tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88858501459455998802024-03-12T23:03:59.921-07:00Here's LooseySouthern Gothic battles with connective tissue, autoimmune disorders, and the ravages of age.Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.comBlogger158125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-84712662445211020522012-11-23T09:27:00.000-08:002012-11-23T12:02:28.359-08:00Be careful what you wish for<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So I know someone who finally got a job she doesn't want to get Dooced from, and it is just....wow.<br />
She is learning a lot. Most days it's stuff that renders her speechless or sputtering. That used to be almost impossible. You wouldn't believe it if she could tell you, but let me just say it's not that unusual for grownups to want to have a job where they do little besides keep up with their social media and get money. We are talking about jobs that specifically prohibit the use of social media. So being the fearless leader of a troop that apparently contains Galapagos tortoises addicted to iPads definitely has its challenges.<br />
On the bright side, there is no way anyone can sit in her office any more and fart without her getting to throw them out. So yay. Also having to suffer through a roommate burping, yelling at people on the phone, heating up unbearably stinky frozen dinners in the microwave by her head and taking up 75% of a closet-sized space are things of the past.<br />
I honestly think that after some growing pains she will like it a lot. It's based on what she always enjoyed the most at bedside. Meanwhile, growing pains are why they invented Aleve. This Thanksgiving season she is very thankful for her great new boss who she feels will support her through it all.</div>
Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-35432428961189729262012-08-11T12:31:00.001-07:002012-08-11T12:31:23.060-07:00Why Women Doctors are Better<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I asked around at Big Teaching Hospital and got a lead on a newly minted neurologist who is the wife of the nicest new heme-onc. So I got an appointment with her and took her my EMG results, the one which elicited disbelief in Mr. Chief of Department Neurologist. She read them twice with a frown; turns out it's not one kind of damage but many. Her first idea was the Hashimoto's antibodies had damaged various nerves and muscles and symptomatic treatment was most likely the only offer. I insisted that the research is for Hashimoto's neuropathy to resolve when the thyroid is replaced, and mine has been level for eighteen months at least. She considered my suggestion of CIDP because this crap tends to come and go and CIDP is underdiagnosed, linked to both colitis and Hashimoto's by different researchers, and treatable. So she is requesting all my old tests and said she would read them and call me with ideas for further workup. I am going to see Mr. Major Pain in the Ass Rhematologist soon for a followup on the Polyclonal gammopathy and hope to have a request list for him, as I can't afford the deductibles at her sleazy Catholic umbrella organization. A lumbar puncture, which was suggested by Ms. Gorgeous Endocrinologist years ago, may soon be in my future; joy.<br />
Bottom line here; if I had been able to find women specialists from the beginning of this mess, I'd have had a full workup before I got foot drop. Now that I do, maybe some of these women will be on my side for a scientific examination of this bizarre and cruel syndrome. Its latest mean trick? When I stand for a few seconds, get a chill, or feel a little warm, I get a sensation on my hands, feet, arms to the elbow and lower legs to the knee like tiny ants running on me and biting me. Itch and pinch, I guess you would call it. I have to look at the limbs while rubbing them to get it to stop, it's so realistic. So now do I not just stagger like a drunk, I rub like a crackhead. So lovely.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-87726733079660053112012-07-14T17:19:00.002-07:002012-07-14T17:19:49.048-07:00Finally<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have been kinda crushed lately; the neuropathy pain is really getting me down. My sis took me to Dallas to see my child during an extended travel layover and while the trip was amazing, I was a pure dee mess. Just riding in the car made my walking reflex disappear, making each step a huge challenge. It's hard to explain how tiring it is to think about each footstep so you won't fall. I saw the neurologist who is supposed to be the pro from Dover after I got back and walked out of there super mad. There may have been some problems with my tone of voice after he told me he didn't believe the results of the (super painful) EMG and nerve conduction tests, and maybe I had fibromyalgia, not an autoimmune neuropathy. I said a few choice things about MDs who tell women who have lost their careers to painful illness they have fibromyalgia and test men with the same problems until they find what is wrong and treat it. He took it pretty well considering he is the chair of the department at a big old teaching hospital, and grudgingly ordered another test.<br />
The results finally posted today, and I could not believe it. There is a 17% percent chance of someone with my symptoms having an abnormal test, and I did. Polyclonal hypergammaglobulimia, I think I love you. Now maybe someone will treat this motherfucking pain and muscle spasms.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-81498382317097117862012-05-05T08:39:00.002-07:002012-05-05T08:39:56.941-07:00Jon Armstrong is a bad influence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I went back to reading Blurbomat when Jon published his announcement. Honestly, I had stopped because he was just putting up moody pictures and occasional geek stuff that is tl:dr for me because I don't understand it. I really enjoy his meditations on single dad life when he edits himself less, but those are few and far between. I had found him through Dooce, of course, and really liked him better but she was funnier until last year. A few weeks ago he linked to some guy he'd palled around with at an Austin conference who is a blog traffic guru. This guy has all these ideas to drive views to your site. I, being the dedicated social scientist I am, decided the guy was full of crap and made a deliberately meaningless post with a headline that matched his suggestions.<br />
Whoops. He was right. I usually have twenty people or less read this site (Hi, Sis!) but that post got over a thousand views. For nothing.<br />
So for what it's worth, I got in trouble a year or so ago on Dooce.com for mentioning that Heather wasn't funny anymore, getting a slapdown from Jon for my two cent's worth. It was like the Emperor's New Clothes as it turned out and I was just one of the earliest to mention it. I don't click through anymore for the same reason I deliberately do not stare at crime scenes or traffic accidents, so I don't know if she is funny again. I do know that if I do the headline bomb thingie like Jon's buddy suggested, a lot more random people will click through, and to them I say, "Howdy!"<br />
I guess my conclusion is that a bunch of the Internet is either random or thrill-seeking and I am random but no longer thrill-seeking. My world has gotten pretty small, what with the massive chronic mystery pain syndrome and the soul-killing job trapped in a room with Ms. Pee Pad. So they will click through to see if there is anything to gawk at, and finding nothing, will go back to HuffPo. Nice seeing ya'll. If anyone has any suggestions about treatments for a mysterious neuromuscular pain and spasm syndrome that seems to be autoimmune, drop them in the comments, please.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-14577265385680544142012-04-07T18:35:00.000-07:002012-04-07T18:35:19.997-07:00Boob sweat, or there goes the neighborhood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-PW4YyJ0aaABfO-GnvDZsJQXfQNJBDjuzzeP6gwi6uRLsqET0qN8avFuM4NK4mASQSM3vRDfol2i8LHtAfHH6130VLn7U2eo5Y3ddIrMGQ6QlBrlUFWV5gcLnR3LHbOGrZtPjv7cQSwY3/s1600/photo+(6).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-PW4YyJ0aaABfO-GnvDZsJQXfQNJBDjuzzeP6gwi6uRLsqET0qN8avFuM4NK4mASQSM3vRDfol2i8LHtAfHH6130VLn7U2eo5Y3ddIrMGQ6QlBrlUFWV5gcLnR3LHbOGrZtPjv7cQSwY3/s320/photo+(6).JPG" width="239" /></a></div>How awesome is that. I bet the property values fell audibly on my street this morning. I went out to pull weeds in the front beds before they dried out too much from the frogstrangling rains we got this week. The bad thing is that this side, with the dirt and the scratches on my arm that make me look like a wrinkly fat old cutter plus beaucoup boob sweat, is actually the good one. Feel sorry for the neighbors who were looking at my back; the shirt climbed up with the same alacrity as my pink granny panties so they got a real treat. I saved the hoarded Lortab for tomorrow; I intend to get high and make Easter dinner.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-45379623909902712612012-03-09T19:33:00.000-08:002012-03-09T19:33:28.590-08:00Dooce Community was no help with preventing me from going postal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> Last Friday I had some minor oral surgery that went completely sideways and made me swell up like a mumps patient and lie around moaning in pain. I did that for about four days. So,then I stopped the thing I was doing at the first of the week, which was preventing my couch and my Lortab from being stolen. By sitting on the couch to keep thievy thieves from stealing it, and eating all the Lortab to keep stealy stealers from thieving it. Worked good, too, but I was about to high-security myself into needing a doctor's note to go back. So back I went on Wednesday.<br />
I was sorry I had acted so rashly by nine am. By ten-thirty I was burning up my text message contact boxes, whining to every friend and relative I had that MY FACE HURT and MY CO WORKER WILL NOT STFU.<br />
I put my earphones in my ears reluctantly, as, ummm, MY FACE HURT and just acted like I turned the music on because I've gotten her to leave me alone before. When I got home that night I posted on dooce community that they needed to think of things I could do to keep from going postal on this harpy. They were all, "Tell her to be quiet."<br />
We are dealing with crazy and annoying of an advanced and higher order here and "shhhh" is not going to cut it. This female has: made repeated racial slurs and ignorant attacks on the President directly to me, AFTER I told her I'd stood in line for hours for the privilege of voting for him, would do it again, and felt it best if we not discuss politics. She fights on the phone with someone EVERY DAY. She will yell at the cable people for cutting off her service for nonpayment for hours and hours and then tell me the story like I am supposed to side with her. Pay your bill, bitch. She seriously just talks to hear herself talk, and will talk to me with my back turned to her even if I am speaking on the phone before she begins a thought. She takes the required beeper off her ample person and leaves it on her desk and goes away for an hour. For some reason, she is the only person who does not get in trouble for not wearing her beeper. She has told me that she peed on her pee pad and just went to the bathroom to change it.<br />
"Be quiet and let me work please" is not going to change her.<br />
I suppose loosening the wheels on her chair would be wrong. Maybe I will just start farting with my earphones in like I don't know I'm doing it.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-80399558814094302782012-03-07T21:00:00.000-08:002012-03-07T21:00:42.659-08:00Jon and Heather Armstrong's Divorce<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Some of the folks on the Dooce community website have wanted to discuss it, but older/wiser/better compensated for their time heads have prevailed. Of course, Internet strangers should be allowed to have private lives, even after they pull back the curtain a little before dropping it.<br />
I don't think most people wanted to gossip or declare Team Jon or Team Heather. I know I have an odd feeling of knowing people I can't possibly know, just because they are talented writers and convey a sense of their lives through their writing and photos. Harder to figure out is why the news bothered me so much; I really identify with Jon's grief for his years of effort and the effect the divorce will have on the kids. It's probably easier to take the news of divorces in our real-life circles because you can see a lot of those coming; body language tells people all over church when you least realize it.<br />
Plus, we were all rooting for them, all the time, glad for the good stuff and howling at their tormentors when Maytag or the crazy homeowner or Mormons deserved it. It was part of the Dooce experience; so much that we got used to being chastised for mentioning that Heather stopped being funny about a year ago. That was the "f" word that could not be named. So now we know why she stopped being funny, and there's a weird sense of guilt about acknowledging that, too; like she wasn't dancing fast enough for us while her life was crumbling somewhere else.<br />
I wonder what Leta thinks of what the internet says about her family. She is certainly a good enough reader to know. I couldn't stand the thought of being a preacher's wife with the public life that entails, so I can't imagine a fully public life on the internet.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-12260312122911388842012-03-05T10:07:00.000-08:002012-03-05T10:07:35.848-08:00Not truly and completely dead<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Whoa, who knew somebody would keep looking here?<br />
That is nice.<br />
I stopped blogging for a while because work was itself and specifying what is so frustrating about that particular hamster wheel would most certainly get me dooced.<br />
Anyway, the refi came through with just a few slam down the phone and scream moments, the roof got replaced in the same fashion, and the fella deflected my plan to hire a window professional but now he has all my new ones in.<br />
I had oral surgery that went poorly Friday and am sitting on my couch, windows open to the early Spring, robins chirping, new Boston terrier buddy snoring next to me. Lortab and doggies ftw.<br />
Oh, the dog story!<br />
Christmas was nice; the girl and her dear boyfriend were scheduled to fly in for a bit. I was shopping a few days prior and on my way to the gym when a van crossed in front of me at a red light. It turned on to a busy four-lane street and was followed in hot pursuit by a Boston Terrier, running desperately behind it. I enraged three other citizens turning around to follow the dog, in an attempt to prevent its death in the street. I found it panting and exhausted at a store parking lot. He came to me when called and jumped in the car. He was so adorable and well mannered I hated to put up posters, but I did. While my fella walked him around the neighborhood in search of his owner, I put up posters on all the cross-streets that were the direction from which he had come. I told my child about him and she was all full of longing: oh, a dog for Christmas. My fella, a cat person to the core, fell for him during their walk and hoped out loud the owners would not call. I was astounded.<br />
The owners called four hours later. There were some iffy things that happened before they showed up, twenty minutes late from a purported address three blocks away. They drove up in a car that was past beater status three years ago. They got out, smiling, and the dog rushed to them happily. As they thanked us, my heart sank more; both of them were skinny as rails, pale, with telltale meth spots on their teeth, and the guy had some picked spots on his face and neck while the girl had half of one eyebrow missing. My lovely, dear little dog was going home with his meth-head mom and dad. Nothing to be done, he obviously loved them.<br />
My fella did not notice the meth signs. He was super quiet for a few days, though. Christmas came, and my daughter enjoyed her visit although she mourned the lack of a dog in the house. I told her about keeping the secret from my fella about the meth use; we sighed over the little dog and gave him up to the universe. It was a year since Lily died and we both start crying when we think of her. I hauled the kids back to Dallas for their return flight and came home to a quiet house with two cats. Back on the hamster wheel I went.<br />
About two days back into the New Year at work, my cell buzzed with a number that seemed familiar but I couldn't place it. It was meth-head girl; they could not keep the dog and needed fifty bucks. Sold.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0_LP4-dYhYR8e5mryKNek5E47QTpGvT496otCDXQP7tpOpD3WTNDi3BXdZXPQ6Ph1Kwr-G2F4soiWtsfXn3JL2iRw0pm1Vm9NOPxZxrOpyy7O5e2rGcpFVdAeBh5uZwMZZBQFpmFjDOA/s1600/photo+(5).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0_LP4-dYhYR8e5mryKNek5E47QTpGvT496otCDXQP7tpOpD3WTNDi3BXdZXPQ6Ph1Kwr-G2F4soiWtsfXn3JL2iRw0pm1Vm9NOPxZxrOpyy7O5e2rGcpFVdAeBh5uZwMZZBQFpmFjDOA/s320/photo+(5).JPG" width="238" /></a></div>My fence is currently torn down for renovation, so the fella keeps the dog for now. He is a huge hit; the adult neighbors offer to babysit so he won't be lonely while we are at work, the neighbor kids beg to play with him, and the golfers put the clubs up to watch him play soccer with us in the back yard. He is good around the cats, all six of them, and he loves to ride in the car with us and snuggle in the recliner with the fella at TV time. I do not love him like I loved Lily; missing the puppy stage leaves a little hole. But he is a joyful addition to our lives.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-26919381414959350892011-11-06T07:38:00.000-08:002011-11-06T07:53:21.468-08:00My Cat Is A Republican<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcOwhQirvC_-jDHB84RL4VULiLRx5y3av9GhTJ_rafkJU6HfeafqXRNzpNvqd3CVLH8YoWZtbH-4bTBtDMV8KmthpwSFHGVMmHIR1qqL5XDD6kIAnbYzk5XSx9zz74hi9ZkUZMC_Eg90RJ/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcOwhQirvC_-jDHB84RL4VULiLRx5y3av9GhTJ_rafkJU6HfeafqXRNzpNvqd3CVLH8YoWZtbH-4bTBtDMV8KmthpwSFHGVMmHIR1qqL5XDD6kIAnbYzk5XSx9zz74hi9ZkUZMC_Eg90RJ/s320/photo.JPG" width="239" /></a></div><br />
Today was my favorite holiday of the year. Since I no longer work nights, I have to say Fall Back Sunday, or the end of Daylight Saving Time, is custom-made for me. I can sleep a whole hour late and no one could possibly care. Except the cat. Her reaction to my sluggishness led to a groggy epiphany.<br />
My cat is a Republican.<br />
I've got one living here in the house.<br />
Proofs:<br />
She does not believe in time change or climate change or hope and change or any change. She frowns on all matters of change.<br />
She looks out for her own interests with fierce intensity; her food wants are paramount and must be attended to. However, when she has been nicely fed with my resources, she then turns her eye to my own meal. She obstructs my ability to feed myself by throwing herself into my legs, then once I have overcome her opposition and prepared a meal, she demands to see if mine is nicer than hers, and wants a portion.<br />
Her behavior is generally environmentally unfriendly, as she declines to poop and pee outside where it is biodegradable. If I take the catbox away so she will go outside, she merrily proceeds to spoil my belongings to suit her preference.<br />
She is automatically afraid of and hostile to anyone who wears anything on his or her head.<br />
Although she brings foreign lizards into the house for her pleasure, she outsources most of the spider killing to the wild rangy outside cat.<br />
She is, as Teddy Roosevelt put it so succinctly, a fat cat.<br />
I don't think my TV gets Fox News but I am going to have to watch where I leave the remote.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-59888811456424500382011-11-05T08:39:00.000-07:002011-11-05T08:39:01.383-07:00Cheering<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I just completed my first week at the job I've been on for a year that entailed just doing the basic job description; no covering for other people, no teaching new people, no endless meetings for projects that never start.<br />
It was a pretty sweet gig, actually. My fledglings call me for database type questions but I don't mind that. The other person they are designated to call, the "Educator", is completely clueless and calling her would just be frustrating to both of them.<br />
The lady at the Credit Union said my refi went through but the assessor didn't call me this week and the CU lady didn't return my call of inquiry. I am going to keep on her, though, this house might fall in if I don't get some shit fixed. I am dreading cleaning up for window installation but it will be nice to not have actual wind blow through the house in the winter.<br />
I have lost 14 pounds. The "saggy fat suit over muscle" look is what I am going for and I am ignoring the folds of skin sliding down my midsection. Excelsior!<br />
I wonder if I should get one of those compression garments they have you wear after lipo and wear it. You can get anything on Amazon.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-50643101334672075292011-10-17T19:04:00.000-07:002011-10-17T19:04:47.126-07:00The Douchenozzle Chronicles Vol 3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I stopped in the manager's office today at the gym. She was sitting at her computer looking sadly at the screen. I asked her if she had heard about the hot tub follies over the weekend. Indeed she had, and was about to handle that situation as soon as she solved the problem in front of her. Oddly, it also had to do with the ladies' locker room. She seemed mournful and without hope.<br />
"What else could be going on in the ladies' locker room? My word!" was my inquiry.<br />
"Nudity," she said hopelessly. "Someone was offended because the ladies in there have nudity when they are changing and it makes this person feel uncomfortable."<br />
Wait, what?<br />
"Hold on a minute. A woman is complaining that the women who are changing clothes in the clothes-changing area make her feel uncomfortable?"<br />
"Yes," she sighed sadly. "And I can't think of a thing to tell her."<br />
I pondered briefly and a helpful thought came to me.<br />
"Tell her if she thinks those naked women are bad, just take a look in the hot tub of a Saturday and she will really get an eyeful. Those naked old ladies will look positively tame."<br />
We both hooted like old Southern ladies love to do. Then she grew sad again.<br />
"I can't tell her that."<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-32657481447188685212011-10-15T14:16:00.000-07:002011-10-15T14:16:22.252-07:00The Douchenozzle Chronicles Vol 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Squick also ewwwww also WTF.<br />
My Catholic friends used to say, "Shit Marie" when something was too bad for mere profanity and needed true blasphemy to convey their emotions.<br />
Shit Marie.<br />
I saw Towel Freak Woman leaving the gym today as I was coming in late. She was wearing workout gear and her hair was not wet so I thought I'd dodged a bullet and they had told her ack rite or don show up.<br />
How wrong can one old lady be?<br />
Very wrong.<br />
I got out of the pool, padded into the shower room, and SHIT MARIE there she is, towel tied over boobs, kneeling over the STRONGEST nozzle in the Jacuzzi. I turned around and padded, dripping, to the front desk and complained my ass off in no uncertain terms: "I told Angela last week there was a woman masturbating in the whirlpool over a nozzle, she said she'd get Cathy on it, and the woman is in there right now doing it again, and it's disgusting on so many levels!"<br />
The clerk's response? "Oh my god. She needs to buy a shower massage." She had seen Towel Freak woman come to the desk as if leaving, then turn around and go back in. She apologized profusely that it hadn't been stopped last week, and promised it would not happen again. Then she said, crossly, "There is a toy store right down the street, she needs to go there instead."<br />
I know, right?<br />
Shit Marie, what has happened to the world. I expect this kind of craziness at work; we actually seem to have a drug ring that operates out of our driveway, where the security guards are never visible. We also have somewhere that prostitutes who are patients seem to be plying their trade, and if you walk in on most of our male patients and they are not masturbating it's because they just finished.<br />
I go to this high-end fitness club to get away from people like that!</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-87787176682027112372011-10-08T14:59:00.000-07:002011-10-08T14:59:55.827-07:00Squick of the year<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I've had a wicked muscle spasm in my neck for, hmmm, forever so I haven't felt like typing once I get home. But I'm still plugging along at the horrible job, like the hamster on its eternal wheel. One good thing for the month: I now weigh eight pounds less than I did at the start of last month. I am taking the adrenal and thyroid supplements and not eating fruit, sugar, or starch. Boring but effective.<br />
The squicky icky omg grossssss gross gross thing that happened today? Well, that is the story. At the gym there is a woman who tends to come on Saturday and hog the whirlpool. It's a big one, but she gets in it and talks so loudly on her cell or plays such loud music on her phone that I generally avoid her. She also decorates the floor in the hot tub room with, no kidding, eight or ten towels in various stages of dampness. So it's like being around someone else's badly raised teen on a good day. Anyway, last week when I got out of the pool there were two other ladies in the whirlpool and the messy teen grown damn towel freak woman was perched nearby on a shower bench. I could not help but notice that she was not wearing a suit as per the four signs that read "Whirlpool Rules: Swimsuit must be worn, and don't shave your disgusting legs for Christ's sake either" but was wearing a towel tied in front over her boobs, another twisted over her hair, and nothing else but eyeliner. Yark. She stayed out while we hottubbed. As I was leaving, I could have sworn she got back in once the pool was cleared and was leaning on her elbows facing out of it. A little buzz alarm went off in my mind: was she cozying up to the jacuzzi nozzle with her towel open in front? Gross, I decided, and went off to shower and change.<br />
Today my neck was just a little stiff, so I wanted to whirlpool it into submission after my swim and walk in the saltwater pool. I cruised into the whirlpool room and sans music was towel freak woman, leaning on her elbows facing out of the whirlpool. She was holding a book whose pages she was not turning, and was kneeling with her legs straddled and the bubbles aimed right between them. Her superfreak towel was billowing out behind her. There was actually another woman sitting on the corner of the tub with her lower legs in the pool!<br />
How nasty. There is not enough Clorox on the planet to clean that water. It's just a thousand gallons of douchewater, bubbling around the perverted freak who is hosing down her cooter with the jacuzzi nozzle. Ew, ew, ew. Also, fucking freak killed my chances of working on my neck.<br />
I got dressed and skibbled out to the front desk. Sometimes the manager works on Saturdays, but she was not there today. The clerk knew exactly who I was talking about, towel freak woman comes at opening time on Saturdays and they have to ask her to leave at closing time and pick up all the towels she throws around. I used the words "unacceptable" and "disgusting" and she and I both agreed that towel freak woman needs to buy her own damn toys on the Internet and use them at home like all the other girls. She said she'd be glad to tell the manager to ask towel freak woman to just stay home for jolly time.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-82078025857827851982011-09-18T20:28:00.000-07:002011-09-18T20:28:20.746-07:00Time for Voodoo, Woo, and anything else with oo that is not ow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">So it took me about ten hours in phone calls, faxing, walking to his office to sign yet another medical records release, and driving to get my medical records to the high holy best diagnostician in town. He is a rheumatologist, and my doc wants me to go to Mayo for answers on whatever the fuck this syndrome is, but thought it would be good to see him first. He is supposed to be able to figure out any autoimmune thing in the universe.<br />
A, he did not read any of that shit.<br />
B, he had me come to clinic for a 1200 appointment; I saw him at 4 and got out of there at ten of five.<br />
C, he has no fuckin idea what the hell this is. He says it's not lupus and not RA, RA eaten and removed joints notwithstanding.<br />
He basically agrees with the endocrinologist, that I had too much iodine from all the CTs and MRIs and it made the Hashimoto's antibodies attack like crazy. Not just my thyroid but muscles, brain, and guts too. He says that's so unusual that no one knows just why it happens and how long it takes for the antibodies to get off your case. He did point out that the flares are shorter and less outrageous, so there's a decent chance I will start having them more seldom. My goiter is already gone, and the endocrinologist doesn't believe in natural thyroid and is uninterested in changing my meds now that my TSH is below 1.<br />
So I gave up on medicine and doctors and got on the Internet. Several seriously woo articles later and some typing on Amazon, I acquired dried thyroid and adrenal cortex pills. Oddly, they do not stink as you think they might. I have been taking them ten days.<br />
I have lost five pounds.<br />
The horrendous neck and back pain that showed up during the four hour wait for the rheumatologist is not receding as I would wish, but having my pants fit looser almost makes up for it. The one pain relief I have seen is that the fascia on my muscles is not exquisitely tender, which is nice.<br />
Five down, forty-five to go.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-87743060249641767862011-08-19T10:49:00.000-07:002011-08-19T10:49:30.388-07:00Drugged Hamster Escapes Wheel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">So the gold tooth on the molar way in back came off and the dentist took an xray and shook her head; the molar had broken from some extremely poorly executed prosthodontia twenty-odd years ago and was now shattered and inflamed, with severe bone loss in the underlying jaw. So an appointment with the oral surgeon it was.<br />
Yesterday at the actual appointment does not bear a lot of reviewing; he was a very skilled guy but that tooth had disintegrated into more than seven pieces under the gum. So, yeah, I had taken 1/2 a Xanaflex before I went and could have used a bunch more pills of various types. But the surgeon was very quick and strong, it definitely could have been worse. He was very interested in my horrid immune system history, even when I assured him I'd been extensively tested and had nothing he could catch. He asked a lot of questions about the RSD and was sympathetic, which is unusual. Most docs hate anything they can't help with, and he seemed interested that all I took for it was Neurontin and Xanaflex, and that I would wean off them between flares. After the surgery, he asked what type of pain medicine I was used to and I couldn't think of any. So he said, "Lortab all right?" and I was all, "Yeah, sure."<br />
I went to the front to get the scripts from the printer and he came and signed them, then cheerily said bye. I drove off all shellshocked to the drugstore and handed them in. When I picked them up, I almost fell out. He had given me 25 of the 7.5's. Day-um. That is a boatload of hydrocodone. Then I got a little worried; I was still numb but how bad was this going to hurt?<br />
He must have thought I was lying about my drug history and would be calling needing more meds because I had a huge tolerance. Ha, not. I took them one at a time until bedtime and was maintaining, just a little sleepy. I took two at bedtime and regretted it in an hour; I was super groggy but the extra hydrocodone made me itch! I finally got up and took a Benadryl, which made talking to my boss when calling in super sloppy. Gained a lot of sympathy votes, though. So I have had a lovely groggy day hanging out with ginger kitty; rainbows on the floor in the kitchen from the prisms, and it's so nice to not be at that job. I haven't taken my noon dose of Lortab, and so far nothing has exploded. I'm going to take some Ibuprofen, hang on to the Lortab for other bad days, and think about going to walk in the pool all afternoon like a lady of leisure. It's better than thinking about how long it's going to take me to pay off this one disaster tooth.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-2443246993576660342011-07-30T21:58:00.000-07:002011-07-30T21:58:49.287-07:00Here is the real reason you do not want a motorcycle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">My fella has this party in the summer that is like Groundhog Day. The same people from his festival group come every year, drink and eat the same food, play the same water volleyball in the same pool that's too small for anybody else to get in or get clobbered. One of the festival mavens is a sister of a guy I dated forever; she was bitchy to me when we dated and he blamed her and his other bitchy female relatives when I handed him his hat. So, no, she is not nice to me and I rarely have anyone to talk to at the party; they have all known each other for twenty years and it's one long inside joke. Last year I was just too sick to go, maybe the year before it too. So he has me come late in the evening and drive his drunk ass home so he doesn't get a DWI.<br />
Tonight I went to get him and he was more lit up than usual; I can't remember if I've ever seen him stumbly drunk before, but he sure was tonight. I caught him with an odd expression and possibly leaning over the kitchen sink and quizzed him if he needed to throw up. No, no, no.<br />
He just didn't look right to me so once in the car I rolled his window down and warned him that if he decided to blow, make sure to lean way out. Then I headed out of the subdivision and got on a bridge over the river, a dark two-lane bridge. He rolled the window back up and I put it back down and fussed. He insisted he was fine and rolled it nearly to the top. As we came off the bridge, I heard a motorcylist on a rice rocket rev up super fast and swerve around me to pass on the right, all hunched over. The cycle sounded extra loud because the window was now all the way down, and my fella was throwing up into it. But he didn't have his head quite far enough out, and I started getting drops on my arm from him spewing. Shouting for him to put his head all the way out, I pulled over to the side of the road, still in the pitch dark, and let him finish calling Ralph. I saw some vomit in the corner of the window and cleaned it off with a towel I had in the car. Then when I turned the light on, I saw it; he had leaned out far enough once and the windstream had made a huge vomit plume the shape of the Nike check all down the back window of the car....and undoubtedly to the rear where the motorcyclist following us across the bridge had gotten his share. His roar and swerve around us was a desperate move to stop being pelted with chunks of boiled shrimp soaked in beer and gastric juice.<br />
My fella's failure to maintain or at least listen to my hard-gained knowledge regarding drunken vomiting in automotive vehicles is going to give him a long day detailing my car tomorrow in the heat. </div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-13573521633871540522011-07-17T20:08:00.000-07:002011-07-17T20:08:12.537-07:00EmersonThe weight is still creeping up. About a pound or two a month, and I'm beyond frustrated. My feet hurt so much it's like the bones are screaming, and my back is a damn mess. To top it off, it's unbelievably hot here; we've had temps over 100 almost every day since the beginning of June, and that's hot even for this place. So my Biggest Bra in the Store from Victoria's Secret is failing; my boobs are getting skin problems from being squished in there. Off I went to Target, as I knew that VS sizes are smaller than other manufacturers. Damn if the D cup 38s I bought were not too small. Holy crap. So I took them back and got DD's. Now that is more like it. They are only a tiny bit too small and make my shirts look a lot better.<br />
Back when a girl could make a decent living working for herself in the oil patch, I used to share an office with a charmingly foulmouthed handsome man from Mississippi who admired my then-modest bosom, back when it was a restrained 34 C. He would openly eye my chest, and say, " Sheee it, baby. Knock knock."<br />
Me:"What now, Jim."<br />
Jim: "C'mon baby, knock knock."<br />
Me:"Sigh. Ok. Who is there."<br />
Jim:"Emerson."<br />
Me:"Emerson who?"<br />
Jim:"Emerson fine big titties thar, babeh."<br />
That actually cracked me up the first time he did it. We were friends and he didn't do that stuff in front of anyone else. After that, if he liked my blouse (read: the way my boobs looked that day), he would ask if the brand was Emerson.Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-61763528099578992202011-07-09T09:42:00.000-07:002011-07-09T09:42:41.231-07:00Groundhog MonthMy efforts at health-building activity backfired pretty spectacularly, and I've been just hamster-on-a-wheel for a whole month. The soul-killing job had a bright spot with the sudden and dramatic reassignment of the Worthless one, and I went two days pretty happy with my new upgraded assignment. Then a shitload of people quit from burnout, and I am now back to doing two jobs. The HBIC canceled all vacations right when I had been planning to have enough scraped together to go and see the daughter before the snow set in, and that is pretty depressing. And my foot, leg, and shoulder pain have been downright excessive. So no news there.<br />
Last night was fun, though: a service company bent (BROKE) the rules about this sort of thing and took a bunch of us out to a paint-and-drink party store. So there was music, Purple Haze Abita Beer (raspberry beer, you should have some at all times), and lots and lots of cackling amidst the hack painting of a fleur-de-lis. If I could get my phone camera to work I would put the picture up, it turned out okay.<br />
The tunes that the store blasted in-between brushing tips were oddly eclectic, and included that MTV classic, "Mickey" that the not-cute girl did the cheer routine to. The youngsters next to me started singing along with it and I put my brush down and did the cheer arms and head. They roared with approval and somehow that got to my age; they were all ten or fifteen years my junior and disputed that fact. "I thought you were our age!" Ummm, gray hair, girls. And a vicious middle-aged spread. Not to speak of the creaky motion when I get up to refresh my beer, steadying myself and moving like a tree sloth.<br />
I was thinking about that today while doing the haying out back (tractor broke two weeks ago and fella finished fixing it while I was at Cackle and Dab). I used to hate the lines between Voldemom's eyes and when I caught myself doing that in my twenties, I just made myself stop frowning. I have one line over an eyebrow from keeping it lifted all the time, and some jowliness. My cheeks got so puffy with the steroids back when that they don't have lines now, and my eyes are too big to sag. Now inside, I'm like the Picture of Dorian Gray, and the outside is still decent-ish to others.<br />
Maybe I should scowl or wince when it hurts? Does putting it out there keep from storing it up?<br />
The idea holds little charm, actually. I think I will put my energy into tracking down a source for a Japanese neuropathy drug called Neurotropin, it sounds excellent.Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-90351919819340275962011-06-09T08:32:00.000-07:002011-06-09T08:32:00.337-07:00Staycation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I have been running out of month before money with this job; it pays monthly and my check is double what it used to be for two weeks. The catch is, there are five weeks in what seems like most months. I know it's just two weeks salary difference, but it sure bites my budget in the butt. But every time I get stressed out by the situation with Worthless at work, I put in for some leave. It's paid, they stopped putting it on the retirement, and something really aggravating must have happened about six weeks ago because I put in for a whole week! I have a complicated dress I am sewing for the OoA#1, and the garden and house were getting away from me again. I have sewed, worked out extra at the gym, worked in the yard every day, and enjoyed making dinner when my feet aren't actively screaming with pain from the job. Part of the idea with the yard work is to get my metabolism going again by staying out in the heat. The weather has certainly obliged; I can't work past nine a.m. without starting to faint!<br />
Today I was fighting a new, useless sprinkler head trying to keep the parch down. I gave up and put a small, new "turret" style on that will only do 1/4 of the tiny front yard at a time. Then I went and grubbed under an artemisia bush and pulled out two plugs of dallisgrass and....a dollar. Whoa. Money in bushes, what the hell. I'll take it. I looked up and the new sprinkler makes mist instead of drops, and it is showing a huge full rainbow across that half of the yard. Ha, my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is a damp dollar bill from under a bush. But it still feels auspicious, and beats a sharp stick in the eye.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-46055707479550306882011-05-21T08:39:00.000-07:002011-05-21T08:39:06.812-07:00How do you feel when you get up in the morning?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">My fella has started calling me in the morning because I'm having so much trouble not sleep-clicking my alarm to snooze. He doesn't get it; he wakes up and apparently gets up, pees, stretches, does crunches, cleans the fishpond filter, feeds the cats, and still gets to work on time.<br />
What. The. Hell.<br />
I have a fine CPAP machine that I thought was going to make me sleep better, hence magical rested mornings would ensue. Not fucking even. I thought the gasping, choking, and waking every six minutes was the cause of my fatigue. A year later, I'm guessing I was wrong. When I wake up, I'm stiff, my shoulder hurts from lying on it, my hip is showing off a big old charleyhorse apparently from bladder pressure, my feet still do the screamy don't-put-your-weight-on-us-no-No-NOOO thing that gives me my trademark lurch to grab the wall on the way to the bathroom. And my arms are cold. Under the blanket, cold arms. Also, I am often so groggy that I put the coffee back into some random place instead of the freezer. And if I left laundry in the wash overnight that does not contain essential uniform ingredients, the chances I will forget it wet until it begins to stink are 9 to 1.<br />
The cats take varying measures to get me up now that alarm clock lady dog has gone to heaven. Fat girl tends to ball up by my feet and stare at me, assessing my food value if I delay past her to-be-determined deadline. Wild man pops into the house and leaps onto the bed, purring like a tiger with his mouth open, prrrrr-WAAA-prrrrr-WAAA. Then he gets on my stomach and makes purr biscuits with his unclipped claws, which gets my attention fairly well. The cats know to scatter when they do get me up, as I will be unable to miss them with my feet during the inital lurch down the hall.<br />
I tried not taking my neurontin at bedtime (by running out of it like a damn genius) and the result was not pretty; I have work-related nightmares all night when I do not take it and fierce nerve pain and fatigue the next day from waking up every three minutes to go, Aieeeee. Oh. Nightmare. Stop sweating, go back to sleep. Go on, now. Sleep now. Ok, now.<br />
Trying to recall back in the faroff haze of youth, I don't ever remember waking up clean and refreshed. I had a firm mattress and I would wake up hurting, convinced I had not turned once in the night. I used to put telltales on my covers to try to test the theory but would always forget them. Sleeping; I am doin it rong.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-91517943515714239192011-05-13T19:40:00.000-07:002011-05-13T19:40:41.857-07:00Weasels and fuckers and Groundhog Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Weasels personally dealt with this week: 6.<br />
Fuckers personally dealt with this week: 9.<br />
Times I woke up clutching my alarm, having popped the snooze button for more than twenty minutes unawares:2.<br />
Times I called that lady about that job and didn't get a return call: 1.<br />
Scale of the eyeburning, chest-tightening funk odious cheap whore cologne the idiots I share an office with wore: Mississippian. Like the river. Rolling waves of eyeburning pain.<br />
Times I slipped up and said Damn in front of the house supervisor at the front desk: 1.<br />
FML.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-70725033565962895092011-04-17T07:36:00.000-07:002011-04-17T07:36:03.953-07:00Believing in Miracles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">My fella got talked into a bodywork class at the gym. He hated it, except for the part at the end where they lay on Miracle Balls. I looked them up on Amazon and was intrigued, and hey, Amazon Prime free shipping plus two whole dollars off. I like the kit, it's like a Klutz press gift book with toy for the crippled. Yes, I am crippled so I get to call myself that. I don't call anyone who is not family that, so relax. I do wish the tiny adorable book were a little larger or easier to keep open, it's an adorable four inches square with big print and you have to flip, like, ten pages, to do one move. But the balls under my back and hips do seem to relieve some pain at the moment right after use. Perhaps with more use the effect will last. Meanwhile it is very entertaining to the fluffy cat, she sits on the shelf under the coffee table and watches me closely to see if I am dying and need to be eaten.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-54195885445308992412011-04-13T21:31:00.000-07:002011-04-13T21:31:32.760-07:00He Who Plans Makes the Gods Laugh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">How is this for WTF: a girl who I used to work with fb messaged me yesterday asking if I was interested in a job in the field I'd studied so hard and spent so much money certifying in, only to not find a job it was practical to take. Ummm.<br />
Yes, I am interested in knowing more.<br />
Boom, her boss called me an hour later.<br />
She says she wants me to come talk to her about it in person when the HR gnomes post the opening.<br />
We will see about this. I'm reluctant to give up the state retirement but it's hard to overstate how much my job sucks. </div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-35300634470581311912011-04-07T20:51:00.000-07:002011-04-07T20:51:18.734-07:00I love my new endocrinologist<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">She is tiny and lovely, and asks very good questions. And has patience with my bad memory. She seems rawther smart as well, and is of the opinion that my big health disaster of 09 was caused by the iodine in all the CTs setting off my Hashimoto's thyroiditis. Something about all that iodine triggering my immune system to attack my already feeble thyroid with renewed ferocity. That's the first time a doctor has told me I had Hashimoto's instead of garden variety hypothyroidism. Supposedly the lab work I did the other day showed it. She is changing my thyroid medicine up and giving me more of it, and has scheduled me for more labs and a remote followup. There was some harrumphing on her part about my TSH being at the high end of normal, she doesn't think the lab normal is right and wants to bring it right down. So we will see. She does think the weight gain is post starvation syndrome and that the no-starch plan is a good one but wants me to supplement with mega doses of Vitamin D and B12. A girl after my sister's chiropractor's heart.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8885850145945599880.post-59507271879760545552011-04-04T19:20:00.000-07:002011-04-04T19:20:53.180-07:00Today's Win and Fail<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The win, I guess, was that I found this to be funny: Worthless supposed co-worker listens in on a phone conversation. I tell the person on the other line how his goal would be achieved, what I can do to help, where I am putting the paperwork, and the caveats on whether or not it is possible. I take his number and promise to let him know what I find out after he leaves me the paperwork.<br />
I hang up, reach for my portfolio to take his paperwork out and start to fill it out.<br />
Worthless supposed co-worker, whose job this actually is but whom I have stopped asking because she won't do ANYTHING, says, "Oh, I have three things to do upstairs so I will let you handle that."<br />
Hahahahaha hilarious. Hilarious because her job description is basically to handle six to eight things a day, not three for fuck's sake, I have three besides my job description. Also hilarious because, how the fuck is she letting me handle anything when I was ALREADY DOING IT ALL.<br />
Win because I let my face say it all and refrained from any speech, gesture, nod, or eye contact. She just finally walked off.<br />
Today's fail was walking outside and seeing a lady in a pink housecoat smoking twenty feet from the front door. Yeah, that's against the rules, so what, the security guards come out like twice a day and run off the foul Newport addicts. The fail part is that she was sitting on a wall and had something sitting next to her. Actually, it was sitting by her, all green and shiny, with a tube going to her nose. Yep, she was smoking, outside the hospital doors, on oxygen. Our oxygen. We are a gazillion million dollars in the hole and some goofy nurse hooked this idiot up with a nasal cannula, a twenty-pound oxygen cylinder, and a rolling cart to go outside and play demolition grandma. Good thing it was windy today.</div>Looseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540147358396097520noreply@blogger.com1