tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70917555918100361402024-02-07T18:46:13.415-05:00Sweet SassyfatsNot just another pretty face.Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.comBlogger67125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-88274875818425130852015-10-21T20:00:00.000-04:002015-10-21T20:00:03.912-04:00That Time Joe Biden Said the Right Thing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimWF1nLxkHq-tU7w_WVJNFprhau-rJKSxlF7d1KOvCC17BUQymuAqTKFRlV0CUYpI96p8Bja46xH5xx-iMVSdWKi2H_oyjLdk8qa5lzyWPRqt6Jq4Acp9fwQPJNxC1oAe6Ka3b09GPyoI/s1600/putting_on_a_brave_face_by_phoenixfaddes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimWF1nLxkHq-tU7w_WVJNFprhau-rJKSxlF7d1KOvCC17BUQymuAqTKFRlV0CUYpI96p8Bja46xH5xx-iMVSdWKi2H_oyjLdk8qa5lzyWPRqt6Jq4Acp9fwQPJNxC1oAe6Ka3b09GPyoI/s320/putting_on_a_brave_face_by_phoenixfaddes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I don’t usually get into politics here because I don’t want
the two or three people who actually read this blog to get all yelly in the
comments section. I’m not a political wonk and don’t really enjoy the debate. But
every once in a while something catches my attention to the point I can’t
ignore it.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Today I’m bending my own rules because of Joe Biden’s
<a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/post-politics/wp/2015/10/21/full-text-bidens-announcement-that-he-wont-run-for-president/?tid=pm_politics_pop_b" target="_blank">announcement</a> that he will not enter the 2016 presidential race. Why do I care so
much about this announcement when I haven’t even stepped into the steaming heap
of, um, <i>news</i>, that’s been generated
by the Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton coverage? Because Biden’s primary
reason for not running for president is the same reason my own world is upside
down: grief. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As part of Biden’s reasons for not running, he said this: <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p>I know from previous experience that there's no timetable for [the grieving] process. The process doesn't respect or much care about things like filing deadlines or debates and primaries and caucuses.</o:p></blockquote>
For most of Biden’s vice presidency, I only took notice when he’d <strike>say something stupid</strike> make a gaffe that got a lot of news coverage. My opinion of him was pretty much formed by those gaffes. I didn’t bother researching Biden’s career. In my mind he was just another politician who existed in my periphery.<br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal">
My opinion changed in May when <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beau_Biden" target="_blank">Beau Biden</a> died from brain cancer. Beau
was Joe’s son. In the coverage of Beau’s death and funeral, I learned that he
was not even the first child that Joe had buried. Suddenly this political caricature
with a chronic case of foot-in-mouth came into sharp focus as a living,
breathing, <i>grieving</i> human being. He
had buried a wife and two children. You don’t just shake that off, I don’t care
who you are. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ_ftaBwmK91OsFpdwJY4N9lnl55bbH-YP5Bhgqy0aR391siPCftV3UBjL05v15jMX5wg97a6bDsW9wysFbN_uyfSLXP6Duw2HzCBbNH9qXDYffxyiSHxBtD7cjTb0ry_ofsqObu55-cs/s1600/tumblr_n2mqrr2S6U1t3dv81o1_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ_ftaBwmK91OsFpdwJY4N9lnl55bbH-YP5Bhgqy0aR391siPCftV3UBjL05v15jMX5wg97a6bDsW9wysFbN_uyfSLXP6Duw2HzCBbNH9qXDYffxyiSHxBtD7cjTb0ry_ofsqObu55-cs/s320/tumblr_n2mqrr2S6U1t3dv81o1_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But it's never just gone. </td></tr>
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I can’t say that I know how Biden feels. Nobody really <i>knows</i> how Biden feels, except for Biden
himself. But I do know what it’s like to be in more emotional and spiritual pain
than you ever would have believed possible. I know what it’s like to feel like
your heart has been shattered – no, <i>pulverized</i> – and set on fire. I know what
it’s like to feel lost and alone even when surrounded by people who love and
support you, because the ONE person in the world you want to wrap your arms
around more than anyone else in the history of ever is gone from this world.
And he is never, ever coming back. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I learned about all of Joe Biden’s losses, I stopped
thinking of him as a politician and started thinking of him as a person. (I
know, I know. It would be great if all politicians were people.) He was still
out there in the public eye, doing his public servant gig, in front of cameras
and everything, putting on his brave face for the world. Talking, smiling, legislating.
All that crap. One would think that he had moved on. And many thought he had.
But that’s not how grief works. You don’t just get over it and move on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZoX-Li7u0elNmeDID88lKC20P4C5cSrGNEGQMAaYt0abwrrVfVDgrOP6uGXfZe-LyBvpo38r-UkWQayQ5f7KtR_6pbsy1bUkCp7Og4u3OubTLszfCT8XbWrEle6aCGhtDnfnkD79f5E/s1600/How-Grief-Works.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZoX-Li7u0elNmeDID88lKC20P4C5cSrGNEGQMAaYt0abwrrVfVDgrOP6uGXfZe-LyBvpo38r-UkWQayQ5f7KtR_6pbsy1bUkCp7Og4u3OubTLszfCT8XbWrEle6aCGhtDnfnkD79f5E/s320/How-Grief-Works.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Like I said, I can’t <i>know</i>
how he feels, but there are common traits among the bereaved. Like the façade. The
brave face that makes people think you are so very strong. What the brave face hides
is that you feel like you’re dying on the inside a little bit every single day. We
put on the brave face because we live in a society that doesn’t deal with grief
very well. In generations past there would be a period of public mourning. The
bereaved would wear dark clothes to signify their grief and people would respond
accordingly. Now we have an unspoken agreement with each other to keep things
light and cordial. Once you get a couple of weeks past the funeral, there’s an understanding
that the only proper response to “How are you,” is “Fine, and you?” Small talk
is not an invitation to pour out your soul. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivDi8Uea6kPF3URpx-MMi4hn3kYVTLm9PtInXVvKwZ-NmAfOTKGSNU8lxbz6rdFtIiyNiPyzA3zgOwY6D6_cslWJYREDzmJxU1d0VALgqM8QB04SzeyHFZcXLXw45T3cPdDVWLNkrBjEM/s1600/5518b7fcf7089a0e51300be66c974417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivDi8Uea6kPF3URpx-MMi4hn3kYVTLm9PtInXVvKwZ-NmAfOTKGSNU8lxbz6rdFtIiyNiPyzA3zgOwY6D6_cslWJYREDzmJxU1d0VALgqM8QB04SzeyHFZcXLXw45T3cPdDVWLNkrBjEM/s1600/5518b7fcf7089a0e51300be66c974417.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hmm. Good compromise. </td></tr>
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As Biden said in his press conference this afternoon, there
is no time limit on grief. But you will reach a point where you can put your
brave face on, suck it up, and go through the motions of normal everyday life.
I’m now 9 long months into my own journey and I'm more functional than I was at first. I still have to fight against the
grief every single day. I first have to fight my way out of sleep. Then I have
to fight my way out of bed. Then I have to fight my way out of my pajamas. Then
I have to fight against the urge to say, “Fuck it” and go back to bed after I’m
dressed.</div>
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Do you see the pattern here? Fight, fight, fight, just to
function as a normal person. Then all day at work I have to fight against the
urge to crawl under my desk with a blankie and box of chocolates. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6rfdfh9soLbVbfRzkDn1YhofIa-O7pSL5Qih5BXuC3tfac4ZgueE6K-Ydr1PhIrK0g0i4B1kRroaUJfzResiD3iPcaCyY-SyqqjGdRGiPJX4On48XJY7aZe9dq3Jn_IFcJNBXNwCXvU/s1600/5c575fd405a867bf818bbc5030ae6216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6rfdfh9soLbVbfRzkDn1YhofIa-O7pSL5Qih5BXuC3tfac4ZgueE6K-Ydr1PhIrK0g0i4B1kRroaUJfzResiD3iPcaCyY-SyqqjGdRGiPJX4On48XJY7aZe9dq3Jn_IFcJNBXNwCXvU/s320/5c575fd405a867bf818bbc5030ae6216.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">IT'S NO FAIR!!!!!</td></tr>
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It’s exhausting, really. Living a normal life through the
fog of grief is absolutely exhausting. It’s like running a marathon through a
wall of Jell-O while trying to do all your other daily tasks. It’s hard and it’s
messy. And it makes you weary right down to your bones. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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As a member of the grief community (yes, there’s a community
– you’ll find it when you need it) I sincerely appreciate Biden’s candor during
his announcement. Time and time again, our society fails to respect the fact
that grief does not end when the funeral is over. For those closest to the
deceased, the hard times have only just begun. Even someone who <i>seems</i> ok – walking, talking, smiling,
laughing – still staggers when nobody’s looking. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-29660946054014573462015-06-12T20:00:00.000-04:002015-06-12T20:00:00.253-04:00Chasing Normal: My Dichotomous Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOKoJ1mhISrfKg6tKVTCm3gozrfPoXx9I4-4LRTsTXj7DRkK1rYGZ7-UO34d82MeaF6Veaw3fa7mNcE_4-RFXoZk3XLfwBEF7MzMQWETlUIJxO52dQmh4YV3R0xxTXP11pjPy1NCIZDJ4/s1600/fake_smile___real_tears____by_t0xically.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOKoJ1mhISrfKg6tKVTCm3gozrfPoXx9I4-4LRTsTXj7DRkK1rYGZ7-UO34d82MeaF6Veaw3fa7mNcE_4-RFXoZk3XLfwBEF7MzMQWETlUIJxO52dQmh4YV3R0xxTXP11pjPy1NCIZDJ4/s200/fake_smile___real_tears____by_t0xically.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I wake up in the morning, I hear
her. Screaming, howling, wailing, “<i>NO!!
NO!! NOOOO!!!!!</i>” She continues her protest through all my waking hours.
This barrage comes from a pitiful figure who lays prostrate on the ground by my
husband’s grave, her face pressed into the soil made damp by her tears. She is
utterly defeated by an all-consuming grief. Locked in a state of disbelief and unmitigated
devastation, she beats her chest as if to mold the fragments of her shattered
heart back into a functioning organ. She is my Inner Widow, and she lives in
the space somewhere between my head and heart. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Meanwhile, in the real world, everyday life demands to be
lived. No matter how miserable my Inner Widow is, my Outer Self – the me the
world can see – has kids to raise and bills to pay. Outer Self is the part of
me that walks and talks and even smiles and laughs. People I see frequently will
cheerfully greet Outer Me, long since having shed the apprehensive, “So… how
are you and the girls?” that was so prevalent in the weeks following Mike’s
death. Their lives have returned to normal, and since I live much of my life
with my game face on, they no longer worry about triggering my tears in the
course of normal conversation. And that’s a good thing, because that means they
treat Outer Me like a regular human being instead of a grief bomb that’s about
to explode with tears and snot. Outer Me appreciates the gesture – it helps me figure out my new
normal. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiem6Ua8lEbI7KOF-HZTCWlXZpVKOeExEXO-PH7Zp6t0J4H-IwvH6xiKMmy3wYsgtJP_ruqQDXAa3uwwm_jDR7AW5vnlsm0Ejl4QlNa1WUfuKQ9xD8EpvQkp7W_0S5B-RiCF_rc6v0Q-0s/s1600/afterloss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiem6Ua8lEbI7KOF-HZTCWlXZpVKOeExEXO-PH7Zp6t0J4H-IwvH6xiKMmy3wYsgtJP_ruqQDXAa3uwwm_jDR7AW5vnlsm0Ejl4QlNa1WUfuKQ9xD8EpvQkp7W_0S5B-RiCF_rc6v0Q-0s/s320/afterloss.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tangentially related, I <i>hate</i> jigsaw puzzles.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ever since Mike began his surgical journey last year, and
especially since his death, I have had people mistake my ability to function in
society as a sign of great strength on my part. To that I say, </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">pffft</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">. See, the thing about fortitude is
that everybody has it. Yes, even you. Unless you live in constant crisis mode from
the time you’re born, it’s a </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">latent</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">
quality. You only realize just how much you can handle when a crisis stirs your
fortitude from its hiding place. If yours hasn’t been tested quite yet, you
might be tempted to think that you’d live the rest of your life in the fetal
position if you were in my shoes. And truth be told, I’ve had plenty of fetal
position kind of days. But </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">staying</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> in
the fetal position just isn’t an option. (re: kids to raise, bills to pay)</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, even YOU!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the five months since Mike died, I have been learning to
separate Inner Widow from Outer Self. On most days I look just like a normal
person who contributes to society. On the inside, however, Inner Widow
continues to shriek and howl. Sometimes she gets so loud I can’t ignore her and
therefore have to take a time out. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I write,
sometimes I bury myself in a diversion so I don’t have to think or feel my own
thoughts or feelings. (Game of Thrones, anyone?) But after a brief rendezvous
with Inner Widow, I dust myself off, put my game face back on, and shove Outer
Self back into the real world. Not because I </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">want</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> to. But because I </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">have</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">
to. That’s just the way life works.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2CAJXDgxppJBKZBMm1xgaOFxLv5-ts-20cCGPAHdKtO5gdByRlYA6LlMi0TUhY31dLV-aX18Bwx8R0B-UbvzYiizGWMD6VOb2yhHRjWWWGi8uRISJgYcTvehyphenhyphenddA3rPlhp53hqxlelLw/s1600/07df71926d8e7ff87ddf14bccf121780.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2CAJXDgxppJBKZBMm1xgaOFxLv5-ts-20cCGPAHdKtO5gdByRlYA6LlMi0TUhY31dLV-aX18Bwx8R0B-UbvzYiizGWMD6VOb2yhHRjWWWGi8uRISJgYcTvehyphenhyphenddA3rPlhp53hqxlelLw/s320/07df71926d8e7ff87ddf14bccf121780.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orange Man gets it.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t expect Inner Widow to ever go away. As I’ve learned from
others who speak the language of the bereaved, grief isn’t something that you
get over – it’s something you learn to live with. My hope is that as time goes
by and I get better practiced at letting Outer Self lead the way, Inner Widow
will stop wailing all time and find moments of quiet reflection. Maybe she’ll
pick her face up off the ground and look at the beautiful scenery around her.
Even if her tears continue to flow, it would be nice if she could transition
from absolute devastation to something less extreme. It’s exhausting to go
through the motions every stinkin’ day when your insides don’t match what’s
expected of your outsides. In the meantime, I’ll continue to muddle on through
each day as it comes. That really is the only option.</span></div>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-69362417327479120982015-02-13T20:00:00.000-05:002015-02-13T20:00:02.573-05:00Valentine's Day: The 25th Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh1S8EeOV1XLlhsDgY4uz-yT4XG537lZxhZ9oID3T265zmc1F3yuGIV1VxqRyxzdWa4QOY-xMwzLOwJ1cRkKlHS-oPAvH8C6jNT-cAtMcq5ZzdUGUWy8GWw4nh8ovL0d0mcLDrw__RZIA/s1600/11057red_roses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh1S8EeOV1XLlhsDgY4uz-yT4XG537lZxhZ9oID3T265zmc1F3yuGIV1VxqRyxzdWa4QOY-xMwzLOwJ1cRkKlHS-oPAvH8C6jNT-cAtMcq5ZzdUGUWy8GWw4nh8ovL0d0mcLDrw__RZIA/s1600/11057red_roses.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a></div>
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Picture It: Valentine's Day, 1990. At the beginning of the school day, a very sweet boy gave me three
roses as a token of friendship. We were in 11<sup>th</sup> grade that year, and
we had been friends since 3<sup>rd</sup>. He gave roses to other girls in our
little circle of friends that day, so <i>my</i> roses weren’t fraught with
any romantic notions, no awkward “Will you be my Valentine” stuff. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEduPAPPAm5RWcZ-y-sOopoS-vl-rtiVXoVWzfFGTdjDhLxcLhOh2C9weTEqQhzj8lb32TRMbEBZYXuPzStQpPN_7WgB1GQuVXkLrjRkF90YUm8Ez3I85mJEnTJgC5GUkfWtSQfO76iYY/s1600/whew2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEduPAPPAm5RWcZ-y-sOopoS-vl-rtiVXoVWzfFGTdjDhLxcLhOh2C9weTEqQhzj8lb32TRMbEBZYXuPzStQpPN_7WgB1GQuVXkLrjRkF90YUm8Ez3I85mJEnTJgC5GUkfWtSQfO76iYY/s1600/whew2.jpg" height="200" width="137" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Whew! Amirite?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Little did he know that I’d been interested in him as more
than a friend for a long time. I was simply too scared to say anything about
it. I was afraid of ruining our friendship or making things weird with our
circle of friends. I was especially afraid that he didn’t feel the same way. I
was even more afraid that he did.</div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7091755591810036140" name="more"></a><br />
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Fast-forward to the end of the school day. After carrying
the roses with me all day and answering like a bajillion questions about them, I
could not ignore my feelings any more.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio8Ao6DSn79YVTYoxjHD63ckA1PALg8EpP6-IDRKP6ZWvUels4z_aUB-BQPsVgUetHL_sy41zMZ_9AW66RCfsdOMf9VOLKwDeJuaPUOk4J1I0rEIqInq62e5EFNK3wwNt0TpqfVSnCXmM/s1600/reo+speedwagon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio8Ao6DSn79YVTYoxjHD63ckA1PALg8EpP6-IDRKP6ZWvUels4z_aUB-BQPsVgUetHL_sy41zMZ_9AW66RCfsdOMf9VOLKwDeJuaPUOk4J1I0rEIqInq62e5EFNK3wwNt0TpqfVSnCXmM/s1600/reo+speedwagon.jpg" height="131" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>REO Speedwagon Would Understand</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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When I got home
from school I did what any self-respecting 16-year-old girl would do: I ran to the wall-mounted kitchen phone (next to my pet dinosaur's cage) and immediately called my BFF.</div>
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<i>Me: Eau-mi-gawd, I like totally have to tell you something!</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>BFF: Eaukeh, tell me!</i></div>
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<i>Me: I like, totally like Mike.</i></div>
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<i>BFF: You mean you like, <b>like</b>-like
him? </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Me: Totally. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>In unison: SQUEEEE!</i></div>
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But there was still the little problem that I was too scared
to say anything to him about it. Luckily, my BFF was easily recruited to the
task of nudging him in my direction. The next afternoon, he called me to say, “What
is with BFF today? She keeps telling me I should ask you out.” The conversation
blossomed from there, and we shyly confessed having “feelings” for each other.
Like, totally. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLZAbTED9Mx8VaMr7JM_R14ulBuFsomSWjGdLw8ZQOBLG9sIjaNBKP05u5OxGEoRID4KX1hnz83LEp_GE6UCqvCJYxaBcfwkYed7ZAGo_wWnJBHoL1an8nY8oLyKCYWLrcHleTJkWrFZw/s1600/high_school_3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLZAbTED9Mx8VaMr7JM_R14ulBuFsomSWjGdLw8ZQOBLG9sIjaNBKP05u5OxGEoRID4KX1hnz83LEp_GE6UCqvCJYxaBcfwkYed7ZAGo_wWnJBHoL1an8nY8oLyKCYWLrcHleTJkWrFZw/s1600/high_school_3.png" height="206" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Seriously, how could these two kids NOT end up together?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A few days later, we had our first official date. What we did not
know then is that a movie at Laurel Lakes 9 and dinner at Pizza Villa would be
the <i>last</i> first date either of us would have. Our shy confessions of “feelings”
(like, totally) grew over the years into a deep and enduring love. From a foundation of nervous giggles and sweaty-palmed hand holding, we would go on to get
married, build a life together in a sleepy little town by the Chesapeake Bay, and
bring two amazing new people into the world.</div>
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That’s not to say it was all lollipops and rainbows. God
knows we had our battles over the years, both petty and epic. But through it
all, we always managed to hash it out, come to a mutual understanding, and
confirm that we still loved each other – even in moments when we didn’t
particularly <i>like</i> each other. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguHPPJOXVb-NZ25msI3TpnjCJbio9xvusg32XhuWf1OE30Zl9cjBaYHnl1NMt9X0lNjvDeJaDQbQVjEDa_3MXIcx7tsQt5nk7IbftRCpGxeFqNXNozLu3GhiqsuJMZOClDeUdOnMVt38s/s1600/storybook_messy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguHPPJOXVb-NZ25msI3TpnjCJbio9xvusg32XhuWf1OE30Zl9cjBaYHnl1NMt9X0lNjvDeJaDQbQVjEDa_3MXIcx7tsQt5nk7IbftRCpGxeFqNXNozLu3GhiqsuJMZOClDeUdOnMVt38s/s1600/storybook_messy.png" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Storybook romances can be messy sometimes.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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On a side note, it turns out my early fears about making things weird
in our little circle of friends were unfounded. To this day, they are my
closest friends in the world. They celebrated with us at our wedding. They
happily welcomed our babies to the world. And more recently, they stood with me as we watched the funeral director close
his casket. They held me as I wept for my Sweet Boy, and they took care of me
while I crumbled under the weight of my grief even though they had just lost one
of their best friends.</div>
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This is the first Valentine’s Day in 25 years that Mike won’t give me roses. It’s not the flowers I’ll miss. It’s his <i>presence</i>. His vitality. His devotion.
His dedication to just being the best version of himself he could be. Hopefully some memories will bubble to the surface that make me smile. After
25 years, I have so very many to cherish.</div>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-28969467507664765602015-01-24T19:26:00.000-05:002015-01-24T19:26:14.404-05:00In Loving Memory: Michael Anthony Salek<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl90ZCq2wVO4B3Faa51Sr_vnCVF694fzOfJDDIyPiHP1XU2LB8WK-yYKQjQlQ2S29VJ0PeqZR0sxUdQWwlb-2by1bkIf-II5RqMz5awyb49eZIOYAP0qAISfVYgwvulLimMLkxqOFwYTc/s1600/599766_3964512724446_1838466388_n+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl90ZCq2wVO4B3Faa51Sr_vnCVF694fzOfJDDIyPiHP1XU2LB8WK-yYKQjQlQ2S29VJ0PeqZR0sxUdQWwlb-2by1bkIf-II5RqMz5awyb49eZIOYAP0qAISfVYgwvulLimMLkxqOFwYTc/s1600/599766_3964512724446_1838466388_n+(1).jpg" height="200" width="155" /></a></div>
It's been one week since I buried my soul mate. The father of my children. The one I was supposed to grow old with. My very own <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2011/12/i-believe-in-miracles.html" target="_blank">Miracle Man</a>. I'm still waiting to wake up from this nightmare.<br />
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<div>
When I last posted in this space, it was to flip the big ol' double bird to <a href="http://www.sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2014/04/an-open-letter-to-arnold-chiari_8.html" target="_blank">Arnold Chiari Malformation</a>. Mike was getting ready to go in for decompression surgery. He was supposed to heal up and come home to resume his normal life. Unbeknownst to us, "normal" would go on permanent hiatus.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Mike's decompression surgery in April was deemed a success. At first, anyway. He was in the hospital for about two weeks, then he was released. So far so good. But not long after coming to his parents' house - where they could care for him 24/7 - complications arose. Spinal fluid was gathering in the back of his neck to the point that he looked like he was smuggling a Nerf football under his skin back there. His strength was flagging. He was having severe headaches and wanted only to sleep. Instead of steadily getting better, he was steadily getting worse. Back to the hospital he went.<br />
<br />
The course of action was a second decompression surgery. The neurosurgeon and plastic surgeon worked together to patch up the leak. After some more time in the hospital, Mike was again released. This time he healed enough to move back home with me and the girls. For a few days, anyway. The Nerf football grew again and his symptoms got worse again. Back to the hospital he went. Again.<br />
<br />
This time around, instead of doing a full decompression surgery, they decided to drain off the excess fluid another way. They inserted a tube into his brain that drained into a little collection bag that had to remain level with his head. We saw the change in him immediately after this procedure. He was alert, docile, and confused. He didn't recognize me or his parents at first, but didn't seem too concerned about it. He was confused about all the tubes and wires he was hooked up to, and he was fascinated with the glowing light from the pulse oximeter on his finger. When I asked him what was on his finger, he said it was a band-aid. I asked him why he needed a band-aid, and he told me it was to hide is ET scar. The doctors didn't want the light to get too bright.<br />
<br />
He was serious. He was not on any heavy medication. His brain was seriously working on that level.<br />
<br />
After the spinal fluid levels were stabilized, they removed the tube from Mike's brain. He was back to his coherent and frustrated old self, ready to escape from the hospital at his first opportunity. The physical therapists worked with him to teach him to use the walker (again) and be independent enough to get sprung. He was released. Again. Within a several days, the football returned and his symptoms got worse. Again. Back to the hospital he went. Again.<br />
<br />
Upon his return to the hospital this time, Mike got a shunt inserted after doing some more time with the external drain hooked up to his brain. The shunt ran from his brain to his heart to regulate the excess spinal fluid. He spent a couple more weeks in the hospital, then a couple of weeks in physical rehab. He was gaining strength and his short-term memory, which had become rather shaky, was starting to return. He was released. Again. The football took a little longer to come back this time, but he was losing strength and balance. This time his return to the hospital was preceded by a fall that cracked a rib. He also had developed aspiration pneumonia; at some point he had inhaled a little bit of food into his lungs because his ability to swallow properly had gotten worse. It was the last time he would go from home to the hospital - because he never would come home again. That was in August.<br />
<br />
The doctors decided to revise the shunt so that it would drain in to his peritoneal cavity instead of his heart. That seemed to get the fluid under control, finally. But there was a serious complication this time: blood clots. And one horrifying day, a large clot got lodged in his pulmonary artery. Most people don't survive the type of pulmonary embolism Mike had. But Mike was already in Critical Care, and a doctor and nurse happened to be in the room when he crashed. Had it taken the medical team another five minutes or so to intervene, he would have died in that hospital room. But the doctors acted fast enough to get him into interventional radiology, where they threaded IVs and electric wires through his neck directly into his pulmonary artery to break up the clot, before it was too late. <br />
<br />
Once he was stabilized - and hooked up to a room full of machines that were keeping him alive - the doctors told us it was only a matter of time before he would have a major cardiac arrest. Their question to us was, "Do you want us to perform CPR, which can be downright violent, or let him go peacefully?" Mike's family and I spent that day in a hospital conference room, crying and praying and discussing. My sister came to prop me up through the process. Ultimately I opted not to sign the forms. I figured I owed him at least one more heroic measure. He was a fighter, and it seemed wrong to just let him slip away as long as he had any fight left in him.<br />
<br />
Mike spent 2 weeks in a medically induced coma on life support. Machines breathed for him because his lungs were damaged by the pneumonia. But as the doctors eased up on the sedation, Mike showed signs of life. He was in there, and he was struggling to surface. The day after they woke him up, they took the breathing tube out. The day after they took the breathing tube out, they moved him to the general medical unit. He had a long way to go, but he was showing signs of progress that led the doctors to believe he was on the road to recovery. The cardiac arrest never happened, and the pulmonary embolism finally broke apart and stopped threatening his life. It was a hopeful time.<br />
<br />
But as I said before, he would never make it home again. Mike spent the next few months moving back and forth between physical rehabs, emergency rooms, and nursing homes. He made some strides in physical therapy, but his overall condition never improved past a certain point. He was confined to a wheelchair; the right half of his body was weak, numb, and uncoordinated; he suffered from double vision; and his ability to swallow remained compromised.<br />
<br />
That last item there? That's the reason I'm writing an "In Loving Memory" post. He developed aspiration pneumonia several times during his months following the embolism recovery, including in the final days of his life. But instead of going to the hospital when family heard the tell-tale chest rattle and nurses recorded a high fever, Mike insisted he would be fine. He adamantly refused to go to the hospital on the last day I would hear his voice. (I was not with him because I had a cold. I didn't want to get him sick. Yes, that's a regret.) And because he was coherent and capable of making decisions, nobody could make him go.<br />
<br />
I got the call at 4:30 in the morning. The kids had to wake me up because I didn't hear my phone ringing. When I finally answered the phone, his nurse told me that she had found him unresponsive during her rounds. She said they tried to resuscitate him, but he remained unresponsive. She said they called 9-1-1 and the paramedics tried to resuscitate him, but he remained unresponsive. At this point I was numbly saying "Uh-huh" in response to everything she said, wishing she'd just hurry up and tell me which emergency room he'd been taken to. Instead, she ultimately said, "I'm so sorry. He died."<br />
<br />
I cannot tell you how many millions of times that moment has replayed in my mind over the last two weeks. It seems so much like a distant nightmare. The whole past 9 months feel like a distant nightmare, for that matter. But the reality won't go away. I don't have my husband any more. My girls don't have their daddy. My in-laws lost a son and a brother. There is a gigantic Mike-shaped hole in the world now and there is absolutely nothing that will ever fill it. Ever.<br />
<br />
In the two weeks since Mike left his broken body behind, there has been a tremendous outpouring of love and support from family, dear friends, and the community. God's grace and their support are the two things that have kept me from sinking to the bottom of my despair. That, and knowing that I have two little girls need me more now than ever. I want to teach them that life goes on after loss, simply because it has to.<br />
<br />
Besides, Mike would haunt my ass if he caught me hiding under the covers binge-eating Oreos. I don't know if he's watching over us through a hole in the clouds or from a big-ol' flat-screen TV in Jesus' own man cave. But I know he's out there. I know he's free. I know he is the most healed anyone could ever hope to be. As our little Em said as soon as I told the girls the news, he doesn't need a wheelchair any more. In fact, I imagine him testing out his newfound ability to fly, swooping through the heavens going, "WOO HOO!!!!! LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!!!"<br />
<br />
He was a good husband. He was a phenomenal father. He was loved by more people than he ever would have believed. And I will miss him every single day for the rest of my life. <br />
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Music: Alter Bridge, "In Loving Memory"</div>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-6525121239650520672014-04-08T23:00:00.000-04:002014-04-08T23:00:06.030-04:00An Open Letter to Arnold Chiari Malformation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6NCsttSKZtRmrd727HqEJyPQsJ_05wYwXi0ixhc2ueJGhUS7Ja_GaR8LNsxShg7k_WCy73Lq5lhz1dh7rYBT7x5Rv6Y5zbAiJCPWC7SGWIR1pD-Vpil1vovfVmzja1O8NttJqXgVNp_Q/s1600/chiari_ribbon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6NCsttSKZtRmrd727HqEJyPQsJ_05wYwXi0ixhc2ueJGhUS7Ja_GaR8LNsxShg7k_WCy73Lq5lhz1dh7rYBT7x5Rv6Y5zbAiJCPWC7SGWIR1pD-Vpil1vovfVmzja1O8NttJqXgVNp_Q/s1600/chiari_ribbon.jpg" height="200" width="161" /></a></div>
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Hello, Arnold. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Didn’t think I’d see you back again so soon. It doesn’t seem
very much time has passed since you last turned my world upside down. In fact,
I didn’t think you’d dare show your face around here for another ten years or
more. </div>
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It’s not the first time I’ve been wrong. </div>
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<a name='more'></a><br />
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When we last met, you had <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2011/12/i-believe-in-miracles.html" target="_blank">robbed my husband</a> of his ability
to work a paying job, care for his children, and even perform basic self-care on
his own. But when Dr. Smartypants stepped in, you retreated. Miracle Man lived
a symptom-free life for several years, and I was relieved to have that whole
nightmare scenario about his debilitating symptoms and brushes with death
safely in our past. I had fooled myself into believing I could leave the most
painful of those memories stuffed in a mental closet, gathering dust right
along with other useless information like my times tables. Now I know how
foolish I was to believe you were gone. </div>
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You did not trumpet your return. Rather, you whispered your
reemergence in the form of numb fingers. Miracle Man complained of pins and
needles, but brushed it off. Maybe he slept on it wrong. Or maybe it was carpal
tunnel syndrome from all those years at the cash register. Anything but you. </div>
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But he was wrong. Your whisper got louder – not only did the
numbness in Miracle Man’s right-hand fingers spread through his hand and up his
forearm, but he developed a tremor in his right leg. He tried to dismiss the
leg tremor as something gym-related. But Dr. Smartypants knew better. Dr.
Smartypants knew within 5 minutes of talking to Miracle Man that you, Arnold,
were back to your old cerebellum-squishing ways. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even then, we met the news of your return with guarded
optimism. At least it’s not as bad as last time. At least he’s not passing out.
Choking on food. Slipping into heart failure. At least there’s just a little
tingling and trembling. That’s something to be thankful for. Right? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Arnold, I gotta hand it to you. You are never one to back
down from a challenge. Just when we thought we could live with the annoyances
that you had presented to Miracle Man this time, you stepped up your game.
Remember that morning, Arnold? Because I will never forget it. Miracle Man woke
up slurring his words and dragging his right leg behind him, unable to loosen
his grip from anything his right hand touched. So alarming and sudden were his
symptoms that Dr. Smartypants saw Miracle Man that very morning. He ordered an
MRI to be completed that very day, and he personally called Miracle Man’s new
surgeon (because Dr. Smartypants has retired from surgery, but not consulting)
on his cell phone before we’d even left the office. Dr. New-Smartypants, the
high-level Johns Hopkins brain surgeon and world-renowned cerebral spinal fluid
(CSF) disorder specialist with a waiting list several months long, agreed to
see Miracle Man two days later.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fast forward two days, and we sat in the personal office of
Dr. New-Smartypants planning yet another brain surgery. Another Chiari
decompression, as they call it. Another roto-rootering around Miracle Man’s
brain stem to undo the life-altering damage that you, Arnold, are inflicting.
Another chance to get Miracle Man’s CSF flowing properly so that the
information superhighway of his spinal cord can get signals all the way from
his brain to all his body parts and back, uninterrupted. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before Dr. New-Smartypants would schedule the surgery, he
wanted Miracle Man to get examined by an anesthesiologist and get a whole bunch
of blood work, scans, and x-rays done to make sure he’s fit for surgery. We
glided through that little honeymoon period knowing that surgery loomed on the
horizon, but it was kind of a fuzzy shape in the distance. Nothing to cause
alarm. Miracle Man’s condition held steady, so we managed to forget for a few
weeks that we were, in fact, getting thrown back into the nightmare from which
we’d escaped several years ago. We were happy to accept that surgery was the
one thing that would keep Miracle Man from rapid decline. It was the Right
Thing to do, and we were OK with it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then we got the phone call. The <a href="http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/chiari/detail_chiari.htm#241883087" target="_blank">surgery</a> had been scheduled.
We had a date and a time. That vague shape in the distance suddenly snapped
into sharp focus and started roaring like Godzilla as it moved forward. You want to know what
it looked like, Arnold? It looked like every repressed emotion I’d stuffed into
that mental closet with the forgotten math facts. And you know what?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQkUW3eSmqTCU3mpShSGIdnbWC8dbbHnDx2U0Bzef0ijmAiQ7um2TwKDfTUqZkabBV9JrBhzwqt9dhNssi0Xnr6EKl2X5ArIuj5wkTyMtQJ_ME6mZqa9tLcBWPtmG3qX6a47Yj24ENXE/s1600/panic_attack.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQkUW3eSmqTCU3mpShSGIdnbWC8dbbHnDx2U0Bzef0ijmAiQ7um2TwKDfTUqZkabBV9JrBhzwqt9dhNssi0Xnr6EKl2X5ArIuj5wkTyMtQJ_ME6mZqa9tLcBWPtmG3qX6a47Yj24ENXE/s1600/panic_attack.png" height="41" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have not had a truly peaceful moment since the surgery was
scheduled because I’m either busy as hell trying to keep my corner of the world
together, or quietly contemplating just how bad things have to get before they
get better. <i>IF</i> they get better.
Because as you already know, Arnold, there are no guarantees. The most Dr.
New-Smartypants is hoping for is to stop your progress. He has already told
Miracle Man not to expect any actual improvement. So that whole
arm-not-working, leg-dragging, speech-slurring, trouble-swallowing vibe he has
going for him right now could very well be here to stay. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I write, the surgery is less than two weeks away. To say
I’m distracted is an understatement. To say I’m at peace would be a lie. I want
to run. I want to scream. I want to retreat from the world and wish everybody
the best of luck. Tell them to call me when the world is right-side up again, I have some chocolate ice cream to eat. But
those things are impossible. I have to be strong. More to the point, I
have to <i>appear</i> strong. It doesn't
matter that I’m falling apart at the seams on the inside. I just need to hold my
shit together long enough to <i>appear</i> strong
for Miracle Man, who is scared as hell. Strong for our daughters, who
understand just enough to know their daddy – their very own personal Superman –
might not be OK. Strong for all the people who look at me with their deeply concerned eyes, asking if I’m OK. Because if I come unhinged now, I won’t be able to take
care of my family. Then what good would I be?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here, in the "privacy" of my own personal blog, I can tell
you exactly what I’m thinking. You, Arnold Chiari, can just fuck right the hell
off. There are very smart people in this world who are working hard to <a href="http://www.conquerchiari.org/index.html" target="_blank">eradicate</a>
you. I raise my glass to them as I give you, Arnold Chiari, the one-finger
salute. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dr. New-Smartypants will tame you in the operating room on Good Friday.
If you ever show your sorry excuse for a face around here again, I hope it’s
after those very smart people have figured out how to make you go away forever.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With Undying Malice, </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrmmyMBIIpOsYAsAqmpROvnVpBi3zBPyVJ_tHminM9QNeSJK6_Pl_thPGbV0QDV5TssZmHW3WkifU2TajxmkSAN49kpQsvPeCMw0JnEE3ne2vr3g9exZrQjBr146pbFIQ24mD_4w1Nt7E/s1600/signature.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrmmyMBIIpOsYAsAqmpROvnVpBi3zBPyVJ_tHminM9QNeSJK6_Pl_thPGbV0QDV5TssZmHW3WkifU2TajxmkSAN49kpQsvPeCMw0JnEE3ne2vr3g9exZrQjBr146pbFIQ24mD_4w1Nt7E/s1600/signature.png" height="54" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-53170718588661656032014-02-06T10:46:00.001-05:002014-02-06T10:46:54.918-05:00Honoring Carl: Out of the Darkness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizIS7Mt3HE73t1tDxbcYk1kNf7-Sk19aecmEwOy4r2i-wk7NfVRlnfy2JMD31TplEPLPMajXIU2eOPXslvxysTkHWCUA6tupFdQSwpxUH8akItELwc6mQZoZXGb6O099D0vooIbugx1o/s1600/carl_martin_children_outofthedarknessovernight.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizIS7Mt3HE73t1tDxbcYk1kNf7-Sk19aecmEwOy4r2i-wk7NfVRlnfy2JMD31TplEPLPMajXIU2eOPXslvxysTkHWCUA6tupFdQSwpxUH8akItELwc6mQZoZXGb6O099D0vooIbugx1o/s1600/carl_martin_children_outofthedarknessovernight.png" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
Last summer my family was rocked when my nephew's father <a href="http://www.sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2013/06/in-loving-memory-carl-martin-iii.html" target="_blank">Carl</a> ended his long and heartbreaking battle with schizoaffective bipolar disorder. This summer, exactly one year and one day after Carl's funeral, Sweet Little Sister and her teammates - the aptly named Iron Maidens - will participate in the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention's Out of the Darkness overnight walk in Philadelphia.<br />
<br />
Instead of creating a long and rambling post about it, I'll let <a href="http://theovernight.donordrive.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.participant&participantID=9460" target="_blank">Sweet Little Sister's</a> words convey what suicide leaves in its wake, and how the AFSP is working to prevent future suicides.<br />
<br />
Yes, I am linking to a fundraising page. If you are inspired to donate, please do. Every little bit helps. But even if you don't donate for whatever reason, please read what she wrote. Mental illness is very real. And it is very deadly. And raising awareness is as important as raising dollars for research - <i>so pass the word along</i>.Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-35579924943203895322014-01-11T00:48:00.001-05:002014-01-11T00:48:34.942-05:00The Polar Vortex According to Sassyfats<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5YcEgk249SvU_QUE_Fc6SUd9Mod0JwJY6S5-ne73C6AnUh1roZksC6K1fozbep4FAYigHN70yPjNf4eGuCVrouB8RRngPGYCkYFbcUl40CQI2dozdknTuzFVLrdYIaQoqBTjl37sBLmo/s1600/go_home_arctic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5YcEgk249SvU_QUE_Fc6SUd9Mod0JwJY6S5-ne73C6AnUh1roZksC6K1fozbep4FAYigHN70yPjNf4eGuCVrouB8RRngPGYCkYFbcUl40CQI2dozdknTuzFVLrdYIaQoqBTjl37sBLmo/s1600/go_home_arctic.jpg" height="145" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you live anywhere near North America, you are aware that
people are freezing their assess off damn near everywhere this week. We’re not
just having chilly winter temperatures, though. Oh no. This time around TV meteorologists
have given us a new (to us) name for Mother Nature’s temper tantrum: the Polar
Vortex. <br />
<br />
Let me rephrase that: <i>Polar!!!! Freaking!!!! Vortex!!!!!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently the term is not new to meteorologists. They know
all about global weather patterns and the fancy scientific names for them. For
reasons I will never clearly understand, they have decided to share the term <i>polar vortex</i> with the general public this week. Which leads me to wonder if
meteorologists have ever met the general public.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheN_9fyIF7eBpiWwG06QzFlrRlyq6Bq_DS0InlXyy2Y5p9-r5UDKkadEf5h6bD4VD3YxZI14r3ZGsdAFKOP3iEwn0E49K4qVZn1BL4_b-_bKchAKIEKawomJ0H1wNWwVr-VB6rdq-ZYeo/s1600/funny-Men-In-Black-quote-learn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheN_9fyIF7eBpiWwG06QzFlrRlyq6Bq_DS0InlXyy2Y5p9-r5UDKkadEf5h6bD4VD3YxZI14r3ZGsdAFKOP3iEwn0E49K4qVZn1BL4_b-_bKchAKIEKawomJ0H1wNWwVr-VB6rdq-ZYeo/s1600/funny-Men-In-Black-quote-learn.jpg" height="400" width="185" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Agent K got it right.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We can deal with terms like freezing temperatures and wind chills. We've been hearing those terms for decades. We're comfortable with them. We understand that they are actual things that are normal. But if you tell us a freaking <i>VORTEX</i> is
escaping the North Pole (!!!) and turning a large portion of our continent into an
ice cube, what you have is a “situation.” Close the schools!! Save the
children!! You know those doomsday preppers we've all been ridiculing the last
couple of years? Well eat crow, motherfuckers, because you’re gonna have to
build a bunker and stock it with canned goods and water BEFORE THE VORTEX HITS!!!
<i>AAAHHHHHHHGGGGG!!!!</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsiuJBe2_9KUvX9Vk9VtunmrhzXD2zjBUl27I2r0WmnTf8HESLdolc10DhRQ-pEDWB23JPevc2RZ-vYfhzn6YgTkYIDpN7aY_-ywhtCmfnbda0DvIV_XG3EnabyOwdsU6k2OsEpcz_Pvs/s1600/red_vortex.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsiuJBe2_9KUvX9Vk9VtunmrhzXD2zjBUl27I2r0WmnTf8HESLdolc10DhRQ-pEDWB23JPevc2RZ-vYfhzn6YgTkYIDpN7aY_-ywhtCmfnbda0DvIV_XG3EnabyOwdsU6k2OsEpcz_Pvs/s1600/red_vortex.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>We all have the SyFy channel. We know that a vortex is never a good thing. </i><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Ok, ok. Calm down. According to meteorologists, there is
always a swirl (aka vortex) of air above both poles, it’s all part of the global
weather system, it’s normal and natural, we just don’t usually feel the effects because the swirly air stays up where it belongs. But this time, the swirly
air at the North Pole got all lopsided n’shit, thereby giving TV news people the opportunity to get
everyone all spun up about a vortex then go outside to see if they could turn
boiling water into snow.</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigZSD6cFMLNmgQ2yFBLv6jpj6XCn2qUWUuuRncLBauwkGQDBXIHJh2SMiQt1Ps5sv-CjGYdtnyKQoZ4txg0UdmF_7mhdRMQDec2yAIdIuEd2U7pmly7vII0yxR2JArLir4-8tR3l9FVH4/s1600/Boiling-water-water-gun-in-extreme-cold-Northern-Ontario.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigZSD6cFMLNmgQ2yFBLv6jpj6XCn2qUWUuuRncLBauwkGQDBXIHJh2SMiQt1Ps5sv-CjGYdtnyKQoZ4txg0UdmF_7mhdRMQDec2yAIdIuEd2U7pmly7vII0yxR2JArLir4-8tR3l9FVH4/s1600/Boiling-water-water-gun-in-extreme-cold-Northern-Ontario.jpg" height="184" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pro Tip: Using a Supersoaker is way cooler than using a coffee mug.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Some people (assuming Rush Limbaugh counts as a person) have
accused left-wing global warming alarmists of making stuff up to push their
left-wing agenda to save the leftmost wing of the leftiest side of our planet. Ugh, liberals.<br />
<br />
Or something like
that. I, however, have another theory. It’s not political. It’s not religious.
But it is very, very alarming. And it is very, very real.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which pole got a lopsided vortex? The <i>North</i> Pole. And who
lives at the North Pole? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDNc77XYsGmVjWjs7w7q-qzNFIgw2R-Cg2QALQbtKrv2CQ0qi7pkm-BqdvB0-ToULeGLkTPsaFSWeTLaxSEdaqTec1hrd4lqYRb6o8ZYdXFH6rfVkO1AxqzSca2lY4CTzOTSge3Kxsfgk/s1600/santa-claus-20948414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDNc77XYsGmVjWjs7w7q-qzNFIgw2R-Cg2QALQbtKrv2CQ0qi7pkm-BqdvB0-ToULeGLkTPsaFSWeTLaxSEdaqTec1hrd4lqYRb6o8ZYdXFH6rfVkO1AxqzSca2lY4CTzOTSge3Kxsfgk/s1600/santa-claus-20948414.jpg" height="189" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This Guy!!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be clear: I am not implicating Santa in any wrongdoing.
He is likely still in the Bahamas enjoying a well-deserved vacation with the Missus. That being
said, Santa does rule over a large civilization of elves who also live at the
North Pole. I am not implicating them in any <i>intentional</i> wrongdoing, seeing as how most of them work very hard
to help Santa pull the whole Christmas Eve thing off every year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, Santa does also have an intelligence collecting agency aptly named the North Pole Intelligence Agency (NPIA). The special agents who work for the NPIA are dispatched to homes all over the world right around the beginning of advent - because nothing heralds the birth of Christ quite like elf spies. Their
mission is to monitor their assigned children and give Santa daily behavior
reports so that Santa knows how much coal he needs to bring with him on the sleigh. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh-fxe7oMYlRUTO6UYxPL7CGpWgGZ9xnXXwkkhX9rhtsVV0_nFlkfuvf81ao4Bdn1DG352KKYLtCs9oR3sJlomahIv7McDGLHdjlAT8-_qqRgi1gKKHrWqSplY5vbD97mqEicJbJVi_Zc/s1600/elf-on-shelf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh-fxe7oMYlRUTO6UYxPL7CGpWgGZ9xnXXwkkhX9rhtsVV0_nFlkfuvf81ao4Bdn1DG352KKYLtCs9oR3sJlomahIv7McDGLHdjlAT8-_qqRgi1gKKHrWqSplY5vbD97mqEicJbJVi_Zc/s1600/elf-on-shelf.jpg" height="320" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yeah. Him. And many the others like him.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The average elf on the shelf is known to be both sneaky (they are, after all, spies) and
mischievous. During the holiday season my Facebook feed was full of my friends’
pictures showing their in-home elves swinging from ceiling fans, sitting on
piles of toilet paper they’d unrolled, and binge-eating leftover Halloween
candy, among other things. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To some parents, the elves are a helpful part of the
parenting team, a visual reminder to children that they really need to up their
game if they want the cool swag this year. To other parents (myself included)
they are annual reminders that some dolls are just plain creepy. See how the eyes are cast to the side? How
long do you have to stare into its adorable face before the eyes slowly turn
toward you and peer into your very soul? How long after that before it kills
your entire family in the middle of the night, all the while giggling like an innocent
child as a cheerful music box plays in the background? Not that my elf-on-the-shelf aversion has anything to do with some of
the movie viewing choices I’ve made in my lifetime.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjDsCaSEW9nVmronzEex95ZF5YhwVwozXADFmOaAbG-HDelIBSrw4tYeE8QuZsUq-HJftTESkqhpFOoom9Of1DqPWjaU5Ihd7-gC6Ua9LP0tVQiy5c9fvNC75dFriC1tu2Kes03iOzTBw/s1600/poltergeist_clown.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjDsCaSEW9nVmronzEex95ZF5YhwVwozXADFmOaAbG-HDelIBSrw4tYeE8QuZsUq-HJftTESkqhpFOoom9Of1DqPWjaU5Ihd7-gC6Ua9LP0tVQiy5c9fvNC75dFriC1tu2Kes03iOzTBw/s1600/poltergeist_clown.png" height="172" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>See, Mom? Poltergeist didn't rot my brain. It warned me about the dangers of creepy-ass dolls.</i> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My point (yes, I have a point) with all this elf talk is
that thousands (perhaps millions) of NPIA operatives who have a known penchant for mischief (at best) and are possibly evil murderers (at worst) all had to return to NPIA
headquarters after Christmas. Since they work for a jolly old soul, they got a week or so to<br />
cut loose before returning to HQ. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYAt2DQIy62O5Le4w8quwVWEOgBZcg1TcwjmKJ7Xdm9A9b64Re3yFsayiAcpHccMe_qfKuSwgMFefs6UdCK6zQWvJewbvChBNfDYK-JaTAaX5fupUQBcH1nOj1AmIakuaGts2Wd6cijiY/s1600/elf_on_shelf_photo_album.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYAt2DQIy62O5Le4w8quwVWEOgBZcg1TcwjmKJ7Xdm9A9b64Re3yFsayiAcpHccMe_qfKuSwgMFefs6UdCK6zQWvJewbvChBNfDYK-JaTAaX5fupUQBcH1nOj1AmIakuaGts2Wd6cijiY/s1600/elf_on_shelf_photo_album.png" height="200" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It's like their Spring Break. Only elfier.</i></td></tr>
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However they chose to spend their vacation time, they all had to report back to NPIA HQ on the same day. Their preferred mode of transportation is flying like Superman above the clouds. But since the legion of creepy-ass flying dolls all returned at once, the atmosphere could not sustain the impact of all their little bodies slamming into the same swirly airspace en mass. As a result, those jokers done popped a hole in the atmosphere, thereby allowing the vortex to get all
lopsided n’shit. To put things into a more scientific perspective: Popped Atmosphere + Lopsided Vortex = Frozen Lighthouses.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJImu1nNzUGt3VhnKD-Wr8kb0DcAoqJc3LLrDL9KPetWAtBBoC84hmOi67tvsBsCpMORRfjJSPJn9rSbG5vL-wxsBgXUMIV05dm5RxREB4zp0mtH-QlsOGhOt4s5dbAeO-S5e5vJGn50/s1600/frozen_lighthouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJImu1nNzUGt3VhnKD-Wr8kb0DcAoqJc3LLrDL9KPetWAtBBoC84hmOi67tvsBsCpMORRfjJSPJn9rSbG5vL-wxsBgXUMIV05dm5RxREB4zp0mtH-QlsOGhOt4s5dbAeO-S5e5vJGn50/s1600/frozen_lighthouse.jpg" height="233" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Move over Einstein. You're not the only one who can create scientific equations.</i></td></tr>
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Now there is talk of us getting hit with another dose of polar vortex in the near future. My guess is because when all those elves saw what they did, mischievous and/or evil bunch of creepy-ass dolls that they are, they celebrated their massive power and then decided to see if they could do it again. Exactly when they'll try their little experiment is not exactly known, but it has been strongly hinted at by TV meteorologists <strike>who aren't above scaring the shit out of the general public to get ratings</strike>. But whenever they do plan to repeat it, they'll start off like this: </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVi8sT9IYSiwc-5nPeAr0UBJEfBWxiqDw4nOBLZ86s6PsEOp3uo_TUs2LbJXyOz4YxUtCaCM4X-vIwZnf_iD3cWg2rFPl0cXowesxzbsOMPDTBwvC0rNEtdNIIPlJiG5YS2HG94_2aiQo/s1600/elf-on-shelf-crowd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVi8sT9IYSiwc-5nPeAr0UBJEfBWxiqDw4nOBLZ86s6PsEOp3uo_TUs2LbJXyOz4YxUtCaCM4X-vIwZnf_iD3cWg2rFPl0cXowesxzbsOMPDTBwvC0rNEtdNIIPlJiG5YS2HG94_2aiQo/s1600/elf-on-shelf-crowd.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Gather, Legion!! The time has come!!</i></td></tr>
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And we'll end up like this:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOe3C0p6NCOP-RWQbpz-PSG85uAFoQRnnO6wdOS3xoykcsTAP1Ue-2z2OWYSGFL9GeqEoSqc0VlCxBIo3n9Lz5mfFp26a2zkx5eIc3RtR6dHe3ElqJb39qObhdDay3bfnmhESSYHa89NU/s1600/frozen_building.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOe3C0p6NCOP-RWQbpz-PSG85uAFoQRnnO6wdOS3xoykcsTAP1Ue-2z2OWYSGFL9GeqEoSqc0VlCxBIo3n9Lz5mfFp26a2zkx5eIc3RtR6dHe3ElqJb39qObhdDay3bfnmhESSYHa89NU/s1600/frozen_building.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Is it cold enough for ya? Har har!</i></td></tr>
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Some doubters may disagree with my hypothesis. But since my writeup includes a radar map at the top and a scientific equation near the bottom. I'm pretty sure that qualifies as some rock solid sciencey stuff right there.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgim7JRp1YLyfc1Yr9kpMzOudjV18IvAHXwcL-kjPsl6ZA3Pp2VlM942JbXU1WcR2A8ppq1Br0pz3VWBMwIfI_uAZ-7HJkG_KfnG6Nt7wLRH7K-LOyptAbsFXhmFKzLF3KRoaS_zUddOo8/s1600/einstein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgim7JRp1YLyfc1Yr9kpMzOudjV18IvAHXwcL-kjPsl6ZA3Pp2VlM942JbXU1WcR2A8ppq1Br0pz3VWBMwIfI_uAZ-7HJkG_KfnG6Nt7wLRH7K-LOyptAbsFXhmFKzLF3KRoaS_zUddOo8/s1600/einstein.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Including a picture of Einstein makes it all the more legit.</i></td></tr>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-1123320106025370082013-11-28T00:21:00.000-05:002013-11-28T00:21:49.455-05:00Need... More... Elastic... Pants...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqa1DH1Uo-6qfBnTnJYCb8ohBOrCatwW8RTPRW0znt_q7APG5S7hwrnl5PJZJRCkiULNAgSl2CFdOouczjjFnGcA56zageSnKIUv3v0i617ijSFYxJHdzrfRHzvmBXu03S-Iowv6JxSKI/s1600/thanksgiving_gluttony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqa1DH1Uo-6qfBnTnJYCb8ohBOrCatwW8RTPRW0znt_q7APG5S7hwrnl5PJZJRCkiULNAgSl2CFdOouczjjFnGcA56zageSnKIUv3v0i617ijSFYxJHdzrfRHzvmBXu03S-Iowv6JxSKI/s200/thanksgiving_gluttony.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Thanksgiving is upon is. At this festive time of year we celebrate all of our blessings by indulging in a national day of gluttony. And why shouldn't we? Have you seen the sales that Safeway's been running on Thanksgiving food this week? It would be a waste NOT to take advantage of the savings! <br />
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You might expect to see an "I'm so thankful" post right about now. And to let you know that I'm not all piss and vinegar, I'll throw you a bone: I am thankful for my children, my husband, my family, my friends, my job, my home, and a real whole lot more than I can rattle off in a list. Don't get me wrong - I have much to be thankful for, and I do thank God every day for many counted blessings. <br />
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Now that that's out of the way, can I vent now? Once upon a time, not very long ago, I was a <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2012/03/respect-among-stacks.html" target="_blank">gym-dwelling</a> zealot who took great pride in practicing healthy behaviors to make my body healthy and strong. Awash in the teachings of the <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2012/03/you-look-marvelous-yes-im-talking-to.html" target="_blank">Fat Acceptance</a> movement, I was adamant that my body was amazing at any size and that as long as I practiced healthy behaviors, I was on the right track. I felt amazing and confident. It. Was. Awesome.<br />
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Then I turned 39. I had a friend at work who warned me that my body would start falling apart at 40. My body responded by saying, "Why wait? Let get this party started NOW!" For many years I had written off my intermittent back pain as a side effect of being too big for designer britches. When I embraced the lifestyle of a badass gym rat - working with a <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2011/12/sculpting-sassyfats.html" target="_blank">trainer</a> and taking <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2012/05/sassyfats-rides-again.html" target="_blank">spin</a> classes for Pete's sake! - the pain in my back got steadily worse. Did I take that as a hint that I needed to slow down? Or maybe ask the experts for some modified exercises? Hell no!! I was a badass gym rat. Pain was just part of the package. Pain was a sign of weakness leaving my body. <em>Pain was my friend</em>. (Shout-out to my Paris Island trained brother for that one.)<br />
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As it turns out, pain was my body's way of letting me know that my spine was screwed up in a multitude of ways, and I needed medical attention. When it reached the point that I couldn't stand upright without using my arms to pull myself up, I conceded to medical intervention. I ultimately learned that I have stenosis, degenerative disc disease, arthritis, and at least one disc that sticks so far from its assigned vertebrae that it is bent upward and pressing on a very pissed off nerve. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHANIG6cB9inlC2TpIUem1WaDA-J44K0CssC5Kdw-io3mcXN3VeHYzFITzRHpLxAZIZ1jjspO2gGR-fQMX1ZPzP_iyi0NclDK7TjESHNPDotR38WjoiR3kV-OCj7cy3f2OUGyQ2ZzwxQ/s1600/back_pain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHANIG6cB9inlC2TpIUem1WaDA-J44K0CssC5Kdw-io3mcXN3VeHYzFITzRHpLxAZIZ1jjspO2gGR-fQMX1ZPzP_iyi0NclDK7TjESHNPDotR38WjoiR3kV-OCj7cy3f2OUGyQ2ZzwxQ/s200/back_pain.jpg" width="118" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Why you gotta do me like that, L5?</em></td></tr>
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Enter Dr. Smartypants, the very doctor who had saved <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2011/12/i-believe-in-miracles.html" target="_blank">Miracle Man's</a> life. He gave me what medical type people call a facet block - which is fancy talk for slamming a needle into your spine and injecting a cocktail of fairy dust and dragon blood (or something) in there to make the affected nerve shut the hell up. The first time I had this procedure done, way back in June, I was amazed at how well it worked it. I could walk like a normal person, I could exercise (gently, mind you) without needing to take heavy pain medication, and I was so happy to finally be cured. <br />
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Then my damned <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2013/08/eviction-notice-stabby-mcstoneful.html" target="_blank">gallbladder</a> went south, which took me away from the gym even more. By the time my gallbladder was out of my life, the benefits of the facet block had worn off. I decided the pain of having a needle slammed in to my spine was worth another three months of relief, so I called up Dr. Smartypants and scheduled another injection. I was all excited to be on my way to relative normalcy again, and to resume my lifestyle as a badass gym rat. But this time, the injection only worked for a few weeks. Yes, <em>weeks</em>. About three weeks after that second procedure, I was back to experiencing excruciating pain every day.<br />
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You want to know the funny thing about excruciating pain? And by funny I mean seriously fucked up. Excruciating pain makes you want to find a comfortable position and stay there. It makes you want to cry a lot, and it makes you want to give up on ever being normal again. I don't know about you, but when I get all weepy about life in general, I start to need stuff like chocolate almost like I need oxygen. <br />
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So let's do some math. Sitting on my ass + Consuming therapeutic doses of chocolate = My clothes are getting tighter. As much as I would love to blame the tight clothes on my dryer, I've been down this road enough times before to know that the clothes are not the problem. <br />
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<em>But Sassyfats</em>, you say. <em>What happened to all that talk about self-acceptance and loving your body just the way it is, no matter what?</em><br />
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Meh. It's easy to preach self-acceptance when you're taking positive steps toward improved health. It's not so easy to believe all that preachin' when you're sidelined and counting down the hours until you can take your next dose of Tylenol, which is barely worth taking because it doesn't work as well as Motrin but you can't take NSAIDs because your kidney doctor said so, and really the only thing that does work is Percocet and you can't go through life in a zombie-like state forever. And then you realize that the source of your pain is not an injury that will heal - it's a progressive condition that will never be better than it is today. And it makes you want to turn around, take out your spine, bitch-slap it a time or two for knocking you out of commission, then krazy-glue it back into place with the hopes that it has learned its lesson and will stop being such an asshole.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjzsLlno_Kg1Nu1O-ukSXgLSLPMTk9PCBB69OJRyzli2shgnQrC0PolGm_pJKW4zss_Cod9m-rkw8cYJADommf9PQzvR4wplbwXDLA4zD8Er7BQc46waF2bgQlZ2NNx2xET8m899Gt9Ts/s1600/batman_bitchslap.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjzsLlno_Kg1Nu1O-ukSXgLSLPMTk9PCBB69OJRyzli2shgnQrC0PolGm_pJKW4zss_Cod9m-rkw8cYJADommf9PQzvR4wplbwXDLA4zD8Er7BQc46waF2bgQlZ2NNx2xET8m899Gt9Ts/s200/batman_bitchslap.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Ya gotta do what ya gotta do.</em></td></tr>
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What was I talking about again? Oh yeah. Thanksgiving. Tomorrow I will partake in the usual Thanksgiving tradition of eating until I hate myself. But hopefully I will not fall victim to the month-long stuff-your-face-athon between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Two years ago I was convinced that intentional weight loss was a bad idea because of the high failure rate. I'm still convinced that "going on a diet" will only lead to heartache and extra stretch marks. But here's the thing: Someday I will probably need spinal surgery. I need to start getting my body ready for the recovery period. The less of me I have to carry around, the less hellacious the recovery will be.<br />
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After Thanksgiving I am going to ask my physical therapist about going back to the gym. I'm not going to be able to hit it as hard as I used to, but maybe I can find a way to get my heart rate up without killing my back. And I'm seriously considering going to a nutritionist to help me get my head back into the game of eating natural, healthy foods in appropriate portions. I'm still not trying to reach a certain number on the scale - been there, done that, have the gravy-stained, stretched out T-shirt. But as long as I can shrink fat cells and build muscle tissue, I think I'll be on the right track to a stronger, healthier, able-to-stand-upright-and-live-an-active-life me. <br />
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Till then, Happy Thanksgiving!<br />
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-35526067173453033522013-11-23T00:24:00.002-05:002013-11-25T01:00:13.380-05:00In Loving Memory: Terra FrancellaIt only takes a moment. One minute you're going through the motions of your normal life, and the next minute your entire world is unrecognizable.<br />
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That moment came on Christmas morning in 2010 for Terra Francella. She was out driving on that chilly morning, and she took a bend in the road a little too fast. Terra's life-changing moment came when she lost control of her car and a mailbox crashed through the windshield, crushing her skull. In the blink of an eye, this vivacious wife (of Miracle Man's cousin) and loving mother of two little girls became a Traumatc Brain Injury (TBI) patient fighting for her life. And her husband was thrust into the position nobody wants to be in: Do I remove life support and watch my life partner slip away, or do I hold out hope that she will beat the odds? </div>
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It was Christmas day. They had two little girls at home wondering why in the heck they weren't opening presents and enjoying a normal Christmas morning. If there was any chance that Terra would pull through, D was not willing to pull the plug that day. As long as the EEG showed brain activity, D insisted she be kept alive no matter what the doctors said. Against all odds and prognoses, Terra continued to show signs of life.<br />
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For the next three months, Terra remained in a coma. Most of the doctors who examined her said she was unresponsive. They said she would never wake up. They said she would never breathe on her own. They said she would live in a persistent vegetative state until she finally expired. Why not let her go? <br />
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But D saw something that the doctors did not. When he spoke to her, her heart rate would go up. Her eyelids would flutter. In fact, one time when he played a recording of their daughters' voices for her, a tear slid down her cheek. He knew that Terra heard him, and that she was still "in there." As long as Terra showed these signs of life, D refused to give up hope. </div>
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As so many people do these days, D turned to Facebook to keep family and friends apprised of Terra's progress. In the social media arena, Terra's story spread like wildfire. Hundreds of people began following Terra's story. Many more than that prayed for her by name as she was added to prayer lists all over the world. Soon, the rallying cry of Team Terra was "I Believe" - in God's greatness, in God's glory, and in God's ability to heal even the most hopeless of cases. <br />
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Little by little, Terra began to come out of her coma. And then she did all the things the doctors had said she would never do. She woke up. She came off life support. She walked. She talked. Granted, she never popped out of bed to give her characteristic, "How y'all doin'!" in her Tennessee twang. But every baby step toward normalcy was a miracle all its own. <br />
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After a few weeks of "Wow, you won't believe this" kind of progress, Terra went home to live with her family. But she was not without deficits. She had lost her sight in the accident. Her memory was hit-or-miss; although she seemed to recall random facts from her pre-TBI life, she rarely remembered what her life was actually like. She needed 24-hour care. And yet she did not seem to miss being able to live the life she'd had before - her amnesia gave her the unique gift of being able to live in the moment without longing for the past or worrying about the future. The major progress slowed until it had leveled out. She would have some baby steps forward here and there, but it eventually became clear that her condition was the new normal. Her family adjusted to the new Terra and life moved on. <br />
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As much as the miracle of her survival was celebrated, there were people who would shake their heads and say how sad her existance had become. Before the accident she had been a breathtaking beauty full of spunk. After the accident she was a perpetual patient who seemed capable of little more than merely existing. Why had she been kept alive for such a sad, dismal life?<br />
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I have a theory. (Listen up, this is the important part.) Her body was broken. Her mind was broken. But her <em>spirit</em> - the essence within her that was sent to this life by God to learn whatever lessons and play whatever role in the master plan - remained intact. I believe that her soul continued to learn and grow through her ordeal on a level that we couldn't see on the outside. I don't claim to know God's motives, but the fact that she was still here is enough explanation for me that her mission in this life was not yet complete. I believe that as long as there is breath in our bodies, our souls continue their journey along God's path on a level that no human can see or understand. And just because we don't understand someone's circumstances doesn't mean there is no value there. <br />
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Shortly after Christmas last year, Terra began having unrelenting seizures that were severe enough for her local ER to have her airlifted to a top-notch facility more than 50 miles away. Even with the advanced care she received, her condition deteriorated. Having been through so much already, her body and spirit were battle weary. For the first time since her accident, D sensed no fight in her to survive. After three agonizing days of waiting, watching, and ceaseless praying, her family said their goodbyes and removed life support. <br />
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But Terra wasn't done here. After the ventilator was removed, Soldier Girl kept on breathing - much to everyone's surprise. Later that day, she woke up. When D asked Terra if there was anything she wanted or needed, her response was, "I want you to take me shopping and then to the spa." Which, by the way, was a totally pre-TBI Terra thing to say. Outwardly, she did not seem to realize what she had been through. Just that she was very tired, and she didn't want to fight any more. </div>
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Thus began the trasition from hope for total restoration to a long goodbye. Over the months she kinda chugged along, but grew increasingly weak. D engaged hospice, who visited their home a few times a week to help care for Terra. Last weekend, Terra lost the ability to hold down the formula she got through her feeding tube. She told D how tired she was, and that her grandmother - who had died when Terra was 6 years old - had told her it was time to get ready to go home. A hospice doctor came to visit, and he confirmed what we'd already suspected: It was time to let Terra go. Out came the feeding tube and the IV hydration. Then began the vigil - D held her hand and watched her draw one breath at a time while her body completed the process of shutting down. She remained comfortable and peaceful, clutching the stuffed animal she'd had all her 38 years. After four long days, Terra drew her last breath and crossed from this life to the next. </div>
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With hundreds of Team Terra prayer warriors lifting her family to God for comfort, peace, and healing, those who loved Terra the most dearly have stepped into yet another new normal. Among those left behind are her parents, siblings, husband, and two little girls who will grow up without their Mommy. As I sit her writing this, tears streaming down my face for the vibrant life that was lost and the broken hearts of those who loved her, I pray that those of us who shared in the journey will always remember the hope and the faith we invoked in the dark times. We may be sad to have lost her in this world, but she is fully restored in God's unfiltered glory on the other side. No more blindness. No more weakness. No more struggle. Terra is finally whole again. <br />
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I Believe.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7xQYGUFpAqOQcECfNfVK5NyjlwwKxW9q3M-LRChDXsTnfORdYOtzTge4ubqPQUM13OxvfMO94RcMLCvsowlcO85NZKluIXbEw_VpGssw3OC5SQCzDUvT2OmQqbW8POs5SOC7AxPPszM/s1600/TerraFrancella.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7xQYGUFpAqOQcECfNfVK5NyjlwwKxW9q3M-LRChDXsTnfORdYOtzTge4ubqPQUM13OxvfMO94RcMLCvsowlcO85NZKluIXbEw_VpGssw3OC5SQCzDUvT2OmQqbW8POs5SOC7AxPPszM/s400/TerraFrancella.jpg" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ascend, may you find no resistance.<br />
Know that you made such a difference.<br />
All you leave behind will live to the end.<br />
- Alter Bridge, <em>Blackbird</em> </td></tr>
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UPDATE: Many people are grieving in the wake of Terra's passing, and much to my surprise my humble post has drawn a lot of attention. I wrote this post as a way to honor Terra's memory and to make sense of an incomprehensible tragedy. To keep the focus on honoring Terra's memory, please feel free to use the comments section to share your fond memories or Terra, to express condolences to her family, or lean on each other in this time of profound grief. <strong>Just bear in mind that people closest to Terra are reading these comments, including her children.</strong> Any comments that are negative or especially upsetting to them will be removed. May God touch all our hearts with peace and healing. </div>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-67171558715046837372013-10-11T00:21:00.000-04:002013-10-11T00:21:49.863-04:00Damn! You Fat as Fuh!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJX2-0gTN9uNCGkxbFgOr7QNmoyhqhzEL44EPNJqcDbhVwd0FEjKfthPcupfr3sFfdINPJgHmzWsmNhAAQwX1Iymh7qq15-U1O_P2Qz9ebZMwgVDKCu2g16tczKWrwfGprj9KBIGsyRwA/s1600/bad_day2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="94" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJX2-0gTN9uNCGkxbFgOr7QNmoyhqhzEL44EPNJqcDbhVwd0FEjKfthPcupfr3sFfdINPJgHmzWsmNhAAQwX1Iymh7qq15-U1O_P2Qz9ebZMwgVDKCu2g16tczKWrwfGprj9KBIGsyRwA/s200/bad_day2.png" width="200" /></a></div>
Today has been a day that will live in infamy. For me, anyway. Might have just been a normal Thursday for you. But if you're reading this you'll get to hear (read) all about my crappy day. Yay for <em>you</em>! And apologies in advance. <br />
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Sleep deprivation, intense back pain, cold and rainy weather, and the inability to get anything meaningful accomplished today all contributed to my Day-O-Meter being stuck on SUCK all day. The level and intensity of suck just grew throughout the day. I started at Dust Buster and ended on Dyson-on-Crack. So by the time I got off work I was just ready to go home and fall into the warm embrace of my loving family.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivsWgx_KQnShaDW46voxHZXnQB7_gY9xQxiwwcrS2e4CAHgbpvnxk67IP7HqErBljZBqjT1ql0gD3C0FcRFh3H4fqVjSYWJeesSxoLcEexioMk2oyq3k8koy6Vf0jf8VbC0RlkF6yewdc/s1600/smiling_family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivsWgx_KQnShaDW46voxHZXnQB7_gY9xQxiwwcrS2e4CAHgbpvnxk67IP7HqErBljZBqjT1ql0gD3C0FcRFh3H4fqVjSYWJeesSxoLcEexioMk2oyq3k8koy6Vf0jf8VbC0RlkF6yewdc/s200/smiling_family.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Like this. Only with less smiling and more yelling.</em><br />
<em>Seriously, why don't kids just do what they're told?</em><br />
<em>Jeezy Peezy!!! Wait. Where was I? Oh yeah, read on. </em><br />
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As I trudged to the bus stop - umbrella in one hand, bag in the other - my body language probably made it easy for the average person to guess I was not a happy camper. My shoulders were slumped, I was walking slowly to avoid slipping on wet pavement, and I had engaged the Urkel Stance (knees slightly bent, pelvis thrust forward) to mitigate the stabbing pain in my spine.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6p1lPGoS-PnXYSWvUH5hfXWvezfTXldM84PKUcCLquiHJEgrXSlR60sbM0bSHN78CGhezuJsXTyuN0SnuNr_aPGihfK1MILmXfS0cvCOkudx0Ln2O7h10joEkPySjJyTzH2kwyjh4kJM/s1600/urkel_family_matters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6p1lPGoS-PnXYSWvUH5hfXWvezfTXldM84PKUcCLquiHJEgrXSlR60sbM0bSHN78CGhezuJsXTyuN0SnuNr_aPGihfK1MILmXfS0cvCOkudx0Ln2O7h10joEkPySjJyTzH2kwyjh4kJM/s200/urkel_family_matters.jpg" width="113" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>I'm sexy and I know it!</em></td></tr>
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I started to shuffle across G Street in this manner when I looked up and saw a man crossing from the other direction. He was about 40ish, light-skinned Indian, balding, wearing glasses, and dressed in business casual attire. He could have easily blended in with most of the IT engineers I've worked with in the span of my 16-year career of correcting the spelling and grammar of certified geniuses who make a hell of a lot more money than I do. I made a mental note to avoid walking into him as he was on my side of the crosswalk, but other than that didn't form any strong opinions about him one way or the other.<br />
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Then he spoke. As we met in the middle of the crosswalk, he looked me in the eye and said, "Damn. You're fat as fuh..." Neither of us stopped or slowed down, so I'm not sure if he finished that last word or not. I imagine he did.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinHhZ0ao3zB6GkGPDoXqlmRb3HV9i1vf9VCiq6zGGboZNINBCNDpjJpeXUEVa28QgS1-2pcD__D6yZ_HlmUxQEDXXpgp8KFb6LDjUNA1oyWbvtM4CtZARwlrt1mFUApRc8mNZDjMNvIBY/s1600/confused_cosby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinHhZ0ao3zB6GkGPDoXqlmRb3HV9i1vf9VCiq6zGGboZNINBCNDpjJpeXUEVa28QgS1-2pcD__D6yZ_HlmUxQEDXXpgp8KFb6LDjUNA1oyWbvtM4CtZARwlrt1mFUApRc8mNZDjMNvIBY/s200/confused_cosby.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Did that fool seriously just say what I think he just said?</em></td></tr>
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My initital reaction was, "Wait, what?" His facial expression had seemed cordial, like he was going to extend a casual "Hello" or something. It took me a few seconds to process the insult, so I didn't deliver a snappy comeback or anything. And to be honest, I'm not really sure how fat a "fuh" is, but It's not like he was giving me new information by calling me fat. I've lived in this body for 40 years now, and I've been a multitude of sizes and weights. Trust me, I know I'm fat. <em>I've seen me naked</em>. </div>
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It's not like I've never been insulted by a stranger before. Hell, I've come to expect it from certain demographic groups. Usually the insults come from teenagers who want to prove to their friends how cool they are by observing a known fact. Dorks. <br />
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When I was younger, I'd go hide and cry and wish that I'd said something to put them in their place. After all, back then they were my peers and had just reaffirmed that I was not in the least bit cool. I mean, it's hard to feel cool when you're publicly humiliated by your peers. But as I've been through enough life experience to grow a thick skin and become comfortable in it, I've been able to brush off encounters like this for several years. Some witty young man wants yell "FAAAAAT BIIIIITCH!!!!" from his car window? Whatever, dude. I may be fat, but at least I don't have to lead your miserable life. <br />
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But today, I couldn't brush it off. I'ma tell you the truth - my feelings were hurt. I had to blink back tears as the encounter played over and over in my head. My reserves were already just about depleted from my craptastic day and his insult stung. And <em>that</em> pissed me off. </div>
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I had about 15 minutes to think about it while I waited for my bus. Then I realized why I was so offended by the whole thing (besides the obvious): I was raised to be a nice person. To be kind and considerate, and to treat other people with a certain default level of courtesy and respect. In fact, there are days I have to put a lot of thought and energy into not offending people with my words or actions because, quite frankly, my inner voice sounds more like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lewis_Black" target="_blank">Lewis Black</a> than my usual easygoing self. Am I perfect? No. But at least I <em>try</em> to be kind to people.</div>
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So why does this asshole get a free pass? Given his age and appearance, he really should know better than to insult strangers just for funzies. Had I encountered him in a meeting room to discuss network diagrams, his feelings about my appearance would have been the furthest thing from my mind. Hell, even on the street it was the furthest thing from my mind, until he said something. Frankly, I don't give a "fuh" whether he found me attractive. It was irrelevant information - he was some random guy on the street, not Prince Charming. But I do care that he expended the effort to be intentionally cruel. I guess I kinda feel like if I have to hold my tongue when I observe something I think is unpleasant about a stranger, then so does everyone else. That's how civilized societies work. </div>
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By the time my bus arrived, I was casually hoping this guy would kinda sorta get stabbed in the face on his way home. I was also kicking myself for not having pushed him down in the wet street and then sitting on him so he could experience "fat as fuh" in its entirety. Oh well. If there's a next time, I'll know what to do. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97phecQtzn9pYqJ4p_xTnH0og4411U2MlAlNsgjMI_BibLlSBj8kysBI9uJSCjgdY1rvwmCk2PN9T8iLwX0hlDPeksZgNC6raB9Yk5vURW-bFqXj25jODolAUG3JwAstFhadMyoXupnA/s1600/hippo_sitting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97phecQtzn9pYqJ4p_xTnH0og4411U2MlAlNsgjMI_BibLlSBj8kysBI9uJSCjgdY1rvwmCk2PN9T8iLwX0hlDPeksZgNC6raB9Yk5vURW-bFqXj25jODolAUG3JwAstFhadMyoXupnA/s1600/hippo_sitting.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Did you say something, Sir? </em><em>Would you care to repeat it?</em><br />
<em>I'm sorry. I don't understand what "mmmfff mmmfff" means.</em></td></tr>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-19327645930333704112013-08-11T20:41:00.000-04:002013-08-11T20:45:09.703-04:00Eviction Notice: Stabby McStoneful<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNol54eU0oVWkfWtGVnoIDzPlTecMJGIbXmWx1iXvyqxQmRzII0SB-5wwvxucx-HW4DnY8Xa9YrevR_9GrTid_KS6ASW5SGCBRNIZlJ9nROMBVmMZz40Mi2H_DF104I40owRWaLiA8-LU/s1600/eviction_get-stabby.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNol54eU0oVWkfWtGVnoIDzPlTecMJGIbXmWx1iXvyqxQmRzII0SB-5wwvxucx-HW4DnY8Xa9YrevR_9GrTid_KS6ASW5SGCBRNIZlJ9nROMBVmMZz40Mi2H_DF104I40owRWaLiA8-LU/s320/eviction_get-stabby.png" width="320" /></a></div>
Bright and early tomorrow morning, I will be liberated from the wretched gallbladder that has held me hostage under its reign of terror - and indigestion - for the last month or so: Stabby McStoneful. I've named her (yes, her) Stabby McStoneful for two reasons: <a name='more'></a><br />
<ul>
<li>Anything capable of causing so much pain deserves a name. Witness Exhibits A & B, also known as El and Em. I love my children with a deep and abiding passion that will never fade, but expelling them from my insides was no walk in the park. Unless you're into walks in the park that cause you to feel like a demon is trying to fight its way out of your belly, in which case gallbladder attacks and childbirth are total walks in the park. Tangentially related, you may need a check-up from the neck-up. Just sayin'. </li>
<li>A gallbladder attack feels like you're being stabbed with a hot poker. Actually, <em>skewered</em> is a better word, but Stabby is a cuter sounding name. And even though I've only had one full-blown attack, she's been agitated enough to jab me a few times a day just to let me know she's still there, and she's still angry. <em></em><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJpwFXkFkA0yzEQCfWYARuVL8da5MVIMPsyCJsVXFg2H4FF2AD2iGmn5cQa9VPJrdaIfXgpnJ6lxJC3PRpn3RYwpiXBcxaoA2aCkGAKaU6LRGWgCJmQXex68l0PEHeU5X8hEKrYuucTDQ/s1600/stabby-angry.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><em><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJpwFXkFkA0yzEQCfWYARuVL8da5MVIMPsyCJsVXFg2H4FF2AD2iGmn5cQa9VPJrdaIfXgpnJ6lxJC3PRpn3RYwpiXBcxaoA2aCkGAKaU6LRGWgCJmQXex68l0PEHeU5X8hEKrYuucTDQ/s320/stabby-angry.png" width="320" /></em></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Adoring Public, meet Stabby. </em><br />
<em>She's just a breath of fresh air, isn't she?</em></td></tr>
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I'll have to confess, the last few days I've been less than pleasant to live with. In fact, I've taken on many elements of Stabby's personality - tense, angry, and, well, stabby. As much as I'm ready to be done with this whole gallbladder business, my anxiety has been through the roof as I contemplate all the risks that go along with surgery.<br />
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But today my church family put me at ease. After Mass, I was called to the front of sanctuary, where I was surrounded by Miracle Man, El, Em, Sister, Father, and the rest of the congregation. There was anointing, and laying on of hands, and I can tell you, I could <em>feel</em> the positive energy flowing through the hands that touched me. It was amazing how calm and serene I felt walking out of church with my brand-new prayer shawl wrapped around my shoulders.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1353jbTFmqGZjoXEstjrhwR7qTm7Pk81ckzfW7kOgU6qWjaM9NnKdQ9ANjGp-8lw7uW-eFvt7L4eHl2FyE4VKYck9P-vOoQmhOjdHS69V8sYo8QQtZZe_7cgfBhvK_Z7Ku2fTDbfvx6A/s1600/faith.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1353jbTFmqGZjoXEstjrhwR7qTm7Pk81ckzfW7kOgU6qWjaM9NnKdQ9ANjGp-8lw7uW-eFvt7L4eHl2FyE4VKYck9P-vOoQmhOjdHS69V8sYo8QQtZZe_7cgfBhvK_Z7Ku2fTDbfvx6A/s1600/faith.png" /></a></div>
I've been physically ready to get rid of Stabby for some time. Now I'm mentally, emotionally, and spiritually ready to face my surgeon. I am in God's hands, and I trust in Him to give me the best possible outcome. This time tomorrow I should be sleeping in my own bed (yay, outpatient laparoscopy!), free at last from the Reign of Stabby. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLvMhtBCb7CiMqGOO13bvmyIJzewuQq2vw0EVAySgLZa1sEAM3fR3p-POU4m6WOR7eUmdPE4ezKxmzx6tYehz1GHgOUUZwI5lyH9Ljgjb1sdowFyWZZtZRM2l2NrIlyEqg-ImQu8eikvM/s1600/freedom_balloons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLvMhtBCb7CiMqGOO13bvmyIJzewuQq2vw0EVAySgLZa1sEAM3fR3p-POU4m6WOR7eUmdPE4ezKxmzx6tYehz1GHgOUUZwI5lyH9Ljgjb1sdowFyWZZtZRM2l2NrIlyEqg-ImQu8eikvM/s1600/freedom_balloons.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Like this, only with less jumping </em><br />
<em>and more staring at the wall and drooling</em><br />
<em>from the pink elephant drugs</em></td></tr>
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<em></em>Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-62842056596592859192013-08-10T00:27:00.001-04:002013-08-10T00:27:07.124-04:00Disjointed Thoughts. Brought to You by PercocetThis is not a real post. I just have some thoughts rattling around my brain that I needed to get out before I could sleep. Tonight I had some realizations: <div><br></div><div><b>I cannot be trusted with anything from Papa Johns. </b></div><div>Since my gallbladder attack a few weeks ago, I have been really good about avoiding fatty and spicy foods. (They are triggers for an attack, which feels like a demon is fighting its way out of your ribcage.) It's amazing how the threat of unbearable, searing pain will motivate you to change your diet. But tonight we got some pizza for the kids. Which means we also got breadsticks and a cinnapie. I was totally fine with my gallbladder friendly meal - until it was time to clean up. Instead of just discarding the kids' leftovers, I found myself pulling a Cookie Monster over the sink, only with pizza & cinnapie instead of cookies. I was all OM NOM NOM NOM, crumbs flying everywhere, garlic butter dripping on my shirt. It was...pure bliss. Then 5 minutes later the nausea hit and that hot poker feeling in my upper right quadrant started to rev up. So I took an anti nausea pill and a Percocet to head off a full blown attack. Thankfully, it worked. Unfortunately, the side effects drove the rest of my evening. </div><div><br></div><div><b>Narcotics and caulking guns do not mix.</b></div><div>I started the tub caulking project last weekend. I was down to the last seam - along the back of the tub. It's a short seam, so I figured I'd knock it out real quick while the kids were getting ready for bed tonight. Turns out I was experiencing a Percocet-driven bout of overconfidence and bravado. Not only did the caulk ooze out all over the side of the tub (and on my foot, and on the wall tiles, and on the floor), I could not for the life of me figure out how to make it stop. It's not that the caulking gun is hard to use, it's that my problem-solving skills had already clocked out for the night because Percocet. I finally thought to release the trigger (duh), and the tube-shaped Vesuvius finally stopped erupting. There was caulk pretty much everywhere - <i>except</i> the seam. So I used my finger to spread it over the places the caulk was supposed to be. It ain't pretty, but hopefully it's sealed. I'll have to check it tomorrow in the light of day and without the influence of strong painkillers. </div><div><br></div><div><b>The more people tell me what a breeze gallbladder surgery is, the more freaked out I get about it. </b></div><div>Please don't reassure me. All you're doing is increasing the probability that something will go horribly wrong. Ever hear of Murphy's Law? Stop invoking it with all your proclamations that I'll be "just fine." Tangentially related, I may need to have my anxiety meds adjusted.</div><div><br></div><div><b>Some of my favorite pictures in my camera roll are selfies of Em.</b></div><div>She swipes my phone, downloads new games, and takes pictures if herself, her Barbies, and the TV. Since this isn't a real post, and since I'm too loopy to think of a concluding paragraph that neatly ties everything together, I'll just leave you with her latest selfie. Because it makes me smile. Good night, Dear Reader. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhN274cmnb9Bc-ITKmnj6ZzGDSxn2CUTOlaYRJq-qcoXwM8y9TOVPlOAQp8vnOBmpdIJ8woRO3tJil4tzUiCKZZdtY23XRLSJ2t5_R5OW8L7vSddGNv3R2XQ1O7IYRsRDfJj0MK8zqNcM/s640/blogger-image--103220414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhN274cmnb9Bc-ITKmnj6ZzGDSxn2CUTOlaYRJq-qcoXwM8y9TOVPlOAQp8vnOBmpdIJ8woRO3tJil4tzUiCKZZdtY23XRLSJ2t5_R5OW8L7vSddGNv3R2XQ1O7IYRsRDfJj0MK8zqNcM/s640/blogger-image--103220414.jpg"></a></div> </div>Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-45440973721519749422013-07-27T15:57:00.001-04:002013-07-27T15:57:39.374-04:00The Accidental Food Drive<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One of the many routine emails I get every day is the daily digest of my local freecycle listserv. I’ve never given anything away or received anything through the listserv, but I like to keep an eye out for stuff like free TVs and furniture. (Don’t laugh – it happens.) The other day I opened the digest email and saw the usual offerings of baby toys and requests for computer tables. Just as I was about to close the email and hit "Delete," </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">one message stood right up and punched me straight in the heart:</span><a name='more'></a><br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnFwI5qrry1ajDfagEsQ1t-MSclUsS8Mzl16JM6O5btzT1aXlxshuYfegUDtSxpwCQH9q0FTe-stulGcEyOC9F94IiQjm__7lBvv8L8m5p87e8iYuNvTGv3n9VEFzN6TY6uVYEnZFzHRk/s1600/wanted-food.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img bba="true" border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnFwI5qrry1ajDfagEsQ1t-MSclUsS8Mzl16JM6O5btzT1aXlxshuYfegUDtSxpwCQH9q0FTe-stulGcEyOC9F94IiQjm__7lBvv8L8m5p87e8iYuNvTGv3n9VEFzN6TY6uVYEnZFzHRk/s640/wanted-food.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once it had been seen, it could not be unseen. I found myself confronted with two options: help this family, or ignore the request. All kinds of churchy thoughts started going through my head. Last week’s homily was about Biblical hospitality, and just that morning I had seen a Facebook post about <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a new pastor at a megachurch who disguised himself as a homeless person his first day on the job and mingled with 10,000 or so parishoners just to see what they would do. (They largely ignored and avoided him, as most of us do when we see a hobo.) When he took the stage after being introduced, he delivered a sermon to his surprised flock about feeding the hungry and sheltering the homeless as Christ calls us to do, and the Facebook post ends by challenging readers to examine our consciences and choose our future actions wisely. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Needless to say, my own life experience weighed heavily on my mind as I looked at this freecycle post. Miracle Man and I have been living the broke life for quite some time now, and we have had plenty of moments of looking at each other and wondering how in the hell we’re going to keep our kids fed until the next payday. We’ve also had moments of wondering how much longer we could hold onto our house, how much longer we’d be allowed to keep our cars, and how in the hell we’re going to get the electricity turned back on. We’ve had some rough economic times as life circumstances and poor financial decisions have collided in a spectacular fashion. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Like this, only with more crying</em></td></tr>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But even in our darkest hours, when Miracle Man was fighting for his life and I was the sole breadwinner and we had two kids in daycare plus regular expenses and medical bills out the wazoo, we were enormously blessed to have people in our lives who were willing and able to keep us afloat. Even as we’ve steadily (or not-so-steadily) gotten our footing since those darkest hours and we’ve learned to pinch a penny till it screams, we’ve had plenty of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">OH CRAP</i> moments. But we’ve always gotten the reprieves we’ve needed to stay afloat, whether from generous relatives or an unexpected windfall or a debt that was forgiven (which is almost as rare as a double-headed unicorn, but it does happen sometimes). It’s always come just in time, when we really need it, which to me has just reinforced my belief that God is looking out for us despite our best efforts to screw everything all up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So my desire to help this desperate father keep his babies fed waged a full-scale war with the reality of my being too broke to make much difference. So I took it to Facebook to get some outside perspective:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me: Here’s a question. How do you respond to a stranger in desperate need of help when you are not in a position to make much difference? [blah blah blah, edited for length] My heart says hook this family up, my bank balance says offer them a box of spaghetti, the cynical voice in my head says to let someone else take care of it. What would you do? <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
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</span></span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I really was just looking for guidance. But within 45 minutes not only did I realize that I need to thank God way more often for the awesome people in my life, but I also had friends offer to contribute to this young family’s care package so that this family would enjoy a good meal or two. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I reached out to the guy who wrote the original post to ask about food allergies and picky eaters. (Small children don’t understand “We’re broke.” If they don’t like pickled beets, they won’t eat pickled beets no matter how hungry they are.) He responded that there were no allergies to worry about and that they would gladly accept anything food related. Two things that came through in his response were two emotions I know quite well: overwhelming relief and profound gratitude. I was very happy I had taken my moral delima to the masses, because together we were able to put enough supplies together for this family to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a few days. Will it end their crisis? No. But it will help them ride it out a little longer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This whole episode also brought to light something that I’ve heard but never fully comprehended before: food pantries need donations <em>all year long</em>. The same people you donated canned yams to in November still need to eat in July. Despite the proclamations from the wealthy that the recession is long over, there are still plenty of people who would beg to differ. Times are still tough, jobs are still scarce, and lots of people are still fighting just to get by. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Food drives are great, but do you know what’s even better? A steady flow of supplies. Most grocery stores have an area where you can donate non-perishables that are then taken to food pantries. You don’t have to fill a cart – a box of cereal here or a can of greenbeans there can really add up if enough people help. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> can’t end world hunger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You</i> can’t end world hunger. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">together</i>, we can make a difference for someone who needs the help. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have not yet met the family who sparked this philanthropic awakening. I am collecting supplies over the weekend and plan to deliver on Monday after work. Since I’ve read a lot of crime novels and am paranoid enough to have a nagging suspicion in the back of my mind that the original request was just a ploy by an axe murderer to lure another victim into his laire, Miracle Man is coming with me to meet the family in a well-lit, public parking lot near where they live. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Safety first, kids</i>. I hope to report next week that we delivered the mother lode and four hungry people could stop being hungry at least for a little while, because getting axe-murdered after trying to help someone would really suck. Stay tuned. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-49496130172652149802013-07-13T14:57:00.001-04:002013-07-27T15:58:34.469-04:00Sassyfats vs The CheesesteakHello, world. Have to warn you up front: I'm writing this post on my phone and I had heavy narcotics last night. There will be typos & misspellings & run-on sentences. Grammar nazis: You have been warned.<br />
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Yesterday I had a very delicious Philly cheesesteak from a food truck in DC. Since it was a payday and I was hungry, I also sprung for the seasoned fries & Diet Coke. Yes, I'm one of those weirdos that drinks diet soda with their thousand-calorie meals. Not saying it makes logical sense, just that it makes sense to me. Don't be hatin'. </div>
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Anywho, shortly after lunch I started to feel discomfort in my midsection. Believe it or not, I don't usually eat heavy meals like that. No really, I don't. I used to, I won't lie. But it's been a long time since my last steak & cheese & seasoned fries meal. So indigestion made sense to me. I figured I'd eventually burp & feel better. </div>
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But the pressure in my belly kept getting worse, until the point that pressure became pain. So then I figured a rogue bubble was making its way through my tunnel system, and it would eventually escape through the exit hatch in a window-rattling blast of unhappy air. I considered offering a gas mask to my office mate so he'd be fully prepared, but I wasn't quite sure how to bring up the subject. So I just hoped the thunder from down under would wait until he was out of the room. </div>
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But there was never any thunder. The pain kept intensifying, until I was pretty sure my gallbladder was being all complainy. See, several weeks ago I got an MRI for my back pain. The radiologist saw some enlarged lymph nodes so recommended I get an abdominal CT scan for a better look. When I got the CT scan they saw that the lymph nodes were OK, but oh lookie here, you have gallstones. Since I wasn't having any symptoms, I scheduled my surgical consultation for August. I'm a busy woman, and I have a vacation to take on my birthday week. Priorities. </div>
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Ah yes. My birthday. I am staring down the barrel of the Big Four Oh, and my body is celebrating by falling apart. <i>Way to make me feel youthful, Body</i>. Asshole. </div>
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Where was I? Oh yeah, gallstones. Since yesterday's searing pain was right where the Dr. said my gallbladder lives, and since the pain was so bad I didn't want to breathe, I realized my gallbladder was attacking me because it hates me. On the bright side, the timing of my gallbladder attack made me feel just like The Bloggess, minus the successful writing career. But Jenny Lawson is so super awesome that I was honored to have a gallbladder attack the day after she had hers removed. I don't know how to do links on this iPhone app, so you'll just have to go piece together the reference here: <span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); font-family: '.HelveticaNeueUI'; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19px; white-space: nowrap;">http://thebloggess.com/2013/07/happy-anniversary</span><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); font-family: '.HelveticaNeueUI'; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19px; white-space: nowrap;">-victor/</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">The bus ride out of DC was more interesting than usual. When you feel like you're being skewered by a hot poker, it's hard to sit still. It's also hard not to moan. Nobody seemed to notice because they'd all spent the day downtown too and were conditioned to ignore people acting strangely in their peripheral vision. Also, earbuds. But that's ok because I really didn't feel like answering any questions. Societal oblivion to human suffering worked in my favor. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Miracle Man picked me up at the park & ride lot and took me straight to the ER, where I perfected the art of writhing in pain and not giving a shit what the other people in the waiting room might think. I was at about a 9 on the pain scale, which previous life experience has taught me that that's when it's time to push the baby out. Only this time there was no baby, and I don't know how to push a gallbladder out. I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure that wasn't an option.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">When they FINALLY got me settled in a bed and asked me lots of questions and pushed on my belly (ouch) and got an IV placed, they introduced me to my new best friend. Dilauded. Holy shnikies, is that stuff good!! Not only did it take the pain away, but it made me feel all warm and happy and full of love for all mankind. It also provided some entertainment for Miracle Man because in the 30 years we've known each other he's only seen me impaired </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">a couple of other times. We're not drinkers so we haven't had any drunken encounters. When I was in labor with Em I got staidol, which is some good shit. And a few weeks ago when I got a cortisone shot in my wonky back there was a narcotic in the cocktail that gave me a very mellow afternoon. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">They sent me home last night because they determined they did not need to yank my gallbladder out right that second, but told me to come back today for more testing. So here I am, once again, taking up ER space and waiting my turn in the nuclear study room. Will definitely post pics if I glow in the dark later. No food, drink, or pain meds until after the test though. Luckily my pain isn't as bad as it was last night. Also, I told the nurse I didn't want to develop a full-blown opiate addiction this weekend so I could wait awhile for the happy juice. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Not really sure how to end this post other than to assure you I will be ok, ask you to refrain from handing me a redlined copy of my writing just this once, and proclaim that dilauded is awesome and the world would be a much better place if we could just put some of that in our coffee every morning. The End.</span></div>
Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-73468953013945194782013-06-26T21:02:00.000-04:002013-06-26T21:02:56.040-04:00In Loving Memory: Carl Martin III<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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This is gonna be a long one. Grab a snack – and hanky – before you settle in. <br />
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Carl arrived on my radar screen about 20 years ago. Originally he was part of the rag-tag bunch that made up Sweet Little Sister’s posse. You know those years of your life when your friends mean EVERYTHING to you? Sweet Little Sister had A LOT of friends during those years, and Carl started out as a face in the crowd.<br />
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But it wasn't long before Carl went from “face in the crowd” to "that punk dating my sister." To be fair, all boys who wanted to date my sister were instantly granted “punk” status. I had just recently escaped my teens, I knew what boys were like, and I have been fiercely protective of my little sister since the day she was born. (Yes, even when I was beating up on her when we were kids. That’s all normal sister stuff, right?) <br />
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And also to be fair, Sweet Little Sister was already a third degree black-belt in rebellion and shocking behavior before Carl came along. But still, it was easier to blame the boyfriend than the sister. They skipped school a lot together, they got caught drankin' a lot together, and there was at least one occasion when my dad caught him in my sister's room, threw him out of the house by the scruff of his neck, then chased him around the front yard while Carl cussed my dad out and ran for his life. <br />
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Carl was what you'd call a troubled teen. He acted out a lot. And he got in trouble a lot. He had an arrest record. He’d been to jail at least once. And it seemed to me that he was dragging Sweet Little Sister (the third degree black-belt in rebellion and shocking behavior) along for a seriously bumpy ride.<br />
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Then something miraculous happened: The birth of my awesome nephew almost 17 years ago. (We shall call him Awesome Nephew #1, as I have two other awesome nephews who are younger. Where was I? Oh yeah...) <br />
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The grudging respect I had for Carl did not begin to take root until Awesome Nephew #1 was actually born. For the nine(ish) months leading up to that hot July day, Carl was the punk-ass kid who knocked up my teenage sister and therefore deserved wrath and scorn. But the day Sweet Little Sister went into labor, I saw a side of Carl I had never given him a chance to show me before: loving, tender, and responsible. Not only was he a dedicated partner to my sister, he was fiercely determined to be a good dad. <br />
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My grudging respect for Carl grew into acceptance as I saw how much time he spent with the baby, and how involved he wanted to be as a father. The day he broke my sister’s heart when Awesome Nephew #1 was about six months old, I not only wanted to hulk-smash the motherfucker (seriously, don’t mess with my sister), but I was sad that he wasn’t going to be part of the family any more. <br />
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But he didn’t exactly go away. He wasn’t Sister’s Boyfriend any more, but he was still very much Awesome Nephew #1’s Dad. Like so many other teen fathers, he could have walked away without a backward glance. But he didn’t. Not only did he remain a consistent presence in Awesome Nephew #1’s life, but he dated a girl who embraced Awesome Nephew #1 as part of the Carl package. When they eventually married, she was a devoted stepmom who treated Awesome Nephew #1 as one of her own. When Devoted Stepmom and Carl had two children of their own, Carl and Devoted Stepmom went out of their way to nurture the bonds between Awesome Nephew #1 and his half siblings. They didn’t all live in the same house together, but they got some good quality time together. <br />
<br />
As time marched on, Carl outgrew his troubled-teen persona and grew into the responsible adult he wanted so badly to become. It was at that point I realized that even though he wasn’t my sister’s boyfriend anymore,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still saw Carl – and now Devoted Stepmom and the half siblings – as part of the extended family.<br />
<br />
But then life, as it so often does, brought Carl and those who loved him to his knees. He was in his early 20s, and had started to have some odd behavior. I didn’t realize how serious things had gotten for him until the day he climbed to the top of the highest roller coaster at Six Flags, where he was a ride mechanic, and stared at the ground for two solid hours. I don’t remember if he was talked down or someone went up there and got him. But he spent 3 days in the hospital after that (72-hour hold, for those of you familiar with the world of mental illness) and emerged with some medication that was supposed to make him all better. <br />
<br />
To give you the reader’s digest version of the diagnostic process, it took awhile for the doctors to nail down the right diagnosis. But ultimately we learned that it was not depression, not anxiety, not even bipolar disorder. What he had was schizophrenia, and it would rule the remaining years of his life. <br />
<br />
If you have never had to navigate the world of mental health care, count your blessings. Finding the right diagnosis and treatment is a process of trial and error, not to mention knock-down drag-out fights with the insurance company. It took awhile, but the doctors finally found the right medications at the right doses to allow Carl to be lucid enough to live a normal life. But as with so many other mental patients, he would stop taking the meds when he felt normal again. And each time he went off the meds, he ended up in a darker place than he was when he had started taking them. His behavior became dangerous. And as with so many other mental patients, his marriage to Devoted Stepmom ended in divorce as she sought a safe environment for herself and her children. <br />
<br />
As Sweet Little Sister and Devoted Stepmom set up house together so the children could live together as siblings, Carl fell off my radar screen again. I knew he was living out of state somewhere. I knew that his treatment was on-again, off-again. And I knew that his relationship with his kids was on-again, off-again. He was absolutely forbidden to see the children when he was off his meds – he had become too unstable. But even when he was on his meds, his version of reality made him fairly unreliable. I don’t think he ever stopped <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wanting</i> to see his kids – there was just this roadblock called schizophrenia in the way.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVRDJHQp0tPX7FUUGpXizUhcIBNjr6EfmTlhVbblL0V32WTqZOK871ClbD9_zQvuezKg4ij2fjLc4103XOmwFxi-7PblGRnSsL4KWDRXUVtMPnImMKoGv990MJE3UXivMmnW_0mEPtf8/s640/blogger-image-85096241.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVRDJHQp0tPX7FUUGpXizUhcIBNjr6EfmTlhVbblL0V32WTqZOK871ClbD9_zQvuezKg4ij2fjLc4103XOmwFxi-7PblGRnSsL4KWDRXUVtMPnImMKoGv990MJE3UXivMmnW_0mEPtf8/s320/blogger-image-85096241.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>He loved those kids. No doubt.</em></td></tr>
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In the interest of helping them understand what was going on with their dad, the children were counseled on his illness and how they could cope with their feelings in a healthy way. The underlying message, which was true even when Carl was in the grips of his greatest delusions, was that their daddy loved them with his whole heart, and they didn’t do anything wrong to make him go away.</div>
<div>
<br />
I hadn’t heard Carl’s name in awhile when I learned that he’d gotten remarried. My first reaction was shock. Was she nuts?? Did she have any idea what she was in for??? But then I learned that yes – she knew about his illness, she had learned how to best support him, and she loved him enough to take on the challenge. When they first got married, he seemed to be doing really well. Beloved Wife was a positive influence on him, and stayed involved in his treatment enough to help him be OK. They moved to a far-off state because they had been offered a combination job/living arrangement that was too good to pass up. They were there for a couple of years, and one Thanksgiving Sweet Little Sister took Awesome Nephew #1 out to visit. From what I understand, a lot of much-needed bonding took place because Carl was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">present</i>. His treatment was working. And Awesome Nephew #1 got to know the version of his Dad that I saw all those years before. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
But then. And isn’t there always a “but then”?? <br />
<br />
Carl and Beloved Wife had to move back to his home state for reasons I’m still not really clear on. When they lived in the far-off state, he was in the social services system. They helped him pay for his meds and therapy, and he was in their job-training program as an auto mechanic. I know there are people in our society who go on about tax-payer dollars, grumble-grumble, why don’t they just get a job, grumble-grumble. But when someone is rendered incapable of working because of their illness, they need a little help getting the intervention they need to become a productive member of society again. He met that criteria in a huge way. But when he moved back to his home state, his meds ran out before he could get established in that state's system. He had no way to renew his prescriptions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before anyone knew it, he descended once again into the abyss.<br />
<br />
One day I got a phone call. “Carl tried to kill himself again.” In previous attempts he had used pills. But this time he had climbed to the top of a streetlight with a noose. Luckily he had made enough noise to draw a crowd, and had made the rope long enough for them to catch his legs after he jumped from the light pole. But they did not catch him before the rope snapped. They lifted him up enough to keep the noose from suffocating him. But by then a great deal of damage had already been done. His windpipe was crushed. He suffered a stroke. He had a severe neck injury. He was in a top-rated hospital for three months as he recovered. And he was released the minute Medicare said they were done paying for his treatment - on Christmas Eve.<br />
<br />
He was never the same after that day. Instead of putting him on the meds that had worked so well for him in the far-off state, the hospital doctors had given him something that didn’t work so well. No matter how passionately Beloved Wife advocated for him, the doctors did not listen. “We know what we’re doing,” they said. “Trust us,” they said. When Beloved Wife first took Carl to his old psychiatrist when he got out of the hospital, hoping to finally get the right mix of meds for him, the doctor told her he honestly wasn’t sure he could bring Carl all the way back. There had been too much trauma. Too much damage. Too much time. <br />
<br />
Carl limped along for several months after that. He and Beloved Wife moved in with Sweet Little Sister and Awesome Nephew #1. (Devoted Stepmom had since remarried and moved out with Half Siblings) Beloved Wife fought like hell to get Carl the care he needed. We all held out hope that he would keep recovering, and get back to the stability he enjoyed when he lived in the far-off state. <br />
<br />
But it was not meant to be. <br />
<br />
Last weekend, Carl went to a nearby hospital to receive treatment. But as soon as nobody was looking, he snuck away from the hospital with a bottle of pills in his hand. He wandered around for God knows how long, and ended up behind the apartment building where he and Beloved Wife had once lived. He sat down in the shade of a dumpster, swallowed that bottle of pills, and went to sleep. The police found him later that afternoon, far too late for intervention. <br />
<br />
I was standing in the soda isle at Safeway when I got the call. I cry-shopped through the rest of my list and then howl-cried on the drive home. I knew he was on thin ice, but dammit, he was supposed to get better. He had so much promise before the schizophrenia took hold. His life never should have ended this way. <br />
<br />
Knowing what I know about suicidal mental illness, and knowing how much love he held in his heart, I think Carl honestly believed he was doing the right thing. I don’t think it was a selfish act, either – I think he believed his family was better off without him. If only he were capable of believing otherwise.<br />
<br />
I spent a few hours at Sweet Little Sister’s house the next day, along with many other friends and family members, hugging, crying, and remembering. As the three most influential women in Carl’s life – Sweet Little Sister, Devoted Stepmom, and Beloved Wife – pooled their resources to make the funeral arrangements, old pictures began to surface. Pictures of a younger, happier Carl. Some with his kids. Some with his friends. And then the picture that almost stopped my heart: Carl was Awesome Nephew #1’s age. He looked so much like Awesome Nephew #1 that I had to ask which one of them it was. Carl had long hair and a big, genuine smile on his face. This was about the time he showed up as part of my sister’s posse. Had I seen this picture 20 years ago, I’d have thought, “Stay away from my sister. Punk.” But not now. The Carl in this picture is so young – his whole life stretches out before him. I see the light in his eyes – and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so much</i> potential for a rewarding life. And it makes my tears all the more bitter to know how his life will play out – and how the light in his eyes will come to be extinguished forever. <br />
<br />
And so I pray. I pray for healing, comfort, and peace for those who loved him the most. As much as my heart hurts from how Carl's battle with schizophrenia ended, theirs have shattered a thousand times over. His three children. His three wives (official or not). His sister. His parents. Aunts, uncles, cousins. May they feel God’s loving arms around them as He carries them through their grief. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
My most fervent prayer is that Carl has finally been released from his nightmare. May his weary soul be troubled no more, finally resting in the peace that so eluded him in life. And may his finer moments live on in our memories.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1NTVTB58T50VwWoFkOfSdbdeXJm_f_7teielNQI9v6EFjf6aV74n8faZcTqkvFF7Ws5df7QEONUaWxnZONGbRwTcTYJVYLrlYd5cq_7H3rhDHVzAPcXLR7zYcOR-vnpjgW1KVZI3t_so/s640/blogger-image-916734553.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1NTVTB58T50VwWoFkOfSdbdeXJm_f_7teielNQI9v6EFjf6aV74n8faZcTqkvFF7Ws5df7QEONUaWxnZONGbRwTcTYJVYLrlYd5cq_7H3rhDHVzAPcXLR7zYcOR-vnpjgW1KVZI3t_so/s320/blogger-image-916734553.jpg" width="269" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carl Martin III<br />
February 17, 1977 - June 22, 2013<br />
May your light shine on forever</td></tr>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-83560454013076887832013-06-14T20:59:00.000-04:002013-06-14T20:59:44.186-04:00Unclogging the Idea Hose<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3haNoTXnEgeFsdR_YM6hyphenhyphenRlxEyfDCKQkt2Db1yE78dhYdBU5j4zLw4OXTFe59mIX49EX1VD8_yK96oXN70GVduCApI1L0zyrEmMFl0QCAx85N2BcV-epAsQtoNc9BkEcuArDH4xz6z3E/s1600/colorful_brain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3haNoTXnEgeFsdR_YM6hyphenhyphenRlxEyfDCKQkt2Db1yE78dhYdBU5j4zLw4OXTFe59mIX49EX1VD8_yK96oXN70GVduCApI1L0zyrEmMFl0QCAx85N2BcV-epAsQtoNc9BkEcuArDH4xz6z3E/s200/colorful_brain.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI';">Writer's block sucks!!! My brain is so full it's practically oozing blog post topics (eww) but every time I start to write all my gears grind to a halt. I'll tap out a paragraph, realize I can't figure out what my point is, then stare out the window some more. Or play Candy Crush. All the while wondering why my single best outlet doesn't want to be a viable option any more. </span><br />
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So what is a viable option? I can't think of anything healthy. Chocolate makes me happy, but if I were to eat enough chocolate to quiet the demons in my head I'd be eligible for my own reality show. Cigarettes used to make me happy, but after being smoke-free for six months now I'm not ready to give up on healthier living. Writing makes me happy, but see Paragraph 1 as to why that's not working out lately. </div>
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I am coming to the realization that I'm in a funk. And I'm not the kind of funky that lends itself to disco balls and platform shoes. I'm the kind of funky that makes me want to curl into the fetal position until I feel normal again. Experience tells me that curling into the fetal position has the polar opposite effect of my desired outcome, so I'm determined to resist the temptation. But the demon who whispers lies into my ear won't stop telling me it's ok to pull the covers over my head and wish the world away.<br />
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Experience also tells me that even with the best medication, bouts of depression will seep through an otherwise healthy outlook on life. It's like if you're taking a decongestant for a cold: you feel mostly better, but you still have a cough or sneeze here and there. Experience also tells me this will pass. I just have to keep going through the motions of a normal life until it doesn't hurt to think any more. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>No really, everything's just fine. </em><br />
<em>And motherbleeping dandy.</em></td></tr>
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The more I think about it, the more I realize I need to see a good doctor about reevaluating my treatment. These little melancholy outbreaks are happening more frequently and with lessening certainty there is any purpose to life. Deep down I believe we are sent here by a loving God to learn lessons and help each other. As long as I'm still breathing I am still working my part of the Divine Plan. But am I doing it <i>right</i>? On days like this it would be awesome to get a text message from God telling me what exactly I'm here for and how I'm doing on my part of the Divine Plan. You know, a little performance review so I know how to tweak my journey.<br />
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<em>Really, how cool would that be!</em> </div>
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Do you know what's funny? What started out as a Facebook post about writers block sucking has turned into an actual blog post about depression. So why must it be a public blog post instead of a private journal entry? Why air so much of my dirty laundry? Because mental illness needs to be destigmatized. Depression can be a fatal disease, and more people than your realize are struggling against the darkness. The more people come forward and talk about it, the more our society will except the fact that depression happens, and ain't no shame in seeking treatment. Two generations ago people whispered the word "cancer" as though it were a shameful diagnosis. My hope is that we will soon see the day when people can stop whispering and say "depression" out loud. <br />
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Hmm. Venting works. I feel a million billion kajillion times better. Lighter. Hopefuller. On that note, I'll get back to the funny just as soon as I finish clawing my way out of this pit. </div>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-67965799159598436122013-05-31T23:31:00.000-04:002013-05-31T23:31:51.526-04:00So This Is What Freedom Is Like<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For the second night in one week, I am childless. No, no, I didn't sell them to gypsies, buy them back, then sell them again. That sounds time consuming and complicated. Let's face it, I just don't have that much energy. But what did happen was Memorial Day Weekend. Something about the unofficial start of summer kicks sleepover season into high gear. <br />
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Last week, El and Em were each invited to spend the night with a friend. El is an old pro at staying over at her BFF's house. She seems put off that she even needs to come back here between sleepovers. Em, on the other hand, had never had a sleepover at a friend's house. She spent a night or two with her Grammy - with Lilly there - when she was 3 years old. Now that she's the ripe old age of 7, she's ready to spend the night at a friend's house. Kinda sorta.<br />
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See, somewhere along the way I got into the habit of laying down with Em while she goes to sleep. I swore I would never do that, and when she was a baby I even made it a point to put her down when she was sleepy, yet awake. Just like the Internet said to. But now we're in the habit where I lay with her while she drops off, and when she wakes up in the middle of the night she comes to my bed. Every. Single. Night. I always swore I'd never let that happen either, but my resolve is usually pretty low at 2:30 in the morning. When she wakes me from my nightly coma, somehow the words, "No, back to your own bed," never come to mind. Instead all my brain can process is "my baby wants to snuggle" and I get all happy that she's there.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Please don't tell Superanny</em></td></tr>
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So I wasn't at all surprised when I got the midnight call to come pick Em up. She had woken up and had no idea where she was, bless her little heart, and was freaking the hell out. Luckily her friend only lives a few houses down so it wasn't a big deal to go get her. I'd say it wasn't a big deal to walk down there and get her, but the fact is I drove. It was the middle of the night and we don't have streetlights. (Stop judging me.)<br />
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So imagine my surprise that just one week later (that would be today), the same friend's mom invited both El and Em to spend the night after they had both spent HOURS in Friend's pool. Em is quite impressed with Friend's pool - she told me it's down in the ground <em>and has cement</em>. Imagine that. <br />
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The invitation to stay over was impromptu. It was getting on toward bedtime, El, Em, and Friend were still having a great time in the pool, and Friend's Mom said why not just let them stay? I agreed because, hello, FREE TIME!!! And Em is far more likely to make it through the night with El there. Woo hoo, right? <br />
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You might think that Miracle Man and I grabbed the keys and hit the town. Ha ha. Silly reader. Since it was an impromptu almost-bed-time invitation, Miracle Man was already fast asleep. You know how the routine advice to new parents is to sleep when the baby sleeps? He never really gave up that practice. So he's no fun right now. <br />
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Ordinarily I spend a couple of hours ushering the girls through their bedtime routine, from the first shower until the last goodnight kiss. Instead of feeling this great sense of relief that I have ALL! THIS! FREE! TIME!, I'm trying to figure out what to do with myself. Read? Nah. The book I'm working on is all the way upstairs. Watch Ghost Adventures? Nah. Rerun tonight. Mani-pedi? Pfft, that takes energy. So I have Mrs. Doubtfire on in the background and I'm sitting here blogging about the children I keep thinking I need a break from. <br />
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The fact is, I miss my babies. I kissed them both goodbye when I left for work this morning, but they were still both fast asleep. In the evenings it's time for love and snuggles. (And breaking up fights. And denying requests for whatever last-minute things their little brains can think of to delay bedtime. Et cetera.) Without them here, I'm bored. It's too quiet, even though they're usually asleep by now. I'm sure by the time they return tomorrow they will still remember how to drive me nuts, which they really are very good at. But that's OK. I just have to remind myself that they're only this age once. (Right, Dad?) <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>My Divas</em></td></tr>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-7066772560252124202013-05-10T17:03:00.000-04:002013-05-11T00:05:45.461-04:00Parenting is Hard: Mother's Day Edition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have a confession to make: I don’t understand children. I used to – back when I was a young college student studying early childhood education (half a semester), I was a damn-near expert. I could spout off the facts I’d learned in books and pass judgment on any harried mother screaming at her kids in line at Walmart. I knew everything there was to know about kids and how to raise them. I knew exactly what I would and wouldn’t do with my own children when the time came, and seriously didn’t understand why everyone didn’t know The Proper Way to raise children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; "><br></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; ">One single, shining moment shattered all that parental confidence I’d had for years: the birth of my first child. During my pregnancy I was filled with a sense of security that I would be the perfect mother of the perfect child. After all, my head was filled with so much book knowledge on the subject that it was all I could talk about. But the minute El was born, I realized I had no idea what to do with this sqalling, slimy, wrinkled up creature the doctor had just handed me. I knew I loved her, and I knew I wanted to do right by her. But in that moment, all I could think was, “OMG A BABY JUST CAME OUT OF ME!!! HOW THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN???”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXyTnap12KD5oJiARqR0Gz2W2HNHh3w-0f3rPvvJRJsmCq0mLfYYt-iqLodKy3bdVyeJhCWB-AGKT9n85XnvzyB2SW2t_nj7Za_BuyAdIbcjTec4d1AEqWPYS8-5VgBe51gW-R3dnXBE/s640/blogger-image--1964727199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXyTnap12KD5oJiARqR0Gz2W2HNHh3w-0f3rPvvJRJsmCq0mLfYYt-iqLodKy3bdVyeJhCWB-AGKT9n85XnvzyB2SW2t_nj7Za_BuyAdIbcjTec4d1AEqWPYS8-5VgBe51gW-R3dnXBE/s640/blogger-image--1964727199.jpg"></a></div><br></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then it hit me: The very survival of this brand new little person depended on me. My actions and inactions affected her entire world. My life was no longer my own – it belonged to her just as much as it belonged to me. And that scared the crap out of me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Even though I realized just how clueless I was right away, the full impact did not hit me until the next day. The first day of El’s life I was all excited and happy to finally have my little baby, after three long years of disappointment. I was on a new mommy high that may or may not have been enhanced by the Percocet. But the next morning, the doctor came into the room and said, “Good news! You’re going home this afternoon!” My initial response was brilliant: “Nuh uh. Not unless I get to take the nurses home with me.” The doctor started to chuckle. I started to cry. His assertion that I really did have to take the baby home without bringing half the hospital staff with me made me realize that this was it, the real deal. Miracle Man and I really were parents, and we really were totally responsible for nurturing our fragile little alien into a responsible adult human. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That first night home was a doozy. Poor little thing screamed her head off for most of the night. Miracle Man and I went down the checklist: feed her, burp her, change her little diaper, take her temperature, gently rock her, put her in the baby swing, take her out of the baby swing, hold her close and sing to her, hold her at arm’s length and look at her, turn on the baby-calming CD, turn off the baby-calming CD, and then finally make an emergency call to the on-call pediatrician at 4:00 in the morning because we could not for the life of us figure out how to make the crying stop. The doctor’s advice? “She’s only been crying nonstop for two hours? Ok, call me back when she hits the fourth hour.” Thanks, doc. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At some point the next day Miracle Man figured out what El had been trying to tell us – she wanted to be swaddled. Unswaddled, we had a screaming bundle of rage who was probably cussing us out in baby language. Swaddled, we had a sleepy little burrito who was relieved to finally be all tucked in.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5lMkUmPsvFpK2jE9fn4MaD7qYXFwu42Zh-h4qGbu9OyKb0dfd0C0DzeH1CKSURbpolo4PvqRbf_tTzLmyJLGwMgcKy3QkJ7AGuqnKVaGJ8ehMx64yCOqZIx5I51gVFw-MEPeftfKvhog/s640/blogger-image-1000553159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5lMkUmPsvFpK2jE9fn4MaD7qYXFwu42Zh-h4qGbu9OyKb0dfd0C0DzeH1CKSURbpolo4PvqRbf_tTzLmyJLGwMgcKy3QkJ7AGuqnKVaGJ8ehMx64yCOqZIx5I51gVFw-MEPeftfKvhog/s640/blogger-image-1000553159.jpg"></a></div><br></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A day or two later we found out that swaddling was only a piece of the puzzle. Our little burrito was also quite hungry. A militant breastfeeder who had taken a class and everything, I could not get the baby to latch on to save my life. Or hers, for that matter. Every time I tried, she staunchly refused. She even stuck her tiny little fists out and pushed herself away from my, um, milk delivery system. Of course it was a weekend, which means I could not get a <s>milk nazi</s> lactation nurse on the phone to help me figure out how to feed my baby. (I guess the folks at the hospital figured babies don’t need to eat on weekends.) After El had not gotten anything into her tummy for at least 8 hours despite my best efforts, we rushed her to the nearest pediatric urgent care facility so they could tell us what was horribly wrong with our daughter. During the doctor’s examination, she latched on to everything that came within sucking distance of her mouth. The doctor was affiliated with the hospital where I delivered, so he knew the pro-nursing <strike>ideology that had been beaten into me</strike> training I had gotten. He cautiously looked me up and down and asked as respectfully as he could, “Will she take a bottle?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A bottle!! OH-EM-GEE, why hadn’t I thought of that? I mean, besides the fact that the nurses at the hospital had convinced me that pacifiers and bottles were evil and that anyone who tells you otherwise was sent straight from the Devil Hisself to test your faith in human milk. The doctor stated that as a father of four nearly grown children and an experienced pediatrician, he didn’t think trying the bottle would kill the baby. His exact words were, “Your baby is healthy. And she seems very hungry to me. If she won’t take the breast, you might just want to give her a little bit out of a bottle to get her over the hump. Don’t give up on nursing – you’ll both get the hang of it. But all three of you will be a lot happier in the mean time if you supplement.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">(Yes. He spoke very eloquently and with punctuation. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure he also had a halo and a chorus of angels humming softly behind him.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the doctor’s advice we mixed up a batch of the formula we’d gotten in the swag bag from the hospital. El happily sucked down an ounce and then burped like a big, burly man. And with that, our cranky little newborn was a content ragdoll in my hands who went on to sleep peacefully for four hours straight.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3RAL4gdPXIouLbrJmtILtK95aJjKw4HMqPcup3W6XPg-Ln9NK75xz8uq7dNEsghmiZ4DEdi1_8K_7iaXB-8I2LClX1E0Zki5kjEml6moridcpRpCwNodoQczRgL-K_DwRgloIhSPW6O4/s640/blogger-image-998318151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3RAL4gdPXIouLbrJmtILtK95aJjKw4HMqPcup3W6XPg-Ln9NK75xz8uq7dNEsghmiZ4DEdi1_8K_7iaXB-8I2LClX1E0Zki5kjEml6moridcpRpCwNodoQczRgL-K_DwRgloIhSPW6O4/s640/blogger-image-998318151.jpg"></a></div> <i>Out. Cold</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thus began my first case of Mommy Guilt. Or as I like to call it, The Strongest Emotion Known to Womankind. Not only had I been unable to figure out something as primal as feeding my young with the tools God gave me, but my sleep-deprived and hormone-riddled brain had not even considered troubleshooting the issue with a bottle or an eyedropper. Seems like a no-brainer now. But at the time it was an ingenious revelation that made me feel like I’d already failed motherhood because following textbook instructions (yes, I really did have a textbook) did not yield a full and happy baby. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mommy Lesson #1: The baby didn’t read the same books you did. She might not respond to you the way the book said she would.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mommy Lesson #2: Get over yourself. Adaptation is a beautiful thing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It has been almost 11 years since El came into being. I still haven’t really figured out how she works. Every time I think I’ve got the parenting gig all figured out, she hits a new developmental stage and changes all the rules on me. Em seems a little easier by comparison because I recognize the developmental phases she’s going through from when El was there. But still, they both throw me curve balls like it’s their job or something. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But with every curve ball, they offer me a glimpse of the women they will be one day. Each moment of defiance is a step toward their own selfhood. (I try to keep that in perspective to keep from wringing their precious little necks when they’re being especially willful.) They are only beginning to spread their wings, and I’ll be honest: I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for them to fly. At the same time, I look forward to the day I can watch them soar. Only then will I start to believe that I did something right. Until then, I’ll continue to worry and second guess myself day by day. Like all good moms do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And on that note, I'd like to give a little shout-out to all the rest of you who are muddling through the motherhood experience like me: confused, bleary-eyed, and one spilled glass of grape juice away from the loony bin. May your Mother's Day weekend be full of tight hugs, slobbery kisses, handmade whatevers, and all the joy your kids can give you. </span></div>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-52401912740128390642013-04-19T14:37:00.002-04:002013-04-19T14:37:51.110-04:00Making Peace With the Past: Current Events Edition<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>NOTE: I wrote the majority of this blog post before the details about the <span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/details-emerge-on-suspected-boston-bombers/2013/04/19/ef2c2566-a8e4-11e2-a8e2-5b98cb59187f_story.html" target="_blank">bombing suspects</a> began to emerge last night</span>. Today I have been riveted by the unfolding manhunt, and I pray that law enforcement can get the second suspect with no further harm to their force or bystanders. </em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>The national </em><a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/world/national-security/boston-marathon-bomb-blasts-kill-at-least-three-leave-scores-injured/2013/04/15/5b2b5d8a-a607-11e2-b029-8fb7e977ef71_story.html" target="_blank"><em>news</em></a><em> </em><a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/business/crews-seek-survivors-bodies-after-texas-fertilizer-plant-explosion-death-toll-is-unclear/2013/04/18/48a0d26c-a891-11e2-9e1c-bb0fb0c2edd9_story.html" target="_blank"><em>this</em></a><em> </em><a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/national/fbi-lab-tests-confirm-presence-of-ricin-in-letters-sent-to-us-sen-wicker-president-obama/2013/04/18/9966147e-a86d-11e2-9e1c-bb0fb0c2edd9_story.html" target="_blank"><em>week</em></a><em> has been absolutely <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/the-fix/wp/2013/04/19/a-chaotic-and-unnerving-week-in-american-history/" target="_blank">horrifying</a>, and I just want to acknowledge the widespread hurt and confusion before delving into my self-centered blogity-blog about life in Boston. In other words, I know it's not all about me. Much love and respect going out to those who died, to those whose lives are changed forever, and to those who ran toward the fireballs (and handled the suspicious powder) to save whomever they could.</em> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been having a hard time taming my thoughts since the explosions at the Boston Marathon on Monday. Of course I have the big picture thoughts: We are not safe. Anywhere. At all. Ever. A couple of sick bastards decided to pepper a large crowd with projectiles designed to inflict maximum carnage. People lost their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">limbs</i>. People lost their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lives</i>. And millions more people lost what little sense of security they’ve clung to in this post-9/11 world. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Interlaced with my big picture thoughts are the me-only thoughts, mostly in the form of long <strike>repressed</strike> forgotten memories. And since this is my blog I’m going to indulge in a some me-thought time. You have been warned. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My personal angle on the Boston attack is rooted in a segment of my misspent youth. Back when I was young and <s>stupid</s> <strike>misguided</strike> <strike>delusional</strike> ambitious, I lived in Boston as a student at <a href="http://www.berklee.edu/" target="_blank">Berklee College of Music</a>. I lived in a dorm on Mass Ave, near Boylston Street, just a couple of blocks from Copley Square. In other words, right around the area we keep hearing about in the news. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The news reports from Boston have unleashed a whirlwind of memories from the dustiest recesses of my mind. Not of terrorist attacks – back then we didn’t have to worry about those. Terrorism was something that you heard about on the news, happening to Other People in lands that are distant our cozy little nation here. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Where was I? Oh yeah. Whirlwind of memories. Picture it: Boston, 1991. A fresh-faced girl with stars in her eyes arrives at Berklee College of Music with her fancy-schmancy keyboard and plans to take the music industry by storm. That was Day One. From Day Two forward, the story kinda tanks. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After the novelty of being at the college of my dreams wore off, my two years in Boston were difficult at best. What I didn't realize at the time was that I was in the grips of untreated depression. To add insult to injury, I was hundreds of miles away from my family and closest friends, trying to figure out my place in a world where all the awards and accolades I’d gotten for my musical prowess at home didn’t mean squat. In a world of talented musicians, turns out I wasn't that good. At home, I won competitions and wowed people at recitals. I was praised by music teachers and students alike. Music was my <em>thing</em>. It's what made me <em>special</em>... as long as there weren't any other hard-core musicians around. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Had I not been wallowing in untreated depression I might have been happy to tackle the challenge to improve my mad skillz and outshine all those other people who thought they were so great. But that wasn’t the case. My mind was not healthy enough to use the discovery of my relative mediocrity as a driver to get better. I failed to develop the ego necessary to believe I was as great as I'd thought I was the day I applied to Berklee. Instead, the more I hung out with fellow musicians, the more I realized I so did totally NOT have what it takes to be a successful one. Over the course of two years I painstakingly folded my big dreams away and embarked on an existential crisis that lasted for years. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Oddly enough, with all these depression-stained memories comes a sense of nostalgia. Yeah, I was a hot mess back then. But there were some good times. I had some friends. We had some fun. I learned a lot about music. I learned a lot about life. Sometimes I really wish I could go back and do it all again WITHOUT the untreated depression, so that the good times would be pleasant memories instead of bittersweet reminders of my first spectacular failure at life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But since my car does not have a plutonium-fueled <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Back_to_the_future" target="_blank">flux capacitor</a> capable of generating 1.21 jigawatts of energy, going back in time does not seem to be an option. Instead I have to settle for trying to pluck the good memories out of the wreckage of my psyche, and then hosing them down until they look all purty again. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And I can inject a little perspective: Had my big dreams come true, I’d be a washed-up rock star by now. I’d be going on summertime nostalgia tours with Poison between recurring stints on Celebrity Rehab and Celebrity Fit Club, desperate to get my own VH1 reality show so I could extend my 15 minutes of fame as far as possible. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Despite the challenges life throws my way these days, I would not trade the comfy little life I have now for what I thought I wanted back then. I have a husband who loves me, two amazing children who bring light into my world (even when I’m tempted to wring their precious little necks) (don’t judge, you know you've thought the same thing about your kids), a quiet suburban lifestyle that would not be possible if there were paparazzi all over the place trying to get pictures of how fat my butt has gotten, and the love and support of nearby family and friends. Nowadays I have the tools and resources I need to manage what comes my way. Life might bring me to my knees from time to time, but now I know to just stand down for a bit, engage in some prayer, and then start to get back on my feet again. </span><br />
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-44602361828876132502013-04-09T15:11:00.002-04:002013-04-09T15:11:42.916-04:00An Open Letter to the Mother of the Little Punk Who Busted My Kid’s Head Open at Recess<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dear Ms. LittlePunksMom:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m not sure if I even need to tell you, because you have probably heard this before: your son, your precious baby boy, the apple of your eye, <strike>has some behavior issues</strike> is an asshole. (Why sugar coat?) I don’t usually assign such harsh labels to children, so it almost feels wrong doing it here. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Almost.</i> But your boy is special. He has risen above my “but he’s just a kid” reasoning. So you can rest easy in knowing he’s capable of excelling at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve heard your son’s name on several occasions over the last couple of years. It seems he enjoys getting a rise out of the girls in his social sphere. He has a little band of followers – other boys who are in awe of his mastery of all things obnoxious – who laugh at his every “joke” and even attempt to throw out some of their own. Their odd brand of humor is at the expense of girls who are guaranteed to give them the best response for their effort. Imagine a whiny girl voice saying, “Sto-oopp i-iiit!!” “Leave me alo-oone!!” “Go awa-aaay!!!” </span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Yes. Your son is That Kid</em><em>.</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The more frustrated and flustered the girls become, the more LP and his hangers on laugh and carry on. I can only assume that LP’s favorite targets are in the running to be your future daughter-in-law, given how the 10-year-old brain works. Either that or LP is gearing up to be a world-class <strike>douchebag</strike> reality TV star.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>But hey, maybe he'll </em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Situation_(TV_personality)" target="_blank"><em>get rich</em></a><em> from it.</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To be honest, I haven’t heard LP’s name come up in conversation much lately. In fact, he had fallen from the top of my Bully Watchlist. But then yesterday he rocketed right back up to the top of my list, little overachiever that he is. For reasons<strike> that only his warped little brain will ever comprehend</strike> only known to him, he picked up an object and hurled it at El’s head when she was about to come down a slide at recess. He said it was mulch. El is pretty sure was a rock. In any event, LP hurled said object with enough force to break the skin and cause bruising and swelling. El is now walking around with a weeping goose egg on her forehead because of your son. So thank you for <em>that</em>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know that children are constantly testing the boundaries of their parents’ sanity, so I’ma do my best to give you the benefit of the doubt here. I’ma go ahead and assume that you are trying your best to teach LP right from wrong and for some reason it’s just not sticking yet. Maybe he hasn’t yet developed the impulse control one needs to belong in polite society. Maybe the part of his brain that controls compassion is missing. Or maybe he’s a demon-possessed minion of The Devil Hisself who is getting his feet wet before he wreaks some serious havoc on this world. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Hey, I’m just throwing out suggestions here.</em></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Whatever the reason behind LP’s unfortunate behavior choices, he is back in my sights. I have confirmation from the principal that they are conducting an investigation into what happened. I am expecting a status report some time this afternoon. Maybe LP really didn’t mean to aim the rock/mulch at El. Maybe he was just hurling rocks as hard as he could at thin air for no reason, and he <strike>just wasn’t smart enough to</strike> didn't realize someone could get hurt from that. Mistakes can be forgiven. <strike>Even blatantly stupid ones.</strike> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">But here’s the part that I want you to understand, mother-to-mother: If LP even so much as looks cross-eyed a El again, I will submit the official Bully Report Form to ensure a formal investigation occurs and is documented in LP's student file. LP may have survived the fallout from his shenanigans so far. But he has awakened Mama Bear this time. Mama Bear has the appropriate paperwork to bring LP to justice if necessary. And she is not afraid to use it. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Consider yourself warned.</em></td></tr>
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Smooches & Snuggles, </div>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-6898828111884702902013-03-08T22:00:00.000-05:002013-03-08T22:00:03.632-05:00Around the World in Four Hours. Twice.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbZNKhUv_ikyVQVJcKGuTDEcqol2e2FQIF9lGF3stzR6mbK7WZrLNY08jHL5gGA40gzMtT61XZvwjGCVAlTdosOIxNYCuUCgbDlqbPYAOaz3lPEHzmdkAHJVCwlhfAMvdaZkFcdnYbhtQ/s1600/girl-scout-mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="184" jsa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbZNKhUv_ikyVQVJcKGuTDEcqol2e2FQIF9lGF3stzR6mbK7WZrLNY08jHL5gGA40gzMtT61XZvwjGCVAlTdosOIxNYCuUCgbDlqbPYAOaz3lPEHzmdkAHJVCwlhfAMvdaZkFcdnYbhtQ/s320/girl-scout-mom.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As a mom with two young daughters, I am neck-deep into Girl Scouts. And it’s just about as pleasant as it sounds. Don’t get me wrong – I love spending quality time doing good stuff with my kids and their friends. And I really do end up enjoying all of the meetings and events I have attended with their troops. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But I can’t say I have enthusiastically embraced the lifestyle of a Girl Scout Mom. Outwardly I’m all “Hellz yeah, Girl Scout activities!! Let’s do this!!” Inwardly, however, it's a whole nother story. I dread each and every event, field trip, or volunteer job I sign up for. I suck at socializing with people I barely know, and my track record at <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2011/10/and-thats-why-ill-never-be-kindergarten.html" target="_blank">managing</a> <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2012/05/mother-sassyfats-and-uncomfortable.html" target="_blank">large</a> <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2012/09/holy-religious-education-batman-you.html" target="_blank">herds</a> of children isn't stellar. The good news for my kids is I can fake enthusiasm enough to get them interested in whatever character-building exercise their troops are doing. And once I get past that initial stage of “Ugh, do we have to?” I am always happy to be doing all the good Girl Scouty stuff I get to do. </span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But still. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Every time I get an email from a troop leader outlining all the wonderful things the troop has planned for a set period of time, my initial response is “Crap, that’s a lot!!” See, I am a sedentary creature by nature. Very much introverted and with a great fondness for quiet time with my couch and a good book. Not that I ever really get the opportunity for that kind of quiet time, but when I can easily see that my weekends are going to be booked with active-lifestyle type stuff for the next month or two I get a little pouty. I’m not unrealistic – my kids taught me years ago that “my” time is no longer my own. The days of me diddling around the house on the weekends or getting lost in a good book or, you know, eating/sleeping/showering on my own schedule and peeing without interruption are largely on hold until my girls are self-sufficient enough to call home and ask for money.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>It's all just part of the circle of life.</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I eagerly signed up for this whole motherhood gig, so the onus is on me to foster my kids’ interest in various and sundry extracurricular stuffs, even if I don’t really wanna participate. After all, they can’t find their way in the world if they don’t know who they are or what they like. They need to explore the world around them, and they want me to come along for the experience. As reluctant as I am to step outside of my comfort zone (Seriously, why the frick are scouts so obsessed with the outdoors, anyway??), I am also happy to do it because it’s good for my kids. And yes, it is exhausting to be this conflicted.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>I do it... for the children!</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Last weekend I spent a total of four hours traveling the globe with my little scouts for World Thinking Day. For those of you who aren’t neck-deep into Girl Scouts, World Thinking Day is an annual tradition that brings different troops together to celebrate a theme that is decided at the international level. This year it was international awareness (or something like that). Each troop had to choose a country to represent, then set up a display table that included pictures, factoids, knick-knacks, traditional clothing, and snacks from their country. Then all the troops cycled through the room, going from table to table whenever the leader of the hosting troop whistled loud enough to hail a taxi cab in a neighboring town. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">El’s Junior troop represented Italy. One of her troop leaders is of Italian descent, and she already had a bunch of authentic Italy stuff to lay out on the table. Her mom made homemade marinara sauce, which we served over meatballs. The meatballs were not homemade because we needed enough to feed a small army and even Italian Grandmothers have to draw the line somewhere. (Notice: Even if your Girl Scout is grown with children of her own you will still get roped into volunteering. That's just how we roll in the Girl Scouts.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What was I saying? Oh yeah, Italian stuff. To get into character, we all wore paper chef hats because it seemed like an Italiany thing to do. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidduqxs3UfzbfvQ189SYcqhSc4DqwDM5yos9Qbz19cACLMi8cyl3ovKqIckatbeS1XyfTs8e8h1b8mjMVVu-7eQ70XnFA888JhlnvTC-ehIAs3Ha_Gx0mf0MfAQ0JvEI4pmT_krshN-i0/s1600/paper_hat_girls.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="293" jsa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidduqxs3UfzbfvQ189SYcqhSc4DqwDM5yos9Qbz19cACLMi8cyl3ovKqIckatbeS1XyfTs8e8h1b8mjMVVu-7eQ70XnFA888JhlnvTC-ehIAs3Ha_Gx0mf0MfAQ0JvEI4pmT_krshN-i0/s400/paper_hat_girls.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>El is also sporting magic marker facial hair, a la Mario Brothers.</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">About 200 Girl Scouts of all ages (and many of their parents) filled the fellowship hall of a local church to get their Thinkin’ Day on. Have you ever been in a cavernous room with 200-ish girls ranging in age from 5 to 18? Let’s just say the room was not quiet. I have just enough ADD and anxiety issues to be extremely uncomfortable in large, noisy crowds. But I can say that the positive energy filling that room was infectious. I walked in there hoping I could just survive the two hours without wanting to curl into the fetal position with my ears covered. But two hours later I walked out of there so incredibly happy that I had managed to get over myself and participate. As usual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Two days later, Em’s Daisy troop met a bunch of other troops in the fellowship hall of a different church. Her troop represented El Salvador. Her troop leader’s next-door-neighbor is Salvadorian and already had a presentation on poster board (Because, you know. Who doesn’t?), props, and the know-how and willingness to bake a Salvadorian treat. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7Ots8rCSlQJdYGq95gIWSaDpK3Y-jBaIkLG6kgj95mo3921B4tCUJEkSMvqCbzA3i-Mve4xoMlaONAFlS74D7bf7J9_BiqL5kj00z1l1L1nUo__GaJe57Wb6H5Jgqale03WXKrqwnGg/s1600/woven_hat_girl.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" jsa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7Ots8rCSlQJdYGq95gIWSaDpK3Y-jBaIkLG6kgj95mo3921B4tCUJEkSMvqCbzA3i-Mve4xoMlaONAFlS74D7bf7J9_BiqL5kj00z1l1L1nUo__GaJe57Wb6H5Jgqale03WXKrqwnGg/s320/woven_hat_girl.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Salvadorian Neighbor comes from a family of hat weavers. </em><br />
<em>These babies are authentic Salvadorian straw hats.</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This time there were about 100 boisterous Girl Scouts filling the cavernous hall. While El's event was on a Friday evening when everyone's all filled with "Yay! Weekend!" excitement, Em's event was on Sunday afternoon when everyone has "Crap! Tomorrow's Monday! I still have to do laundry!" kind of availability. Even though I’d had a great experience at El’s World Thinking Day event, and even though this event had a much smaller crowd, I walked into Em’s event with that familiar sense of dread. Not to mention an acute sense of jealousy of the parents who gleefully ran off after dropping off their daughters. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I knew it would be a good event; I just hoped nobody would put me in charge of anything important. Because I was fairly certain I’d do it wrong. See, Em’s troop is much smaller than El’s troop, and we don’t get as many parent volunteers for her events. It's not as easy to blend into the pool of volunteers as it is in El's troop. I stay because Em wants me to, and because the guilt would kill me if I opted out. Our troop had exactly two parents stay for this one – the troop leader and me. That meant I had to take charge of something (gulp) – which ended up being shepherding six little girls from table to table, careful not to leave any behind in a foreign land. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For the record, I did manage to do that simple task wrong – the tables were numbered, but I couldn’t see the numbers because there were Girl Scouts standing in front of the tables. My discomfort in large, noisy crowds and my performance anxiety clouded my ability to say, “Yo, what number is your table?” So I just led my little Daisies to the first table that wasn’t over-crowded, wishing I were better at this whole Girl Scout Mom thing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">You know what? Nobody died. I didn’t get publicly shamed or banished. The event continued to run smoothly. El’s troop had fun, they made some crafts, they tried on some clothes, they learned some dances, and they got their little cheeks all messy from the treats at the snack table. Again, I walked out of there happy that I had shared in this event with Em – and also relieved that I was done with Girl Scouty stuff for the weekend. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My goal as a mother is simple: minimize the damage I do to my kids. My theory is that we all screw up our kids in our own special ways. We don’t <em>intend</em> to screw them up, it just kinda happens because – hello – nobody’s perfect. And parenting is hard. And you kinda have to figure it out as you go along. You do the best you can with what you have, muddling through and hoping you’re not inflicting any real damage. Any parent who tells you they have it all figured out is lying. Or dangerously overconfident. One of those. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCYZidIHRC0caaqvVIWiaVtQB5u6h-nFkObTeDNJJo_VP4gCxoNoQp_V0s3_l8T9YXIROy_B7aV2cYTorrjtb5WofeSCWNpUiI1eqUrFR1dYbvjbaB4_B_Abz59VUnLGrHo1_1obeJOxc/s1600/perfect_parents.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" jsa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCYZidIHRC0caaqvVIWiaVtQB5u6h-nFkObTeDNJJo_VP4gCxoNoQp_V0s3_l8T9YXIROy_B7aV2cYTorrjtb5WofeSCWNpUiI1eqUrFR1dYbvjbaB4_B_Abz59VUnLGrHo1_1obeJOxc/s1600/perfect_parents.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I want my kids to have good experiences. I want them to explore various interests. And I want to be involved as long as they still want me there. As Pops is fond of reminding me when I get all complainy about my kids’ shenanigans: they will only be this age once. And I’ll miss these days when they’re over. What better reason to lay aside my own trepidation and carry forth in the activity du jours? (<em>Translation: Quitchyerbitchin' and get on with it!</em>)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I just hope that one day, after my kids have told their therapists, boyfriends, and anyone else who will listen what a horrible mother they had growing up, they will come to realize that I made the best effort I could. I don’t do all this active lifestyle crap because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> want to – but because I love them enough to just suck it up and be a mom.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>How could I say no to these sweet little faces?</em></td></tr>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-44350992486442973292013-02-21T23:10:00.000-05:002013-02-21T23:11:01.075-05:00For the Love of a Stranger's Child<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAudYHeuG6ySwH8y2bGmmzXV0P1FqeDgAxOgf1OZ8Q_iCTDmj8ULS_NIWG3mJtCsWAdQXvxjNx1lC-80HWtWQN27lRMLLsNqD5Kd8fpFevGm2QsPC0fdiZs8lXSclcwCq6aj3ImpxYz0Q/s1600/never_lost_hope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAudYHeuG6ySwH8y2bGmmzXV0P1FqeDgAxOgf1OZ8Q_iCTDmj8ULS_NIWG3mJtCsWAdQXvxjNx1lC-80HWtWQN27lRMLLsNqD5Kd8fpFevGm2QsPC0fdiZs8lXSclcwCq6aj3ImpxYz0Q/s1600/never_lost_hope.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you are tech savvy enough to read this blog, then you have been around the Internet enough to know that there is no shortage of appeals out there to help sick children. Unfortunately, you have to sift through a lot of appeals for kids who don’t even exist to get to the real ones. For some reason that will forever elude me, weirdoes who have nothing better to do with their time create fake children with fake illnesses, then see how far and wide their rumor can spread through the Internet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But today I’m not going to talk about the weirdoes. Today I’m here to talk about a real-live child with a real-live situation. His name is Tripp Halstead, and he has stolen my heart. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXwCsOkA12Elj7aOLjaJmQ9eqCuZz71op4-bub5euSCX79av-HO5n7QJWscbvYAOlswHWkgEloWAK8d-J5YzJe71pFz8qy3BNx-YNXZSI72w-sJPt7X2JthqwLALrGEeTOL7MLmarG_cE/s1600/tripp_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXwCsOkA12Elj7aOLjaJmQ9eqCuZz71op4-bub5euSCX79av-HO5n7QJWscbvYAOlswHWkgEloWAK8d-J5YzJe71pFz8qy3BNx-YNXZSI72w-sJPt7X2JthqwLALrGEeTOL7MLmarG_cE/s200/tripp_1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>I mean, seriously. Look at that smile.</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let me make a few things clear first. I have never met Tripp or anyone related to him. Not his parents, or grandparents, or aunt's boyfriend's sister's gardener's barber's mechanic. His case came to my attention through a friend on Facebook. I have never directly communicated with anyone in his inner circle, aside from leaving words of encouragement for his parents on their <a href="http://www.facebook.com/#!/TrippHalsteadUpdates" target="_blank">Facebook page</a> - which is also where I got the pictures for this post. A friend of the Halsteads set up the page as a way to keep friends and family apprised of Tripp’s condition in the days following the accident that left him in his current condition. I’m sure they had no idea that hundreds of thousands of people around the world would sign on to join them on their nightmare journey. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just a few short months ago, Tripp Halstead was a typical healthy two-year old: curious, energetic, and generally happy. An only child, he kept his doting parents, Bill and Stacy, busy day and night, filling their home with<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>giggles, mischief, and “booms” (his word for fist bumps). </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUPn4WEY4LX41t8S26rsfAQhv9i0lokNk63Un-cf99qINVHebwJR_EDaxJEEBbQPxRCkSYlRkuZBAowrl5micEhqPrYTFxSRYA98PgGsPNPG52BXfd3eATeoVyFTnpUeIF5ZgN7ewYHqs/s1600/Tripp_Boom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUPn4WEY4LX41t8S26rsfAQhv9i0lokNk63Un-cf99qINVHebwJR_EDaxJEEBbQPxRCkSYlRkuZBAowrl5micEhqPrYTFxSRYA98PgGsPNPG52BXfd3eATeoVyFTnpUeIF5ZgN7ewYHqs/s320/Tripp_Boom.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Boom!</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Toddlers have the curious habit of demanding to watch the same DVD over and over (and over) again. For Tripp that movie was Cars, which has become a recurring theme on his status page. In fact, a week after his accident, Tripp even got some love from the <a href="http://www.ajc.com/news/news/local/tow-mater-tweets-well-wishes-to-boy-hit-by-tree-li/nSxqg/" target="_blank">stars</a> who voice the two main characters: Lightning McQueen (Owen Wilson) left him a voicemail, and Mater (Larry the Cable Guy) send him a get-well Tweet. So what happened to bring this happy-go-lucky little guy so much attention? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One beautiful day in late October, Tripp was cheerily playing outside with his friends at daycare. Out of nowhere, a sudden gust of wind blew through the playground and knocked a large limb from a tree. Before anyone could react to the sound of the branch snapping, Tripp had taken a direct hit to the head by the heavy limb. In that single moment, a freak accident changed the world for little Tripp and his family. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tripp sustained a traumatic brain injury from the accident. In the hours following his accident, doctors could not assure his parents that he would even survive. If you have ever had a loved one with a traumatic brain injury, you know the drill: surgery upon surgery, setback after setback, and the desperate hope that the patient will cheat death as the doctors prepare you to say your goodbyes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As the hours following Tripp’s accident stretched into days, Tripp’s condition stabilized. He seemed to have gotten through the first critical phase: basic survival. Only then were Bill and Stacy able to entertain the desperate hope that Tripp was still “in there” somewhere and would someday go back to delighting them with his cheerful two-year-old antics. Naturally, the doctors could not assure Tripp’s parents that he would ever be “normal” again – a grim prognosis that prompted Bill to write that his son might have a <em>new</em> normal, but he will still be all Tripp. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As the days and weeks ticked by, Tripp started to have little successes. Breathing on his own. Opening his eyes. Responding to commands in physical therapy – every deliberate thumb twitch and eye blink was heartily celebrated by the people around him. His eyes steadily brightened until it was apparent that he was taking in his surroundings. When he was calm and quiet, nobody knew what he might be thinking; his parents and medical team were just encouraged that he seemed to be thinking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Among the successes have been challenges. Body-wide muscle spasms that can only be controlled through strong medication, delivered through a surgically-implanted <a href="http://www.childrenshospital.org/patientsfamilies/Site1393/Documents/generalinfobaclofenpump.pdf" target="_blank">pump</a>. Unexplained vomiting. Crying jags that last for hours despite his parents’ best efforts to comfort him. And most recently, a life-threatening brain infection. Tripp's doctors had told Bill and Stacy to expect a cycle of progress and setbacks – two steps forward, one step back. But expecting the cycle doesn’t make the reality any easier to experience. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Through it all, Bill and Stacy have kept Tripp’s family, friends, prayer warriors, and general fan club – dubbed Team Boom for Tripp’s love of giving fist bumps – updated on his status. Through their daily updates, the Halsteads have allowed the world to wait and watch with them, praising God for Tripp’s successes and seeking His comfort during the setbacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Stacy especially has taken to posting her thoughts and feelings about Tripp's condition, her memories of life before the accident, and the simple request that people keep praying. The Facebook page has become her very blog about this nightmare journey, and her writing is what made me fall in love with this little boy. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Since Stacy has written so much about her family's nightmare journey, I feel like I know the Halsteads. I don’t know-KNOW them, and they have no idea I exist. No worries, I'm not in stalker territory here. But through their willingness to share their experience with the world, I know them well enough to feel happy when Tripp is doing well, and to feel sad and worried when he has a setback. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Also, I feel connected to Stacy as a fellow mother. Like I just want to go and sit with her and hold her hand or bring her a cup of coffee or whatever and say, “Hey. I’m here to prop you up as best I can.” Or when Tripp is having a good enough day for her to relax and breathe a little, I want to reach out and give her a high-five. I know how hard it is to be the <em><a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2011/12/i-believe-in-miracles.html" target="_blank">wife</a></em> of the gravely ill patient. I can only imagine how unbelievably painful it is to be the patent's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mother</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Halsteads are blessed to be a surrounded by a community who is eager to lift them up spiritually, emotionally, and physically. Local churches and businesses have hosted many a fundraiser to help pay for medical and living expenses. And a legion of strangers worldwide, myself included, are following their story online – hoping and praying right along with them that their beloved Trippadoodle's successes will overcome his setbacks so he can get on with his new normal. May his horizon be filled with much love, laughter, and all the booms a little guy could ever want. </span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/#!/TrippHalsteadUpdates">http://www.facebook.com/#!/TrippHalsteadUpdates</a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://www.teamboom4tripp.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3b5998; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">http://www.teamboom4tripp.com</span></span></a></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-19357880667710705492013-02-07T22:24:00.001-05:002013-02-07T22:24:43.953-05:00"Affordable" Health Care<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I try my best to stay out of large-scale political discussions. I kick ideas around with my <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2012/10/political-discourse.html" target="_blank">family</a> and read commentary from both sides of issues and form my opinions, but I like to stay away from the free-for-all mudslinging that is all too common these days. I can usually see the basic points of either side, and screaming matches based on partisan rhetoric aren’t usually good for more than raising your blood pressure and making you wonder why it’s illegal to smack people across the face. The fray might be entertaining, but it’s not the place to reach actual resolution on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a name='more'></a>That said…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I will be the first to admit. I didn’t understand the details about the Affordable Care Act (aka Obamacare) when it was being argued on Capitol Hill. I didn’t understand the details about the legislation that ultimately passed. I knew what the pundits on each side of the issue said – that the other side was wrongity-wrong-wrong-wrong. The Affordable Care Act was the best/worst (pick one) idea in all of American history. It was guaranteed to save/destroy (pick one) our society. Either way, only liberals/conservatives (pick one) could be trusted to lead our country away from absolute devastation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are only two points I have subscribed to without any doubt: The cost of health care is absurd, and a civilized society does not let poor people die in the street because they can’t afford insurance. There was never a doubt in my mind that the nation’s health care needed to be overhauled – I’d spent enough time on the phone with the billing departments of doctors, hospitals, and my health insurance company during Miracle Man’s <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2011/12/i-believe-in-miracles.html" target="_blank">health crisis</a> to know just how expensively fucked up the business of health care is in this country. But as my own coverage has changed this year, I’m starting to wonder if the changes enacted in the Affordable Care Act are leading to care that’s - well, affordable. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are many and varying reasons that my employer-provided health insurance changed this year. The Affordable Care Act contributed to a lot of the changes. Without going into too much detail, Big Corporation got a new CEO who was tasked with streamlining the company. Which is executive speak for cutting out as many expenses as humanly possible without disrupting operations. Which is middle-management speak for “Just be grateful you haven’t been cut yet. Now quitchyerbitchin’ and get back to work.” Which leads to a flurry of LinkedIn activity among the worker bees.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wait, where was I? Oh yeah. Health care. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Big Corporation seized the opportunity to drastically reduce its portion of employee health care expenses <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- by drastically <em>increasing</em> the employee portion. One of the primary reasons they cited for needing this change was because of the costs incurred by having to cover dependents up to age 26, instead of cutting them off at 19 like in the pre-Obamacare days. Adding insult to injury, the 19 – 26 set seems to make more use of substance abuse programs (ka-ching!), behavioral therapy (ka-ching!), and psychiatric medication. (ka-ching!) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those greedy whippersnappers!! What with their taking responsibility for their addictions and seeking treatment for their mental health issues! They should just listen to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nirvana_(band)" target="_blank">grunge</a> music and engage in body modification like we did back in my day!! </span> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>See how happy she looks?</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wait. Where was I? Oh yeah. Streamlining. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For 15 years I had a low-deductible health plan that made use of copays. It wasn’t cheap, but it was doable. When Big Corporation revamped its health care offerings, the standard low-deductible plan suddenly had crippling premiums. Sensing a worker-bee uprising on their hands, Big Corporation amped up their sales pitch for the new health care offerings:</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lookey here! We have these other plans with lower premiums! We know their higher deductibles look scary at first, but at least their premiums are so much more affordable than the (arbitrarily-doubled) premiums of that stinky old low-deductible plan! [Editor's note: Those "low" premiums are still higher than my old plan was before the change. Just sayin’.] </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And with the new plans come a Health Savings Account, made possible by the Affordable Care Act! (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Woo hoo!</i>) Not only is the HSA a handy-dandy little tax shelter for a few thousand of your hard-earned dollars, but it can also earn interest and roll over from one year to the next! (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ooh! Ahh!</i>) We have been freed from the tyranny of the use-it-or-lose-it Flexible Spending Account! (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yay!</i>) But the HSA is only available with the high-deductible healthcare plans. The old low-deductible plan with the now-crippling premiums still has that stinky old FSA. (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boo!</i>) Now be a <strike>good little worker bee</strike> responsible healthcare consumer and choose the plan that will <s>make our shareholders happy</s> reward you for taking an active role in managing your health! </span></blockquote>
</span><br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I understand that I am responsible for my own health. I understand that reducing corporate expenses makes shareholders happy, which makes the company more profitable, which means job security for tens of thousands of people. (Knock wood.) As a shareholder I appreciate that. As an employee (knock wood) I appreciate that. I’m not saying that streamlining is a bad thing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But here’s the thing: My pay scale is a lot lower than that of the people who structured these new plans. My income is also a lot higher than this nation’s median income, and for that I’m grateful. That said, I’m standing in the gap here. I’m not wealthy enough to cover all the new extra expenses. But I’m too wealthy to qualify for help under anyone’s definition. Yes, I can use the HSA money for health care expenses. But some days it would be nice to have enough money for health care expenses <em>and</em> other frivolities. Like food. And shelter. And transportation. Et cetera.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know, I know. It’s a first-world problem. Poor little rich girl can’t eat filet mignon every day. Poor little rich girl can’t buy a Lexus this year. Poor little rich girl can’t afford her life-saving medical supplies. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wait. What? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You read that right. I can’t afford my medical supplies any more. You see, I have <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2012/04/so-how-much-have-you-lost.html" target="_blank">The Diabeetus</a>. For the last three years, I have used an insulin pump to help keep my blood sugar under excellent control – thereby mitigating effects of the disease that would result in even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">more</i> chronic health issues (ka-ching!). For the uninitiated, insulin pumps are not internal devices. Rather, the pumps are external units that deliver insulin through a small catheter that pokes you in the belly. </span> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Like this, only less giggly and more stabby.</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The pumps hold three days worth of insulin, and they need to be replaced with a new device when they expire. Those little delivery devices that have to be replaced every 72 hours? Expensive as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hell</i>! Before my insurance was switched, I could <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">barely</i> afford the copay. Now that I have an astronomical deductible to meet, and it is still early in the year, I would have to pay about $1,000 out of pocket for a new shipment - and my deductible <em>still</em> wouldn't be met. Quite frankly, my pockets just ain’t that deep right now. I've had to discontinue use of my insulin pump. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes, I am blessed to have employer-provided insurance. I just don’t have enough employer-provided wages to pay for my out-of-pocket share. Don’t worry though – I can still take shots the old fashioned way. My doctor ordered so many syringes for me at the pharmacy that I <s>can start a side-business selling them to heroin addicts</s> don’t have to worry about running out any time soon. It’s inconvenient, but so far my blood sugar has remained stable. So at least I’m not gonna keel over from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> any time soon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But my problem extends beyond The Diabeetus. My family has four people. Three of us have chronic health issues that require expensive diagnostic tests several times a year, expensive specialist visits several times a year, and expensive medication we must take every day. Of course I’m worried about how to treat my own health issues. But having been through the near-death thing with Miracle Man already, I’m worried about how we are going to pay for his semiannual MRIs and visits to Dr. Smartypants (ka-ching!). [Side note: Did you know that world-famous physicians can charge upwards of $600 per visit? Yeah, that's gonna hurt next month.] And there is no way in hell my kids are going without the care they need – I’ll sell a kidney if I have to. (I’m not saying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">whose</i> kidney until the time comes, though.)</span> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Marketing slogan:</em><br />
<em>My kidneys are totes adorbz</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can only speak to my own experience. I haven’t changed my opinion that a civilized society keeps an eye out for the downtrodden – after all, it could be any one of us very easily. (If you don’t believe that, you need to get down on your knees and pray fervently to the deity of your understanding that your world never gets turned upside down. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/28/worst-natural-disasters-of-2012_n_2349311.html" target="_blank">Shit happens</a>.) I’m just wondering when the Affordable Care Act is going to make care, um, <em>affordable</em> for those of us who live here in the gap. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Brokeass Canyon</em><br />
<em>Population: Me</em></td></tr>
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Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-38445892184426519022013-02-02T01:24:00.001-05:002013-02-27T13:38:48.547-05:00Because Your Cholesterol Level Doesn't Matter If You're Dead<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hello, my peoples. I have been neglecting you for way too long. I can 'splain. Get comfy; this one's a doozy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A few weeks ago, when a nasty cold was making its way through my household, all the strength and energy got sucked right out of my body. Not only was I dog-tired all the time, but my muscles felt like they were filled with sand. I attributed it to cooties, took a few days out of my daily routine to rest up, then went back to pushing myself through every-day life even though I was still pretty fatigued. Word on the street was that this year’s round of cooties were fierce and recovery times were long. So I didn’t think too much of it. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Somewhere along the way, I also started to feel kinda blue. I wasn't terribly surprised. After all, it was right after the holidays, I'd taken some time off work, I'd been sick for awhile, and we'd had some inclement weather. I was out of my normal routine more often than not for a couple of weeks, and that's always enough to bring me down. I do well with structure and adult supervision. Too much time on my hands usually gets me in trouble.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I continued to push myself through my every-day life in the hopes the blues would pass. I thought I was doing OK. I was ignoring the whispers of intrusive thoughts for the most part and putting one foot in front of the other with a stupid fake smile on my face like a good little soldier. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then all hell broke loose inside my head. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Miracle Man and I had been fighting. A lot. I mean a <em>really</em> lot. Of course I thought it was all his fault. But then I noticed that Miracle Man wasn’t the only object of my ire – I was pissed off at pretty much everyone all the time. Especially myself. For being sad. For being tired. For being stupid. For being worthless. I had begun to loathe myself and everyone around me. Then a handful of red flags shot up over the course of the weekend that made me realize I was in deep shit:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I got an email from Sweet Little Sister one afternoon asking if I needed help with something I'd been struggling with, and generally letting me know she cares. I sat in front of my computer crying - yes, actual weeping - because there was one person in the world who thought I was worth caring about. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I got in a Facebook spat with two of Miracle Man’s friends over comments that weren't even bad. For no good reason my rational brain went on vacation and left Ragey Sassyfats in charge of all the thinkin’. I took their innocuous comments as a direct attack on my character and burned a couple of bridges in return.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I became jealous of people who had terminal diseases. They were lucky - they were about to get off this stinkin' planet without having to pick the least painful way to go.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While doing the dishes one night I held a large kitchen knife in my hand for a full minute, wondering how bad it would hurt if I turned it on myself. Deciding against making a big ol' bloody mess on the floor, I slowly put the knife away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For several days in a row, I prayed for release from this world. When I went to bed at night, I hoped I wouldn't wake up. When I woke up in the morning, I hoped I wouldn't last through the day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It finally dawned on me that my thought patterns were very much <em>not</em> normal. I mean, the inside of my head can be a pretty dangerous neighborhood sometimes, but it's never been <em>that</em> bad. And I realized these dangerous thought patterns were very much <em>not</em> dissipating. They were getting stronger and more frequent every day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Upon reflection a few days ago, I realized that the onset of my fatigue and downward spiral coincided with something: I had started taking a statin to lower my cholesterol the first week of January. Which is exactly when I started to feel blah. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One quick Google search revealed that fatigue and muscle weakness are signs that your body seriously doesn’t like statins. And then allllllllll the way at the bottom of the literature, there was a brief mention that a “statistically insignificant” number of patients experienced severe mood alteration, depression, aggression, and suicide as a result taking the medicine. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>I know, Will Smith. I don't get it either.</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let me get this straight. My doctor gave me this little white pill because my cholesterol was <em>almost</em> too high. Not OMG-way-too-high. <em>Almost</em> too high. The little white pill was supposed to protect me from the evils of almost-too-high cholesterol and theoretically extend my life. But the side effect of this little white pill - pay attention now, this is important. This little pill <em><strong><u>had robbed me of my very will to live</u></strong>.</em> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>I know, Jackie Chan. It defies logic.</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If I hadn't stumbled upon this little tidbit of info, I could very well ended up on a slab, dead from a self-inflicted murder (to borrow a phrase from <a href="http://sweetsassyfats.blogspot.com/2012/09/an-open-letter-to-nikki-sixx.html" target="_blank">Nikki Sixx</a>). But, oh hay! The coroner would be very impressed with my lipid profile. So at least there would have been that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After wading through a handful of the search results, I discovered that cholesterol actually plays a vital role in helping your neurotransmitters - your brain juices, if you will - get from Point A to Point B. If the cholesterol level in your brain drops too low, it can disrupt the transmission of serotonin - which has an impact on mood and behavior. Serotonin also happens to be the juice my brain already has trouble with. Interesting factoid, if you ask me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next day didn’t take my statin pill. I felt a lot better. Still kinda off, but not nearly as bad. But the day after that, I was a completely different person. My energy level was back up and the sand was out of my muscles. More importantly, I felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Joy</i>. For no apparent reason. It was just there. No longer in a fog of self-loathing, I was ready to face life’s challenges. I still cannot believe that just a few days ago I was in a state of absolute despair, actively trying to figure out an exit strategy from this life. That thought pattern seems so foreign to me now that my brain chemistry is working right(ish) again. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just so we're clear: I'm back from the abyss. Self-loathing? Gone. Aggression toward others? Gone. Death wish? Way gone. Thank you, Jesus. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is a moral to this little tale: Know your medicines. Do your research. Take routine inventory of your thoughts and feelings - depression is a sneaky bastard who whispers lies in your ear; if you're not paying enough attention he can grab the back of your neck and slam your face into the floor before you even know he's in the room. Above all, listen to that little voice in your head when it tells you something just ain't right. It just might save your life. </span></div>
Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091755591810036140.post-50977033740514406322012-12-29T15:15:00.000-05:002012-12-29T15:15:21.138-05:00Paradise Found. Kinda Sorta. <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m not sure how it happened. Sometime over the last 21 years or so, I went from being an irresponsible teenager who believed the world was her oyster to an overburdened 30-something working mom-of-two who’s just trying to muddle through this life as best she can. I suppose the transition is inevitable. With maturity comes the realization that sometimes ya gotta do the responsible thing even if it’s not your most appealing option. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a name='more'></a>
Por exemplo: Should I quit my day job and write full time??? OH HELL YES!!!! THANK YOU FOR THE SUGGESTION!!!! Now sign me right up!</span>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Oh, wait. I have eight mouths to feed. (I’m including pets in the mouth-count – all the way down to the goldfish the girls “won” at some carnival<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in August and has beaten all odds to stay alive more than 24 hours.) The people (and critters) attached to those mouths have really gotten used to eating every day (several times a day, even!) and living in an enclosed shelter that boasts climate control and indoor plumbing (for the humans, anyway). If I take that great leap of faith and quit my paying job to follow my dreams, my family would end up on the street. Hungry. Dirty. And highly pissed off. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Don’t get me wrong - I love my new job. I’m working on an interesting project with supportive people who seem to value my contributions. The only thing that would make it more perfect were if it were closer to home and it paid, like, quadruple what I’m making now. Since neither of those scenarios are likely in my lifetime, I’m perfectly content. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And yet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are days, especially when I have been busy in all facets of my life and have failed to eat properly and get enough sleep, when my escape fantasy bubbles to the surface and I’m tempted to hide under my desk and try to find my happy place. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Ohm, dammit!</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Picture it: The inside of my head, every few weeks or so. I am entering the lobby of a swanky DC hotel on a weekday morning. See, my boss won’t miss me because I’ve called in sick. Oh I have a terrible flu; I would not want to share it with anyone at the office. *cough cough* And my family won’t miss me because they think I’m at work. Oh I have a horribly busy day. I’ll be in meetings for like, 10 hours straight. And there's no cell phone reception in the conference room.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>How could they possibly doubt me?</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, the swankier the hotel, the better. Only gazillionaires stay here – CEOs of large companies, celebrities, athletes, and royalty. The cavernous rooms in this pimped out piece of paradise </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">have</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> comfortable beds, big ol’ honkin' bathtubs, big ol’ honkin’ flat screen TVs with all my favorite channels, in-room massages, and room service that would cause a riot of happiness among anyone's taste buds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After sitting by the water fountain in the palatial hotel lobby and watching people come and go for a few minutes, I would go up to my room, climb into the clean and comfortable bed, and sleep until my body decides it’s time to wake up. No alarm clocks. No ringing phones. No barking dogs. No little people pounding on my shoulder to demand care and feeding. Just amazingly peaceful sleep. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After yawning and stretching and checking out what's on TV, I’d take the best bubble bath ever drawn. Yes, there are candles. Yes, there are fresh-cut flowers. Yes, there is soft music playing in the background. No, there are no cats meowing their demands that I turn on the faucet so they can get a drink. No, there are no little people barging into the room to tell me their sister is stupid. No, there is no impatient husband calling me from the other room demanding to know if I'm ever coming out. It's just me and the bubbles and the water and my thoughts for however long I want. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After emerging from the spacious bathroom in the thick terrycloth robe provided by the hotel (yes, it's in my size), I'd check out the room service menu and decide what to order. All this luxuriating has made me hungry. Nice thick steak? Yes, please. Perfectly matched wine selection? Yes, please. Decadent seven-layer chocolate fudge cake? Yes, please. No Kraft mac & cheese. No inexpensive hot dogs. Nothing that requires ketchup, for that matter. My meal is all fresh, organic, perfectly seasoned food that is magically free of calories. (It's my fantasy, I can have calorie-free cake if I want to.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After enjoying my perfect meal, eaten without interruption by colleague, child, or pet, it would be time to call the hotel masseuse. I have not decided on the gender of the masseuse, but he-she must be a conssumate professional with strong hands and the ability to work out every knot in every muscle until my body is as loose and floppy as a sleeping cat’s. </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit0Mcbm-AtaKT3c7JKfD5FJQdWhdgtzl0LXecFU_IKqd9xln0MhpmmuJIDUYklEUbubjOyKpqaukKUkhrhfNTOMNtEAHY5Bh3szdgvfOl3C44-_eEb83kgDaAKQ3xE2fSLixVSHSHyvOQ/s1600/sleeping_cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="233" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit0Mcbm-AtaKT3c7JKfD5FJQdWhdgtzl0LXecFU_IKqd9xln0MhpmmuJIDUYklEUbubjOyKpqaukKUkhrhfNTOMNtEAHY5Bh3szdgvfOl3C44-_eEb83kgDaAKQ3xE2fSLixVSHSHyvOQ/s320/sleeping_cat.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Now THAT'S relaxed.</em></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By the end of the day, I would be fully restored and ready to go back to my run-run-run-busy-busy-busy lifestyle. Not only would I feel better, but my family and colleagues would notice the difference in me. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sassfats</i>, they’d all say. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You seem so peaceful these days! And efficient!! Thank you for being so awesome!!</i> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitjSllL_qIypa4cjN8LN7Ri0NcvIRf4ioQNR0nzj5s_a0sZ2nXZEFNrpcGWF3eX9UKGiO4uAhrXYtIH4h9me6S_iK2ngIWmOnnOPpZAcRcKcps04QxW0yoQYda9o96Wr1SnJDScKUnBdg/s1600/you_are_awesome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="203" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitjSllL_qIypa4cjN8LN7Ri0NcvIRf4ioQNR0nzj5s_a0sZ2nXZEFNrpcGWF3eX9UKGiO4uAhrXYtIH4h9me6S_iK2ngIWmOnnOPpZAcRcKcps04QxW0yoQYda9o96Wr1SnJDScKUnBdg/s320/you_are_awesome.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Why yes. Yes, he is pointing at me.</em></td></tr>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">There is one major hitch in my fantasy - I ain't got no money. And I don't ever anticipate having enough money to make that specific fantasy come true. Alas, it shall remain a fantasy. The closest I get to having that total peace in real life is after everyone goes to bed at night. Granted, staying up late just complicates the whole “I need sleep” issue. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">But still. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">By the end of the day, after all the other humans have gone to bed, the animals have all been fed, the dinner dishes have been done, and I can call my to-do list close enough to done, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> that time alone before I can turn in for the night. I get full control of the TV, my brain can wander wherever it wants, and don’t nobody need nothin’ from me. For reasons I can’t explain, that little bit of time every day when I can just be me helps me prepare for the challenges of the next day. And that's just enough to get me through. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>What about you? How do you decompress at the end of your day? Got an escape fantasy you're willing to share? Go on, spill yer guts!</em></span></div>
Sweet Sassyfatshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09831612146206466400noreply@blogger.com0