tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90560351486979292732024-03-05T01:46:10.596-05:00I Used To Be Witty ...Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.comBlogger217125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-7182027229022259852010-04-21T21:44:00.004-04:002010-04-21T21:53:11.001-04:00Casper the friendly bloggerFour years ago I gave up tanning; not simply artificial tanning beds, but even the lovely, glorious, and gorgeous tan that comes from enjoying the sun. Growing up on an island has plenty of advantages, but years of too much sun exposure and too little protection are not one of them. It may also have something to do with those high school years spent in the tanning bed but, but I refuse to admit that, because I might as well walk around with YES, MOTHER, YOU WERE RIGHT stamped on my forehead. I did not embrace my natural skin color quickly or even well for that matter. For what it is worth, the nickname Powder does not have any other logical explanation. I am 50% Finnish and go so far beyond white that I am quite certain I border on translucent. <br /><br />However, while going cold-turkey on tanning was hard, I learned some harder lessons along the way. For starters, dermatologists are weird. Male dermatologists are weirder than weird. If I had not already identified a thesis for graduate school, exploring the psyche of dermatologists and their choice of career would border on making the assignment almost enjoyable. Another lesson is that there is no benefit to “scooping” as a skin removal compared to cutting and stitching. They both hurt like hell and leave scars that suddenly make a tan seem not all that important. The tan was SO WORTH the scars all over my body. Who is right now, huh MOM? A more painful lesson is that when biopsies come back “precancerous” and the peculiar dermatologist fails to clear all the margins, you should find out where they live and go punch them in the face. The next step will be to return to their office to get an even larger spot of your skin removed in the exact same place. Who is having fun now people? A final lesson (and subsequent PSA for the evening) was learning that any mole that appears after the age of 25 is deemed highly-suspicious and must be removed. Apparently new moles do not appear after the age of 25 and might as well RSVP to the party with Melanoma as their guest. Since I’ve been plagued with moles who must breed while I sleep, I get the lovely task of keeping track of them via photography. Yes, I have that many moles, I cannot even identify new ones without comparing pictures. Yes, I realize if I am ever destitute I could probably sell the photographs on ebay. <br /><br />I tell you that so you can understand that I faced quite a conundrum with the imminent arrival of a wedding on April 24th. A wedding that I am going to be in. A wedding that requires me to wear a salmon-ish / pink colored dress. A gorgeous J. Crew dress that only an imbecile would pick out for someone of my complexion; pink undertones only accentuate the albino look thankyouverymuch. Since this is the internet, I don’t have to tell you that the imbecile might be someone whose name starts with an Lynd and ends with a say, do I? Oh, good, because I would feel quite stupid if you knew I did such a thing. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJCLOqHP1awy3cclP1VcfPbxn3ySYJ6q0g7ulHhE_3OJzfN4nrZboeOEc3DfAK4ThoCrq8R0XKpB1eaym90YTzukbQeKAWMJkPbbNIxbQUntfESxPHmgGr_6jSqA-Fp8rr94JIhpGW1w/s1600/CD2002642D8541F381A457330985B261.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 228px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJCLOqHP1awy3cclP1VcfPbxn3ySYJ6q0g7ulHhE_3OJzfN4nrZboeOEc3DfAK4ThoCrq8R0XKpB1eaym90YTzukbQeKAWMJkPbbNIxbQUntfESxPHmgGr_6jSqA-Fp8rr94JIhpGW1w/s400/CD2002642D8541F381A457330985B261.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462772589552652706" /></a><br /><br />After much soul searching, I determined that maintaining my albino complexion in this dress just was not a viable option. With an equal amount of determination, I also rejected the thought of stepping foot into another tanning bad. So, I took the only other possible route …<br /><br />…to be continued …Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-90615228809103658562010-04-16T19:15:00.004-04:002010-04-16T19:31:37.393-04:00Funny creaturesMy friend Angela over at <a href="http://www.healthywealthyandwisewoman.com/">Healthy Wealthy and Wise Woman</a> ends her posts with a daily “eavesdrop”, which are often some of the funniest things I read all day. Angie and her husband Glen are two of the funniest people I know and when it comes to people-watching, they have mad skills. Inherent skills and a mastery that I am unable to compete with. In fact, it was Glen that schooled me in the game of “guess their occupation” while we waited for a flight in the San Diego airport. Aren’t you glad that I clarified that we were waiting for the flight in an airport of all places?<br /><br />The concept is simple, you scope out oblivious people walking around minding their own business, insert some imagination and !PRESTO! guess their occupation. From what I recall, we observed quite a few librarians, strippers, sanitation engineers, and proctologists. In hindsight, I wonder what occupation people would assume of me … and don’t you DARE tell me Angela from The Office. I do feel compelled to mention that I do not typically travel to the other side of the country in the company of someone else’s husband (especially one titled The Best Husband In The World). Angela’s husband was actually my boss in the hotel job that I had a number of years ago – the one that drove me to the loony bin – um, I mean the one that I loved. Glen, it wasn’t you, it was totally me.<br /><br />This week a number of exchanges have made me think of the little eavesdrops shared on Angela’s blog. I thank her for the reminder that funny really is all around us. The following examples were not eavesdrops, they were texts sent to me by three different friends this week. These shall serve as examples of what keeps me entertained on a daily basis, the fact that you should question the company I keep, and the fact that I have The Best Friends In The World.<br /><br />“Dude, I love your kid AND her dirty ass <a href="http://www.iusedtobewitty.com/2009/02/kate-month-thirty-seven.html">Baby Kate</a>. Baby Kate has some major street cred coming from the ghetto and all.”<br /><br />“Tin man! How’s the heart? Do you need me to travel to Oz and get you a new one, cuz I totally will.”<br /><br />“So, I almost have my PhD (errr, in Technical Education) and I watch House every week. I told my family Doc that must make me at least as qualified as his PA.”<br /><br />I loved each of these comments so much that for a brief second, I contemplated using them as my Facebook status of the moment … until I was hit with the reality of WAIT – ALL THOSE PEOPLE KNOW ME. So, instead, they are my gift to you.Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-4220345480029696592010-04-11T21:10:00.006-04:002010-04-11T21:30:55.745-04:00Where I get uncharacteristically sappy for a momentAlthough I’ve been out of the blogging world for a number of months, rest assured that Kate is still wild and crazy Kate. Go back and read some archives of Kate, up the intensity to the nth degree, and the vocabulary to the 11th grade, and you have a solid snapshot of what you have missed since my last Kate update. For example, at a baby shower today, she left my table and went and sat at a different table, a table filled with STRANGERS (stranger danger!), just to get premiere seating to the festivities. Not long afterwards, darling Kate went up to a STRANGER (stranger danger!) and said, “you need to get your kid to stop running around please.” Welcome to my world.<br /><br />But, see, I love this kid more than words can even express. It is something that I rarely write about simply because the topic is ineffable. I cannot find sufficient words that can adequately express the kind of love and depth of the love that I have for this child; every attempt to do so feels incredibly inferior. As people who know me can attest, there are very few things on this planet that leave me speechless.<br /><br />To bring you up to speed on us, let me share a snippet in time with my wild-one:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik30WqNust8xb4wdMT4RJzdkbhONHvvxiisISq3r0gFN6UEQnGUtRC6dwFfzPQtr-14E1ThYWwhlKgU9Sxfo4_7l2bysd8Od3oNrR5Bh9SiqHJHbIUa9RO5J_3YTotLSRe3oxwKo637Q/s1600/035.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik30WqNust8xb4wdMT4RJzdkbhONHvvxiisISq3r0gFN6UEQnGUtRC6dwFfzPQtr-14E1ThYWwhlKgU9Sxfo4_7l2bysd8Od3oNrR5Bh9SiqHJHbIUa9RO5J_3YTotLSRe3oxwKo637Q/s400/035.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459053413093985378" /></a><br /><br />Often I stop in these moments and realize that before long she’ll be a teenager and I’m even more appreciative of the here and now. I remember being a teenager and I am afraid …VERY.VERY.AFRAID. Many days I wish I had teenager-amnesia, so I could be blissfully unaware of the impending reality that will suck all brains and common sense from this darling child’s mind. Or, perhaps I shouldn’t consider it a detriment, rather an invaluable alley … a sort of mastery I hold that she cannot complete with.<br /><br />Until then, I will soak up her innocence, sweetness, butterfly kisses, and fact that she cannot get enough of me. I will sneak into her room just to smile, be at ease, and watch her sleep.Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-55658608261478987222010-04-06T20:28:00.006-04:002010-04-07T21:47:46.243-04:00The best part about going to ClevelandWhile I was in Cleveland, I was able to meet up with the kind and lovely <a href="http://teeteewouldbeproud.blogspot.com/">Tia</a>. I’m quite behind the times, as this was my first encounter with meeting a blogger from "the internet". I mean, she seemed normal and I do consider myself a pretty decent judge of online-character. Take for instance the example that I would totally want to hang out with me if I were you. Besides, according to Doctors #2 and #5, I was good as dead anyway, so why not live on the edge a little?<br /><br />What poor Tia did not know is that I suffer from an insane disease called THE INABILITY TO MAKE ANY DECISIONS WHEN IT COMES TO DINING OUT WITH ANOTHER HUMAN BEING. Don’t get me wrong, I can make instantaneous decisions about compensation redesign, realignment of span of control, or areas to reduce labor expenditures. But where to eat? And when? I suddenly morph into an incomprehensible being that certainly is not qualified to nor should be trusted to pick out her socks in the morning. Imagine my surprise when I learned that Tia suffers from a form of the same disease … I think over the course of 12 hours we utilized about 1G of the 3G network as our smart phones handled about 1,200 emails that went something like this: Well, what works for you? Where would you like to meet? No, it is okay, you pick. Well, what works best for you? Should we meet somewhere near you? No, really, what time works for you? Anytime is fine with me. No, really I’m flexible, what works best for you?<br /><br />My favorite part of the email exchange is where I apologize to Tia for inconveniencing her because “I’m quite certain I’m making this more difficult than it needs to be.” Tia so flatteringly replies that it is not a problem at all, that I have enough to worry about for the time being, and she “almost feels like she is meeting someone famous.” I am going to save that email and share it with all of my friends when they are too busy washing their hair to be in my company. Don’t you know who you are missing out on? I’m ALMOST SOMEONE FAMOUS, just in case you didn’t get the memo.<br /><br />All kidding aside, Tia, it was fantastic to meet you! Thank you for breakfast, for great conversation, wonderful company, and starting a really stressful morning off in a perfectly wonderful way. It was certainly my pleasure!Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-31516038396319790472010-04-02T20:55:00.003-04:002010-04-02T20:58:13.836-04:00You asked for it ...Hi everyone, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your concern and thoughtfulness regarding my sudden exodus from blogging land. So much has been happening in life and somehow through the midst of it all, I think I lost my funny. Writing isn’t nearly as entertaining when you can’t find your damn funny anywhere.<br /><br />In December, I started a new job. For the record, I love it and it has been an awesome career move. However, it has also come with all of the accompanying stress and pressures of a new job. I dislike being the new kid on the block. My raging Type A personality hates not having all the answers and being kick-ass at my job. My competitive spirit gets a little annoyed with starting over, having to prove myself, and not being the “go to” person on the team. Then there is the drama of new people and new relationships, figuring out who to trust and who should send you screaming into the night. Four months in, I’m feeling more settled and a slightly less incompetent.<br /><br />Remember all of the health problems I was having last fall? Don’t make me remind you … Despite having sought consultation from multiple Dr’s and having more tests than one would deem possible, I had to diagnose myself and ask my physician to test my gallbladder. Guess what? It was functioning at 2.5% and I quote the surgeon who said, “that is grossly abnormal; I actually can’t believe you are functioning you should be in so much pain.” Good times. It went to gallbladder heaven on March 11th after a MINOR OUTPATIENT surgery. Yes, a minor outpatient surgery that brought me to my knees for days, left me looking 5 months pregnant, and kept me off work for a week.<br /><br />The fun doesn’t end there though. In routine testing in preparation for surgery, they found “an area of concern” on my EKG. Let’s not even get me started, I’m quite sure you’d have to pull up a seat and stay all night for this one. Only I would go in for minor surgery and come out with more problems than when I went in. I "may or may not" have a very serious cardiac condition … but I’ve had conflicting information from 4 different physicians on the answer to that questions over the past 3 weeks. If I have the “problem”, it is something that can cause someone to suddenly go into cardiac arrest. I think life nearly has me on the edge of cardiac arrest, I don’t need assistance with that, thankyouverymuch. Since I don’t take halfass for an answer, since MY HEALTH is at risk, and since I have been forbidden to run in the meantime (despite being mid-training for my first 10k), I took my Doctor’s advice and will be in consult at the Cleveland Clinic on Monday with one of the nation’s best electrophysiologists. (I’m thinking it isn’t a good sign when Cleveland gets you in in a week, no?)<br /><br />Best case scenario, I’m normal. Worst case scenario, I do have LQTS (don’t Google this unless you want to lose sleep for decades) and I end up with a pacemaker or a Dick Cheney (ICD). Regardless, at the end of the day, I’ll have answers.<br /><br />And don’t EVEN get me started about what else is happening around this nut house.<br /><br />See, I lost my funny.<br /><br />But I’m here and that’s gotta count for something, right?Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-43819212443728201752009-10-20T21:50:00.001-04:002009-10-20T21:50:59.118-04:00I'm Baaaaaaack!I’ve spent the past couple of months pretending nothing was wrong with me, which is exactly why I’ve been a negligent blogger. When you are diligently attempting to ignore the proverbial elephant in the room and what is bothering you, it is most assuredly the only thing you can ever think of. So, when you try to write about something other than what’s on your mind, you find out that the only thing that is on your mind is what is on your mind and you end up totally screwed. Now that I’ve come clean with all of you, I actually feel much better. Which coincidentally means writing is all of a sudden possible again. Your Google Reader should be afraid. VERY.VERY.AFRAID.<br /><br />So, for the quick health update: The blood pressure meds appear to sort of be working. They are bringing my systolic (top) blood pressure down, but it hasn’t done much to the diastolic number (bottom). I venture to guess we’ve complicated the situation because it is now around 112/92, which is anything but normal. In fact, Google doesn’t even provide me answers on that one. The naturopathic educator at work analyzed my eyes today and told me I wasn’t going to stroke out. Since allopathic medicine hasn’t done shit for me, I’m taking total comfort in her assessment. Oh and for those of you offering kidney’s, I’m suddenly feeling a considerable amount of love towards anyone with A+ blood types.<br /><br />Now, on to serious business; I need a Halloween costume. Correct that, I need two Halloween costume ideas, one for me and one for Craig. We have committed to attending a huge Halloween party, of which costumes will be required. It took every last brain cell I had to come up with Kate’s BUTTERFLY costume, so I am spent. Butterfly, can you handle my overwhelming genius? A butterfly. I can’t believe no one has ever thought of that before. <br /><br />Current ideas:<br />I Dream of Jeannie and the astronaut man<br />A flapper girl and gangster guy<br />Angela and Dwight from The Office (I so LOVE this idea, but let’s admit, it isn’t much of a costume)<br /><br />I need your ideas. If you have a vote, please let me know. If you have a better idea, I’ll totally send you my piss-poor excuse for a kidney. Fair trade?Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-76258683466174428502009-10-17T21:10:00.005-04:002009-10-17T21:22:31.019-04:00I can't think of a title that doesn't contain explicatives regarding this topicSince December, I have been somewhat of a medical mystery. I spent months and months battling inexplicable medical problems, while being referred from specialist to specialist. I’ve become acquainted with so many “ologists” that I should be eligible for some honorary doctorate degree. The referrals, appointments, and tests became so frequent that I am sure people at work must have thought I was sneaking out for a gin and tonic, or an afternoon nap, because most assuredly having that many appointments to attend to was simply not possible.<br /><br />The news started coming in this form: “Well, the good news is it isn’t your bladder. And I guess the bad news it isn’t your bladder.” “Well, the good news is it isn’t your stomach.” I think you are getting my point here. And if you let your imagination wander, you’ll realize that the tests necessary to affirm such news are far from a leisurely walk in the park. Come July, I decided I was done. OVER IT. NO MORE. Although answers were illusive, it appeared that nothing remarkable was wrong with me. Plus, dealing with the pain and problems suddenly didn't seem quite as torturous as what they were putting me through.<br /><br />You may remember in August I also ended up with a fluke visit to the emergency room, where my blood pressure was <a href="http://www.iusedtobewitty.com/2009/08/non-heart-attack.html">suddenly elevated</a>. And ever since then, it has been a royal pain in my ass. Two weeks ago, I went in to see my family doctor for a flu shot. When the nurse took my blood pressure, it was 155/101. They no like that. Heads started spinning, charts started flipping, lab order sheets were flying, and plans were being made for MORE TESTS! I sat there, quietly blinking, contemplating how incongruent this was with my plan for all of this to be done. However, my blood pressure had different plans and was the ostentatious one dancing on the tables, while screaming, “Look at me! Look at me!”<br /><br />Casually, my Doctor said, “Lyndsay, are you under a lot of stress?”<br /><br />“Um, no Doctor. Let’s see, I haven’t been able to stay out of the Doctors office for the past 10 months and I come here to get my preventative FLU SHOT and I now have more health problems than when I came in!”<br /><br />Not only am I very low risk for hypertension based on my age, lifestyle, and family history, there is incredible concern because apparently one doesn’t go from fine blood pressure to problems overnight. Yes, one more piece of proof that I don’t follow directions well; hypertension is supposed to be a gradual process. I left that appointment with orders for an EKG (results fine!), echocardiogram (results fine!), and a 24-hour blood pressure monitor (results not so fine!). Last week I got to donate vial upon vial of blood for testing, and started my blood pressure medication <insert laugh track here>. So far, it isn’t working, which is perhaps not as funny.<br /><br />I spent months laughing about how outrageous all of this has been, but it’s bordering on being not so funny anymore.<br /><br />It appears that something really is wrong with me and I’m sick of it. And I get to wait ten more days to see if this last round of tests has provided any answers. All I have to say is that if I end up needing a kidney, don’t think I’m not going to come looking here.Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-1198252282944335262009-09-29T12:26:00.003-04:002009-09-29T12:28:39.257-04:00Wanted: funny thoughts, a pro-bono personal assistant, chocolate, and uncomplicated relationshipsThere are few things in life that make me cringe more than the thought of become a statistic. When I first started blogging, I found numerous data taunting the fail rate of new bloggers, many discontinuing the habit after mere months. Undeterred, I pressed on, fully confident in my ability to defy those odds. Slowly, I went from posting daily to a few times a week, to once a week, to a new pathetic low of EIGHTEEN days without a blog post. <br /><br />That does not mean I haven’t forgotten about my lovely blog over the course of the last EIGHTEEN days. In fact, I have had nothing but great intentions to write. Actually finding the time to do it and acquiring a clear enough mind to do so intelligibly has been the challenge. On second thought, if I am waiting for a clear mind and intelligibility, we might as well all give up now, right?<br /><br />Frankly, you don’t want to listen to me right now anyway. I’m overworked, sleep deprived, knee deep in unfulfilled obligations, needing some quality friend time, and having a hard time being my positive, cheerful, optimistic self. AS IF. Okay, better stated, I’m crankier than normal and trying to make sure I don’t drop any of the 3 million balls I’m currently juggling, all while trying to refrain from punching people in the face. I am mentality picturing the blogging entries that could have filled these past EIGHTEEN days and feeling relieved for the art of self-control.<br /><br />But you didn’t come hear to read about that, did you. Heck, I couldn’t be witty if you bribed me with front row Jack Johnson tickets right now. Aren’t you glad you stopped by?<br /><br />However, I do still exist and that has to count for something, right?Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-49917640948426310832009-09-11T16:19:00.002-04:002009-09-11T16:21:01.653-04:00Me: Version 3.0Is it possible to wake-up an entirely different person? <br /><br />Over the past couple of weeks I’ve come upon the realization that I actually like to cook. More impressively, I’m not half bad at it. Yeah, I know, absolutely incomprehensible. Apparently it has been the bad attitude, lack of planning, distaste of washing dishes, and absence of time that have stood in my way all of this time. <br /><br />Over the past two weeks, Kate and I have perfected two variations of granola. We’ve also managed to miraculously create a kick-ass roasted red pepper hummus. On another night we made oatmeal-wheat-banana pancakes. Shockingly fan-freaking-tastic. I’ve also become a sheer genius at making swiss oats; if there were a swiss oat making competition, I would certainly be medal worthy. Queen of the oats.<br /><br />However, I didn’t realize quite how out of control I was until today at work when I told a coworker that I had ordered a pizza peel and 5 quart dough bucket to make some artisan bread this weekend. Her head promptly rotated 180 degrees; she exited my office and inspected the door just to confirm that she had entered the correct office. <br /><br />I simply cannot explain this transformation. The domestic fairy must have visited in my sleep. I am hoping next time the patience fairy, Banana Republic fairy, anti-procrastination fairy, or extra-hours-in-the-day fairy shows up instead. <br /><br />I’d love to know what fairy is needed at your house …Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-28130340469087663382009-09-04T22:24:00.006-04:002009-09-04T22:35:02.622-04:00Strike a poseLast month, we were required to get our professional pictures taken for work. The organization I work for thought it was essential for the management team to have their mug shots on our website and for each of us to have our shot to use for press releases and such. I had a hard time paying attention to the rest of the message, I sort of blacked out after “pictures taken.”<br /><br />There is nothing less compatible with me than getting my picture taken professionally. In almost every studio shot I’ve ever been unfortunate enough to see of myself, I look about as relaxed and comfortable as someone with a stick lodged firmly between their cheeks. For good measure, I swear I develop some sort of exaggerated tourette’s syndrome and my facial features start jockeying for most distorted. My lip curls, my eye squints, my nose starts running away from my face, or some freaky combination of the above occur. A photograph not even a mother could love.<br /><br />When we showed up at the studio on the day of the pictures, I looked the photographer square in the face and said, “You have no idea what you are up against here, but you better do I good job.” I didn’t know he took me seriously until I realized that he took about 25 shots of me and about 10 of each of the others in the group. Yes, it took TWENTY-FIVE shots to make me look decent. No, I don’t mean 25 of those kind of shots, although that would certainly help.<br /><br />Earlier this week our proofs arrived at the office. I hoped they might spontaneously combust before my eyes were subjected to such torture, but they didn’t. And believe me, there was torture, about 24 images of pure torture. However, one came through to save the day and the life of the photographer at the studio. Not perfect, but considering what he had to work with, at least acceptable. I can live with it and can now begin to repair the damage done to my heart by this entire fiasco. Do they offer workers compensation for such ordeals?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdxS_8brmPKuYHIi2HUEQMhzN3_7HdNsWaDlLf70G0QQ_nvQFc6jozNeN6rPRfue8UlMWVA5hPUjZgp1eaU0X7VGlLG2ykdbqUG5bVvcjbphAidSuGglg96KYiKl8xDfZrTdgfQ4v9g/s1600-h/IMG_2824.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdxS_8brmPKuYHIi2HUEQMhzN3_7HdNsWaDlLf70G0QQ_nvQFc6jozNeN6rPRfue8UlMWVA5hPUjZgp1eaU0X7VGlLG2ykdbqUG5bVvcjbphAidSuGglg96KYiKl8xDfZrTdgfQ4v9g/s400/IMG_2824.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377804044136646082" /></a><br /><br />As my colleagues looked at my picture, they unanimously agreed that, “It’s a nice picture, but it just doesn’t have enough attitude.”<br /><br />No shit, I said, “I look so sweet, innocent, and friendly, I didn’t even recognize myself.”Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-9262888249575123182009-08-26T21:33:00.001-04:002009-08-26T21:35:01.909-04:00You know, or maybe she just needs her momKate has never been one to cuddle. Or snuggle. Or sit still long enough to do anything that could even remotely resemble such activity. It hasn’t been a phase; it has been her modus operandi since birth. There have been times that she’s been sick and after multiple trips to her in room in the middle of the night, we’ve brought her into our bed in a desperate attempt to get some sleep. While most parents battle getting kids out of their bed, Kate would spend these times thrashing, rolling, poking jabbing, and informing me that she WANTS TO GO BACK TO HER BED.<br /><br />Yeah, if you figure this kid out, please feel free to shoot me some insight.<br /><br />Imagine my shock when Kate developed a raging case of the I.WANT.MY.MOMMY every single moment of every single day. At first I relished my darling daughters newfound affection for me. Awww, she needs me. She wants me. This is what having a sweet and cuddly child is like. However, her requests slowly morphed into this pathetic and whiney, “I want yooooouuuuuu” about ten hundred million times a day. At dinner, she stealthily makes her way onto my chair, burying her head in my lap because “I want yooooouuuuuuu!” A few days ago, she’s whimpering, claiming that she needs me and my patience is wearing thin because she’s on my lap, with her head tucked securely under my chin, so close that I think she’s stealing my oxygen.<br />This cuddly, needy kid stuff is totally overrated.<br /><br />The whole situation has been so bizarre, that I’ve started psychoanalyzing the entire situation. Suddenly, I recall stories of pets that instantaneously develop such an attachment to their owners, detecting life threatening tumors and such. Damn 60 minutes. If I die some unexplained death in the near future, someone come and claim this kid. We are sitting on a goldmine.Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-66465958543282187502009-08-18T14:23:00.004-04:002009-08-18T14:33:51.096-04:00Further evidence that I am not normalAs.if.you.needed.any.<br /><br />I’ve taken the last couple weeks of free time for myself, trying to enjoy the calm before the typhoon that is looming around the corner. A typhoon including academia, a possible move, and the impending end of our fiscal year at work. Instead of engaging in activities that a more normal person might, I relished every second of this time by immersing myself in reading FOR FUN. Can you believe the excitement around this place? Do I need to remind you yet again of how annoyingly bizarre and unexciting I am? I enjoy reading, I crave the time to do so, and very infrequently find it. So, when I happened upon this quieter time (quieter meaning the presence of only a dull roar), I read and read and read and read and read. So much so, that I think Craig contemplated just how to go about placing my face on a milk carton while wondering who this imposter was that had a neck with a paperback book attached to it. <br /><br />Side note, I would highly recommend <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Bel-Canto-Ann-Patchett/dp/0060838728/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1250619373&sr=8-1">this one</a> and should proclaim my disappointment a bit with <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hour-First-Believed-Novel-P-S/dp/0060988436/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1250620182&sr=8-1">this one</a>.<br /><br />The problem reading presents for me is that somehow it renders me utterly useless at writing. While on a normal day, my brain changes directions faster than Jon Gosselin changes girlfriends, reading makes me altogether ineffectual. I get so absorbed in the story, the era, the characters, and the setting, that it steals away any creative energy I have. So, when I sit down at my computer to write, I find myself an unfamiliar soul, writing in sync with the author I am currently reading. It is surreal and leaves me wondering who exactly the person that just wrote that was. Do you think they make a medication that could take care of this problem?<br /><br />There is my excuse for being a lazy blogger.<br /><br />Fortunately (unfortunately?) for you, the reading has ceased and maybe my wayward writing ability will make its way back home.Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-33711470389775803292009-08-11T09:54:00.002-04:002009-08-11T09:58:30.950-04:00A guest posting we will go ...Perhaps I've been singing too many nursery rhymes these days. <br /><br />I'm guest posting over at <a href="http://cbethblog.blogspot.com/2009/08/guest-blogger-lyndsay.html">Beth's place</a> today; click on over and say hello. I must warn you, apparently I morph into a serious and heartfelt person when I take over someone else's blog. Gasp. You didn't know I had it in me, did you? That's what I thought.Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-29100348352240871662009-08-10T21:48:00.004-04:002009-08-10T22:21:36.163-04:00Beep BeepIn a fluke moment, with luck reserved only for someone other than me, I caught a moment of unadulterated Kate on video this weekend. One minute and 30 seconds that sums up my daughter better than any combination of vowels and consonants on this computer screen ever will. It could be that I am just ignorant to the world of a three- and ONE HALF (emphasis on the half) year old, perhaps they all act this way. I am perplexed. In a minute and 30 seconds, she’s managed to “read” a book, seek approval multiple times, do backbends on the couch (by the pile of laundry that has taken up residency there … because, hate to break it, but I am normal), and sing twinkle twinkle while whirling around in circles. <br /><br />We went to a family reunion on Saturday and I was convinced that the Wiley E. Coyote was totally going to make an appearance and claim his long lost child. Since he didn’t, I have no one else to blame but Craig. “Dude, she’s totally YOUR KID!”<br /><br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-1d0459ed78371f0f height=266 width=320 contentId="1d0459ed78371f0f"></OBJECT><br /><br />I wonder why I continue to go to the gym. There is no doubt that any caloric intake I have for the day is expended by just watching this child. It makes my brain hurt. And makes me want to lie down for a nap. <br /><br />But good Lord, could she be any cuter?Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-32484986186654894682009-08-07T13:52:00.002-04:002009-08-07T13:59:32.549-04:00Lowering the standard, one day at a timeAs a novice in the world of parenting, one thing has been abundantly clear from the start: many mothers play to win. It is an unspoken game with tacit rules. It is a competition laden with assurances to the contrary. We internalize the pressure until the only person in the game is ourselves, with our own mounting expectations and little tolerance for our mistakes. It is about milestones (is being potty trained at 12 months old a prerequisite to medical school?), language skills, extracurricular activities (I couldn’t be more thrilled that little Henry is an aspiring German interpreter), manners, home cooked meals (organic, trans-fat and preservative free of course), limited television time, Martha Stewart-esque desserts for playdates, and birthday parties crafted to perfection. <br /><br />Let me reflect for a moment on a day in our <em>perfect</em> household:<br /><br /><strong>5:15 a.m.</strong> – Hit snooze and contemplate dismembering the alarm clock<br /><br /><strong>5:30 a.m.</strong> – Wake and shower<br /><br /><strong>6:00 a.m.</strong> – Do a load of laundry before we resort to buying new clothes because our closets are full of dirty ones. <br /><br /><strong>6:15 a.m.</strong> – Open the fridge to see if the grocery fairy visited in the night; pack my lunch and make Kate’s juice and milk cups.<br /><br /><strong>6:30 a.m.</strong> – Spend 30 minutes trying to make myself look presentable, then give up, wishing I had those 30 minutes of my life back.<br /><br /><strong>7:00 a.m.</strong> – Wake Kate up and cheerily convince her that she DOES want to get out of bed, she DOES want to wear clothes, and she DOES want to brush her teeth. Oh and we are running late AGAIN … can’t you cooperate for mommy? What? You need to use the potty downstairs? What’s wrong with the one upstairs? Oh, this is funny, isn’t it? Why am I NOT LAUGHING?<br /><br /><strong>7:15 a.m.</strong> – Get Kate a snack for the car. Wait. Of course you don’t want that. What do you want? Oh, not that either? Not that? What about this? I just can’t think of a better way to start the morning. How about you go pick? A blueberry Clif bar, just the thing I presented 13,876 offers ago. Interesting.<br /><br /><strong>7:17 a.m.</strong> – Buckle Kate into the car seat, observe large blueberry stain on left shoulder of my shirt<br /><br /><strong>7:22 a.m.</strong> – Emerge from the house with a wet, blue-tinged shoulder<br /><br /><strong>7:39 a.m.</strong> – Drop Kate off at daycare and drive like a maniac to Starbucks<br /><br /><strong>7:57 a.m.</strong> – Arrive to work and settle in to start my day<br /><br /><br /><em>Start my day? Let's now fast forward through: making it through this thing called work, grocery shopping, cooking and eating dinner, juggling myriad appointments and phone calls, buying a birthday card for my Mother, bath and bedtime, sifting through bills, and contemplating calling into life exhausted tomorrow.</em><br /><br /><strong>9:59 p.m.</strong> – Sit down on the couch perplexed while realizing it is the first time I have done nothing all day. Recognize that the only reward for that is a repeat performance at 5:15 a.m. the next morning.<br /><br /><strong>10:01 p.m.</strong> – Wonder why Time Magazine isn’t knocking on my damn door to do a feature article on my superhuman mother-of-the-year accomplishments of the day.<br /><br /><strong>10:03 p.m.</strong> – Interruption by my darling husband.<br /><br />“Do you know what you forgot today?”<br />“No, what?”<br />“Shoes. You took Kate to daycare and you didn’t pack her shoes.”<br /><br />Before I fell over and died, I said, “Oh screw mommy competition. Perhaps my sole purpose is just to make them feel better about themselves.”Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-79412339619521940992009-08-04T14:21:00.001-04:002009-08-04T14:33:50.896-04:00The non heart-attackIt was 2:40 a.m. Wednesday and I suddenly awoke to a crippling, crushing pain in the left side of my chest. For minutes, I laid there, taking tiny, shallow breaths, because the reward of breathing deeply was not unlike a group of elephants tap dancing on my chest. After a few minutes of this melodrama, I sat up with a sudden jolt, realizing that this was actually happening and not a figment of my semi-awake conscience, or overactive imagination. I went downstairs and ate some Tums, because that is apparently a reasonable thing to do when you are moments away from death. <br /><br />Craig was not home (strike one Craig), but was still awake when I called him at 2:50 a.m. (redemption of strike one) with details of my predicament. In typical Craig fashion, he calmly asked a series of very annoying, practical, questions. “Are you sweaty?” No. “Are you dizzy?” No. “Does anything else feel weird?” No. “Well, it’s probably muscular; I’d just go back to bed.” When your wife calls you in the middle of the night, besieged by pain of unknown origin, serenely telling her to go back to bed isn’t all that helpful (strike one reinstated). While I concurred that it probably wasn’t life threatening, difficulty breathing and moving aren’t really conducive to sleep and watching the Golden Girls re-runs was only entertaining for so long. <br /><br />I started contemplating what exactly I would do if I found myself in a medical emergency home alone with a 3.5 year old. How fun would that be? Do the hospitals have some nanny-concierge service? The pessimist in me started to think of how ironic it would be if I were having heart problems since I’ve never been in better shape, or on a healthier diet. Life’s a bitch like that. I also became keenly aware of the fact that I was wearing a shirt with a tie-dyed peace sign that my aunt made for me, oh, about fifteen years ago. While nothing about me screams TIE-DYE or PEACE-SIGN, it was the last time I saw her, so I’ve held on to it for sentimental reasons. However, those same sentiments suddenly don’t seem important when you realize that you could be facing your own mortality, only to be found in such attire.<br /><br />Eventually I went to sleep and I miraculously woke up the following morning. By mid-day, the pain still wasn’t gone and I figured that I should probably visit the Doctor, lest I suffer a repeat performance at home again that night. I jokingly informed the nurse that I was having chest pain, but I was certain it was muscular, resulting from a fairly intense session at the gym on Sunday. For any of you who know me, you know that nothing ever works this easily for me. Suffice to say, my blood pressure, which is normally about 117/77, decided to show me who was boss and registered 155/93 when she took it. <br /><br />Do you know what a 29 year-old with chest pain and sudden high blood pressure gets on her lunch hour? Blood work, chest x-rays, and an EKG. Isn’t life grand? Thankfully everything came back fine. The blood pressure was likely just the culmination of MY LUCK OVER THE PREVIOUS 24 HOURS, and has since returned to normal. <br /><br />The final diagnosis? <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/costochondritis/DS00626">Costochondritis</a>. If given the choice between costochondritis and walking over hot coals in my bare feet, I’d find myself in quite a quandary.Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-35137713791770482242009-07-27T20:54:00.003-04:002009-07-27T21:00:09.663-04:00The source of my sore muscles, bad attitude, and pessimismWe’ve been toying with the idea of putting our house on the market for over a year now. Truth be told, it isn’t because we have specific alternate plans concerning our residency. The only definite we have is the feeling that this house likely isn’t in any potential plans. We met with our realtor in May to get an idea of just how pathetic the market currently is and when we could expect to see some improvement. We learned that while the market is currently at the highest level of suck, it is likely that next year it might be like suck on steroids, and the following year projections included forecasts of posting your house on Freecycle.<br /><br />We did what any irrational couple unwilling to postpone moving for four years would do, we decided to put our house on the market. Such a simple statement. Such an ineffable undertaking considering the house was about 90% renovated and 10% organized at that point in time.<br /><br />Heading into June, I told Craig that we’d likely have the house ready in a couple of weeks. That is sort of like me saying, “I’ll be ready in FIVE minutes”, which really means crack open a beer and turn on a re-run of Two and a Half Men and I’ll be down in 45 minutes. Incidentally, a couple of weeks meant seven; seven weeks of nonstop work. Spending seven weeks of summer subject to such torture should be illegal. <br /><br />Those weeks enriched my brain in the following ways: Helpful hint #1: If it is still in the box from when you moved in 5 years ago, just throw it away because you obviously haven’t missed it or the other 15 boxes just like it. Helpful hint #2: Washing the outside of your windows is overrated. Learning how to use a combination of a pressure-washer and dish detergent = priceless. Helpful hint #3: It is a sign that you’ve neglected your fridge too long when you find a jar of pickles that expired in 2007. Helpful hint #4: It is amazing how much a playroom gets used when you take the treadmill, itinerant furniture, and boxes of clothing out of it. Helpful hint #5: Hiding mountains of paperwork in Tupperware bins and labeling them “office supplies” only sounds like a good idea until you have to move said bins. <br /><br />On Friday we officially put our house on the market. A co-worker looked at our listing online and couldn’t stop exclaiming over how clean, organized, and show-room perfect our house looked in the pictures. I’m all, NO SHIT, that is because I got so delirious I donated, Craig’s Listed, or threw away most of what we owned. <br />Oh and whatever you do, don’t look in the closets until some time next week.Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-25326673466752955712009-07-21T15:20:00.001-04:002009-07-21T15:25:28.715-04:00That's what friends are for ...Recently I was having a conversation with some relatives about horror stories of the automobile variety (what do you mean I have to change the oil? Why doesn’t it come with a warning sticker?) and I immediately thought of <a href="http://www.iusedtobewitty.com/2009/02/youve-got-friend.html">my dear friend Megan</a>. Megan not only had a series of very unfortunate cars, but stories about those cars that were unrivaled by anyone else I know. As I was taking this mental journey down memory lane, one particular memory beckoned to me, begging to be shared with the blog world.<br /><br />So, I did what any respectful friend afraid of retribution would do, I sent Megan a text and asked if she would mind if I wrote about her on my blog. Innocently enough, Megan wrote back that she would be “honored” to be written about on my blog. Perhaps I should have clarified that if it were a glowing tribute, or testament to her fantastic character, I likely wouldn’t have asked for permission. Whoopsy daisy. <br /><br />I digress. But the memory is just too good to keep to myself. <br /><br />Some time in early high school, Megan and I were having a deep, philosophical discussion about things that surely were important at the time. As the conversation evolved, I took the opportunity to lament upon my irritation with the gas gauge in my car and how inaccurate the “1/2 full” marker really seemed to be.<br /> <br />“I swear, from empty to half lasts forever, but once it hits halfway, that second half seems to go twice as quick.”<br /><br />Megan eagerly agreed with my proclamation and said, “I think you must have a hole in the bottom half of your gas tank.”Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-48749352554681096152009-07-18T22:30:00.004-04:002009-07-18T22:37:04.704-04:00Am I on candid camera?Kate’s been protesting naps like she has been hired by some toddler lobbyist to be their spokesperson. This is not boding well for me, as I happen to enjoy the quiet and productive moments that are only afforded to me during nap time. I also think she’s been secretly viewing the DVD series on how to argue with anything that her mother says, <em>the advanced version</em>. If I told Kate that Dora the Explorer was hiding out in our basement with Boots and they had smuggled in a case of elicit Fruit Roll Ups, Ice Cream, and Tootsie Pops and I would like nothing more than for her to go down there and play for hours past her bedtime, she would contemptuously glare at me and say, “I am NEVER going to want to do that.”<br /><br />So this unique combination of events has made coercion at nap time near impossible. As such, I’ve resorted to tactics that my pre-child self most assuredly would have protested against ever using on her child. It was so much easier to be a smart and judgemental parent when I didn’t have children. I digress; but yes, I moved on to threats and bribes about things she would forgo if she didn’t nap. I think that worked for a day. Immediately Kate would start to respond with comments like, “I don’t want to go to the park anyway.” It hasn’t been working so well since she caught on to my approach, so I stopped with the ultimatums. While I haven't figured out a new approach, that hasn't kept her from working to stay one step ahead.<br /><br />“Kate, you need to nap.”<br />“I don’t want to nap.”<br />“I’m sorry, but you need to take a nap.”<br />“No, I’m NEVER going to take a nap. And I don’t want to do ANYTHING either. I just want to stay at home forever and NEVER leave.”<br />“Umm, okay.”<br />“And I’m going to stay home and I’m just going to do not-fun things!”<br />“Oh, really? What are you going to do?”<br />“I don’t know. Run into walls or something.”<br /><br />Dude, I’m absolutely stupefied… and horrified … and a little dizzy considering how unqualified I am for this job.Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-80371128131743110272009-07-14T21:34:00.008-04:002009-07-15T11:23:31.789-04:00Dear Self (Circa 1995)It is obvious that the frienemies you currently have aren’t really friends at all. Perhaps you are the one they choose to hang around with so they can feel better about themselves. Because, let’s be honest, friends don’t let friends wear dresses resembling hotel curtains adorned with decoration from a tacky 1980’s wedding cake. Friends also don't let you agree to get your hair done by Joanne, a woman in her mid-sixties, in the “Beauty Shop” residing in the basement of her home. Perhaps that is why your hair looks like something a 60 year old woman would have done to her own hair. In her basement. With no lights on. Nary a mirror in sight.<br /><br />While you aren’t aware of it, you should better appreciate your ability to eat a plethora of junk, avoid any type of physical activity, and maintain a svelte 100 pounds. Although you can’t appreciate it now since you are too entrenched in typical high-school angst, it will be the only time in your life you are afforded such luxury. Yes, you scoff now, but I can assure you that no matter how much you exercise, or how Karen Carpenter your diet, your arms will never again be that skinny. Isn’t that great news? <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkjNcliTWPT9RICYtqpxnowhyQ5UtXSQBbqsK97mszkkSU192JfUssN_uFa7k2Qm30b_MfyWBAvqp7EJR0XoJiBVGZ5Pl14xWOkIDFX7kTK_6fv5ztrslKDBNEd1HgjrWmeSauL8Efw/s1600-h/07-14-2009+08%3B57%3B57PM.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkjNcliTWPT9RICYtqpxnowhyQ5UtXSQBbqsK97mszkkSU192JfUssN_uFa7k2Qm30b_MfyWBAvqp7EJR0XoJiBVGZ5Pl14xWOkIDFX7kTK_6fv5ztrslKDBNEd1HgjrWmeSauL8Efw/s400/07-14-2009+08%3B57%3B57PM.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358494643536551682" /></a><br /><br />I know it is annoying, but we also need to talk about the tan. You know how your mother (who knows nothing) tells you daily that you do not need to tan at the electric beach and that doing so is detrimental to your health? Like any other invincible teenager, I know you roll your eyes and emphatically protest about how she can’t POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND just how important that it is. In fact, you might just fall over and die if you aren’t able to achieve such a hideous fake golden tan. However, many years later, you will realize that the maybe she was on to something. The scars left from multiple surgical removals of precancerous cells are so much sexier.<br /><br />I know that the age gap in siblings isn’t unusual to you, considering that you are 14 years older than your younger brother. However, besides the Duggar’s, the other 99.9% of the world doesn’t automatically assume “siblings” when they see you with your infant brother. So, when you decide to proudly display your photograph with said brother, you look remarkably like a high-schooler who gave birth her sophomore year. <br /><br />Have fun at the dance.<br /><br />Self (Circa 2009)Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-21039595852362448202009-07-11T22:55:00.008-04:002009-07-12T00:03:49.729-04:00Too good for the whole imaginary play thingOn Friday, poor Miss Kate (and don't forget POOR MOTHER ... it is always bad for the MOTHER) spent many miserable hours having a test performed at the hospital. It is one of those things that I’m not really ready to talk about. You know, ignore it and it either isn’t happening, or will likely go away, right? In all honesty, we are hoping that it is just more of a precautionary measure to assure us that nothing significant is wrong and we can continue looking at the issues of the more insignificant variety. The test itself wasn’t really the issue, it was just an MRI. The issue was the IV they had to inject … which was the prelude to the sedative … as the preface to the test. If you aren't aware, MRI's require you to lie completely still for the duration of the test. Keeping Kate still to complete an MRI is incomprehensible. Just envision the Road Runner on speed. Sedation blog to follow. It deserves its own. Enough said. <br /><br />Restraining a three-year old who is screaming for her mom so hard that her eyes are starting to get bloodshot is about as fun as a colonoscopy. After they finished inserting the IV and taped her arm to the splint to secure the IV, she gave me the look that told me I was most assuredly not to be trusted EVER AGAIN. The nurses on the floor were surprised by Kate’s will. Once she calmed down, they were extra careful to stay on her good side, recognizing that would make all of our lives easier from that point forward. I also suspect that earth shattering shrieks from the Peds floor doesn’t do much to calm the other pint-sized patients who are being falsely assured by their well intending parents. <br /><br />Kate could hold a record for the most adaptable kid, should such a contest ever exist. However, once you stick an IV in her arm and keep her in a hospital bed for hours, her cooperation plummets faster than the NYSE on Enron notice. As the nurse approached Kate’s bed to wheel her down to the elevator, she sensed Kate’s apprehension and suspicion immediately. She was skilled in making the bed-ride an adventure, but once we arrived at our destination and parked, the Kate-Freak-Out-Meter was rapidly climbing. <br /><br />In a distraction maneuver, she grabbed Kate’s doll.<br /><br />NURSE: “What’s her name?”<br /><br />KATE: “Baby Kate.”<br /><br />NURSE: “Awww. Baby Kate. Just like you. Your name is Kate.”<br /><br /><em>Blank stare</em><br /><br />NURSE: “Oh look. Baby Kate has blond hair. She has blond hair like you!”<br /><br /><em>Nothing</em><br /><br />NURSE: “Such pretty strawberry blonde hair your baby Kate has.”<br /><br /><em>Incredulous look</em><br /><br />NURSE: “Baby Kate, you’ve got such pretty, pretty blonde hair. It’s princess hair, just like Kate has!”<br /><br /><em>Incredulous look</em><br /><br />KATE: “No, it’s just plastic hair.”Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-3618852757624690452009-07-08T15:46:00.005-04:002009-07-08T15:53:05.736-04:00Blue Moon ... you saw me standing alone ...I have fallen in love. Yes, I’ve fallen in love with the <a href="http://www.kashi.com/products/chewy_granola_bars_cherry_dark_chocolate">TLC Chewy Dark Chocolate Granola Bar</a>. For those of you wondering if I have officially lost it, the answer is a resounding yes. Perhaps it is because I’ve spent countless dollars in search of a healthy, on-the-go breakfast bar, only to find myself sorely disappointed over and over and over again while I pondered the unfairness of such while chewing aimlessly on a cardboard food imposter. But these? Love, it is true love, I swear. Plus, an excuse to have chocolate for breakfast? What isn’t to love? Kate and I went to Target yesterday and were on sale for $2.50 per box. I did what any irrational person who eats the same thing for breakfast everyday would do … I bought every box on the shelf. The cashier eyed my cart of granola bars, toilet paper, stickers, granola bars, and granola bars. His eyes said WOMAN, don’t you realize you negate the healthy aspect when you consume 400 of them?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjvNt0qv3wzaXQovS02d3a9JMHLI-3mQgTOCP2raEhqiiHrIoXk4QxTsw09P2nD3KKITYbj1TNSW6m006FuI4pMtAnZM0ACFG1bQoCGfIX6b_HwmFU87jGaFKKwZgCnkib3DaXo4Qqg/s1600-h/medium.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjvNt0qv3wzaXQovS02d3a9JMHLI-3mQgTOCP2raEhqiiHrIoXk4QxTsw09P2nD3KKITYbj1TNSW6m006FuI4pMtAnZM0ACFG1bQoCGfIX6b_HwmFU87jGaFKKwZgCnkib3DaXo4Qqg/s400/medium.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356178261165578594" /></a><br /><br />This is not an advertisement for Kashi, Kashi doesn’t even know who I am. Although, I argue that they should, since I singlehandedly keep their cereal, cracker, and granola bar business solvent. Kashi, do you hear me? My only beef about these is that they aren’t organic. Considering I was raised on Wonder Bread and Spaghetti-O’s and still turned out semi-normal (emphasis on the semi), I think I can live with non-organic.<br /><br />This brings me to <a href="http://www.bluemoonbrewingcompany.com/">my second love</a>:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-1mEzUBauVX1MzuNvNHa7gd7fDn70BNAPDJW9gVmWrdzhfvmZxz4XTfgUvgsKgr6QP795q9bSOzoEpUlXiMlf2_dLBhg27pYUjfblON1LRh5s1efUW_ZvG3nCT2fhGcw7fK4WwxxRGg/s1600-h/pt-C605!KTV01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-1mEzUBauVX1MzuNvNHa7gd7fDn70BNAPDJW9gVmWrdzhfvmZxz4XTfgUvgsKgr6QP795q9bSOzoEpUlXiMlf2_dLBhg27pYUjfblON1LRh5s1efUW_ZvG3nCT2fhGcw7fK4WwxxRGg/s400/pt-C605!KTV01.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356179264567912338" /></a><br /><br />I’m not even typically a beer drinker, but something about the warm weather and warm red wine makes me want to gag a little. Okay, just on really warm days, the other 350 days of the year, red wine it is. But this beer? I’m in love all over again. I have imaginarily made it calorie-free and organic, so indulge as you wish.<br /><br /> I think there is something seriously concerning about my two favorite obsessions. It is sort of like going to McDonalds and ordering three Big Mac’s and a Diet Coke.Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-15065172349385783552009-07-04T15:45:00.005-04:002009-07-04T15:59:20.103-04:00Name that photoHappy Indepedence Day! Or, I guess if you are a blog reader from outside of the United States, err, Happy Saturday!<br /><br />My plans were to catch a cute picture of Kate at the parade today, but that was about as successful as most of my plans end up being. You know, planning to catch up on the 3 million emails in my inbox; planning to clean the basement; planning to stop being sarcastic ...<br /><br />As I looked at the uploaded photos from the festivities today, I found this one that I had to share. Kate's expression is fantastic and totally sums up her personality. It just cracks me up, she's got a neverending supply of facial expressions.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDNUvesDLefKUr_AZYB4-hBlbuJFGHLNew8CMCu08TKHHrO_CTLk78kYJMJy9evb2u8eV1g9jLz9Vv6k-UbDRwZUTvc9qeEDmg01OnP5ArNbbVD192k4yNeihm7YDooDsPkDS1jlN61g/s1600-h/079.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDNUvesDLefKUr_AZYB4-hBlbuJFGHLNew8CMCu08TKHHrO_CTLk78kYJMJy9evb2u8eV1g9jLz9Vv6k-UbDRwZUTvc9qeEDmg01OnP5ArNbbVD192k4yNeihm7YDooDsPkDS1jlN61g/s400/079.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354694673309621346" /></a><br /><br />I couldn't come up with an appropriate caption, so I thought I would leave that up to you.<br /><br />Happy 4th!Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-37408140131907003102009-06-28T22:05:00.003-04:002009-06-28T22:10:16.841-04:00And more from the Domestic GoddessOne night last week, in a desperate attempt to feed my starving family, I popped an <a href="http://www.amys.com/products/category_view.php?prod_category=3">Amy’s frozen pizza</a> into the oven. For the record, the term “cooking dinner” is a phrase I interpret fairly loosely. In the event that I claim to be cooking dinner, or having cooked dinner, you might want to check with Craig to see exactly what that entailed. Now, when I COOK gourmet pizza, I do so directly on the oven rack, since it gives it a nice, crisp crust. Craig prefers softer crust, but I stand firm in my stance that the one who slaves for hours, COOKING DINNER, gets to decide just how that process goes. The only downfall to this cooking method is that it often leaves a mess on the bottom of the stove if you forget to place an empty pan on the shelf underneath the cooking pizza. Not that I’d ever forget, but I am just telling you what would happen if I did.<br /><br />I’m also not saying that I haven’t used my oven since last week when I cooked a frozen pizza for dinner. If you infer that from reading this post, I’m still standing by my story.<br /><br />So, tonight I turn on the oven to cook some unnamed dinner accompaniment that will remained unnamed, least I further my tarnished reputation by following up pizza with what I made tonight. I eat healthy about 95% of the time and these two stories converge and draw attention to that remaining 5% quite well, don’t they?<br /><br />As the oven is heating up to 450 degrees, which is of course a suitable temperature for cooking all things healthy, the pizza remains on the bottom of the stove start turning into lovely little carcinogen chucks. As expected, the smoke detector in the kitchen started to go off.<br /><br />Immediately, I went into never-missing-a-teachable-moment mommy mode, as I realized Kate had never heard that noise before. The 60 Minutes episode of children sleeping soundly through smoke alarms flashed vividly in my mind.<br /><br />“Hey Kate, do you know what sound that is?”<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />“Do you know what that noise means?”<br /><br />“Dinner is ready?”Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9056035148697929273.post-9227160572713912092009-06-25T21:57:00.006-04:002009-06-26T06:07:00.056-04:00Dude, I'm still going to buy your strawberriesToday I was able to sneak in a quick trip to the farmers market. Apparently “quick” is now defined as battling dozens of wayward pedestrians, nearing road-rage to secure a parking spot, hiking across the park with heels sinking into the grass, and wiping sweat off my forehead in regular intervals. Upon arriving, I approached a large organic booth displaying a variety of fruits and veggies. A cheery woman greeted me and exuberantly said, “Oh my! Is that your natural hair color?”<br /><br />In my defense, I think I am a generally decent human being. However, I hate it when people ask stupid, potentially embarrassing, uncomfortable, and nosey questions. For the record, I have never dyed my hair a day in my life; it is 100% true, natural, Scandinavian blonde. That isn’t to say that I can’t play a dumb blonde well on occasion. I also can play a blonde who could be a fake blonde, but isn’t, yet is annoyed that she’s being asked this question on behalf of all of fake blondes out there. I wanted to say, “No, it’s a wig. Is it that obvious? My oncologist said it looked great.” Or possibly, “Yes, it is. After the sex-change operation, I started growing this lovely blonde hair. I think I was meant to be a woman all along.” I even contemplated, “Why yes. Is that your natural lack of self-control?”<br /><br />But, of course, I didn’t. Because although my patience-for-annoying-people tolerance was at an all time low today, I do a fantastic job at censoring my thoughts before I form them into words. It’s how I continue to maintain any degree of socialization. I said it was natural and the lady gushed about how gorgeous it was, how fortunate I was to have this hair, and how people pay blah blah blah for hair this color. Blah blah blah. Blah. Blah blah. I bought some strawberries from her and moved on. <br /><br />A few booths down, I arrived at the only other large organic vendor at the market. I was inspecting the asparagus and trying to remember exactly what veggies I had bought at the store on Monday. You know the ones I spend my money on, and then allow to rot when I get home too late to cook and resort to ordering pizza instead. The young woman behind the booth looked up and said, “Wow! Is that your natural hair color?”<br /><br />I’m not kidding you.<br /><br />I didn’t catch on at first. I gave her a quizzical look and told her that I hadn’t been asked that question in years and I had just been asked minutes earlier. Instead of sharing in my disbelief, she diverted her eye-contact and smiled and told me how pretty it was. At that moment, I realized the cover on their new sales tactic had been blown. Perhaps next time they could make it a little less obvious, or alternate flattering comments for their potential customers. You know, or at least redefine what exactly constitutes a safe compliment ...Lyndsayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18207977772754943743noreply@blogger.com7