'tis the season

Shopping during the holidays present a bit of a challenge for me. No, it's not the crowds or all the strange people bumping into me, although I hate that. To my mind there is only one place on EARTH where that is acceptable behavior. Disneyland. And as much as I want it to be, Wal-Mart isn't Disneyland, so stop touching me!


My problem with holiday shopping is the stuff. All the lovely stuff. On sale. Calling to me. 


I walk into a store and the first thought my brain screams at me is BUY ALL THE THINGS! The second thought is BUY MORE OF ALL THE THINGS! Thoughts three through ten are much the same. Buy all the things, while my wallet whispers don't even think about it. But my wallet is so quiet and the displays are so LOUD. Even if I'm at Home Depot. And I'm definitely not a handy person, but that doesn't matter at the holidays. The perpetual season of hope promises that if I buy the things, the talent will come. Want to tile your bathroom? Buy that circular saw that's on sale and all will be well. That decorating project you've had in the back of your mind for a year? Well NOW is exactly the time you should spend $300 on it!


It makes me wish I didn't have such a strong moral compass when it comes to stealing. Think of all the things I could have if I had a more convoluted ethical mind. And I would have a code. Oh yes. A thieving code. I'd never steal from someone I knew. Unless your name is Erin Pickett and we were in the third grade together. Then I have a confession. It was me who stole your bunny-shaped eraser.


No, I'm not sorry. It was the third grade. And it was a Bunny. Shaped. Eraser. 


Enough said. 


But back to the stuff. The other 330 days of the year I have no problem ignoring their siren call. Then comes Black Friday and suddenly things that were too far out of reach have now been price-reduced to just barely out of bounds. What's a greedy little elf to do? And it's nearly impossible to avoid a store for more than a month, especially when they are there every time I turn on the computer. So I give in. Just a little. Then maybe just a bit more. And before I know it I've eaten the entire pie. 


Figuratively speaking.


Oh well, 'tis the season. Merry Christmas everyone.

an open letter to you

We never talk anymore. I can't even remember the last conversation we had that wasn't in person. That's been a long time. And it's my fault. I really dislike talking on the phone. It feels awkward. I'm a visual person and not being able to see your expressions and dramatic hand gestures puts me at a loss. Even as a teenager I had a hard time with the phone. What to say, what to bring to the conversation that hadn't already been said a hundred times before. After you've filled me in on your life, I feel stuck. What to say now? My life revolves around Penelope. Every story begins and ends with her. I don't have much more of myself to bring to the table. She is my whole day and how many cutesy stories can you take? As for me, do you really want to listen to how I had a horrible withdrawal reaction to one of my bipolar medications? Want to hear about how I have nightmares that I'll be recommitted to the psychiatric hospital and never let out? Or how we put up the Christmas tree and Penny seems physically incapable of keeping her hands off it? Wait. Sorry. That's a Penny story. Again. 

And that's really all the stories I have anymore.

But not liking to talk on the phone is a pitiful excuse. A pitiful excuse for not communicating and makes me a poor excuse for a friend. I miss your voice and hearing about you. And what about texting, emailing and Skype? In this day I could talk to you a hundred different ways without ever actually hearing a dial tone. So I'm sorry for failing you in this, for making excuses. Excuses are inexcusable. 

You are family as well as my friend. I shouldn't put my phone-talking deficiencies ahead of hearing about you. Because that's why I should be calling - to hear crazy stories from your life since we feel so far apart. It's a poor excuse for friendship and, again, I'm sorry. I promise I'll do better. 

Love you.

hamburger, vajayjay, or who ha

{While lying in bed, trying to fall asleep}

Jason:  Did you teach Penny the word "pee-pee"?

Me:  I think I've used it before, yeah, why?

Jason:  She pointed to her, um...parts, and said "pee-pee" during her bath and I know I've never used it before. I was just wondering where she heard it.

Me:  Yeah, I told her that. I figured that was a safe enough word for it. I didn't want to use "hamburger" or something and her forever have a weird sexual connotation to a random object. "Vagina" is a little grown up for her and I refuse to call it a "vajayjay." That word makes me want to mind-vomit. I usually call it a "who ha" but you kind of have to use that in context or it could mean anything. So "pee-pee"; it's where the pee comes out, so "pee-pee". I made an executive decision without you and if you don't like it you should say something now so we can change it or we'll have to live with it forever. 

Jason:  {snore}

Me:  "Pee-pee" it is. 

the bipolar express

I wonder when I became such a pessimist. Does it stem from the mental illness or was it always there? I heard a song by The Police on the radio the other day and a lyric from the tune jumped out and hit me over the head as exactly how I was feeling - "It's a big enough umbrella but it's always me that ends up getting wet." I remember thinking "Oh wow, that is so my life." 


Except it's not. It's an almost depressing sentiment in the middle of a song about how a man is in awe of the woman he loves. Is this how I've begun to see the world? Hopefully this is all just the lack of therapeutic med levels talking and once I'm stable again I'll feel differently.


Speaking of medications which keep me sane...


Did you ever play that game as a kid where you spin around in a circle as fast as you can until you stop to throw up? That's how the last month and a half have been for me. The medication that I had been on since May had begun to display it's most hated side effect. Weight gain. The average amount of weight gain on this med is 40lbs. 


FORTY. POUNDS. 


That's two of Penny just in weight that I would probably gain without the benefits of excess chocolate. Plus, it was making me tired all the time so a revision had to be made. I decided to go ahead and see the doctor my office was assigning patients to after my original doctor left. I was apprehensive but hopeful. Turns out I didn't have anything to worry about. The new doctor was efficient and quick, two qualities I prefer in a doctor. So after one dosage variation and no change to the tiredness or weight, we decided to start from scratch. The new approach would be a separate medicine for depression and anxiety, basically what I had tried a few years ago but at different levels of newer prescriptions.


For two glorious weeks I felt like a rock star. I was able to plan and execute Penny's 2nd birthday party and Halloween with no issues. I felt like myself instead of a crazy woman just faking it and saying everything was hunky-dory. The third week found me crying at night for no apparent reason. The fourth week was just short of Hell. I was back to being where I was before I went into the hospital. It had taken only four short weeks to get me back to what had before taken a year. 


Back to the doctor I went. It turns out I definitely need a mood stabilizer to be a functioning human being. Three new drugs later and so far so good.


The real test will be the Christmas season. We have plans for visiting family and for family visiting us and I want to be as relaxed and unstressed as possible. You know, more on the non-crazy side of the fence than the crazy side, with me under the umbrella.

building vocabulary

Penny said her first cuss word today. Properly too, I might add. While carrying a couple of empty pots around the living room, she tripped and dropped them. Then we heard, "Oh shit" calmly carrying through to the kitchen. Not an exclamatory interjection. More a statement of fact. She then proceeded to drop things on purpose and use this phrase approximately 47 times in a 15 minute period. I can already hear my mom. 


Jamie, I can't believe you would use such language around your precious little baby! And enough that she picked it up! AND can use it correctly!!!  


Yes, multiple exclamation points would be needed. 


My mom is obviously overlooking the fact that my daughter is so smart she can use "shit" correctly in a sentence before she's even two years old. That's a genius child, right there. And Penny wasn't using it to shock. She didn't even look at us to see our reactions. She was just talking to herself. She just happened to be swearing when she did it.


But yes, I do use such language around my child. Not on purpose. OK, wait. Yes. Sometimes on purpose. But it's like when we as parents agreed that we were going to try not to teach her the word "no" for as long as possible. Then the first time she's about to stick a car key into the blu-ray player you forget all about using phrases like "Please, don't do that" and "I really wish you wouldn't." Uh-uh. Instead you yell NO as loudly as you can because we all know babies have selective hearing. 


The point is, it just slips out. When she was born I didn't get all excited about the new and inventive swear words I could teach her. But I'm human, and a potty mouth, and sometimes it just happens. 


So Jason and I have agreed that we're going to be much more careful about the words we choose to use around her. The little sponge just soaks up everything. And instead of telling her how proud I am of her that she can use that word correctly, I'm just going to ignore it and hopefully it'll go away. 


But for the record, I'm so proud! 

the quickest way to crazy

Want to know the fastest way to cause someone like me an anxiety attack?


How about I call my psychiatrist's office to change the time of my next appointment and they tell me that my doctor, who I've been seeing for 4 months, is no longer a part of their group. And no, they don't know where he went but his PA will be taking over his patients.


Are you kidding me? When was I going to be told? He's really gone? Does that mean my already scheduled appointment will be transferred to the PA's appointment books?


No, she only works on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays and your appointment is on a Friday. 


So you can't move my appointment?


Well, no because you're appointment is on a Friday. And she only works Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays.


So does that mean you can't move my appointment to one of those days?


Is that what you want to do? 


Really?!?! You have to ask me that? After I just asked if my appointment could be moved over? You know you're dealing with people who have mental problems, right? That's kind of your whole clientele. Don't start giving me the run-around right after you've told them you no longer have the doctor I've come to rely on.


But, Yes! Of course I want my appointment moved!


So I make a new appointment and am hanging up the phone when it hits me - I think I just scheduled to see the awful PA who let me wait a day and a half before seeing me in the hospital. But then I remember, wait, I have my doctor's email address. He gave it to me at our first meeting. I whip that bad boy out and click-clack out a distressed email asking what-the-fruit basket is going on. My answer?


An automated vacation reply.


Sob.


So I wait and try not to freak out. It'll be fine, right? I'm practically on a medication upkeep basis anyway. It won't really matter who I see, right? Right? Except this is the lady who kept me waiting a day and a half before she found the time to see me. A day and a half. While I was locked in a mental institution.


And then, miraculously, I get an actual email reply from my doctor. I eagerly open it and find that it only contains a website. Hoping it contains answers to all my worries and concerns, I click. It only has one page - a page under construction telling me that my doctor is moving his main practice to a new facility in Provo. That's wonderful! So much closer than my previous drive to Salt Lake.


But that's it. Just that he's moving. All the page links say "coming soon." So I email him back to ask if my existing appointment with him will carry over. His reply - keep checking the website.


Does no one remember that I'm a MENTAL PATIENT? You can't just leave us people hanging. The OCD will kick in and I'll be checking that web page every 5 minutes to see if it updated yet.


Great doctor/patient skills there, Doc. I'd complain more but his succinct personality is kind of why I liked him in the first place. So I'll keep checking, and keep emailing, and with that, the anxiety will slowly climb down from eleven.

popsicles and super grover

We only teach the important words in this household. 

summer fun

This summer has just been chocked full of fun-ness. Besides San Diego, we have a trip planned to Yellowstone with some very good friends and Penny had her first ever swim lessons.

Swim lessons have been something that I was very excited to do for Penny. As a parent, I don't want her to be afraid of the water but, being so young, she also needs a healthy respect for it. And respect is almost impossible to guarantee when dealing with a 21 month old. But I thought it was time to at least start.

Spanish Fork City luckily offered a Mommy & Me class for kids under 4 years old. We took the class for 2 weeks and, honestly, didn't really learn much. I thought the kids would be a little closer to Penny's age instead of the age limit. Because most of the kids were at least a year older, the teachers played to their strengths, such as being able to listen and actually take instructions. There were only 2 or 3 kids under two so mostly we just focused on getting our babies to lay on their backs or stomachs and kick their legs. Penny was very enthusiastic when it came to kicking and less so when it came to using her arms like shovels to scoop the water. So even though the class wasn't totally geared towards us, we made the best of it, playing in the water as much as we could and enjoying the sun. I think by next summer, she'll be as much of a water baby as I was. 

Our next big summer adventure takes us to Yellowstone National Park. We'll be there for a long weekend, giving us enough time to enjoy the sights but not get tired of looking at trees and rocks. We're going with a couple of very good friends who have a son a few months younger than Penny so we'll all have someone to play with. I can't wait to try out some new photo techniques I've learned on the gorgeous scenery up there. I hope to come home with some great pictures. And maybe a moose. If I can fit him in the trunk. 

san diego 2011

This post will be a nice break from all the mopey, depressing posts. I promise to ease up on those for awhile. Especially since I'm feeling so much better about life and such. So here is a post dedicated to the vacation we took back in June. A little late, I know, but I've been emo-blogging, being a mom and what not. Give me a break.


But don't worry. This is going to be the best kind of post - the kind with pictures. Everyone loves a blog with pictures because it doesn't require reading. I'll even help you along. All you need to know about our vacation is this:


San Diego, beach, sand, eating, naps, love, Penny, family, Nora, SD Zoo, Sea World, more eating, ELMO, more love. 

   

in the meantime

I realize it's been quite a while since I've written and I only have pharmacology to blame. In the two months since I've been out of the hospital I've been to two different doctors about eight times. One is the psychiatrist who tinkers with my medication doses so I don't feel like either a zombie or a homicidal maniac. The other is my psychologist who meets with Jason and I to talk about how my feeling like a zombie and a homicidal maniac is affecting us. 


It hasn't been easy. I thought that as soon as I got out of the hospital, back home and on the right medicines, everything would be spiffy. I'd be able to handle everything life could throw at me and then some. Instead I'm figuring out how to deal with the learning curve that goes with taking these medications. I'm learning how to live with not feeling depressed all the time. I know that sounds ridiculous but sometimes I honestly can't remember the last time I didn't feel depressed. Before marriage? College? High School? Maybe longer? When you've just been scraping by for as long as I have, allowing yourself to feel better is somewhat of a challenge. The other side of that coin is allowing yourself to feel upset at all; not just sadness but anger or hurt. Sometimes I get mad at myself for being angry about something. Shouldn't I be fine now? Shouldn't these things not bother me as much? 


I don't know. What I do know is that I'm still working on it. Every day is still a struggle to make things feel right. But it's a struggle I've been able to handle. I've started sleeping enough and eating better. I've even started exercising again. I still drink way too much caffeine and complain about getting up early to go for my walk. But I know that each day I do it, the next won't be so difficult. And that's what I have to remember - tomorrow won't be so difficult. 


A few months ago there was an episode of Glee that really hit home for me. One of the characters finally realized she had a problem with her OCD and went to a doctor. This is what the doctor told her: 


"There's a stigma in this country about mental illness; depression, anxiety, OCD, bipolar. They're hard to diagnose so people don't always appreciate that they're serious problems, but they are. Your illness is not who you're supposed to be. It's keeping you from who you're supposed to be. You're not alone. You're going to feel better. I promise."


And I believe her. 

the committed part of commitment, part 2

The first night in the hospital I was comforted by a foul-mouthed 18 year old and told it gets easier. It wasn't especially comforting since I was more scared and freaked out than I'd ever been in my life. Sleep didn't come easily with an unknown snoring roommate and roadside motel quality sheets. I prayed for what seemed like hours, more fervently than I ever had before. Eventually the sleep medication kicked in and the blackness came. I'd like to say I slept like the dead but that's only if it were a zombie movie. The nurses would open our door, shine a flashlight on our faces and check us out every 15 minutes. Every. Fifteen. Minutes. That night was worse than any of the nights I have spent in the hospital and that includes after giving birth. 


The next morning was way too bright for the way I was feeling. The sunshine through my window was not enough for me to forget where I had spent the night. I knew I had signed up for this but that didn't erase the fear and anxiety warring in my stomach. It didn't help that everyone seemed to know where to go and what to do except me. I followed blindly along as we went to breakfast and to the group classes we had afterwards. 


In a strange way it kind of reminded me of summer camp. If summer camp was like jail. 


We were escorted everywhere when we weren't in the women's unit. No one was allowed off by themselves. Classes for group therapy were scheduled all day long and you were expected to be present at all of them unless you had an individual session with your doctor. Besides classes, sleeping seemed to be the most popular way to pass the time. Aside from coloring. 


Yep, coloring. I have never seen so many grown women enjoy coloring like I did at the hospital. After half a day it occurred to me that it really was a great way to pass the time. It kept your hands busy allowing your mind to float on the surface. Very soothing and relaxing. That's my excuse for coloring as many pictures as I did. 


So aside from the coloring and the group classes, I was finally able to see a psychiatrist. The whole reason for my in-patient status. The doctor and I went over my current medications and I had to give a detailed history of my mental health and the mental state of all close relatives. I was asked to dig deep into my memory for instances where my mental health wasn't on such an even keel. I didn't have to dig too hard. It turns out I had lots of reference points from growing up that pointed to a less stable mental condition. What I had thought of simply as a bad case of depression and occasional anxiety turned into medical terminology giving me an  official diagnosis. 


Bipolar Type II and OCD tendencies with General Anxiety Disorder. 


The doctor said she was discontinuing both of my anti-depressants and the anti-anxiety medication. Instead I would be given an anti-psychotic as a mood stabilizer that I would take at night since its main side effect is sleep. 


That night I did sleep like the dead. I woke up the next morning with my right leg asleep from hip to ankle because I hadn't turned over, only sleeping on that side. For the first time in memory, I woke up early without benefit of an alarm or crying baby. I was calm and ready to start the day. I knew when breakfast was and knew I wanted to shower before that. That's right - I had a goal. And I was able to accomplish it. For the five days I was there I got up every morning, showered, did my hair and got dressed. I hadn't had the peace of mind to shower every day since before Penny was born. Gross, I know, but the honest truth. Somewhere over the last year and a half I had given up on myself a little. OK maybe a lot. But suddenly it seemed like an objective I could achieve. 


I was excited about facing the new day and every day that was to come. 

the committed part of commitment, part 1

It happened much more suddenly than I was prepared for. Actually, I hadn't really prepared at all. I went in for the assessment and the next thing I know I was signing the self-commitment papers at a mental health facility.


Over the last few weeks, Jason and I had become extremely aware that what we had been doing to help my severe depression was no longer working. For months Jason had been picking up the slack that I had been unable to carry. And as wonderful and reliable as he is, he couldn't carry the load by himself anymore. His emotional and physical health were deteriorating as fast as mine was. We decided that we needed to see a psychologist quickly if we were going to save my sanity and our marriage. The good thing was that this new doctor is a great fit for helping us deal with how my depression affects our lives and with working on communication skills. On the flip side, he quickly realized my other problems were more medicine related and, that being said, something he couldn't help with. He strongly recommended a psychiatrist or in-patient treatment to help get me back on track. 


Fast forward almost 24 hours later to when I finally realized what I was signing was paperwork for my immediate placement in-patient. To say I was unprepared would be a drastic understatement. They were taking me to the women's unit with only the clothes on my back. I couldn't even keep my bra because it was an underwire and such dangerous things weren't allowed. I hugged and kissed Jason, sobbing into his chest as I sent him 40 miles back home for clothes and basic toiletries. I cried because I didn't even get to say a proper goodbye to Penny since she was staying with friends. 


As I rode the elevator with the nurse to the 3rd floor, the overwhelming hospital smells only increased my anxiety; the combination of bleach and medical cleaner permeating the air. By now it was almost 10pm, I hadn't eaten since noon and I was having to forcefully remind myself that this was voluntary. In the common room of the women's unit I was greeted with a strangely welcoming shout of "Hey, new girl, come join us in some fuckin' Blackjack, Nigga." They didn't know me and I didn't know them but we all knew we were here for the same overall reason - either voluntarily or not. We were here for the kind of help we couldn't get anywhere else. 

keel-hauled

It's a turn of phrase that's been running through my mind lately. Keel-hauled. Sounds ominous and pirate-y. And it perfectly describes how I've been feeling.


Do you know what keel-hauling involved? You were tied to a rope that looped beneath the ship, thrown overboard, then dragged under the keel from bow to stern. If you were pulled quickly, the barnacles would tear you up, sometimes limb from limb. If they dragged you slowly, you would sink enough to miss the barnacles and instead you drowned. 


Back in January I was taken off the thyroid medicine I'd been on for a year. The doctor and I discussed it and because all of my blood tests had been normal and I was still suffering from the same symptoms, we concluded it wasn't working. By the beginning of March I could tell something was definitely not right. Apparently the thyroid medication had been making a difference, small though it was. Enough of a difference that when I didn't have it anymore the fallout was massive. My depression, which is always in a state of flux, took a nose dive. I crashed and burned. It got so bad that at one point I couldn't bring myself to care about what Penny was doing. I'd put on a movie for her and then wait it out until we could both go down for a nap. Sleep had become my escape. The place where I didn't have to think or do or be; I could just be numb. 


Fundamentally I knew this wasn't right so I went back to the doctor and had an ultrasound done on my thyroid. Then they scheduled an uptake exam at the hospital which is just a fancy type of CT scan. Then I was scheduled to see a specialist. Turns out my right thyroid is twice the size of my left, which is already larger than it should be. The blood work is still showing no problems at all. The doctors put me back on medication and I have a biopsy scheduled in June. 


And yet knowing that something else was wrong didn't fix anything. Do you know what the first major symptom is of hypothyroidism? Depression. And mine was getting significantly worse. Jason took a week off of work and my parents even flew in to help. And it did help. For a time. Then they had to go back home and Jason had to go back to work. We're taking steps to improve this all-consuming depression, looking into therapists and new medications.


And all the while, I'm still here. Either crashing against the keel or drowning. 

funniest and bestest

My sister-in-law Heather posted on her Facebook page not long ago that she has "gleaned from Facebook that having kids sucks more days than it doesn't."

This statement made me sad and all too aware that it is much easier to write about the bad than the good; too easy to note all the things that went wrong or didn't happen instead of reflecting on all the little moments that make me so happy to be a parent. 

Today was a good day. I have to start out stating this because as most who read my blog by now know that not every day is a good one for me. But Penny was less cranky, I was less cranky and she even got in two naps. Plus there were two noteworthy, nay, potent, moments that reminded me why I wanted to become a mother in the first place. 

The first was when Jason,  Penny and I were playing out back. She has discovered a new love for the outdoors since the weather has finally started to warm up above freezing and wants to be outside every chance she can get. She wants you to put on her shoes, find her jacket and then she's at the door trying to figure out how the handle works. Today she was mostly just exploring the back patio when she spotted a garden box that only has dirt in it. She was in the midst of bringing handful of the soil to Jason when he told her "thank you." And she replied "thank you" in sign language. Normally this wouldn't seem like such a big deal until you note that this is 'thank you' and you add in a palm-ful of dirt and an open slobbery mouth. The sad thing was Jason and I were laughing so hard we had a hard time trying to help her get the dirt off of her face. I was absolutely no help with tears streaming down my cheeks from laughter as Jason tried to wipe off as much dirt (which was quickly turning to mud) from her cheeks and chin. And the tough little thing that she is, she seemed undisturbed by what happened and just wanted to continue playing. 

Just a little while ago was bath time. This is by far still her favorite part of the day. Even if she's been extra cranky all day long, you can usually get some laughs out of her while she's in the tub. But today was a little exception. Today she was completely focused on me. She insisted on washing my face and arms with her wash cloth. Then to make sure I was truly clean, she wet her hands, slapping and rubbing my cheeks over and over again. This process repeated itself a half dozen times and was interrupted only by sweet baby kisses and the resting of her head on my arms.

I am so lucky to have such an incredible little sweet potato as a part of my life. I write this not so you will know how wonderfully lucky I am, but as a reminder to myself. I need to remember that the amazing times are even more numerous than the tough ones and forget that they're usually not spaced very far apart. 

another brick in the wall

Over the years Valentine's Day has been pretty hit or miss for me. Usually more misses than hits.


Like that time in kindergarten when the boy everyone avoided because of his tendency to wet his pants in class made me an extra special valentine and told everyone we were going to get married. 


Miss.


Or in junior high when the school put up paper hearts all around school with every student's name on them and you had to search yours out to see if anyone special took it. And I found mine with a maxi pad stuck to it. 


Miss.


But then there's the time when Jason sent me tulips at work and called me his girlfriend for the very first time. 


Definitely a hit. 


Or two years ago where I found out I was pregnant. On Valentine's Day. 


Again, a hit.


But this year was a little trickier to discern. Hit or miss? It definitely didn't involve a miss but I cringe to think of it as a hit. I'll let you decide. 


Jason had to work on Valentine's Day so I was going with a friend to the mall, trying to avoid that long stretch of time where Penny doesn't want to nap but also doesn't want to be not cranky. I had a few minutes before I was supposed to be at the meeting place so I thought I'd get the car washed. There was already someone ahead of me in the automatic wash lane so I was waiting patiently, thinking how apropos it was that a cop was in front of me since I would be spending the day without mine. Then my friend called to say she was already at the mall. OK, no big deal. I'd gone this long without a car wash. I'd do it another time. With someone already in front of me and a drive that opens right onto the open road, I decided to do a three-point turn so I wasn't backing out into traffic. Problem was, I didn't notice how close to the brick wall I was. And once I'd pulled into it, there was no other choice but to reverse. 

The cacophony of screeching and rattling as my right headlight hit the pavement brought me to the attention of the car wash owner, who just happened to be there, and the officer, who the owner flagged down. I'd already called Jason before I even got out of the car. I didn't think I could handle looking at the damage without him there. I checked on Penny, who was fine since we were only going about 3 mph when the wall jumped in front of me and I got out of the car to talk to the spectators. 


Luckily the officer knew Jason well and the owner could see I hadn't damaged his wall. Jason got there and I just fell into his arms crying because that's what I do when I don't know what else to do. The owner was a little disconcerted by this until he realized who I'd meant when I said I'd called my husband. No accident reports were filed and I was sent on my way since the car was definitely still drivable. So off to the mall I went, still in tears because this was my very first accident. I made Jason come have a cupcake with me since it was the only way I was going to feel better about having run into a wall. 


I'm just glad it hadn't involved another car and that our insurance rates didn't go up. It's been a few weeks and the car has been mended beautifully. Except for how shiny the new headlight is, you wouldn't know there had been a problem. 


So as far Valentine's Days go, not the best but definitely not the worst. Is there a middle ground between hit and miss?

2 gold stars

Last week I took Wash to the vet for his annual check-up and semi-annual teeth cleaning. I've documented on here before that Wash, poor kitty, has Feline HIV and so has a likelihood for multiple health problems including the kind of gingivitis that could give you nightmares. So because of these potential problems we keep up on the doctor visits. And, boy, did they give us some good news. 


Wash is now a slimmer kitty, weighing in at a skinny 15.2 lbs! I know what you're thinking. That's one huge cat. But no, he's not. If you consider that just a little over 2 years ago he was 21 lbs it's a miracle he's this little already. When I first asked the nurse how much he currently weighed she had yet to look at his history. Her face turned pink and kind of bashful and she said she wasn't sure she should tell me. When I mentioned that it couldn't be worse than the 21 he used to weigh, her face lit up and she breathed a sigh of relief. I'm pretty sure she had been embarrassed to tell me what a fat cat I had! But once she knew the history she was very proud of our little man for losing so much weight. 


One gold star, please. Thank you!


Then the doctor came in to examine him and take a look at his half-mouthful of teeth. Because of all the extractions he's already had, Wash pretty much only has teeth on one side of his mouth and is already missing one canine. So the doctor prodded and poked and Wash tried to claw his way off the table and when it was over I asked when I should schedule his cleaning. And surprise, the doc said probably in another six months! Six! Months! Because of my obsessive compulsive brushing of his teeth, Wash wouldn't need a proper cleaning for six whole months! No anesthetic and no drunk kitty trying to jump up on things!


Another gold star, please. Thank you!


A clean bill of health, no extra bill for a teeth cleaning and two gold stars. And people thought I was crazy for trying to brush a cat's teeth.

you gotta put down the cupcake

Somewhere along the line I became an emotional eater. Those words seem to carry a bad connotation but it hasn't always been a bad thing for me. When I'm determined and focused I can do without. Without cravings and extras. But when boredom or anxiety creep up that's when the problems start.

Last night I had a milkshake that contained 104 gm of carbs. I'm currently on a low carb diet and that medium milkshake represents almost a weeks worth of carbs.

Was it worth it? I thought so at the time but now I want to undo the deed.

And that's how the cycle will start again. I will be strong and determined then life will break my focus and I'll break my diet with a vengeance.

But for now, I'll just start over today.

i've decided to make a decision

For weeks now I've been lamenting the fact that I can never find the time to do what I want to do. Every hour seems to be swallowed up by something more pressing than the "maybe if I have times" on my to do list. I've been putting off exercising, decorating, organizing, blogging and a hundred other little things because I can never find the time.

Then I gave myself a giant mental slap upside the head. What have I been thinking? Things I wanted to do weren't getting done because I've become too lazy to do them; content to keep doing the same things I'd been doing. I've been using the excuse that Penelope just wears me out during the day and that when she's finally down for bed all I have the energy to do is watch reruns of Psych until it's time for bed.

Well, I call Bullshit!

If I want to get something done, I should get up off my lazy butt and do it. The marked lack of motivation has been killing me but I'm not going to let it crawl inside my brain any longer. I have 4 nights a week where I'm free to do whatever I want to do. The daytime will be solely reserved for playing with Penny. Nap time will be for routine chores like laundry and dishes. When Jason's working, after 5pm will no longer be just a wasteland of couch-potatoing (yes, I just made that word up) and laziness. I have things I want to do and I'll be damned if I'm not going to do them!

This picture has nothing to do with my goal-oriented decision making. I just love the expression on her face.