Hard

This week has been hard; there's no two ways about it.  I've been feeling stressed, so my psoriasis is flared up (and I keep scratching it), and even my stomach has been hurting.  I've cried several times at work (mostly Monday and Tuesday) due to frustrations with my job and the person to whom I report (I don't do well when given contradicting instructions).

I feel like I'm running out of money; I have a deep-seated, never-before-admitted fear that purchasing the "penthouse" (my condo) was a mistake, that it was more than I can handle financially.  My sister was denied her disability by the judge, and the lawyer we hired (who only gets paid if my sister gets paid, BTW) has basically said that was her best chance.  So I really, really need her to get a job.  STAT.  But she doesn't really do anything "stat."  And that's going to be a problem as I continue to stress out.

I'm back to having hard mornings -- where it's hard to feel good about anything, where I feel like I generally hate everything.  Sure the season/lack of light doesn't help, but we're through the worst of it already, so I'm not sure that's entirely to blame.  But I miss those days when I was like, "Is this what it's like to feel happy?"

News and photos out of Australia are incredibly upsetting.  I've joined some crafting groups to make things to send for the animals, but between shipping costs, confusion over drop-off sites, regulations on what materials to use, and I think the Aussies have put a two-week hold on accepting donations, it just doesn't seem worth it right now.  They'd be better off with a monetary donation (which I don't really have).

I felt a surge of relief yesterday when I realized that it was actually Thursday.  I was somehow stuck in a Wednesday loop, that this hard week was lasting forever.  I was grateful it was Thursday.  But then Thursday itself lasted forever.  By 1 p.m. I couldn't believe it was only 1 p.m. as I had clearly had three full workdays in that time.  Time is a social construct.

As I get stressed, I find it hard to keep up with everyday things.  I haven't been logging my meals or steps in my fitness tracker; my weight is going back up.  I've barely remembered to log things in my ovulation tracker, which is all over the place as my body isn't sure what the fuck it's doing since I had my IUD removed.  Which could also explain some mood things, too.

In other words, it's Friday, it's not a payday, it's pouring down rain, and I really, really want to not do adult things for the next 24-72 hours.  Who's ready to hire a professional napper?  Because I am ready and available.

The Universe Is Cruel

The other day my sister was making one of our HelloFresh meals for dinner:  Mexican beef burrito bowls with poblano peppers.  I don't find poblanos to be all that spicy, but my sister does, and she dutifully washed her hands after cutting and handling the pepper.

Sometime later, she had to blow to her nose.  Now, I'm not exactly sure on the details, but she said the Kleenex "broke" while she was blowing, so I guess her bare finger ended up touching her nose?  Again, I'm not sure, but shortly after I found her laugh-crying in the kitchen about "hot peppers" holding a fingerful of yogurt up her nose.

And I laughed, too.  More "at" her than "with" her, especially as she still had one finger up her nose, trying to hold yogurt in place (no easy feat, I assure you).  I helpfully offered to remove most of the poblanos from her presence during the meal (by eating them).

A few days after this incident, I made our other HelloFresh meal:  one pot chili with pork and black beans.  Sidenote:  I've only ever made chili with beef, so this was an interesting change.  Oh, and the recipe involved one (singular) jalapeno: half of it minced into the chili, the other half in slices for "garnish."  And as my sister taught me (even before the poblano-yogurt incident), I was sure to thoroughly wash my hands after handling, cutting, slicing, and mincing the jalapeno.  And even after washing, I avoided touching my eyes, face, etc.

Later, a good twenty minutes later, as the chili had been simmering, but we hadn't yet eaten, I, too, had to blow my nose (my eyes had been watering when dicing the onion).  My Kleenex didn't break.  I'm not sure what happened, actually, but some of the jalapeno oil must have gotten somewhere, because a bit of my nose and my entire upper lip felt like they were on fire.

I washed my hands again.  I tried lightly washing my face (with cold water, to ease the burning), I applying some light, soothing lotion, I put on chapstick, but still the burning remained.  It wasn't awful; mostly just annoying, but my sister got a laugh out of it nonetheless.  I ate the chili (delicious), and moved on.

And then after that, maybe an hour later, I was sitting on my bed, playing on my phone, whilst the boytoy prepared to leave for a few hours.  I had an itch in...an unfortunate place...and, without thinking, reached down and lightly scratched said itch with my right index finger.

And within seconds I realized my mistake.

And I said, hoarsely, to the boytoy:  "I should not have done what I just did."
"What?"
And I explained, my eyes growing wide as my crotch was burning with the fire of a thousand jalapeno suns.

I stripped off everything I was wearing from the waist down and did a strange hopping-waddle-dance to the bathroom to get a washcloth and soak it with cool water.  I pressed the cool washcloth to my poor burning vajayjay, and it only partially eased the fire raging.
All the while the boytoy was torn between laughing at my antics and feeling bad for me:  "Ohhh, honey!"

Sniffling, I asked him to run to the kitchen, get a small ramekin from the drawer, and put -- you guessed it -- some yogurt in it.  While I continued to hop and apply the washcloth to my burning private parts.

I managed to text my sister (who was only in the living room, but I wasn't going anywhere, not having any pants on):

"The universe is cruel.  I just scratched myself in an unfortunate place and apparently still had jalapeno on my finger.
I want to die."

She responded in the only appropriate fashion:  with a GIF.


The boytoy brought me the requisite yogurt as I put a towel on my bed and prepared to lie down, apply the cultured balm, and suffer (somewhat dramatically).  The boytoy had to leave;  I had to call to my sister to lock the door after him as I wasn't going anywhere.

I texted her from across the penthouse one last time:

"I will be in my room until further notice."

While lying there with my yogurt-slathered crotch, I thought for a moment and then swiped a fresh smear some on my upper lip, too, as it was still burning.

I got your fucking spa treatment right here.

Losing Leonard

A Story About Shrinking

(Meaning We're Talking about Weight Loss Stuff)

So I started a new weight loss/get healthy(er) program the other week.  Thanks to things like age and the fact that I don't walk across a campus and teach all day anymore, I was weighing more than I ever have before in my life.  I'm five-foot-three-and-a-half, people!  (And with a "small frame" if you believe those BMI chart thingies.)  I should not have the same "ideal" weight as a six-foot-tall man.

People said I "still looked great" when I would casually mention this and while I mostly believe them, the important thing for me was that my clothes were starting to not fit or be tight or uncomfortable or (worse yet) fairly unflattering.  And I simply don't have the budget to buy a whole new wardrobe to fit my expanding belly and booty and boobs (and other body parts that don't start with the letter "b").  And some of my current clothes are really cute, dammit!  I don't want to get rid of them.

And my previous ideas of using MyFitnessPal to log my meals and trying to work out wasn't cutting it.  Frankly, because I wasn't doing it (especially the "working out" part).  And this new program promised to help me build healthy, long-lasting habits which are (apparently) key to not only losing weight, but keeping it off.

One of the big things with this program is to celebrate my wins/successes/whatever.  That's not easy for me.  I mean, I will definitely toot my own horn about my awesomeness in other arenas, but talking about these goals/wins, especially since some of them are so tiny, feels weird for me.  It may be in part because I've never struggled with my weight before; I've never had to worry about what I eat.  I've always been curvy (read:  "BOOBS, I have 'em"), but I've also always been slender/properly proportioned.  But you know the old story:  you hit 30 or 35 and your metabolism suddenly says, "Well, that was fun!" and packs its bags, abandoning you mid-snack-break.

So this is me, trying to celebrate some "wins" and healthy habits.  For example:  I've been eating apples -- grabbing one on the way out the door to have as a mid-morning snack, having one as a side with my lunch instead of chips or bread.

And let me tell you, that is a BIG DEAL because I love me some crunchy, savory, salty, delicious carbs.  Keep your sweets, your desserts, your chocolate and cakes and ice cream.  Hand me a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, and I'll be a happy camper.  

Don't mistake me; this program doesn't say to cut anything out entirely or to deny yourself things.  It's more about moderation; "moderation in all things," as Aristotle taught us.  So, y'know, I'm not supposed to eat just the bread, or ALL the bread ALL the time.

Today I ordered my lunch (before walking the 0.6 miles, roundtrip, to pick it up and come back to the office), and I hesitated.  I almost picked that delicious side of French baguette to go with my turkey chili.  I really, really wanted it.  And I can have it, remember!  Just not all the time.  And then I remembered that I'm planning on making pot roast with potatoes and carrots and gravy for dinner this evening, so maybe I should save some of my carbs and calories for that and holy shit another healthy habit just happened!

Planning ahead, also filed under "Shit I'm Not Good At."  

I don't plan ahead (food-wise).  I don't "meal prep."  I haven't been looking ahead at my calorie allotment for the day and planning accordingly -- or planning at all. 

But look at that!  Up there!  I just did it!  Go me!

So I ordered my apple and was a little proud of myself.  And I walked to the restaurant (0.3 miles, per Google Maps) to pick it up and then walked back to my office again (0.6 miles total because math).  And I opened my bag to get out my bowl of turkey chili and there was my apple, happy to see me.  But what's that?  The bag is still heavy?  I look inside, and the restaurant also gave me the chunk of French baguette (equally happy to see me).

Curse you, and your accidental carbohydrate generosity, restaurant!

I won't be eating either item anytime soon as I'm thankfully I'm stuffed from lunch -- well, not "thankfully."  The goal is to feel satisfied, not "stuffed" or uncomfortably full.

Today's Pro-Tip:  if you're also getting a smoothie, you probably only need a cup of soup rather than a bowl.

So now the apple and the bread are both just sitting on my desk, staring at me, possibly judging me.  #SuspiciousStillLife

Please note:  this post is not a request for tips or advice, nor is it an advertisement for said program.  If you want info on it, just message me directly.

Let's Talk About Sex

Shall we?

But first, the song that is now in everyone's head:



So, sex.  It is a thing that many humans enjoy doing for its own sake ("recreational purposes").

But how often have we been told that there is "more" to a relationship than "just sex"?  I don't know about you, but I pretty much had that hammered into my head since puberty and definitely all through college.

And that "warning" came from a place of somehow trying to "help" young people (including li'l Leonard) not to throw themselves away on their first crush/love/lusty high school sweetheart...I guess?  It was some kind of basic "life lesson" that you don't marry the first person you fall in lust with.  Or perhaps just because you're young and in love, eventually looks (and sex drive) fade, and you'll want someone with whom you can have a conversation or maybe some common goals and activities.
Maybe?
The why's and wherefore's were never really articulated.  It was just that bland, blanket statement:  "there's more to a relationship than just sex."

What the fuck does that even mean?  Do you remember hearing it?  Is this simply a Gen-X thing?  I have an inkling that it goes part and parcel with the HIV/AIDS "scare" that we angry Gen-Xers also grew up with.

At any rate, I think little Leonard took that piece of grown-up advice and ran with it, right to our forty-year-old detriment.  Follow me through this:

I lost my virginity relatively "late."  I was eighteen and a freshman in college, and it was with my first "real" boyfriend.  And for that matter, it was by accident, but that story is neither here nor there.  And I was, of course, very in love with him, although that's not why I "lost" my virginity with him.  Our relationship didn't survive that first summer apart, especially since he decided he was not coming back to our college.

Later that same fateful summer, I spent some time with my dad and step-mom and their family (always a mistake; it never goes well), and my (Catholic) step-monster had a question about health insurance (as I was still on my dad's insurance).  Basically, she wanted to know why they were being charged for birth control pills for me.  I think she actually said something like, "Are you taking these for....?" and couldn't even finish; she couldn't even make up a reason (many women take BCP for all kinds of health reasons that literally have nothing to do with sex/procreation).
And I said, "I'm taking them for their intended purpose:  so I don't get pregnant."
At that, the step-monster made a face and said, "There are some things you want to save for your husband."
To which I replied, "Were you a virgin when you married my dad?" feeling 90% sure that she wasn't.

Somewhere in that same conversation I mentioned that I had "only slept with one person anyway," and she threw back in my face, "And he dropped you like a hot potato!"
Bitch.

Anyway, that conversation shows the foundation of Puritanical, patriarchal, heteronormative nonsense they raised me on -- always there, lurking in the background.  And again and again, the same refrain of "there's more to a relationship [or marriage] than sex."

Fast forward several years to my first engagement (circa 2002).  I can't remember if we were even engaged yet when our sex life stalled and seemed to die.  But I was determined to remain engaged (literally), to get married, AND to "make things work" (WTF does that mean?!?).  And I was also convinced that lack of interest in the bedroom must have somehow been my fault.  I take a heavy dose of SSRI's every day, and everyone knows those can kill your sex drive.  I didn't put it together at that time that having an attraction and then not having it (even though meds remained the same) was a different issue than not having a sex drive at all.

I went to my physician and told him my problems.  He prescribed an antihistamine of all things to take 1-2 hours "pre-coitus."  One of the antihistamine's lesser known (unintentional) uses was increase libido.  I did that, I bought a sexy new corset from Victoria's Secret¹, and I thought things would be fixed.

I want to say that my ex-husband even went to his doctor to check for low testosterone, too, but now that I think about it, I believe he (and I) just talked about him maybe going, but it never actually happened.

Things were not "fixed."  We didn't really start having regular sex again until we decided to try to have a baby, many months later.  And then a month or so into that, he left.

We had many, many red flags during our four years together that things were not going to work, and the lack of sex and attraction should have been near the top of the list.  But I discounted that because, y'know, "there's more to marriage than [just] sex."

Flash forward many, many years later:  my first kiss with my most recent ex.  I remember it because, frankly, it was flat.  She and I had almost no sexual chemistry whatsoever.  We were dating four months before we ever slept together.  And when we finally did, it was kind of awkward.
Yet,  I still said "yes" when she proposed.  Because I thought that's what you did after a year of dating.  I wanted to move in together; this was practically the same thing, right?  And maybe, maybe the attraction would improve, maybe things would get better.

Spoiler alert:  they did not get better.  We had some very good and fun things going for us, but we were also missing some fundamental pieces for a healthy relationship, and one of those was a physically intimate relationship.  And I don't just mean sexual intercourse;  I also mean cuddling, holding hands, burning kisses like we were twenty-year-old's.

Flash forward to early 2018:  I had resigned myself to my life as it was at that moment:  living a comfortable lifestyle with a person for whom I cared deeply, but for all intents and purposes was a roommate/good friend.  We had a good life and things weren't "bad," per se, but they could have been a lot better.  And my reasoning went something like this, "I guess this is it.  This is what happens when you get old, right?  You stop having sex.  You're just comfortable around each other."  And, of course, "It's just sex.  There's more to a relationship that 'just sex.'"  And, of course, always the lingering thought that my daily Zoloft was erasing my sex drive.

And I even said something to that effect to my therapist:  "This is what happens, right?  You just end up as friends/roommates?"  And she reminded me that 1) that doesn't happen to everyone, and 2) it only has to be okay if you want it to be okay.  Some people are fine living like that²; others are not.  And it only works if both people are okay living like that.

And then I met someone.  Someone who was not my partner.
And quickly, and much to both of our surprise, feelings sprung up.  Very real feelings of a romantic nature.  And I let myself believe that maybe, perhaps I could "have it all" -- I could be with a person who had similar tastes, things in common, someone with whom there was shared mutual physical attraction -- even though, y'know, we're both middle-aged and not as svelte as we used to be -- and that thought was scary and wonderful and eye-opening.  As was the thought that we were having physical feelings for each other while I was on my meds the whole time.  That perhaps there wasn't anything "wrong" with me; it had been previous relationships that weren't right.

And Person X and I were head-over-heels for each other.  And in the middle of our very brief time spent together, in the midst of spinning fantasies and telling stories to each other about what life would be like together, I came up with a fantasy that surprised even me.

No, not because it was twisted or kinky or anything like that (those were different fantasies).  Fantasies for me generally fall into two categories:  sexual or domestic.
Sexual is fairly self-explanatory.  Domestic, though, domestic involves all those little somethings that help make a relationship: cuddling on the couch together, doing different things in the same room at the same time, decorating for the holidays, all that silly "domestic" stuff.

And so far, in my life, never have the twain met.  They were separate spheres of desire for me.  Not necessarily intentionally, but that's just how it was.  And without meaning to, I concocted a fantasy that was both sexual and domestic with Person X.  And that's the part that shocked me -- that I could have both things.  At the same time! 

I never got to tell them about this particular fantasy, and the details of it are unimportant in the scheme of this post; we have since gone our separate ways, with my heart getting broken in the process.  But I guess my point after all of this is that telling me over and over again that "there's more to a relationship than just sex" did more harm than good as it caused me to ignore when part of a relationship didn't fit/wasn't right/wasn't working.  It caused me to ignore ALL the parts of a happy, healthy relationship and end up "settling" for some things.

During English AP class in high school, we read a poem that I could have sworn was by Maya Angelou, but I cannot find, that described the "recipe" for a good marriage, and it included 3-4 "heaping cups" of sex.  I wish I had paid closer attention to that poem than to the "moral" commands of (largely) religious hypocrites.

¹I did not buy said corset "for" my ex-husband.  I bought it because it made me feel sexy; the fact that he would also enjoy seeing me in it was an added bonus.  I recently was told of a woman who bought two pairs of "sexy underwear" but then "never had a chance to wear them" because she and her partner's sex life was dead.  And that was one of the saddest things I ever heard -- not that their bedroom was dead, but that this woman somehow felt she needed her partner's attention/approval/interest to wear the sexy underwear.  That's not how lingerie works, people.  You buy it and wear it FOR YOU, because it MAKES YOU feel sexy.  The gaze and desire of someone is an added bonus, but not the point.

²It should hopefully go without saying (but I'm going to say it anyway), almost none of this applies to people who identify as asexual.  Not having a sexual component to their relationships does not make said relationships "unhealthy" if that's what they (and all people involved) want.  I (obviously) do not identify as asexual.

I Saw the Sign

The owl came back!

So the artist formerly known as my Unit¹ and I were sitting outside on the patio steps again around 8 p.m. when Dogzilla raced straight across the yard to the back.  Sure enough, the owl was back because we saw her/him/them raise wings and effortlessly move to the right, out of Dogzilla's charge.

And we both oohed and ahhed.

And as before I immediately put the circus dog back inside (at just 13 lbs. he may very look like food to an ambitious bird of prey), and Dogzilla came bounding back to us with that look of, "OMG YOU GUYS DID YOU SEE THAT!?"

We went inside; I refilled my drink and immediately went back out to see if the owl would come back, but not before yelling down the stairs to my bird-nerd sister that "THE OWL IS BACK!"  Within moments of being outside again, s/he landed on the neighbor's swing set.  Bird-Nerd-Sister came outside quietly armed with binoculars.

We stayed out there for well over an hour, watching as the owl moved around, trying to hunt something on the lawn; sometimes s/he was very close to where we were sitting (well, close as far as I was concerned).  S/he is also still a big fan of the power line from the night before.  At one point s/he was "just walking on the tightrope," per my sister; there was a large tree in my view, but I could see the line bouncing a bit as the owl strutted.

We did, of course, take a moment to raise our glass to her/him/them.  Salut.

And because we are sisters, we argued a bit.

Bird-Nerd-Sister: "It's not a barn owl. It's definitely not a snowy. It's not a long-eared owl."
Me: (muttering) "Owls don't have ears."
BNS: "They do, too! They have holes in the side of their head for hearing."
Me: "Those are ear holes, not ears" (about to launch into the differences between seals and sea lions, including ear holes versus ear flaps)
BNS: "What kind of owl is it??"
Me: "You are asking the wrong-ass person." (beat) "What if it's here to give us our letters to Hogwart's??"
BNS: (laughing quietly)
Me: (hissing in owl's general direction) "You're late!"
BNS: (laughing more) "Here I thought we were going to argue about whose letter it was going to deliver, and you're busy sayin' 'bish, you're late.'"

And as before, when it got completely dark, the street lamp from across the way would catch the underside of the owl's wings and their breast feathers, especially during those brief flights.

Me: (soon insisting we refer to the owl as "she")
BNS: "As much as I hate to say it, it's probably a he. It's pretty small, and females are bigger."
Me: "Maybe it's a really small type of owl, and she's actually quite large."
Me: (happy gasp at another view of wings and light) "Oooh, it's like the opening of Labyrinth!" (another gasp) "What if it's the spirit of David Bowie??"
BNS: "That's it. I'm calling it 'Bowie' from now on."

Eventually my Bird-Nerd-Sister went inside, and I said aloud, "Well, it's just you and me, owl."  By the time I extinguished both of the citronella torches, Bowie had made it to the power line, the fence line, and then grass to my left (just beyond the torch I had just extinguished).  When I finally went inside (out of wine), they were back on the power line with no intention of going anywhere.

I may be the unofficial Queen of Small Animals, but birds are usually the exception.  If you know me at all, you know that I don't usually get along with birds, nor they with me.  The feeling is entirely mutual.  As I told my former Unit, I don't interact with Nature often, but when I do, it's always adventurous (read: "disastrous") and occasionally just a tiny bit awesome and magical.

And the former Unit commented earlier on all of the birds we've seen lately.  First, there was the hawk several times over a week or so.  "Hawks are messengers," she said.  "But I wasn't getting the message."

Then, within a day of our separation, there was the hummingbird.  Sometimes she saw it, once my sister saw it, but many times (like four times in two days), it was just me.  "Hummingbirds mean joy," she said.

And now the owl -- wisdom.

It may not seem like that big of a deal to you, but keep in mind all of these encounters have happened in the past month or so.  And frankly, a hummingbird?  In the Midwest?!?  I've never seen one outside of California before.

I'm not always one to believe in real-life "signs" and symbolism, but when the former Unit listed them outright like that, I had a shiver go up my spine, despite the summer heat.





¹We are in the process of separating.

Day #1: Embarkation

Also Known As:  I FUCKING HATE EVERYONE

We arrived at the airport at 5:30 a.m. for our 7:40 a.m. flight.  We sat in the gate area, drinking water, saying goodbye to social media on our phones, and people watching.  And in came a family of eight (three adults, five children ranging in age from 12 to two, including a wee redheaded girl who clearly gave zero fucks as she kept trying to ditch her family to go exploring).  The size of their family wasn't the remarkable part; the fact that it looked like they hadn't checked a single piece of luggage was.  Every one of those eight people had at least two carry-on items (probably more), plus a blankie or two, and a stroller.  That's 16+ pieces of luggage to carry on!  And you know most of those children were not going to help carry things, and Mom was already carrying one of the younger ones (fast asleep on her chest because he had apparently had a meltdown earlier in the terminal).  What a horrible, uncomfortable way to travel.

As my Unit and I made our way to our seats on the plane we discovered that we weren't sitting together; we both had aisle seats right across from each other.  A single white man sat in the middle seat next to my Unit, and he quickly agreed to trade seats with me; in hindsight, I should have kept my aisle seat.

Seated two rows in front of us were part of the party of eight:  the mom, the sleepy kid, and wee redhead who gave zero fucks.  None of them, thankfully, were crying or having meltdowns, but the redheaded girl would sometimes just scream and yell for the fun of it, which I sometimes feel like is worse (it's not).  And in the row in between the family and us was an older woman who was only too delighted to strike up a conversation with the home-schooled mother of five.

Unfortunately, on an airplane, at several thousand feet in the air, with all engines going, holding a conversation basically means screaming at each other for everyone to hear.
Which they did.
Nearly the entire flight.
And then the redheaded toddler began playing a game on a tablet of some sort that sounded like a slot machine.  I know it sounded like a slot machine because they had the volume turned all the way up, competing with both the plane's engines and the two women talking.

This is not the point where I rant about small children and technology.  You want to give them a screen of some kind to occupy them in public?  Perfect!  But do it all the way:  give them earbuds, too, so the rest of us aren't subjected to it.

In response to the cacophony, I dug out my iPod for its intended purpose:  to drown out my surroundings.  So I did, and I was enjoying everything from Taylor Swift's "Look What You Made Me Do" to Lin-Manuel Mirando & Co's "Almost Like Praying" when my Unit nudged me and gave me a dirty look.

"What?"
"I can hear your music!"
"Well, I have it turned up to drown out all of that," I answered, gesturing to the rows ahead of us.
"Yes, but I'm trying to tune them out, and now I have to tune out your stuff, too."
"But, they're earbuds!" was my useless argument as I couldn't understand how she could possibly hear anything from my technology with everything going on around us.  (In her defense, they were older earbuds and don't quite go all the way "in" the ear as newer ones do.)
So I huffed and grumped and I turned off my music and slumped in my seat for the remainder of the flight.  When she said again, "I'm sorry, but I could hear both," I countered with, "So now we both have to suffer??"
Her:  "Well, yeah!"

And that, kids, is marriage in a nutshell.  Should have kept my aisle seat.

At one point, I needed to use the restroom, so I set my water bottle on my seat and squeezed past my Unit.  Returning to my seat after doing my business, I picked up my water bottle and noticed that it had leaked.
All over my seat.
A significant puddle of water.
I sighed in resignation as my Unit tried to keep her laughter to herself and went to ask a flight attendant for some paper towels.  She came back with a large handful of paper towels that I used to sop up all the water.  And I sat back down and sighed, realizing I had become "one of those people," the people who make a mess, who spill things, who just can't get anything right on an airplane, much to the dismay of their nearby passengers.  My apologies to the young lady on my left, in the window seat.

Our layover in Charlotte, NC was uneventful (after getting off the plane, following the family of eight and all of their misplaced luggage and children).  Next flight my Unit had the window seat, I had the middle, and another white man sat to my right on the aisle.  I'm gonna fast-forward, except to say that the A/C was cranked up so much in plane that you could see the air coming out of all of the vents up along the walls (I assume because of the difference in moisture/humidity).  It was a little disconcerting at first, looking like we were getting gassed with something.  We weren't, and eventually it got cold enough that I put on my sweater.

So, on behalf of perimenopausal women everywhere:  thank you, American Airlines.  I wouldn't be chilly again for at least another eight days.

Here's where things get tricky:  our cruise was scheduled to leave at 4 p.m. EST.  Our embarkation time was between 2:30-3 p.m. EST.  Our flight was scheduled to land in Ft. Lauderdale, FL between 1:30-2 p.m. EST.  Needless to say, we were worried about making everything on time.  We had purchased "cruise insurance" which covered us in case of flight delay, but still.  This was our first cruise.  Everything once we left the airport was new to us (in bold because that's important).

The info from the cruise line had said that porter service for baggage stopped two hours priors to leaving, so we assumed we'd have to schlep our bags to our room ourselves with our 2:30 time.  Apparently not so.  When our cabbie dropped us off, a porter immediately offered to take our bags (and got a generous tip for his effort).

And then we walked.  And then we walked some more.  I was trying to follow the signs that told us what to do.  I'm not sure what I expected, but I do think I thought I'd just be able to walk onto the boat, and that'd be that.  Not so.

More lines, more security checks, more longer lines.  At least we weren't schlepping our luggage.  When we got the last line to check in, the lady at the desk informed us that lunch on the Lido deck stopped at 4 p.m., but that our rooms should already be ready.  I remember that in the cruise line literature, too; something to the effect of, "many people enjoy a leisurely lunch on the Lido deck while waiting for their staterooms."  Okay, cool.

More walking, more ramps, some really steep ramps, and then finally, the boat itself!  Yet another person scanned our papers and gestured into a room that my memory can only partially register because of the sensory overload.  It was pink-ish colored, full of lights and sounds, and people with drinks, kids with ice cream, music, and shouting.  I just looked at the guy in the white sailor's outfit, lost, and said, "How do we get to our rooms??"
"The elevator," he says, with a gesture.

So we find the elevators and the long line for them.  This may have been the point where my Unit and I decided to take the stairs; it was only three floors.

We get to our room; our luggage isn't there yet.  Oh well.  I desperately want to change clothes and shoes into something cooler, but start to settle for stripping off every article of clothing and lying on the bed.  But my Unit stops me and says, "Let's get you something to eat and a drink."
Yes, please.  That's what vacation is all about.

So we head up to the Lido deck -- remember, the "leisurely lunch" from earlier?  I'm not sure what I expected, but I had an image of people sitting at white-clothed tables on an open deck eating, I don't know, tiny cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off or something.  I couldn't have been more wrong.

What we found was complete and utter MADNESS!  It was a buffet -- A BUFFET OF CHAOS!  I think even a "normal" (non-anxiety-ridden) person would have been stressed out at the pandemonium of this "buffet."  For me, though, a person with crippling anxiety who needs to know where I'm "supposed" to go, the order in which I'm "supposed" to do things, where the line begins, if I order my own food, and what "the rules" are, etc., it was torture¹.  I think my body and brain just shut down the moment we stepped into the room and were hit with the noise and bodies scrambling for food.

And then, to make matters worse, they announce over the loudspeakers that food and beverage service would be shutting down entirely for the safety briefing.  So then they start taking the food away!  Little signs start popping up saying, "Buffet Is Closed." And some devious chefs left the food out, but just removed the serving utensils.  I was carrying around an empty plate, almost in tears and walking aimlessly, when I found my Unit and just said, "They keep taking the food away!"
"Just grab something, anything!" she says before heading back into the fray.

I managed to put some squares of red Jell-O on my plate and two bars listed as "mint chocolate glaceau."  And that was it.  I didn't even have utensils; I ate everything with my fingers.  Rejoining my Unit, we searched desperately for an open (and clean-ish) table to sit; we ended up going outside to the humid deck and sitting down at a semi-clear table.  She had managed to grab some tortilla chips and potato salad and a napkin. We sat in silence and ate our miserable scavenged lunches, any thought of obtaining an adult beverage long since dashed.

Now begins the portion where we go back and forth to our stateroom in hopes that our luggage would be there.  Guess what?  It wasn't.  And every time we got back to the room I would strip down in an attempt to cool off.  This lasted throughout the hour-long "safety briefing" (mandatory attendance, outside, standing 3-people deep), my Unit going in search of the smoking area, and even a false alarm knock on our door that I thought was our luggage, but was the room steward asking when we wanted our room cleaned.

I was actually lying on the bed, sweating, my Unit out of the room, when the ship's engines started and we actually started to move.  I wanted to yell out, "We're moving!" but I was too exhausted and no one was around anyway.  I laid there, waiting to see if I'd feel seasick.  Nope!  I (mostly) loved the feel of the moving boat; it feels like lying on a giant, snoring dog (you can quote me).

My Unit arrived a bit after that with a glass in her hand.

"I got you a drink.  It's sangria, but it tastes awful.  Here, try it."

Again, marriage, folks.
And yes, I drank it.
It wasn't that bad; I discovered later it was sangria out of a bottle, not made fresh, which explained the not-fantastic taste.

We had hoped our luggage would arrive before dinner (we had the "early" dining time of 6 p.m.).  It did not.  So we went down to dinner in the hopes that it would appear by the time we returned to our room.

Dining on a cruise is an experience in and of itself.  For starters, you have the same waitstaff every night, so you get to know each other.  You are also seated at a table with strangers (unless you have 6-8 people in your own party).  And when you're two lesbians in a new situation among strangers, things have the potential to go badly quickly because, frankly, there are bigots everywhere.

On this our first night at the dining table, we were the first two to be seated.  And we waited and watched if anyone else would be sitting there, trying not to hold our collective breath if new people would suck or not.  Two separate times a waiter led people (women) to the table, in 2's or 3's, and each time there was a quick, hushed conversation with said waiter and anxious, furtive looks from the women, and then they were led away.

Now maybe they had mistaken the table number.  Maybe they had meant to sit with their friends?  Maybe it wasn't about us at all.  Or...maybe it was.  It wouldn't be the first time.  About halfway through our dinner a mother-daughter couple was seated with us and we all politely said hello.

My Unit and I ordered drinks with our meal, of course, and then, as we were looking at the menu, my Unit asks me if I think the theme drink for the evening is included in our drink package (because of course we ordered the drink package!).  Our waiter (Gideon) said that for drink package drinks the receipt handed to us should always say $0.00. 

Uh-oh.

Our drink receipts from the earlier sangria (and then a pina colada) had dollar amounts on them.  Then Gideon brought back our current receipts:  also dollar amounts.  He suggested we check with customer service about our package.  My Unit swore up and down she purchased the drink package.  She even remembered the total amount we'd be charged;  I remembered the day she did it (because I was working from home that day and she was trying to talk to me about drinks).  Nevertheless we were going to have to investigate; I needed to ask about our off-shore excursion tickets anyway.

We were going to hit customer service right after dinner, but first -- back to the room!  Joy of joys -- our luggage had finally arrived!  It had only taken five hours since we first gave it to the porter.  I changed clothes (finally!) and shoes and we trekked to customer service (down 3 floors and all the way on the other end of the boat).

As we didn't have Internet access on our phones (on purpose), we could not show the credit card charge for the drink package and stingray excursion to the customer service lady to prove that it had happened.  We ended up having to purchase everything over again (mentally deciding to check all statements when we got home again in eight days; if there were duplicate charges, the credit card company would remove the extras).  We purchased our drink package and two tickets for the stingray excursion in Half Moon Cay, Bahamas (Day #3).

And all we had to do was stand in line for 15-20 minutes behind a crazy lady who decided to befriend us.  She stood all of five feet tall (if that), had dyed blonde hair, and was in her mid-fifties (by her own admission).  And just beneath her blonde bangs were two jet-black eyebrows that had to have been tattooed on her forehead.  I couldn't stop staring at them; thankfully, it looked like I was making general eye contact with her as she chattered about why she was in standing in line.

"Eyebrows" (as she shall henceforth be known) had "spent the last three hours" cleaning her stateroom because it was "filthy" when she got there.  (By "cleaning," she meant wiping everything down with a damp paper towel, she explained to us.)  "None of the corners had even been touched by a vacuum cleaner."  And she cruises a lot -- A LOT!  She's a flight attendant, so she knows about these things.  And she's cruised with Carnival before, and she has never had a room this bad.  And she "told the steward it wasn't his fault, but really it is; I mean, it's his job."  And she would heave a sigh as only the truly put-upon can and say, "I don't want to complain; I want to enjoy my vacation,...but" (conspiratorially) "if the rooms are dirty, what else is dirty?"

But that's not the kicker.  And neither were the eyebrows the most bizarre part.  The bizarre part was during all of this conversation she had her room key in one hand and a black plastic knife in the other.
And we never found out why.
She never said why she had the plastic knife (or how it related to the room-cleaning saga).  Sometimes she would use it to punctuate her statements, as we saw when it was her turn at the customer service counter and the customer service guy would instinctively back away a bit when she waved it around.  We never saw her again during the remainder of the trip.  And we never could figure out the plastic knife.

After all was said and done, we got (more) drinks and sat on our room's balcony.  I took in the air, the stars, the waves, the rock of the boat (and my Nth drink) and finally, finally said, "This is very relaxing."  But it took the entire fucking day to get there.

Up next:  Our First Port

¹Other fun things I stressed out about during the time in the cabin and rushed to look up while my phone still had an Internet connection:

• Do we really have to attend the safety briefing?
• Where is our "mustard station"? ("Muster station," but it sounded like "mustard" every time)
• Where are the life jackets?  Are we supposed to wear them?
• Is this water included in the drink package?
• Are we supposed to eat in the dining room on the first night (or is it just more buffet chaos)?
• Where's breakfast tomorrow morning?
• Is there breakfast tomorrow morning?
• Why isn't it listed?
• I thought I read something about a brunch.  WHERE'S THE BRUNCH??
• How do we know when it's a "dress-up" night?
• What happens if you don't meet the dress code?
• What day is our off-shore excursion?
• Where are the tickets?
• This says tickets will be delivered to our room, but they're not here.

Things I Miss (Anaphylaxis Edition)

I started to develop food allergies in my mid-twenties.  Until that point, the only things that had been trying to kill me were the usual suspects:  dust, pollen, ragweed, mold, and hay.

And the one by one, my body decided different nuts and related foods were unacceptable in various degrees:  first coughing, then wheezing, then lips swelling and face getting red and blotchy as I tried to scratch my own throat out.  And lately I've been missing some of those foods.

• Peanut butter toast -- especially when the toast was hot enough that the peanut butter would get a little melty in the middle
• Celery sticks with peanut butter -- crunchy deliciousness that made you feel that you were "eating healthily" (ha!).  Oh, but don't pull any of that "Ants on a Log" crap.  Keep your disgusting raisins to yourself!
• Pistachio pudding!  The taste, the color, the ingredient in so many "salads" we white people make.
• Pistachio ice cream -- although I did feel a little jaded when some brands lacked the green food coloring
• Peanut butter and plain (lightly salted) rice cakes:  I used to eat these all the time in grad school; I could "graze" and read/study at the same time

Organic peanut butter was actually the penultimate food that got scratched off my list.  But I found I could still eat some candies and things with "peanut butter" in them because, let's face it -- that's not real peanut butter.

Or is it?  My immune system decided it was "close enough."

• Mini Reese's peanut butter cups -- how you taunt me during the holidays.
• Reese's Pieces -- we had such fun during movies.  (Twizzlers say hi, BTW.)
• Girl Scouts Tagalong cookies -- seriously?!?  This cruel move of Fate just started last year when I discovered I could no longer eat one cookie without the coughing/hacking starting.  This year I didn't even order any boxes so I wouldn't be tempted to try again.
• Don't worry.  I made up for it by ordering ALL OF THE THIN MINTS

Now not everyone who is allergic to peanuts is allergic to tree nuts, and vice-versa (peanuts are technically a legume).  And not everyone who is allergic to those things is allergic to coconut.  Aren't I the lucky statistical anomaly?

• Valentine's Day is coming up -- filled with bite-sized coconut truffles to mock me.
• I also particularly liked the kind where the coconut was mixed in with the chocolate (rather than a ball of pure coconut dipped in chocolate)
• my mom's Ranger cookies (that I also used to make).  They were yummy and I liked to tell myself they counted as a breakfast food because main ingredients included:  oatmeal, Rice Krispies, ...and coconut.
• Coconut lip balm and other skin products -- how much is too much?  I don't necessarily miss these, but it does suck discover the allergy because your lips swell up on the way to work.

Now I'm both sad and hungry. You dear people:  don't take your snacks for granted!  They could be taken away from you, leaving you with nothing but memories that quickly fade from your taste buds.  Please go eat some for me.

P's (2 in a Series)

Strange as it may seen, I often think of Pam when I have to pee.  More specifically, I think of Pam when I'm debating whether or not I should pee.  Do I have enough time before the call for "Places" to pee?  

Should I pee before starting my commute home?  

Do I really have to go?

...because of Pam's words of wisdom to me years ago:  "Pee when you can, not when you have to."

It's excellent advice that I've taken to heart, especially as I've gotten older and my bladder has gotten weaker.

If you have the chance to go, go.  You don't want to be stuck in a one-hour commute seriously debating if you can use your water bottle for purposes other than intended and wondering if other commuters will notice if you unbutton your pants?

Image courtesy of Fresh Step cat litter

Mental Energy Not Withstanding

Iron infusions (a.k.a. "superhero treatments") seem to be working.  Despite the side effects immediately following each treatment, I do actually feel better!  *knock on wood*

The downside of all of this newfound energy (y'know, what normal people feel like) is that my brain can't keep up.  Meaning:  mentally, the energy (or desire) isn't there.  I don't want to think, process, read, write, analyze.  Before, I was exhausted and in bed by 8 p.m., and my brain was done, no problem.  But now...

Is this why people watch TV?  So they can turn off their brains for a while?  But I can't do that.  When I watch TV or movies, I want to be involved, interested, invested, and engaged.  So far, the boob tube hasn't been allowing me to "tune out."

You know what does?

Wine.

And sometimes vodka.

But I shouldn't be getting liquored up just to douse my brain.  That doesn't seem right.  In fact, I know it's not right -- there's a whole episode of House about it!  (Except the guy in that episode doped up on cough syrup, of all things -- just like one of the first guys I ever date, but that's a different story.)

My Unit helpfully made a list this morning of things I can do to help us since last night I was wondering around our (rental) house saying, "I don't know what to do with myself!"  From here, my desk at work, I've accomplished 3 of the 5 things on the list -- in addition to doing all of my work for the day, editing/proofreading a holiday letter for a business, and sitting in a chair with an IV in my arm for two hours.

Ugh.

Time to find some new (time-consuming) hobbies as I don't have any shows on the books for the foreseeable future.

Not the Super Power I Was Hoping For

The other day, as I was leaving Walgreens, I heard this horrible high-pitched sound in my car.  I first made sure all of the windows were rolled up properly.

They were.

I turned off the radio to make sure it wasn't part of some (horrible) song.

It wasn't.

I realized I had the A/C going, so maybe one of the vents wasn't opened all the way?  You know how sometimes if you open or close the air vents, some air squeaks through (literally)?  I checked them all, and it made no difference.  I could still hear the high-pitched whining noise, almost like an awful whistle or some tiny fairy screaming while it's infesting the tissue of my brain.  The only thing that made the noise go away was cranking the A/C fan up to 3.

So I did.

Until I got too cold, but then I was thankfully near my destination so I didn't have to be cold or have a headache by the horrible squealing noise Satan brain fairy.

Later that night, when leaving rehearsal, I heard the sound again.  Crap! I thought, and I went to crank the A/C fan to 3...when I realized I didn't have the A/C on.  At all.

But you know what was "on"?

The pink car lighter adapter and (matching pink) lightning cord I had purchased from Walgreens earlier that day, which was currently charging my phone.

What the...???

I unplugged the cords at a stoplight.  The high-pitched noise stopped.
I plugged them back in.  The noise started again:  eeeeeeeeeeeeeeIIIIIIIEeeeeeeeeeeeeee
I unplugged them again.  The tiny demon fairy noise stopped.

I plugged it back in -- eeeeeIIIIIIIEeeeeee -- I wiggled the plug around to make sure it was connected all the way.
It was.
The noise didn't stop.

I sighed and unplugged the cord for good so my brain would stop screaming in unison with the squealing.

This was not the super power I wanted*, Universe!

It's the same super power that lets me hear if a TV or computer monitor is plugged in within a 20+ foot radius.
It's the same super power that lets me hear "silent" dog whistles.
And now it lets me pick up iOS charging materials.

*Where's Leonard's origin story?  Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell, have you heard about my #lightningcar?  Or the airplane I was in that was struck by lightning?  Or those times I was electrically shocked?  But instead of Electro, I got Krypto the Super Dog.

Don't Read the Fine Print

Or:  Ignorance Is Bliss
Or:  Why I Won't Be Going to the Y

In case you haven't heard, Leonard has started going to the gym again.  Well, two different gyms,...trying to find the right one.  And in case you don't remember, Leonard went to the gym once before.  If you want to read the boring reasons of why I'm trying a gym again, scroll to the bottom:

Two things to keep in mind while reading Leonard's Quest for Gym:

1. I'm cheap.
2. I'm lazy.

I don't want to spend a lot of money or really commit to anything.  And I don't want to travel too far out of my way to get to this place where I will sweat and smell bad.  Near me are two places that fit my requirements:  the YWCA and a Planet Fitness.  And at first glance, they appear to fit my very basic gym needs:  weight machines, some kind of cardio, locker rooms/showers.

I was wary of the Planet Fitness.  Was the location skeezy?  Would people be creepy?  Would it be dirty?  What's up with offering pizza and doughnuts at a gym?  So then I looked at the YMCA, but I couldn't find any prices whatsoever.  I did sign up for a Guest Pass, though, and it was delivered to my e-mail box with a note that "someone would be contacting [me] about a membership."  I printed off the pass, put on my big girl panties, and went someplace new and large and loud and scary to the YMCA.

The people were friendly enough, and I told them that I was interested in membership details, but still no one got back with me on that.  This particular facility is downright huge for a Y, and it was the hopping place to be at 6 p.m. on a weeknight.  It was busy, but not too crowded.  They had a lot of cardio equipment (treadmills, stairmasters, stationary bikes, etc.), some weights (the big, "manual" kind), and a smattering of weight machines.  I'd say they had only one of each type of weight machine, sometimes two; that, in turn, meant I had to wait for the weights sometimes (see what I did there?) or do something else and come back.

I spent 30-35 minutes on the treadmill, which was about 15 minutes too many; by the time I got down, I felt like I was floating all the way to the locker room and beyond.  When I got home, still breathless, my Unit commented,  "You look pale.  Like all the blood went straight to your heart."

It wasn't a bad experience, although I was disappointed that I couldn't find any pricing information online and that no one had contacted me about it.  The next day I decided I wanted to work out again (who AM I??!??), but my YMCA Guest Pass was only good for one day.

I looked at Planet Fitness again online, but I couldn't find any information about guest passes. I called them and was informed that a "day pass" costs twenty dollars ("but that fee is then applied to your membership if you sign up").  Then I tried to research more on the Y's website (give me dollars and prices, people!) when I stumbled across their Membership Handbook.  I was scrolling through the PDF file when I discovered page three under "Lockers":

"Use the gender appropriate locker room with which you legally identify."

Wow.  What if my legal status hasn't been changed/updated to reflect my gender identity?  What if I don't have an updated legal photo I.D. with my new name/gender?  While it's not as bad as North Carolina saying to use the biological sex on one's birth certificate, it's close.

And then I found under "Code of Conduct" this little gem:

"We take pride in our family friendly environment. Please keep attire appropriate and modest."

"Modest" according to whom?  What is "appropriate"?  Your family and my family may be entirely different.  If it's hot and I'm busting through my cardio, am I not allowed to wear capris and a sports bra?  My swimsuit probably shows cleavage because I have big boobs; is that going to offend your family's modest sensibilities?

Granted, those things did not happen to me in the hour that I was there, but the fact remains that they could.  The fact remains that the language alone made me very uncomfortable.  And when I told all of these things to my Unit, she pointed out the same thought I was having, "YMCA does stand for 'Young Men's Christian Association.'"

And that clinched it for me.  Off to Planet Fitness I went, despite the charge to try out the facility. Luckily for me when I showed up to the desk, the attendant was the same person I had spoken to earlier.  And she let me use the facility for free (without me asking) -- which practically guaranteed that I would sign up for a membership because I am a sucker for good customer service.

So there ya have it.  Reading the fine print will usually destroy your blissful ignorance and remind you of what those pesky abbreviations stand for.

Prologue:  Why a Gym?  Why Now?  And then I dislocated my knee (for the third time), so I stopped.  But after last September's adventure on a trapeze (yes, a real trapeze!), I decided I wanted to try more things, new things, fancy aerial things.  And I did aerial yoga for a while.  And I really enjoyed it (and didn't hurt myself).  But my schedule of rehearsals combined with crippling anxiety ("where have you been? why haven't you been here?) mean I haven't been there in months.  And when I looked, the class I had liked was no longer on the schedule.  Also I realized that yoga was not doing enough; I wasn't sweating enough, getting my heart rate high enough. 

But you know what did do those things?  Going to the gym.  But I no longer teach at a university with a fitness center, so now what?  Cue Leonard's search for a gym.

Cysts, Cancers, and Colons

This week's post is brought to you by the letter "C"!  And yes, it is all about bodily functions, so consider this your TMI warning.

 I know I have written about my battle with chronic pain and ovarian cysts before, but there's more:  almost two years ago, I went to the doctor because, in the course of approximately two months, I had lost 13% of my total body weight, unintentionally.  And while it was fun for a bit that some clothes I hadn't worn in a decade suddenly fit again, any medical provider will tell you that losing even 5% of your body weight in under a year (unintentionally) is cause for alarm and, at the very least, a doctor's visit.  And it became less fun when the majority of my clothes literally fell off me.  So I went to the doctor.  And she began a series of tests after checking me physically for lesions and asking about my family medical history because, hey, unexplained weight loss is often a sign of cancer.

What followed were several blood tests, an X-ray of my chest, and a combination endoscopy and colonoscopy, among other things.  Leonard did not have cancer of the colon or even polyps, as originally suspected.  But the pain and bloating were increasing.  So we moved on to other parts of the body -- namely, the female parts.  Leonard's cysts were back in action, one ovary was larger than the other, and there was that pesky polyp (named "Ted") still hanging out.

The new OB/GYN conducted more ultrasounds, and a new (to me) procedure called a hysterosonography, and did I mention that Leonard was doing a show throughout all of this?  A showing  on a moving fucking bus??  So yeah, that hurt.  A lot.

Then Leonard had surgery to remove "Ted" (and his previously unnoticed roommate), check for endometriosis, and look for interstitial cystitis (cysts in the bladder).  There were no ovarian cysts at the time of surgery (they had probably burst or been reabsorbed), and surprisingly, no endometriosis.  My bladder was "okay but not great."  I was just barely at the standard level for number of mL my bladder could hold.  The photos taken showed lots of teeny tiny broken blood vessels, but nothing bad enough for an "official" diagnosis (just something to watch).  She did notice that my sigmoid colon "seemed enlarged," which can happen if one is often constipated.

Removing Ted & Co. made a huge difference in my quality of life.  I no longer have to call off of work because of my period and the pain it causes.  I no longer throw huge, dollar-sized clots or have to change a tampon at least once (sometimes twice) during the middle of the night because of the amount of blood I'm hemorrhaging.

After the couple of weeks it took me to fully recover from outpatient surgery, I felt good.  Really good.  I don't think I had realized how much pain I had been in until it wasn't there anymore.  I would put off certain chores like cleaning the litterboxes and taking out the trash not just because they're gross, but because they would exhaust me.  I could do them (and other things) now without feeling completely spent afterwards; I could bend and move without pain.

A few months after that, some of the pains came back.  And the bloating.  OH THE BLOATING.  Painful bloating where Leonard's clothes couldn't fit.  Pain and bloating associated with (painful) ovulation shouldn't last more than a day (often not even that).  The OB/GYN suggested a new GI doctor.  The OB/GYN also pointed out that a clean colonoscopy just means there aren't polyps in my colon; it doesn't necessarily mean my colon is working correctly or any number of other things.

After a series of three tests, the GI doctor diagnosed Leonard with SIBO:  Small Intestine Bacterial Overgrowth.  We've since learned that it's not all that uncommon.  2 weeks of antibiotics, 4 weeks of probiotics.  She also gave me a list of the "low FODMAPS diet."  (Don't ask Leonard what "fodmaps" stands for; I have no idea.)  The GI doctor cautioned that said diet must be followed strictly for at least four weeks in order to see if it's helping (it doesn't always help everyone).  As this was now November 2015, she recommended waiting until after the New Year so I didn't "ruin my holidays."  (Without even telling her, she seemed to know that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday just due to the food.)  Funnily enough, many of the low fodmaps foods are things I already eat, so I didn't have high hopes for that.

Fast forward to just last week:  the pains (on the left side) are back.  I'm not ovulating.  Maybe I'm just constipated?  I'm a little constipated?  Why would constipation cause a pain in that particular spot?  I wondered.  And then I remembered what the OB/GYN had said about my sigmoid colon.  So I did a quick Google search of female anatomy:  where is the sigmoid colon in relation to the ovaries?

Copyright Amicus Visual Solutions

Jesus fucking Christ, it's right there!  LOOK AT IT!!  The pain I've been having, on and off, for the greater part of three years may have been caused by needing to poop.

Okay, I'm sure there have been other factors; the OB/GYN was sure to point out that because so many things have similar symptoms and overlap (sometimes literally physically), that we have to peel back the layers one by one, dealing with each issue singularly.  But FUCK!  Couldn't someone have searched like I did and said, "Hey, look at that!  Those two organs are touching.  That probably hurts!"

A dear friend, in response to something else, recently said, "That's why they call it 'practicing medicine.'"  Indeed.

So those are my bodily functions for the past 18+ months in a nutshell.  I have gained back all of the weight I lost due to exhaustion and surgery, and I'm not happy about it.  Exhaustion is setting in again, and it may be time to reevaluate my schedule of back-to-back-to-back shows/projects in addition to a 40-hour work week.  But I won't be able to do that until my schedule is free again....at the end of September 2016.

Episode III: Revenge of the Cysts

"What a horrible, candle-snuffing word [...] 'just.'"

J.M. Barrie (Johnny Depp), Finding Neverland (2004) 

Back when our princess and the pea situation was going on, the nondenominational witch OB/GYN (who I have since fired) said my ovarian cysts were "just a couple of centimeters" big.

And that stuck with me.  Here we are, nearly two years (and two doctors) later, and Leonard is getting a little tired of having medical devices stuck into her orifices.

"But why, Leonard?  Why are you complaining?  They're just a couple of centimeters big."

You know what else is "just a couple of centimeters"?  A penny.  A dime.  A nickel.

Let's try an experiment:  why don't you stick a nickel up your nostril¹.  Oh, you want it removed now?  Why?  It's just a couple of centimeters.  How about swallowing the nickel and letting it ruminate in your stomach for a bit.  No?  How about your ear, your eye, or your colon?  No, that doesn't sound like fun?  "Just a couple of centimeters" doesn't really matter when the object should not be in your body, when your body is not designed to fit said object, when said object is pressing against other parts of your body and causing problems.

Leonard fired that last craptastic doctor.  That last craptastic doctor ignored the pain and the symptoms and tried stuff that didn't work.  Plus, she made me feel bad about myself.  The new doctor (we'll have to give her a name soon) has given Leonard ALL THE INFO.  Leonard could give you the measurements of her uterus should the situation require it!

So, to recollect, in the past five months, Leonard has had:

• 2 blood draws
• 1 X-ray
• 1 endoscopy
• 1 colonoscopy
• 2 ultrasounds

Current diagnoses now include:

• anemia
• Grade A esophagitis
• 1 anal fissure
• 3.2 centimeter cyst on left ovary 
• 7 mm. "hyperdense polypoid lesion"
• 10 mm. thickening of the endometrium

Up next is a thing I still can't type yet, but it involves shooting a saline solution up Leonard's vajayjay.  So, y'know, I've got that goin' for me...

¹ Leonard can fit an entire quarter up her nostril.^2
2 Leonard does not do "the quarter trick" anymore, ever since one got stuck up there.^3
3 While Leonard was at work.^4
4 Leonard was the shift manager at the time.^5
5 Co-workers and underlings called her "Nostril-damus" for some time after.

Review: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I stayed up past midnight to finish this book, whilst crying for probably the last fifteen minutes. But more on that later.

Initially, this was a hard book for me to continue reading past the first page or two. The reason for that is two-fold. For starters, it opens with the death of a dog (that's in the description people; it's not a spoiler). As a self-described "animal person," the description of Wellington's death was a little hard to read.

Secondly, it's hard for me to read or watch scenes in which a character is unable to communicate their needs to others. I can tell what's going on and empathize greatly, but the other characters can't. I point to scene in How to Train Your Dragon as an example: it's sometimes excruciating for me to watch how long it takes Hiccup to figure out that Toothless doesn't leave because his wing is injured. So my empathy for Christopher and frustration for his situation almost stopped me from reading, but I'm glad I didn't.

His very unique point of view is what drives the reader to keep going in this book. Don't let its small size fool you; it's incredibly dense and emotional (and makes excellent use of footnotes!). I kept reading (past midnight) because I couldn't stop with Christopher still in pain of any kind. I knew there just had to be some kind of "happy ending" or at least a bit of a resolution, and I refused to go to sleep before I got there. His pain and my own pathos would have kept me from an easy sleep.

If, at some point, I write a paper analyzing this book, I would probably tackle the subject of Christopher's mother's handwriting as I believe her writing is some kind of commentary on the kind of person or mother she is (and I'm not sure how I feel about that).

Lastly, there were some parts of Christopher's personality and his logic and way of relating to the world that resonated so much with me (and made complete sense to me) that I don't doubt my own placement somewhere on the autism spectrum. It's a bit of a relief to see in print ways that I feel and things that I experience but can't seem to adequately verbalize.

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The Bathroom Story

It began as any other morning.  I stumbled from my bed to the bathroom, still not awake yet.  In those days my mother was working ten-hours days downtown at City Hall.  This meant that she left early in the morning, often before I was out of bed (which is impressive since my first period started at 7:45 a.m.).  She would leave, and my friend Teresa -- well, Teresa's mom, really --would give me a lift to school since neither of us could drive yet.

Click to embiggen

I would get up, do my bathroom routine, then go back to my bedroom and get dressed.  I'd open the blinds on my bedroom window because Teresa (and her mother) and I had a system.  They would pull up to the building and honk.  I would wave from my window four floors up, and then take the old-fashioned, non-computerized, original-with-building Otis elevator down to the main floor, run down the sidewalk, and hop in the car.

You see, during my four years of high school, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with my mother.  The apartment building had been built in the 1920s and had a beautifully renovated ballroom in the basement which was rented out for wedding and dances, including my own high school's prom.  Yes, prom was at my house (but that's a different story).  The building was U-shaped.  If you stood on the sidewalk facing the building, you'd be at the top of the U, looking down its center; a long sidewalk ran down the center of the U.  Four floors up (still at the base of the U) was my bedroom window.

So again, on this chilly winter morning I began my process as per usual.  It involved stumbling out of bed and blearily walking to the bathroom.  Because it was built in the 1920s, the entire building used delicious steam heat in the winter.  The radiator in the bathroom never turned all the way off.  As a result, 1)  it was always a bit stuffy in there, but 2)  I could put my towel over the radiator, and it would be nice and toasty when getting out of the shower.  Oh, and 3)  the bathroom door was permanently warped from the heat.  It would not completely close unless one slammed it.  We never closed it completely, let alone used the ancient turn lock.

So I stumbled up the step (yes, the bathroom had a step) into the bathroom and closed the door.  I have no idea why I closed the door when I was the only one home, minus the cat.   These days I never close the bathroom door, and I'm always surrounded by cats and dogs.

The bathroom routine involved peeing, of course, and then washing my hands and face.  I'd pop my contacts into my blind eyes and brush my teeth.  I would moisturize.  I would exit.  So I did all of those things, except the last one.

I went to open the door, and I couldn't.  The knob wouldn't turn.

Maybe I moisturized too much?  I wiped my hands on a towel and tried again.  Still no go.  The door was stuck.  The knob would not turn.

I tried again.  And again.  And again.  And -- was it getting hotter in there?  Or was it just me slowly panicking?  The radiator dutifully kicked out its steamy heat.  I was sweating, and my hands kept sliding off of the white ceramic door knob.

I must have tried for ten or fifteen minutes before the cold realization set in:  I was stuck in my own bathroom.

I was fifteen, home alone, and stuck in my own bathroom.

I tried not to cry.

How will I get out?  How will I get ready for school?  Who can let me out? 
I couldn't call anyone.  This wasn't Wayne Manor or a James Bond set; there was no phone in the bathroom.  Cell phones hadn't been invented yet.  I was cut off from communication.

Who will find me?  What if the fire department has to come and chop down the bathroom door with one of those giant axes?  My hair is unbrushed.  These were my concerns.

It'll be okay, I thought.  Soon Teresa and her mom will show up, and they'll see that I'm not upstairs in the window, and they'll know something is wrong.

Except my bedroom blinds were still closed.  I hadn't reached that part of my routine.  It happened after getting dressed, which happened after the bathroom routine.  Incidentally, hair-brushing also happened after the bathroom; I kept the brush on my dresser in my bedroom.

Whose bright idea was it to give me baseball pj's?

How will they know I am stuck??  My mind raced until I realized I could crack the bathroom window just a bit (it, too, was warped and only opened a couple of inches) and yell out.  The window glass was thick and frosted, and the window itself obscured by the shape of the building; they wouldn't be able to see me, but hopefully they could hear me.  What other choice did I have?  I resigned myself to my fate, and, in my pink flannel jammies, knelt down on the bathroom floor, put my head on the fuzzy peach toilet seat cover and dozed until I heard the honk of the car horn.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later -- or maybe it was only ten -- I heard the telltale honk of my ride.  I stood up and  put my mouth to the crack in the bathroom window.  "Teresa!  TERESA!"

Eventually a car door opened, and Teresa walked down the long sidewalk, looking around confusedly.  "TERESA!  I'm stuck in the bathroom!"

Trying to find the source of the yelling, she looked around.  "Leonard?"

"TEREEEEEEEEEESAAAA!  I'm stuck in the bathroom!"

"WHAT?"

"I'm STUCK in the BATHroom, and I CAN'T get OUT!"

"You're stuck in the bathroom?"

"YES!  And I CAN'T get OUT!"

I honestly hadn't thought past this moment.  My goal was to tell someone I was stuck.  I had achieved that.  I had no idea what Teresa would do with this information.  Like any good girl, she went straight to her mother, who was waiting impatiently in the car.  Soon, I spied the two of them making their way down the sidewalk, Teresa's tall, lanky figure next to her mother's large, waddling one.

They will save me!  But how will they get in?  They didn't have a key.  No one had a key except me and my mom.
And the building manager.

The building manager was ninety years old if she was a day, and she intensely disliked anyone under the age of sixty.  The fact that she leased an apartment to a woman with a teenaged daughter was nothing short of miraculous.  (I'm sure it helped that I was an exemplary teenager.)

I can't imagine the story Teresa and her mother had to tell Pat to get her out of her apartment, probably wearing a housecoat and slippers.  But within minutes I could hear the front door of our apartment opening, and all three of them trudging in.

Both Teresa's mother and Pat the building manager jockeyed for control of the situation, shouting instructions to me from the other side of the warped wooden door.  I tried opening the door again.  They tried opening it from their side.

"It's locked," the building manager said.

"But I never use the lock," I said.

"Try turning the lock," she said.

"But I didn't lock the door," I insisted.

"Try turning it anyway," she said.

I tried.  The lock was stuck, too, possibly in the "locked" position.  How did that happen?  I didn't use the lock.  I never used the lock.  But the door was nevertheless both stuck and locked.  Stu-locked, if you will.

This comedy of errors continued for a bit with no real progress.  "Turn the lock again!" Pat barked.  I did, and it turned as smoothly as a hot knife going through butter.  No problem.  It unlocked, and I was free.  I stared blankly at the women gathered in front of the bathroom door.  Now what?

Teresa's mom would take Teresa to school, for which she was now late while I got ready for school.  Pat the building manager said she'd drive me to school.  I shuddered at the thought of her elderly self behind the wheel of a car.

No, Teresa's mom insisted, she'd come back to get me.  Teresa's mom didn't like me all that much (in fact, she still doesn't), but heaven forbid someone else do her job.  Or get credit for my rescue.

I was able to get dressed and brushed and packed in the twenty minutes it took Teresa's mom to drive to school and back.  Once at school, I had to head directly to the dean's office for a note to admit me to class because I was horribly, horribly late.  I had already missed first period, second period, and homeroom.

I sheepishly entered his office.  This was not my first encounter with dean, nor would it be my last during my four years there.  He already knew me on sight.

"Why are you late?" he asked, getting out a pink slip to admit me to class.

I dutifully said, "I was stuck in my bathroom."  Two seniors who were working in the office during their study hall, collecting attendance slips and things, started snickering.

One of them said, "Yeah, a pink elephant sat on my car this morning; that's why I was late."

The dean managed to keep a straight face the entire time.  "I'll need a note from your mother," was all he said before sending me on my way. 

I don't know about you, but in my high school, when classes were in session, the halls were absolutely silent.  There was none of this "hanging out in the hallway" bullshit I've seen nowadays.  You were in a classroom or in the library.  If you were in the hallway, you better damn well have had a note saying why.

I clutched my note in my sweaty hand as my footsteps echoed loudly on the beige linoleum floors.  I think all Catholic schools have that same floor and the same beige wall tiles, too.  I had to go down the hall, down a flight of stairs to the second floor, then down another hallway to get to my third period class, Honors Biology.

I opened the door and tried to slip in as unobtrusively as possible.  But the teacher still looked at me, as well as twenty-four other pairs of eyes from their lab tables.  There was no way to not be obvious as I walked in late, even though I tried to be invisible (all five-feet, one-hundred pounds of me).

Mrs. B. regarded me and said, "Welcome, Leonard.  Why are you late?"

And again, I responded, "I was stuck in my bathroom."

While the classroom snickered, she, too, took it all in stride.  "You may take your seat," was all she said.  I slunk into my seat.

And forever after that, long after she had forgotten my actual name, ten, fifteen, twenty years later, she still remembers me as the girl who got stuck in her own bathroom.

Epilogue:
Teresa and I both produced notes the next day from our mothers proving our story was true.  We were so terribly late to school because I was stuck in my bathroom. 

Fun with Words: Polyp

At my doctor's appointment on Tuesday, the OB/GYN announced that I have a polyp in the lining of my uterine wall.  Not a huge deal, but it was news to me.  At our last visit, she only discussed the hemorrhagic ovarian cysts.  She kept talking about how the location of said polyp is making it difficult to control my bleeding, even with the birth control pills (hence why Leonard has been leaking bodily fluids for nearly two months now -- oh, TMI warning!), but I was still focused on the word "polyp."

Polyp.

Polyp.

Say it with me:  "polyp."

Make sure you enunciate; I want to hear those p's -- polyP.

I once saw a picture of nasal polyps when I was looking up some sinus symptoms.  They look like little sacs you could pop.  The combination of the illustration and the word "polyp" made me think of oranges.  Specifically, the fact that you can break an orange slice down into itty bitty segments and "pop" them.  Plus the word "pulp" has similar letters to "polyp."

Image courtesy of MayoClinic.com

Polyp.

When I was in grade school I also used to "pop" the unopened hosta flowers that lined the path from the school to the church.  I'm sure God didn't appreciate it, but they made such a satisfying little "pop" that I couldn't help myself.

Image courtesy of Knitspot.com

Pop!

Polyp.  Polyp.  Polyp.

The word has practically lost all meaning now.  The term, by the way, for that (when saying a word over and over again makes it nonsensical) is jamais vu.  It is the opposite of déjà vu, which means "already seen" (from the French).  Jamais vu translates to "never seen."

I think I'll name my polyp Fred.