Last day of 2018.

Let’s all try to forget the heinousness of this year, shall we?

Instead, I will just share my resolutions for 2019: I will be nice and not crap on other people, and, rather than shying away from the different, I will embrace the different. The exotic. The unique.

I will find something to appreciate in our differences rather than trying to make everyone the same.

I will love everybody, and try to treat every single being on this planet as if they mattered to me, rather than being something that is in competition with me for limited resources. We aren’t animals, competing for food. We are human beings, and most of us have plenty of all of our needs. I’ll try to keep that in mind, as I am fortunate enough to have everything I need.

And, finally, I’ll remember that since we weren’t put here to judge each other, I need to learn to be polite. If I don’t have anything nice to say, I’ll keep it to myself. Crapping on other people in public is super tacky, and it needs to stop. I’ll be more dignified in 2019.

These are the things I will be working on in 2019. We have to stop these artificial wars between ourselves. We don’t all need to be friends, but we really need to work on our manners. Because we’ve gotten all kinds of tacky. And I just don’t want to be tacky.

Happy end of 2018, everybody. Thank goodness this hot mess is over with.

Everyone and their dog has been asking me how my Dad is doing. Seriously, the dogs want to know, too. Probably because my Dad is the dog whisperer and they all love him immediately. Whereas they kind of hate me sometimes because I can’t hold back and then I get all up in their smooshy little faces and hug and kiss them because I have no boundaries with animals.

At any rate, I have been getting messages all week about my Dad and how he’s holding up.

In case anybody’s wondering, you are allowed to ask him. He won’t get mad or yell or anything. And he does subscribe to the “messaging and texts are better than phone calls” school of thought, so those are fine, too.

I know, though. It feels awkward.

I mean, it doesn’t to me because he’s my Dad and all, but yeah. I know all about the awkward conversations. Had a few myself with other people. But really, just shoot him a text.

In case you’re wondering, though, he’s great. Well, as great as anyone could possibly be under these craptastic circumstances. And it gets a little less horrible some days, so that’s good, too. Also, we don’t really talk too much about feelings in our family because they’re gross, so that’s fun. We just make jokes about things until we can stand them and then move on.

But it’s going okay. All the Christmasness and things. Everybody’s hanging in there, amidst all the poop that life has flung at us this year. And we are proudly standing, covered in life’s poop, throwing life the finger.

Not literally, of course.

Well, I am.  I’m not sure about everyone else. But that’s how I roll. Flipping life off behind its back.

So, back to the point (if I ever have one, ha ha), my Dad. He’s a champ. Don’t worry about him. He’s got his team of weirdos and we’re all hanging in there together. Plus, he has two Velcro dogs, so that’s also neat.

Sometimes, listening to all of the conversations happening around you in a restaurant pays off with a new family catchphrase. This past weekend, we added “American Classic” to our repertoire.

We went to Albuquerque for the monthly Costco extravaganza, and on the way, we decided to stop off at The Range in Bernalillo for some lunch. We always ate there when we lived in the area, so it’s kind of fun for us to go back and see if they have the same paintings on the walls or the same waitstaff. You know, old people fun times.

So we’re sitting there, looking at our menus, and we notice that there’s a guy with sunglasses and a very expensive shirt sitting at the table next to us, with a table full of people who are obviously his entourage, because they’re all hanging on to his every word and laughing at all of the things he says, even when they’re not that funny. They’re doing quite a bit of filming in this area these days, so we can only assume he is some kind of movie person or something because he is most definitely not a local.

At any rate, they get their order, and the guy goes off about his “f@$&ing BLT.” Seriously. He was mad. So he starts saying things like, “How do they mess up a f@#$ing BLT? This bread is absolutely the wrong thickness!” and other things of that nature, and gestures wildly for the waiter to come over to his table.

The waiter, who was a very nice guy, early 20s, good at his job, gets there and says, “Is there anything wrong with your order?”

Here it comes...

The movie guy goes, “How do you guys mess up a BLT? It’s an AMERICAN CLASSIC?!?”

Then he proceeds to outline that the bread is a fraction of an inch too thick, so that the insides of the bread aren’t toasted (how do you even toast the insides of a piece of bread?), and that the ratio of mayonnaise is wrong, and that the bacon isn’t “the right amount of crispy.”

Yeah. And he uses the term American Classic multiple times.

So the guy leaves, gets him a new sandwich, and all is calm.

Yikes, dude. Those movie guys sure are picky with their sandwiches.

But, after all, we did get to refer to pretty much every purchase we made in Costco as an American Classic, and also pretty much everything else we encountered that day. Even the people on the freeway driving like maniacs. American Classics.

It’s funny. Ha ha ha.

Whoa. This post is super important. I just found out the secret of life.

It’s napping. Ha ha ha...fooled you there, didn’t I? But, seriously, it’s the best thing ever.

So my thyroid is on the fritz again, and I’m a bit tired lately, so I kind of just feel like sleeping all of the time. Okay, maybe that’s just how I’ve always been, but even more so this year, so bear with me.

Two days a week I get to go teach and hang out with my Dad, and since we drive up so early in the morning, I get to nap on my Dad’s amazing couch.

It’s truly the best napping couch ever. I want to write poems to it and buy it flowers.

At any rate, yesterday, the sun was shining through the windows right onto the couch, and the dogs were up there and we all had a big sunny nap on the couch while game shows (oh, yes, you know that’s right) we’re playing in the background. It was flipping magical.

So, props to the couch. The napping couch. I shall call you Theraflu, because you never fail at putting me to sleep. Ah.

As many of you know, I'm working at a law firm now. It's really interesting, especially because we do a lot of cases that involve medical stuff, so there will be pages and pages of books about insides and guts and all of that good stuff for me to copy and put in the computer.

The hard part, though, is that recently there's a lot of stuff about colons.

Now, don't get me wrong, I still think that the word "bowel" is hilarious, and I take a lot of pleasure in naming the saved files funny things that only I will get, so that when I have to pull them up, it makes me giggle and no one else will ever know. The downside is that learning more about how doctors diagnose issues with colons makes me think about my mom and all of the warning signs which nobody put together until it was too late.

I know, I know, I work for lawyers, and some people would've probably looked into legal action, but the thing is, in my mind, there's nothing that can get my mom back for us, so why drag a bunch of people and ourselves through all the poop? It's not like any one doctor just maliciously ignored something that later turned out to be a big deal, like the time three years before her diagnosis when she was hospitalized for a bowel obstruction (which I now know can be a sign of colon cancer), and they saw some spots on her liver when they scanned her which the radiologist decided was nothing, and which we now know were the cancer spreading from her colon to her liver.

I know in my heart that the guy was trying to do his job. No one would purposely ignore something that they had any suspicion was something as serious as cancer cells on someone's liver. But I hate it that I didn't know and didn't stop it before it was too late.

I realize that I'm not a doctor. I just wish I was psychic. And a doctor. A psychic doctor.

Anyway, today, reading stuff that confirms all of the things we now know are true, I wish I could've changed it. I wish I could've saved her. I know that's impossible, and that she's in a WAY better place now, doing all the fun stuff and not having to have cold winters, Grey Poupon, or those terrible shots in her elbow ever again. I know.

But I still hate it.

Also, bowels. Bowels, bowels, bowels.

I'm good now.

I’m not going to make excuses...it’s been tough in my neck of the woods, so I haven’t felt like writing anything. Just the same old business, grieving and all of that, and it’s kind of exhausting. I know there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, but the tunnel is really, really long, and it’s just taking me longer to figure out how I’m going to keep moving than I thought it would. Just blech.

Anyway, something interesting has happened, so I thought I’d share. I have been on a diet forever. Like, seriously, FOREVER. My first preventative diet started when I was eight, and that’s when I got fat, and I’ve been there ever since.

Food and I are very complicated together. Definitely a love/hate relationship.

So I’ve been on this new eating plan since June, and at first I did well. I lost about five pounds, but then that was it. And the scale was steadfastly holding at around the same weight range. This new way of eating is all about being healthy and not counting calories, but I was still journaling my food, because when I don’t do that, I tend to balloon, and nobody wants to have to buy me new pants. Just, no.

I really want to be healthy. It’s important to me. This whole experience with my mom has shown me how important our bodies are, and if I crap mine up, I can’t buy a new one. And it’s really not that fun to treat it unkindly all of the time.

I follow a lot of people on Instagram who have “unconventional” figures and are just happy with themselves and not full of self-loathing and wanting to be thin above everything else, and it’s making me think that maybe punishing myself for being fat isn’t working. Maybe I should focus on being healthy, whether or not the scale is moving. I can’t just automatically decide that I’m okay with my chub, but I can decide that being punitive with food and exercise isn’t the way to go. Plus, it’s not working anymore. My metabolism is shot.

So when we got back from our trip, at the beginning of this month, I didn’t weigh myself and start right back in at 1,000 calories a day to get back in. I just cut out all of the sugar and ate a lot of vegetables and very little carbs. And for Thanksgiving, I ate what I wanted, plus one piece of pie, and then no more sugar again.

This morning, I woke up and decided it was now or never time.

I pulled out the scale, got on it, and I have lost three pounds this month. I LOST WEIGHT. Holy crap. And it’s my lowest weight in over a year. Not by much; I’m talking by like half a pound, but I really thought I’d get on that bad boy and it would just flip me the bird and tell me I’d gained a gazillion pounds and I needed to go back to counting, plus, not eat the rest of the week.

It didn’t, though. Shocking.

At any rate, it’s interesting, so I thought I’d share. Something good, for a change.

Well, it’s been a crazy month around here. Painting the house, going to Disney World, and actually having some people over. And...to cap it all off...we re-arranged the living room furniture. I know. We are two wild and crazy guys.

I have, however, gotten to witness something that I didn’t know existed: The practice of going to Epcot to get “Drunk Around the World in One Day”.....seriously.

I know it’s an actual thing because there were ever so many large groups wearing t-shirts that said it. At first I was kind of shocked, because I don’t like the idea of getting sloshed around a bunch of little kids. It would ruin my fun, I think. What with all the little people everywhere screaming and crying, and all of the other people everywhere trying to get ahead in line, I actually feel like Epcot would be a terrifying place to get drunk. Not to mention the whole “being a good example for the little guys” thing. I am in the minority, though. Apparently.

Also, who could afford to get drunk at Epcot? With the Food and Wine Festival going on, it’s like $5.00 for a teeny little glass of wine or a taster of beer. It would cost me around $50.00 to get a good buzz going, and I’m a lightweight. A ninety pound college sophomore could probably drink twice as much, and one of those guys in his fifties wearing his “I’m the eighth dwarf—Drunky” t-shirts who looks like he’s been drinking Bud Lights and shots of Fireball every day while watching wrestling and balancing his glass on his enormous beer gut for the last thirty years probably can’t even get really drunk at sea level, anyway. So paying over ten bucks per drink to get drunk seems like a really expensive vacation to me.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m not fun. Or maybe there’s something super fun that I don’t see. At any rate, I will probably never attempt to get drunk at Epcot.

Try all the desserts, though? Or all of the cheese? I’m down.

Alright, I may be in trouble. I have just been informed that dark humor is now off the table, because the world is too dark in general, and nothing's funny anymore, and we can't be kind and compassionate and sensitive beings and still laugh at inappropriate things.

CRAP.

So, since my Mom died, I can think of at least twenty things we've made jokes about that other people wouldn't find funny. We joke about her organized hoarding, and her bodily functions (well, I mean, come on...we make fun of everyone's bodily functions, because those are the cornerstone of true hilariousness), and even the fact that she's gone.

Why do we do these things? BECAUSE IT SUCKS. It really, really sucks. And we can either laugh about it or cry about it, but we can't do anything to change it. So we make jokes.

She made jokes about dying while she was dying, and I hope that made it easier for her. I hated it. But it really wasn't about me at that point. It was about her need to choose happy stuff instead of staying buried in the sadness of knowing we were about to have some time apart.

And it totally is a choice. I don't judge people who want to cry together, or hug, or make Facebook statuses about things. That's their process and their way to get through the constant barrage of crap that life throws us. 

But it's not my process.

This blog is kind of my process, embarrassing as that is. The last three years have been pretty crappy, but I'm slogging through, because I have no choice. And sometimes it makes me feel better to write a little something, just to assure myself that I still know words. And sometimes, things are just funny and I want to remember them later, so I keep them here, just to remind my self that there are still some good things mixed in with all of the rest.

But that's about it. I'm making jokes because I'd rather do that. I'm trying to be a good person and not judge other peoples' processes, and I'd really love to receive the same understanding. This is my way.

I know some people think it's weird that I still use the present tense when talking about her. I think it's weird that people would think she is gone, just because her body gave out. She's still here, to me. It's like she's on a long vacation. And I miss her every day, and I wish it wouldn't have had to happen the way it did, but it did. It's poopy, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to stop telling people the black bean soup + prom story, or the time she wrote something for her boss and instead of writing "public health, "she wrote "pubic health." That's just funny. And how can she not be here, when every time my sister or I hear something that we think is ridiculous, or we think someone has threatened one of our people, we both make the Mom "Oh, no, you didn't" face?

Also, I can't just forget the time Grandpa said that her post-weight-loss-surgery bathroom time couldn't be that bad, and it was, and he admitted it. HE ADMITTED THAT HE WAS WRONG. Come on. So funny.

So, yeah, I'm going to make jokes and laugh. I'm still probably going to cry a little every evening that I drive home from work and I can't call to ask about her day, and to tell her about mine. And also probably a little every time I see her name in my phone contacts, and every time I open my photos, and the picture of her on her birthday, smiling, pops up as my favorite.

And that's okay, too. I cry, just not in front of people, and usually for super lame reasons. But I mostly want to laugh about her, because I think she'd like that. She liked our dark humor, just as we all liked her bright sunshiny humor. The light wouldn't seem very light without the dark.

So back off on the dark humor. Just because it doesn't float your boat doesn't mean it's wrong. Leave me my cynicism, and I'll leave you your Holiday-Themed turtlenecks.

I’ve decided that life is like being in a raku firing. Every little difference in the kiln, from what glaze is on your piece, to what the other pieces are, and the glazes they have on them, changes every piece inside in a different way, and you can’t predict how anything is going to look at the end. Sometimes you end up sparkly, and sometimes you end up dull.

Also, we’re all in a fiery garbage can.

Okay, maybe that was a little exaggerated. But still. Deep, huh?

Hahahahahahaha happy Friday.

Okay, ladies. I’m talking straight to you, now, on a topic we all know is a thing, but no one ever discusses. I’m referring to feeling your chin for chin hair when you’re talking to someone else.

I first noticed that this was a thing at my last job, because my boss would come up and talk to me about something she wanted me to do whilst feeling out her chin. At first I thought, “Hey, maybe she’s an evil scientist, hatching a plot to overthrow the world, and she’s just covering by asking me to order more pens.”

Nope. Feeling for chin hairs.

Lately, I’ve been noticing more and more ladies doing this, and I’ve just got to say that it needs to stop. It’s happening all of the time. Yesterday, I realized that several of my students do this DURING SINGING LESSONS.

Seriously? You don’t weird about scoping for beardy times while you’re talking to me and I’m looking at you? Because that seems weird to me. Just a thought.

All of you who are too young to know, just rest assured, you will find out the glory of the chin hair eventually. It’s like you hit 30, and then, BAM. Hair in weird places. It’s pretty much the law, so just accept it. It will happen. No escaping. One more perk of getting older.

At any rate, maybe feel for chin hairs during more alone times. Or go to the bathroom and check it out in the mirror. I don’t know. I just feel like, when we’re talking and you keep stroking your chin all softly and whatnot, I’m intruding on some private chin ritual and maybe I should run away and leave you be.

Just an idea.

A couple of years ago, I decided I was tired of dealing with wet grounds and washing out my French Press every day, so we switched to a regular coffee machine. For convenience (I can’t do a Keurig or even a Nespresso machine...those pods just don’t work for me).

So after a couple of years of cleaning out the entire machine on a daily basis, which I can’t believe I didn’t notice was WAY more work than the French Press deal, I have officially switched back this morning.

And it’s amazing.

I love my coffee. Some people have used the term ‘hot liquid mud’ and I’m actually okay with that. I probably use at least twice the normal amount....okay, three times...but it’s too weak if I don’t. Also, I don’t use sugar, so if it’s too weak, the bitterness comes out and I just can’t. 

So yesterday, my husband brought the press that he’s been using when he makes coffee at work home, and I decided to go back. Except, it’s been a couple of years and I wanted to make sure I did it right, so I read a bunch of articles first, and then went for it. 

Long story short, DO IT. It’s so much better. Sweeter and rounder and more flavors, and just all around delightful. And, yes, I use three rounded tablespoons per cup. Mmmmmmmmmm buddy.

Don’t judge...I’m a Farmer. It’s in my genes. 

Alrighty. I'm trying to make it to lunchtime, but there's a conference in the conference room, and I don't want to be in the middle of my bowl o' cottage cheesy goodness and have someone walk out and interrupt me.

I know that it's just cottage cheese, not pudding or anything fun, but I have pineapple for it and everything. And I eat breakfast at like 5:30 am, so I'm starving and everything in the world sounds delicious right now.

I also have six Triscuits, so there you go.

Can we all just agree that everyone should be done and leave so I can eat my dang lunch? Yes? Okay, good.

Get on that, ladies.

Come ON.

Those Triscuits are calling me.

Also, I'm wearing a shirt that feels like it might be slightly clingy in the back, and feeling paranoid about back bulgy action and stuff, along with my usual concerns about stomach bulgy action, bra strap showage, and trying to blink more often so my eyeballs don't shrivel up and fall out, so I've been sitting funny and really straight all day and I want to slouch while I eat and maybe close my eyes. Something like that.

Still no signs of the door opening or people coming out.

Also, there is not work to do during the lunch hour most days, so I can't even stay distracted with that.

UGH.

Alright, I'm going to chance it. Cottage cheese time, here we go. Good luck, me.

Rough week. Sick sister, MIL had a stroke, roof is leaking, car has a slow leak in a second tire.

Yeah. I hate this week.

But, at least it's Friday. And we will have something delicious for dinner tonight, if I make it until then, which is looking likely.

Also, I've gotten my typing speed up to 50 WPM with no peeking, so that's pretty neat.

Oh, and I lost a pound at weigh-in this morning, so there's that.

But still. And I really miss having my mom to tell me I look pretty even when I don't and to get excited about new shoes or face masks or lipstick with me.

Sigh.

Kind of just hanging in there right now. Poopy, poopy week.

It'll get better, though. Right? Yeah. Or it won't, but maybe it will.

Or maybe I'll eat something cheesy and delicious for dinner, and it won't be better, but I'll feel better about it because cheese. And if that doesn't work, maybe I'll try a beer and/or cake.

We'll see.

But it's Friday.

Does everybody know what a bunion is? I thought I did, but I was way off. Now I know, though.

How? I HAVE ONE.

Not the normal kind, either, on the big toe joint. Nope, I have to be a weirdo and have what is known as a ‘tailor’s bunion’ or ‘bunionette’ on my pinky toe joint. Don’t let the name fool you, this mofo hurts. Well, it did hurt. I iced it for an hour yesterday, so it doesn’t really hurt today, but yesterday morning, when I woke up and it was there in all its full swollen glory, it was pretty painful.

See, I’ve been wearing pointy toed flats and heels to work, and I think that’s what did it, because most of my flats used to be round and I have been wearing this one particularly pointy pair lately because they’re just so pretty. And heels, because if I wear a shorter dress with flats, I feel like it makes my legs look extra chunky.

This bunion is not pretty, though, so now I’m clearing out all the offending shoes. I mean it. No more heels.It basically looks like a ginormous tumor on the outside of my foot. Seriously. I almost don’t want to wear sandals until it goes down, except then my feet would be hot and I hate that even more than I hate the alien life form that has taken over my little toe joint. Jerk.

I would punch it, except it’s me so I’d just be punching myself.

I know I should also really just jump in to the orthopedic shoes and be done with it, but that makes my heart sad. For reals.

40. Bunions. What’s next, life?

Alright. Tiny post time.

Why are people so enthralled when the children of celebrities grow up to also be celebrities?

Yeah, they had money and privilege and people to help them that were already in the industry of their choosing, and it worked out for them? WHOA. ASTONISHING. I CAN’T HANDLE IT.

That’s all. Just seems weird to me.

Yesterday, I had the inevitable “Oh, you’re not fat!” conversation with my new coworker. Inevitable, but I dread it. It always happens. For those of you who are anywhere from super skinny to mildly chubby, let me explain.

See, some of us are at the level where we can call ourselves fat and not think of it as an insult. I don’t. I’m fat. Always been fat, probably always will be fat. It’s just how I’m made. Not insulting, just part of me, like being 5’8” tall, or having hazel eyes.

So every time it comes up in conversation, which it just does sometimes, especially when we’re talking about food and you ask about my super healthy lunches. I talk about how I’ve shifted my focus to being healthy since it looks like I can’t change the fat part, so I’m trying to eat as many anti-cancer, pro-healthy-gut foods as I can. It’s just what I’m doing right now, and I think it makes sense for me.

BUT.

It is at this point that the skinny girl smooshes up her face in indignation and horror and says, “OH NO! You’re NOT fat! You’re just a big girl!”

(Slight variations here, but that’s basically it, every time.)

And then I have to explain. And it’s because skinny girls everywhere (if you don’t have to shop in the plus size section, you’re skinny...deal with it...I’ve been relegated to the way back of every store and forced to choose between elastic-waisted pants monstrosities or low cut booty jeans that were designed for a size two girl who also happens to be eleven, and no person with a butt the size of mine should ever wear jeans that ride that low) don’t get it. They think that calling someone “fat” is the worst insult ever.

It’s not.

I’m allowed to describe myself using whatever adjectives I like. I’m also tall, and obsessive, and artistic. I’m sensitive, and introverted, and pessimistic. Oh, and FAT. I am fat. Fat fat fat fat fat.

There. It’s the other “F word.” Deal.

So, take my advice, skinny girls. When a fat girl calls herself fat, don’t agree or disagree with her. Don’t say, “But you’re so pretty.” That just means that you can’t be fat and pretty, which we all know is bull. Also, don’t call yourself fat so someone can tell you you’re not. That’s crap.
Just let me describe myself however I like. I am claiming my fat. I’m deciding to just let it be one little part of me, rather than the only thing that defines who I am. I appreciate that you don’t want me to feel bad, but the entire world is set up to make fat people feel like failures, and I’m choosing to take that away from them. My body doesn’t work like yours, that’s all. And that’s okay. I can also ride ten miles on my bike every morning before work, lift 100 pounds without hurting myself, walk three miles in 47 minutes, and go on a nine mile hike with my dad and sister because we got lost and none of us had any sense of direction.

Can your body do those things?

I can go without sleep for days, and show up for work and function with a migraine. I can get up for work at 5, work a full shift, then go home and teach, then go to a rehearsal and sing well.

Can your body do that?

No. It can’t. You drink soda and eat candy all day and take a leisurely 20 minute walk a few times a week with your dog, and you’re a size two. That’s just how life works. It’s not always kind, and it’s not always fair. I appreciate your kind thoughts, but it’s good.


Also, my organs need extra cushioning, in case of emergencies. Like, a punch in the gut, or something like that. Yeah. That.

So let’s all just smile and nod when someone describes themselves using a word we don’t like. Don’t contradict or agree, just listen and maybe it’ll all be okay.

Today is the three month mark of my mom's checkout day (I like to think she checked out of this crappy hotel and moved into other, more luxurious accommodations). So, of course, the first thing I see when I open Facebook is one of those "on this day" things. And it was last year's opera picture of my Mom, sitting next to my Dad, smiling and waving.

How is she not here?

I feel like she was just the best at so many things. Like, she got more excited, and talked more, and cared more about people, and tried more new things than I would ever be willing to try. She just really wanted to be a part of all of the stuff, so she was. Sometimes she succeeded, sometimes she failed, but if she wanted it, she made it happen (yep, my sister totally got that from Mom....I missed out).

So maybe that's why Mom went first.

Maybe she knew me and my Dad would be shy, and my sister would want someone to scope it out for birds. And also she could take care of getting all the stuff set up so maybe we wouldn't have to talk to so many people. Heaven's got to have some kind of registration or something, right? Can't escape paperwork, even if you die.

But, anyway, it's still pretty hard to fathom. At least for me. I keep picking up my phone to check on her and then remembering that I don't need to do that anymore, which is good, but barfy.

I know she's having a great time, though. And we'll eventually get to having a great time, too. Someday. But today feels kind of like a ginormous poop emoji without the smile.

Really miss my Mom today. Just, a lot. And I know she’s good, but boy, life here is missing a lot of silliness and cuteness without Mom.

That’s all. I know it’s not just me, and I know it’s normal, and I know it’ll get better.

But I really miss her.

IT’S FRIDAY!!!

Kind of ready for the weekend.

At any rate, I have now been doing the Dr. Gundry eating plan for just about a month, and I’ve lost 7.5 pounds. I realize that doesn’t sound like a shockingly huge amount, but for me it’s amazing. I’ve been stuck without the scale moving for ages, and I’ve made some modifications to the plan to help fit my life better, and I’m still slowly inching down the scale.

For instance, I still have half and half in my coffee. That’s a no no, but I gots to have it. I didn’t use sugar in my coffee anyway,  but I can’t deal with black coffee. It would kill me. I also still have tomatoes because they make me happy and I love them. I just don’t have more than one serving a day. And I also eat tofu because I’m less worried about soy estrogens, since I eat almost no processed food, so I’m not getting any soy that way. And tofu is delicious.

I feel like I’m eating all of the vegetables, but really, I think it’s as much as we’re supposed to eat, I was just slacking before. I’m eating at least one big salad meal a day, and then vegetables at the other meals, although I’m at the point where I’ve added some fruit back in, too. Finally. Apples.

I’m also eating some aged cheese, but trying to keep it to an ounce a day. And I’ve discovered queso fresco, which is amazing and I think my new favorite cheese. Big time.

So, I think I’ll stick with this. The prebiotic is a little weird, but not hugely so, and I love the idea of feeding my good bacteria. I’ve always been leery of antibiotics and I’m starting to cut out antibacterial things (even hand sanitizer....I know....it’s shocking) and maybe that’ll keep my guts happier, which is also a good thing for my Crohn’s.

So, yay. Friday AND down on the scale. Oh, and I’m still having a little beer here and there. Because come on. It’s summer. You can’t have summer without beer; it’s pretty much the law.

So it’s already been one heck of a week, and it’s only Thursday. Very depressing. A fast-forward button would be pretty perfect right about now, but, unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced mine. Anyhow, I’m glad it’s not Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday today. That’s something.

I am on this quest for self improvement and I seem to be stumbling on things that I place in my own path. Seriously. It’s always me that does the stupid stuff which cause me to have to stop moving forward and clean up the mess. Ugh.

And then all night long I have these dreams about failing. Every night. Barf.

At any rate, I guess, it’s a new day, with millions more chances. And maybe today will be neutral. Or at least less hot.

Yeah. I’ll go for less hot and neutral. Woohoo goals!

Wow, it’s been a while. Evidently, I’ve just gotten out of practice. Or maybe I’ve just been lazy because we’ve been off work for a week.

Yep, we took a vacation.

Well, we were supposed to go with my Dad to my uncle’s cabin, but he wasn’t really into leaving, what with his new sod and stuff, so we decided to just hang out at home.

It’s been glorious.

We’ve slept late, gone swimming, ridden our bikes, gone to Madrid (NM...it’s not that thrilling, but it’s cute), done a few things around the house like oiling the wooden window frames and sealing up cracks to keep the damn carpenter bees out (they are the biggest turds of all time), gone to the opera with our funnest friend, and gone to many movies courtesy of my awesome sister and the moviepass she got us for our birthdays.

So, yeah. Pretty awesome.

Today is our last day, so we’re just hanging out and getting ready to get back into it. I don’t think all the tired is gone, but I feel a lot better. It was getting pretty rough there for a bit, fatigue-wise. So I think we may survive, after all.

We’ll see.

Tomorrow will be my last day at the job I’ve had for the past eight and a half years. Holy crap.

Bookkeeping? Not going to miss it. My coworkers? Yeah, I’ll be missing them.

I’m also leaving a place of security for a new, unknown place. This is not something I tend to do, so now I’m having a little freak out time because I don’t quite have all the new tasks down exactly the way they do it at the new place. I forgot how much I really, really don’t like to not have my shizznit together.

I also feel like I don’t have the new dynamic down. And I know the old one. I know who likes whom, and who isn’t a fan of which things, and now I have to remember to speak up when I talk to the one guy, and put the other guy’s mail in a certain place.

It’s also been fun working in the same office with my sister, mostly because that means I get to have all the unicorns I want and there’s someone else in the office who thinks farts are funny, too. New office? Yeah, no one there is the kind of person who laughs at farts, and it is definitely not unicorny.

There are so many pluses. More money, a couple of days working closer to home, and, above all else, learning new information about a different field. Also, no more accounting-firm-who-shall-remain-nameless. So, it’ll be good.

But I’m going to be a little sad to leave my work family tomorrow.

Ugh. More feelings. What. The. Hell.

Okay. I’m 40 now. Is it okay for me to openly curmudgeon now, or do I have to wait for 50 or something like that? There should be some kind of a rule book or something.

Or maybe I should write the rule book, since I’m the one who invented curmudgeoning.

You think your Grandpa did it better? You think your Great-Aunt Matilda was more curmudgeonly? I doubt it. My Grandpa Otis brought some serious game to the table, but I think I can beat him with my introversion.

Yep, introverted curmudgeons win every time, because even when they’re not grumpy, strangers think they are because they don’t talk.

Also, stay out of my yard.

So maybe I still need to work on it, but I’ve got time. I’m only 40, after all.

Hahahaha I am so old. Gross.

Okay. I’ve made it through the first two items on June’s trifecta of doom: The colonoscopy was fine, actually the easiest prep ever, and the biopsy came back fine, as well. The Memorial Service (in caps, because come on) was also fine.

It was a memorial. My Mom is gone. We made it through and that’s all I need to say about that.

Anyway, on to the upcoming weekend and the final item on my agenda of things that I’m not super pumped about: TURNING FORTY.

Gross.

But then I saw that Oil of Olay had this thing that tells you what age it thinks your skin is, and it told me mine was 36. So I can live in denial a bit longer, right? My skin hasn’t shriveled up into a prune yet, according to the internets, and that’s all that matters. I think...

...yep.

At any rate, the doom is almost come and gone, and then life will return to normal. Right? Sure.

Gearing up for the colonoscopy over here.

The new GI I’m seeing is way different than the other one, and has this whole “recommended prep” thing that starts a full week before the actual test. I’m at three days now, and have to eliminate all fruits, vegetables, whole grains, nuts and seeds. Yeah. So all the stuff I try to make sure my diet is full of is off-limits until after the test on Friday.

Yep. I went to Trader Joe’s and bought white bread, butter crackers, animal crackers, and juice. I am totally going to gain a billion pounds with all of this white food. Ugh.

Like I haven’t been trying unsuccessfully to lose weight for ages.

Also like I haven’t done this many, many times before and sometimes only had the solution the night before as my only prep. Seriously. And my intestines are pretty much always sparkle fresh.

But, if you know me, you know I loves to follow the rules. So I will. But wow.

I’m going to get even chunkier. Just watch. 

Also, seriously? Don’t they want people to poop more before the colonoscopy? No fiber or vegetables? This makes no sense. 

Oh, well. Commencing Operation White Bread.

Man, what a day!

We got up, had breakfast and played with the bird a little bit, and then started day one of our first real project in a while. My husband and I are replacing and repairing the wood trim on our house. Well, he’s doing the repair and replace work while I do stuff inside, and then we’ll both do the painting.

I decided to tackle my kitchen and, holy crap, my cabinets are a piece of...um...junk. Yeah, junk. Nothing else, not any cuss words or anything like that. Just junk.

When we bought the house, I was fooled by the thick oak slab doors into thinking that even thought they’re old and needed a lot of cleaning, that they were good quality cabinets so we’d get good use out of them until we’re ready to do the big remodel.

I was super wrong. The wrongest wrong you ever did see.

They’re laminate, and it was a rental, so they’ve been seriously abused. Big time. When we first moved in, it was tricky because I’ve never had a kitchen with this kind of configuration, so I just put stuff where it fit, and figured I’d move it later. Also, the shelves can be moved, but the pegs that hold them in place were so caked with crud (someone had exploded a soda in one and never bothered to wipe it out) that I had to scrub just to get them to move and by the time I was done I was too exhausted to care. So I put the things where they fit and thought that it would be fine.

It’s been okay, especially since we had such a crazy year, but it was time to switch things to better places. So I got my pliers out and moved the shelves so I could get everything to fit. And I didn’t break anything! The shelves, however are super warped so I did pinch the crap out of myself, even if I did avoid falling and breaking my neck. Go, me!

My husband spent the (extremely hot) day outside pulling gross insulation off of the house and pulling wood off and then sawing more wood and putting it back up on the house. So that was probably just as awful as it sounds, but there’s still three more days of work to go.

My feet hurt. His feet hurt. Oh, boy. This is going to be fun.

Since I’ll be turning 40 in less than a month, I am obviously in need of some serious advice, because my ads have all been for articles, products, exercises, and clothing for women over 40. Yeah. Thanks, guys.

I have also been seeing a suspicious number of pieces with titles such as, “10 articles women over 40 should NEVER wear!” (yes, with the caps and exclamation point), which leads me to believe I may need to throw out all of my sandals and jeans and invest in some orthopedic shoes, a walker, and some sweet polyester slacks in a variety of jewel tones.

I should probably just invest in a ton of adult diapers, too, as they keep telling me that loss of bladder control is inevitable at this point, and I should probably get some Ben-Gay for the crippling arthritis that is about to descend upon my body.

Seriously, guys. It’s just a birthday. If I want to wear flip flops and jeans with holes in them, I’m going to do so. Slacks are weird and uncomfortable and make too much noise. Also, anyone who tells me to throw out my glitter nail polish is going to get my foot up their behind.

I am still a fairy princess. I’m just an old fairy princess.

So, to all the other ladies out there who aren’t ready for the nursing home and walker yet, you keep wearing your favorite things. Ignore those ads. You don’t have to be an old lady and do old lady things just because you’re not 20 anymore.

Except Murder, She Wrote. You have to watch it. J.B. Fletcher is glorious.

So we’ve survived four weeks without our mom.

Ugh.

No matter how hard it was, it was so nice to still get to see her smile and have some hope that she would perk up and get better.

And most of the time, I know the right thing happened and we’ll see her again someday.

I know some day I will look at her pictures and not cry.

Today is just not that day.

I miss my mom.

Ugh. Still with the feelings.

Well, I’ve almost survived the dreaded M Day, with the help of all the food in the world. Seriously. So much for today. It’s all vegetables for me for dinner tonight.

At any rate, I gardened and got some purple pompoms for the house, and got lots of exercise and time outside this weekend, in honor of my sweet Mama. I also bought a bunch of new dresses for the summer with a discount she had in one of her accounts. Plus, I found a hilarious meme involving toddlers, poop and a chicken with an egg in its pants, so I have a splendiferous new lock screen.

So we survived, but I miss her so much. I think I always will. She loved church and flowers and dresses on holidays, and now I don’t have my dress-up partner anymore, which is lame. I like to think, though, that where she is now there are a million dresses and a huge walk-in closet that never runs out of space. And flowers blooming everywhere, and bright sunny paths on which she can walk or run without any shoes, unless she wants to wear them.

Ugh. Still so many dumb feeling times. Barf.

Mother’s Day is rapidly approaching.

It’s going to be extra yucky this year, because now I don’t have a Mom. Also, I’m still going to get the usual, “You're a woman in her 30s, married, so you must have procreated!” deal, so that’ll be delightful.

We are, however, getting to have New Mexican food twice, so that’ll help.

I gardened for like three hours yesterday, just kind of in honor of Mom. Wow, it’s hard. Well, some of it, anyway. Milkweed and dandelion greens are a pain out here, but the grasses are easy to pull. And I’m pretty good at geraniums, so we got our pots from last year out of the garage (they stayed alive!) and pruned them back, and today I’m assembling some Adirondack chairs and making an area to sit and maybe getting some annuals going, since we’re past frost time. I think.

At any rate, it was productive and good, and hopefully the momentum from that will push me through this weekend.

Unlikely, but what the heck. Worth a try.

So we’ve been trying to live as cleanly as possible, to lower our exposure to chemicals and maybe attempt to avoid cancer. We’ve changed our cleaning products (big surprise...the natural stuff works way better and we use less, so it’s cheaper), and changed to organic everything whoever possible (I’m not paying $4 for an organic bell pepper...that’s crazy), and even use soap and shampoo made from natural thingamajiggers. So we’re pretty darn invested in trying to be more natural and less chemical with our bodies.

Except for now. I’m embracing the chemicals.

So, as you may know, I am allergic to everything. Really. I bet I’m even slightly allergic to myself. It’s ridiculous. And it’s getting worse as I get older, so go figure. About fifteen years ago, I suddenly became allergic to deodorant. Like, every single one I tried gave me a rash. Going without is just not an option because me and smells are not friends, so I kept trying and finally discovered that I could use Dove deodorant. So I’ve been using it ever since.

The problem? It contains aluminum. That’s on the no-no list. But it works and it doesn’t give me a rash, so I was going to use up my Costco multi-pack and then try something new; however, fate intervened.

I woke up a few days ago with an eczema spot in my armpit. Ugh. Usually means allergies.

So I thought, “Okay, I’ll use this as an opportunity to try a new deodorant.” Went to the natural, non antiperspirant section of the deodorant area, and found something which had nothing I’m allergic to on the label, and smelled less like patchouli than the other choices, and went for it.

This morning? Yeah.....

I woke up with a huge rash covering my entire armpit, and smelling like some strange person had come and rubbed b.o. all over my armpits. Has to be someone else, because I’ve never smelled like this. Wow. Just, wow.

So, I’m tossing this one in the failure column and going back to my chemical-laden Dove. The one that works because, hell, maybe I got that little spot but that’s what cortisone cream is for.

Hippie life is one thing, but stinky rashy armpits are just too much in my neck of the woods.

We’re all doing okay.

I thought I should start off with that, since every time I talk to anyone, that’s what they’re wondering. How am I, how’s Dad, how’s my husband, how’s my sister.....

...we’re okay. Not great, but okay.

It’s hard to have this huge space that was filled with worry and effort and trying to figure out how to beat the cancer and save Mom be suddenly empty. And then every time I look at photos, I see her face and I realize that all of her silly happy outgoingness isn’t here anymore, and it hurts.

I suppose I could stop looking at pictures, but that would hurt, too. Because she was a great mom.

At any rate, we’re all back to work and organizing the house so my dad can get it set up in a way that will work well for him, and we’re glad he’s hanging in there. But it’s weird not to hear her singing to the dogs. And it’s weird not to google colon cancer cures. It’s also weird to see big, bright windows where her bed was in their TV room, and not to have to tell anybody that I’m not done with my water glass, so they don’t need to put it into the dishwasher.

Little things.

But we’re okay. It’s not brutal anymore, or intensely worrying, or any of that. Just a little lonely and empty. I’m sure that’ll get better, but, boy, do I miss my mom.

Well, we didn’t get our miracle.

Or, at least, we didn’t get it here, but my Mom is out of that body that was hurting her so much, so she got hers. And now she can run and fly and do all the things she loves without having to pay the price later.

So that’s a wonderful thing to think of.

But I’m a little selfish and I miss her smile and I miss her little songs to the dogs and I miss how much she loved all of us. Like, so much.

It’s hard when somebody’s not there and you realize that the amount of love they put out there was so huge there’s this enormous gap. And I’m just facing that gap for the rest of my life.

It’s rough.

But she’s getting all the wonderful things she ever dreamed of right now, and she has so many friends and family surrounding her right now, so she’s got people to take care of, and she feels well and can take care of everybody again.

So that’s awesome.

But not right now, because it hurts, and I realize that my soft, squishy, constantly breaking heart is the way it is because I learned empathy and mothering from her.

I got to thank her, and I got to apologize for all the crap I pulled, and I got to make sure she felt loved all the way through, and that is also something to be grateful for.

But it still sucks.

She was sunshiny, beautiful, naïve, more generous than most people would think was humanly possible, and she loved us all with food and presents and too much of everything, in a good way. And it’s not likely that life will ever give us a chance to be cared for so thoroughly again, at least, not on this planet.

So, I’m thankful and sad and mourning and breaking and joyful, all at once. And it’s horrible.

But she’s good now. So we’ll go through this and hold on to that.

Well, Mom and Dad are hanging in there, but it was another rough week. Mom is a trooper, and Dad’s pretty burly, too...it’s beyond hard to watch someone you love go through this.

With no help from the doctors except more morphine. Ugh.

However, it’s amazing how tough my Mom is when she wants to do something. All week long, she’s been home, in bed, basically lucky to get to walk a loop around the backyard. But yesterday, we had planned to have her good friends from church take a trip down here in the church van to see my house and have lunch.

I mean, the lady is frail right now and feeling pretty crappy.

So, of course, she did it anyway, and did great.

She didn’t go to lunch, but she got dressed up, rode in the car, and then napped in her room at my house while we had lunch, and then I made her some oatmeal and she went home. For her that was a huge deal, and she did it! Yay!

Today seems a bit better, too.

Even though we get looks from people, like maybe they think we’re insane, we will still have hope, no matter what. There are better things ahead for her and for us, I just know it. We can do this, even though it sucks right now.

It’s been a rough few days. The meds for the pain my mom has have started causing her to fade behind a weird fog that makes her sleep all day, hallucinate, and become completely disoriented at times.

She’s lost the dignity of going to the bathroom alone. She’s lost the ability to remember where she’s going or what she’s doing. She is now being treated like a child because her confusion is so great that we’re worried she’ll injure herself.

And then she has moments of lucidity and we can see her underneath this haze.

Fortunately, it seems that these effects may have come from too much opioid medication; unfortunately, the effects are receding slowly and are very scary.

And we are all so tired, especially my dad.

And some asshat stole my dad’s debit card number so he’s had to cancel his card, get a new one, and also remember to change all of the automatic monthly payments that come out of this card. Because he didn’t have enough on his plate.

And life goes on, and work goes on, and all the things we have to do to keep up with bills and the house and the pets and the cars still need to be done.

I am so grateful she’s with us and comfortable. I’m so grateful we have kind hospice people to help. I’m so happy that she has such an amazing husband who loves caring for her and makes her feel so safe and happy. I am beyond thankful for a husband who loves them as much as I do and is willing to drop our normal routine to go with me to help out the little bit that I can.

But, wow. This is difficult. And I can’t imagine what’s going to happen next.

Ugh.

P.S. Fentanyl is the devil, just in case you were wondering.

Tip of the week: If you send a person who has been put on hospice an “encouragement” card, don’t write a message detailing all of the things you’ll miss about that person when they die. In case you didn’t figure it out, that’s a crappy, morbid thing to do.

Also, don’t send a follow-up birthday card doing it again.

Maybe just don’t write.

Or call.

Maybe staying away is best, because this hospice lady isn’t going anywhere, and her family kind of wants to punch you for being a douchebag.

The end.

When it’s Tuesday, I like to congratulate myself on the fact that I have survived one whole day of this week. Then I like to silently weep into my coffee because there are four days left until Saturday.

Barf.

So I have come up with a new plan for getting through the week, and I thought I’d share it with all two of you who read this blog (yeah, I know): Cake.

See? It’s the perfect plan!

But seriously, I figure if my mom could potty train me in one go using M&Ms as a reward, I can get myself through the week using cake as a reward. Like so: If I stick to my diet all week, I can have a piece of cake at some point during the weekend.

I know it seems backward to reward healthy eating with a pile of sugar and fat, but that’s pretty much all I really want these days.

And I can earn bonus food, too. For instance, if I go for a walk after work at least three times this week, I’m going to have a beer while watching tv on a Friday night. See how easy that is?

Life skillz.

I am feeling so smart right now.

I’ve gotten some comments on the fact that I participate in Lent every year, but I don’t really consider myself to be super religious. I know I don’t owe anybody an explanation, but I thought I’d like to go ahead and just explain anyway.

Because.

So, I believe in God. And I believe that believing in God should make me different. It should change the way I treat my fellow creatures and it should change me and make me want to be a better person. Not in order to do anything for God, but because it makes me see that there is order and reason, and the more crap I can remove from myself, the closer I can get to enjoying all of the wonderful things and letting go of all of the little stuff that doesn’t really mean anything to me. God doesn’t need me to do anything. God is God.

So why do something during Lent?

It gives me a task. It gives me a short period of time to focus on improving something about myself that I feel is getting in the way of me being the best person I can be. I’m not bargaining with God for a higher place in the order of things; I really don’t think God is that bothered with my experiment between Ash Wednesday and Easter. There are so many much more important things in the world beside me and my Lenten plans.

So, last year, it was meditating. I’m still meditating daily, and it has actually helped me immensely over the past year. This year, I’m staying off Facebook. Not all social media; just Facebook. I feel like it’s the internet version of middle school, except peopled entirely by adults. All facade, no substance. It’s just getting exhausting. I think I’ll be continuing this Lenten adventure past Easter. It hasn’t really been that hard, though I’ll admit, I’ve gone on twice. The first time was an accident, and the second time was all about stalking somebody’s page. It needed to be done. Not sorry.

At any rate, that’s all. It’s an opportunity for self-improvement. No biggie, but it’s important to me.

Well, I thought it was finally tough enough that it couldn’t get any worse.

I was wrong. I am getting to a place where that isn’t a difficult thing to say any more.

My husband just lost his Dad, and it’s a sad time for the family. No matter how old we get, or how far away we live, or how many little disagreements we get into, it’s always sad when a part of life changes permanently.

And, yes, he is much happier and healthier and in a better place now, which is great. His last weeks on this planet were just awful. He can have a good meal now and go build all the things and not have to feel run-down and weak any more.

But his wife and daughter feel like their house is a lot emptier.

And that’s sad. And we can’t fix it.

Sigh.

Come on, 2018. Something positive? Pretty please? Because this is shaping up to look a lot like 2016, and I don’t think I can handle another year like that.

As sweet and thoughtful as the people who have periodically cooked my parents dinner over the last two years plus are, here’s the thing....

...how the hell do you people survive, cooking that way?

I know everyone’s got some different taste buds, but some of these combos have me sincerely worried for your children, guys. Mystery cream sauces? Onions and blueberries and pasta? Meat that might be chicken, might be beef, might be pork, but we can’t get a consensus and no one’s rude enough to ask, plus it’s encased in gelatin, so there’s that?

Yeah. I wanted to start a photo series called, “Chemo Mystery Edibles” but I thought some people might take it wrong. See, I was brought up by a mom who can make anything. Just, anything. She even knows how to make the heart healthy cookbook stuff taste amazing. So I’m not used to this bland, weirdly spiced, midwestern type of cuisine.

That sounded insulting.

I really don’t mean to be mean. It’s so sweet for people to bring her food and, quite honestly, now that mom’s not up to cooking, they eat a heck of a lot of frozen dinners and eggs and vegetarian things (that one’s my bad), so anything home cooked is welcome.

But maybe throw a label on there. The last one was all kinds of mysterious.

I can’t even.

This hair thing is making me crazy. I can’t believe it’s this annoying, but there you go.

I feel like the more hair I have, the weirder I look, but it’s almost like I just keep going to see what it’s going to do the next day, because it couldn’t possibly get any weirder. But then, it always does, so there you go.

My hair doesn’t lie flat, like normal hair. I don’t have to do things to it to make it have volume. It wants to stand up straight. At this point, I’ve got nine months of growth, so it’s about five inches long at the longest point (I know, my hair grows ridiculously slowly), and I can make it stand up straight and stay there without help from any product. Seriously. All I have to do is run my fingers through it in an upward motion, and there it is. My long spiky hair, in all its glory.

But I don’t want that.

I want commercial hair that is flowy and looks like shiny sparkly normal hair.

I want hair that doesn’t break off when it gets more than a couple of inches long, and hair that isn’t flaky all of the time because of the lovely psoriasis patch I have on my head. (Yeah, overshare, I know, but it’s in the interest of science. Or not. Shut up.)

I’m sick of people asking me when I’m going to grow my hair out. It’s been nine months. Some people can grow a whole baby in this amount of time. I have survived hundreds of bad hair days and grown about four inches of hair (I’m guessing it was maybe an inch or so when I started, but I didn’t measure, so this isn’t exactly a scientific study. But it should be.).

A whole baby versus four inches of hair.

Wow.

Well, at least my hair doesn’t have diaper changes, midnight feedings, and it doesn’t barf on my best shirts. That’s a plus.

I’m seriously considering chopping it off. My brain knows that it’s not going to get any better. Damn it. Maybe a hat. Headbands don’t fit my ginormous head very well.

Crap.

Hovering on the brink of puppy time. We actually sent in an application to a breeder, because we found and fell in love with a pup.

And then we talked about logistics and realized that the only way we could do it is if we had some pretty significant help during the beginning crazy puppy/potty training/chewing up all of the things time, because I do have to go into the office sometimes, which is far enough away from home that I’d have to crate the puppy at someone else’s house, in the town where I work. And the obvious person has his hands full already.

Which is pretty much the same as buying somebody a puppy without asking if they want one.

Which means it’s not a good plan.

Sigh.

So instead, we bought a chocolate cake and had a big piece and then put the rest in the freezer for the next time life forces us to make an adult decision when all we really want is a puppy to play with and smooch.

Sigh, again.

Well, February has been interesting.

Mom is still going strong, despite being reminded frequently that she’s not supposed to be.

We’re still pushing hard to keep her motivated and believing in herself.

The phone calls from people who want to see her “one last time” are still pouring in. (P.S. People. Come on. It’s not helpful. How is she supposed to be hopeful when you aren’t? Doctors are wrong ALL THE TIME. Every day. Knock it off.)

This month’s motto, thus far? WE ARE NOT IN MOURNING. Stop it. For reals. She can be healthy. She can be well. She can have hope. This does not make us idiots, it means we are making educated opinions about our own situations, because we have a complete picture of all of the circumstances.

Also, though, that doesn’t mean it’s not the hardest thing any of us could’ve imagined. Seriously. This is like a marathon that never ends. We don’t need the weight of other people’s pessimism weighing us down right now. If all you’re going to do is make somebody cry, stay away. We don’t have time for that. Bring her flowers and encourage her on her journey. Don’t bring her your guilt about staying away when she needed you. That’s lame.

She’s been everyone’s supporter and cheerleader her whole life. Now it’s time to return the favor.

Ugh. Some people, though.

Feeling better today. Less pissy.

Yesterday was the family meeting with hospice to set up care for my Mom. And the phone was ringing off the hook and it was just too much. And it made me mad.

Today, though, we will move on and not let their narrow set of options affect us. As much. We will keep hoping, even though they aren’t encouraging.

And we will hit the eye cream, big time, because the bag situation is getting crazy.

Here’s a tip: Either be there, or don’t. Don’t act like you’re somebody’s best friend when you’ve let them down for the last couple of years. Don’t ignore them for two years of chemo, recovery, sickness, hospitalizations, more chemo, and more hours of bed rest than anyone should ever have to endure, and then pick up the phone when you hear through the grapevine that their doctor has given up on treating them.

It’s crap.

My mom has gradually lost touch with many friends over the last couple of years. She has a few wonderful people who call regularly and make an effort to come and cheer her up. It’s been hard for her to make plans because she gets sick sometimes at the last minute, and has to cancel, so I get that many of her friends just stopped trying after a little while. Other people have their own stuff. I get it.

But since the day of the horrible news, her phone has been ringing non-stop, and it’s mostly people who haven’t bothered to check in since we started this terrible journey in January 2016.

Don’t. It’s crap.

Don’t leave messages saying things like, “Hi, honey! Just checking in. I’ve been thinking about you!”

No, you haven’t. You heard that she got bad news and you want to hear it from the source. Or you feel guilty because you forgot her. But where have you been in the in-between? Did you ever once call and check on her when she was in the hospital with the weird fever and swollen legs and stuck in bed but feeling antsy and bored? Did you remember her that first birthday when she was on chemo and feeling horrible? Did you check in during the year we were watching and waiting to see what the chemo and the emobilizations would do, while we had that horrible cancer weighing our hearts down and making us all feel this horrible dread every single day with no relief?

No.

So don’t call now. She doesn’t have time for friends who only bothered with her when she was her pre-cancer, do anything for anyone who needs it, happy, sunshiny, self. Now, every day is a struggle to stay present and not be overwhelmed with the fear and the unknown. Every day is a big question mark while we wait to see how long her body can continue to fight off this terrible disease, while trying to minimize the damage her spirit has sustained.

She has so many people who love her and have stayed by her side through this time. She has put so much love out into the world, and the people who love her have made sure that she gets some of that back. She is safe. She is appreciated.

So, don’t. Just don’t.

Wow, it must be a record! I’ve blogged twice now this week.

Go, me.

It’s amazing how different I feel from ten days ago. It was already hard, but it’s gotten so much harder. (Go ahead, give me a, “That’s what she said.” I deserve it.)

I think we’re so conditioned to just accept what doctors say as gospel truth, and when they give up on us, we tend to give up on ourselves. So it’s hard to keep believing that something good could still happen.

I know good things have happened, by the way. We’ve been blessed with a wonderful family who like each other and get along really well most of the time, and we all have beautiful, safe homes and pets to make them happier and plenty of food and newish cars and all of that good stuff.

We have enough money to go to the doctor when we need to, and we have jobs with good co-workers and we live in towns that are pretty darn safe and friendly.

We all believe in God, in our own ways, and we all respect the differences in our beliefs and never fight about religion or politics (which in some families might be a minus, but we are big non-confrontationalists in our house so that’s all good for us).

So we have all of this good stuff, but the words that came out of that doctor’s mouth last week are ruining everything with their poopy pessimistic finality.

Or, I’m letting them ruin everything. Because I do believe in miracles. It’s just kind of tiring when they don’t happen when and how I want them to. I know it doesn’t mean that it won’t, and I know it doesn’t mean we won’t ever have happy times again. It just feels like we’ve been slogging through the darkness forever, and my heart hurts.

Ugh.

So I’m brightening everyone else’s day with my little ray of sunshine, hahahahahahaha. Also, every time you put, “That’s what she said.” on the internet anywhere, another unicorn is born, so there’s that.

Two. Two unicorns. My work here is done.

I’m trying to grow up and be a good person and be very adult like about things such as life, death, taxes, you know. That old chestnut.

It’s kind of rough.

So we’re making a plan. A plan that involves refusing to buy into any supposed expiration dates for people.  Most specifically, my mom. After her last test, they just sent us all home and said it would be a couple of months more and then that would be it.

However, we think that’s a load of crap and we don’t like it, so we are trying something different.

Cancer sucks, though. I need to get that in there. It really, really sucks. And for those of you who think that our advanced civilization has the cancer problem beat, I am here to tell you that it most certainly does not. There’s so much talk about the advances we’ve made in breast and prostate cancer, but there are so many other kinds of cancer that don’t have the same kind of funding for research, and even then, people are still dealing with those cancers, too, and all that funding doesn’t seem to make a dent in the number of people who get the cancer in the first place. If we don’t figure out why there are so many people whose bodies are attacking them with these rapidly multiplying cells, we are all going to have to deal with this at some point. 

So what do you do when your doctor sends you home and gives up?

Well, you buy a book. The book we’ve started with is called Anticancer, and it’s all about changing how you think and what you put into your body, and exercise, and all that good stuff. And then, after you read that, you find other books, like Radical Remission, and you realize that people do live through terminal diagnoses. It happens, and it happens more than we hear about.

So you make a plan, and you decide to go with positivity, meditation, massage, healthy eating and exercise. Rather than just sinking into the pit of despair. 

And that’s that. That’s where we’re at. We WILL be hopeful. We WILL beat this.  My mother IS NOT a statistic. There is no lying back and accepting this. 

We are going to eat all the vegetables.

I ate mushrooms yesterday and asparagus on Saturday, ON PURPOSE.

I know. That’s crazy. But not any less so than the last two years have been. Let’s go.

Just wrote my first blog post in weeks (Google locked me out for some reason, but today I got it to work), and I realized it was seriously depressing.

A whole page of sick people, more sick people, blah blah blah blah blah.

Anyway, I deleted it all and decided to just post this pretty picture. My husband has always hated my Subaru (issues with the transmission and this weird noise from the back end), so he surprised me yesterday while I was home sick with a gross chest cold. Yep, drove up with a surprise new car, just for me.

Because he’s sweet and it’s just been so crappy for so long, he thought I needed a boost.

Meet Vanilla Thunder...

Eeeeeeeeeeeee! So cute. And much less soccer carpoolish. Not that that’s a bad thing, just not my thing, ha ha. Life is still ever so lifey, but gee whiz, my husband is the best.

Hey! It’s 2018!

Yeah, we woke up this morning to a busted heater in our bedroom and the start of a diet, so that’s pretty awesome. Otherwise, I’ve decided that I will make this the year of not worrying about it.

Ha ha ha ha ha.

No, but really, I’m trying not to be actively pessimistic. I was trying for optimism earlier in 2017, but I think that’s just not a good fit for me. Plus, it never works out and then I just feel like crap. So, this year, I am going for a non-optimistic, non-pessimistic, middle ground. That way, I’m more in the moment. My meditation regime worked, so maybe this’ll work, too.

Or not. But, either way, maybe it’ll be less stressful.

Dieting, though. Ugh. I am not a fan. I’ve been on a diet my whole life, and it hasn’t worked yet. Oh, well. I’ll keep going.

Not optimistically, that’s for damn sure. But not pessimistically, either. I guess.

So...onto 2018 and all that. Have a (fill in your own personal choice of an adjective) New Year. Woohoo.