This Is Not A Bill

So. This is getting a little out of hand. I began this blog a couple of years ago in an effort to write more, to feel better about writing more and because I can't really keep up with the scrapbook. I haven't posted in over a month and realizing this, I've decided to do something drastic. I've joined NaBloPoMo. Even with the ENTIRE month of November looming, I couldn't let October end without a post.

I've been a little afraid to sit down in front of a blank screen and a keyboard for fear of what inappropriate content may seep through my fingertips well-versed in type. I haven't been confident in my ability to edit myself. It was just easier to stay away than to feel like I was leaving something out or trying to type around the elephant in this room. Deciding to challenge myself by committing to post every day in November, I've basically decided to work a little harder in that editing effort. In the end, I know I'll feel better. I've missed this small, little outlet. I've missed contributing my pieces to the universe of useless data out there.

There are a few things in this world that I'll never understand. Instead of having them explained to me, I'd MUCH rather complain about the fact that I don't understand them. That's usually much more fun. And funny. I don't understand why, while on our daily walks, when Cody runs out of pee, he will still stop at everything he deems pee-worthy, lift his leg and wait for the pee that would have come. I don't understand why I'm only 5'2" and I don't understand why the doctor will send you something detailing a variety of costs, procedures and insurance information if above it all it states, "This Is Not A Bill." O.k. So, this is not a bill. This is not a lot of things. This Is Not A Shoe. This Is Not A Software Program. This is something that is useless to me.

As you may have guessed, we received a "This Is Not A Bill" sheet of paper in the mail this afternoon. It was accompanied by another sheet of paper marked, "This Is A Bill." The total was -$56.80.

I don't understand that.

I Like To Sweat

These are my running shoes.

About two weeks ago I began going to the gym. Again. Again. You see, we have never stopped our membership at the local gym. Every month I see that money (our dues) leave my checking account and I thought that simple fact would motivate me to "get my money's worth" because I'm totally that kind of person, but that psychology hasn't worked so well for the past 5 years. We haven't stopped our membership because of the fact that I MIGHT want to go or I'll eventually go AND because if you try to stop your membership they send Uncle Nunzio to your house to help you change your mind. That usually works.

Eddie and I get in little gym jags when the guilt of not going has built up to a point where we HAVE to go just to get rid of it. Kind of like the dentist. You pay for that torture too.

These past two weeks I've been going every day that I can (even on weekends) in an effort to feel better in general. IF I happen to lose a few pounds in the process, then I can find it in my heart to accept that.

Our gym recently opened up a satellite location just for us girls. Chicks are great and all but the fact that it opened almost DOWN THE STREET is a huge plus for me. It's really just one less excuse not to go. I've never been to a chick gym before. The biggest differences are that there are no sports magazines and there are more than enough fans circulating air everywhere. You can't be in any work out area without feeling the breeze of a nearby fan. I'm not worried about my hair; it's the fact that when I'm finished running I don't step off of the treadmill wearing the badge of having worked out - the extremely sweaty shirt. When I come home from the chick gym, Cody gives me the sniff-down and treats me like some sort of salt lick. I don't care for this.

For now I'll have to settle for the sweat-drenched sport bra and a nice, quick shower after the gym.

On Being Me

Two evenings ago I came home from work, walked the dog, rested a bit and changed into those clothes you change into when you know you're not going to be leaving the house anymore that evening. I put my hair up in a ponytail, put the fluffy socks on and got comfortable.

Then someone called. It was some of our friends and they were game for sushi. In like an hour. I LOVE sushi. Once Eddie got home from work and was excited to get out for the evening I actually had to get dressed. Again.

I threw on some pants from the work day and dressed them up with a few choice accessories and a shirt/sweater thingy. I wasn't confident so I turned to my loving husband and asked, "How do I look?" We were almost running late and I'd hate to think he took that into account when he answered, "You look great."

We get into the car and I have to check the second half-hearted make up job of the day in the flip down mirror on the passenger's side every five minutes on the way there. I still wasn't confident, so I asked Eddie that question again. I got the same answer. I wanted him to find something wrong so I could fix it. Anything.

We finally get to our destination. We get out of the car and are walking toward the restaurant through the parking lot. I ask him again. He smiles and gives me the same answer. Now, I know he loves me, but what did I really expect him to say? We were AT the restaurant. Even if he had found something wrong with the make up or the outfit or the... anything, what was I going to do about it then? I told him so and he laughed. He grabbed my hand and led me through a group of people blocking the entrance. He kept smiling.

I'm glad he loves me.

I'm glad the light wasn't very good in the restaurant.

The Donut Letter

So. I go to the mailbox this afternoon after a brisk walking-of-the-dog. The walk was short because Cody is irrationally afraid of rain. Or wind. Or of any discussion involving rain or wind. When it thunders, he crawls right under the bed and puts his paws directly over his shaggy eyebrows to block out the world.

I remove the mail and start to flip through the envelopes and flyers. There's an envelope from the holder of my student loans telling me that another month's worth has been electronically zapped from my checking account. There's an invitation to the Annual Red Apple Sale from some store, a letter from the church and an invitation for my husband to receive Playboy, delivered directly to our home, for one year for only ONE DOLLAR. I put that aside for his review. I decided then to open the letter from the church. Our address was hand written on the envelope. How often do you see that anymore? It deserved my attention.

Inside the envelope were two letters. Both began with, "Dear Volunteer." That's right. I volunteered for things. Things I would eventually have to do. It's really great to feel like you've done something already when you sign up to volunteer. It feels good to sign up. Then the letter comes.

I have obligated myself to bring donuts to the casual church service once every few weeks. I have to bring 3 dozen when it's my turn. I have volunteered to EAT donuts. That's what I've done. Those girls in Playboy, they eat donuts, don't they?

The Secret To A Happy Marriage

I think I've figured this one out and I'm gonna spill the beans. Get this:

Each person has to genuinely think that they got the better deal.

That's it. I think that attitude propels you toward being better for your husband or wife every day.

By the way, I TOTALLY got the better deal. I win. It is all about winning.

Some Things Should Come With A Warning Label

WARNING: Do not watch all available DVD seasons of "24" in a 5 week span. It's an emotional hazard.

I have recently finished the 5th season of "24." Now, I DID watch as many episodes as I could each evening and every chance I got until I HAD to sleep or eat or go to work. I watched them back to back to back, season after season until I hit the end of season 5. The entire season 6 isn't out yet or I'd have devoured that one too. Truth be told, I'm a little relieved that it isn't available for a while. I could stand to get off of the emotional roller coaster for a bit.

I have another confession. I left Eddie in the dust about 3 seasons ago. At first, the decision to begin the "24" adventure was made by the both of us. That first season was something we would look forward to enjoying together - until Eddie started with the dreams that someone was trying to kill him and that he was constantly in danger, which happened about mid-way through the second season.

He knew I was "involved" with the show and put up with my new addiction because he knew it would run its course. Eventually. I probably should have stopped watching with him because I got really involved. Too involved. It's all I wanted to do.

What's she doing?
She's watching "24."

Now that I'm at the end of a harsh season, having seen the little prequel clip on You Tube for the next seemingly harsher season, I've been down lately. Not just the kind of down you'd expect to experience from a t.v. show, but I think I've been just a little depressed. My empathy for this character is crippling. Can't this guy be allowed a little happiness? Just a little? AND they killed Edgar. That was exceedingly harsh. I didn't just get the television viewer's dose of harsh, weekly surprises, I got a concentrated pill that hit my stomach like a rock.

Now I'm in some sort of withdrawal to boot. Do they make a drug for that?

Maybe I can borrow some one's "Dawson's Creek" series or something. I hear there are fewer torture scenes.

Wit

Eddie: *Sneeze. *Sneeze. *Sneeze.

*Sneeze.

ktm: Are you alright?

Eddie: Apparently, I'm allergic to whatever time it is.

Still On The Crack

It's 11:33pm this evening. One of my co-workers has lent me the 4th season of 24. I'm up having watched the first 6 episodes this evening. So, I MAY have a little crush on Jack Bauer.

Is that so wrong?

It's Like Crack. Or So I've Heard.

Recently Eddie and I have been hooked on 24. Yes, I said, "recently." We didn't really find the time to watch it before. The truth is, to me, it didn't really look that interesting. But now, NOW I'm one of THOSE people. Except I'm like 6 years behind.

One of our friends has the DVD set so we've got this free, commercial-free source of entertainment. Right now, however, Eddie is not here. He's been 'not here' a lot this week in the evenings because of obligations at work. That's fine and all, but we kind of have this unspoken trust that neither of us will watch another episode without the other one. It's fun to watch it together. It's fun until one of us isn't here. Like now. Right now, when I NEED to know what's happened to Jack Bauer. Kim's gotten into some kind of dog trap in the woods and President Palmer is in danger. Somebody's lying to him. I've got to know who. Now.

There's the garage door. I sure hope you're not tired. We're gonna watch. I'll hold your eye lids open.

I love you.

No Expiration Date

I still mean to keep the promise that's engraved on our rings, "Mine." Five years and counting, my Sparky.

Happy St. Valentine's Day

"Happy Valentine's Day. I bought you a house."

"That's funny. I bought you the same thing."



I love you, Mr. Manes.

Okay, So I Almost Forgot My Password To Post

I don't want to disappoint my only 2 loyal readers out there. I have a quick update: We closed on our new house on January 26, 2007. The bank now owns our home. It really is the American dream. We haven't moved yet. In fact, we really haven't even packed a single thing. We're giving the current occupant more time to move...more on that later.

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy.

Before January Is Over

It's usually around this two week mark that I get the itch to post. Maybe it's not an itch...it's a guilty type of tickle.

Early last week Eddie and I signed a purchase agreement on another house. This is the second time we'll be going through this whole process. I haven't really let myself get excited about this one. That last experience kind of ripped my heart out just a little. I'm holding my breath. We haven't packed anything yet. If all goes well, we'll be moving in a little over two weeks. TWO WEEKS.

Chocolate Cake For Breakfast

The cake had a dense and perfect crumb. It was rich with smooth, decadent chocolate frosting. It was warm and wonderful complimented by a chilled glass of milk. My husband bought them for me.

Happy new year E. I love you.

And The Winner Is...

My doctor's nurse called my cell phone last week while I was at work. I recognized the number. I don't know too many people who would recognize the number to their doctor's office when it appears on their cell phone. I suppose that puts me in an elite few. Yes, I'll choose to look at it that way.

She had the results of my recent MRI. I braced myself for the answer, the solution to all of my pain was around the corner, it was in the next breath of this stranger.

"Well, the Dr. has reviewed the results of the test and she's concluded that everything is absolutely normal. There are no herniated or bulging discs or any other abnormalities detected by this test. Everything looks great."

I crumbled. Now, it's not that I WANT something to be wrong with me. Something IS wrong with me. No one is able to find it. I don't think there are many more times in my life when I've been this frustrated. Not until the nurse recommended seeing a pain management doctor.

A pain management doctor. Why don't they just send me to a hypnotist? Maybe they can convince me that I don't have any pain since the only physical evidence is my wincing when touched and frequent tearing up when asked to pick anything up that weighs over 10 lbs. No convincing physical evidence anyway.

A pain management doctor. That recommendation means only one thing to me: I will have this pain forever, that everyone has given up and that I am now expected to learn how to "manage it." O.k. So that's three things.

Sorry Cody. No college for you. Mama's going back to the physical therapist.

Four New Loves

Late last week my Grandmother-in-Law took me on our yearly shopping trip for Christmas presents. She'd rather experience each grandchild's joy as she buys us presents that we pick out than to try to think up the perfect present. She also gets to spend time with us individually this way. That is rare with as many grandchildren and great-grandchildren she has. She'll pick me up,we'll do the shopping, then it's out to lunch. It always turns out to be a healthy dose of quality time. This year, she asked me what stores we'd visit. I had a grand idea. Shoe stores.

I'm lucky because my 84 1/2 year old Grandmother-in-Law is quite stylish. She's hip. If I had a petite size 2 frame and size 5 feet, I'd be shopping in HER closet. So when I mentioned shoe shopping, she was game. In the first store, (it's never just one store) we picked out these little beauties.

I didn't own any green shoes, nor any shoes with large, multi-colored beads, so these were a welcome addition to my stash. Oh, and 20% off. Score.

The next store was one chosen for its proximity to the parking space we found, (which were in short supply) not because it was one of the original candidates, but boy did it pay off.

Ladies: These were SEVEN dollars. Seven. I'll go ahead and say it. Payless. Payless rocks.

Pointy, black and sparkly. I love them.

These are my new neutral shoes.

There was one other from the day, my first pair of boots. Well, not actually my VERY first pair of boots, those were the obligatory pair of Doc Martens added to my stash in high school. I still have them. No, these boots are pointy and girly and fabulous. Very winter 2006.

Thanks Mama. I love you.

This Is Not A Bill

I had my first MRI this afternoon. It was loud.

After a not-so-great half day at work, I rushed (sped) to my 2:15 appointment in Radiology on the second floor of one giant, medical building. I was checked in quickly and directed to the appropriate waiting area where I focused on calming myself in preparation for being shoved into a small, whirring, metal tube for the upcoming half hour. Naked. And cold.

Well, not totally naked. I had one of those open-to-the-world medical gown thingys and I was given a sad excuse for a blanket.

When my name was called from the waiting area, that moment where we all feel like "The Chosen One," I took a deep breath. Mind over matter. At least I didn't have to get on a scale. I was led all the way around the building through a maze of hallways, down some stairs and then OUTSIDE. At first I thought this was some kind of evil prank...or maybe the nurse who called me was actually a serial killer who had a car running at the back entrance waiting to abduct me. Instead I was led to what looked like a FEMA trailer IN THE PARKING LOT. I climbed up the stairs and the door opened to what looked like the set of an early Star Trek film.

I was instructed to remove my earrings, glasses, shirt, pants and bra after being quizzed again about the authenticity of my body parts. Apparently these giant magnets are pretty powerful and might extract artificial metal parts inside my body. Scary picture.

Scared of unauthorized metal insertions I may have forgotten about or may have never known about, I situate myself on a tiny sliding bed under the direction of the tech. There are plastic panels to hold my head in place, sort of like stationary book ends. As I was rolled into the tube, I realized why some people may freak out. It was close quarters in there...and loud. I was rolled back out of the tube and given ear plugs (a welcome gift), then rolled right back in...where I remained motionless abiding by the instructions of the tech.

What do you feel like doing when someone tells you that you absolutely can't move? Yes. I wanted to move. I needed to move. My nose itched, I started breathing faster, my hands twitched and I wondered if "don't move" included my eyes. It was a question I forgot to ask before the test began and consequently couldn't ask because I couldn't move my mouth. So I closed my eyes and eventually the whir, muffled by the ear plugs, put me into a light sleep.

Then it was over.

I quickly dressed (because there was an older gentlemen already getting prepared for his exam in this teeny, tiny trailer and no one seemed to remember or care that I wasn't yet dressed).

I was happy to find out this week, through much jumbled medical jargon, that I have almost met my deductible for the year with all of the physical therapy and Dr. visits. My back still hurts. Merry Christmas to me.

We should have results in 2-3 days from this test. My hopes are high for a resolution.

12.18.79

Happy Birthday Russell.

Delayed Reflexes

This is my friend Paige's dog, Daisy. Every time I come to the house, the dog comes to the door to greet me, tail wagging. She sniffs me and follows me closely, all excited as I enter the house. I kneel down to greet and pet her while she leans into the attention. It's not until I sit down to visit that she starts the howling. She howls at me as if I'm an intruder beating her family. Her howls take her front two feet off of the ground as she raises her head and stretches her neck to find the deepest, loudest howl she can muster. You know, because I have offended her and must be punished.

At first, I thought it was just me. That was until another friend of ours came in a bit after my arrival and got the same treatment. Same happy greeting, tail wagging, loving dog until about 2 minutes in. Then the "get out of my house" serenade.

After the guests have come in and the howling has subsided, usually someone in the family will mumble, "It's a little late, Daisy." They think she's just slow.

I think she's just hopeful that everyone coming to visit is there to visit her. Once the petting and attention we pay to her end with the greeting, it is then that we are no longer useful to her. We serve no other purpose than to take her family's love and attention away. She doesn't know it's ever going to end. So, it's obviously time for the guest to leave. Thus the barking/howling/crying.

This dog has been severely underestimated.

My Way

The dryer buzzes. I ask him if he'll help me fold the clothes so we can put in the next load even faster. He sweetly agrees. We drag ourselves to the dryer to fold the load of towels it holds. It's late but we totally need the quilt (currently in the washer) to get a night of sound sleep.

I start folding. He starts folding. We're both folding towels and washcloths, yawning. Then I look over. He's doing it wrong. All of the edges don't line up and the crease isn't there. He doesn't even put it on the pile of all of the other folded towels in the correct way.

He catches me watching him and he stops. He holds up his towel with a humble smirk and says, "I just can't do it like you do it." He feebly tries to *snap* the towel folded as I do and laughs. We both laugh.

I can't believe he loves me anyway.