That was.... Steak. Sauce!

Merry Christmas Eve!

This must be a personal record: writing a post at 6:00 am. Since I woke up at 4:15 am for no good reason, other than the need to pee, and couldn't fall back asleep, what the hell, let's get our chat on.

First, a little housekeeping:

I'm not going to do this the justice it deserves, but I have some happy heart news. After a pretty crappy year full of uncertainty and heartache (in all its manifestations) I had another Echo that indicates my heart function IS ALMOST NORMAL! Let's break it down by numbers:

In February, my Ejection Fraction was 10-15% (depending on the report). I'm no expert, but I'm thinking that another month without treatment and I would have died. I don't feel that an exaggeration and it is.... I don't have words.

As of this past week, my EF is now 45-50%. That's HUGE. That's crazy. In August, it was 30-35% and I was pretty damn happy about that. But I'm only 5-10% away from normal. And I'm pretty sure I have the best blood pressure in the building at work.

And speaking of work, I finally got to go back to work on Black Friday. (Because that was a good return date?) However, I had to start at the bottom of the barrel, and technically I'm only a seasonal hire. I won't know for a few more weeks if I'll get to stick around and in what capacity. Thanks to my excellent news, I will be able to return to full-duty, but they may just not be able to fit me in at my old place, and that means I'll have to start looking around. Because I'm making about 45% of my old salary. Yeah, about that.... Actually, let's not even talk about that. Thanks to my amazing news, I won't be receiving much more in the way of disability assistance from the insurance company, and while I get it, I REALLY don't like it. Oh well, it's Christmas, let us focus on happier things. Like....

My 2 sisters and I did a post-Thanksgiving Biggest Loser thing, where the 4 weeks between the holidays we did weekly weigh ins and compared percentages lost. I just did my last weigh-in about half an hour ago and my 4-week total is a 1.79% loss. I think I might win! Unless sister #2 had a totally kick ass week, because she was only at a 0.06% loss at week three. $15 worth of lottery tickets is at stake! Which really means MILLIONS OF POSSIBLE DOLLARS are at stake!!! Well, MILLIONS OF POSSIBLE DOLLARS and a longer, healthier life. I'll let you know. Hopefully my next post is a picture of my 1.79% thinner self rolling around in a pile of money. Stay tuned!

In related news, I baked 12 dozen cookies on Wednesday, and made a turkey. And yet, I lost weight this week. Awesome. Also awesome is how much everyone loved the cookies. Sugar cookies, snickerdoodles, chocolate chip, and sugar cookie snowman (created without a cookie cutter I might add) iced with a homemade almond glaze. Yeah, my feet were killing me after 10 hours in the kitchen on my day off.

Me? Not too smart.

And speaking of my feet killing me, I completed my year of insurance-loving, deductible-meeting, out-of-pocket surpassing fun by visiting yet another doctor, a podiatrist. My feet have hurt since I was in school, and I always assumed it was because I marched and then worked retail since I was 13. (Yeah, I used to twirl shit in front of hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people, while wearing spandex. So what? You gotta problem with that? Didn't think so...) Plus I gained a bunch of weight after school, so that didn't help. Turns out tho, I have flat feet. Like, no arch. It's pretty crazy. If you look at my foot when it's propped up on a coffee table or something, I've got a very shapely arch. I'm thinking foot-fetish people would dig it. However, as soon as I step down on it, you can't even slide a piece of paper between my foot and the floor. That's not good. So I was prescribed all sorts of homework for icing and numbing and stretching, plus some inserts that I have to break in. Ugh. Those things hurt. I know they will help, but it's like an 8 year old with a new pair of glasses. Someone's gonna have to make me.

Oh, and, AND, I'm not supposed to walk barefoot. Like, EVER. Not even when I get out of bed. I'm to put my feet directly into shoes before I even stand up out of bed. This is Florida folks. I may be closed-toed in public, but when I get home, I lose the shoes and socks before my bra even.

Oops - 6:45 am. I have to go shower now. Sorry, I'm not sure how to tie this whole thing together. How about with a....




Wait, did you get the title? No? Sigh. Santa needs to bring you a certain set of DVDs. Oh, you can Netflix them too, but this is one set worth owning. Which I hopefully will, thanks to a generous gift card from my in-laws :-)

Choose Your Own Expletive

From The Weather Channel

Date: Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Time: 7 am

Condition: 20°F and Clear

Feels Like: 10°F

Precipitation Chance: 0%

Humidity: 50%

Wind: From NW at 8 mph

My first thought was: No Fucking Way.
Followed by: Are You Fucking Kidding Me?
Then: I Thought I Lived In Florida For Fuck's Sake.
So I branched out to: I Shit You Not (used as an email subject header)

But really, expressions and curse-words are not one size fits all. Choose the one that suits you best. I mean, in this instance, they all apply, but perhaps you have a favorite?

I've been digging the colder weather. This must be what all those commercials are about, right? And those holiday movies? Santa making sand-angels on the beach really isn't too far-fetched for the typical December day in Florida. But I could go me for a hot chocolate and a crackling fire right about now.

(Ooh, tangent!)
I always wondered why they bothered putting fireplaces in homes in Florida. Maybe the Panhandle, but Central Florida? That was just decadent and plain old weird.

Of course, Mike said he'd never use the heated seats in his car either.... so, yeah.

I needs me some Lemon Pledge up in here, cause Damn, place be dusty

Still alive.

Trapped under a pile of coupons.

Also, trying to go back to work, which is way more involved than just showing up. Numerous phone calls, emails, faxes, texts, trips to doctor offices and the occasional drive-thru add up to an 8-hour day. Fretting takes up another 10. Six hours of sleep isn't bad, right?

And NaNoWriMo? I've learned that if I just sit down and focus I can whip out like 600 words an hour! I just had to look up the definition of focus, however, so....

Turns out two, yes TWO, people found my blog while searching for ICD information! Of course, they didn't really find out anything useful, other than what color underwear not to wear to their procedure.

Also listed in the positives column, I still remember my Blogger password!

A Little Perspective

Our health insurance system is cracked, and the prices set for services and medicine is ridiculous. If you don't have insurance, you are screwed. If you do have insurance, you often feel like you need to hire a lawyer to help you navigate the loophole minefield.

Dealing with insurance companies, doctors, dentists and billing departments blows. Everyone thinks everyone else is trying to screw them over, and really, all anyone wants to do is get through the day and go home.

While a lot of our health issues are related to our lifestyle choices, there are still things you can't plan for, or avoid, or granola your way out of. Know your family medical history. Supplement your Big Macs and milkshakes with produce and water. Choose your doctors wisely.

If you have the opportunity to sign up for health care coverage, do it. If disability insurance is an option, take it. Up front, each month, you will feel a little strain on your bank account. But imagine what this would do to you, your finances, stress levels, and psychological well-being:




And don't think you wouldn't take a deep breath and a smile of relief at this:



Oh, and as for the surgery itself? Doing well! 10 more days and I can join a revival and shake my hands above my head with the best of 'em. And after seeing this insurance claim, I totally want to.

Quick, name the artist of this 8 year old music reference!

Someone flipped a switch and it's suddenly fall in Florida. Which means it's a high of 90 and a low of 55. A 35 degree difference between 6 am and 1 pm just ain't right, but we take what we can get.

Yesterday started off pleasant. Our thermostat is set at 75, and for the past 6 months the air conditioner has been running pretty much constant. So I didn't think much about the humming from the vents. It's background noise, which I enjoy. And since it is Florida, I didn't pay much attention to the warmth in the room. It was a sunny day, the blinds were open, my mouse-ing hand was getting a tan, all normal.

When Mike walked in the door at 7pm he went straight to the thermostat and asked, "Why is it 81 degrees in here?"

I assumed it was because he had jacked the setting up to 90 degrees when he left that morning. He likes to piss me off like that sometimes. I hadn't really noticed that anything was amiss. But, now that he mentioned it, it was hot in herre.

He demonstrated that he had in fact turned it down to 70 degrees while he was getting ready this morning. Apparently this is something we're doing now? Before I could get riled up about the electric bill, we put our hands up to the vent. It was like someone's asthmatic Grandpa was trying to blow out his birthday candles.

Then we peeked outside at the unit itself. Living in an apartment building, we don't pay a lot of attention to things, because we know we aren't responsible for them. However, when the squirrels start chewing on the AC hoses and frost an inch thick builds up on the gaskets, it might be time to care.

Took the picture this morning. The frost melted last night, once we turned the unit off.

And now I'm sitting here, waiting for some maintenance guys to show up and invariably do the same thing they did last time: patch things with duct tape, add some more juice, vacuum out the debris and leave dirty hand prints on my wall. Because we live in an apartment complex with 900 units.



And freon-huffing squirrels.

The Real Housewives of Central Florida

Pronounce this word: Coupon

Did you say it out loud? Heh, hope you were alone...

How did you say it? Koo-pawn? Queue-pawn? Koo-pin?
Yeah, that last one is Ron White's fault.

And on another tangent, that second "ue" in queue is totally unnecessary.

I've always pronounced it queue-pawn, and Mike is quick to correct me. It's just one of those words that I grew up hearing pronounced a little differently. It's not wrong, it's just unusual. As opposed to torlet. That is definitely the backwoods Florida way of saying toilet. At least I don't say lieberry or aks.

My reprogramming is moving along swiftly, due to the inordinate amount of times the word coupon is said in our house. I've kinda developed an obsession with couponing in the past few months in my efforts to save money. Of course, it is a double-edged sword. There is the propensity to buy something simply because you can get a good deal, not because it is a product you use. But, it's also a way to try new products at a lower cost.

I like waiting for BOGO sales and then layering coupons on top of that, getting 2 for less than the price of one. But you have to be patient and not use your coupons immediately. Thursdays are when the new grocery ads come out, and I admit to pulling the ad up online and matching coupons to sales.

It's a sad, little life I've got going on these days, isn't it?
What say we all put on our finery and hit the local hot spot? Of course, the plane tickets to your neck of the woods would severely cut into my recent savings...

If you have a CVS near you, get their little club card, peruse their ads and start stacking coupons. They also offer Extra Bucks, rewards for purchasing certain products at their stores. These store-generated coupons are for money off your next purchases. If your next purchase is 10 minutes later at another register, well, you've got them on a technicality.



Walgreens offers their own Register Rewards, but they are crazy strict on usage. Both places require you to pay the sales tax, which is fine. But at Walgreens, don't try to purchase an item for $5 and use a $6 Register Reward. They won't let you simply pay the tax and waste the rest of the reward, like CVS. Walgreens will deny you the use of the coupon. There can still be good deals there, but follow the rules.


Some of my best expeditions:

CVS: Spent $10.38, Saved $21.93
Total Steals:

Purex 3-in-1 detergent sheets: regular $7.99, on sale for $5.99, minus $3.00 coupon = $2.99, or 63% off. Haven't tried them yet. I've got a 150-ounce jug of Gain I'm still working through. Why yes, it was on sale!

Zegerid OTC 14ct: regular $12.79, on sale for $9.99, minus $3.00 coupon = $6.99, or 46% off.

Plus I had a $5.00 CVS Extra Bucks coupon to use on the total purchase, and received $11.50 in Extra Bucks for next time. Ignoring the sales tax, they actually paid me a penny to leave the store with the Zegerid ($6.99 - $7.00 Extra Buck for next time.) Which I gave to my sister, because I'm nice like that. The Zegerid, not the penny.


Publix: Spent $86.31, Saved $40.66
Total Steals:

Starbucks Ice Cream: BOGO, plus $1.50 coupon = 2 pints for $2.29. Not a product we would normally purchase. Mike said it was ok, but very chocolatey. Since it was Hot Chocolate and Mocha Frap flavors, that's probably what they were going for.

World's Best Cat Litter: Regular $7.99, in-store savings at $5.99, plus $3.00 coupon = $2.99. And as we know, worth it even when it's not on sale.


Walgreens: Spent $13.01, Saved $13.87
Total Steals:

Ponds Towelettes: Regular $5.99, on sale for $3.99, minus $1.25 coupon = $2.74, or 55% off. I got both the morning refresh and the evening soothe selections. They seem to work well, although the chamomile/white tea scent is a bit over-powering in the evening soothe.

Johnson & Johnson cotton swabs: Regularly $2.99, on sale for $1.99. Plus, it was a 375 count box, with a bonus 125, so that's 500 for $1.99. Got 2 boxes. We go through a lot of Q-tips around here.

And I purchased EOS Summer Fruits lip balm. Cost $3.00 and received a $3.00 Register Reward. So, free. Yay! I do love me some lip balm. I may have an addiction. Anybody know a hotline?



There are a ton of blogs and sites devoted to this. I doubt I will reach the levels of these folks. Most likely, I'll slack off. Especially once I get back to work. Which, dear God, please be soon.

Couponing. It's a lifestyle. It takes forever. It may or may not save you money, depending on your usage. It also makes for one boring ass blog post. I'll try for something a bit more titillating tomorrow. The thrill of organizing my sock drawer? Low-sodium tips and tricks? The best way to fold a towel? Oh the possibilities! I'm tingly just thinking about it.

My Train of Thought Is Not an Express

So, last night's episode of Glee.

It was pretty awesome. I'm not going to recap it, because others do that much better than I probably could. Although, there are some shows no one is recapping, and I find that a shame.

I love recaps. I read them for all the shows I watch. Well, I read recaps if Entertainment Weekly or Television Without Pity write them. Is that weird? Hmm... I also only listen to audio books for titles I've already read. I like to wring as much enjoyment/understanding out of entertainment as I can. Or something.

Anyway, Grilled Cheesus. It was emotionally powerful, and the music choices were excellent.

I could relate to a surprising number of issues brought up in this episode, however, one thing that resonated with me was a tiny blip, a throwaway comment from Brittany that will be collected in the blond's lexicon.

"Whenever I pray, I fall asleep."

Oh. Oh my. I have something in common with Brittany S. Pierce.

Well, at least now I know I'm not the only one. You guys, whenever I pray, I tend to drift off. Probably because I go on the longest tangents God has ever had to walk along with someone on. I start with the basics, variations on childhood prayers, then branch out into the specifics of the day. And then I wander off into expositions on the latest episode of Castle, my concerns about Global Warming, and whether or not I calculated the calories right in those chocolate chip cookies.

I've mentioned this to my family, who assures me it's the thought that counts. But... ok honestly? And why not, since if he is omniscient and stuff he already knows this... sometimes I pray because I need some spiritual Nytol. Yes, I may on occasion engage in conversations with God in the hopes that I may lull myself to sleep. Some may say I nod off because I get a sense of peace from praying. I hope this is true, otherwise, I fall asleep due to my inability to form complex and engaging thoughts. (read: I'm boring)

Of course, since you read this blog, you may already know this to be true. I do enjoy taking the long road to get to the point....


::Tiny Spoiler Alert::


Which is: Why was Kurt still going to school while his Dad was in the hospital? Who was taking care of him? Isn't he technically still a minor? Ok, not the point of the story, but still questions that beg answers. And why was Finn's Mom in less than 30 seconds of this whole episode? If she and Kurt's Dad are in a serious relationship, shouldn't she have been hanging around the hospital a bit more?

I think it may have been child-abuse when she made me watch Dumbo

Let's say your workplace is heading into its busy season, and someone in a bigger cubicle than yours has determined your department needs a theme to motivate you through the challenging times and long hours ahead.

Let's say that someone chose THE CIRCUS as the motivational theme.

Would you:
A) Punch him in the throat
B) Purchase elephant dung on the internet, to give his cubicle the unmistakable scent of authenticity
C) Ask your slightly depraved, yet enviably flexible co-worker if you could borrow her trapeze and hang it above the coffee machine, lending Japanese game show flair to the mornings
D) Offer to be in charge of all three rings

If you are my mother, you chose D.

And then you conned your daughters into doing research for you.

So, if you'll excuse me, I need to start pricing rubber noses and unicycles.

However, your input is totally welcome! Circus-themed jokes, game ideas, whatever you've got. My inner kindergarten teacher is on strike right now and all I can think of is that horrible Disney movie and this:

Regardless, they are ALL overpaid.

My family was never well-off. We had good years and bad years. Stretches where my mom didn't have to work, and times when 2 incomes were not enough. We always had food on the table, and dessert, and I never had to walk to school barefoot, in the snow, uphill, both ways. We lived in Florida, after all.

One of my favorite stories from my parents early years of marriage involved the time they were so poor they had a black and white television and no cable. Ironic, since my mother was a bookkeeper for a small cable television company. One Sunday, without any extra money to go to the movies or out to eat, they found themselves watching football. Neither of them particularly enjoyed football, or followed the sport, but there was little else available. They each decided to pick a team, and the one whose team lost would have to do the dishes after dinner. And lo, a tradition was born. And a passion for football.

As the season went on, my parents got more invested. Upping the ante to cooking and cleaning the dishes. Laundry for a week. It became a whole thing. For years, they watched the pre-game shows, checked the stats and read the sports page. Sometimes we went over to one of my paternal uncle's houses and a whole to-do was made. I remember there was a pool and someone grilled.

I never really sat and watched a game with them. I tried, but usually found myself back in my room reading, or talking on the phone. When I got older, I discovered that knowing a few facts about the game and major players gave me a little "in" with the boys in school. All I needed to know was just enough to interject an interesting tidbit into their conversation and I'd have their attention. I never knew what to do with their attention once I got it, but I was halfway there! I'd ask my mom for some info on a specific player, what the best play of the game had been, bad calls, injuries, and I'd be set for Monday morning before the bell.



Even after my parents separated, and we stopped hanging out with my dad's side of the family as much, my mom stayed a fan. And apparently her whole side of the family. Since I left the nest, my family has become the group of people at the sport's bar who get there first and are among the last to leave. They've attended weddings and funerals with the owners. Exchanged Christmas presents. They have a tab for crying out loud. I didn't know you could do that outside of television!

A few years ago they started a football pool. In keeping with the cheap entertainment theme, everyone chips in $2 for the whole season. And then they pick teams each week, the points are tallied and at the end of the season, someone gets a nice gift card to the restaurant of their choice. Good times! One of my sisters is in charge of the whole thing, and does an awesome job of keeping track of everyone's picks, sending out email updates and summarizing the week in football.

In trying to become more connected with my family, I joined the pool this year. We used to be a super tight-knit group, with tons of get-togethers and outings. But as people grow up and the family expands, it gets harder. I left pretty early, and even now live 100 miles away, so it's hard. But I'm making the effort with football. Problem is, I don't know anything about football. I remember some stuff from my youth. Montana to Rice. Marino was #13. Something about The Refrigerator? And Tampa didn't give Testaverde a chance. Any current football knowledge I have comes from Dancing With The Stars. Smith, Sapp, Rice, J. Taylor, Ochocinco, Irvin, L. Taylor, Warner. Most of those guys are retired tho, aren't they? Damn.



Being the competitive person I am, I couldn't just Christmas-tree my picks. So I started researching. I spent probably 3 hours the first week looking at team stats, player stats, who retired, who was traded, etc. Subsequently, I've averaged about 2 hours a week, researching the teams, checking on injuries, matching up the defense and the offense.

Week One: 11 out of 16. Nice job by the Rookie in the pool!
Week Two: 10 out of 16. Excellent, considering I was high on Percocet.
Week Three: 7 out of 16. WTF happened there? Dude... There were some hard decisions to be made last week.

The thing is, I like to wait until Saturday to make my final decision, in case some yahoo sprains an ankle in practice. However, Mike would appreciate it if I spent those 2 hours hanging out with him on Saturday. Fair enough. At least I don't actually watch any games on Sunday. I just check the scores with my phone when he's not looking.

So.... anyone watch football? Have any insider tips for me? I've got about an hour and a half before Mike gets home. Quick!

What to Expect When You're Expecting (to have an ICD plugged into your heart)

The surgery went well, yay!

I cracked a joke about getting breast implants while the doctors were in there, but the chorus of crickets indicated it fell flat.

(Is it sanitary to have a chorus of crickets hanging around the OR? It's not like they're gonna scrub in and pass the scalpel.)

On the off chance someone interested in ICDs and CHF and bad puns stumbles across this blog looking for information, I'm going to go into a lot of detail that has little to do with the science behind it all. This is more the "What It Feels Like For A Girl getting an ICD, and has nothing to do with Madonna, but maybe I'll get a few hits from Google searches" post.

Also, I'm on Percocet.
::delighted little chuckle here::

-----------------

• Friday morning, traveled to Shands for the procedure. We had a free valet parking pass, but husband decides he'd rather park the car himself, so he knows where it is in case he needs to get something out of it. ::sigh:: Fine. But he totally dropped me off at the doors anyway.

• Wait around for "transport" to bring me a wheelchair. Felt pretty silly because the night before I had walked 2 miles on the treadmill at an incline of 3.5. But hey, hospital policy and all that. Taken to Cath Lab to fill out paperwork. Told to walk to end of the hall and go into the Cath Lab waiting area. No wheelchair this time. Cause that makes sense...?

• Very nice guy starts directing me on undressing, has to confirm the necessary steps with another nurse. Only in a hospital is there a right and wrong way to get nekkid. Ok, maybe in a porno if you aren't following the script. But still, there's a lot of time-wasting and unnecessary confusion going on in a place you really don't need that. Shouldn't they have this down by now. There's like 10 of us sickos in various states of pre and post-surgery awareness. I'm not the first catch of the day.

• Lots of questions later, someone else comes in to set up the IV. It goes in the left arm because that's the side the ICD is going in. My veins rebel and 10 minutes and lots of blood later, we have achieved success. Maybe it's not my veins. I watch them mop up IV blood twice while I'm there. These nurses? Not so good.

• Doctor comes in, says hi, gives the 28-second version of the procedure. I make faces at him, ask a few questions. He gets amused and encourages me to pee in a cup. Because I totally want to go waltzing around a room filled with a disproportionate amount of guys with my back end totally exposed. Well, not totally. After much debate, I was allowed to keep my underwear on. And I wore my favorite comfy pair. They are black. This decision will haunt me throughout my hospital stay.

• I am wheeled into the OR. Well, technically it is not the OR, it is a surgical room in the Cath Lab, but whatever. There are monitors resembling Jumbotrons at the foot of the table. The table looks like an ironing board, and is about as wide. I am positioned. And then I am strapped in. Oh yeah, they don't mention that ahead of time. They strap you down. So you don't go poking around the surgical site while they are mid-thread of the leads. Yeah, I get that. Sterile = good. But still, it's a cross between kinky and troubling, and then they go and mention cameras and seriously, you wonder if this is a scene from an upcoming torture porn flick and you don't remember signing any release forms and....

• Well, now random man #4 is painting your left shoulder and boob with iodine. Some sort of cold pads are stuck on your side and back. IVs full of delicious wake-me-not juice are hooked up. You are reminded that you will be awake but not really aware of what is going on. Yet you will be able to communicate with the docs should you need to, but you won't remember anything. Um, huh? Is this that 'twilight sleep' your mom was given when she went into labor with your sister? That would explain a lot. And a man in a cape and top hat swings a shiny coin on a chain in front of your face and tells you to count backwards....

• You wake up, look around, determine nothing requires your immediate attention and you drift back off.

• You wake up, someone is talking to you, you determine it is your husband (or random guy off the street, you can't really remember) and decide sleep is the answer to whatever question you are being asked.

• You wake up, because a couple of uncoordinated damn fools are trying to strap you into some sort of deviant device, and seriously, did you sign a waiver about this?

• You wake up, because a couple of guys are pushing you down the hall, and you feel like you are flying, it is AWESOME, this floating sensation and you may or may not giggle. A lot.

• You wake up and a group of people are sliding you off your stretcher, down a ramp, and into a bed. It is not nearly as pleasant as the flight down the hall a few minutes ago.

• You try to drift back off, but people won't shut up with the questions, so you open an eye and decide jerking them around and speaking in tongues takes too much energy. You talk, you drink some water, you realize it's been like 15 hours since you last ate, and you fall back asleep before you get any food.

• Sometime in the evening you come fully awake. There is a complicated sling wrapped around your neck and cradling your arm, and it is velcroed around your stomach. Your left side is quite achy. And itchy. Never having had a cast, you panic at the thought of never being able to scratch your elbow again. Then a tray is brought to you and you realize how hungry you are. You eat, you chat with your loved ones, you discuss the procedure and realize no one knows what went on once that magician left the room, because your husband was playing AngryBirds in the waiting room and you were doing God knows what while strapped down on an ironing board.

• And then you have to pee. The nurses told you to buzz for them because you weren't allowed to get out of bed on your own. You buzz. Nothing. You buzz again. Someone calls into your room via the little speaker on the doohickey that somehow controls the tv, the bed and your call button, wow technology is great, um yeah, gotta pee, you said to call. And 10 minutes later someone shows up. Really, helping someone pee not as important as administering meds and running for the crash cart, but it's been nearly 12 hours since you've peed and yeah, things could get messy.

• Your gown, and seriously, can you call a garment a gown when not even Cinderella and her rags would bother with it? Anyway, the sling is situated in such a way that the gown, which had to be left open and off your left shoulder, really does no more than drape your right side. You and your black undies are totally on display.

------------------

The quality of this post, such as it is, has deteriorated from the first paragraph. Seriously, I don't even know what tense I'm trying to write in. I totally switched from First Person to Second Person POV, didn't I? This is because I took some Percocet about 45 minutes ago. I think I will post this and come back later to finish up. Hospital bathrooms are seriously fucked up. Black underwear and chest xrays are not a good mix. Surgical tape that doesn't stick, sucks. And so much more!

Also, I have to pee. See how it all ties together?

I'm a slacker, but I've been preoccupied...

A little update on the whole heart thing.

In August I hit the six month mark from my diagnosis of CHF, and they performed an echocardiogram.
The purpose of the echo is, among other things, to determine a patient's Ejection Fraction.
EF is expressed as a percentage of the amount of blood your heart pumps.
A healthy EF is between 55-75%.
In February, mine was 15-20%.
In August, it was 30-35%.
Which was very encouraging!
Because no one wants a number as low as 15%.
Unless you're talking about body fat or APR.
In which case, 'how low can you go?'

However, I still fall in the "at-risk" range for sudden cardiac death, or SCD.
And that's one acronym I'd like to avoid.
Basically, were I to have a cardiac episode, I would not likely survive it.
My heart is not strong enough.
Often, people who fall under the "at-risk" heading have arrhythmia.
I currently do not, which is a positive for me.

My doctors believe I would benefit from receiving an ICD or Implantable Cardioverter-Defibrillator.
Depending on who's describing it, an ICD is a cross between an airbag and an insurance policy.
It's there if you need it, and here's hoping you never do. Should my heart start freaking out, it will shock it into submission.

Here's a couple of links:
Cleveland Clinic's take on ICDs
Google Image search for ICD

I go into the hospital tomorrow for my ICD implant procedure.
I'm decidedly not enthusiastic about the whole thing.
It's awesome that the technology exists. It's wonderful that insurance covers it.
But the whole thing kinda skeeves me out.
Not even Bionic Woman jokes are working.

I'll stay overnight, and if there are no complications, I should be home sometime Saturday.

And don't even get me started on the restrictions.
Can't lift anything. Have to shampoo one-handed. Have to sleep with an arm brace on. Can't drive for six weeks. SIX WEEKS! Some people are restricted for up to six months if they've had episodes.

So, if you would send happy thoughts our way this weekend, it would be much appreciated.
I'll let you know how it goes!

A Little Panicked (in a lovey-dovey kind of way)

Today is my Anniversary!

Oh, wait, that's a shared thing, isn't it?

Today is OUR Anniversary!

There we go, much better.

Pop open a bottle of champagne in our honor! Seriously, I can't drink with this life-saving medicine, so raise a glass on my behalf, would you? Thx!

-----------------------

In our house, we've always had different sleep cycles, due to work schedules and the fact that I'm a vampire. (I figured at this point in the pop culture cycle, it wouldn't be an issue to share.) Plus, Mike is just a crazy mo-fo, getting up like 3 hours before he has to leave for work. He hates feeling rushed. There's a whole life of leisure going on in our house from 5:30 - 8:30 am. He's flipping home-made pancakes while I'm drooling on the pillowcase. To each their own.

Now, he comes in to tell me bye every morning, and the day begins. (Ok, maybe the day begins about half an hour later.) This morning, he says, "I'm leaving the cat in here. She's being ornery and I don't want her to mess anything up." And he shuts the door.

If I weren't still half-dreaming about a big yard sale in Prague (honest, and Jennifer and Adam from Rules of Engagement were there, huh?) I would have totally called his bluff. Our cat is a freaking angel. I mean, when it comes to property. She never destroys furniture, eats shoe laces or shreds the curtains. For our first pet, we totally lucked out. Oh, she can be ornery, but that means she'll hiss and swat and run and hide from you if she's feeling persecuted. It doesn't mean she needs to be locked in the bedroom.

But I didn't catch on. I mumbled a half-hearted, "She ok? Loveyoubye." And rolled over.

Ten minutes later, the cat is making biscuits on my bladder and it's time to get up.

And I open the door to this:




"Oh, come on! What did you do? Damn it, Cat! I do not... Wait. How did you do this? You were locked in... Oh. OH!"

And I toddled off, blinking sleepily, into the kitchen, where the confetti shreds led me to a little archway of streamers and this:




Because, I? Am totally the only fish in his sea.


And there was more thoughtfulness throughout the house. So sweet! I sniffled, I admit it. A little tearing up may have happened.

But... We aren't supposed to be doing anything like this! GRRR! We agreed, birthdays and all would be low-key this year! We're going to dinner, but I have a coupon for crying out loud!

T-minus eight hours and counting to do something super-thoughtful and sweet, yet budget-friendly. What, you didn't think I was going to run out and buy him a Rolex, did you? Please.

To the craft store!

Thank God I'm already married

As a child, I collected unicorns.
Sometimes, we get too close to that we love.

--------------------------

So I went to the dermatologist last week; first time ever. I was blessed with good skin and hair, what can I say? Never needed a professional to take a closer look at anything.

(She said, flipping her Pantene-perfect ponytail; her freshly-scrubbed, makeup-free cheeks glowing. Or not.)

But time's a bitch and about 6 weeks ago, I noticed my skin was freaking-the-fuck-out. I looked like a reject for a Proactiv infomercial.
"Tsk-tsk," they said. "A little rough for the before shot, don't you think?"

Seriously, I woke up one morning and I had acne. Full-on acne. WTF? I mean, I was thankful to have avoided the stigma of unhappy pores as a teenager, but I've got enough shit going on right now, thankyouverymuch.

I bought some products, added an extra shower, even avoided the magnifying mirror, because I did not deserve that trauma. Nothing worked. I tried to determine what new ingredient I had encountered, and could find nothing suspicious. And I thought, maybe I just need to give it time to work itself out. It was almost a rash. Like a constellation of bumps and spots and splotches.

Look, Pegasus!

And I decided to just roll with it.

Until this... thing... showed up on my foot.

(BTW, I have nice feet too, as feet go. Or at least, I had nice feet.)

See, this is what happens when you take things for granted. Stop bemoaning the parts that suck (weight, crooked teeth, big nose, whatever) and revel in the magnificence that is the good stuff. Because eventually it will all 'catch ugly' if you don't take care of what the Good Lord and your Mama gave you.

Catch ugly and grow horns.

Specifically, a cutaneous horn.
And if you just did a Google Image search on that, don't blame me for losing your lunch. You know they only show the most extreme shit in those pictures. Because that's what the people want. Except me. I think there should be a warning label and an extra click or two to get to the freaky pictures.

These cutaneous horns normally appear in areas that are exposed to the sun. But sometimes, they show up in shady spots too. Like, for instance, my foot.

(Why yes, I do live in Florida, but no, I do not wear sandals or flip-flops. I also keep my keys, debit card and driver's license in my pocket at all times. These issues may be connected.)

It was a little spot by my little toe. In fact, you wouldn't notice it at first glance. It was all pale and tiny. I can't emphasize that enough. Pale and Tiny. I certainly wouldn't say cute, but it Did Not look like anything you saw in those pictures you wish you hadn't searched for. But it hurt when it was bumped the wrong way. And I developed a protective response whenever anything got within a foot of my, uh, foot.

So I looked for a dermatologist. I found a whopping eight in my area. And of those eight, the earliest appointment was in October. So I branched out and found someone about 40 miles away who could see me several months sooner. (There may be a need for dermatologists in North Central Florida. Time for a career change?)

Thanks to my father's skin cancer issues, I was awarded a full-body inspection from the good doctor. Luckily, she was super-nice and professional. I totally dug her and her nurse. Awesome service. I was prescribed some acne cream, which took forever to be approved by my insurance. I was "out of appropriate age range." Obviously, non-pregnant 30-somethings get acne too. Pay up, bitches. So we'll see how that works out.

The removal was fast and nearly painless. I don't know what kind of numbing agent they use, but it worked in like 15 seconds and they cut that little guy off and cauterized the area before I even finished getting worked up about it. The worst part was the needle, of course. My dentist needs to take some pointers from my dermatologist.

And the biopsy came back negative, so that's one less thing to worry about. 427 other things just moved up a spot!

You know what wasn't on the list? Turning 31. I had no problem turning 31 last week. When I turned 30 last year, I whined like a little bitch. Nothing like a little perspective, eh?

Well we ARE talking about the squirting of fluid.

Ejection Fraction - sounds like something they explained to the boys during those Extra Special Health Ed Classes back in 8th grade.

But no! Girls have Ejection Fractions too!

So, I have some heart problems, and no, no one can really tell me why. No clogged arteries or congenital heart defects. Guess I drew a winning ticket in the "Sucks To Be You Lottery!" And so young, well... I always was an early starter. Boobs in 4th grade, period at age 11, gray hairs at 20, what did I expect, really?

(Sometimes my posts may contain a little more personal body info than you wanted to know, but what the hell, you can tell me all about how old you were the first time you had to walk to the chalkboard with a social studies book hugged to your crotch. I won't judge.)

According to the Cleveland Clinic, "Ejection fraction is usually expressed as a percentage. A normal heart pumps a little more than half the heart’s blood volume with each beat. Left ventricular ejection fraction (LVEF) is the measurement of how much blood is being pumped out of the left ventricle of the heart (the main pumping chamber) with each contraction. A normal LVEF ranges from 50-70%. "

When I was initially admitted to the hospital in February, they performed an echocardiogram and it was documented my EF was 15-20%. To which I said, "So we're looking at 15% away from DEAD, that's what you mean." But of course, I didn't really say that. I focused on being entirely pleasant and low-maintenance while I was in the hospital. Since then, I've learned to talk up and ask questions. My cardiologist tries to pretend he doesn't see the little notebook and pen in my hand, but he FAILS.

So an EF of 15% is pretty effing awful. I mean, that's lower than any grade I ever got in Chemistry, and I guarantee you those numbers were l-o-w. The next echo was in May, at the 3 month mark. And I was up to 20-25%! Um... whoo! Hey, any increase, right? But I could do better.

And then from mid-May to mid-July I pretty much turned into a blob of self-pity and stopped exercising and starting eating fast food again. I blame the heat. And losing half my paycheck. That's how we self-medicate in my family.

Then on July 17, I was blubbering about dying young and how Sara Rue was losing too much weight and wouldn't be able to play me in the movie, and Mike kinda said, "Alright already, go walk on the treadmill. Let's do this!" And we had a Joe Swanson Story moment and ever since then, all 4 weeks of since-then, I've walked on the treadmill. 6 days a week. And I'm up to 45 minutes a day, at 2.5 mph and an incline of 2.0-3.0. And when I told the docs this on my visit Monday, the assistant cardiologist said, "That's better than most regular Americans!" I wonder if she's lived in Texas?

So, kudos to me on getting off my ass and watching SYTYCD while strolling in the comfort of my air-conditioned living room. (Ack, 6 more weeks until the Fall season starts... hooray for streaming Netflix!)

The appointment I had at the Heart Failure Clinic on Monday was at the 6 month mark. Time for another echo. Luckily, in the past 4 weeks, I was able to lose the weight I gained from my 2 month pity party. Best not to dwell on how much I could have lost if I'd just stayed on the healthy train. What's done is done.

The thing about having an echo done is, it's basically an ultrasound. And since your heart is under your left boob, you're hanging out topless with a stranger for like 20 minutes in a variety of positions while he rubs cold jelly on a wand and then shoves it against your poor chest and belly. Oh, they try to drape you, but come on, there's definitely some "tid bit nipply" going on.

(And how awkward is it for Mike to sit in the room while some dude is pawing at my boobs with Astroglide? And taking pictures! Grainy, black-and-white, subterranean-dwelling creature pictures, true. But still. If he was getting some testicle screen shots taken, how would I feel? Hmm... I'd probably tweet the experience. Never mind.)

On Tuesday, we found out that my test on Monday indicated an EF of 30-35%. In six months I doubled my EF! Right On! Unfortunately, the numbers are still too low and they want me to get a consult with the physio guys about implanting an ICD/Pacemaker. Well, hell. I mean, I'm all for preventing SCD, but still. Surgery. Yuck. And this will totally disrupt my exercise routine. (Ha! Can't believe I just wrote that sentence, and meant it sincerely.)

Tune in next time when I go into detail about having my horn removed. Oh yes, you read that right. I was a horned beast! Until 1:30pm this past Monday. Man, I was naked with strangers a lot on Monday...

Like Little Winged Peeping Toms

What are these things, and why are they staring at me?

Maybe a grasshopper?

It's hard to tell, but it had a sort of curlicue tail going on.
Kinda like a butt antennae, really.

Surprisingly, the legs are creepier than the eyes.
Ooh, smudges! Possibly nose prints!

Those of you looking ahead, don't spoil it for the rest of the class!

Wild and Crazy Couple Alert!

We did something spontaneous; we went out to a restaurant just for dessert.

Next thing you know, we'll be ducking into the local pub for a quick pint and hitting the movies on a weeknight. Jump back!

On my way to the grocery store, I pass a Mimi's Cafe. Ever been to one? We'd gone a couple of times in California, but hadn't made an effort here. However, I thought about it the other day while researching restaurants, and looked it up. I like their website, and the way they display the nutritional info. The big discovery was the petite treats list. (Hey, it's the little things - harhar!)

I was expecting the equivalent of those dessert shots all the other chain restaurants are touting. I felt a little guilty when we told the waitress we were just there for dessert, because she had to be thinking about the tip. However, after perusing the menu, we decided to order four different mini desserts, so we could have our own tasting party. The prices seemed pretty comparable, at $2.49 each.

While waiting for our order, Mike and I chitted-the-chat about various things, including blogging. Neither of us is really excited about our layout, design, gadgets, etc. We debated the merits of registering our own domains, and how I needed to start adding pictures, cause damn.

We talked about blogs we were reading, how we've known about dooce forever, but totally missed a bunch of the other stars of the blogosphere. Currently, I'm reading the archives for Sundry, and since she's been at this since January 2002, there's a lot to read. The thing about archives is, you want to comment on something, but it's been literally years, and the blogger has moved on. Plus, the links rarely work any more, and you feel totally left out of the loop. I do love me some backstory tho!

When the waitress returned, we were a little shocked. I believe I may have bleated, "I didn't think they'd be so BIG!" (Insert male genitalia joke here.) Seriously, these individual servings? Were huge. Especially for the price!

My lemon mousse was topped with fresh blueberries and sauce, and the raspberry mousse had a generous dollop of whip cream. 114 calories/31 mg sodium and 123 calories/34 mg sodium, respectively. YUM.

Mike enjoyed the apple cinnamon crisp (318 calories and 137 mg sodium) which was served with a scoop of ice cream. I had a nibble, and it was tasty. The bread pudding, on the other hand, was such a huge serving, he took that home after a few bites. I tried it, but it wasn't for me. He says it was good. I'm kinda glad I didn't like it, actually. 415 calories and 316 mg sodium, for the petite.

So, our outing was a success. AND I took pictures, with the sole purpose of putting them on my blog. A bit blurry; something to work on.

Here's Mike, enjoying the ambiance and decor. I can't say the scheme is original, since this eclectic-on-purpose look is everywhere, but still, in my All-American heart, I dig it.

The view from our booth. For once, we weren't hidden in the beast corner! We were front and center where people had to pass us on the way to their own tables. Those green seats are part of the waiting area, and the bar is directly behind it. Hmm, both those chandeliers have the same bulb burnt out.

The aftermath. Sure, a picture of the actual desserts pre-consumption would have been prettier, but we were more concerned with eating than with picture taking. Silly us.

Sorry, I know this picture is gross. But this is how much of the bread pudding was left over after it was nibbled on. See, big portions, little price!

Just Burp It!

Have you ever played this game?

You're out with a friend or spouse and decide to get something to eat. However, neither of you wants to pick where. And so it begins.

You: "Where do you want to go?"
Her: "I don't care, where do you want to go?"
You: "I don't know, you choose."
Her: "Oh, it doesn't matter to me. What are you in the mood for?"
You: "Nothing specific, what about you? Anything sound good to you?"
Her: "Oh, you know me, whatever is fine."

And then you drive off the road and hit a telephone pole.

Of course, once you battle your way out of the airbags, now you have to deal with the insurance company. No one should do that on an empty stomach. So, you continue:

You: "Fast-food or sit-down?"
Her: "Or buffet?"
You: "No buffet." Holy shit, the first decision! How BOLD!
Her: "Ok, sit-down." Second decision. Not as bold of course, but at least she stepped up.
You: "Italian? Chinese? American? Thai?"
Her: "Do you even know where a Thai restaurant is around here? You haven't even been to a Thai place, have you?!"
You: "Smart-ass. No Thai then?"
Her: "No Thai."
You: "How about three choices?"
Her: "Ok, go."

Now, I'm on to you. You act all magnanimous because everyone likes options, but what you're really doing is getting your way. You're choosing the three restaurants. Those are three places you wouldn't mind "gettin' your grub on," as it were. Not only that, once you list the three, your friend nixes one, then you veto the second, which is the same as choosing. You crafty bizzle!

Mike and I play a condensed version of this game. It's been 11(!) years, we know our roles. With our current money-situation, not to mention the whole low-sodium goal, eating out hasn't been as frequent. We still do it, but it's paper napkins only.

I've accumulated some restaurant coupons in the past few weeks, thanks to the newspaper, online offers, direct mail crap, etc. (Oh yes, I'm all about the coupons right now. I'm one PennySaver away from hosting Tupperware parties. You can get free shit at those! Score!)

So I spent about an hour online researching sodium levels for various dishes at the restaurants I have coupons for. Things I have learned:
My cardiologist would suggest I never eat at Olive Garden again. 400 mg of sodium in one breadstick. ONE!
The Wild West Shrimp starter at Longhorn, while delicious, will kill us all at freaking 4180 mg of sodium.
And surprisingly, a personal pan cheese pizza from Pizza Hut has only 590 calories. Not so surprising, it has 1290 mg of sodium.

We ended up at PizzaVito, where I had a single slice of cheese pizza. Yes, a slice of pizza there is huge, but it is NY style and doesn't have that much sauce on it. (Rationalizing...) Unfortunately, PizzaVito does not have nutritional info on their site. A slice of cheese pizza from a large Pizza Hut pie has 740 mg of sodium. Peer Trainer says 551 mg of sodium for a slice of NY cheese. I don't know if that's similar enough, but there's some info anyway.

Also, I used 4 napkins blotting that piece of pizza. They should hand out complimentary Biore strips with each slice.

You had me at 'Choice Plus Network'

I love Insurance. Insurance is the greatest thing since movable type. I would marry Insurance, but that's only legal in Connecticut. Instead, I hook up with it every chance I get.

Car Insurance? Of course! Rental Insurance? I do! Health Insurance? Bet your ass!

And it doesn't stop there. I'm pretty enthusiastic about warranties and accidental-anything policies, too.

Purchasing a Wii - extend the warranty. Buying a car - get Gap. New iPhone - oh, nevermind. Bastards.

Back in California, I was able to sign Mike up as a domestic partner and get excellent, fairly-affordable healthcare for him through my work.

(You had to get a domestic partnership affidavit notarized for such a thing. I really confused the guy at Mailboxes, Etc. The look on his face said, "Hey, Crazy-Heterosexual-White-Woman, you could just make an honest man out of him." What came out of his mouth was, "Sign here. $29.95. No checks.")

And, until this year, we never met our deductible. Not once. Since 2001.

A couple of weeks ago, I received a letter from my healthcare provider. I opened the envelope and confetti burst forth, balloons rose in the air, trumpets sounded and an enthusiastic voice boomed,

"Congratulations!

You've not only met your deductible, but you've also hit the Out-of-Pocket, In-Network maximum! And you're thisclose to the Out-of-Network double whammy! Well done! $2,000 more, and you can go to ANY doctor, ANYwhere, for FREE!

Even if you choose to stay In-Network, your medical care for the next 6 months is ON US! Got a tickle in your throat; come on in! A wart on your foot; gross, but no problem! A leak in your breast implant; sorry, that's not covered, but you should get it looked at anyway!

Hurry to our directory and schedule some appointments today.
'Cause you're not getting any younger!

Restrictions apply, see coverage levels and regulations for further details."

Sometimes you have to spend money to, um, spend more money

I ordered checks today.

That doesn't sound very news-worthy, but this day in age, how many checks do you really go through in a month? Six months? A year, even? There's the rent/mortgage, a long-distance birthday, things like that. But we swipe the plastic even for "real money" purchases with our debit cards and pay most of our bills through online banking. I don't think Mike even knows where his checkbook is.

So, it surprised me when I realized I was down to my last check. How can this be? I flipped through my register and realized that in 3 1/2 months, I've written 17 checks to medical institutions. And 0 to celebrate a birthday.

Don't worry; there's been a birthday or two to celebrate. We just send gift cards. It's our way of forcing people to do something we want them to do.

"You will go here and you will buy something you do not need! 'Cause we said so! Now, march!"

Reading these posts without pictures is really hard

Some people take their cars to the dealer for everything. Oil change? Dealer. Tire rotation? Dealer. Hear a weird knocking noise? Dealer. Niece spilled a milkshake in the back? Dealer.

After the purchase of our first new car, I became one of those people. Except for the detailing. Not that I wouldn't get my car detailed, I just haven't. Yet. I've also never had someone spill a milkshake in the car. (Unless you count the time Mike was driving and a bottled Frappuccino exploded when he opened it. He's still a bit fuzzy on the details, but it sounded very traumatic. Especially the part when he realized he'd have to explain the rancid Dark Chocolate Raspberry aroma to me.)

And while no one enjoys going to any repair shop for maintenance, it's really not so bad. You pull up, someone comes over and asks a few questions. You get out of the car, hang out in the air-conditioned waiting room for a while, then the same customer service rep brings you your keys and directs you where to pay. Easy-peasy.

Until it isn't.

Take for instance... yesterday.
Yesterday was not easy-peasy.
Yesterday was "Thanks for reducing me to tears in a crowded waiting room. Sorry about the puddle; my checking account is hemorrhaging."

It was time for an oil change on Mike's car. Now, he will alternate between the dealer and the local lube shop for oil changes. But he drives 70+ miles a day, so the car sees a lot of service action. We'd done the big 60,000 mile service 6 months ago and were still paying the interest on it. An oil change, inspection and tire rotation and I should have been out of there in an hour.

First, there was the copying of the VIN, the jotting down of the mileage and the kicking of the tires.

"Well, those are looking a bit worn."
"Yeah, we're planning on replacing them next month."
"Mm-hmm."

The dude (we'll call him Danny-boy, freckled as he is) nods his head and makes some notes on his clipboard. He leads me over to the service cubicle and types some info into his computer. He scratches his head with his pen, the blue ballpoint undoubtedly leaving an inky trail under his ginger locks.

Danny-boy frowns and says, "You've put 14,500 miles on that car in 6 months."
"I know, it's the commute. Adds up fast."
"That's... that's a lot of miles."
"We're hoping to move soon."
He blinks at me.
"To cut down on the wear and tear on the car. And my husband. Ha-ha!"

And I'm justifying myself to this guy, why, exactly? It's not like we're taking joy rides; Mike has to drive to work! He can't fly there! We want to be part of the solution, not the problem. Damn you, chlorofluorocarbons!

"Well, you're up-to-date on your service. Just initial here, and we'll start the oil change."

I initial, then take my book into the waiting room. I settle in and divide my time between reading and watching the movie about the football player who finds out he has a daughter. It's got The Rock in it. Oops, I mean, Dwayne Johnson.

About 45 minutes later, Danny-boy comes into the waiting room.

"We're all done with the oil change, but I wanted to show you something."

Great, here we go. I may be an easy mark, but I'm also broke. You can show me whatever you'd like, but I'm not paying for any sort of super-snazzy-glossy-coating-just-$49.95-today-only crap.

"We got the tires off, you know, to rotate, and first, we found this." And he points to a huge nail stuck in a tire. Of course, it's not in a normal spot. No, somehow this nail was trapped not in the tread, but the "edge, below the crown."

"And you can see on this tire, and on all of them, where you've hit the wear bar. There is no life left in these tires."
Duh. They're the original tires and it's been nearly 75,000 miles.

"But the worst one is this tire here. Not sure what's going on, yet. But you can see where the inside of the tire is starting to wear funny. And then, there's this crack, almost a hole, that's starting."

Indeed. It looks like someone stabbed my tire and then tried to skin it. The odd wear pattern gives the impression of someone whittling away at the rubber. I wonder if this was before or after they hammered that nail in the first tire?

Now, I'm assuming these are my tires, and not some damaged props they use to freak you out and get you to help them meet their tire-sales quota. And if they are my tires, then there is no way in hell I'm letting Mike drive another mile on them.

"How much?"

He flips a page and starts talking about lifetime free rotation and recall notification service and...

"Dude. I can't even afford the oil change."
"Well, we only charge 10% over cost, and..."

And, I don't care. I can't afford this. But how can I not? Obviously, we need tires. The price he's quoting is not unreasonable. However, I am broke and finding pride to be a little expensive these days.

"I got a coupon in the mail last week, for 15% off. I left it at home. Any chance you could still honor that for me?"

Poor guy; we both know that coupon has nothing to do with tires. Three more minutes of hand-wringing and gee-golly later, he says he'll figure something out and I say go ahead.

Back in the waiting room, I text Mike to tell him I'll be turning tricks on the corner and to wave as he drives by tonight. The football-daughter movie is still on. 'The Game Plan.' (Thanks, imdb!)

Another hour passes, and I realize two things. #1 - the movie ended, but we've been watching the bonus features and apparently The Rock in tights is what audiences want more of, and #2 - if the tires were already off the car, should it take this long to put on new ones?

Finally, Danny-boy comes back in, and sits down in the chair across from me.

"We've got everything done; the oil changed, fluids checked, tires on. Now, we think we've realized what happened to that one tire to make it fail. The other ones were simply worn, except for that nail of course, but the right front tire was definitely an issue. It seems it was at an angle, tilting in. Did you hit a pothole, really hard? Or run over something, really hard? It would take a lot of force to do that kind of damage, where the wheel turns in like that. You'd have to hit something really hard."

"I don't know. It's my husband's car." What else can I say? Mike would tell me if he hit, like, a body, really hard, but a pothole? No.

"Well, I suggest a wheel alignment. I know, it's more money, and you might not be able to do it, but you just put four brand new tires on the car, and if the alignment is that bad, you could be replacing the front tire way sooner than you should. It's an investment. Honest. But you have to decide. I understand if you can't, but if you can, you really should. It's $60 now, but it could hit your wallet really hard later."

(Ok, he didn't say that last part, but I was waiting for it.)

I don't even try to gee-golly. I just rub my forehead and listen to The Rock complain about ballet. Shit. I was about to put hundreds of dollars on the credit card that I could barely pay the minimum on as it was. This was ridiculous.

"Ok. How long?"

Danny-boy is sympathetic. I expect him to pat my leg and offer me some coffee, but all he says is, "About another hour. I'll be back."

The receptionist walks over to the tv and ejects The Game Plan. There are two little boys in the waiting room now, and I suspect they are tired of all the dancing outtakes. The Disney logo comes up on the screen and I go back to my book.

A few minutes later I look up, and actually whimper. They're showing 'Up'. What, are they trying to make me suicidal? I can't take this movie. The first 15 minutes are so fucking sad it makes me want to throw-up at all the love. They were so happy, and they got married, but then they couldn't have kids, but that was ok! They had each other! And there was sunshine and happiness and the years go by and then she gets sick and dies. Dies!

I sniffle and clear my throat, avoiding eye contact with the other customers. And Mike picks that moment to call and check in, and I'm like, "Baby, there is no way in hell I can hold a conversation at this moment. I'm hungry and tired. I'm about to spend $500 on car repairs and she. just. died! I'm hanging up now."

Finally, Danny-boy comes back in and motions for me to join him at the register. He points out the different things they did, and what everything cost.

"I got them to take 10% off the tires and $10 off the alignment."
Wow, I may have just haggled for the first time today. And it worked, a little. Cool.
"And there was no charge for the tire rotation."

Dude, there was nothing to rotate, you took them off. Don't act like you've cut me a huge deal on that. No charge for tire rotation... Give me a break.

I hand him my credit card, sign the bill and head for the lot. I get in the car and put my purse on the passenger seat. There's a big, dirty handprint right in the middle. I'd like to hit something really hard. But I don't have another $60.

The (1-day and counting!) Routine

9:00 am: Wake up

9:02 am: Hit bathroom

9:06 am: Turn on Wii, weigh self on balance board, grumble

9:10 am: Go to kitchen, take pill 1 of 7, stare longingly at cupboard, but do not eat anything because 1/2 hour wait post-pill required

9:13 am: Go to bookshelf, find Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone on cd, bring to living room, pop disc one into dvd player and press play

9:14 am: Turn on treadmill, tilt head in confusion when treadmill just sits there in stony silence, realize treadmill not plugged in, plug in treadmill, hit head on treadmill when it beeps and startles, curse at treadmill

9:16 am: Walk back over to dvd player to figure out why disc is not playing, press button two on switch box

9:17 am: Grab remotes, turn up volume on tv

9:17:30 am: Frantically jab at volume down button because volume up button is stuck and do not want to scare neighbor lady into thinking the building is under cinematic British attack

9:18 am: Get on treadmill, press start and begin walk

9:19 am: Realize 'walk' may be more of a 'shuffle' and increase speed to 'stroll'

9:37 am: Enjoy chapter one of book one and pat self on back for finding such an excellent distraction

9:42 am: Get off treadmill

9:43 am: Text husband about day's accomplishments without acknowledging the irony of having been up only 43 minutes

9:44 am: Head back into kitchen, lightly toast up 1/2 a bagel with 1/2 a serving of cream cheese for a total of 270 mg of sodium and 180 calories

9:49 am: Contemplate other half of bagel, ultimately resist

9:50 am: Take remaining 6 pills, call self 'old-woman' and crouch-walk with pretend cane to the fridge to amuse self

9:50:30 am: Feel a little guilty/silly, attempt to stand upright, grimace as back cracks

9:55 am: Call LTD claims adjuster and leave a voicemail inquiring as to the status of paperwork and whether or not she got the fax

9:58 am: Turn on computer with intentions of finishing LTD post started many days ago

10:01 am: Decide some background noise is needed

10:02 am: Go to theWB.com, click on Gilmore girls pilot

10:48 am: Realize never signed into Blogger

10:48:30 am: Or brushed teeth

(all times PST - my sleep cycle is a California gurl)

Chris Tucker is in my trash can

(Gratuitous profanity ahead, FYI.)

The time is 12:45 AM. I've been in bed, surfing the web on my phone, for about 2 hours now. The screen is dimmed to not disturb the cat curled next to me. Or the husband.

I've looked at all my usual sites, and since it's difficult to truly surf on the phone, I think I'm done. I am not yet tired. I am also not surprised. The choices are to count sheep or get up.

Thirsty, I head into the dining room toward the kitchen, and flip on the light. And suddenly, I'm standing in the hall. How did I get here? Why am I here?

A voice from the direction of the kitchen says, "You move fast for a fat bitch."

Oh, holy shit. It's a trash-talking dinner plate with eight legs. On the ceiling, in the doorway, between the dining room and kitchen.

I whimper, and try to cover it with a cough. He laughs. I glare. And take another step back.

"Where you going? Back to bed? Like you gonna fall asleep now!"

He has a point.

Luckily, I possess the tools necessary to dispose of home invaders. We invested in an Ultra SpyderMate 3000 some years back and it was money well spent. It's the perfect size too; it fits in that little space between the wall and the fridge... oh.

"Smoke comin' out your ears! The wheels are turnin'. Squeaky squeaky squeaky."

"Ok, you know what?"

"Yeah, I know what. I know what you ain't gonna do, and that's a damn thing."

I take a few steps, stop and look up. Lord, he was big. The cat is even hanging back, ears flat on her head. Ok, I can do this. I bounce on my feet a little, lean forward and stumble half a step.

Gotta get a little distance, that's all. I back up, crouch and shuffle-run towards the kitchen. Towards, but not through.

"You get close enough, I'm gonna pull a Mission Impossible drop into that rat's nest."

Must. Get. In. Kitchen.

Plan B. I will make him move. Not too far; enough so that I could avoid passing directly under him, but I didn't want the little bastard taking cover. Should I spray him? With what - everything is under the kitchen sink! We have got to find another place to keep shit.

And then I see it. A can of air.

"Move, or I will make you move."

I swear, he hocked a loogie at me. I squeeze the trigger.

"Arachnid adhesion, bitch! This feels good - like I'm on a ride at Disney World! Whee!"

"UGH! Fuck you! Move! Move!"

Time to assess the situation.
There is a huge spider in my house. I cannot kill it, because I cannot reach it, and will not touch it anyway. I cannot get to my 'tools' because the spider is threatening to burrow in my hair if I pass under him. I am afraid for the cat. A can of compressed air is fun, but it is no SpyderMate 3000. I will not sleep (or drink, or eat) until the spider is dead. Perhaps most disconcerting, the spider and I are holding a conversation.

I will have to wake up the husband.

"Baby?" Nothing.
"Mike? Mike?" Nothing.
I bump the side of the bed, and when he stirs, I say, "Hello. Hi there. Sorry. Um, yeah. Spider."

He is alarmed. He is disoriented. He is ignoring me and heading into the bathroom.

I wait. The cat waits. The spider waits. The clock ticks. We all take a moment to stretch and prep for the next Act.

"Where is it?" he asks, walking out of the bathroom.

"Is he British? That is one pasty motherfucker. How do you sleep with that glare? I need some Ray-Bans, stat!"

Mike walks straight into the kitchen, looking around.

"You just walked under it. Don't worry, I totally had your back."
I quickly put the can of air back on the table.

"HAHAHA! He didn't even see me! You've got a blind albino up in this bitch."

Grasping the SpyderMate like a pole vaulter, my husband eyes the ceiling.

"No broom is gonna scare me! Wait, what is that? There ain't no lint up here! No! It's sticky! STICKY! Oh, shi-"

Mike drops the lint roller on the floor.
"Goodnight."

"Ok then. Well done. I'll just take care of this."

My love and appreciation are implied.

I peel off the used sheet and drop it in the trash can. Filling a glass with water, I check out the ceiling. That's gonna be hard to reach with the Magic Eraser.

Back in the bedroom, I slide into bed.

Mike turns his head towards me.

"Do we own Rush Hour 2?"

Point A to B, eventually

Originally, I had specific plans for this blog. A system of posts to help tell the tale. But that didn't happen and my first post was about Red Lobster. Huh? And then I didn't post again. So instead, I guess this blog will be more round-about, and not linear. Starting with the post I'm working on now.

A preview: If a word comes out of a claims adjuster's mouth, assume you don't know the definition and look it up. Record your conversations if possible. It's only illegal if you don't give a head's up, right?

You could always answer the phone, "Hello, this conversation is being tape-recorded. According to Michael McKean, it may not be admissible evidence, but it will help me dissect the meaning of your words at a later date of my choosing. Proceed."

Salty Sundays - Red Lobster

(excerpted from Wikipedia:)
In recent years, Red Lobster has received a number of awards including "#1 Best Seafood" in a 2009 Zagat Consumer Survey, "Healthiest Sit Down Chain Restaurant in America" from Men's Health Magazine's 2010 Eat This, Not That Guide, and Restaurants & Institutions Consumers' Choice in Chains award in the seafood category.

Red Lobster is also known for its signature Cheddar Bay Biscuits which accompany a purchased entree; they are also available a la carte for carry out. Red Lobster serves 1.1 million biscuits daily and over 395 million per year. The biscuits are made from scratch and are baked fresh every 15 minutes.


I hear the call of the ocean, even tho I don't eat seafood. That's what fish oil pills are for. Maybe I can convince my healthier-half to head out to dinner tonight. Otherwise it's baked chicken or pork. Again. Let me check out the Nutritional Info page on their website. When you want to get your way, back it up with facts!

The serving size for meat is 3 oz. I would order steak, because, you know, fish be icky. According to their site, they have one type of steak available without a seafood sidekick, and it's 14 oz. Nearly 5 servings of meat, geesh. And the sodium? That would be 1,420 mg. Lightly seasoned, my ass. Seriously, I can't believe this. Typo, right? Accidental 1 thrown in front of the respectable 420. Please? Sigh. Moving on.

Blink, blink. How does a baked potato have 900 mg of sodium, before any toppings are even added?? A baked potato DOES NOT have this much sodium. I'm looking it up online all over the place and no, just no. Apparently, the potato you bake at home will not kill you. The potato you eat in a restaurant, maybe. (I believe there will be a baked potato post in my future.)

But, I'll assume Red Lobster's nutritional info is correct. Maybe they inject each potato with a salt concentrate or something. Since this is apparently a plain baked potato, I'm plopping on some butter, some sour cream... 90 mg additional sodium, according to the Nutrition Facts page on their site. (The sour cream accounts for only 10 mg. Sour cream gets a bad rap.)

Now I really need to find something healthy... I'm going to order broccoli. That's only 200 mg of sodium in the broccoli. What a minute? 200 mg of sodium in freaking broccoli?! But, half the time it's not even tasty because it's not been steamed properly, and never has enough butter on it! So, that's an extra 80 mg of sodium for melty goodness drizzled on top.

Need a drink. Which will be Coke, and will be about 3 servings, over the course of the meal. I have an addiction, it's true. That's 105 mg of sodium helping to quench my thirst right there.

Well, it sounded healthy-ish: Potato with a little butter/sour cream, some steak and now broccoli. Oh, and those reason-we-came-here biscuits. Two please! Ack - 350 mg of sodium each! And my drink.

Let's tally it up, shall we?
3,495 mg of sodium. In one meal.
Daily Value recommendation is 2,400 mg of sodium.
My recommended daily allotment as a CHF patient = 1,500 mg.
That's 2.3 days worth of sodium in one sitting for me.
A year ago, this is what I would have ordered. And been a little proud, what with the broccoli and all.
Hell, it's what I would have ordered tonight, had I not looked online.

If I take this same meal, but drink water instead of Coke, enjoy only one biscuit, save half the steak for the dog I don't have, and deny myself butter and sour cream... 2,160 mg of sodium.
(And approximately $25 for the privilege, but I'll bitch about that later.)
You know what? I'm just going to put my head in the oven now.

Remember that award listed earlier, for "Healthiest Sit Down Chain Restaurant in America" from Men's Health Magazine's 2010 Eat This, Not That Guide?
Neither did I.

Yes, yes, it's all about the fish. After all, if you're heading to Red Lobster, it's probably for the seafood. I want to like fish, I really do. Most likely, you do enjoy seafood, and the folks at Men's Health Magazine were probably chowing down on some tilapia while they were rating the restaurant. So, here's the sodium on four fish dishes, something for everyone. Remember, this just replaces the steak. There's still side dishes to consider.

Admiral's Feast: 4,400 mg. Eating like this, there must have been some serious turn-over at the Admiral's table.
North Pacific King Crab Legs: 3,520 mg. Does this include the butter to dip it in?
Broiled Seafood Platter: 1,610 mg. But it sounded so healthy...
Wood-Grilled Fresh Salmon: 240 mg. And we have a winner!

To recap: If you're going to Red Lobster, order grilled fish and have only one biscuit. Because the biscuit is part of the experience. And, as always, move the salt shaker out of reach. Or to an empty table. Which I have done. More than once.