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It 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The final diagnosis? Costochondritis. If given the choice between costochondritis and walking over hot coals in my bare feet, I’d find myself in quite a quandary.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
That'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 my dear friend Megan. 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.
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.
I digress. But the memory is just too good to keep to myself.
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.
“I swear, from empty to half lasts forever, but once it hits halfway, that second half seems to go twice as quick.”
Megan eagerly agreed with my proclamation and said, “I think you must have a hole in the bottom half of your gas tank.”
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.
I digress. But the memory is just too good to keep to myself.
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.
“I swear, from empty to half lasts forever, but once it hits halfway, that second half seems to go twice as quick.”
Megan eagerly agreed with my proclamation and said, “I think you must have a hole in the bottom half of your gas tank.”
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Am 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, the advanced version. 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.”
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.
“Kate, you need to nap.”
“I don’t want to nap.”
“I’m sorry, but you need to take a nap.”
“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.”
“Umm, okay.”
“And I’m going to stay home and I’m just going to do not-fun things!”
“Oh, really? What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Run into walls or something.”
Dude, I’m absolutely stupefied… and horrified … and a little dizzy considering how unqualified I am for this job.
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.
“Kate, you need to nap.”
“I don’t want to nap.”
“I’m sorry, but you need to take a nap.”
“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.”
“Umm, okay.”
“And I’m going to stay home and I’m just going to do not-fun things!”
“Oh, really? What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Run into walls or something.”
Dude, I’m absolutely stupefied… and horrified … and a little dizzy considering how unqualified I am for this job.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Dear 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.
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?
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.
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.
Have fun at the dance.
Self (Circa 2009)
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?
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.
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.
Have fun at the dance.
Self (Circa 2009)
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