tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13332624991584722842024-02-20T09:34:00.792-08:00She's Come UndunLiz used to be wrapped a little too tightly. . . watch as her life unravels Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comBlogger493125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-63375320479490203342023-04-17T07:18:00.001-07:002023-04-17T07:18:15.080-07:00Long Time Coming<p> It’s been a long time I’ll admit. No excuse will be offered as to why I have not posted in 2+ years. One excuse is offered, however, for why I am posting now.</p><p>My pain psychologist recommends it. No, your eyes are not playing tricks on you - pain PSYCHOLOGIST.</p><p>My reasons for visiting said psychologist has nothing to do with any autoimmune disease, immune deficiency, or other exotic conditions on which I pride myself. It has to do instead with the banal and ubiquitous complaints of lower back pain. Pain which has haunted my very existence and sidelined me for the past 2+ years. And just like some victims of verbal abuse may initially make excuses for the abuser’s behavior, I have let this insidious pain creep up and move into my house and inhabit my bed beside me.</p><p>This pain has caused me to learn all sorts of new terms regarding spinal anatomy: pars fractures, spondylosis, spondylothesis, laminectomy, microdiscectomy, median nerve blocks, epidural injections, decompression surgery, stenosis of the foramen, instability of the lumbar spine and of course the ever-present herniation of the L5/S1. I have seen a spine surgeon, (soon-to-be) two neurosurgeons, three pain management specialists, and two physical medicine and rehabilitation physicians. I have had countless sets of XRays, three MRI’s, and a nerve conduction and electro muscular study, five separate physical therapy protocols, seven spine injections, three sessions with an acupuncturist (before he released me because he admitted that he could not help) two therapeutic massages, and of course a “failed” decompression surgery. Hey, but who’s counting?</p><p>How writing about my current pain will help, I honestly don’t know. But in the “Leave no stone unturned” approach I have adopted, I will write like the dutiful patient I am. I will also comply with all of the other cognitive behavioral therapy recommendations that come my way. Something - oh something - has to help me!</p><p><br /></p>Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-6895835333347501682020-02-02T13:22:00.002-08:002020-02-02T13:22:16.573-08:00No-Spend FebruaryAs I think you know, I have decided to become a minimalist, But I have realized that - not only does it require a lot of energy to declutter a house you have lived and raised three children in for 32 years - the actual process requires the spending of a lot of money.<br />
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First you need to buy a book on minimalism. Then you proceed to throw/give/donate away almost everything you have owned or worn for the past 32 years and replace it with minimalist-looking stuff. Like plants. Plants comprise the elegant decor in almost every minimalist video and appear to be a must-have in large numbers. Then, of course, you need the appropriate watering can for said plants. Then you need to replenish your wardrobe in capsule-like fashion, which means solid-colored clothing from fair trade manufacturers in shades of black, white, and gray. It’s a good thing that this capsule wardrobe only has about 50 pieces in it because it would be frightfully expensive if not. Then you need to replace the colorful throw blankets you tossed out from your fair-trade weave basket in your living room with off-white throws only. And you absolutely need agate bookends and the appropriate books to display between them. It’s a good thing I happen to love the classics and hardcovers, so I just needed to pick those with the right size, color, and hue. Except for my W.B. Yeats poetry collection. It was a softcover and would not do. I downsized to a small hardcover in black and white. Fewer poems, but isn’t that what minimalist is all about? A good thing, too, that my dishes were white and my living room coffee table was shaped like a giant African drum. Big score there. And I already employed essential oil diffusers, herbal teas, incense, Himalayan salt lamps, and feng shui elephants in my everyday living. And, speaking of elephants, I somehow decided that a person like me should then donate more to charity organizations. You know, the right ones - so I adopted an orphaned baby elephant. And then I purchased a keepsake elephant necklace from their website to commemorate the day I adopted Kiombo from the Sheldrick Wildlife Trust.🐘<br />
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The point I am making is that I discovered that I had spent a lot of money on items I was supposed to be detached from. And I was losing sleep forever planning what I was going to throw out and how I was going to arrange my living space “just so” to prove that I, too, could become clean and minimal.<br />
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What WAS I doing? So I made a pledge to myself that I would have a “No-Spend” February in order to break this cycle of obsessive thought and spending. <br />
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Today is February 2nd and it feels like day 39 of a long and lonesome lent.<br />
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<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-71010312454851669822020-01-04T15:59:00.000-08:002020-01-04T15:59:32.431-08:00Way Too Late. . .One of my New Year’s resolutions arrived way too late.<br />
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You see, minimalists seem to always use bullet journals (or at least write in journals) and so I pragmatically purchased my very own, and dutifully wrote down my broad objectives for 2020 on New Year’s Day. One of these seven objectives was written as “Deepen and Expand All Relationships.” Yes, I was thinking of my husband and children, but I also spent some time thinking about my many friendships: those I have had since kindergarten, those more newly-made, those I wish to make, and those which I had let go out of negligence. Sheer negligence.<br />
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And then came the terrible news that one of my college housemates had died. A good, good friend I had somehow lost touch with throughout the years. A whacky, crazy, fun and joyful presence in my life for so long had disappeared into the maelstrom of raising a family. And now that beautiful spirit had disappeared from this realm forever; unable to retrieve, undo, circle back upon.<br />
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Oh why?<br />
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How did I let this happen? How did WE let this happen? I worried about attending college reunions - afraid to let others see that I had gained weight and was no longer the attractive young woman of 40 years ago. I worried about arranging visits at our respective beach houses for the same reason - letting her husband see me in a bathing suit seemed impossible to me.<br />
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Oh Ro!<br />
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Little did I know that you had divorced, and - from what I learned at your funeral today - had grown into a mature woman exactly like me (minus a few pounds) who loved complementary medicine, spirituality, and interconnectedness. My God, your funeral was held in the very church - two hours from my home - in which my grandparents were married exactly 99 years ago! I sat next to a stained glass window dedicated to my great-grandmother!<br />
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Yes, we were interconnected and my heart is breaking right now. <br />
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Hold tight to those you love.<br />
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<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-63965499591239256482020-01-01T08:41:00.003-08:002020-01-01T08:41:34.539-08:00New Year's Turn Around: Becoming a MinimalistI have decided to become a minimalist.<br />
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It seems to be the result of a long journey really; a quiet yearning in my soul that was blessed with an "Aha!" moment as I watched a documentary on minimalism. "THIS is what I want! THIS is what I have been longing for!" I said to myself. And my "Aha" moment turning into an "Aaaaaaaaaah" moment with a big sigh of relief.<br />
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But of course I don't quite know how to do this with four adults currently living under one roof - a roof Drip Dry and I have lived under for over 32 years. We and our children have acquired a lot of stuff in those 32 years and it all seems to be screaming to be released from overstuffed closets. The same desire came over me around the same time last year and I quietly trimmed down my wardrobe to an acceptable non-working level. I weeded out some of my humongous book collection which used to be the pride of my heart. I threw out some old sheets and towesl and I boxed up some extra vases and endless sets of Waterford salt and pepper shakers. I even started to rebox my grandmother's china which was sitting in our basement - untouched since we moved into the house all those years ago. But then I stopped. Half way through. Lost my energy. Got sick. Really sick. And never picked it up again.<br />
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Until. . .<br />
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Until the Christmas season snuck up on me once more and my family wouldn't allow me to leave town for the duration. Nor would they allow me to stick my head under a pillow and sleep it away. So I devoted my hate of Christmas over-decorating-over-eating-over-buying-and-over-stuffing to purging the junk from the drawers and closets. "Aaaaaaaaaaaah!"<br />
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And now it's time to experience the cathartic relief from writing once more, but I'm not sure how to go about it. I purchased a simple little black journal that I envision a minimalist using and I also pulled out this slim little laptop the Drip Dry bought for me last Christmas and has only been used once a month for paying bills. Both my pen and my keyboard are poised and we shall see which one wins.<br />
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<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-50443545346133003082019-09-02T14:45:00.000-07:002019-09-02T14:45:08.647-07:00Summer: Good Riddance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I haven’t spoken of Exit 25 in quite a while. The fact is that something has happened to squelch my love of this town and this house. The further fact is that something happened to squelch my love of summer.<br />
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Heat. And lung disease. And nausea and stomach issues. And fatigue. And sweat. And anxiety. And sun sensitivity.<br />
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Last summer I was all about tree hugging and forest bathing and swimming pools. This summer I was instead about pulmonary rehab and toilets.<br />
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So here I sit at the “shore” saying good bye to a summer I could just as well lived without. I walked the half block to the beach and stuck my toes in the sand this morning just to say I did it. Once. And now I watch the crowds leave in a mass exodus and think to myself. “Good Riddance!”<br />
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<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-9247970841409338742019-04-28T08:20:00.002-07:002019-04-28T08:20:52.201-07:00Identity Theft Strikes AgainEaster Sunday.<br />
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A day to bring out new bonnets, handbags, and shoes. A day to wear dainty pinks, yellows,and greens. The day, of all days, to attend church, for though we can no longer boast of a 5th Avenue Easter Parade, attendance at church is the closest thing we humans have to showing off our finery.<br />
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Everyone, that is, except me.<br />
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Now why I did not choose to stay at home on this particular Sunday is a mystery to me. I should have stayed cocooned in my bed as I had on many a prior Sunday throughout the past three months. I was still recovering from those strange anemias after all. I think, perhaps, that I was thinking of the reason for the season, but that was clearly not enough. You see, if I were going to church this going needed to be preceded by taking a shower. And if I needed to spend my allotted three minutes in a tepid shower, this needed to be followed by a minimum of 30 minutes recovering in bed. As a result, I ran short of preparation time in the clothing department. And no amount of time was going to help me in the mirror department. I hastily dressed in a black and white outfit that I didn't feel comfortable in, but it was the last one I had tried on when the music stopped playing in the "musical outfits" game.<br />
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I had clearly forgotten where I was going to attend church on that fine Easter Sunday. I had chosen to attend Mass with my husband - not at my own parish church - but at a local monastery affiliated with an enormously expensive all-boys prep school. "No one will know me there," I thought. No one will see me with my prednisone chipmunk cheeks, my curly, dried-out hair, and half-closed swollen eyelids. And while that may be true on any given Sunday, no so on Easter Sunday. Not so. For the church was filled with alumni and parents of students of that enormously expensive school: Men and boys alike in their ubiquitous blue blazers. Skinny mothers in their Lily Pulitzer and Vineyard Vine clothes. My own brothers had attended that school when growing up. So many people I know have children who now attend that school. Why did I ever think I was going to be anonymous?<br />
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But in actuality, I was indeed anonymous. No one DID know me, but I certainly knew them. The sad fact is that two separate women who I used to see quite often in my afore-titled role as "Church Lady" looked right at me, did not recognize me, and left me smiling at them like some sort of fool who greets total strangers on Easter Sunday.<br />
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Identity theft had stuck again.<br />
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Image, then, my utter agony as I glanced at those around me - dolled up and prepped out to the ultimate max as I sat in my black and white polka dots. Yes, sat; for I did not possess strength enough to even stand up at the required times. Oh how I plotted and planned my exit strategy in case I happened to run into another acquaintance on the way out. I sent my husband for the getaway car and left the building before the first line of "Jesus Christ Is Risen Today" was out of the cantor's mouth.<br />
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How far I had come from the true reason for the day. . .<br />
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<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-75695781919149466572018-08-08T11:49:00.000-07:002018-08-09T05:29:15.502-07:00What Kind of Idiot?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I just want to tell you that things have not been going as planned lately. It seems that the cosmos has things in store for me that I wouldn't have chosen for myself.<br />
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Let me reassure you that I don't have blue hair (currently) but I do have a hair story. Silly me thought that I could go and pick up my prescriptions before getting my hair colored the other day. Plus the appointment was at 1:30. Dicey time for me. Approaching the daily melt down when I need to be near my bed. I was sitting in the chair, hair full of dye when it descended: The<i> Walking Dead Wipeout</i>. I ended up begging the receptionist to go and rip my hairdresser back from her lunch break to wash that wicked stuff out of my hair. No cut. No blow-dry. Said yes to the purchase of yet-another no-frizz product. Like an idiot, I emptied the contents of my wallet, gave it to her, and walked out of that salon.<br />
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Idiot. <br />
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I have a plant story too. I have been fascinated with<a href="http://mysjogrenslife.blogspot.com/2018/07/forest-bathing.html" target="_blank"> forest bathing</a> and wanted to bring some more plants into my home. Now plants are about the only thing you can't order online, although I have ordered live bamboo sticks from Amazon. (And in retrospect I guess I could have called 1-800-FLOWERS and sent a plant to myself.) But instead I thought, "What kind of idiot can't drive to the adjacent town and go into a green house, pick out a plant and leave?"<br />
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What kind of idiot?<br />
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Guess.<br />
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I was such a mess in that hot, humid greenhouse I wanted to die. I snatched up a plant so quickly, I don't know its name, whether it needs sun or shade, or how much to water it. I just know it's green and will exude all sorts of good things into my air.<br />
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And I have a tree story too. . .<br />
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And a pool story. . .<br />
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OH, how is it that I have to readjust my life once again? Is it truly possible that I can't even do the little things anymore?<br />
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Someone bring me back from this!<br />
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<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-64502166010184171672018-07-20T08:02:00.002-07:002018-07-21T09:40:32.470-07:00The Answer is Blowing in the Wind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In contrast to my <a href="http://amomonspin.blogspot.com/2018/07/but-i-did-everything-right.html" target="_blank">last post</a>, I've had a glorious few days. (We won't talk about the absolute misery which descended in between and caused me to swear that I would not make any more social engagements because I would never again gather the strength to leave the house as long as I am lucky enough to live. I've gotten over that.)<br />
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The point is, that I believe I have discovered a few things.<br />
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In my book when I speak about Buddhist philosophy, I mention that part of its very core is the acceptance that life is like the wind and can blow us from here to there at any time.<br />
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How true. How true.<br />
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In fact, I think I've learned that my life can be directly connected to the weather. Not quite a tenet of Buddha, but maybe a universal truth for me. When I first became ill with Sjogren's, one of the most unsettling signs was that my exposed skin would turn bright red within 30 seconds of being in the sun. Not only that, but exposure to the sun - even when swaddled in SPF clothing - would make me feel ill and more fatigued. That seems to have changed a bit. I went swimming yesterday without my long-sleeved bathing shirt and sat in the late afternoon sun for a good 30 minutes without redness or rash. I'll take it!<br />
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On flip side. . .<br />
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My body doesn't seem to be able to handle the absolute heat anymore. I was outside in the humidity at a graduation party last weekend and sat - like a fool - with sweat dripping from the rim of my head; using the fancy cocktail napkins to wipe my brow and causing my forehead to turn a bright Penn State blue without my knowledge. (Oh, how I wished that the wind had come along and blown me somewhere else at that moment!) The only way I finally cooled down was in the cold shower after my return home, and I was completely wiped out for two days following.<br />
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And then the wind blew in these last three days of absolutely spectacular weather, accompanied by some other postive happenings in my life. I began a regimen of prednisone which rids me of my joint and muscle pain; I had the chance to spend time with different friends both in the restorative goodness of the forest and in a swimming pool; I have prayed alone in the contemplative quiet of an empty gothic church; taken a revitalizing nap with acupuncture needles in my body, and I have switched to a lovely pair of bamboo pajamas. <br />
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Is it any wonder I've decided that life for me is good once again?<br />
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The wind, my friends.<br />
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The answer to my life just may be blowin' in the wind.<br />
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<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-87002231953367712672018-07-11T10:22:00.000-07:002018-07-11T10:22:02.049-07:00But I Did Everything Right!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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UGH!!!<br />
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I did everything right this morning.<br />
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Rose
around 8:30 a.m., downed my first two morning medications, sat in the
shade in my backyard sipping coffee, said my morning prayers, and then
meditated with moist compresses on my eyes. Why, I even stood guard and
prevented the dog from pooping in the yard next door!<br />
<br />
I
returned back inside and - deciding against my usual carb-heavy
breakfast - chose to eat fruit instead. I then took my other six
morning meds, started my essential oil diffuser, soaked in a tepid bath
filled with epsom salts and essential oils with spa music playing, drank
my low-salt-no-sugar-vitamin-and-electrolyte-water, and stood up.<br />
<br />
UGH!<br />
<br />
Dizzy. Nauseous. Disgusted.<br />
<br />
What
happened to the benefits of being around trees? The sheer goodness of
summer nectarines and strawberries? The detox of epsom salts? The good
karma connected with the dog poop?<br />
<br />
All of it down the drain with the bath water.<br />
<br />
Could
it have been the second cup of coffee consumed while reveling in the
fresh morning air? The fact that my poor gastritis-ridden stomach
cannot handle the ingestion of eight morning meds with just fruit?
Could it be that I truly need my morning bagel for medicinal purposes?<br />
<br />
I
well remember those days long ago; days when, after working long
frantic hours, I would long for a day in bed. Now I can't do enough to
get out of it.<br />
<br />
There's always tomorrow I suppose. . .<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-61224839177074940322018-06-05T13:02:00.000-07:002018-06-05T13:05:24.156-07:00Gettin' Cairn Away<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIJi50TBuoVUAi-0pibRutDDJkHD5L91pkH_yEFn4vcUDTVV4CYaJ68cnsyEUNESkpg5FiuswxfyArH2xytxJqw_CfD_m4uPbb8oo_496963Z5e6mRYrk6lLh9ZKabEDHqwScajujW7lE/s1600/cairn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="203" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIJi50TBuoVUAi-0pibRutDDJkHD5L91pkH_yEFn4vcUDTVV4CYaJ68cnsyEUNESkpg5FiuswxfyArH2xytxJqw_CfD_m4uPbb8oo_496963Z5e6mRYrk6lLh9ZKabEDHqwScajujW7lE/s200/cairn.jpg" width="163" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Can't help myself; I'm loving these things!<br />
<br />
Perhaps it's an attempt to make order out of a world I can't control. arrange the capricious. manage the all-too-fickle and volatile aspects of my life.<br />
<br />
Identity theft has struck again and I'm longing for something.<br />
<br />
beauty. simplicity. contentment.<br />
<br />
How does one make a beautiful garden when she is practically confined to her bed? how do you hear a temple bell in a gentle breeze? enjoy the gentle light of a candle at night?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnr_CMhyphenhyphenBzz6ChW8uluMk_tCOzkobTg45KqjyN1Da2qa0jNBHNMFs6B5KG-uGGcSj64NyOsqmAhv6ErJ9RHa4ekJmlbsO3PlAP5MQ2rDIIZQLrNNqzvqJEuCXgMNBtd5a58Q87qrdj_cw/s1600/bell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnr_CMhyphenhyphenBzz6ChW8uluMk_tCOzkobTg45KqjyN1Da2qa0jNBHNMFs6B5KG-uGGcSj64NyOsqmAhv6ErJ9RHa4ekJmlbsO3PlAP5MQ2rDIIZQLrNNqzvqJEuCXgMNBtd5a58Q87qrdj_cw/s200/bell.jpg" width="200" /></a>Do you know that a study in Japan found that 30 minutes of "forest bathing" had the same effect on subjects as did 30 minutes of meditation? heart rate slowed. blood pressure dropped. contentment increased. just because they sat in the woods for a half-hour. What a symbiotic relationship we have with nature!<br />
<br />
Place you arms around a tree or bush, but don't touch it. Leave them about six inches from it's trunk or leaves. Feel the energy it emits. This is the meaning behind a true tree hugger.<br />
<br />
Yes, I may be getting cairn away. All because my neighbor recently hung a beautiful sounding wind chime which I hear from my bedroom window while I'm napping or falling asleep at night.<br />
<br />
Just cairn away. . .<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-76222495068406961382018-05-22T11:52:00.000-07:002018-05-23T05:58:05.253-07:00Gluten Free Gluttony <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nbknkNsy2rDM3EQ7-ASiwikXoq6CxRsT2GZtbIYxxIAWJ-A2KpIDXJ63MO_3vjij1KeUzDTMuMlB-uxUrq9sL3HiZUbAxgH7P7FZvh7USzNY08keRELDpQvXHmREopi-yBw871SOn3M/s1600/rolls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nbknkNsy2rDM3EQ7-ASiwikXoq6CxRsT2GZtbIYxxIAWJ-A2KpIDXJ63MO_3vjij1KeUzDTMuMlB-uxUrq9sL3HiZUbAxgH7P7FZvh7USzNY08keRELDpQvXHmREopi-yBw871SOn3M/s200/rolls.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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</div>
We've all been there.<br />
<br />
<br />
We've all done it before.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The scene is a grocery store. A gigantic one. Huge, in fact.<br />
<br />
It is 3:20 in the afternoon and you have yet to have lunch. That little bowl of Rice Chex consumed at 9:30 a.m. just isn't doing it for you any longer. You need to eat.<br />
<br />
And then you remember that the very reason you ate those Rice Chex is that you have made the decision to try a gluten-free diet. After hearing so much testimony from others about how it will help your joint pain, you've decided to give it a try. Plus, you're meeting a woman from a Sjogren's forum for lunch two days from now and she has chosen the restaurant for its fine selection of salads because she - like everyone else these days - is gluten free.<br />
<br />
And you? A best-selling author, recent world traveler, and aspiring advocate for autoimmunity? You need to join the growing trend. But you hate salads.<br />
<br />
That aside, you enter the humongous grocery store, contemplating seating yourself in one of those motorized-wheelchair-like-carts and know that you just cannot do it. The world-traveling-author-and-guest-on-the-Dr.-Oz-show is too scared to operate it. Plus, the reason you haven't had lunch is that you just had your hair done and you want to pretend - for just a few minutes, mind you - that you are one of those people who have their sh*t together. And no one with hair like yours has ever placed herself behind the handlebars of a motorized cart. You swish you head around from side to side, thinking that you look like a million bucks.<br />
<br />
First to the fish counter. You discover that God did not create any new species of fish since you last checked. Your entire body revolts at the thought of another evening of salmon which you will play with on your plate. You choose scallops instead. A member of the mollusk family. They may just provide some entertainment by rolling around on your plate, unless you decide to be brave and eat one.<br />
<br />
You move slyly over to the prepared foods. Ah, already-grilled veggies. Perfect. They too, make for good playthings on a dinner plate. And then you see it. The beloved macaroni and cheese is calling to you. But alas, you are now officially gluten free. Perhaps dairy free too for all you know, but we'll work on that tomorrow after you finish the chunks of provolone in your home fridge. So you appropriately choose a chicken, black bean, and brown rice cilantro bowl to bring home for your lunch.<br />
<br />
Let's go.<br />
<br />
But you have to pass the fresh bakery department on the way out of the store. Bread. The staff of life. But perhaps this store makes gluten-free bread! It's worth an inquiry! "No," says the beleaguered bakery worker while bringing a fresh-baked loaf of bread out of the store's brick oven, "You'd have to go to aisle 5B where the gluten-free bread is in with the frozen food." Aisle 5B? This store is so friggin big the aisle numbers have to be further delineated by A, B, and Cs? Remember, you chose not to hop into that motorized shopping cart. . .<br />
<br />
Knowing that you have lost the battle, you swing you hair around a few more times and pick up a loaf of the healthiest-sprouted-softest-lovliest-best-smelling-heart-warming-wheat bread you can find, put it in your cart, and quickly make it through the 10-items-or-less checkout line and to your car.<br />
<br />
You car. Where you place that loaf on the passenger seat, quickly open the wrapper, and continue to eat it and all of its gluteny goodness all the way home from the grocery store.<br />
<br />
The only problem that remains is to make the loaf look like it was not sold in its entirety. In fact, some stores sell half-loafs and so you rearrange the remaining bread to look exactly like the other half had never even seen the inside of that wrapper. What? Is your husband going to weigh the bread in your kitchen? Sure, he might think you were out of your mind to pay a whopping five dollars for a half-loaf of bread, but he knows that you're crazy like that sometimes. Especially when your hair looks so damn good.<br />
<br />
And so he enters the house after a long day of work and his laser eyes zero in on the very thing you don't want him to see, and he queries. . ..<br />
<br />
"Is this bread gluten free?"<br />
<br />
<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-61862400430941570282018-03-13T10:32:00.000-07:002018-07-10T08:18:54.531-07:00The Unpredictable Puncturist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LD_aWy8oTR5-I9RKOGVX3a09Y97u5n6UTwUOTk4bO5pkBXjiMocm33E0gm-UxuryO1vhkpmBx4ONrOqbaPb_-4wzi9rgHrzRK-uWtp36NSEGZpTj1_GOJl2Jj5wJYaM1amdv40__8zk/s1600/acupuncture.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="223" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LD_aWy8oTR5-I9RKOGVX3a09Y97u5n6UTwUOTk4bO5pkBXjiMocm33E0gm-UxuryO1vhkpmBx4ONrOqbaPb_-4wzi9rgHrzRK-uWtp36NSEGZpTj1_GOJl2Jj5wJYaM1amdv40__8zk/s200/acupuncture.png" width="197" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I don't remember if I've told you, but my right shoulder has been hurting for over a year now. And so after numerous doctor's visits, cortisone shots, physical therapy appointments, reikki sessions, deep tissue massages, and chakra balancings, I returned to acupuncture.<br />
<br />
Only I was fooled. <br />
<br />
On my last round of acupuncture, my puncturist and I had gotten to a point where a session was almost predictable. I would inform him I had neuropathy in my feet. He would query me about my bowel movements. And then he would insert needles into my head and my ears. After a few sessions he decided that he needed to treat me more systemically and so he started to put those needles into my (cringe) belly button.<br />
<br />
And so the morning of my first follow-up session I got myself ready - or so I thought. I polished my ears; inside and out. I made sure my belly button was squeaky clean. (No "smelly" button for me.) My fictitious answers to his all-too-private questions were well memorized. (Yes, exactly in the shape of a banana! How'd you guess?) By the time I reached his office, I believed I was all set.<br />
<br />
Only my puncturist didn't ask me those questions.<br />
<br />
I informed him that my shoulder was "killing me." And so he went right to work. As logic would have it, he began pushing on my lower back and stomach. "Where does it hurt more? Here? Or here?" And then he had me lie down and began to wiggle and roll my seriously-unshaven legs and proceeded to put needles at the juncture of two of my un-pedicured toes, one hand, and my stomach.<br />
<br />
Of course!<br />
<br />
Reminded me somewhat of <a href="http://amomonspin.blogspot.com/2009/10/oh-my-god-made-me-do-it.html" target="_blank">this post </a>from years ago! <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-4443072228971582762018-03-06T12:01:00.002-08:002018-03-06T12:03:35.357-08:00Woo Hoo! The Sjogren's Syndrome Foundation Is Promoting My Book<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcr4sMvaz30BavlU5Z34QNJCYoOSOcaNGcQqrS241LmgtDLLWZt5kRiJ11xAhtZUt1l_Pk7DPdwxNGJnz9VgvpFG6D2P0OX0mqNFji3sAql0tAVqJJL0YA7szfhUQj1_EvON4ROtvv9U/s1600/woohoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="148" data-original-width="341" height="86" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcr4sMvaz30BavlU5Z34QNJCYoOSOcaNGcQqrS241LmgtDLLWZt5kRiJ11xAhtZUt1l_Pk7DPdwxNGJnz9VgvpFG6D2P0OX0mqNFji3sAql0tAVqJJL0YA7szfhUQj1_EvON4ROtvv9U/s200/woohoo.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Patience (or more likely, hesitancy) pays off!<br />
<br />
I
have always known that my book would would benefit my fellow Sjogren's
sufferers, and the most likely way to reach them was through the
Sjogren's Syndrome Foundation. I had attended their National Patient
Conference last spring and know that they do good work and provide
patients with only the best information. And although I had sent a
copy of the book to them very early on, I just didn't seem to be able to
break through and find someone who had the time to read it and respond
to it.<br />
<br />
Well here we are, almost seven months later, and
its happened. The Sjogren's Syndrome Foundation will promote and sell
my book on their website!<br />
<br />
Oh why did I ever doubt? I knew I loved them! <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLO8wS7eUNG_-sRs6XXEN6oxRtpgWFOthAP3tpnS546cddWFhiVPW0DZpNIr-X_GUkAiCpX_JfvHSdHW-fPCQ9Ok2uvC8x4sZPaWe_2P_w57aVcW6EMr-zm0S-hAKwq2ZaOqsftHJZSvE/s1600/Sjogren%2527s+Syndome+Foundation.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="133" data-original-width="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLO8wS7eUNG_-sRs6XXEN6oxRtpgWFOthAP3tpnS546cddWFhiVPW0DZpNIr-X_GUkAiCpX_JfvHSdHW-fPCQ9Ok2uvC8x4sZPaWe_2P_w57aVcW6EMr-zm0S-hAKwq2ZaOqsftHJZSvE/s1600/Sjogren%2527s+Syndome+Foundation.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-24084032180015273932018-02-21T12:19:00.000-08:002018-02-23T10:31:27.414-08:00Lucky Number 45<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6EHm1yl8KbJmP5OnM3Bw2hkRJXsRD0WM09yzr35F-zH0Ry7YakXshAmnHcaZNnX6t0lZWgksFUug_8EDlmc4H_Qy3Jh6w-xqsqBhljLUqArYjnpzVa_Uv_C5DissGljXPjlTX4FyRdeY/s1600/family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="224" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6EHm1yl8KbJmP5OnM3Bw2hkRJXsRD0WM09yzr35F-zH0Ry7YakXshAmnHcaZNnX6t0lZWgksFUug_8EDlmc4H_Qy3Jh6w-xqsqBhljLUqArYjnpzVa_Uv_C5DissGljXPjlTX4FyRdeY/s200/family.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I am one of seven siblings, so through the years I have acquired a rather large extended family. Wait just a minute while I count them.<br />
<br />
<strike>1,6,2,2,5,4,2,1,5,5,5,5</strike><br />
<br />
<br />
44. There are 44 of us. We just gained another this past weekend. So that comes to a grand total of 45 siblings, spouses, nieces, nephews, and their own spouses and children. It's a lot to fit into a house at Christmastime. A lot to host a barbecue for in your backyard. It's quite a few more than you would like to know your business. And quite often I complain and shy away from large family gatherings; for they make me feel claustrophobic, anxious, and unsettled. I confess right now that I don't often appreciate the fact that I come from a large horde. . .clan. . .tribe.<br />
<br />
Until it really matters.<br />
<br />
Until we are all sitting together in a church for a funeral or out on the dance floor at a wedding. THEN it hits me and I realize the truth of the old adage that the whole really is bigger than the sum of its parts. I feel part of something very big, and vibrant, and special.<br />
<br />
This past weekend was very special in that way. My goddaughter got married, and so we traveled 16 hours each way (that's 32 hours in total) to get to the destination 696 miles away, spent 5 nights away from home in 3 different hotels, (not to mention close to $1,000) and drank numerous glasses of pinot grigio, just to join the other 44 family members in welcoming number 45 into the family.<br />
<br />
Lucky number 45!<br />
<br />
The next road trip is to Annapolis for another niece's baby shower because number 46 is due before long!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-2704377845834469652018-02-13T11:17:00.000-08:002018-02-13T11:18:09.047-08:00My Boring Life Part 3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPMYlU7MTSmRDh0TLfwD-qQkib9vdWiSfMRp73Z_tBBMKbx9YBRWGL8izlbaTnKcUBaCady0IavNt0RFRdOs9nahysBbfqoChxpwpgU7LY8ZReK2TFZmkL1vOyuY1B5lWtmKiuJyBw7Yg/s1600/amazon.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="176" data-original-width="286" height="123" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPMYlU7MTSmRDh0TLfwD-qQkib9vdWiSfMRp73Z_tBBMKbx9YBRWGL8izlbaTnKcUBaCady0IavNt0RFRdOs9nahysBbfqoChxpwpgU7LY8ZReK2TFZmkL1vOyuY1B5lWtmKiuJyBw7Yg/s200/amazon.png" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Just signed into my Amazon account.<br />
<br />
My family has placed 132 orders in the past six months.<br />
<br />
Does that sound a little<i> undun</i> to you?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
If you need more proof, check out <a href="https://mysjogrenslife.blogspot.com/2018/02/travel-easy-for-some-but-not-for-me.html" target="_blank">this post </a>on <a href="https://mysjogrenslife.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Drying My Tears</a>Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-44826331518628700542018-02-08T14:31:00.001-08:002018-02-11T05:32:47.353-08:00My Boring Life Part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv928whPDvY76KNWfk-RwlvQ-5jkQxH5CQcKHgyOtlBqqk_putqWyPzXTyyOaBQ1kpx9rmD5mNE2FYR_OO-SFczzFSzy0M7b8H028h0Ek7jBGgGWrvj-4QVPPJU3To950ukdp9jLA2qF8/s1600/car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv928whPDvY76KNWfk-RwlvQ-5jkQxH5CQcKHgyOtlBqqk_putqWyPzXTyyOaBQ1kpx9rmD5mNE2FYR_OO-SFczzFSzy0M7b8H028h0Ek7jBGgGWrvj-4QVPPJU3To950ukdp9jLA2qF8/s200/car.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
I got a new car two months ago and have only purchased gas twice.
When I looked at the mileage today I noticed that I have put a mere 750
miles on the car - and that included an ill-fated, 120 mile round trip
to White Plains to meet my daughter, Trigger, at her rheumatologist when I was sure
she was going to drop dead from uticaria vasculitis any day now.<br />
<br />
I mean then. I was sure
she was going to drop dead from uticaria vasculitis any day - then - so I frantically decided to meet her at her doctor's appointment and then got a wee-bit waylaid on my way home, driving over the George Washington Bridge instead of my beloved surburban Tappen Zee.<br />
<br />
If you disregard that mess of a trip, that's an average of 10 miles a day I drive that new car.<br />
<br />
I live one boring life - but at least Trigger’s not dying of vasculitis.<br />
<br />
Yet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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</div>
<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-45596590828729526432018-02-08T11:02:00.000-08:002018-02-23T11:13:24.452-08:00My Boring Life Part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPunhsAOxiEnfkFe6zLgjqsd6lgREsS2zsuS5kJFSzZF4vOZamTjLhAqSf5RwQj191rLArlbilgvzn8zCBB6l0vNZWDVFms0sWBiQ7OYFnPShJfIV-ykJ3ahl2eQGrF7zp5B6vaD69PtI/s1600/dishwasher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="236" data-original-width="214" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPunhsAOxiEnfkFe6zLgjqsd6lgREsS2zsuS5kJFSzZF4vOZamTjLhAqSf5RwQj191rLArlbilgvzn8zCBB6l0vNZWDVFms0sWBiQ7OYFnPShJfIV-ykJ3ahl2eQGrF7zp5B6vaD69PtI/s200/dishwasher.jpg" width="181" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
So here's a little confession. . .<br />
<br />
I ran the dishwasher last night before I went to bed because, it had been like three days since I ran it last. It was time. Right? Yet when I went to unload it this morning I was a bit surprised by its contents, which included the following:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>5 coffee mugs</li>
<li>6 wine glasses</li>
<li>1 Sam Adams pint glass</li>
<li>Some random silverware</li>
<li>2 lunch plates</li>
</ul>
That's it. C'est tout. The totality of it.<br />
<br />
I haven't put away a spatula, a colander, or a pair of salad tongs in as long as I can remember. <br />
<br />
Proof positive that Drip Dry and I have been living on coffee, wine, water bottles, sandwiches that he brings home from work, prepared foods in microwavable trays, and toast that I put on an actual lunch plate.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-57972272340372932362018-02-06T14:53:00.003-08:002018-02-06T15:07:10.466-08:00Who Let the Dog Talk?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8RSZEnJly491jgjx_kO2KjX7BkkC_433V4oYOqwqe_wkQkXoA-nZl8JeGHyxK7YPdTg2C2a8xgQQfHRy2KAmD4H7Wno1cU1Xmxs0wvkfHqDhXxFC1p4f2WfAJBGqWRogNKDrj8SSWdfs/s1600/lab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="291" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8RSZEnJly491jgjx_kO2KjX7BkkC_433V4oYOqwqe_wkQkXoA-nZl8JeGHyxK7YPdTg2C2a8xgQQfHRy2KAmD4H7Wno1cU1Xmxs0wvkfHqDhXxFC1p4f2WfAJBGqWRogNKDrj8SSWdfs/s200/lab.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
You know you're in trouble when your dog thinks you're boring.<br />
<br />
And looks at you, mind you, just like that. . .<br />
<br />
"You're boring lady. You don't think I've heard the Tah-Rah-Rah-Boom-da-Ray song about a million times from you already? Give me something new. In fact, give me food. That's why I'm here. Whatever you do, don't put that R E S P E C T song on your iPod and make me do that stupid dance again. Let me go outside and eat some deer poop. Much more interesting. Tasty too! I hate it when you're bored, my female leader of the pack, and then take it out on me.<br />
<br />
"I'm too old for this. I deserve a little respect."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-71098764049486115672018-01-29T08:05:00.002-08:002018-01-29T08:05:48.366-08:00Bam-Boozled!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9iD6WCCIKHyslb1RNvCx3M_MzIXF0GK9TLReyKx-B1kvYnInOlJQU9Vw-y4HoK_N4U0EvnuJ1meX9r1mHipivlpKVDRqucVfnMY4JBSgSwfxroKY3n_ooMImoPzrDdVEpHcQd2f25jqA/s1600/bamboo+plant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="214" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9iD6WCCIKHyslb1RNvCx3M_MzIXF0GK9TLReyKx-B1kvYnInOlJQU9Vw-y4HoK_N4U0EvnuJ1meX9r1mHipivlpKVDRqucVfnMY4JBSgSwfxroKY3n_ooMImoPzrDdVEpHcQd2f25jqA/s200/bamboo+plant.jpg" width="178" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Dear Mr. or Ms. Owner of Bamboo Clothing Co. Inc, (but I'm guessing you're a man because I think a woman would know better.)<br />
<br />
<br />
When I purchased your bamboo shirts it was for your ultra-comfortable-squishy-satiny-silky-softness - like that which I experience in my<a href="http://amomonspin.blogspot.com/2018/01/bam-boody.html" target="_blank"> BamBoody underwear</a>. This, Mr. or Ms. Owner, is not just a matter of personal preference. It is not like the choosing Charmin toilet paper over Scott or adding aloe or lotion to your facial tissues. You might, in fact, say that this bamboo purchasing is a medical necessity; allowing me to actually live outside of my bathtub and don clothing so that the rest of the world does not have to avert their eyes every time I come into their presence. I have discovered that the bamboo clothing is just about the only clothing that can touch my peripheral-neuropathied-skin without feeling like sandpaper.<br />
<br />
So when will I get to the matter at hand?<br />
<br />
Right now.<br />
<br />
You see Mr/Ms Owner, when sufferers like me have perhipheral-neuropathied-skin and so purchase your apparel for the comfort factor (because the clinginess factor of your product is not doing me any favors and the rest of the world really should avert their eyes when they see me approaching) the one thing we DON'T need is a freakin' label on the back of the shirt. You may think that peripheral-neuropathied-skin is only on arms and legs and perhaps you make your bamboo socks without any stitching along the toe line, and for this I applaud you. But I have Sjogren's Syndrome and this particular disease just happens to affect the aforementioned skin waaaaaay beyond my legs and arms. It affects my shoulders, back, lips, chin and tongue as well. And I don't need the itchiness of a label adding to the burning, icing, zapping, tingling, numb feeling that already exists there.<br />
<br />
Somehow the makers of BamBoody have gotten the message. From the looks of Drip Dry's underwear, Fruit of the Loom is on board as well.<br />
<br />
But you? You have BamBoozled me.<br />
<br />
BAMBOOZLED!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-77117024676253990502018-01-23T11:13:00.000-08:002018-02-11T05:28:15.712-08:00Bam-Boody!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkQEMar4-uPn7wonR_ByyB60_15T6PrmUpXyv_SVdv6qwnMCQ6SDSFeYZgnewnXVrkqxvPiFTj6sCt0DoIywRNC0ijBJtC3Ipuo7P9EqLWUXASA3kn4FvTVvw3SWx4KeB5N-Mfe6rwI4/s1600/bamboo+underwear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="469" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkQEMar4-uPn7wonR_ByyB60_15T6PrmUpXyv_SVdv6qwnMCQ6SDSFeYZgnewnXVrkqxvPiFTj6sCt0DoIywRNC0ijBJtC3Ipuo7P9EqLWUXASA3kn4FvTVvw3SWx4KeB5N-Mfe6rwI4/s200/bamboo+underwear.jpg" width="156" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
If you ever told me years ago that I'd be posting about underwear, I'd tell you you were crazy.<br />
<br />
Now it appears that I am.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBY1N5KCbTJxqG6LOjftLB_4cihkLp2SGbqn97a6HSMr5Jvtz_VLij75io2V-SIBUAOgP5zT33nNJfYYaDlLjzscztbEAskSpxvLKnHd4_Log1c_BJ2RkZpWyLu1i7TMi1NvwUuZjboog/s1600/panda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="260" data-original-width="194" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBY1N5KCbTJxqG6LOjftLB_4cihkLp2SGbqn97a6HSMr5Jvtz_VLij75io2V-SIBUAOgP5zT33nNJfYYaDlLjzscztbEAskSpxvLKnHd4_Log1c_BJ2RkZpWyLu1i7TMi1NvwUuZjboog/s200/panda.jpg" width="149" /></a><br />
In love with bamboo, that's what I am. I can't rip it out of those panda's mouths fast enough! this stuff is like silk, or satin, or - well - bamboo! I now officially own five pairs of bam-boodys, two bamboo shirts, two long sweaters, and my bamboo reaping is not officially over.<br />
<br />
I'm considering the sheets; although nothing may be able to compete with my satin coverlet. But imagine if I could actually use a top sheet again without pain.<br />
<br />
Without pain.<br />
<br />
Bamboo - I'd eat it, smoke it, rub it on my face, make shoes out of it. I bet those pandas don't have neuropathy. Look at that panda just sitting there: fat, dumb, happy. And everyone thinks they're so cute. They travel from miles around to see new babies named Ling Ling and Sing Sing in the zoos. And what about the ones on loan from China? They're bamboo snatchers, that's what they are - all of them. They are eating up the world's natural resources when they should be put to work making bamboo bras, and bathing suits, and bam-mother-of-the-boo-bride dresses, and old lady bamboo nursing home housecoats.<br />
<br />
They should keep ahead of the natural fabric technology, for God knows that the research community is not finding a way to stop my small fiber neuropathy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-72970264206552546202018-01-13T16:48:00.000-08:002018-01-13T16:48:53.511-08:00Alexa and Alzheimer's<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvlfEsFb-2XetF0LzWKtQ3jObLJ7sEknUzd0Ugsxfa3JS_sW84o1SVVc6ldtQKxbCCiAY8KTutex5n9usyjgI3QE8ra5jxITD1Ufa_0qnTT6ywmnYHxC6wWL9MTfEDFX8ini48jgYYLrE/s1600/alexa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvlfEsFb-2XetF0LzWKtQ3jObLJ7sEknUzd0Ugsxfa3JS_sW84o1SVVc6ldtQKxbCCiAY8KTutex5n9usyjgI3QE8ra5jxITD1Ufa_0qnTT6ywmnYHxC6wWL9MTfEDFX8ini48jgYYLrE/s200/alexa.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
We all know that I've become undun, or you wouldn't be here. So it should not be a surprise to any of us that I've become insane as well<br />
<br />
You've all heard of Alexa. And if, by chance, you haven't watched this hilarious skit on Saturday Night Live, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YvT_gqs5ETk" target="_blank">watch it now.</a><br />
<br />
The problem is, I think I'm worse than the "silver" people they portray in the skit.<br />
<br />
Yes, I've forgotten Alexa's name from time to time. When I've had her set an alarm for me I've forgotten the word "snooze" and tried to use the words "rest" or "wait" or "sleep." I've consistently messed up my request for podcasts, tune-in, or audible; but still I find her very useful - especially to reduce strain on my dry eyes. I use her to read my books to me. I listen to her cable news instead of watching it. I have taken to using her music feature by creating many complicated playlists, and - when I wake up during the night - I always ask her what time it is. (Now, I know you're thinking, "Why can't she just look at a clock?" But, sadly, she can't look at a clock because her eyes are blurry from the gel drops used at night and sleeping goggles placed on top of them.)<br />
<br />
Considering all of this, is it any surprise to you that I made the following two mistakes?<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>When attempting to call the dog inside, I reached my head outside of the door and called, "Alexa!"</li>
</ol>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
2. When attempting to ask Alexa a question, I yelled out, "Jesus?" </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Do you see anything odd about these two incidents?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Honestly, now tell me. . . . Do you??????</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-81656828524290343202018-01-08T06:15:00.002-08:002018-01-08T06:15:51.635-08:00Would the Word Obsessive Possibly Apply?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirs4SMaPe4YdwqT78oK0Kf6Rmj8-DGJlaMA7-WLB7MHyVUikqMKXqCFOpUYndQbmS8fRaC1EVW17NtKI0wDjm2W0d2ifc-HJTtMnRQpKCGCAXqyowLfwdqhh9XL9_xTAdyL0HqD34Qdxw/s1600/poetry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirs4SMaPe4YdwqT78oK0Kf6Rmj8-DGJlaMA7-WLB7MHyVUikqMKXqCFOpUYndQbmS8fRaC1EVW17NtKI0wDjm2W0d2ifc-HJTtMnRQpKCGCAXqyowLfwdqhh9XL9_xTAdyL0HqD34Qdxw/s200/poetry.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />Do you know how they claim that you have mastered a foreign language when you start thinking in it? I'm a master, folks. I'm thinking in poetrese. Thoughts are coming forth from me in perfect rhyme and meter.<br />
<br />
What's worse, I have compiled five collections of children's Christian poetry in the last two months and am working on five more.<br />
<br />
Disclaimer: Once I realized how easy it is to self-publish on Amazon, I returned to my old compilations of children's poetry and realized that I had three entire manuscripts which had been turned down by multiple publishers all set and ready to go. A bit of formatting, creating a cover, and pushing the "Publish" button was all I needed to do. That easy.<br />
<br />
But once I got going I couldn't stop. I knew I had at least another 200 or so poems which I had written in all those years that I worked for the church. They just needed to be tucked into their special poetry niches (a.k.a. the right manuscript) and Voila! God's Love in a Limerick!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbf0eUH_kfx-VEk-BkcP6dUz0Ktr8UD7jt6T0MUJ4slU3bHX9DK3pY9FvExan4kszrk2S_jMcLdytEZGJjf9aaad14l3pPZQKTAm3fGFpQoEmL3bA9R0Fm1ITO5YQxjYjX-56ldatwIqc/s1600/limerick.book+jpeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="184" data-original-width="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbf0eUH_kfx-VEk-BkcP6dUz0Ktr8UD7jt6T0MUJ4slU3bHX9DK3pY9FvExan4kszrk2S_jMcLdytEZGJjf9aaad14l3pPZQKTAm3fGFpQoEmL3bA9R0Fm1ITO5YQxjYjX-56ldatwIqc/s1600/limerick.book+jpeg.jpg" /></a></div>
And there's a niche for you!<br />
<br />
Of course I've had to go back and author a few more to round out the collections, and here's where we enter the obsessive phase. See, my eyes do not let me look at my netbook as often as I would like. Nor does my fatigued body allow me to sit upright for 24 hours a day. <br />
<br />
And so I am left thinking in poetrese. It's torture, really.<br />
<br />
But go ahead and check out my author page on Amazon: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Liz-Wilkey/e/B074JGD9L4" target="_blank">https://www.amazon.com/Liz-Wilkey</a><br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-23824400344917268712017-12-29T17:17:00.001-08:002018-01-03T12:41:09.077-08:00They Call them Christmas Cookies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVLEB8G8t_LaVOZYSHHX4M8bSZZNL_gcVcfd266R6IXtpy9N5z670bXFmY0EAwVzNy4dSB_J-IalBkLgnBlPYVKJSQaTPYMCFDPScq8LiQIMS0kK20feouQhcgJJZpHp2ck1d0kSh6KEk/s1600/christmas+cookies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1144" data-original-width="980" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVLEB8G8t_LaVOZYSHHX4M8bSZZNL_gcVcfd266R6IXtpy9N5z670bXFmY0EAwVzNy4dSB_J-IalBkLgnBlPYVKJSQaTPYMCFDPScq8LiQIMS0kK20feouQhcgJJZpHp2ck1d0kSh6KEk/s200/christmas+cookies.jpg" width="171" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Yes, they call them Christmas Cookies.<br />
<br />
Just for the record. . . .This day is the 29th of December.<br />
<br />
Ponzi's birthday.<br />
<br />
So, in all probability, the cookies were not for me, but I slept through the friend's visit in a deeeeeeeeeep sleep like Snow White without a prince to wake her up. Surrounded instead by Dopey. . . and Doc. . . and Sleepy.<br />
<br />
At any rate, let us return to those cookies and their cinnamon dots - in the center of their stars, the edges of their tree limbs, the toes of their stockings. Awakening memories of long ago, and what should have been yesterday.<br />
<br />
When was the last time I baked Christmas cookies? Allowed them to be made in messy fashion in my kitchen? Allowed flour on my nose and counter-top? Allowed their happiness to enter my heart? Their message to enter my life?<br />
<br />
When was the last time I felt joy?<br />
<br />
Why do I demand a spotless holiday? An unblemished season? A tabletop tree with only matching ornaments? Why does it hurt my eyes to gaze on things out of place? My very being to exist among dog hair, crumpled pillows, and used coffee mugs?<br />
<br />
Shout to the world that Christ became incarnate for us. Do you know that people? And I can only imagine that he came into this world in what we would now call not the most hygienic of circumstances. Would I allow sheep and cows to share my living space? A feeding trough to take the place of my child's cradle? Visiting kings to see the inevitable dung and straw thrown adrift?<br />
<br />
The scriptures say that Mary pondered. She didn't sweep, and disinfect, do laundry, or swear under her breath when she was the only one who emptied the dishwasher. She held that tiny baby to her breast; treasuring those things and keeping them in her heart. Only God knows how hard I prayed for more joy. . . .more acceptance. . .more endurance. . . .less anxiety . . . .during this holiday season. And this very morning I almost gave up on it all - thanking God for Xanax instead.<br />
<br />
And then came the Christmas cookies. . .<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-81127881215102358862017-12-20T09:07:00.002-08:002017-12-21T14:28:20.989-08:00The Chemo Infusion Center on Ugly Sweater Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoGIaZmnvESa-vDVzSJQQxoEEQlNsQVzEDHsy8WVp28rGv7RVwj27YfTCmQBnIe9985bNdPTvo0EyVIWCsiFV3EJqB7H-KogJrzQRMUEPlytQ_dFvySyOYWa2B_sGdHuUvMDopT8vyVUY/s1600/ugly+sweater.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="244" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoGIaZmnvESa-vDVzSJQQxoEEQlNsQVzEDHsy8WVp28rGv7RVwj27YfTCmQBnIe9985bNdPTvo0EyVIWCsiFV3EJqB7H-KogJrzQRMUEPlytQ_dFvySyOYWa2B_sGdHuUvMDopT8vyVUY/s200/ugly+sweater.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Only me.<br />
<br />
This could only happen to me. <br />
<br />
Perhaps this is to remind me how lucky I am to have diseases that are chronic, not fatal. Perhaps it is to at last get me in the Christmas spirit.<br />
<br />
Bah Humbug! <br />
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All I wanted when I walked in the door was to crawl into a ball and let the benedryl, steroids, and Rituxan drip slowly into me. To get a pillow and blanket or two from the warmer and hide myself in soulful silence: Meditations on headphones, audio books, and haunting Celtic carols on an iPod. You know, songs like <i>In the Bleak Midwinter.</i><br />
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Instead, here I am in the middle of Cancer Christmas. Headband horns, Christmas bells, and snowman leggings. Light-up Rudolph noses and gift-wrap "bow"es. Santa hats and reindeer mats. Chemo drips and recipe tips.<br />
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I even got a free lunch.<br />
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Hah!Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333262499158472284.post-61606247757861113842017-11-30T15:04:00.001-08:002017-12-01T08:23:48.700-08:00Tell Me God, Do You Crochet?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZepgT355Kpw8RBTBBIJFWZ6_lHpFW5D3fT8Oo3CeyjyoOX2SsvUTi9EcRVGuO8NIuinqlfcIVv3qrfrw5shmQzGN5MfEKR5W4nkGZgUW9fvgOHgzMWpY7T48jdiGk3_2R9n076b8eI4k/s1600/Psalm+139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZepgT355Kpw8RBTBBIJFWZ6_lHpFW5D3fT8Oo3CeyjyoOX2SsvUTi9EcRVGuO8NIuinqlfcIVv3qrfrw5shmQzGN5MfEKR5W4nkGZgUW9fvgOHgzMWpY7T48jdiGk3_2R9n076b8eI4k/s200/Psalm+139.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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While driving home from a dentist appointment yesterday - the umpteenth dentist appointment this year, mind you - I began to sneeze. And as I sneezed, I thought, "Oh Lord, not again!" This is the fourth time this year I've had to get a crown removed in order to rid my mouth of the decay which has crept uninvited underneath the crown. It is also the second in these aforementioned four times in which I have left the dentists' office sneezing and blowing my nose.<br />
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But enough about my sinuses. Which just happen to be low and desperately in need of a sinus lift; for if I had a sinus lift or two the roots of my teeth would not nestle around them and I perhaps could be a candidate for implants. At the very least I wouldn't walk around with cold symptoms for days after having dental work done. But enough about my lifts and my implants.<br />
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Keep in mind that all of these dental problems are due to the lack of saliva production from Sjogren's Syndrome. But enough about my spit.<br />
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In order to round out my story, I suppose I need to tell you that I was also driving in pain; for my right shoulder has been shouting out in some sort of protest for almost a year, but now it has reach its climax - uniting with my carpal tunnel syndrome to cause me to be in utter agony. This shoulder, MRI'd last spring and read by two radiologists, seems to have a myriad of things wrong with it: tendonitis, bursititis, encapsulititis, synovitis, impingement syndrome, and bone spurs. Take your pick. And this same shoulder has been sent on its way by an orthopedists, neurologist, and rheumatologist (although the rheumatologist gave me an ineffective cortisone shot just one week ago.) But enough about the the nuts and bolts that loosely keep my together.<br />
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Point is. . . I was thinking about one of my favorite lines in the Psalms which - in my quest to be ever-grateful and oh-so-positive - I try to recite as one of my mantras at least once a day:<br />
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<i>I praise you</i></div>
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<i>for I am wonderfully made.</i></div>
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Now that very same Psalm also contains the words which you see up in that graphic at the beginning of this post: <i>"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb." </i>I absolutely love the imagery there. Think about it: No nuts and bolts there, but a vision of God patiently knitting away and tenderly placing me in my mother's womb before I was born.<i> </i>Incredible. <br />
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But on my way home, between low-sinus sneezes, I started to think about this. Are we sure God didn't drop a stitch or two during the creation process? Of me. I'm thinking solely of me here.</div>
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Perhaps he got distracted for a moment or two.</div>
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Perhaps the angels were throwing a party and he had to tell them to shush down.</div>
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Perhaps two of his disciples were having a tiff.</div>
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Perhaps St. Peter needed help deciphering God's writing in the Naughty and Nice book.</div>
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But I think that the most likely reason of all is that God perhaps gets bored and crochets some of us. That's it! He crocheted me and then placed me in my mother's womb (for we all know I'm somewhat <i>undun</i>!)<br />
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But still . . . </div>
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<i>I praise you</i></div>
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<i>for I am wonderfully made!</i></div>
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<br />Liz Wilkey (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin)http://www.blogger.com/profile/14804873736204504475noreply@blogger.com