Alexa and Alzheimer's

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

You've all heard of Alexa.   And if, by chance, you haven't watched this hilarious skit on Saturday Night Live, watch it now.

The problem is, I think I'm worse than the "silver" people they portray in the skit.

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.)

Considering all of this, is it any surprise to you that I made the following two mistakes?

1. When attempting to call the dog inside, I reached my head outside of the door and called, "Alexa!"

and 

 

     2. When attempting to ask Alexa a question, I yelled out, "Jesus?" 

Do you see anything odd about these two incidents?

Honestly, now tell me. . . .  Do you??????

 

They Call them Christmas Cookies

Yes, they call them Christmas Cookies.

Just for the record. . . .This day is the 29th of December.

Ponzi's birthday.

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.

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.

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?

When was the last time I felt joy?

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?

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?

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.

And then came the Christmas cookies. . .

Management Not Responsible

It doesn't happen often, but every now and then a day comes along when I allow myself to think about the things I have lost.  Actually, "things" is the wrong word; "all" would be better.

Every now and then a day comes along when I allow myself to think about all I have lost.

The truth is that it is currently 2:47 on a Saturday afternoon and I'm in my bed, attempting to catch up on sleep lost for two nights running and I'm feeling sorry for myself.  Very sorry for myself.

And so I sit, with my shoulder in pain; the rest of my body on fire from neuropathy.   And the sign up there tells me that no one is responsible for this:  The Sjogren's.  The arthritis.  The lupus and neuropathy.
Nor is any one responsible for depression or anxiety around here.  This is life as it's dealt, sister.  And you have no tears to cry anyway.

Go Commando!

Do you remember when your mother told you that you should always wear clean underwear because you never know when you will end up in the emergency room?   Did she ever tell you that you needed an additional dozen in reserve?

I posted my experience with ending up in the ER without my legs shaved, but it never dawned on me to prepare for the possibility that I would end up in the hospital for days on end.  And who would ever guess that - after my close brush with death - one of my anxieties would center around underwear?  Underwear?

It just so happened that a week or two before I got sick I cleaned out my underwear drawer, leaving myself exactly ten pair of the same underwear.  Ten of the same thing; three different colors; exactly how a control freak like myself wants life to be.

Except I don't do laundry often enough any more.  Those three thong-wearers have moved out of the house and Drip Dry no longer trusts my laundering skills.  And so I do my own laundry about once a week.  I think you can do the math.  This, my friends, leaves one vulnerable to getting sick and landing in the hospital with only three pair to spare.  What's worse, if you happen to be really sick for two days in advance of heading to that hospital, you are sporting your last pair of clean undies in the ER!!!!

There has to better a better way. . .  Yes, I know I could buy more granny panties or do my laundry more often, but I have come up with a better solution:

Go commando!

That way all ten pair of undies can stay neatly folded in my drawer and be available for any emergency.  Like suppose that aliens invaded and I had to go hide in an underground bunker.  I would have a ten day supply of underwear.  Likewise, if an asteroid came crashing into earth and all water and electricity were disrupted, I'd be spanking clean for ten full days.   How about earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes?  We would be forced to take refuge in a shelter and everyone around me would be stinking by the second day.  But not me!  I'd be as fresh as a daisy.

Go commando.  It's brilliant.

Am I My Mother? Or Daughter?

I never thought it would see the day when I donned a shower cap.  Those sort of things are for mothers - you know. . . the old lady kind of mothers.  I suppose the word I wanted to use is grandmothers.  Those sorts of things are for grandmothers.

Things like housecoats, bathing caps, rain bonnets, galoshes, foam curlers.  Ben Gay, epsom salts, witchhazel, hankies, knitted tissue box holders.

So for years I have simply been piling my hair in a bun on those days when I didn't wash my hair.  Sure it got a bit wet from the spray, but that dampness was a badge of courage - expecially if I had shaved my legs. 

Until the day I entered my daughters' bathroom and spied a shower cap!  What the?  Who the? Had my mother-in-law come to visit?  Where had this thing come from?

It was Ponzi's.  (Perhaps the only thing she couldn't pilfer from her mother.)  Turns out that child had no qualms about wearing a shower cap.  Why would she?

Then why would I?

 Excuse me while I put my hair

in pink foam curlers and go to sleep

with toilet paper wrapped around my head. . .

Best Christmas Gift Ever!

BEST CHRISTMAS GIFT EVER

So, I realize that when I label this particular book, "The Best Christmas Gift Ever," it's kind of like putting a big "L" on my forehead.  But I've been a loser for years and if you, perchance, think you haven't, just meander through the first few chapters of this book and you will discover that you are a mess as well.

After careful reading and scoring my initial surveys, I now know I qualify as having a Co-Occurence of Anxiety Disorders:  generalized anxiety disorder, social anxiety disorder, panic disorder, an animal phobia, and obsessive disorder (no compulsions along with it.)  You may notice that this book does not have the word "depression" in its title, for if it did I may just be calling the local crazy house.

If anyone out there did not yet believe I was an Undun individual, I now have somewhat-less-than-scientific proof, but proof none-the-less.

The good news about this book is that it enables you to outline your own recovery program - just the thing for a control freak like me to wrap my arms around and begin to undertake. 

That Ponzi knows her mother alright!

Thank you for the gift, Ponz,

Dear People Who Write Wedding Vows

Dear People Who Write 
Wedding Vows,

I am shortly about to celebrate my 30^th wedding anniversary and admit that my memories of my wedding day may be somewhat fuzzy, but distinctly remember proclaiming the following vows:

I, A Mom on Spin, take you, Drip Dry

 to be my lawful husband,

to have and to hold from this day forward,

for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer

in sickness and in health,

until death do us part.

                        And that, my friends, was it.  With those few words I was hitched – tied to the man standing next to me for the rest of my life.  Oh yes, there was a statement of intentions before those vows and some phrases uttered with the exchange of rings, but in hindsight, those promises may have been a wee bit simplistic.

                        I have spent some time perusing wedding websites which encourage couples to compose their own vows.  And so I have decided to take their advice and rewrite my own:

I, A Mom on Spin, take you, Drip Dry, to be my husband.

I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad.

Please know that during the good times

you will find me laughing along with you,

but when the bad times hit

 I will be hiding my head in the sand somewhere.

I will be there for you through thick and thin –

even if I happen to be the one who becomes quite thicker with age

 while you remain as thin as this very day on which we marry.

I pledge to be your partner in sickness and in health –

especially because you’re one of those crazy health nuts

and I have a hunch I’m going to need all the help I can get.

I swear to be with you for richer and for poorer.

I realize that our yet-to-be-conceived children will cause the

 “poorer” part –

particularly if they turn out to be daughters who view the woman who gave birth to them as a mobile ATM machine.

I vow to stay by your side night and day;

until, of course, my future snoring forces you

 to kick me out of our marital bed

 and take up permanent residence in the guest room.

Oh yes, and I will love you and honor you all the days of my life,

that is, if you will still have me.

Signed,

a poor, snoring, autoimmuner

with her head in the sand,

Drip Dry and the "D" Word

I don't usually complain about my husband, Drip Dry, here on the public airwaves.

Nor do I make it a habit to discuss my digestive distress.

But in this post I'm going to do them both together.   And - for the ease of my readers - let me just tell you that when I refer to the "D" word, I am defining that disgusting word which I absolutely detest - diarrhea. . .or the word I most decidedly prefer - dysentery.

So it all started last week when I began having some vague abdominal discomfort along with a low-grade fever.  By Saturday morning I had determined that the pain was so debilitating that I decided to drag myself to the ER.  Now, mind you, I begged Drip Dry to drop me off at the door so I could en-dure the or-deal alone, but he refused to be deterred.

Now, I can't determine if Drip Dry has developed an innate defense mechanism to deflect his own discomfort in hospital settings, but he definitely turns into a decidedly different person when he goes through those revolving doors.  He enters them a relatively-sane and intelligent creature, and exits on the other side - not exactly dumb or defective - but we'll just call it a tad bit. . .  deranged.  You see, Drip Dry is decidedly inquisitive by nature, but somehow his whole "inquiring minds want to know" thing goes spiraling out of control and instead of dealing with the medical data at hand- he morphs into some kind of detective and attempts to discover everything - and anything - he can about his surroundings.

So as I'm signing in at the desk - in decided discomfort - the receptionist takes a palm scan of my hand and explains it's a new way of i-dentifying patients.  Now this little discovery made Drip Dry almost delirious with joy and he began to try and discern everything he could about this new display of technology. . . all while I am standing next to him in debilitating pain and dying to drop myself into the wheelchair next to me.  But - alas - the two receptionists are so enthralled by Drip Dry's disruptions and diversions that they forget all about me and then proceed to deride me when I incorrectly assumed that the process of placing myself in the chair had devolved on to me.

Eventually, despite the distractions, I am somehow delivered into the inner sanctums of the ER and Drip Dry meets my designated nurse for the first time, where his detective skills are further put to work - bombarding her with a deluge of questions and demanding to know all about her life. . . in other words distracting her from her tasks with his discussion. . . at which point I try to divert his attention by suggesting he take a walk and make his discoveries elsewhere.  And when he came back from his exploratory trip (and I swear to God he used this word) he asked her about the demographics of ER patients at that time of day - which he had decidedly determined were. . . well. .  .old.  I then reminded Drip Dry that the pediatric ER was directly on the other side of the building and suggested that he go check out the demographic data over there, but he definitively declined.

Enter the doctor.

So the M."D" proceeds to ask me to describe my symptoms in detail, and - after I am done - he does his due diligence by asking me if there's "anything else" I've been experiencing . . .  like, perhaps, the "D" word????  Now actually I had been battling with the "D" word for about two weeks, but I was raised to believe that a lady doesn't discuss those kinds of things unless directly asked. . . so, hence, I demurely divulged that - yes - I had been experiencing the "D" word.

And at this precise moment Drip Dry proceeds to enter the discussion and defiantly declares, "But that's not unusual for her."

Excuse my momentary diversion here, but did you know that back in the dark ages a British king would have a dignitary designated as "Groom of the Stool"?   Now this particular job was a decidedly distinguished  position because he got to deliver the king's daily dump to the royal doctor each morning. . . after which the doctor would dissect said stool - trying to decipher and detect  signs of royal disease, dysentery, decay, or other debilitating defects in the king's deposit which might indicate the king's untimely demise.  If he found none, he then duly decreed the king fit to do his duty for another day.

Now, what the devil possessed Drip Dry to deduce that he had been deputized as my own personal "Groom of the Stool", is beyond me.  And perhaps I was a tad bit delirious with discomfort at that point - but I'm still wondering why I didn't debunk his statement then and there. . .  for, in truth, the duration of the "D" word was - without a doubt - decidedly unusual for me.  But - whatever the determining factors - his statement had the effect of dissembling, detracting, and derailing the discussion - while disguising what may have definitely been an i-dentifying symptom and perhaps depriving me of a direct diagnosis.


All to my detriment!
  
So to make a long story short. . . after Drip Dry decodes the meaning of the "crash cart"  in the CT room. . . and discovers that he, himself, has a swollen and distended thumb that may need the doctor's attention. . . I then needed to direct old Drippy to desist trying to operate the blood pressure cuff himself. . . which was quickly followed by a heated debate about whether the little thingy they place on your dorsal digit (otherwise know as a finger) displays your oxygenation rate or your pulse ( I was right - it determines and displays both) the doctors decide to send me home with a un-dignified diagnosis of the detection of gallstones.

And told me to wait it out.

Which I did. 

Diligently, I might add.

Until I dragged myself unaccompanied to my own doctor on Monday who - due to the discomfort and duration of the "D" word - diagnosed diverticulitis and placed me on antibiotics and a special diet which is destined to solve my digestive dilemma!

With no thanks to Drip Dry . . .

who I just may now designate as my deranged, yet dedicated, 

"Duke of the Derriere "

Living. . . with a Swedish Man's Name

Hold on to your hats, folks. . .  this is going to be a long one.

Many of you know that I have a daughter who has battled with Lupus since she was 11 years old.  My other two daughters also have suffered since childhood from a form of Rheumatoid-like Arthritis.   And my youngest daughter has recently had a knock-down-drag-out fight with Guillain Barre Syndrome - yet another autoimmune disease (and one of the very few that you can recover from in time.) And - if you're anything like me - you can only imagine how many times I watched as they suffered and prayed, "Why God? Why is it not me instead of them?"

Well I'm here today to tell you to be careful what you pray for.   For if, perchance, you thought that I was somewhat undun in my previous years raising these daughters, I need to tell you now what it's like to have my life completely unravel after being diagnosed with an autoimmune disease of my own.

As you may know, there are many diseases classified as autoimmune - perhaps the most well-known in the long list are Lupus, Rheumatoid Arthritis and Multiple Sclerosis - Auto is an prefix meaning by oneself and immune refers to the immune system.  So they all have one thing in common: because of some mixed-up stimuli, the "fighter" cells in your body begin to mistake healthy tissue for a virus or "intruder" and go on the attack - creating an insidious process of inflammation and destruction.

Most people who battle with autoimmune diseases also suffer from fatigue, malaise, fever, and a general sense of feeling "unwell" - is it any wonder when there is an internal war waging within your own body???

In the case of Sjogren's Syndrome, the immune response is primarily directed toward tear and saliva glands, resulting in a parched,cotton-like mouth and dry, gritty and itchy eyes.  Sjogren's can be classified as primary (meaning it's a stand-alone disease) or secondary (found in conjunction with Lupus or Rheumatoid Arthritis) but it doesn't quite matter which form my ultimate diagnosis will take since primary Sjogren's can become as systemic and destructive as Lupus itself - attacking the skin, joints, teeth, kidneys, heart, gastric and nervous systems. 

 A disease by any other name. .  .

My own diagnosis was based on positive blood tests for anti-nuclear antibodies (ANA) along with a specific marker antibody for Sjogren's (SSA).  Although these antibodies were first uncovered four years ago, I felt I was asymptomatic and did not opt to be treated.  After I came down with the flu this past Spring, everything changed.   In my case I was lucky.   I was familiar with the symptoms and when they "hit" I made an appointment to deal with them quickly.  Nevertheless, a mere three months later, my visit to the ophthalmologist revealed that my tear production is less than half the minimum. . . I have dental decay due to lack of saliva production . . .I have developed severe sun sensitivity as well as a funky, itchy, and irregular skin rash. . .I pop antacids like candy. . . my joint and muscle pain has become so intense that I hobble around like an old lady at times. . . I have tingling in my extremities. . . and blood tests have also revealed that I have certain antibodies which are associated with a blood clotting disorder.

So in what ways has my life changed?  How can I explain this strange and whimsically-named illness to others who cannot "see" anything wrong on the outside?

Well for starters. . .

While most people start their day by saying Good Morning, there is nothing "good" about mine (well, excepting the fact that I woke up; ergo I'm alive. . .)  No, my first thought is Did I drink two quarts of Jack Daniels last night? because my parched mouth feels like an overgrown cotton field (and don't they brew Jack Daniels down there in cottonland????)  But when I roll over I immediately decide No, I must have been hit by a train instead. . . because every joint and muscle in my body is screaming.     And when I open my eyes I quickly add And that d-----ed train must have tossed me like a drunken-Jack-Daniels-rag-doll into the nearest sand ditch. . .because my eyes feel gritty, dry and itchy.

Good morning world.   Here I come!

But first I have to sit up.

Now, until quite recently, this sitting up movement precipitated the start of a dry hacking cough which would plague me until late morning. But just this morning I decided that I want to kiss the pulmonologist  who recognized it as the result of acid reflux irritating my lung tissue - the little pill he prescribed three weeks ago has at last begun to kill two birds with one stone and solve my GERD issues as well!

So then - cough or no cough - I hobble to the bathroom, immediately brush my teeth with some foul-tasting specialized toothpaste, drop some eye drops in my eyes, slather myself in anti-itch gel, take the first of my eight (yes, eight at last count) prescription medications, and get on with my day from there. And when I say "on", I mean on the couch. . .

The best simile I can use to explain the fatigue I feel is this:

It's like the last day of a routine sickness for "regular" people.  I remember it well.   You wake up feeling better than you did the day before. . .the fever, sneezing, or vomiting are gone at long last. .  .and you say to yourself,  I'm going to get out of bed, take a proper shower, and try to vacuum some of that errant dog hair that's been accumulating in mountains since I've been sick.  And so you do.  After the shower, you're quite exhausted and look a little green around the gills. . . but you're determined to go on.  Yet after the quick attempt at the most minutest bit of housework you think, Holy Jesus!  I never thought that vacuuming had been elevated to an Olympic sport!

And you find yourself quickly back in bed for the rest of the day - all the stamina you once possessed now sucked up by your battle with the vacuum cleaner.  Feeling like a musher who lost the I-Did-A-Clean to the dog hair.

Well that, my friends, is the battle that an autoimmuner fights every day.

And on top of that, most of us are dealing with joint pain, or rashes, or muscle aches.  Some of us have to hide from the sun - covering up every time we go outside - learning to love cloudy or rainy days ( but no wind, mind you . . .for wind dries the few tears you still make). . . saying goodbye to sunny days by a pool or the beach.  Forever.

Yes, forever.

Others (not I, thank God) are dealing with serious and life-threatening conditions.  Yet I carry around the knowledge that the other shoe could drop at any moment. .  . that I am 40 times more likely than the average person to develop lymphoma. . .  and have a 30% chance of having a stoke or pulmonary embolism over the course of my life. And on the opposite end of the spectrum, I've now been told that my blood is not clotting fast enough and I'm susceptible to bleeding events.  Really?

And how is it that the accompanying neuropathy can cause my feet to hurt, tingle, and feel dead all at the same time? Does anyone really understand that?

And then there's the sense of being alone with your illness. . .that others somehow just don't get it.  I know I'm lucky because my daughters can sympathize with what I'm going through.  But even my well-meaning-yet-all-too-intelligent husband looked up this disease with a funny sounding name on Wikipedia and found it a bit too complicated for him to understand.  But still he tries.  He sees what I go through and doesn't complain about the absence of groceries in the house or dinner on the table.  And I have many friends, co-workers, and family members who have been supportive through it all.

So enough with the pity party. . .Why did I write this blog post?

Because I always feel better when I put pen to paper (so to speak). . . because it helps me to process this new "life" of mine . . .Because I want you to know the truth if you ever come across someone with an autoimmune disease like mine.

And I want to honor my children who have lived with symptoms like these for so long it's become the norm for them.   So instead of asking God to transfer their illnesses to me, I now ask for the grace to emulate their courage and acceptance instead.

Yes me.

Emulating my daughters.

Now isn't that just the very definition of irony????

 

aka. . . The Undun One

Stick a Pin in It!

So it's become painfully clear that I have yet to stumble upon the optimum social networking site.

If you're reading this particular communique, you're already painfully aware of the fact that I author a humor blog. But did you know that I also have a Facebook page. . . and a twitter account. . . a Goodreads page . . . an iTunes account. . .  a Pin it Board. . . a recipe box?

I have posted, filed, tweeted, listed and stuck a pin in just about every area of my life.

So why do I feel so disconnected?  So fragmented?  How is it that I feel the strong need to mix my messages?  Where can one unearth a platform to put my loves. . .my writings. . . my obsessions. . . .my purchases. . . all on one page - without announcing each move to the rest of the world?

I'm multi-faceted.   Why can't my social media be?  

 I've never really been a fan of Facebook because I still suspect it's a wire service on speed.  And I know it may seem disingenuous for a die-hard blogger like me who lays her life out for the rest of the world to see, but I simply don't like broadcasting every item I decide to "like" or every "friend" I make.

Do you really need to know when I post a new picture or rate a pizza place?

I think not.  It's too boring for me.  And if it's boring for ME, well I pity the poor folks who don't think that minutia matters. . .

HOW CAN THEY STAND IT???

But now if I were given a page where I could show you all the TOTAL hilarity that is me at only the time you decide to visit it . . . well that would be. . . well it would be. . .  like perfect!

PERFECTO!!!

Stick a Pin in It.

I'm done!

Unplugged and Undun

I'll admit it . . .

 I haven't hit the "publish" button in a while.

But don't be insulted.

I haven't turned on a t.v. . . opened my facebook page. . . tweeted. . .or watched a movie in a very, VERY long time.

I've been here all along.   I just haven't chosen to share life's innermost turmoils with you, so I disconnected my feeds and changed my privacy settings.  But now I think I'm ready to make the blog public once again so we have some serious catching-up to do. . .

Now if you had to guess. . . what do you think A Mom on Spin has been up to since she last published a post close to two years ago?  Perhaps a short quiz is in order here:

1. Knuckling under and becoming a Vegetarian herself?
2. Pampering herself with Pedicures?
3. Purchasing 477 songs on her iTunes account when she could have illegally downloaded them all for free?
4. Developing a permanent hematoma on her derriere roughly the the size of the state of Connecticut?
5. Traveling to pet stores to desensitize herself for her out-of-control animal phobia after a chance encounter with a church mouse?
6. Reading all 57 books currently downloaded on her Nook - one of which is the COMPLETE works of Charles Dickens?

I think you may just get the picture. . .

SHE'S COME UNDUN!!!

And I'm not quite sure that making this blog public again is the most prudent idea.  But I've changed it up a bit. . . erased the posts I don't want you to see. . . given it a catchy new name. . . and prayed that I could sustain it for a while.


So welcome back, dear friends.  Poke around and see the tumultuous hilarity you've missed while I was away.

And laugh with me a little. . .

Always remember to laugh . . .

Yoga School Dropout

So I was all excited to begin my early-morning yoga class until my proclivity for vertigo got in the way.

And - frankly - my first class was less than I had hoped for.

I think you'll get the gist of it from the following song written just for this occasion:

 

 Yoga School Dropout. . .

no graduation day for you!

Yoga School dropout . . .

what did you think that you would do?

At least you could have have gone and learned the Downward Facing Doggie;

the Lotus, or the Crane, Half-Moon, the Cobra or the Froggy!

Yoga School Dropout. . .

Why did you get so sick in class?

Yoga School Dropout. . .

Your only pose was named "The Ass"!

A yogi-mom with motion sickness, who's ever heard of that?

At least with all those spins you didn't throw up on your mat!

Yoga School Dropout. . . 

You should have stayed right in your bed.

Yoga School Dropout. . .

You sure are sickly in the head!

You're a hopeless Mom on Spin and you can never change a wink

These things you say are easy can be harder than you think!

Yoga School Dropout. . . 

Yoga School Dropout. . . 

Go Back to Bed!!!!

Got the picture?

Ugly. . . All of It

So I don't have an appropriate photo for this post.

Just this pretty one. .  .

 'Cause if I ever showed you anything that EVEN CAME CLOSE to resembling the current state of my buttocks. . . my derriere. . . my behinds-area. . . well you would faint from exposure.

It all started with that blasted 25th wedding anniversary . . .  and an overnight away  . . . from which I returned to find my darling pooch hobbling . . . which caused a last-minute trip to the vet and the unwelcome news that my favorite daughter had torn her ACL and needed surgery . . .which caused a giant rise in my anxiety meter but that has nothing to do with my junk-in-my-trunk story . . .the result of which was that the dog now has to be leash-walked. . .no more of this let-her-out-of-the-back-door-with-a-cup-of-coffee-in-hand stuff. . .which I did. . . faithfully . . . even on the morning when a nice frost had come and there was a significant schmear of slipperiness on the stairs from my back deck . . . but the dog didn't know this, you see, so it's not her fault really . . . but she went running and pulling full tilt to go and relieve herself from a night spent in her crate and BAM!!!!

Down went A Mom on Spin!

Sweet Jesus!

Now - having given birth to three daughters - I'm no stranger to pain. . .and we all know, that because of those daughters, I'm right-at-home in the Emergency Room. . .but how does one arrive at the ER and tell them you have a broken butt? And that a swelling roughly the size of the state of Connecticut is forming on it?  And that there are no words to describe the ugliness of the colors emanating from it?

No, I believe one has to tough it out.

Alone.

In agony.

With one's derriere.

And only an ice pack and an occasional advil for delivery.

And a call to one's priest-boss

to explain why one's not coming to work. . .
OUCH!!!

Face it. . . I'm "D"ficient.

So I've had a touch of Blogger's Block recently and I think I know why.

Along with some funky auto-antibodies, my rheumatologist recently discovered that I was significantly deficient in Vitamin D.  And once I read up on the myriad of ailments that can come from a Vitamin D deficiency, I became convinced that the "D" of Vitamins is truly like a wonder drug.

So now I'm thinking that lack of this essential vitamin just may be responsible for all of the joint and muscle aches that drove me to the doctor in the first place.  It could also be the cause of my fatigue and high blood pressure.  It may, in fact, be contributing to my elevated blood sugar and "bad" cholesterol - and it could be the very reason I have been self-diagnosed with G. S. D. (Goldilocks Sleep Disorder.)  I'm thinking it's also the reason that I drink too much wine and have recently been experiencing a strange craving for nachos.   It could even explain why I ate all the Halloween candy, my cat threw up, and my husband left his dirty dishes in the kitchen sink this morning.  I think it's also the reason I'm mean to my daughters and don't know my right from my left, and - as long as we're on the subject - I'm practically convinced that only those with sufficient levels of Vitamin D win the Mega Millions.

And so, after a $78 trip to the health food store, I am now on my way to a newer, better, less-painful-and -blogger's-blocked me!

I hope. . .

The Reports of My Apology Are Greatly Exaggerated

Just wanted to let you all know that I have made amends with Trigger since I last posted about our disagreement over Facebook. (Not that we were disagreeing about Facebook, mind you.  We were - instead - "voicing" our displeasure with each other through Facebook.)

The other night I got this terrific pain in the side of my head that jolted through me like a dose of Nurse Ratched's electric shock therapy.  And I thought to myself,  Oh here it is at last. . . my untimely demise!

But then I thought, Wait!  How can I possibly die now when my very own daughter thinks I'm mad at her for dropping that class without consulting me?  How will she live with herself after having said all those awful things about me only caring about her G.P.A.? And money? And how hard I work to pay for that college education?


And so, in order to rid my daughter of the guilt-ridden grief that would inevitably ensue, I decided that I would pick up the phone and apologize to her.  Better to think that her mother had reached out to her with her last dying breath than to keel over for good without making amends.  Right?  And who could say whether I was going to be able to send her messages from the afterlife?  I may be too busy playing bridge with the angels, or using the clouds as a trampoline, or doing all of that bowling required to make thunder.  The poor thing just might be scarred for life!

I simply had no guarantee that the lines of communication would be open for me to set her mind at ease once I was gone, so I picked up the phone and called her. . .

But, just as quickly as that searing pain arrived, it disappeared again (even, in fact, before Trigger answered her phone) and so I was left with a bit of a dilemma:  Since my untimely death did not quite seem so imminent any longer, should I still apologize to her?  Could I, perhaps, take my sweet old time and give Trigger the opportunity to apologize to me instead?  Or should I hang up and simply send her a Facebook message?
  

 

Let me just add for the record that Trigger ended up being the only one who "Liked" my last link on Facebook. .  .

Good Grief. . .

So in my never-ending stupidity I signed up to take a class called The Wisdom of Grief.

Why?

Well if wisdom about such things were my forte, I wouldn't be here writing this blog post today - now would I?

I suppose I thought I might learn something.  I suppose I thought I wouldn't mind getting out of the office one Friday afternoon a month.  I suppose I thought it would look good on a resume.  I suppose I thought I would feel like less of an impostor in the grief field if I did something that might make me the teensiest-bit worthy of the mountain of compliments that families tend to heap on me when I do nothing more than help them through the funeral of a loved one.

When families thank me for muddling through my job in my intuitive clumsical way. . .

Well turns out that my impostor status was quickly revealed at our very first class, however, as the facilitator handed us each a journal and asked us to jot down our feelings about a time we had journeyed with someone who needed our help.  And not only did we have to write about this journey, she told us we should be prepared to share our journey with the rest of the class.

Good Grief!

Why didn't anyone tell me that passing Sympathy 101 was a pre-requisite to this Wisdom of Grief course?  I have no journeys to share! (Pub crawls, maybe, but bonafide journeys????)

Does this woman not read my blog? Doesn't she know that I never pick up a phone to call a friend?  That everything in my life is always all about moi?  Would she be shocked to learn that I don't even send birthday cards to my own flesh and blood?  That I don't know how to share a cup of tea?

And, as if things weren't bad enough, the rest of my classmates seemed to be happily sharing.

Compassion-filled journey stories.

In a circle.

One by one.

In clockwise fashion.

Working their way to me.

Me!

And the tighter that grief circle got, the larger the Wisdom of Making up a Cockamamie Story loomed  in my mind and I resigned myself to the fact that I now needed to add the words Lied in Grief Course to my resume  . . .

Friend's divorce?  Forget it. . . classmate #2 used that one already.  Losing a parent?  Too trite.  Alcoholic family member?  One look at me and they'd see impostor status there as well. .  .

The circle tightened.

Good grief, Charlie Brown, I've got it!

Mental illness!    I have recently journeyed with someone through mental illness!  They don't need to know that the illness is my very own . . right here. .  .and now. . . 'cause a minute ago I was going stark-staring-out-of-my-lunatic-mind but have somehow miraculously journeyed myself back in . . .

With a little luck.

And a timer.

Announcing the end of the class. . .

  

Amen!

And, yes, I know clumsical is not a word, but I like it.  And I'll continue using it to my heart's content. . .

I Know. . . but Does It Hurt to Get Poked?

So I have belatedly - and reluctantly - joined the world of facebook.  And I have to admit that I don't quite get it yet.

Could someone please answer the following questions for me? 

• Why should I care who other people are "friends" with?

• Can I declare a "bestest" friend?

• Does it hurt to get poked?

• Does it suddenly become "news" if I pinky-swear with someone?

• Why should I care who "likes" what?

• Is my wall soundproof? 

• Did I ever really lose all of these people I suddenly must find? 

• Will prisoners be friending me if Veggie says my profile picture looks like a mug shot

• What should I do if I don't have anything on my mind?

I honestly don't get it. 

Was facebook created by Mean Girls?  Paparazzi?  Professional voyeurs?  Or is it actually the AP wire service on speed?

I don't know about you, but I miss the days when writing on someone's wall involved crayons and a spanking. . .

How It Was that I Needed Just a Little Bit More than a Hair. . .

So this morning, in order to prepare for what will soon be our empty-except-for-the-boomeranger-but-she's-never-here-on-the-weekends nest, I thought it might be nice to actually do something with Drip Dry.

You know. .  . like, together.

But the problem is that there are very few things that we both enjoy.

He likes golf, exercise, and health foods.

I like cheese, bagels, blogging, and reading.

Sad to say, the only interest we both heartily share is affiliated with alcohol consumption, but it was 8:00 a.m. and, after some back and forth, we decided to take that option off the table.

Now I made the suggestion that we go to church like many couples do, but he quickly refused - even when I reminded him that it was probably the only place in town serving wine at 8:30 in the morning.

But wine or no-wine. . . Drip Dry was not going to church.   In fact, he insisted on going for a run instead, while I - in my sainthood - opted for the hair-of-the-dog route.  But we did, however, agree to meet up later and go to the Sunday morning farmer's market together.

Splendid.

Except that I forgot all about the embarrassment factor that comes with shopping with my husband.  How bad could it be? you ask.  Let me recount just some of the things that came out of his mouth when others were in earshot:

Hey look what that lady bought, Liz, how come you never buy that?  

Garlic?  I've never seen garlic look like that!  Yes, of course garlic upsets my digestive system. 

Seafood!   Do they expect you to believe they raise fish on farms? 

Who's that guy over there, Liz?  No!  Don't look now!  I just want you to tell me who he is.

I've gotta text Ed right now to tell him I'm in a sea of humanity. S-E-A   O-F    H-U-M-A-N-I-T-Y!

I know they all have their teeth, Liz! 

Oh look!  The cheese booth. . . I suppose you're going to want to stop at the bread stand next???

$2.99 for six ears. .  . let's see. .  . that's like. . .  like. .  .fifty cents an ear!  That's waaaaaay too expensive for corn.  It's a good thing I'm here with you.  I have to teach you how to economize.  We'll be retired soon, you know.

Oh, and who's that guy standing right there?  You know him from church.  He's the one married to the lady with the big. .  . 

Hey!  Why did you leave me standing there?

No, don't leave that way, Liz!  This way is much closer. . .  just crawl under that table there between the two stands and we're home free!

Aha!  Now we get to see where they get the stuff from.  Look at those boxes.  I told you . . . this stuff doesn't really come from farms.  It comes from boxes!


Needless to say, I have already scheduled his tee time for next Sunday morning.

Like I Said. . . Familiar Territory

Let me just state for the record that I'm no stranger to Emergency Rooms.

In fact, a quick review of visits reveals that - while I have been a patient twice - I have accompanied a family member to the emergency room a grand total of 20 times in my 23 years of married life.

So the other night, while sitting at my mother's bedside at four in the morning waiting for her dangerously-low blood sugar levels to rise, I knew I was in familiar territory. And so it was that my mind inevitably started wandering to other fond memories of time spent in the ER.

Let me just tell you for starters that the Spin family does not spring from the most graceful stock.  My children have broken various bones while Irish dancing, playing basketball, falling off curbs, walking down stairs, passing each other in the hallway, and strolling along a boardwalk.  And as my clumsy children have grown older and less prone to falling, my aging parents seem to have become more so.  What's more . . . bouts with A.D.D., arthritis, and autoimmune diseases have caused my children to show up in the ER presenting some pretty wacky symptoms.

But take note, if you will, of the eerie similarities in some of our other emergency room visits:

• Trigger broke a foot on three separate occasions.  I once had to dash to an emergency room in a neighboring state when Veggie lost all feeling in her feet.

• One summer Veggie broke her right arm first and fractured her left arm four weeks later.

• My daughters have gone to the ER to have both an appendix and a forgotten feminine protection product removed (not in the same visit, mind you. . . )

• Trigger was in the emergency room exactly one-year-to-the-day after having been treated there for an identical ailment.

• I was rushed to the ER after falling up the stairs; Veggie after falling down.

•  And Ponzi was placed in the same bay of the same ER two days in a row.

           And no list would be complete, my friends, without the inclusion of my all-time favorite. . . 

• Last summer, after an endless ER wait with my father, my sister's husband surprised us with a cooler containing some well-deserved vodka drinks. The summer before that, vodka consumption was the surprise cause of not one. . . but TWO. . .  of my daughters being transported to the same New York City emergency room from a rock concert.

Like I said. . . familiar territory

I Believe the Correct Term May Just Be Boredom. . . or Depression . . . or Perhaps Both . . .

So did you ever have one of those days when lifting your morning cup of coffee seemed like too much work?

Well, my friends, welcome to A Mom on Spin's day.

You see, first I had to wake up.  And we all know how hard that is. Not to mention the whole getting out of bed thing. . . and the shower. .  .oh, the shower. . .

Now, as if that weren't enough, Drip Dry left for his early-morning golf game without feeding the dog which requires things like bending over. . . running water. .  .and yelling at the stupid cat that she doesn't need a human to watch her eat.  And, when all of that was satisfactorily completed, I still had to slide open the door to let the dog outside and plop myself on my back deck while attempting to lift the afore-mentioned cup.

Work . . . all of it.

And then, the fact that it was Sunday presented a whole host of  other problems.

First, there was the church outfit to don . .  .and the whole pulling and tugging and smoothing of the wrinkles in the pants which desperately needed ironing but I deemed passable.

I'm exhausted just thinking of it.

And then there was church itself. .  . which, for mere mortals, might entail nothing more than sitting down, saying some silent prayers, and muttering a few Amens. . . you know. . . like watching a ball game.   But seeing that my salary also comes from very place in which I worship, attending Mass is more like a contact sport.  I walk in the door and people start tossing things at me like. .  . The urinal in the downstairs men's room is broken. .  .or . . . . The key to the toilet paper dispenser is missing .  . or. . .  Yesterday's funeral people took the wedding flowers home . . .


And so upon hearing that bit of bad news, I immediately decided to forego my trip to Sunday farmer's market and opt for the peace and quiet of my own home. 

But then, as if I life hadn't punished me enough for one day, I was informed by Ponzi upon my return home that I needed to take my darling offspring on the first of many off-to-college shopping trips.  Now Trigger, being the smart procrastinator that I raised her to be, muttered something about needing new bedding because she had cut up last year's sheets for a toga party, but decided to worry about that another day. And even though Ponzi could spend my money freely in Italy on items like her leather school bag, it seems that her mother absolutely must accompany her to purchase things like the all-important dorm room trash can.

And - while the entire shopping trip drained every remaining ounce of money and energy I had while in the Bed and Bath department . . . I can only thank God for the Beyond part, 'cause I finally got the new wine glasses which I so desperately needed.  ('Cause the old ones were so heavy, you know.)

Now if I could only get Drip Dry to open my box of wine for me. .  .

 Oh, and go ahead and comment, 'cause I'm as obsessed as ever anyhow . .  .