to think I'm reasonably smart. After all, I can read and spell my name reasonably well. So it stands to reason that those qualities alone would certify me as a whiz kid. Right?<div><br></div><div>I wish. </div><div><br></div><div>Long ago and far away, when I was in eighth grade--so 13 years old--we had a very exciting event in our small town. Our high school football team made it to the regional playoffs. I grew up in a small town in Texas, so you can imagine. Football is a religion and playoffs are Heaven itself. Either way, the town was abuzz and we weren't missing this game come hell or high water. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm not going to go into specifics of the game--not because it wasn't exciting (even though it wasn't), but because we lost, and I don't want to have to relive it. </div><div><br></div><div>Nor do I want to relive what happened next. However, because everyone who's heard this story thinks it's pretty funny--only because it didn't happen to them--I've decided to print it here for posterity. You're welcome.</div><div><br></div><div>Anyway, we had about a 45-minute car ride home, so we had to keep ourselves entertained. We did so by playing Make Me Laugh. The game is exactly what it sounds like. At one point, very abruptly, I decided I didn't want to play anymore. I tried to play it off as in I thought the game was boring and wanted to move on, but my friends weren't having it. They <i>demanded</i> to know why I didn't want to play. However, it didn't take very long for them to figure it out. </div><div><br></div><div>What did they do? What every good friend does--worked <i>harder</i> to make me laugh. It didn't take them very long before what was on the inside of my body--in my bladder--<i>exploded</i> to the outside. I was drenched, and so was the back of the van we were sitting in. I...was...mortified. </div><div><br></div><div>Of course we had to tell the parents of the van, even though I was crying and begging them not to. And of course, I didn't have an extra pair of underwear. Who, at 13, thinks to bring extra underwear because they <i>pee their pants?!?</i> Certainly not this kid. </div><div><br></div><div>Fortunately, someone did have extras. I'm not sure what's more disturbing here: that I, as a teenager, had a major toileting accident, or that someone else in the car had extras because of their own (possibly?) toileting issues and I was about to be wearing them. </div><div><br></div><div>Regardless, we pulled over to the nearest gas station to remedy the situation. I think my friends felt bad, because they shuffled with me, one in front, one behind in order to get to the bathroom with as much dignity as was possible in a situation such as peeing your pants between the ages of six and 60. I changed, used the restroom for good measure, and off we went. Life was good. </div><div><br></div><div>Or so I thought. About ten minutes into our journey, I felt a familiar sensation. I won't waste time building it up: I had to pee again. Yep. So I informed everyone in the van that I needed to do business again, and we saved another embarrassing situation. </div><div><br></div><div>Again--I wish. My "voice of reason" prevailed and I decided that, by God, I would make it home to the comfort of my own clean bathroom. So I kept quiet. </div><div><br></div><div>My voice of reason crapped out. The above scenario played out <i>again</i>. Tell me that this isn't weird: <i>another</i> change of clothes and underwear were produced that weren't mine or came from my mom. How many accidents were these people planning? Yuck. Regardless, beggars couldn't be choosers at this point. So we repeated the Pee Pants Shuffle, I used the restroom, changed clothes, and off we went. </div><div><br></div><div>To make an already long story short(er), I'm going to kind of gloss over the fact that there was, in fact, a <i>third </i>incident about five or ten miles later. I was out of luck on clothes this time. This may have actually been a good thing, because I'm not sure what I would've thought if I knew there had been anticipation of <i>three or more</i> accidents in the same car on a given period. And I should probably tell you I was restricted from liquids at this point. </div><div><br></div><div>If you think I <i>ever</i> lived that down, you would be wrong. In fact, I had a similar incident later on that year where I required two changes of clothes, but one was only because I fell in knee-deep mud while rock-hunting and running from snakes on a science field trip. My senior yearbook is even inscribed with "Whiz Kid." But that's only because I'm super-smart. I know that because, now, I always have access to extra underwear.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-33574537249834664902013-08-01T20:22:00.001-05:002013-08-02T11:53:26.645-05:00Because I CanI'm going to go ahead and give you fair warning: this one will be a little sappy, but it truly comes from the heart and I wanted to share.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have been at Texas Lions Camp--a free diabetes camp for children located in the Texas Hill Country--for the last five days. I will be here another nine days. Camp brings out a wide range of feelings from "I don't know how you do that, "that sounds exhausting," to "camp is the best thing ever!" My response--in order--is this: "because I can," "it is hard," and "I agree--camp is the best thing ever!" </div>
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<br /></div>
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For a lot of children, camp--of any kind--is a turning point. Because I'm at a diabetes camp, that's where my focus is going to be. And for me, diabetes camp certainly was a turning point. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As many of you know, I was diagnosed with diabetes at the young age of 17 months old. I don't remember NOT having diabetes. I DO remember running and hiding when it was shot time, or refusing to eat--because I could. My poor mother will probably die early due to my diabetical hijinks. Sorry, Mom. I...love you?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Anyway, I went to my very first diabetes camp--the one I happen to be at this week, by the way--in 1992. I was ten years old, and I had never given myself a shot. I wanted to learn to do that so I could finally go to the sleepovers I kept being invited to. That was my final hurdle to freedom. I wasn't quite ready on Day 1, but on Day 2? I was gangbusters. I woke up with a mission: nobody was going to give me that breakfast shot but ME. And you know what? I did. Because I could. In one split second, my life changed and I was awarded privileges most ten-year-olds take for granted.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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I've watched that happen over the course of this week. I've watched kiddos do things they never thought they were capable of, and I've watched lives be transformed. Because they could. Because they did. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Just because you grow up doesn't mean the victories stop. In fact, they become that much sweeter (pardon the pun). I'm not going to lie when I say I get nervous about impending lab results or eye exams, but when they come back and I realize I continue to put diabetes in its place, then I'm the first one to jump around my room like a banshee. Because I can. Because I did. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I'd also like to be the first to point out that I can probably say these things because of a lot of luck, but I'd like to think there was a fair amount of hard work on the part of a lot of people that made that happen. I say that because I know a lot of people who haven't been as fortunate that have also worked really hard. I can't tell you why things worked out differently for them, but they didn't and I don't think it should be assumed it's because they did less work than I did. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
To get back to my point, though: I'll be real honest when I say that there are times diabetes sucks. It just does. Even the best jobs in the world have their days. However, I don't think this was all for naught. I truly believe that God picked me to be diagnosed for a reason. He knew I could handle it and wanted to use me to do great things with it. Things like being an educator, or going to camp and helping these kids realize what great potential they have. How much they really are "like everybody else." Do I wish maybe God would've chosen something for me based on my impeccable sense of style? It would've bed nice, but I think the things He chose for me are pretty great. To get to see these kids achieve and overcome is probably one of the highest honors I could accomplish. </div>
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<br /></div>
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To those parents of the kids I've worked with this week: I thank you for the opportunity to get to be part of their learning and fun. I also thank you for reminding me to keep going forward. Today, I set a new goal for myself: I want to be the first Joslin Medal for 100 Years of Successful living with diabetes (hey--I'm only 70 years away!). Because I could. Because I can. Because I will. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-75743396720327387722013-07-25T15:21:00.004-05:002013-07-25T18:09:54.483-05:00Let's Call It What It Is--A Tribute<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I am 31 years old, and while I’ve been through a lot, I’ve
experienced one thing that not many people my age have, and no one should ever
have to: the loss of a best friend and mentor. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I first met Gita when I was 19 and working at my first
hospital job. I started working in a pharmacy to decide if I really could
stomach hospitals and the work involved before I went to nursing school. She
was so smart, funny, and had the most infectious laugh and smile I’ve ever
seen or heard. She was always after me to go to pharmacy school, but she was also
encouraging during my pursuit of nursing. She even came to my graduation and
gave me a Dallas Mavericks watch as a gift. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In addition to our love for medicine, we also shared a love
of basketball, New Kids on the Block and dogs. She was always impressed that I,
in my five-foot, ninety-eight pound glory, was not afraid in the slightest of
her three German shepherds—each well over 100 pounds. If I could impress her
that much over something so “small”, then I was honored. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
To say she was mad at me when I moved three-and-a-half hours
away would be an understatement. I thought moving would be the best way
to handle a difficult situation I was going through, and she thought I was
crazy—especially because I was going to a place where I knew no one and had no
support system. However, when I flourished in career and life in general, I
don’t know that anyone was more proud than she was. She was always one of my
biggest cheerleaders. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Eventually, I got an advanced certification as a diabetes
educator—a role I was born to play due to my own experience with diabetes. Life
came full-circle the day I received a phone call from her asking if she could
refer a patient to me for some help with initial teaching. She said I was the
best educator she knew. I couldn’t believe it—a published expert pharmacist was
referring someone to <i>me</i>. I can’t tell
you how honored I was. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I still have the text she sent me back in December 2011
informing me of her diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. I sat in shock with my
mouth hanging open as I took it all in. She was 36, married with two kids,
never drank, never smoked, no prior risk factors. This was one of those times
when I wished I had no medical background. I was angry at the situation, and
most of all, cancer. She told me not to worry, that she and the doctors were hopeful. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Over the next few months, I regularly kept in touch with
Gita via Facetime, texting, phone calls and email. She especially loved it when I sent her pics of Thing 1 and Thing 2. She would update me on how
well she was responding to chemo, and tell me that she felt bad for me wearing
an insulin pump after her experience with an indwelling port. I didn’t bother
telling her she had the raw end of the deal.
I went to see her at home about four months after her diagnosis, and she
looked great! There was some weight loss, but overall, she looked fantastic. I
felt encouraged. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I spent my 30<sup>th</sup> birthday in New Orleans, and I
remember the texts she sent me on July 2, 2012 to wish me a very happy 30<sup>th</sup>.
I still have those texts, too. I asked if I could bring her anything, and she
said all she wanted was for me to eat some beignets for her. I dutifully went
back to Café du Monde and ate another three beignets (not that it was a real
issue). I sent her a pic of it, and she responded with her happiness. I could
totally see her smiling. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDw74RXAjN6Ok-dGIiqZC1GalgSlt0UJBIMAbt_neZ-QNMz_j-oAqFAOQNiKb0PY-QeEPxCK7AnccPJGxBnbjo1BB5bUGRJ5YvFbprRosHZZm7-Z7hrJHMIl2ufI0bo5_M_T1u8UFqwY/s1600/IMG_0721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDw74RXAjN6Ok-dGIiqZC1GalgSlt0UJBIMAbt_neZ-QNMz_j-oAqFAOQNiKb0PY-QeEPxCK7AnccPJGxBnbjo1BB5bUGRJ5YvFbprRosHZZm7-Z7hrJHMIl2ufI0bo5_M_T1u8UFqwY/s320/IMG_0721.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
On July 5, I received a Facebook message from a friend I
hadn’t spoken to in awhile asking me to call her ASAP. I didn’t want to. I
knew. Sure enough, Gita had passed away at 3:30 am. I was sitting at Sonic when
she told me. I tried calling Gita. She didn’t answer. Her husband called back,
saying, “I guess you heard.” Basically, she started going downhill on July 3,
and eventually drowned in the fluids that had been periodically filling her lungs since she was diagnosed. I don’t
remember the rest of the conversation. I just remember wailing. I managed to
call someone to come get me. I couldn’t see straight. I was hysterical. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The next few days were a blur. I barely remember the
funeral, other than her lying in her casket, bald head and all. I just remember really dreading going, because it wasn’t fair. It
wasn’t fair that one of my best friends was dead. I didn’t even get to see her
after New Orleans. It wasn’t fair that she knew the end was near and she was
trying to save me. But that’s how she was. Always worried about everyone else. By sending me those texts, she was telling me goodbye in a way that I would always remember her the way she was. In hindsight, I can see the gift she was giving me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve struggled with writing this, mostly because I’ve wanted
to make sure I give Gita a proper send-off, and that she—and you—would
understand how much I loved (still love) her. I’ve worried that I wouldn’t
write enough to really capture her essence, and most of all, that you wouldn’t
want to read it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I still miss her, and there are days I want to send her pics
of my dogs and receive her happy responses. My heart bleeds as I write this,
and I know I’ll go back and read this, and say to myself, “I need to write one
more thing,” or, “I forgot this detail.” The fact is, memory isn’t linear,
especially when you’ve had a friendship and professional relationship as long
as we did. However, I can be thankful for this: that we had so many memories to
even be non-linear, and she is permanently cemented in my heart. I hope she
knows that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-11409258652511710062013-07-24T12:03:00.001-05:002013-07-24T15:43:18.215-05:00That Time I Almost DiedToday, I went to the doctor to have a steroid shot put in my back. You have to understand: I'm mortally afraid of needles in my back, which is almost ironic because a) I'm a nurse--you would think I'd be used to that by now, and b) I'm diabetical, and you'd think I'd be used to that by now. If I ever have kids, I'd rather just have laughing gas, because really, I should get to have fun with that.<br />
<br />
Anywho, I was told I couldn't eat anything after 2 am.<i> </i>I just knew what was going to happen: I was going to be super-massively-hungry right around 1:30, shovel food like a refugee from a third-world country, and then they wouldn't give me the sleepy-juice I was looking forward to. As luck would have it, I was super-nauseous and didn't feel like eating. I'm not generally thankful to be nauseous, but these were different circumstances. Plus, it's kind of a pain in the <i>tuchus</i> (no, I don't speak Yiddish, but I can't imagine anyone would have a problem with my gentile self using that word) to have to do all the thinking that goes along with being diabetic and not allowed to eat. <i>Take blood sugar at 1 am, if less than 100, drink juice. Eat last snack. If greater than 200, give half correction. If greater than 250, pee on stick. Set pump to go down 30%, Recheck at 3 am, repeat....</i> Garg. Aren't you tired? I am. And not just because I barely slept imagining a giant monster shoving needles into my back like jackhammers.<br />
<br />
Before I go any further, I need to give a huge shout-out to my friend Debbie for being willing to get up absurdly early to take me to have this shot put in my back--<i>and she brought STARBUCKS! </i>Black, with nothing in it! Just like I like it! I couldn't wait to be done with all this so I could drink it.<br />
<br />
So this was me before the Great Exodus From Pain 2013:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIeFJ8som_mMAbMAbmBmVx6n5IzfwpxXkMHFVdhFv-X76ATF6K1uFMmct3lEw8xGLvyjn_LBH2yWdVJyfREKXh8aGEi58aJU5qNvx0n99FWclqn_vUAQHe6bI-m-20EurO6U1MIaEitRk/s1600/IMG_2477.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIeFJ8som_mMAbMAbmBmVx6n5IzfwpxXkMHFVdhFv-X76ATF6K1uFMmct3lEw8xGLvyjn_LBH2yWdVJyfREKXh8aGEi58aJU5qNvx0n99FWclqn_vUAQHe6bI-m-20EurO6U1MIaEitRk/s320/IMG_2477.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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They put me in what was called the "VIP Suite", which was actually a cubicle with a recliner and a curtain. Whatevs. They took my vitals. Debbie and I discussed how we were going to get me out of the clinic, and we decided it would be funny if she grabbed me by an arm and dragged me across the floor and out to the car while we got someone to photograph the whole thing for posterity. You have to understand, Debbie is about my height, which is an even five feet. </div>
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After they took some vital signs and declared that I was indeed alive, they went over the procedure with me. It went something like this: <i>"Sothey'lltakeyoubacklayyouonyourstomachputsomestickiesonyoutomonitoryourvitalswipedowntheareawithBetadinegiveyouashottonumbyouit'llfeellikeabeestingthenthey'lluseanx-raysoheknowsexactlywheretoputthesteroidshotbecausewehavetobesafewiththatonethenyou'llbedoneit'lltakeabout15minthenwe'llbringyououthereinawheelchairandwatchyouinrecoveryforabout15minthenwe'llgiveyouyourdischargeinstructionsandyoucangohome. </i>Any questions?" Nope. </div>
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True to their word, they brought me back into a room that was so cold, I think they were trying to either cure my pain through hypothermia, or freeze me out until I cried "Uncle!" and said I was lying and really didn't need the steroid shot after all. Either way, I made it through the Lightning Round. Next thing I know, I'm lying face-down on a table that--I kid you not--looked just like the table they use for lethal injections at the State Pen. I knew I was in trouble if they asked me if I had any last words, because, quite frankly, I had nothing prepared. </div>
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They did everything they said they would, including the initial shots (yes, I said shots--plural). Then, the doctor told me he liked my shorts (khaki with pink flamingos). Then, they told me that these shots would feel like a bee sting, which they did. In hindsight, I have to ask myself this: If I don't like bee stings when they're not supposed to happen, why would I feel reassured about this so-called numbing medicine that feels like a bee sting that <i>is</i> supposed to happen? I did not feel reassured. </div>
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Then the x-rays started, and before I knew it, I felt like someone was pressing down very hard on my back, and I was squirming around on the table like a dancer from Soul Train. They kept telling me to relax, but I have to tell you: it's really hard to relax when you know four shots are going into your spine and could cause (albeit highly unlikely) me to never walk again. And if that happened, how was I ever going to run another marathon from the couch to the fridge? </div>
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Notice something that did <i>not</i> happen between the bee stings and the pushing on my back? That's right--no sleepy-juice. So now, I've gone nearly eight hours without eating a thing, and I'm in a freezing room. This is an equation that goes something like this: Cassie+hungry+cold+very much awake for bee stings to my back=pissy. </div>
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They wheeled me back to recovery, where a very cute nerdy medical assistant offered me juice, a granola bar, or water. I may have been hungry, but I was <i>not </i>about to eat a granola bar (I find them not terribly satisfying), so I took the water. They asked the usual questions: how are you? <i>Still here</i>. Are you dizzy? <i>No.</i> Can you feel your legs? <i>Yes.</i> Are you short of breath? <i>No.</i> Are you still alive? <i>Let me look.</i></div>
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This was me after the harrowing procedure: </div>
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After one more round of this, they read off my discharge instructions: take it easy for 12 hours, no chainsaw juggling, dirt biking, cross country marathons or driving a car. I've had jackhammers in my back and now I can't even do my usual form of Wednesday entertainment in the form of chainsaw juggling? Dang...<i>IT</i>!!! I was able to walk out of the clinic without any numbing to my legs, which was slightly disappointing, because Debbie and I were totally looking forward to that pic of her dragging me out of the clinic. Oh well. Maybe next time. </div>
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The highlight of our trip was the post-trauma breakfast, which was fabulous, compliments of Central Market. This was the challah French toast that I had:<br />
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I would say that made the whole experience worthwhile, but that would be a tad overzealous. Perhaps this was more of a selling point: </div>
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Nah. I kind of dig the idea of much less pain. I had also decided that if I saw the guy who hit us, I would run over him with my Prius and ask him how his back felt, but Debbie told me the law frowns upon that, and I realized she was right, so I decided I would visualize it in my head--which made me giggle. So no running over drunk driver. </div>
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Well, all of this has taken a lot out of me, so I think I'm going to go take a nap. If I wake up, I might post an update later. If I don't, will someone make sure my mom gets Thing 1 and Thing 2 and the trust funds I set up for them? </div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><b>**UPDATE: As of 3:30 pm, Central Time, I have lived. Thank you for your support. As you were.**</b></span></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-11924432288010623992013-07-22T16:53:00.002-05:002013-07-22T23:48:32.740-05:00The Princess Diaries: a Letter to the Royal Baby Part IDear Royal Baby:<br />
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Today is a big day for you! While you were cooking, you have been much waited for and already adored--not just by your loving parents, but by the world. The next few days/weeks/months/years (your whole life, pretty much) are going to be a whirlwind, full of nifty stuff like famous people, the Olympics, meeting presidents and stuff; and some boring stuff like meetings or high tea. Anyway, I wanted to offer you a short (haha, you actually <i>believed that?!?</i>) welcome to the world. </div>
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First of all, can I say that I really, Really, REALLY hope your royal title is "Count", because it would be sooooo cool if your first words were <i>"Onnnnnnne, batty, batty...."</i> Just sayin'. Also, if you could do your little neonate thing and somehow communicate to your parents that you would like to be named after me (because trust me, after reading this, you <i>will</i> want to be), that would be cool, too. We're kind of neighbors, you know--my mom's side of the family is Scottish, which you guys practically own, so I'm pretty sure something could be worked out. Count Cassandro. That would be neat. </div>
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If you think about it, you and I have a lot in common. First of all, we were born in July. Me on the 2nd, you on the 22nd. Thank God <i>you</i> weren't born on the 2nd. I would feel a little bit bad if you had to share your birthday with someone so important. Now, people can go to both our parties. </div>
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I was a Duchess once. It was Homecoming Duchess, but it still counts. I had to dress up and everything. I was also named "Grinchess of C6" back when I worked at this place called Children's Medical Center of Dallas (you'll probably get to go visit on one of your royal visits someday). And that whole Scotland thing? Well, there just so happens to be a town there named after my familiy. Yep. My "mum"'s people were royalty over a lot that collectively "borrowed" cattle from Galloway--which is pretty tasty, I might add. That being said, you and I have the royalty bond going on. </div>
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You and I will probably have had the finest educations...I would say "that money can buy", but mine was free until college. I went through the public school system, and I turned out pretty fabulous, so save your parents some money and security detail until you get to university. God knows you already have an automatic in to Eton, Oxford, the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, whatever. </div>
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You're a boy, I'm a girl. You're the first of Prince Charles' grandchildren, I was the ninth of my grandparents'... Okay, scratch that one--it's not really that important. I was still allowed to be Duchess <i>and</i> Grinchess, I'm pretty sure you can still be Count. </div>
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No doubt you will be the most stylish baby since that Kardashian kid was born. I was also a budding young fashionista pretty much from the time I came out of the birth canal. Stick with me, Kid--we'll go places in the fashion world. If anyone--and I mean <i>anyone</i>--tries to dress you like Austin Powers, scream...LOUDLY. </div>
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Well, I don't want to overwhelm you yet. I know you're very busy right now eating, napping, and pooping. Besides, you can't even <i>read</i> yet. But here's the take-home point: we're both pretty fabulous. Happy birthday, Baby--may you one day be as fabulous as me! </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-17512165280199405172013-07-18T22:42:00.001-05:002013-07-18T22:44:38.865-05:00If At First You Don't Succeed...Try the FridgeI was reminded of the forthcoming blog post today when my darling friend Kelley Crumpler (author of Sugar's the B* Not Me--go check it out. I'll wait. http://sugarsthebnotme.blogspot.com) posted the following on the Interwebs:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">If youuuuu were my Dexcom....where would you beeeee...?</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">I ask myself that question a lot--except take out the "Dexcom" (except for those instances when it actually <i>is</i> what I'm looking for) and insert whatever it is I happen to be looking for. Keys. Food. Charlie. Dirk. Whatever. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">Which is interesting, because for all the times I'm looking for food, I never seem to find it in the fridge. Everything else? Observe. People's Exhibit A.</span></span></div>
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See that black thing? It has my name written on it in cute little letters and hearts. That would be my glucometer, aka one of my lifelines. I use it to check my blood sugar. This would be the third one I've had in as many years. Why? Let's see. The first one was this really slick little meter to talked to my pump so I could actually give myself insulin by pushing buttons on the blood-sugar-checker-thing. Well...I lost it and couldn't find it for like two weeks (don't worry, my diabetical friends: I had a backup meter so I did not go untested for two weeks). I finally gave it up and called to order a new one. The cost? A "measly" $200--a price that I wouldn't even know of had I not lost the first one. On the day the new meter arrived, I decided it was time to clean out my fridge. Wanna know what I found in a bag of leftovers that almost made it to my Hefty trashcan? You guessed it--a slick little meter that talked to my pump. It will henceforth be known as "Meter #1". </div>
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As for Meter #2...all I can tell you is that it definitely is <i>not</i> in the fridge. </div>
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What you see in Exhibit A would be Meter #3. On top of the Chinese takeout container. Draw your own conclusions. </div>
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I've lost two <i>entire</i> sets of keys in yards because they fell out of my pocket, or I accidentally flung them one way when Charlie or Dirk flung me the other. I now have to keep my keys on a long lanyard so I can easily spot them. </div>
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Would you care to know what else I've found in the fridge? My wallet, and, at one point, my work pager...which I have since re-misplaced (is that even a term? Is that even a necessary term for anyone except for me?). I had to pay a $75 fine because of the second misplacement. I think that's stupid, given that hardly anyone knows <i>what a pager is</i>, let alone what one looks like. Craziness. Luckily, my fridge isn't big enough for Charlie or Dirk to fit in, because I guarantee you, I've accidentally closed the door on them a few times. Don't judge me! I didn't know they snuck in there! </div>
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So I think the take-home point is this: if you need me to hang on to something, glue it to me. I was going to go read a book, but since I can't find it, I guess I'll go get a bedtime snack instead. <i>How convenient...</i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-35844079328117488112013-07-12T00:25:00.001-05:002013-07-12T00:43:21.430-05:00"We Got Gypped!"I took my first communion at eight years old. Now, I've watched enough <i>Real Housewives of New Jersey</i> to know that this is kind of a big deal. However, I was raised Methodist, so I didn't get a frilly white dress with a veil or have to say catechisms or such. In fact, I probably wore the same ugly blue polka-dotted dress I wore for everything else back then. Whatever.<br />
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Anyway, my mom sorta kinda told me it was a big deal when we were leaving for church that morning. In fact, her words were, "You're taking your first communion today." And that was pretty much it. I don't know what my thoughts were, but I'm almost certain they were along the lines of, "do we get free food," "do we have to make a speech," or "do we have to get dunked". I had an ungodly fear of immersion baptism up until a couple of months ago; one of the reasons I wanted to be baptized Methodist was because they didn't do immersion baptism. Isn't that terrible?<br />
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Where was I? Oh. Right. Communion. My mom was sorta kinda explaining to my curious 8-year-old self that communion was a sacrament using physical elements to join with the Holy Trinity. She was doing a really good job...I think. What I remember was her talking about the bread being the body of Christ, and the blood of Christ being signified by the wine.<br />
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Waaaaaaait a minute. Wine? Did you say...<i>wine</i>? As in, the alcoholic beverage?<br />
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Yes, I was eight years old, and this was exactly where my mind went. And to be honest, I have no idea why. I never saw a drop of alcohol in my house until my grandparents decided that raisins soaked in gin would help with weight loss (another story, another time), so where this was coming from, I still don't know.<br />
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I asked my mom, "they even give it to the kids?!?" I guess she assumed I was generally speaking, because her answer was, "well, of course." This was all going on in whisper mode, by the way--as in during the church service. Why we didn't have this conversation beforehand, I'll never know, but alas...whatevs.<br />
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Anyway, I watched the other congregants as the rounds were made. All I could think was, "I wonder what it will taste like," and "<i>they're really going to let me have this and I won't be in trouble?!? Oh boy!!"</i> I also think something like, "I can't wait to tell everyone at school tomorrow! They won't believe it!" I know, I sound horrible, right?<br />
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Finally it was our turn. We slowly made our ceremonious walk to the railing. For whatever reason, I had a really hard time figuring out where I was supposed to go, which later became one of the reasons I hated taking communion, because I didn't like the pressure of having to find my exact placement. It gave me great anxiety. Anyway, I knelt down, to the left of my mother.<br />
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The pastor went down the line, breaking the bread, saying the ritual "The body of Christ is broken for you..." I snatched up my bread and started gnawing on it (I was hungry by this time, okay?). I would for sure need something to wash it down. How convenient...<br />
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Here the lay leader came with the wine. I could taste it, I could taste it, I could taste it!! She said something about "the blood..." Yada, yada, yada, <i>get on with it!!! </i>Finally! Down the hatch...<br />
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The next thing I knew, I was whisper-yelling, "M-O-O-O-O-O-M!!!"<br />
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There's no other way to say it, other than she was visibly pissed. "<i>Whut?!?" </i>She hissed it with gritted teeth and scrunched lips, which is why it came out as "whut".<br />
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I was yelling now. "M-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-M! We got gypped!<i> </i>This isn't wine<i>...IT'S WELCH'S GRAPE JUICE!! We...were...gypped!" </i><br />
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I have never felt a hand fly over my mouth so fast. She was so mad she had her trademark I'm-going-to-breathe-fire look. Oh crap. Luckily (or unluckily for one of us), the time between communion and the end of the service was short. And that's the last thing I remember from that day...<br />
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As an update to that event, I eventually got to try the real deal at another church five years after that incident. After what had happened during the first try, I wasn't nearly excited about this go-round. Let me tell you--it was THE WORST stuff I have <u style="font-style: italic;">ever</u> tasted, The only thing I can equate it to gasoline, and I've never even tasted that. And you know what? Welch's grape juice wasn't so bad after that.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-86915172874287576272013-06-25T14:35:00.000-05:002013-06-25T14:35:17.381-05:00Bigger Than My BodyThis song is the anthem of my life. If you don't know it or haven't heard it, go listen to it. Right now. I'll wait. Oh, it's by John Mayer--you need that information when you look it up. I will be forever grateful to a dear friend--Gita Wasan Patel (more on her in an upcoming blog to be released July 5--for realz)--for introducing me to the magic that is John Mayer. You don't have to like his public antics, but he is a fine musician and it seems like he just gets better with each new album.<br />
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Digressing much? Naw, I wouldn't know anything about that. Yeah--back to "Bigger Than My Body." The only time in my life that I haven't been considered "vertically challenged" was at birth. I was nearly two feet long then. You heard me right--a 6 lb, almost 2-foot long baby. I'm sure I looked like a skateboard or pencil or some random long and skinny object. Maybe I resembled a hot dog. That would be funny.<br />
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My birth was the beginning of the end. Like I said, it was the only time in my life I could ever be considered "tall", although I guess at birth, I actually would have been considered "long". I should ask someone about that. But according to Mayer's song, <i>I'm bigger than my body gives me credit for. </i>I really think that's true. When people would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I had a standard go-to answer: five-foot-five. When the person asking the question demonstrated confusion, I would simply say, "My mom is five-foot-four." That would usually induce a slight smirk or chuckle, and the question would be dropped. Here's an actual conversation that took place somewhere around middle school:<br />
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Boy: Hey, did you know you're short?<br />
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Me (feigning shock, but making it look very real): WHAAAAAAAT?!? *I actually did the shrieking part, just for good measure.*<br />
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<i>Boy looks confused</i><br />
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Me: Are you kidding me?!? What do you mean I'm "short"?!? I thought I was seven feet tall! Oh, oh, this is going to break me now.<br />
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Boy (still looks confused, then remorseful): Uhhhh...<br />
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Me: Don't you know it's rude to say stuff like that? You totally deserved that.<br />
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I probably walked off in some sort of huff. It might have been overkill, and I wish I could tell you that was the only conversation like that I ever had, but it wasn't. It really used to hurt my feelings. I wanted nothing more than to be four feet in elementary school like everyone else, or five feet like everyone else in middle school. It wasn't fun to have people tower over me and remind me of how short I was each day. Middle school is hard enough without having to be reminded each day of your...ahem...shortcomings. In fact, I still ask my chiropractor every other visit if it's possible for him to lengthen my legs to 5'5". I know better, but it never hurts to ask.<br />
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I wish I had known this song back then, because I could have reminded myself each day that <i>someday I'll fly, someday I'll soar</i>. I don't write this blog today to feel sorry for myself or invite your pity. In fact, it's quite the opposite.<br />
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Let me drift off for a minute and tell you that, at my church, I'm one of the leaders for our junior high youth group. On Wednesdays, we break into groups, so the males work with the boys, and the females work with the girls. Right now, we're using the summer as an opportunity to work on identity--specifically, identity in Christ. However, how can I help these girls learn who they are--at such a pivotal time in their lives--if I don't let them know what they are <i>not</i>?<br />
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For example, if you met me, would you ever come up to me and say, "Hi there, Diabetic!" No, because I <i>have </i>diabetes, that is not my complete identity. How about, "Hey, Big Lips!" Of course not, because while I have well-endowed lips, my lips are not the core of who I am. Catch my drift?<br />
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Here's what I <i>am</i>: a daughter--of God and two parents; a dog mom, a lover, not a fighter, a saucy broad when I need to be, and--hopefully--a faithful friend. There are others, but these are my favorites. I was made this way. While there are times that I have fun with my characteristics, there are times that I'm quite self-deprecating about them. When I do that, I am insulting God, my creator, and myself. I'm selling myself...short (haha--see what I did there? See? See?).<br />
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Sometimes, <i>I'm grounded, got my wings clipped</i>. Notice it says <i>clipped</i>, not <i>broken</i>. I think this line in the song is important, because it's a great metaphor for life. My wings are clipped when I'm down because I can't reach stuff without a step stool or chair. They're clipped when I say I'm sick of having diabetes, or tired of people asking me how old I am. To say those things never happen is a lie, and completely ridiculous. But you know what? That makes me human, and as long as I remember that someday I'll fly, someday I'll soar, that's what matters. And you don't have to be short to want to be bigger than your body.<br />
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While it would be nifty if cabinet makers would stop making cabinets for people 5'5" and above, the fact is, I am who I am--all five feet of me. In fact, the other day, I hit my head on a bunk bed. I was excited because I was <i>too tall</i> for something! So the next time someone asks me what I want to be when I grow up, I'm going to tell them I want to be a five-foot girl with a seven-foot heart, because that is truly <i>bigger than my body</i>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-4745584259739823922013-06-14T17:35:00.003-05:002013-06-15T15:08:09.440-05:00How Old Do You Think I Am?!?This is me. On the left. The human, not the dog.<br />
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I'm 31. Well, I will be in 18 shopping days. <i>Thirty-stinking-one. </i>That is how old I am. I've heard that you're not supposed to ask a woman her age, but yet, someone asks me this question nearly every day. So there's your answer. Spread it around so I don't have to repeat myself ten times a day. </div>
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Today's blog post is inspired by an experience I had at the doctor's office yesterday. Here's how the conversation went down:</div>
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Doctor (trying to make conversation): So are you in school?</div>
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Me (because I can honestly say this and didn't see where this was driving): No, I'm off for the summer. </div>
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<i>Doctor stares at me</i>. </div>
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Me: I'm a school nurse.</div>
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Doctor: So you have a job? </div>
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Me: Well...yeah. That's how most of my bills get paid. </div>
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Doctor (clearly taken aback, as evidenced by the wince that followed my sentence): Um, um, where are you a nurse? <i>No backpeddling whatsoever. </i></div>
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I answered the obligatory questions, and then this happened: </div>
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Doctor: So, um, <i>how old are you?</i> </div>
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Me: Well, old enough that I drove myself here this morning. <i>Why not have some fun with this? </i></div>
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Doctor: Oh. Does your mom know you're here? </div>
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Me: I don't know. She lives five-and-a-half-hours away and the car I came in is registered in my name. </div>
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Doctor: I thought you were about 16. Does anyone ever ask you how old you are? </div>
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Me: Only every day of my life. </div>
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And this is how it pretty much goes about once every day. After that fun exchange, I thought back to some of the highlights of my long and arduous career (ha), and thought I would share them with you. Perhaps you'll even have one or two to add. I'll try to be chronological, but as I get a different guess every day, that may not be entirely possible. </div>
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The first one that I'll touch on occurred when I went to get my schedule and locker for the beginning of junior high. I was standing in the line looking rather expectant. </div>
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Teacher: Hi there, Sweetie! Are you excited about school starting this year? </div>
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Me: Oh yes (again, not seeing where this was going)! </div>
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Teacher: Do you know who your teacher is yet? </div>
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Me: No, that's why I'm here. </div>
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Teacher (looking puzzled): I'm sorry? </div>
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Me: I don't know who my teachers are yet. That's why I'm here. To get my schedule. I'm going into 6th grade. </div>
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Teacher (now beet red): Oh, I'm so sorry, I thought you were in third grade. <i>Now fumbling furiously through papers, even though she still hasn't asked my name, so she has no idea who she's looking for. </i></div>
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As funny as that is now, I remember being really sad at the time, because there was nothing I could do about the fact that I was barely four feet tall. I couldn't add wrinkles. I guess if I wanted to, I could put powder in my hair for grays, but did I really want to? And really, that's awfully hard to keep up with every day of school. But my bubble was burst. I was so excited about junior high, and now I was being told that I didn't look like I even belonged? Pffft. </div>
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Here's another one. This one takes place in high school. Before I get too far, I need to set this one up. At the time, our high school was basically one long hallway that crossed over into one of the elementary schools. I was a junior and a member of PALs (Peer Assistance and Leadership). One of our "jobs" was to work with various elementary and junior high kids on various issues such as homework, or problems at home. We were PALs to kids who just needed someone. I was over in the aforementioned elementary school one day, walking with one of my kiddos (a fifth-grader) when a teacher stopped us. </div>
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Teacher: Where's your hall pass? </div>
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I thought she was talking to the kid, but she was glaring at me. </div>
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Me: She's with me. </div>
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Teacher: I don't care, where's your hall pass? </div>
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I showed her the hall pass hanging around my neck, but she still wasn't satisfied. </div>
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Teacher: <i>Who's your teacher??</i> Again, staring at me. </div>
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Me: Um, which one? </div>
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Teacher: Don't get smart with me. I'll ask you again: <i>Who's your teacher?</i></div>
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Me: <i>Which one? </i>I have seven. </div>
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Now the teacher looked confused. </div>
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Me: I'm from the high school. </div>
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I watched in hidden glee as the teacher's face went white. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she finally managed a quick "I'm sorry" before she rushed along. Hmph! </div>
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I should probably also tell you here that the fifth-grader in this tale of woe was about three or four inches taller than me. Yeah. Good times. </div>
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This last one takes place about four or five years ago. That would make me about...26 or 27. Very good! Now imagine me about four or five years ago (reference the above picture if you need to). There's really not much difference in the way I look today and the way I looked then. For this one, I was at my mom's gym playing on my Blackberry while I was waiting for my mom to get done. Did I mention I was 26 or 27? Read on...</div>
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Gym Volunteer: Hello, are you Betty's daughter? </div>
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Me: Yes, is everything ok? </div>
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GV: Oh yes, I've just heard a lot about you and she told me you were here, so I wanted to meet you. </div>
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Me: Ohhh! Well, very nice to meet you! </div>
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At this point, my mom had walked up and joined us. The two exchanged pleasantries before my mom said, "Oh I see you've met my daughter." </div>
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GV: Yes. How old are you dear? </div>
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Me: (Insert whichever age you chose between 26 or 27 and insert that answer here. That will be what I said.)</div>
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GV (looking quite surprised): Oh, I thought you were about ten years old. </div>
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Me: *Crickets* (now <i>I</i> was looking quite surprised). I was actually rendered speechless. </div>
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Apparently, in all the things she told this kind lady about me, my mom forgot to mention one tiny little detail: my age. Ten? Really--ten? <i>TEN YEARS OLD?!?</i> Come on! I'm holding keys, a Blackberry, and it was obvious I had already hit puberty! <i>TEEEEEEENNNN?</i> Clearly, I'm still not over this. </div>
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Now, you might be thinking, or will probably say to me, "You're going to appreciate that when you're older." I totally see the point. However, I didn't appreciate it at ten (when people thought I was six). When I was 11 (the age of the above junior high episode), which is older than ten, I didn't appreciate it. At 16, when I was older than 11, I didn't appreciate it. At 26 or 27, which is older than 16, I didn't appreciate it. And now, at 31, while I'm starting to appreciate it, there is one thing about it that I don't appreciate: if I want to date anyone, the only guys who would be interested are in junior high--which is gross and <i>NOT LEGAL</i>. So much for appreciation. I tell people I get carded at the toy store--which has been the case every single time I bought something that you had to be older than 17 to buy (don't worry I haven't done that recently. Swear!). </div>
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There are a couple of good things about all of this that I would be stupid to overlook. One of them is that I've amassed a collection of stuffed toys and trinkets from fooling those people at amusement parks who guess your age. Oh, and I can still get a student ticket to pretty much anything. Otherwise, I'm just your average looking 31-year-old stuck in a ten-year-old's body. </div>
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Yes, I am 31 (or will be in 18 more shopping days). And I will remain 31 for the next 365 days after July 2, until I turn 32. It should go pretty chronologically from there. So there, now you know how old I am. Spread the word. </div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-55489309275427924932013-05-30T21:32:00.000-05:002013-05-30T21:34:12.915-05:00Oh Yeahhhhh!<br />
This is the shirt I wore today. Recognize this guy?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYp9EifezV-L9f6OaIsTpRn-fPzRUHazNkti8v0gNAM206pO6NDaCrORHYW-gXRPYlptyS7tx_-c0ZJpmTx71gDRQ4m_Wj8-nD6bljPdNKAMp_zLgSweqH6cm7U_2NyWGNkfdTOnWuR8Y/s1600/IMG_1984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYp9EifezV-L9f6OaIsTpRn-fPzRUHazNkti8v0gNAM206pO6NDaCrORHYW-gXRPYlptyS7tx_-c0ZJpmTx71gDRQ4m_Wj8-nD6bljPdNKAMp_zLgSweqH6cm7U_2NyWGNkfdTOnWuR8Y/s320/IMG_1984.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
If you said the Kool-Aid Man, you are a winner! Of what? I don't know. Pick something. Did you know the Kool-Aid Man saved my life once? Okay, not really. He just saved Christmas. This t-shirt was $3.00 at Wal-Mart, by the way!<br />
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How, you ask? The year was 1996. I was a freshman in high school. For whatever reason, my AP English teacher assigned us a project to paint a pumpkin for Halloween.<br />
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**Quick interjection here: if you're wondering why my <i>AP English</i> class assignment in <i>high school</i> was to <i>paint a pumpkin</i>, don't blame me--I'm still scratching my head on that one myself. Clearly, they are testing the wrong things on STAAR.**<br />
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Back to pumpkin painting. I should probably tell you that I'm not the most artistically inclined person. Like, most people have a hard time deciphering my stick figures. So now, this pumpkin thing was not only a contest, but also a <i>grade</i>! I was screwed. Oh, and we were allowed to paint it however we wanted. No guidelines whatsoever. If this were an actual advanced assignment, I might be okay with this, but really? In 9th grade? I'm clearly not over this. And I should be, which I promise I will get to, but you know how I am in that I take the long way around.<br />
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I don't remember how I came up with my idea, but I do remember running through several ideas, such as Mr. Potato Head, because I thought it would be funny to turn one vegetable into another. Plus, I really wanted to stick Mr. Potato Head hands in my pumpkin. Don't judge me.<br />
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I don't know why or how I came up with my idea, but all of a sudden, it hit me: I should paint my pumpkin to look like the Kool-Aid Man. That way, I could still use the Mr. Potato Head hands, <i>and</i> (double bonus!) I could paint it <i>whatever color I wanted</i>. Mr. Kool Aid could be any flavor I chose.<br />
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I'm going to insert a sidebar here and tell you that at the same time as this artistic crisis, I was having another teenage crisis: lack of money. I didn't need it to gallavant around town; no, I had found the perfect Christmas present for my mom. She is an avid collector of bells, and I had found a perfect one to get her. It was a silver bell with a little red bow and "Merry Christmas 1996" engraved on it. I thought it was perfect, and I liked that it had the year, so I could remember that I had done this all by myself. By the time I had stacked all my gift cards and coupons, I still needed $20, and I really didn't want to ask my grandparents. However, with no job, the inability to pay bills with my looks, and time winding down, it was starting to look like more of a probability.<br />
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Back to our regularly scheduled program. So what color did I choose for the Kool-Aid Man? Neon green. Yes, the very neon green such as you see in the t-shirt pictured above. I decided I wanted to have lime Kool-Aid. So off I went. I made a spout out of white paper fashioned to look like an upside-down visor (and top of a jug), ice cubes out of styroforam, a handle made out of twisted newspaper that was also painted neon green, the Kool-Aid Man standard facial expression, and the best part: the accessories. The Kool-Aid Man had Mr. Potato Head hands and Converse All-Stars. <i>Oh yeahhhhh!</i><br />
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Mr. Kool-Aid looked pretty awesome. I so wish I had a picture of it, because it truly was the pinnacle of my artistic career. Unfortunately, Blogger won't let me attempt a stick figure or freehand drawing of it either. Boo. For once, I fashioned something that didn't look like a pile of poo, and I did it <i>all by myself! </i>Huzzah!<br />
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Anyway, I was admiring my masterpiece the night before it was due, and I needed to move it out of the way and closer to the door so I could be ready to take it to school the next morning. I picked it up to move it, and it <i>exploded</i>. Pieces went up, seeds went down. I was in tears. Apparently, I had fashioned my pumpkin too early. It was in a process of ruination that culminated in the explosion the night before it was due. Now, I barely had 12 hours to complete it all over again (after doing that fabulous a job, you better believe I was NOT going to skimp on a redo). Oh, and I had another commitment that night that was <i>required</i>. I was a member of the drill team, and one of our big fundraisers was occurring at this very moment--so there was four of those approximate 12 hours gone. And I still had to sleep at some point. Luckily, a very kind neighbor secured another pumpkin for me, and I directed my mom and grandparents as we worked hard and fast to reproduce the Kool-Aid Man. It was approximate 11 pm, and I had to go to bed and pray to God that my pumpkin would be dry the next morning.<br />
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Except it wasn't. When my grandpa drove me to school at 7 am (drill team practice comes awfully early) the next morning, my pumpkin was...not...dry. Awesome, it was due second period, and it wasn't done. Now no one would see my masterpiece, and my grade would be blown. I would never be class valedictorian, and all because of a stupid pumpkin!<br />
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What I did not know at the time was that while I was not only sweating at drill team practice, but also over a pumpkin and English grade (because all good English grades go to he who has the best pumpkin), my grandpa was wiping the sweat off a certain pumpkin--with an oscillating fan. When I went to English that day, I hung my head as I told my teacher what had happened. She compassionately told me I had until the end of the period to come up with an alternate plan. Oh...crap. I sat nervously twitching and looking at the clock. At around 9:30 am (how is it that 17 years later I remember this so clearly?), the intercom came on in the room to announce that our class had a visitor. What the heck? When I looked out the plate glass window, I saw my grandpa. <i>Whaaaaat?</i><br />
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The teacher answered the door and called my name. I went to the door, and there stood my grandpa. In his arms, he was cradling Kool-Aid Man #2. I had never been so happy to see my grandpa...or the Kool-Aid Man. I gave my grandpa a quick hug and kiss and snatched up Mr. Kool-Aid to proudly plunk down at the front of the display table with all the other pumpkins. To add a little puff to my ego, another student in the class pointed at my pumpkin and said, "Cool! It's the Kool-Aid Man!" God bless the 80's and those of us who were fortunate to grow up at a time when the Kool-Aid Man was the shiz.<br />
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And so it was. Remember that sidebar I interjected with earlier? The one about my monetary crisis? Scroll back up and re-read if you need to, because here's where that comes into play. When this contest/grade project came up, we were never told what the prizes were. Two days later, when I had English class again, I found out. Our teacher handed out the prize envelopes. She handed out third-prize first; then second. I had pretty much decided I was going to watch and try to be happy for whatever schmuck won, because remember that whole stick figure thing? Yeah. Well imagine my complete and utter surprise when my English teacher handed me the first-prize envelope. Wanna know what was in it? Hmmmm...I guess I'll tell you: it was $20. Exactly enough to buy the bell. I went home and ordered it that very day.<br />
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You might call it said, but that was truly one of the coolest stories of my life. I actually achieved something artistic that was recognizable, and I was able to completely pay for a Christmas gift for my mom. Plus, Kool-Aid (sugar-free for me) is tasty! If you ask me if I'm grateful for the Kool-Aid Man, let me give you a resounding "OH YEAHHHHHH!"Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-1391854178893999592013-05-21T18:26:00.002-05:002013-05-21T18:26:58.632-05:00Satan is a Jacktard...Who Wears Ugly ShoesSo yeah, you read that right...Satan is a jacktard, and yes, he does wear ugly shoes. So does Lady Gaga, but she can't be the devil because she totally paid for her dad's heart surgery. I feel quite certain the devil would <b><u>not</u> </b>do that. On the flip side, I also heard that Shorty Long (or was it Denzel Washington?) says the devil wears a blue dress. Squirrel!<br />
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Anyway--where was I? Oh yes, Satan. Many of you know that in the last six months or so, I've resumed my spiritual walk. I'm totally not being a blowhard about it, but it's probably the thing I'm the proudest of in my life. And you know what? That's ok. There are so many other things I have to not be proud of that I think I can have this one. So neener.<br />
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In all seriousness, one thing I'm starting to see is that with revelation, your back is marked with a giant red "X". Maybe it's black. Who cares? The take-home point here is that you're marked. You are now a giant moving target...for Satan. Or Lady Gaga. I'm not sure.<br />
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Sorry. I'm being funny, and I think part of the reason is anxiety. Why? Because I'm talking about something that sparks fire and tempers everywhere: religion and spirituality. And also because some of the recent events that inspired me to write this blog have been unsettling. Such as? Did anyone hear about a certain car wreck that happened a couple of weeks ago? That happened just hours after a friend of mine prayed over me, just because he was moved to do so. Two days after that, a certain situation reemerged (I don't really care to go into the details). Things have happened in various places at various times over the past couple of weeks that have really made me stop and ask, "Am I worthy," "am I crazy" (relative and debatable), or "what's wrong with me" (don't answer that)--just to name a few. We all know I'm a present-day Stuart Smalley: "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, <i>and gosh darn it, people like me!!!" </i>Besides,<i> </i>I can't get too mad about it, because it all makes a pretty great story and a current testament to how far I've come. I can't feel too shabby about that.<br />
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Right. Big Red "X". It seems like the stronger you start to become, the more things start to happen--good and bad. The tasks now left to you are a) know yourself well enough to know that a lot of those self-doubts are, in fact, false--or at the very least, planted by an outside stimulus in order to make you fall backward in your walk, and b) to know when that enemy wearing bad shoes is rearing his/her ugly head and doing the usual song-and-dance while they wear a bad costume.<br />
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Once you have that nailed down a little better, it's a little easier to overcome. Am I going to say you're totally golden? No, because I don't even know if that's true. I'm still working that out myself. But what I do know is that once you realize what's going on, you can shut it down a lot faster. Especially if that enemy is wearing ugly shoes. Because really--would you listen to someone who wears ugly shoes? I didn't think so.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3099135497592083030.post-74386241382244632692013-05-04T19:09:00.000-05:002013-05-04T19:09:46.588-05:00The Thing I'm Most Afraid of in the Whole World: the Fly SwatterYes, you read that right. "How," you ask, "can someone be deathly afraid of a 97-cent implement found at Wal-Mart (or your nearest dollar store)?" I will tell you: you've never seen it wielded in the hands of my mother. In fact, I'm not terribly sure why it isn't called "the kid-swatter." Hmm, maybe my mom did call it that. I'll have to ask her when I talk to her later. Or my therapist. I'll decide when I'm finished.<br />
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Did you know here in the South parents can MacGyver <i>anything</i> into an instrument of torture suitable for punishing? Some of my friends got belts, others got razor straps. Me? I got the flipping 97-cent plastic fly swatter. I think I should have at least had the option of picking my own tree branch out of yard. I'm no dummy--I would have totally gone for the tiny twig attached to the end of a leaf or something. Or maybe I would do what I did with my 9th grade bug collection, in which I fashioned one of the bugs out of a lint ball, legs off a dead bug I found under the porch, and a couple of my strands of hair as antennae for good measure. I could just attach string or part of a toothpick to the lint ball, and <i>presto!</i> Yeah, I've learned to MacGyver a few things myself over the years. Heh, heh, heh. By the way, I made an A on my bug collection.<br />
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But back to the fly swatter and why I'm so afraid of it. I'll admit, I was a little cheeky growing up, but I was only regurgitating what I learned from the adults, so you really have to blame them. I'm so glad my mom doesn't have the Internet and can't read this. Anyway, my mom had a bit of a short fuse, and when I was really on fire, it didn't take too long for her to get from zero to pissed. And <i>that</i> is when I would see her round the corner into the kitchen, and I knew where she was headed. And I knew that was my cue to get the heck out of Dodge.<br />
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My mom may have had a short fuse, but she also had lightning-quick reflexes. I would do my best to dodge the obstacle course that was our living room, but my mom could be to the swatter rack and grabbing my ponytail before I knew it. Then, all hell would break loose.<br />
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You would think that an instrument that consists of a 4x4"plastic square attached to a wire or plastic handle wouldn't do much damage. Again, you haven't seen my mom wield one. Let me tell you about it. Those things can leave a red mark on the affected area. If wielded just right, your butt will be on fire for days. If the Armageddon ever occurs, my mom is totally in charge of hunting dinner. I'm pretty sure she could kill us a wild boar to make ham sandwiches or bacon, just with the simple flick of the wrist and the fly swatter.<br />
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Speaking of that, that's the biggest reason I'm afraid of the fly swatter. While my mom is quite handy with such a cheap instrument, she also has a look that goes with it. I kind of equate it to when a football player hurls a Hail Mary pass 90 yards down the field, or some Olympic runner jumps two miles worth of hurdles. Or me when I'm playing Mario Kart. I'm pretty sure my mom is a human dragon, because when she got the fly swatter, her nostrils would flare, and her face would scrunch up like she was about to breathe fire. And then I saw stars. Maybe she actually <i>did</i> breathe fire and I just didn't realize it because of the birdies circling my head. I feel like there had to be a RAWR somewhere in there, also, but I really don't know because I think I've repressed that memory. Hopefully, I didn't invite trouble, and now I'm going to dream about fly swatters all night. That would totally wreck my day tomorrow.<br />
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My mom became so good with the a fly swatter that, as I got older and became even more cheeky, all she had to do was back herself around the corner, and I ran because I knew what was coming. Sometimes, I think she pretended to go get the fly swatter just because she was bored and my reaction was amusing to her.<br />
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But there is an upside to all this: you have before you the fine, upstanding citizen I am today--as long as you consider people who have more than two-dozen speeding tickets upstanding, but that's another story for another time. One thing I am very grateful for is that they didn't have those tennis rackets that you use to shock the bug to death back then--because I'd really be screwed, and would probably have a waffle imprint-scar on my rear-end. All-in-all, I've recovered quite well. I'd better wrap this up, because I've got a therapy appointment in 45 minutes.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06838138717828293398noreply@blogger.com0