Knowing what my schedule is like today, I probably won't be able to post this until tomorrow. My kingdom for the ability to upload from work!
High: Had a really nice day yesterday with Calvin. We took a bubble bath together. Folks, he shaved my legs for me. Is that love or what? No, you can't have him. He's mine! "Down down down! Back back back! Mine mine mine!"
Low: Feeling sick today because of the meds I'm on. How come vomiting in the morning doesn't get you a free pass to take the day off as an adult, like it does when you're a kid?
Is it possible to replace fat with muscle at an exact rate as to see absolutely no weight lost? Because I've been eating right and working out, and although I *feel* like I'm making progress, the scale hasn't moved in two weeks.
"So what do we do?"
"Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well."
"I don't know. It's a mystery."
- Shakespeare in Love. I watched it (again) on cable this weekend. Must. Own. DVD.
Nothing at the moment. For once.
Who I Read
I have a new rule of thumb. Never ask anybody how they're doing on a Monday morning. Because they're absolutely guaranteed to look at you with that chagrined, conspiratorial smirk and mutter "Well, it's Monday."
Stop and consider, if you will, that answering "How are you?" with a statement describing the day of the week is not, in fact, answering the question. It's akin to asking "Do you like chocolate ice cream?" and getting a response of "Well, the sky is blue."
Tell me you're tired. Tell me your left elbow itches. Tell me you're completely stressed because you have three deadlines due in two hours and you can't seem to break yourself away from those gripping games of Solitaire. But don't tell me it's Monday. I know that. And I don't sympathize with you for having to be at work. I'm too busy wallowing in my own misery to concern myself with yours.
Readers: "Ouch. Grouchy much, Laura?"
I have been a bad, sorry excuse for a journaler, I know. I meant to update last Friday, and barring that, update during the weekend, but I never got to it. But I have an excuse, and a note from my doctor, and everything.
I had a total meltdown on Friday, the extent of which surprised me, even in the throes of it. See, Thursday afternoon I went back to the doctor's (how many times does this make? I'm starting to hate the sound of my own voice, spelling out my last name for these people) who diagnosed me with an infection, prescribed some medication, and issued me off to the lab to have some bloodwork done. Now, I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned it to you before, but MAN do I hate me some needles. And blood. And all that is associated with needles and blood. Like those rubbery tie wrap things they twist around your arm to make the veins stick up. And the damned station they seat you at and drop the platform down in front of you, locking you in in case you actively seek escape. And the cotton ball secured with some stretchy tape stuff to staunch the blood when they're done. And the damned technician who doesn't speak a word of English, but drags me around by my elbow and manages to make her four-foot-eleven-inch frame look menacing.
Anyway, the rest of Thursday went as usual. Pretty much. Calvin was exceedingly late, and got home from Flagstaff after midnight. I spent the evening on-line, and watched a little TV. I made a fabulous beef and cheese tetrazzini.
Friday morning saw me terribly depressed. I was all weepy before going to work. Then I was weepy *at* work. I could see no real reason for it, other than being frustrated that I had to consume yet another prescription. I was beginning to feel rather like a walking chemical cocktail.
Then I got a phone call from the doctor's office. From the non-English-speaking technician. Whose words, when I finally deciphered them, were "You need to come in for more blood work. There is a problem."
Excuse me? A problem? What kind of a problem? She wouldn't elaborate. She just repeated that there was a problem, and I needed to come in for more blood work right away.
So on top of having to go through the needle-ick again, I was all worried that there might be something actually *wrong* with me. I let Calvin know, and then I managed to get through a two hour staff meeting before I left. I let my boss know that I was stressing pretty bad, and he allowed me to take the rest of the day off.
I got back to the doctor's office by noon, and was ushered in right away to endure further entrapment at the imprisoning station. It was a different technician this time, a kindly man who was very solicitous of me.
He asked me if I thought "it" were positive or negative.
(again) Excuse me? In a bit of confusion, I stammered that I didn't know. Then blinked.
"Is what positive or negative?"
"The pregnancy test, of course!"
(boggle) Why was I being tested for that?!?
My doctor's assistant came by just as I was asking that question. She shoo'ed the technician away and reassured me that it was standard to test a woman who might have even a slight possibility of pregnancy, before being allowed to take the medication I was prescribed. Since I had recently been on quite a round of antibiotics, which may have interfered with my birth control pills, this constituted a "slight possibility". Even though I'd just had my period the week before.
(gasp) Okay. Breathe in, breathe out.
The "problem" inferred by our non-English-speaking friend turned out to be that they had neglected to draw enough blood the day before in order to complete all the tests. So they needed me to come back so they could get some more. Good God Almighty. I ranted quite a bit about how that particular information was *not* provided to me in such a way as to alleviate (or even prevent!) total panic mode. They reassured, and apologized, and stuck me several times in both arms until they successfully got a flow going.
When I got back to the truck I cried again.
And again when I got home, after talking on the phone to Calvin.
Sitting on the couch, I spent a brief moment considering how ridiculous my mood was. So instead of just going back to bed, I went on a cleaning frenzy. I cleaned the entire house, top to bottom, by 2:45. There's something about setting my external house to rights that helps to set my internal house to rights. So my mood and spirits were much improved by the time Calvin got home, at 3:00.
We both laid down for a two-hour nap, then did the bus thing for Marie and her friends, then got some dinner, then went home and hung out for a couple of hours, then spent *another* hour picking Marie and three of her friends up from the movies, picking Michael up at work, driving to X(f)'s house to get Michael's belongings and his friend (making that six kids who spent the night, including ours), driving to Marie's friend's house to get *her* stuff, going to the store for some soda, and finally getting back home again.
At about 11:00 Friday night, Calvin and I finally went out for a ride on the motorcycle.
Here are some things I observe and think about while riding behind Calvin:
At any rate, the rest of the weekend went fine. We went out for breakfast (to Calvin's mom's restaurant) on Saturday morning, watched TV, read, cooked, worked out, tended to the maintenance of the motorcycle, carted kids around, went for a bike ride, took the dogs for a walk, and just hung around.
And here it is Monday again. A day of work to get through, and my next class starts tonight. I'm feeling dull and unmotivated, and vaguely sick. And I'm waiting for the test results to come back, for whatever it was they found necessary to look for. I just feel like going back home and going to bed.
Ah, well, it's Monday!