Thyroid Things
A year or so ago I had a bunch of tests run and they found that my thyroid wasn’t working that great, but it wasn’t working that bad, either. Also, my heart and lung were having serious issues, so my thyroid took a bit of a back burner.
Fast forward to now. Since my endocrine system sucks, the news isn’t that big of a surprise. My blood panel shows that my thyroid is barely functioning (Hypothyroidism) and I have a very large amount of calcium in my blood (Parathyroid Disease). Both conditions cause things like feeling anxious, loss of energy, depression, not being able to concentrate, headaches. My doctor, (the one that got mad at me and then kicked me out of her office) prescribed Levothyroxine. During the 30 seconds that I spoke to her, she told me the diagnosis, that she wants to recheck the calcium in two weeks before doing anything about it and that she was prescribing me a drug for my thyroid. When I started to ask questions, she told me to talk to my pharmacist, since that is his job. Then she hung up.
When I went to pick up my prescription, I asked for the pharmacist and asked him about the drug and what alternatives there were and if there was anything natural that could take the place of it. He smiled, winked and said, ‘This is the stuff you want to take.’ Then he walked away.
I realize that our medical system is messed up. But isn’t it pretty sad that neither one of them have time to answer any questions? And since I don’t have much of a choice of who I go to, I feel stuck. Where are people supposed to go that want more information? I can research on the internet just like the next person, but it would be nice to talk to real, live humans. I’ve never been one to just ‘take their word for it’ so I’m a little torn on starting a medication that I know next to nothing about and that once started, should be taken the rest of my life. On the other hand, what choice do I have?
Online I’ve learned that Parathyroid Disease is more intense in that I might need a surgery to correct the issue. I’m glad she wants to recheck my blood before moving ahead with that, but would it have killed her to say that to me? Also, neither of them mentioned that soy inhibits the absorption of the medication and that I shouldn’t be drinking/eating it. Or that antidepressants, the ones that she didn’t want to prescribe me that someone else is supposed to, screws around with absorption as well and it’s suggested that they shouldn’t be taken together. But, hopefully, with my thyroid getting fixed, I won’t need anti depressants anyway. And does this mean I need to find a multivitamin without calcium for the time being?
So many questions, so few people to answer them.
Things Family and Friends Have Said To Me (Or About Me) That Suggest They Think I Might Be Crazy (Or Dumb)
“Mom, if we keep driving around like this forever and we get lost and can’t get home, I wouldn’t eat you even if I was starving. I don’t want to get Mad Mom disease.”
“I think you should stop looking at me. But if you must keep looking at me, do it from over there. On the other side of the door.”
“Oh, thanks for answering the phone! I was worried you’d never pick it up again after our conversation the other night about brain harvesting and emus. Have you slept yet?”
To my husband (a year and a half after we were married): “Are you sure you don’t want to look at other marriage options?”
“Can you tell me what colors you mix together to make orange? You can pick from red, yellow and blue.”
“You know when someone tells you ‘You’re so crazy!’ but they’re kidding? This is not one of those times! I need my shirt back. And the fire extinguisher.”
“I did tell you, but you were mumbling something about erasers so you might not have heard me.”
“That is so….pretty the way you organized the thumbtacks into 20 different containers by color shade and size.”
“But did you ever ask yourself why most people /don’t/ carry a raw potato in their purse with them everyday?”
“Do you always keep your phonebook in the fridge?”
“Rubber bands are not really evil. The devil is evil. Rubber bands are useful tools for people to keep papers bound together. Do you see the difference?”
“Is it ok if the green beans are touching your fruit salad or would like you like me to built a mini-fort with the mashed potatoes to protect them?”
“No, I don’t go up and talk to whoever is there even if I think they look interesting. Normal people don’t do that. They just go there to do their laundry.”
“Please stop singing. And if you don’t wash the paint off your hands before we leave I’m going to make you wear my ski gloves to dinner.”
“When I look at you, I feel a little bit better about myself. And I feel so much smarter.”
Good Times
Know what’s fun? Going to the doctor and having them scold you for getting off medication 3 and a half years ago. Then having them refuse to give you any now because, dude, you are crazy. How do you know what you need if you are crazy?
Instead she ordered a blood panel, which is fine since I wanted one anyway. It could be hormonal, this crazy I have. No kidding.
So, how about that. I finally got enough courage to go ask for some meds and I was told no. But I can call a psychiatrist that is covered under my plan and wait for three weeks for a consult. And then maybe I’ll get some. Awesome.
Last Night, Dancing With the Weirdos
I took Alex to a Bar&Grill that turns into a whoopie bar around 9:55pm every night. They have dancing lessons every evening at 7pm and on Tuesday, it’s Salsa night.
The dance floor is quite large and nice but not exactly secluded. Surrounding the perimeter are tables for 2 or 4 where people not choosing to participate in the dance lessons can watch those that are.
Alex and I were very excited to finally be going to dance and learning the Salsa. Totally cool. I hadn’t gone to check out the place before hand so I wasn’t aware of the positioning of the room but even if I had, it wasn’t until about 5 minutes after we started that all the chairs filled up. With men. Men aged 45 and up. With little to no hair on top and greasy scalps shining through. Have I mentioned my daughter is beautiful?
About the time our lovely instructor Conrad *123* with the shirt open at the throat and his glistening chest gleaming beneath the lights *567* starting incorporating the turns *back23* and the side steps *glideandback* that I slowed a little and took a breath, laughing and looking around the room to see who else was having as much fun as us.
Oh, the vultures with their beady eyes. Alex and I sat down for a bit and got a drink of water and within, oh, 90 seconds we were approached. And then we left. Because, as Alex says, ‘Eww. Gross. That guy was hideoderous and he spit all over my face.’
*ahem*
Next week, we’re doing belly dancing, an all-women class in the female teacher’s home.
Not Much, But Something
Things aren’t any better but they aren’t getting any worse. Which is better.
Appointment made for Thursday.
Mutterings
There are times when I find that even thinking about thinking about what I’m feeling is enough to induce a sleep-like coma for an additional three hours of the morning. I could easily get out of bed, as I did for years, around 6am every morning when my brain snaps to attention and begins its daily factoring, searching and planning regimen. I could. I could if I wasn’t so scared of the empty feeling that engulfs me within seconds. A solid core of emptiness with layers of what ifs and insecurities wrapped tightly around and around like the inside of a golf ball.
This week I will go to the doctor and ask for medication. Despite all the bravado and planning ahead in the case of this emergency, I feel like a failure. I’ve managed well for a few years now with meditation, vitamins and supplements. I’ve made it my mantra to be fearless and do the hard thing first as a way of keeping my emotional-self healthy. I’ve made decisions with machete perfection as to what situations I’m willing to walk in to regarding work, family and my social calendar. And now, it seems, that even with all my careful planning and attention to detail, I’ve not taken two steps back but more like a mile. This from the same mind and mouth that recommends to anyone that if medication is needed then grab it with both hands and don’t look back. I’m a hypocrite.
My practical self tells me I will do well to take care of this soon. My reasonable self knows that the thing to do is to call right this minute so that all the time I spend with my kids this week will be as great as it can be. My intellectual self tells me I have not failed and that everyone’s life comes in waves of highs and lows, in seasons of sunny and dark. My clinically depressed self tells me that I am alone, ugly, unlovable, inconsequential, worthless, unworthy of being in the same room with my kids who might get some of my poison on them and that in not secluding my person in a dank, dark place to merely exist until I die I somehow endanger them. By just being alive I endanger them. That the best gift I could ever give them is to disappear from their lives. That voice worked once before and I struggle to keep it at bay.
Brassiere
‘Mother’ she said, ‘you do realize that that….flesh-colored thing you are wearing is doing nothing that most females require their bras to do…?’ And yes, I did. But there is only so much time to be vain in one day and if it’s my brassiere that sags a little and barely covers and completely fails at protecting the world from my nipples, then so be it. At least I have matching socks on. Oh. No? Well, I’m wearing pants.
But then she took me to the store, leading me by the hand through aisles of underwear and lingerie, which I almost didn’t recognize, so long it’s been since my eyes laid on them, and wondered who the people are who manage to wear plum and ecru flimsy, dressy things while I can barely seem to find my shoes.
She stopped short in front of a wall filled, nay, teeming with breast restrictors of all types. I immediately felt overwhelmed. We left and she had to live with her disappointment.
A few days later, my husband said, ‘Oh, dear. That really is the saddest bra I’ve ever seen. Is it doing anything at all for you besides making your breasts look like sagging, deflated balloons? Why don’t you wear a different one?’ I looked in the mirror and realized that truly, 2 years is a long time for a bra. It had lived a good life. I thanked it and deposited it into the nearest rubbish bin. However, by some strange life predicament, it was the only bra that I had. So, now I had none.
Later that day, my husband and I went to the store and looked at all those bras together. I took fifteen or so into the dressing room and I’m happy to say that when we walked out, I had a total of 4 breast restriction devices in a bag. Never has a woman been so blessed. I was rich with brassieres! I felt a heady sensation and looked at every person we passed with a slight air of superiority because, really, not one of them was walking home with one pink, one off-white, one rose with white polka dots and a darling amount of white trim around the edges and one dangerous and racy dark red number with a steamy black overlay made of black mesh.
‘Really?’ my daughter exclaims after I tell her the good news. ‘Well, why don’t you look any different?’ she asks, examining my mid section. ‘I can still totally see your nipples.’ ‘Oh.’ I replied. ‘I’m not actually wearing one today.’ ‘You mean, you’re totally braless?’ ‘Um, yes. But I combed my hair!’ Her eyes told the story of an old woman that had sailed the sea of a thousand storms and seen vast disappointment. She sighed and said, ‘Well, if saggy boobs are what you want, then who am I to try and change you?’
The next morning, truly repentant, I wore one and have been every day ever since. I still don’t do my makeup every day or shave my legs on a regular basis. But at least the world is saved from my nipples. I only have so much time per day to be vain.
Two Many Links
It’s no secret I shred like a demon. And now I find out I can make my own music?? (Via Waxy)
Not Martha made awesome rechargeable sun jars. Her step by step instructions rule. These are definitely a contender for next Christmas.
I waited breathlessly for months for Paul Ford to write again and now he is. My lungs thank him as does my brain because he is one of the funniest and smartest writers I (would like to) know.
Miss Snark is a great resource for writers. She is very to the point and full of great information. I would love her as an agent as I’m sure she wouldn’t put up with any funny business. She links to the 20 worst Agencies.
Joe sent me a link to a Thomas P.M. Barnett blog entry which says in well-written words what I sometimes feel after receiving a whole bag of reader mail.
I can’t believe this happened. It just seems so stupid and preventable.
Sassy keeps yelling that we need this stuff to combat the ants throwing a party in our walls. I must admit that it feels like nothing will work but we will be giving it a try as soon as it stops raining.
Susan sent me a bunch of stuff as did Susannah and Lisa. Photos and an update to the painting page coming soon.
Tyler and I play a game where we text each other numbers and it’s like a code where the other person has to decipher it using the keypad to see what they said.
For example: “99966688 277733 2 366677755443323.” is “You are a dorkhead.” But sometimes when a word uses two letters that show up next to each other on the keypad, it gets confusing and since there is no way of knowing what the other person said you just make it up.
For example: “666667777 333333 77766622255″ is supposed to be “Moms def rock” but because M and O are on the same key, it ends up being hard to figure out. (Unless I’m your mom. Then you know I rock and there is no question.) But thank goodness we have free texting because the kids and I use it all the time. This entry from Bethemedia is about T9′s effect on our language. I hate T9 and have it turned off but as a result I probably have to hit more buttons than T9 lovers do. On the other hand, I won’t accidentally say ‘book’ instead of ‘cool’ and it won’t be until my boys start saying it and thinking that book is another way to say cool that I’ll start using it to make fun of them which will really just perpetuate the issue and I’ll be the only 93 year old person still saying ‘That is so book’ and ‘Rad’. I am the only 36 year old person that still says ‘Dude’ on a regular basis so I guess that is par. (Via Kottke)
Code Monkey by Jonathan Coulton is my new favorite song. (Via Joe)
Sarah sent me this the other day. She and I are going for sure and bringing our crystal shards with us. Also, have you sent in your entry for the Cringe book yet? (Read Heather’s entry here.)
Poo?
Joe – don’t read this one. And mom, I’m talking about bowel movements, which aren’t funny, so you should skip this one as well.
Devon is going off to college in the fall. He knows how to make toast and pour milk and sneak wine. That is about the end of his culinary skills at the moment so when he asked me a few weeks ago if I would sign him up for cooking classes, I got excited. Kind of just excited to spend time with him because, dude, I’ll be in those classes with him, but also because it shows he’s thinking farther into the future than when he can have his next LAN party.
Anthony has always loved cooking (pickles) and asked if he could come as well. So, maybe an odd threesome, but I’m very much looking forward to it. And, it’s not dancing. Although I might still try to sneak that in.
Over the weekend we decided to give some baking a try. Now, cooking I can do pretty well most of the time. I’ve learned that beets and beef don’t go together and somewhere in the recesses of my mind I remembered how to make a mean white sauce. Baking, however, is a completely different thing. It’s a science. Things have to be in proportion or bad things happen. I can’t just throw in an extra teaspoon of this or that and give it a taste. Everything has raw eggs in it and is runny or bumpy. It could be hours before you find out if your mixing and whisking was successful. Substitutions don’t always go well. And you should probably read the entire directions before you start, just in case you don’t have everything you need and just in case you start making the sauce that goes on the outside like frosting but you think it’s for the batter so you start pouring it and mixing before you realize that you just added twice as much liquid and 100% too much milk (since there was no milk in the recipe to start with) and then have a huge mess in the oven when the cake rounds explode all over the oven and it burns and stinks up the entire house until you put a cookie tray underneath and catch the last bit of it. And it looks terrible. Kind of like poo. Kind of like poo strips. Which you take off the tray and put on a plate for your son who thinks it is so funny he can hardly stand it.
Case in point:
Tyler, who was not emotionally invested in the least in our baking session, was free to throw jokes around willy-nilly. It was sad and funny at the same time. But it tasted delicious. We ate the crap out of that poo cake.
Happy Birthday, Me.
It’s 10pm on the 11th. I’m just about ready to hit the hay.
I’m 36.
I’m super emotional, but it’s not because I’m 36.
I’m happy. And I’m sad, but not for any discernable reason.
I woke up to the sounds of Joe downstairs, puttering around. Then he drove me to LA and I took a photo of a photographer for an interview I’m doing (meta?). I found the photographer at the Disney Concert Hall, went in and got out within 5 minutes (thanks to the helpful and courteous security man at the stairs) and when we got out the sky was strange all afternoon: low clouds with the odd bird flying around (photo below). When we got back home, Alexandra took me out to Starbucks and bought me a Grande Soy Chai Latte with her own gift card (I’ll see the boys tomorrow for the weekend (including Monday! Woot!) but she is going to be gone, so we had our day today). Then we went to the house and watched The Family Stone and picked songs for the CD we want to do together (If anyone has a recording studio, let me know).
Even when I pool all my resources and gather all my strength, I’m still mostly a mess. Picking out what to eat for dinner is almost too much and Joe has to lead me down the grocery aisle feeding me yes or no questions (when I say the words rice and soup, are you happy?) and singing me Little Fat Man to help me through.
But here it is, 10:13 pm on January 11th, 2007, and I’m happy. I may be crying because I can’t seem to control my emotions, but really? I’m happy. And things are great. And Joe made me his famous raspberry donuts and told me he loved me. I know whatever issues I’m having with my sadness and tear ducts isn’t really REAL. It’s hormonal. And everything is fine.
It was a perfect day.
Keepin' It Real
I can’t even tell you how emotional I’ve been for the past week or so. It’s taken over a week to get over Christmas and Christmas was great! There is something about being with large groups of people that puts me just slightly over the edge to a place that is weird and unhealthy. I do great up until about 20 people in the room and then I’m toast. Unless I’m working. I know. It makes no sense. But if I’m shooting photos of a large group, no problem. But if I’m in a large group and anyone wants to talk to me or relate to me as a person, then holy crap I have a hard time and have to spend the next 7 days recuperating as if I was just in a battle field or went through a hurricane or something. Which I didn’t. It’s dumb. Or, it could be something else.
For the past few years I’ve told people that are close to me and love me that if I have more than 2 bad days in a row a month, I would seriously look at it. Especially if it went on for a few months. A few bad days a month I expect and can handle. Five days or a week or more: no. I’m not prepared to lose that much time out of every 30 days of my life and the past two months I’ve been a mess for at least a week each. And so I’m looking at this carefully but with much speculation. Because getting back on medication is not something I want to do. But if it’s something I need to do, I’ll do it in a heartbeat. Playing around with my mental health is something I will never do. More than anything, I want and need to be a mentally strong mother for my kids. And I’m guessing Joe would like it if I could make it through a month without falling apart. Just a guess.
My birthday is in a few days. I don’t think that turning 36 has anything to do with this, but you just never know. Maybe I’m crying all day for a week because I’m so damn old.
For a glimpse of what I look like lately, you can go here. (via Mimi Smartypants)
Candle Making
I’ve been making candles for at least 10 years and it’s still one of my favorite things to do. It wasn’t until Joe and I were completely done last night and we were wiping off the last counter that I wished I would have taken some step by step photos this time and created a post out of it. Dang. Next time. But if you have some questions (Michelle), ask away. I’ll do my best to answer with no photographic evidence of any kind.
Today He Can Buy Cigarettes and Vote. And Go To War.
This is Devon, my first born. He was such a knobby-kneed, curly tow-headed baby. He was the light of my life and had my full attention for only about 18 months until his sister turned up, whining for bottles and diapers, which he willingly and happily fetched for her (me).
Devon has a brain in his head that can sometimes be a bit intimidating. He is just sharp, in the boy genius kind of way. Conversations with him and what he thinks are always informative, entertaining and sometimes I even learn a little something. Although I fear he is becoming a Republican, which I’m proud of at the same time because he has a mind all his own and isn’t afraid to use it and own it.
He was always in the advanced classes all going through school and figured out even before middle school that he could exert very little effort and glide by quite easily. The highlights of his schooling so far, to me, are those moments where I saw him really getting excited about something he was learning, because it happened so rarely. But when it did, that spark in his eye was so, so great. He starts to talk with his hands and then his arms and then his whole body, sitting on the couch, threatens to almost shoot up through the ceiling as he explains how some new computer program interacts with something else, which I have no idea what it all means, but frankly, I don’t care. I’m just watching him and loving it.
I home schooled Devon for the first three years of school while we lived over in Germany. His little sister joined us for most of our classes and got the benefit of watching him make an erupting volcano and combining chemicals to create the foulest smells ever to touch anyone’s nose. Ever. We went for walks around the neighborhood and learned German and got to know the Landlady and often went to pet her farm animals while practicing single digit timetables.
And then somewhere around his 5th grade year, my mind started unraveling at an alarming rate and Devon shouldered more responsibility than some adults. By 6th grade he juggled school and housework and babysitting and entertaining his baby brothers while his sister cooked them meals and did laundry. And then some months later I went away for a year or so and when I came back, he was older.
By the time I made it back to San Diego, his dad had moved the family north and it took me about 2 years to find a local job and move closer to him and the other kids. All through that trying time of driving back and forth and frustration, Devon would tell me, ‘It’s small steps, Mom. Each time it gets a little better.’ And he would give me a hug. And later, when I was alone, I would weep because my son had cause for so much wisdom.
Living close these past two years has been wonderful in so many ways but one of the most valued by me is watching him become a man. He’s a good man. Young, yes, but old in so many ways. This past year he’s poked his toe into the social aspects of high school. He’s learned a little about having a crush on a girl and making a best friend with a guy. Both of which he had never felt safe enough to do before. He has excelled in leadership and became the co-editor of the school paper, which he takes very seriously. He’s also got a great sense of humor and cracks my shit up. We’ve always been the best of friends but it’s been only the past few years that I learned how to be a real mom. And he’s let me be his mom, although he in no way had to and it must have been a very scary concept to trust me.
I worry about all the mistakes I’ve made while he’s been a part of my life. I worry about all the things I’ve put him through. I worry about the issues he’ll have to deal with someday.
And then I look at his face and in his eyes and remember that God and the Universe have everything under control and no amount of my worrying will do anything to change anything. My job is to love him. And I can do that.
Because there is no way to freeze time at 17.5 years old, Devon turns eighteen today. My baby is eighteen. When I was eighteen I had him wrapped round my leg and his sister about to be born. I had lived through years of drug and alcohol abuse and felt about 100 years old. Thank God that all he has to do is attend his last year of high school and prepare to go to college in the fall. Thank God he’s never smoked or done drugs and that his alcohol consumption is at a very age-appropriate level. All of that is hard enough. And he has to register with selective service and possibly get drafted at some point, which scares the crap out me so I don’t think about it very often.
I’m so proud of you, Devon. And I love you with all my heart. Thanks for everything you bring to my life.
Yours always and forever,
Mom
Ask Leahpeah
Dear Leah Peah,
I watched Medium last night. Did you know it was back on? And Heroes, your Beloved, is off for a long few more weeks. I bet you are dying.
You watch too much tv. It’s rotting your brain.Signed,
Anon.
Dearest Anon,
So nice to hear from you, Sunshine! I do so appreciate you keeping tabs on my television watching. Alas, you are a few weeks behind. I haven’t had time to watch anything, as my domestic handiwork has taken over. And yes, I was aware that Heroes was off and would continue to be off for a few more weeks. *sigh* But I’m never too busy to hear your updates and I thank you so much for thinking of me, Toots.
Although I had general aches and pains and flu like symptoms immediately following Christmas (it was NOT the fruit cake!!), I can’t image why you think I’m dying, Muffin. Who said that? Cousin Sally?? She’s always hoping she’ll outlive me for the inheritance but I’ve had my eye on that antique thimble set ever since I found out Great Gramma Thistle used it to darn President Eisenhower’s socks. I’m due, dammit! I’m due at least one happiness in this life.
Your gentle coaching and non-judgmental admonishment has shown me the error of my ways. From henceforth and ever more, I shall watch only Ellen in the afternoon three times a week. And never on a religious holiday.
Toodles,
Yours Truly
L.P.D. (Ed. Note: I’m assuming the D is for Dearest? Or is it Diarrhea? I’m not apposed. It happens.)
I just wanna say you rock. I read you. I like you. And I’m going a keep on reading you no matter what anyone says because you rock.
Anyways, that’s more than I said for a long time so I guess I’m done.
Rock on.
Don
Dearest Donald, (can I call you Donald?)
I’m so happy to hear that you read me and that you like me. The feeling is mutual. I’m going to reread this sweet letter each evening before retiring to my damask covered boudoir with tassel trimmings.
You mention that conversation may be one of your struggles. Forgive my boldness but I notice you have an affinity of the geological type. Have you considered going into that area as a means to stimulating a friendly conversation?
For example: ‘The Cenozoic Era seems to be my favorite as it was teeming with new life including flying animals and flowering plants. I find I prefer it to the Paleozoic, which was basically a bunch of slimy reptiles running around willy-nilly in a much less pretty fashion.’ This just might win you friends and influence people but I leave it to you to carve out the particulars.
Sincerely,
LP and yes, D (although not since I got over the fruitcake.)
PS. I’m not sure whom these ‘other people’ are that you allude to, but not being swayed by peer pressure is an admirable quality. I commend you for it.
PPS. If you want to tell me who it is, I’ll keep it a secret.
PPPS. Just kidding. Don’t tell me.
PPPPS. You can if you want.
Two Blessed $@#*&! Years
One of the tragedies of 2006 is that my two year wedding anniversary came and went without nary an acknowledgment from me on this blog, which was scarcely more than I gave it in real life. It falls on the 21st of December, and if you’re keeping up, you know that this year that fell within the Dead Zone, or as we like to call it, ‘The Great Crochet Marathon of Twelve Ought Six.’
When I was freshly back from Seattle in 2002, I met Joe at a networking meeting. I didn’t like him and I didn’t not like him. Sure, he was very nice but I was recently divorced and very concentrated on getting my shit together. I sure as hell wasn’t about to start dating anyone, especially someone that was a Catholic, had no kid experience and was still technically married to his first wife. So, of course, we started dating right away and became exclusive within the first two weeks.
Something you might not know about me: when I know something, I know it and there isn’t much that anyone can tell me that will change my mind. I feel stuff in my gut and that is the end of it. My gut has been my only constant companion and seen me through all kinds of trouble. So, my gut and I stick together. Imagine my surprise when my gut let me know that Joe was not only the really great guy he seemed to be but that also, I would love him, he would love me and we’d be together. Immediately following that message I spent many months pretending it had never happened. However, I did seem to think it was a splendid idea to invite him to meet most of my family a scant 7 weeks after we met. Huh.
Joe has been to Utah eight times in the past few years. The first time he met most of my brothers and sisters and the next time he met my parents. They all, of course, like him and love him. He’s a likable guy. But, they love him no matter how much money he earns or what he looks like or what kind of car he drives. Frankly, the only thing they take into account is if I’m happy. And here it must be clarified that my family looks at the word ‘happy’ in the way that God might: if you are learning, then you are happy because it’s the people God doesn’t bless that much that don’t have the opportunity for learning. Joe and I are so blessed. In fact, these past two years of marriage, we have been blessed beyond what I thought possible. That seems to be always the way.
I think one of the reasons that Joe feels so comfortable visiting my family is because they accepted him so completely. Even before we were married, my parents had us sleeping in the same room. My very Mormon mom. The one that didn’t alert me of my private parts until I was married to my first husband, well after the point of her grandson being implanted in my uterus. I hope my mom doesn’t mind me telling the entire world that, but I just thought it was so great the way she trusted my gut on Joe and I being together. However, my mom still sends my ex-husband Christmas and Birthday cards (with the usual $5 included!) as well as his new wife.* My parents might just rock in that Love the Entire World kind of way. And the World can always use more love.
But, back to Joe. These past two years or so have been rough but great. We moved a few times. We tried, somewhat successfully, to get my daughter to quit glaring at Joe. We started a business together, which ultimately failed. We went to therapy to figure out why we were still married. Joe started a few different jobs and figured out what he likes and doesn’t like in a work environment. I got physically mostly better most of the time. We were pregnant (again) and lost the baby (again) but kept it for the longest amount of time yet. And I learned that I could listen to Joe at least as much as I listen to my gut because Dude is smart! I also learned that if I get out of his way, Joe will figure out a way to do anything he wants, his own way. Man, that sounds a lot like me. But most of all, we got a start on figuring out how to be a couple and take care of each other in a kind and loving way.
Life is always hard. It’s always going to be hard. It doesn’t matter who you are married to or how much money you have or where you live. And really, the only defense you have against the world is your family, those people who love you and who you love and with whom you create a buffeting wall against the hard knocks of the world. The people that will laugh with you, not at you, when you ruined the fancy dinner you made for everyone. And not be embarrassed when you can’t stop going up to strangers and asking them personal questions because you find them so fascinating. And stand by you when you take huge risks and decide to do something that could be a large potential mistake and don’t care how it ends up as long as you are ok, because that is what is important. I’m so happy to have Joe be my family and that we are in this thing together.
Here’s to many more years of being blessed, Baby. Thanks for being on my team.
xo
*My son asked me the other day why Grandma sends his Dad and Step-Mom birthday cards because isn’t that weird when usually people hate each other after divorce? I asked him if he wished she wouldn’t and he said, ‘Nope. I like that about Grandma. And you’d do the same thing, huh. You’re all ….. squishy like her.’ I’m not sure I have ever been so proud to be called squishy.
Two Lunches
When I was up in Northern California I had the pleasure of meeting in person some awesome people that I’ve known only online. One such person is Rebecca Blood. She and her husband, Jesse James Garrett, (I believe they are the original Internet Couple) met me at Adaptive Path where they gave me the grand tour. The building all by itself is impressive (as you can see below) but I love their office for a lot more reasons. One being that they gave me coffee. For free. I know, right? And another is that when you walk in, it’s all open and friendly. They have moving walls, people! With white boards on them! If I had any reason to hire them, I would, as the creative energy running rampant in the room was palpable.
Rebecca, Jesse and I then went to lunch where we ate delicious sandwiches and used our sharp minds to discuss Tivo non-stop for over an hour before we took Jesse back to work and Rebecca and I took a lap around the South Park area. I think. Unless I got that name wrong. But in any case, it was lovely.
Same trip, different day, I met Judith Zissman at the nicest tea shop I’ve ever been to. She had a wonderful blossom tea. We also shared some fruit. My legs dangled to alarming depths under the table.
Judith is smart, funny, has a beautiful smile and knits.
After tea, she took me across the street to a yarn shop and Oh. My. were there some wonderful yarns. I hope we get together again sometime soon.
JPG Magazine
I’ve been doing some editing for JPG magazine. If you haven’t heard of JPG, you need to click here right away and go check them out. They are the magazine built by YOU. Yes, you. Submit your photos and your stories.
Here is my own latest submission in the theme Elegance:
New Year's Resolutions Suck
Greg texts me:
Happy New Year, Leahpeah! Any New Year’s Resolutions?
I text back:
Yes! No new resolutions!
I don’t mean to be glib. Far from it. I really, really mean it. I can’t count the amount of years I’ve set myself up for failure by promising to Quit Smoking by February 20th!* or Exercise 1.5hrs/day until I lose 20 lbs! or Keep my desk orgnizd! or Say 1 nice thing to everyone I meet! I mean, c’mon. That last one would get on everyone’s last nerve after two hours and that is before leaving the house.
One of my journals from around age 14 has a list of about 20 resolutions, which includes ‘not eating anything with fat ESPECIALLY chocolate’ and has twelve lines written under the word chocolate. The list also has ‘learn to like my family’ which everyone knows is a foolhardy wish at 14. There is some chemical imbalance at that age that makes your hair weird, your taste in clothes questionable and your affinity to family near non-existent.
Somewhere in my late-twenties I realized that the error was occurring in the making of the resolutions at the beginning of the new year. I am always on the path of finding better ways to be and live. I spend countless hours in my head figuring out how to do things in a more fulfilling and time efficient way, much to the detriment of many other things in my life including laundry and orgnizng my desk. So, I realized, that for me to put all this pressure on January 1 of any given year was stupid. My perfectionist personality is doing it 24/7 365 days a year already in every category including welding. The only way to top my natural state of crazy is to create even larger and more elaborate resolutions like Only walk in odd numbered steps or create one crocheted hat per 3 hour installment of free time, including those hours in front of TV in the evening but not including meditation time since my brain will be preoccupied with manifestation, internal healing and levitation, wherein ‘free time’ can include time on the toilet and time sleeping.
I don’t need any help being more crazy. I do it fine all on my own. And piling on New Year’s resolutions every first of the year only adds to the issue when not far behind comes the let down of falling short of my newly set outrageous goals.
I do well to just keep the main goals I’ve had for the past 5 years or so:
1. Do the best I can, all the time that I can.
2. Take good care of myself and others.
So, Hello New Year’s Resolutions! You suck and I will not be making any of you. At least until tonight around 3am when I’ll be hard at work figuring out a better way to de-lint the dryer.
* I did finally quit smoking a few years ago, but it was nowhere near a February.
