I can't think of a title that doesn't contain explicatives regarding this topic

Since 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.

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.

You may remember in August I also ended up with a fluke visit to the emergency room, where my blood pressure was suddenly elevated. 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!”

Casually, my Doctor said, “Lyndsay, are you under a lot of stress?”

“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!”

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 . So far, it isn’t working, which is perhaps not as funny.

I spent months laughing about how outrageous all of this has been, but it’s bordering on being not so funny anymore.

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.

Me: Version 3.0

Is it possible to wake-up an entirely different person?

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.

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.

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.

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.

I’d love to know what fairy is needed at your house …

The source of my sore muscles, bad attitude, and pessimism

We’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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
Oh and whatever you do, don’t look in the closets until some time next week.

Life motto of the moment

I’ve been contemplating writing a post that explains just how busy I am, how far behind in all aspects of life I feel, and consequently how inept I’ve been at posting the last couple of months. Then, I thought, why point out the obvious? You guys are smart people; I think you’ve figured it out.

I’ve been inexplicably busy at work. I’m much too intelligent to write about work on my blog, but I can say it has not been my favorite of months. There is a management quote that my dear friend Sarah shared with me last week, that I thinks sums up just exactly how I’ve felt at work lately. “The key to being a great manager is keeping those who hate you away from those who are still undecided.”

I’ve been drowning in school, which includes an online stats course and a labor relations course that I travel 5 hours to attend one day per week. I think that combination could easily be threatened by a judge to any parolee and guarantee a zero percent chance of recidivism. Let’s be serious for a moment and contemplate online stats. Stats comes about as naturally to me as Swahili and I get the added benefit of having to teach it to myself. Yes, me, the one who likely won’t be qualified to help Kate with her math homework in 3rd grade. Now, let’s think about the labor relations course that I drive 2.5 hours to after a long day at work, sit in for 3.5 hours, to turn around and drive 2.5 hours home. Multiply that by 8 weeks and then pour me a drink because my brain hurts.

I’ve also been bombarded with house projects, as we finish the final three unrenovated rooms in our house in a mad attempt to get our house on the market. That sentence should make your eyes roll back in your head and uncontrollable giggles escape the confines of your mouth. Selling your house? In Michigan? Snort. This woman really is delirious. However, it’s in our master plan for many reasons and apparently I believe that we are choosing not to participate in this recession.

Today, Kate and I went into TJMaxx to see if we could hunt down an eclectic mirror for our current renovation project: the master bathroom from hell. We didn’t find one, but instead found this curious little plaque that cannon-balled off the shelf into my cart.



I think it is a sign. Now, that is a double entendre.

All of that to tell you that I wasn’t going to tell you how busy I am. I’m efficient like that.

I’m trying to be better about being here though, as this blog tends to be my only sane outlet. That right there is a scary thought …

RU4Real? WTH? SOS!

Last week, Craig nonchalantly informed me that he could no longer use his cell phone for texting. He has had a work cell phone for almost as long as I can remember, so much so that I sometimes forget it isn’t technically his. Apparently they’ve switched business plans and the new plan does not offer free texting. I am not sure why the regression, it is sort of like sending your DSL back because you’d prefer that good ole’ dial up connection.

When he shared this earth shattering news, I shrugged, asked why, and then moved on. Initially I did not recognize the impending crisis. Since that time, I’ve changed my mind and have determined that it is cruel and unusual punishment and I should be seeking damages for restricting me to such barbaric means of communication. Texting provides an easy way to ask a simple question, without all of the unnecessary pleasantries expected in a phone call. Texting is the perfect accompaniment to any multi-taskers agenda. I mean, how else can you sit in a meeting and make dinner plans? How else do you keep in contact with a significant other who often isn’t in the same zip code? How else do you delegate tasks to an unsuspecting husband who can't debate very well via text?

Our texts are never-ending, but generally go something like this:

You getting Kate, or I?
Me.

What’s for dinner?
Dunno. Go somewhere?
Yes.

Have you left yet?
Yes, be there in 45.
K, see u there.

I think I am going to die.
Call 911 before you do.
But I can’t lift the phone to my ear.
Bummer.

Swine flu feeling better?
No.
Oh, go back to bed.

In a matter of two or three texts, we were able to coordinate travel arrangements for our toddler, finalize dinner plans, synchronize our schedules to arrive home together, save my life after a day at the gym, and offer treatment and remedy for a pandemic flu. Does life get any better than that? So, instead of the benefit of these micro-conversations, designed to minimize interruption and formalities, we have regressed to phone conversations.

{Ring, ring, ring}

CRAIG: Hello
ME: Hi, how are you? I don’t really have time to listen to your answer, but I am supposed to ask, right?
CRAIG: Fine, how are you? I don’t really care, I need to get back to work, but you asked, so I’ll ask.
ME: What are you doing? Seriously, could I be asking a more ridiculous question?
CRAIG: Working. She is blonde. She called me at work, what does she think I am doing at 9:30 on a Tuesday morning. What are you doing?
ME: Um, working. Did he really just ask me that question? How annoying is this?
CRAIG: So, what’s up? Why is she calling me, my boss is standing here waiting for me, I’m hoping this is important.
ME: When are you coming home this week, Thursday or Friday? Don't act irritated I called, I am the one handling life here without any assistance from you thankyouverymuch.
CRAIG: Thursday I think. Couldn’t this have waited until later?
ME: Okay, thanks. Is it acceptable to hang up now, or do I need to proceed with some additional conversation?
CRAIG: Okay, loveya, bye.

I much preferred:

Home Thursday or Friday?
Thursday I think.
Cool, call u later.

I’m revolting, boycotting the text-ban. I don’t think I am going to survive this torture.

Caution: Do not try this at home

On Sunday, after I had been in the car for uncountable torturous hours, I was craving some human contact. While calling someone is easy, there are times when talking just feels like too much work. It is that awkward stage of wanting company, but not quite desperately enough to engage in arduous work, like syllables and coherent sentences. In these moments, there is no more glorious invention that the text message. So, I grabbed my phone and the follow text-conversation took place:

ME: What doing?
CRAIG: You are going to get a ticket.
ME: What? For what?
CRAIG: For texting while you are driving.
ME: Whatever. I’ve got skillz.
CRAIG: Nlol
ME: What is Nlol?
CRAIG: Not laughing out loud.
ME: Shut up, you text while you are driving.
CRAIG: No. No, I don’t.
ME: Oh, you so do.
CRAIG: No, I pull over.
ME: Is your nose growing?
CRAIG: Really I DO pull over.
ME: Uh uh.
CRAIG: Seriously.
ME: I guess that is a good thing. You can’t drive even when you aren’t texting. I catch your point.
CRAIG: NLOL.NLOL.NLOL

Disclaimer: I did not actually state that I was driving. This very easily could have transpired at a stop light (or some other non-moving event), which isn't as dangerous as it is downright annoying.

Please pass the cheese

When I don’t have time to blog I get ornery. I think that is because writing is pretty much the only relaxing activity that I partake in. I can see the book title now: How Blogging Saved What Was Left of My Sanity. Oh and my definition of ornery might be slightly different than those close to me. I, ahem, don’t admit to ornery very often, so you know it has to be ugly, right?

Well, I haven’t had time to write lately, or to even breathe for that matter … and I am getting ORNERY. Ornery as is I am nearing that little precipice where being nice to innocent bystanders is teetering on impossible.

Situations like this are best illustrated with examples, so let me give you an overview of my schedule from last Friday morning through tomorrow night. While I know that is the last thing on earth you care to read, taking this out on my keyboard might help release some of this stress. Hmmm, where to start. I worked a 16-hour day, orchestrated a company event for 146 people, emceed portion of said event, drove 14 hours (round trip) to see my sister, met my nephew, attending my nephew’s bris ( deserves its own post, as I am not Jewish), didn’t sleep one night while listening to my bleating nephew (not so endearing when shrieking baby is not yours), worked a 10-hour day, presented to our Board of Directors, developed a mid-term exam, had a Dr.’s appt that was beyond infuriating (deserves it’s own book, I am certain), will work another 8-hour day, and then administer exam to class.

I’m such a slacker. I mean, whatever will I do with the second half of the week? Well, besides packing three people for a vacation and being a single parent in the meantime.

I think ornery is a rather generous description.

Perhaps I SHOULD avoid blogging during times like this, since everyone enjoys nothing more than coming to a pity party, right?