On this cold and windy Thanksgiving Day, I sit and I wonder at all that I am thankful for. I am thankful for my family, good health, a warm house, my friends, both old and new. I am most definitely thankful for all that I should be thankful for. For all those things that we take for granted. But I’m also thankful for other things.
I am thankful for you, DVR and On Demand. Without you, how would I get my weekly fix of Dr. McDreamy. Even though McDreamy was a second to McSteamy. I am NOT thankful that they killed him off. Why did they do that? I still mourn.
I am thankful for washing machines. As much as I bitch my life away while throwing in a load, I think I would just die if I had to squat down next to a river and bang rocks on my undergarments.
I am also thankful for dishwashers. And I am thankful that I can ram that little machine to the hilt and still get my dishes clean. (DH begs to differ on the ramming it to the hilt thing, but do I care what he thinks? No. Because then I would have dishes in my sink waiting for the next load. I have a “dishes sitting in my sink for any length of time” fear. It’s a real phobia. Look it up.)
I am thankful for down comforters. I am especially thankful for the down comforter when it finds its way downstairs on the couch (thanks, Kid). The only problem is I cannot get off the couch once I’ve sat my ass down with that comforter pulled over me. It’s a real problem. Thank God for dishwashers and washing machines. That shit gets my shit done. Fast.
I am thankful for those little tin foil pans. See #3.
I am thankful for indoor plumbing. I’ve been camping. Getting up in the middle of the night, getting dressed and going outside in the cold to relieve myself is not my idea of a good time. Especially when there is a skunk giving you the hairy eyeball as you make your way to the latrine. So, thank you toilet. Even though I do have to clean you once in a while.
I am thankful for tweezers. Thank you for keeping my face from looking like that of Sasquatch. You are the gift that keeps on giving.
I am thankful for elastic waistbands. Without you, I would run the risk of losing my pants when I have to unzip them to let out the turkey belly. Or as The Kid says, “my food baby.”
I could go on, but I have to go and prep some stuff for my Thanksgiving Day. Which brings me to being thankful for maids, cooks and butlers. Even though I have none of them. But I promise I will be thankful if I ever acquire any or all. In the meantime, I will be thankful for my toilet brush, oven and furniture polish. Those are the next best thing, right? Yes. That’s what I will continue to tell myself. Happy Thanksgiving to all! Go and eat too much!
A dear friend of mine recently became a Reiki Master. For anyone who doesn’t know what Reiki is, here is the official definition as taken from my google search:
“a healing technique based on the principle that the therapist can channel energy into the patient by means of touch, to activate the natural healing processes of the patient’s body and restore physical and emotional well-being.”
I know. It sounds like hocus-pocus medicine man witchery. But in my opinion it is not. Our bodies, the universe, everything, is made up of energy. So really, it makes sense. But I’m not here to discuss whether you believe in these practices or not. I am here to tell you my experience in the only way I know how. My way.
My dear friend wanted to perform Reiki on my bad knee. Actually, I should say on my “healing” knee. Because I’m seriously hoping it’s not bad any more. It better not be after this bull poo I went through the last couple of weeks. It’s ridiculous. I would rather birth 10 more babies than do this again. Okay, so maybe that’s not true. Birthing babies kinda really sucks. But I digress.
I’ve never had Reiki performed on me. So, I went in a little worried that I wouldn’t do it right. Even though I wasn’t going to be doing the “it.” The first thing my friend, and I’ll call her “Dee”, said is that I need to think of what the intention of the session is, relax my mind, call for my guides, God and/or Jesus to assist (or something like that). Well, anyone who knows me, knows that I am unable to relax my mind. I’m not talking about relaxing my mind of all the stressful, crazy crap in life. Because honestly, I really don’t worry about that. Just ask DH. I basically have a very difficult time focusing. Period. I think I am one of those undiagnosed ADD adult people. In fact, I must be. There are so many reasons why I think so. But again, I digress.
The space was beautiful. I really love that word “space.” I don’t know why. It’s just…cool. The music was calming. Warm. So I laid down and allowed Dee to do her work. I think I started out okay. Here is pretty much the conversation I was having with myself, inside my head which is supposed to be kinda empty at this point:
“(inhale, exhale) okay, I am focusing on my knee, feel the light surrounding it, let me see…ok I’ll visualize the inside of what my knee looks like. Loosen up, scar tissue. Be free. Mmm, what is that scent? I think it may be lavender? OMG, that is my fave! oh, poop. Focus. Knee, knee, knee. Ummm, please let my knee heal. I wonder if I’m doing this right? I hope Dee can’t read my mind or that her guides snitch on me. That would be so mean. Those tattletalers. Oh wait, I forgot to ask for God’s help. Dear God, please come help Dee and me pull bad energy out of my body. Wait. Where should I visualize the bad energy going? Through my head? But then it will go by my heart. Is that bad? Maybe it should go through my eyeballs, ears and nose? I mean, does it need to go out a hole? Oh, my feet are closest though. Lord I hope it doesn’t go through poor Dee. Does she really need my bad energy? Speaking of which…Lord, please help me heal. And spirit guides, if you’re listening, you help too. I really need to stop by the liquor store for some wine. I wonder what book I should read next? Ugh, I hope the dollar store has baskets because otherwise those mothers can be expensive. I love the dollar store. I really should start buying my cleaning supplies there. Do you know how much money I could save? I think I’ll blog about this. I wish I could take notes. Oh, darn. I’m doing it again. Knee, knee, knee. Go out of me swelling and pain. Vanish. I didn’t poop today. I hope I don’t fluff right here on this table. I will just die. Oh, but it’s only Dee, she’ll understand. Fudge. Oh, sorry. That probably wasn’t the best choice of word at this moment. I’m sorry God. Hey God, please help. Ok, let me visualize all that ugly swelling in my joint dissipating. I wonder if Dee will give me bad feedback. What if she feels that I have something wrong with me. OMG. Speaking of knees, I haven’t done my exercises today. Boy is my therapist going to be mad at me. I’m such a bad patient. I think everybody is sick of my drama by now. Freaking A-Balls…KNEE, KNEE, KNEE. THINK ABOUT YOUR FRICKIN’ KNEE DANGIT!!! We would look so weird if we didn’t have necks, wouldn’t we?”
And with that, it was over. 30 minutes gone in a blink of an eye and some serious brain chatter. But all kidding aside, it was a wonderful experience. I was completely relaxed (except my brain, but that’s my own fault). I felt heat in my knee and felt a zing here and a zing there. I literally got up off that table and felt more flexible. Seriously. It feel good. Really good. And guess what? I practically ran down the stairs, using BOTH my legs when I got home. That right there is a bonus because until today, it has basically taken me about 2.4 minutes to complete that task. Also at work, I was able to bend my knee. Like, really bend it. Total bonus #2 since it’s felt like I’ve had 2 pounds of cotton shoved in my knee joint for the last 2 weeks.
All in all, I would say it was a success. I think I’ll be going back. But this time, I will try to leave all that chatter at home. You do realize that if we didn’t have necks, it really wouldn’t be weird. But it would be weird if we, the un-necked species, imagined having necks…or would it?
I’m always bitching about my age. How old I feel (not act, there is a difference.). How old I look. How old I am. But what really confirms all of the above is this…
When someone commented on Facebook about Nelly being in a Honey Nuts Cheerios commercial, I got so excited I almost peed my pants. Honestly, I felt like a little kid on Christmas morning. “OMG! Nelly is doing a commercial?” You know who I’m talking about. The saucy little rich brat from Little House on the Prairie. Which, by the way, is one of my favorite TV shows OF ALL TIME. Just so you know, it’s still in syndication and I will tune in if I spy it with my little eye on one of the ten thousand television stations available these days.
Anyway, I was anxious to see how she looks after all these years. So, I didn’t waste any time going to Youtube and looking it up. Here it is people:
Number One: I thought Nelly was going to pop in at the last second. It took me 30.5 seconds to realize she wasn’t. And that I had the wrong “guy.”
Number Two: The correct spelling of Nelly’s name from Little House is NELLIE.
Number Three: Who the hell is this Nelly? Does he play sports? Act? Sing? I guess he’ll just get added to my list of “who the hell is that” and I’ll have to move on. Where oh where are the Robert Redfords and Debra Wingers of the world? Sigh.
I am a self diagnosed slob. It’s not just me who agrees with that diagnosis. DH thinks I should get a prize for it. So, I’m a little on the lazy side. But who doesn’t just stare at that wadded up grocery list that somehow managed to work its way into the corner of the kitchen floor every time they walk by it? It takes some serious energy bending down to that level at our age. Or any age really. Please.
My “office” space makes Oscar look like Martha Stewart (Oscar the Grouch or Oscar Madison? It could go either way.). Every time I eat, something inevitably ends up on my shirt. One of the things on my ever growing “to do” list is to buy stock in OxyClean. And my closet? That’s a whole different story. I actually haven’t really entered my closet, like really entered it, in a while. My summer clothes are kept in a drawer and so are my jeans. My closet also contains clothes that are predominately to be worn in an office setting and since I can’t find a job in an office setting, they have been hanging there pretty much collecting everything but my dry skin for years.
I decided to venture into my closet, I would say about 17 days ago, because DH and I were going to go out to dinner. It was a chilly evening and I thought a cute sweater with some jeans would be good. My closet is not nice. The Kid has a huge walk in closet. I don’t know who designed this house, but they got it wrong and it pisses me off. Really pisses me off. I have the type of closet that is about 2 feet deep by 6 feet long with bi-level doors. Is that what they are called? Bi-level? I don’t even know. But the type where when you pull on the knob, they fold in half. Hey, I never claimed to be a closet OR door aficionado so get off my back.
Well, when I opened my little bi-level doors, I was smacked in the face with a major mess. The shelf at the top is spilling over with pocketbooks I’ve had since the Bush administration. The first Bush. Lingerie that I will never, ever wear because they were my mothers (there’s a very good explanation) and shoes that have sentimental value to me. Including caked-on-dried-up-mud-on-the-heels wedding shoes from 1992.
98% of my tops are hanging from wire hangers. And anything that has not been worn since my first temp job at a now-defunct pharmaceutical company seems to have a slight layer of dust on them. Okay, so maybe a bit more than “slight.” It seems that a very wet cloth is in order. And forget about the floor. I have shoes that fell out of style when The Fanny Pack came into style. And dust bunnies that have grown into full grown rabbits. Big ass mean rabbits with fangs.
Since I was trying to get ready to go out to dinner with DH, and I’m pretty sure he was talking about going out to dinner that evening not next Tuesday, I had to pick something and get out. Quick. But there was another problem. I soon discovered that nothing fit. Nothing.
So, I need to clean out my closet. Not only because it is the pig sty from hell but because what is the point of allowing clothes that do not fit take up perfectly good real estate. I thought for sure that that would be a project I would do while recuperating from my surgery. But it turns out that I can’t stand for more than a few minutes without it feeling like a big rubber band has wrapped itself around the middle of my leg.
And anyway, I really hate projects. What will happen is I will be all enthusiastic and start tossing clothes into a heap. Then I will look at this heap and it will suddenly feel overwhelming. And then I am going to want to do everything BUT clean up that heap. Like go pour myself a glass of wine or try to run around the block with my broken knee because that pain would probably be better than the pain of cleaning up a mess that I willingly created all on my own without anyone telling me to.
Yesterday I decided to bite the bullet and start on Project Closet regardless of what my knee felt like. I pulled on the little knobs and opened the doors. I started to the right by grabbing a fistful of hangers with dresses on them. I stared at these dresses for a minute. Placed them back and closed the doors. Then cursed in my mind. Well, actually I cursed out loud but no one was there to hear me so it’s basically the same thing. Then went downstairs and watched reruns of “Grey’s Anatomy” before they killed off Dr. McSteamy. Damn. I miss that man. And maybe I’ll clean my closet tomorrow. Maybe.
I am in awe of anyone in the healthcare profession. Particularly those who can look at, touch and fix broken, bleeding and cut open body parts.
Yesterday I went to have the stitches in my knee removed. I was full of complete anxiety all day long. All day long. I kid you not. Every time I thought of it, my heart rate would speed up, I’d break out in a little mini sweat and my extremities would curl up within themselves.
When I got there, I told the so-young-he-could-be-my-son physician’s assistant who was to be doing the removing that I am a big fat baby and that I was utterly disgusted by the fact that there is thread in my leg holding together pieces of skin. Utterly, utterly disgusted beyond words. I’m not sure if he thought I was funny or just another nut job. But I’m guessing the latter. Because his giggle was more of the “I hope I get the hell out of here alive” anxious type.
So, I laid down on the bed/gurney/whatever it’s called thingy and put a magazine over my face. I yucked, gagged and basically made an ass out of myself. I asked him what was taking so long to which he replied, “I’m done.”
What do you mean you’re done? So, it took him 3 seconds each “hole” to remove my stitches. I guess I should say “stitch” because that is what each incision had. A stitch. All that anxiety over that? Come on. Those people really ought to make it look better. I mean, how dumb will I sound repeating this story to my friends and family (like right now) without any drama. Embarrassing.
So, now I have another issue. I’m freaking out because I have to deal with this weird pulling sensation. Where my stitches were. I’m so incredibly grossed out by this feeling. I don’t know what I’m going to do. And there is something on my bandaid. I had DH look at it last night to make sure there is no blood. He says there isn’t blood. He’s no doctor. But I think I need one. Pronto. Or I may bleed to death. Don’t you think?
It’s funny the crap that creeps into your brain while you are sitting about trying to recuperate from surgery. With too much time on my hands, my brain is literally having a conversation with itself. Honestly, I’m afraid of short circuiting it. There hasn’t been this much activity since The Kid tried to teach me how to do the new fangled way of figuring out division.
Gawd, I’m getting a little sick of a song always playing in my head. Actually, now that I think about it, there have been rare times when there was just empty vastness. But then as soon as my brain realizes that, “Copacabana” rushes up in there and fills that empty space. I would prefer something soothing. Like “California Dreamin’.” “All the leaves are brown/her name was Lola, she was a showgirl/the preacher likes the cold/She would merengue and do the cha-cha.” Darnit. Barry Manilow wins every time. No amount of inner brain song screaming makes Lola go away.
Am I supposed to still have that swelling? Is that normal swelling or could there be water in there? If I stick a pin in my skin, will I get a bath? Ohmygod. I feel nauseous. Ohmygod. Ewww. Think of something else. Think of something else. “Her name was Lola…”
What’s on TV? Dr. Phil. Nope. Don’t like him anymore. Dr. Oz. Nope. Boring. Program about murders. Nope. Depressing. The Brady Bunch. Now you’re talking. I wonder which episode it is? I really liked the one where they went to Hawaii. I remember Hawaii Five O. I never really watched that show but I did like Charlie’s Angels. Farrah Fawcett was the best. When she left I didn’t watch it anymore. I remember my brother had that poster in his room of her. You could spell SEX in her hair. Man, do I need my hair cut.
I wonder if I will injure myself if I walk up the stairs like a normal person. Or at least try to go up the stairs like a normal person. (insert sudden image of me falling backwards down steps) Ooh. Probably not a good idea.
That magazine on the coffee table is kinda hanging over the edge. It’s really bugging me. Bad. I should get up and push it over. (two hours later) That magazine is really bugging me. I should get up and push it over. (getting up to pee and sitting back down) I forgot to push that darn magazine over.
Now when I go to a new doctor and I have to fill out the paperwork, I have to add this to my list. I remember when all I had on my list was nothing. I was pretty proud of that nothing. No. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.
Does a tree make a sound if it falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it?
Some people suck poppycock. What is poppycock? Isn’t it candy or something? Hmmm, I wonder if we sell poppycock at My Retail Job? I wonder if they miss me at My Retail Job. I should go in there tomorrow and say hi. Nah, I need gas.
I really, really need to get my hair cut and colored. Hmm. When should I make the appointment? Definitely before I go to Rhode Island. Oh crap. That’s in two weeks. Can I sit in that chair for 2 hours? With my knee bent? I wonder if they have a hassock I can rest my leg on? My upper lip needs a good waxing. How am I going to shave my bad knee? Oh my God. I am going to Rhode Island in 2 weeks. I’m not going to be able to run around like I usually do. What if someone bumps into me? Maybe I should have waited to schedule my surgery. Think I’ll be able to go Christmas shopping?
Man, I’m getting sick of laying on my back. I wonder if I can get some pillows and put them between my knees so I can sleep on my side. Sleeping on your side adds wrinkles. And my arm gets numb. I wonder when I’ll be able to sleep on my stomach again? I really need to sleep on my stomach. I really need to. I think I’m going to have a panic attack.
Ooh, I love it when House Hunters is in Italy. I would love to retire to Italy. I really should start that Rosetta Stone DH got me for my birthday. But if I learn italian now, I know I’ll forget it. When are we retiring? Let’s see, I’m 46 now. DH is 52. He probably should be done working by the time he’s 65 so that’s in 52 to 62 plus 3 is 13 years. Right? Did I do that math right? I have plenty of time. Well maybe Italy could just be a vacation. A nice warm tropical place would be really nice to live. On the beach. Think there will be drink boys there?
Okay, that was exhausting. I don’t know about you but I need a nap. Honestly, I have been thinking way too much. I need to go back to work and cut this crap off. Wait, when am I going back to work? Will I be able to stand for a long time? What if my knee locks up? “The hottest spot north of Havana…”
The day was perfect for surgery. Rainy, windy, disgusting. Perfect. Perfect for me to lie around sleeping off my anesthesia. Which, I have to say was awesome! The anesthesia, I mean. Honestly, I’m so glad I didn’t cave to peer pressure when I was a teen. Because there would have been a problem. A serious problem.
I woke up at 5:30. Because I had to pee. But I didn’t get up to pee because I was too lazy. So I laid there thinking that in less than 3 hours a surgeon would be cutting little holes in my knee. A knee that I’ve always liked. A knee that on our second date, DH commented on how cute it was. I was wearing shorts. Get your head out of the gutter. But I wasn’t nervous. The morning of my hysterectomy I was like a child gripping the doorway. Kicking and screaming. Not wanting to go. But this definitely was less invasive. And if I survived one bout of anesthesia, I knew I would survive another.
The nurses were super, super nice. A little too nice, actually. I was hoping for a bit of a Nurse Ratchet so I had something to talk about. But, no. It didn’t happen that way. I got to change in an area where the only thing separating me from all the other patients was a curtain. “Everything off except your undies. Gown, opening in back. Robe, opening in front.” I’m just glad I opted for the grannies with a touch of lace instead of my usual thongs. The entire Operating Room probably didn’t need to see my ass cheeks. Which, by the way, no amount of running makes those suckers go up to where they were once upon a time.
They asked me the same questions over and over again. I signed my life away a million times over and told them they better try to save my life if I die. Okay, I didn’t say that. But I did say I would have a blood transfusion. That’s the same thing, right?
They wheeled me into a room. A room they take you to before you go to the Operating Room. Again, only separated by a curtain from the other patients. It was like a cattle call or something. Then the party began. The needle containing what I could only describe as liquid heaven was inserted into the back of my hand. “Ooh, I like this, I wouldn’t mind having a little of this every day, I don’t seem to care about a thing” was the last comment I remember saying to the doctor. Or was it a nurse? I don’t know. They were all starting to look the same to me.
What seemed like 30 seconds went by. The first face I saw was my doctor’s. Asking if I was okay. But boy did I feel good. I’m sure I said something silly or stupid because that’s what I do. But I guess I’ll never know. Which makes me kinda sad. They should let you record these things. Really. I’m not kidding. I wonder if someone would have taken notes if I asked them? This shall be one of my biggest regrets.
So, here I am. With my downloaded Cow Bell app, having DH wait on me. He’s being a very good servant man. I’m sure by the end of this weekend, I will be on his last nerve. But until then, a little higher to the left honey, oh and would you be a prince and fetch me a bucket. This Vicodin makes me feel like I’m going to vomit. Because my nerve block wore off and I’m not feeling so great anymore. Where’s that Liquid Heaven when I need it?