“Did you need something Sweetie?”
I’m looking up at this nurse, who insists on calling me “Sweetie” even though I’m more than double her age and even though there’s nothing “sweet” about me. She’s in her mid forties and has her curly hair dyed baboon red. She smells like cigarettes, so I assume she smokes. She’s a large woman, the kind I like, but she wears too much makeup.
“Mr. Cleveland, honey, you okay? Did you hit the call button?”
She’s crouched down closer to me now, in my face. She’s definitely a smoker. I did press the call button, but I hesitate to answer her because even though I’m about to piss myself, I don’t want her to fumble around with my genitals and watch me go.
“I gotta make water,” I say flatly. “Okay!” She exclaims, as though we’re about to decorate a damn birthday cake or go for a car ride. She spins around and grabs a pair of plastic gloves from the box attached to the wall. “Let’s get you all set up, Mr. Cleveland!” She’s talking to herself mostly, and probably attempting to make it seem like she doesn’t mind lowering an old man’s pants and pulling his penis out for him so he can take a leak. She ducks into the bathroom to get the bedpan, which isn’t even a bedpan but a plastic container with a handle that she’ll stick my junk into so I can go. She’s by my bed now, raising the back part up which makes no sense to me because I really don’t want to watch this whole show. She mumbles a few more “okays” and “here we goes” as she lowers the covers and grabs my pants at the sides to lower them. She struggles only a bit to get them down and I watch her large arms jiggle as she works. I’m wearing a diaper, not because I’m incontinent but because the nursing home is understaffed, which to me is an unjustified indignity.
“Alright, you’re all set, Sweetie, now let ‘er rip!” I look down at my lap where my penis is now in a plastic cup, which she is holding. She’s looking at me and waits. I wish she’d look away but she doesn’t. “C’mon Mr. Cleveland, are you having trouble?” She asks.
Just then Ms. Yancey stumbles into the room because the stupid nurse forgot to close my door. Ms. Yancey’s wearing her pink nightgown which gapes open in the back, revealing her naked body which I figure I’ve seen about a hundred times since I’ve been here. “Oooooh trouble, you are in trouble, yes you are, she said trouble-TROUBLE!” Ms. Yancey had reverted back to her childhood a long time ago and taken on the persona of an annoying 6 year old girl. A younger nurse scrambles to my room to collect Ms. Yancey, and remarks that she only turned her back for a moment but Ms. Yancey is so quick.
There are now four people in my room, two of us with our privates on display, and all the while I’m supposed to be making a piss. Ms. Yancey and the young nurse leave and I’m still looking at the door to my room, which is still open, when I hear my nurse giggle. “Uh-oh Honey, looks like he’s on full retreat!” And sure enough when I look down, I see that my johnson’s turtled up on me. She jerks the cup away and starts pulling my pants back up telling me it’s okay and we’ll try again later. “Yep, that’s okay Mr. Cleveland, we’ll just give him some time and try again later.” I want to punch her or get an erection or something, anything to show her I’m a man. She leaves before any of that can happen.
I still have to pee. I press the call button again and hope I get a different nurse. Maybe the young one that was with Ms. Yancey. No one comes. I press the call button again. I wait. I wait for maybe five or six minutes before I press it a third time. For god’s sake I have really got to go now! Maybe two more minutes pass and it’s a critical situation. No one comes. I feel it about to happen and then it does: I piss myself. It’s an orgasmic feeling mixed with relief and disgust, the kind of feeling you have as a young boy when you first learn to masturbate. I’m sweating lightly and I can smell myself, and the piss, and since no one’s come to attend to me I assume I’ll be sitting in my own urine until the lunchtime rounds.
Hours pass and I sit in my bed, in my urine, and try to drown out the television which is blaring a children’s cartoon. Every morning an attendant comes in and turns my television on so I can watch the news and keep abreast of current events, which of course is foundational for someone in my position. The damned thing stays on until an attendant or a nurse finally answers the call button and turns it off for me. “Now Mr. Cleveland,” they’ll say, “I just can’t understand why you don’t like watching television! The other residents really enjoy it!” What was to enjoy? I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t enjoy anything. I’d lost the ability to “enjoy.”
I watch the clock until it turns noon, time for the lunch rounds. My room is second from the nurse’s station, so not much time passes before a nurse comes for me. It’s the same red head from this morning and a younger colored boy whom I don’t like. I tell them about my accident so Nurse Red changes my diaper. I get her to turn of the television, and the colored boy asks me why I don’t like to watch The Price is Right, since it’s coming on and he incorrectly assumes that because I want the tv off, it must be because I don’t like that show. I ignore him. Collectively, Nurse Red and the boy lift me out of the bed and into my wheelchair. Immediately, the bed alarm goes off, signaling that I’ve attempted to get out of bed, probably fallen, and someone should come and pick me up. Nurse Red shuts off the alarm and I watch her closely as she does it. She leaves, and the boy attempts to put my slippers on my feet, but I’ve already decided I don’t want his black ass touching me so I refuse to cooperate until he finally gives up. “Alright Mr. Cleveland, no shoes today.” He sighs and wheels me out of the room toward the dining hall. We pass another orderly, also colored, and the two orderlies have a brief exchange, most of which I don’t understand because it sounds like jive. I’m wheeled in to the dining hall with the rest of the zombies, and positioned at a table with Ms. Yancey and Mrs. Tucker, which means Mr. Tucker will be joining us shortly, which means after he’s finished eating he’ll remove his false teeth and hand them to Mrs. Tucker, who will then clean them with her napkin. Mr. and Mrs. Tucker no longer recognize one another as husband and wife, but Mr. Tucker’s habit of handing his teeth to his wife after dinner for cleaning was something he’d apparently done when they did know one another. Old habits die hard, I guess.
I look around the dining hall. The room is a graveyard of the undead. It is a trophy case of discarded, battered relics, shelved here by families that did not know what to do with a useless life form that could not yet be buried. It is purgatory. Table after table of expressionless faces, most with heads hung. Ms. Freeman sits at the table adjacent to mine, cradling a life-sized toy baby doll and singing to it. She strokes its head and rocks it back and forth. She is never without it. At Christmas the nurses bought presents for the baby; clothes, diapers, a crib. Ms. Freeman has convinced them that she believes it is her baby, and that it is real. I don’t believe her. I suspect she uses the doll to give her life purpose. It’s easier to be in here if there is something or someone that requires you in order to exist.
Mr. Tucker joins our table and the orderlies come around and place bibs on us. Mrs. Tucker doesn’t like her bib, so she jerks it off and throws it at Ms. Yancey, who barely notices. She then curses the orderly who tried to place the bib on her and mentions something about her mother. The orderlies then begin serving lunch. The colored boy sits mine in front of me and says that he loves egg salad sandwiches, so I assume that’s what I got. Ms. Yancey is upset and starts crying because she was hoping for grilled cheese and tomato soup but got a pb&j and a banana instead. After everyone is served, the orderlies tend to those of us who cannot feed ourselves. The Tuckers can still feed themselves, but it isn’t a pretty sight. My right hand is too unsteady and my left arm is paralyzed from a stroke, so I cannot lift food to my mouth. The colored boy pulls a chair up beside mine and breaks my sandwich up into small pieces he’s going to try to get me to eat. I’ve already decided I’m not going to eat lunch because I don’t want him touching my food. He lifts a forkful of egg salad to my mouth but I turn my head. “C’mon Mr. Cleveland, you have to eat some lunch. Aren’t you hungry?” I’m not hungry, because I’m never hungry, but even if I was I still wouldn’t let him feed me. Food doesn’t have flavor anymore. It just feels like texture in my mouth, tumbling around until it slides down my throat. I’ve mostly given up eating, which is an unfortunate predicament for me, since the only thing anyone around here wants you to do is eat. Three meals and two snacks a day, five times for someone to treat you like you’re not adult enough to know if you are or aren’t hungry. I eat enough to keep talks of a feeding tube at bay and no more.
Just as lunch is finishing up and Mrs. Tucker is cleaning Mr. Tucker’s false teeth, my two daughters, Rose and Claire, walk in. I recognize them both but admit to recognizing only one, the eldest, Rose. Rose was a terrible child and is a terrible adult. She doesn’t care about me and rarely comes to visit. The only reason she is here now is because Claire is in town. I have appointed Claire as the executer of my estate and she has handled my personal finances for the past 8 years as my health has been on the decline. Once I had the stroke, Claire wanted to move here to care for me, so I pretended to have forgotten who she was so she wouldn’t do it. Early on, I even had to feign fear of her, because simply not remembering her wasn’t enough to keep her away. It was easy enough to convince people I’d forgotten them. The stroke mangled my speech so the majority of what comes out of my mouth isn’t what I want to say, but just a string of sounds that don’t form words. I can speak clearly, but it takes great effort. The stroke also twisted my face into a distorted sort of permanent smile. Combine these characteristics with the general physical and mental effects of old age and people automatically assume you have dementia, are “out of it” or have just plain lost your mind.
Rose and Claire both greet and hug me. The same initial questions that everyone always asks, “how ya feelin’, how ya been?” are asked and I reply “good” to both, which is a lie because I am not good. Claire unfastens my bib and pushes me back to my room with Rose following close behind. God forbid that I should have a moment of clarity and give Claire anything else that Rose would want. Rose will get nothing directly from my estate. Claire can choose to give to her from what she inherits, but that will be Claire’s decision. Rose has cost me the few remaining years of my relationship with Claire and I do not forgive her for it. Had Rose been a good child, she, who is not married and does not have any children, would have cared for me in my time of need, thereby eliminating my need to be in this place, and the need to sever my relationship with Claire. I am not angry with Rose, but I do not love her.
Once in the room Rose and Claire pull up chairs across from me so they can stare at me and make small talk, pretending that I am not in a nursing home, I am not ill, and that there is not an elderly woman screaming at the top of her lungs in the room next to us. They mostly talk to themselves and I don’t really listen to what they say. Then Claire pulls up closer to me. “Daddy,” she says gently, “Mama was talking about you today. She said your name twice.” She looks at me half hoping I’ll remember her and half hoping I’ll go visit her mother, who is bed-ridden in the last room on the same hall as mine. I ignore her. I hadn’t seen her mother, Martha, since the Alzheimer’s had erased her memory of me. That was about two years before I moved into the nursing home. I grieved for her and buried her in my heart and mind. She was gone, and all that remained was an empty shell. It was true that she did say my name quite frequently; the nurses, orderlies and other visitors confirmed it. But she wasn’t really talking about me. She was merely voicing a last remaining memory, a single name, in hopes of not losing it, though she could not recall its significance. I could sometimes hear her shouting it, but the sound was distant, like a memory.
“He won’t see her, Claire, why do you bother him with her?” Rose says, as she relocates herself behind my chair and begins to stroke the top of my head as though I’m a puppy or a small child. She’s doing her best impersonation of someone who gives a damn but I’m not buying it for a minute. Claire looks dejected. “Daddy,” Rose coos, “why don’t we go out to the courtyard so you can have some fresh air?” I don’t want to go, but if I stay in my room I will most likely be visited by a physical therapist who will try to convince me to do some ridiculous calisthenics in case I ever walk again. I pity the therapist, because his job must seem so useless to him. His entire day is spent bending and moving the limbs of dead trees, as though perhaps bending them will awaken some dormant filament of life that will miraculously burst through and renew the entire vessel.
Rose wheels my chair out of my room and the three of us head to the north exit of the building, toward the courtyard. Exiting via the north exit requires that we pass by Martha’s room. I don’t look in, but as we pass I hear her say the name James. Claire begins to cry and Rose stops my chair. I continue to face the door to the north exit and mutter “Go.” Rose pushes me further toward the door, but Claire has fallen back and gone into her mother’s room. I am angry that Rose suggested we go outdoors, as now that this has happened my time with Claire will be even more brief.
“Here we are, Daddy, a nice spot in the sun!” Rose has inadvertently placed me directly facing the blinding sun, but she doesn’t pay attention because she’s lighting a cigarette. The truth for her suggestion to go outside now revealed. Rose puffs, and I sit. She’s sitting backwards on a picnic table with her legs crossed, leaning back on the table top. The shirt she is wearing would be much too revealing if her long, auburn hair didn’t cascade down past her breasts. She was built just like her mother, with legs a mile long. She was beautiful, there was no questioning that, but she had tethered herself to her beauty at a surprisingly early age. It was almost as if she was born knowing that she could use her beauty to manipulate and damage those around her. She could string a man along for months to years at a time, all the while draining his bank accounts and corrupting him morally and socially. She was just like her mother.
She exhales smoke and looks upward. “Oh Daddy, isn’t this just the most beautiful day?” She asks, but doesn’t look at me and therefore doesn’t expect or want a reply. I maintain my silence and keep my eyes closed against the sun. We are alone in the courtyard and I consider telling her how much she disgusts me, but she’s talking again about something I don’t care about. She finishes her cigarette and I ask her to take me back inside. She shrugs but obliges, and we head for the north entrance. Claire is still in her mother’s room and I make the mistake of glancing in. Martha is sitting upright in bed looking straight at me. I have not laid eyes on her in years. Despite her disease and her age, she remained insurmountably beautiful. Her shoulder length white hair is combed and set, and she’s wearing color on her lips and cheeks; probably Claire’s doing. Claire is sitting beside her bed, holding her hand. “JAMES!” Martha cries out, “Please come to me James!” Rose continues to push my chair but I tell her to stop. I am past Martha’s door, but I can still hear her calling my name. I debate whether to go to her, whether to allow her to look at me, touch me, and hope for forgiveness for whatever she cannot remember that brings her such guilt. Martha will die soon, and I know this is what she wants. She cannot remember our relationship, and she cannot remember me, but she remembers the feelings. She feels the guilt produced by years of abusing a husband who would’ve given his life for hers. She aches with the agony produced when she forgot me before she forgot her “other.”
I’m still thinking of what to do next and Rose starts pushing again, without so much as a nod from me. It’s disrespectful, but I allow it. “She’s crazy anyhow, Dad, you know that.” Rose says, and laughs uncomfortably. It’s an awkward attempt to bind up an awkward situation, but it is genuine. “Mom’s been gone a long, long time.” She says. I remain silent and she pushes my chair toward my room.
I hear Martha mutter my name once more, but her voice is so faint. Ms. Yancey is having a nap and the hall is quiet. The wheels on my chair squeak lightly as Rose pushes. Room after room we pass with shades pulled closed and lamps dimmed. Even the nurses and orderlies have fallen silent, so as not to wake the undead from their midday slumber. We reach my room and Rose positions me in the corner, near my bed. An orderly has already been in and pulled the dark shades to block out the afternoon sun. The room is a hazy, coffee color; like the final shade of dusk. Rose leaves the room, and I am alone.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
My Story: Part II
**This portion of My Story has been co-authored by my mother, Kathy, and is told from her perspective.**
II
Twice in my life I have known the meaning of the word “surreal.” The first instance came during the heart-wrenching months that followed after learning my mother was dying of colon cancer. The second was receiving a call from my daughter in a drug rehabilitation clinic in Las Vegas, Nevada. On both occasions, I felt as though I had stepped outside of myself. It was like watching myself in an old silent movie; I was the actor, but the circumstances and feelings were not mine. The thing about these surreal moments is that I never had any warning that they were coming. There was no time to prepare, mentally or physically. There was no “transition” period, wherein I could adjust to my new out-of-body existence. During both of these periods of my life I had no control over the events that were so rapidly unfolding. Instead, I was swept up in their tide without any say to the matter, forced to hold on for dear life to any sense of normalcy or stability I could find.
The call from my daughter, my only child, came just after dinner time in September of 2004. The caller identification displayed “Clark County Rehabilitation.” I lifted the receiver to my ear and heard my daughter weeping. “Mom? I, I can’t stay here-I’m scared!” A wave of nausea swept over my body and for a moment I thought I might faint, as I realized that what Misty had confessed to me in an email earlier in the week was disastrously true; she was horribly addicted to prescription pain medication.
Answering that call forced me to travel down a dark road I never wanted to travel down. I was completely ill-prepared for this journey. Drug addiction? What do I do? How do I help her? Why did she do this? Should I have known? When children are born, they do not come with a manual, but you believe in your heart that if you raise your child in church and teach them to have high moral standards, these types of things won’t happen. It’s such a false sense of security we, as parents, give ourselves. It’s a false, candy-coated faith that we allow to seep into our souls, believing that hard times do not befall “good Christians.” We so incorrectly assume that a proper upbringing will shield our children from struggle and temptation that we fail to prepare them for it. But then again, how do you prepare a child for drug addiction?
Not us. This wasn’t happening to us. Not to our perfect little family. We were Southern Baptists for goodness sake! Misty was in church practically from inception. Sunday morning, Sunday night, Monday night, Wednesday night, fellowship dinners, youth camps and revivals-we were always there. Misty was baptized in the second grade and even wanted to be a missionary when she grew up. And she wasn’t a problem child either. She was sarcastic, but what kid wasn’t? Even as a teenager she was never in any kind of remarkable trouble. Good grades, involved with extracurricular activities at school, lots of friends. Once she even called us to come pick her up from a sleep-over at a friend’s house because they had beer in the refrigerator! When she graduated high school, she wanted to go to college and teach dance.
And now she was a junkie. What a loss of innocence. What a loss of intelligence. What a loss of time. What a life-changing, world-altering phone call.
That call couldn’t have come at a worse time if it had looked back on the history of our lives and hand-picked it. We’d moved from our sweet home Alabama to Brunswick, Georgia and finally to Mechanicsville, Maryland; two towns that I am certain were completely inhabited by aliens. We’d never felt so out of place in our lives. It was like wearing two left shoes. Additionally, it was during this time that I watched my mother die of cancer. It was the hardest thing I’d done. Daddy had promised her he wouldn’t put her in a nursing home and we made sure it never happened. It involved much sacrifice, emotionally, physically, completely. Her cancer killed parts of my spirit along with her body. For eight months I watched the woman that raised me, that I loved beyond measure, that I was certain I couldn’t live without, slip right out of my life forever. My heart ached so bad it physically hurt. I drove to Virginia every two weeks to help Daddy care for Mama. In the early months, I sat by her bed with pen and paper and recorded her last wishes. “Give my clothes to Lisa because they’ll fit her. I want my things out of the house as soon as the funeral is over. I don’t want them to cause your daddy more grief.”
It was during the early months of Mama’s illness that Misty decided to move to Las Vegas. Mama wanted me to go back home to Georgia to say goodbye, but there was no one to fill in for me if I left, and by that point, Daddy couldn’t care for her on his own. I had no choice but to stay. I told Mama it was okay, I really didn’t want to go anyhow. That might have been the only time in my life I ever lied to her. I desperately wanted to go home and see my baby girl off. I needed to say goodbye and I wanted to be there for her daddy because I knew his heart was breaking. And if I could have just been there, maybe I could’ve talked her out of what seemed like such an obvious bad decision. Nevertheless, I stayed by Mama’s side and my husband Gordy drove Misty to the airport alone and watched his little girl run as fast as she could toward her ultimate demise.
Surreal. I knew what that word meant. It meant your body and brain were going through the motions, but your mind had turned off. It meant no emotion, only action. It meant crisis mode.
II
Twice in my life I have known the meaning of the word “surreal.” The first instance came during the heart-wrenching months that followed after learning my mother was dying of colon cancer. The second was receiving a call from my daughter in a drug rehabilitation clinic in Las Vegas, Nevada. On both occasions, I felt as though I had stepped outside of myself. It was like watching myself in an old silent movie; I was the actor, but the circumstances and feelings were not mine. The thing about these surreal moments is that I never had any warning that they were coming. There was no time to prepare, mentally or physically. There was no “transition” period, wherein I could adjust to my new out-of-body existence. During both of these periods of my life I had no control over the events that were so rapidly unfolding. Instead, I was swept up in their tide without any say to the matter, forced to hold on for dear life to any sense of normalcy or stability I could find.
The call from my daughter, my only child, came just after dinner time in September of 2004. The caller identification displayed “Clark County Rehabilitation.” I lifted the receiver to my ear and heard my daughter weeping. “Mom? I, I can’t stay here-I’m scared!” A wave of nausea swept over my body and for a moment I thought I might faint, as I realized that what Misty had confessed to me in an email earlier in the week was disastrously true; she was horribly addicted to prescription pain medication.
Answering that call forced me to travel down a dark road I never wanted to travel down. I was completely ill-prepared for this journey. Drug addiction? What do I do? How do I help her? Why did she do this? Should I have known? When children are born, they do not come with a manual, but you believe in your heart that if you raise your child in church and teach them to have high moral standards, these types of things won’t happen. It’s such a false sense of security we, as parents, give ourselves. It’s a false, candy-coated faith that we allow to seep into our souls, believing that hard times do not befall “good Christians.” We so incorrectly assume that a proper upbringing will shield our children from struggle and temptation that we fail to prepare them for it. But then again, how do you prepare a child for drug addiction?
Not us. This wasn’t happening to us. Not to our perfect little family. We were Southern Baptists for goodness sake! Misty was in church practically from inception. Sunday morning, Sunday night, Monday night, Wednesday night, fellowship dinners, youth camps and revivals-we were always there. Misty was baptized in the second grade and even wanted to be a missionary when she grew up. And she wasn’t a problem child either. She was sarcastic, but what kid wasn’t? Even as a teenager she was never in any kind of remarkable trouble. Good grades, involved with extracurricular activities at school, lots of friends. Once she even called us to come pick her up from a sleep-over at a friend’s house because they had beer in the refrigerator! When she graduated high school, she wanted to go to college and teach dance.
And now she was a junkie. What a loss of innocence. What a loss of intelligence. What a loss of time. What a life-changing, world-altering phone call.
That call couldn’t have come at a worse time if it had looked back on the history of our lives and hand-picked it. We’d moved from our sweet home Alabama to Brunswick, Georgia and finally to Mechanicsville, Maryland; two towns that I am certain were completely inhabited by aliens. We’d never felt so out of place in our lives. It was like wearing two left shoes. Additionally, it was during this time that I watched my mother die of cancer. It was the hardest thing I’d done. Daddy had promised her he wouldn’t put her in a nursing home and we made sure it never happened. It involved much sacrifice, emotionally, physically, completely. Her cancer killed parts of my spirit along with her body. For eight months I watched the woman that raised me, that I loved beyond measure, that I was certain I couldn’t live without, slip right out of my life forever. My heart ached so bad it physically hurt. I drove to Virginia every two weeks to help Daddy care for Mama. In the early months, I sat by her bed with pen and paper and recorded her last wishes. “Give my clothes to Lisa because they’ll fit her. I want my things out of the house as soon as the funeral is over. I don’t want them to cause your daddy more grief.”
It was during the early months of Mama’s illness that Misty decided to move to Las Vegas. Mama wanted me to go back home to Georgia to say goodbye, but there was no one to fill in for me if I left, and by that point, Daddy couldn’t care for her on his own. I had no choice but to stay. I told Mama it was okay, I really didn’t want to go anyhow. That might have been the only time in my life I ever lied to her. I desperately wanted to go home and see my baby girl off. I needed to say goodbye and I wanted to be there for her daddy because I knew his heart was breaking. And if I could have just been there, maybe I could’ve talked her out of what seemed like such an obvious bad decision. Nevertheless, I stayed by Mama’s side and my husband Gordy drove Misty to the airport alone and watched his little girl run as fast as she could toward her ultimate demise.
Surreal. I knew what that word meant. It meant your body and brain were going through the motions, but your mind had turned off. It meant no emotion, only action. It meant crisis mode.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
My Story Part I
I awoke the morning of September 22, 2004 sick and sober. Well, mostly sober. The bottle of NyQuil I'd chased with 3 or 4 shots of whiskey the evening before had provided me a full night's sleep, but the remnants of the drugs now enveloped my brain in a thick fog that I knew would last the better portion of the day.
I stared at the ceiling.
The ceiling fan was still, and I could see a half-inch layer of dust clinging to the left side of every blade. Intense rays of sunlight forced themselves between the cracks in the venetian blinds that covered the sliding glass doors to the adjoining patio, creating illuminated stripes on the white comforter that I laid under. There was normalcy in those stripes. There were families, groceries, 9 to 5's, checking accounts, car payments, electric bills and mortgages. There were churches, friends, coworkers, meaningful relationships, doctor's appointments and minivans. There was security. There was so much freedom in being tied down by the trappings of a normal life. My eyes began to well with tears, but I quickly rubbed them away.
Attempting to ignore the searing pain that ran like an electric current through my skeletal system, I got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, bent like an elderly woman with a curved back. I was sweating lightly; the kind of sweating you do when you feel you might faint. A cold, clingy sweat, accompanied by chills and the inability to regulate one's body temperature. I sat on the toilet for about ten minutes that morning. Not just because I had diarrhea, but because in that tiny, windowless bathroom for those ten minutes, I could escape reality just enough to convince myself once again that I could get myself out of this mess. In that ten minutes, I could pull myself together and muster the last remnants of rational thought process in my brain to prevent another nervous breakdown. In that ten minutes, I could be a little girl again, playing hide and seek from the devastating waste my adult life had become.
Ten minutes passed, and then I pulled open the creaking bathroom door and allowed myself to be sucked back into the vacuum of that empty apartment and that empty life. A quick survey of my surroundings shattered the false hopes I'd conjured up while in the bathroom. A brown, faded cloth sectional sofa I'd purchased for $50 several months ago from a co-worker and a hand-me-down table and chairs were the only stitches of furniture in the place. In the northeast corner of the room, an older model television sat atop a cardboard moving box with the antenna twisted toward the window for better reception. Cable television was the stuff of fairytales. Next to the television, a transom window had been covered with aluminum foil. Nothing adorned the walls but several layers of "apartment white" paint, which peeled around holes where pictures once hung.
A faint rustling noise averted my attention to the adjoining kitchen. It was the flapping of a black garbage bag duct-taped to the exterior surface of the kitchen window. The hole it covered was almost as wide as my hips. Almost. I had the cuts to prove it. Nothing else stood out in the kitchen except for the fact it was empty; nothing on the countertops nor in the cupboard but several bottles of cheap liquor and some miscellaneous pantry staples which even Martha Stewart couldn’t assemble into a meal.
Sitting atop the counter which separated the kitchen from the open living area were three miscellaneous items that accounted for the condition of the apartment that morning and the state my life was in. Sitting on that counter, an empty glass, a dull razor blade, and a ¾ section of a plastic straw, screamed secrets about me I’d fought so fiercely to keep private for the past three years. I stared at that counter, trying to remember when my concept of reality had blurred with the drug-induced fantasies I had been living in. I couldn’t remember feeling sober; feeling “normal.”
My eyes began to well with tears once again as I allowed my mind to drift back three years earlier, when I had first moved to Las Vegas, Nevada. I’d moved to Las Vegas on a whim. I’d been sharing an apartment with a friend on St. Simons Island, Georgia and working at a law firm as a receptionist. I had a good group of friends, and overall, was happy with life. In the summer of 2001, I took a trip to Las Vegas to visit my best friend, who’d moved there after we graduated high school. I’d been out to visit her before, so the “glitz” of Sin City shouldn’t have seemed so glitzy. For some reason, though, that trip I found myself infatuated with the lights and heat, the chaos and debauchery. It was everything I’d never had and never really wanted…until that trip.
Shortly thereafter I sold the majority of my personal belongings, quit my job, packed a suitcase, and moved to the desert. I can still see the image of my father standing by the ticketing counters, watching me walk to the gate. He didn’t say much when he drove me to the airport that morning. He didn’t say much when I checked my suitcase. Until I have a child of my own, I will never know how it feels to watch your child make a life-altering decision that is so obviously wrong, and be powerless to stop them.
My mom didn’t make it to the airport with me that morning. In the months prior that I had been consumed with dreams of how different and exciting my life would be in Las Vegas, she had been in central Virginia selflessly nursing her mother, who was dying of colon cancer. While I dreamt of casinos, nightclubs, VIP tables and freedom, she dreamt of her childhood, and days when her mother would hold her in her lap. She dreamt of her wedding, and seeing her mother’s face as her father gave her away. She dreamt of telling her mother she was pregnant, and introducing her to a new baby. She dreamt of telephone calls, cards and letters, Thanksgivings, Christmases and Easters. Nothing in her life would ever be the same. My mother had been in Virginia with my grandmother for several months, and I hadn’t seen her in several weeks. I am not sure if I just ignored my mother’s current situation, or if at age 21 I just didn’t understand it fully, but nonetheless, I left Georgia without hesitation and without saying goodbye to my mother. Nothing in my life would ever be the same.
I stared at the ceiling.
The ceiling fan was still, and I could see a half-inch layer of dust clinging to the left side of every blade. Intense rays of sunlight forced themselves between the cracks in the venetian blinds that covered the sliding glass doors to the adjoining patio, creating illuminated stripes on the white comforter that I laid under. There was normalcy in those stripes. There were families, groceries, 9 to 5's, checking accounts, car payments, electric bills and mortgages. There were churches, friends, coworkers, meaningful relationships, doctor's appointments and minivans. There was security. There was so much freedom in being tied down by the trappings of a normal life. My eyes began to well with tears, but I quickly rubbed them away.
Attempting to ignore the searing pain that ran like an electric current through my skeletal system, I got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, bent like an elderly woman with a curved back. I was sweating lightly; the kind of sweating you do when you feel you might faint. A cold, clingy sweat, accompanied by chills and the inability to regulate one's body temperature. I sat on the toilet for about ten minutes that morning. Not just because I had diarrhea, but because in that tiny, windowless bathroom for those ten minutes, I could escape reality just enough to convince myself once again that I could get myself out of this mess. In that ten minutes, I could pull myself together and muster the last remnants of rational thought process in my brain to prevent another nervous breakdown. In that ten minutes, I could be a little girl again, playing hide and seek from the devastating waste my adult life had become.
Ten minutes passed, and then I pulled open the creaking bathroom door and allowed myself to be sucked back into the vacuum of that empty apartment and that empty life. A quick survey of my surroundings shattered the false hopes I'd conjured up while in the bathroom. A brown, faded cloth sectional sofa I'd purchased for $50 several months ago from a co-worker and a hand-me-down table and chairs were the only stitches of furniture in the place. In the northeast corner of the room, an older model television sat atop a cardboard moving box with the antenna twisted toward the window for better reception. Cable television was the stuff of fairytales. Next to the television, a transom window had been covered with aluminum foil. Nothing adorned the walls but several layers of "apartment white" paint, which peeled around holes where pictures once hung.
A faint rustling noise averted my attention to the adjoining kitchen. It was the flapping of a black garbage bag duct-taped to the exterior surface of the kitchen window. The hole it covered was almost as wide as my hips. Almost. I had the cuts to prove it. Nothing else stood out in the kitchen except for the fact it was empty; nothing on the countertops nor in the cupboard but several bottles of cheap liquor and some miscellaneous pantry staples which even Martha Stewart couldn’t assemble into a meal.
Sitting atop the counter which separated the kitchen from the open living area were three miscellaneous items that accounted for the condition of the apartment that morning and the state my life was in. Sitting on that counter, an empty glass, a dull razor blade, and a ¾ section of a plastic straw, screamed secrets about me I’d fought so fiercely to keep private for the past three years. I stared at that counter, trying to remember when my concept of reality had blurred with the drug-induced fantasies I had been living in. I couldn’t remember feeling sober; feeling “normal.”
My eyes began to well with tears once again as I allowed my mind to drift back three years earlier, when I had first moved to Las Vegas, Nevada. I’d moved to Las Vegas on a whim. I’d been sharing an apartment with a friend on St. Simons Island, Georgia and working at a law firm as a receptionist. I had a good group of friends, and overall, was happy with life. In the summer of 2001, I took a trip to Las Vegas to visit my best friend, who’d moved there after we graduated high school. I’d been out to visit her before, so the “glitz” of Sin City shouldn’t have seemed so glitzy. For some reason, though, that trip I found myself infatuated with the lights and heat, the chaos and debauchery. It was everything I’d never had and never really wanted…until that trip.
Shortly thereafter I sold the majority of my personal belongings, quit my job, packed a suitcase, and moved to the desert. I can still see the image of my father standing by the ticketing counters, watching me walk to the gate. He didn’t say much when he drove me to the airport that morning. He didn’t say much when I checked my suitcase. Until I have a child of my own, I will never know how it feels to watch your child make a life-altering decision that is so obviously wrong, and be powerless to stop them.
My mom didn’t make it to the airport with me that morning. In the months prior that I had been consumed with dreams of how different and exciting my life would be in Las Vegas, she had been in central Virginia selflessly nursing her mother, who was dying of colon cancer. While I dreamt of casinos, nightclubs, VIP tables and freedom, she dreamt of her childhood, and days when her mother would hold her in her lap. She dreamt of her wedding, and seeing her mother’s face as her father gave her away. She dreamt of telling her mother she was pregnant, and introducing her to a new baby. She dreamt of telephone calls, cards and letters, Thanksgivings, Christmases and Easters. Nothing in her life would ever be the same. My mother had been in Virginia with my grandmother for several months, and I hadn’t seen her in several weeks. I am not sure if I just ignored my mother’s current situation, or if at age 21 I just didn’t understand it fully, but nonetheless, I left Georgia without hesitation and without saying goodbye to my mother. Nothing in my life would ever be the same.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
This evening I was surprised to find a different professor in my class than the one I'd signed up for. I'd had "Mr. Smith" last semester and really enjoyed his class, so I decided to take the only other course he taught as an elective-it would be an easy A. I'd already signed up for three classes this semester but because I was familiar with his teaching style, I knew I'd be okay to take Mr. Smith's class as a fourth. But instead of Mr. Smith, there was an older gentleman behind the professor's desk, who wasn't very forthcoming with information regarding the mysterious disappearance of Mr. Smith. I didn't know anything about this new guy nor had I given him the ever important rate-my-professor-dot-com background check. Once a friend arrived, we both ditched the class. I went home disgruntled and decided to e-mail Mr. Smith and demand an explanation! Well, more or less. His wife had been expecting their first child at the end of last semester, so I said I was just checking in on the wife and baby, etc. etc. I'd save the neck wringing for another e-mail.
Still curious as to his absence at class, I decided to do some investigating. I turned to Google, the most reliable source of accurate information available to nosey, 30-somethings with too much time on their hands. I entered his name, school and county in the blank space and clicked search. Then I gasped and said a few hundred oh-my-gosh's.
Mr. Smith had been arrested a little over a week before school started for having an inappropriate relationship with a minor, one of his students whom he taught at a local high school several years earlier.
It couldn't be true, but it was true. It was definitely him-there was a mug shot to prove it. I must've clicked every link; I couldn't stop myself. It was like a train wreck and I just couldn't pull away from it. I thought about his wife. I thought about his baby. I thought about his career. I thought about his friends and the people he went to church with. I thought about his mama. It felt like a punch in the gut. Not because I held him in any particularly high esteem, but because of the fact that I trusted him to be "normal." You know, someone like one of us-the "good folk." Hard working, tax paying citizens trying to get our little piece of the American dream. Not some low-life criminal preying on the hormonal impulses of a teenage school girl hot for teach'.
Then, I thought about myself. I thought about the people I know, the people I work with. I thought about my husband, my future children and the people I go to church with. I thought about mama. Maybe what was most disturbing about this news was the abrasive reminder that I'm a Mr. Smith. We're all Mr. Smiths. We don't just have skeletons in our closet, we have vile carcasses with rotting flesh. We have rapes, robberies, drug use, drug trafficking, molestations, murders, tax evasions, white collar crimes, blue collar crimes, secret addictions, affairs, lies, scandals, the list goes on forever. I can name at least five things I've done personally that I could be arrested for, and that's just off the top of my head!
My point, if there's more of one than just venting a little, is to remind you, and more myself, that you can never really know someone. I mean, really know them. You can't judge someone against the persona you've assigned to them.
I am sorry for Mr. Smith and his family. I don't know what his plea will be, so at this point its hard to say whether he is guilty or innocent. But I know that no matter what, I respect him as a teacher. I respect him for speaking his mind, as he so often did in class. He can be a wonderful husband and father, I am sure of that. I pray for strength for his family, and for him, as he faces the challenges ahead.
Still curious as to his absence at class, I decided to do some investigating. I turned to Google, the most reliable source of accurate information available to nosey, 30-somethings with too much time on their hands. I entered his name, school and county in the blank space and clicked search. Then I gasped and said a few hundred oh-my-gosh's.
Mr. Smith had been arrested a little over a week before school started for having an inappropriate relationship with a minor, one of his students whom he taught at a local high school several years earlier.
It couldn't be true, but it was true. It was definitely him-there was a mug shot to prove it. I must've clicked every link; I couldn't stop myself. It was like a train wreck and I just couldn't pull away from it. I thought about his wife. I thought about his baby. I thought about his career. I thought about his friends and the people he went to church with. I thought about his mama. It felt like a punch in the gut. Not because I held him in any particularly high esteem, but because of the fact that I trusted him to be "normal." You know, someone like one of us-the "good folk." Hard working, tax paying citizens trying to get our little piece of the American dream. Not some low-life criminal preying on the hormonal impulses of a teenage school girl hot for teach'.
Then, I thought about myself. I thought about the people I know, the people I work with. I thought about my husband, my future children and the people I go to church with. I thought about mama. Maybe what was most disturbing about this news was the abrasive reminder that I'm a Mr. Smith. We're all Mr. Smiths. We don't just have skeletons in our closet, we have vile carcasses with rotting flesh. We have rapes, robberies, drug use, drug trafficking, molestations, murders, tax evasions, white collar crimes, blue collar crimes, secret addictions, affairs, lies, scandals, the list goes on forever. I can name at least five things I've done personally that I could be arrested for, and that's just off the top of my head!
My point, if there's more of one than just venting a little, is to remind you, and more myself, that you can never really know someone. I mean, really know them. You can't judge someone against the persona you've assigned to them.
I am sorry for Mr. Smith and his family. I don't know what his plea will be, so at this point its hard to say whether he is guilty or innocent. But I know that no matter what, I respect him as a teacher. I respect him for speaking his mind, as he so often did in class. He can be a wonderful husband and father, I am sure of that. I pray for strength for his family, and for him, as he faces the challenges ahead.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
A light at the end of the Customer Service Tunnel
Ever since we moved I've had several really horrible experiences with customer service, particularly with customer call centers. The worst experience was with AT&T internet services. After we moved, they came out and hooked up our internet on a Monday, and the following Wednesday, they shut it off for no apparent reason. To make an incredibly long story short, Brett and I both spent hours on the phone with their customer care center trying to get the internet turned back on. We were told that the cause of the disruption in our service was due to an error on their end, but getting it turned back on was like getting healthcare reform approved. Finally, after it was turned on, I went online to pay our bill, but was given an error message that said because "changes" had been made to my account, I needed to re-register. I went through the same fiasco again, being transferred from operator to operator, being hung-up on and placed on eternal hold until I finally gave up. At that point, I wrote a letter to one of the executive vp's at AT&T in Texas. I assumed the letter would probably just get lost on some secretary's desk, if it ever made it past the mail room, so I was surprised when I received a voicemail from a lady in Atlanta responding to my letter. She was with Executive Escalations and was very polite and helpful. She credited our account for the entire month and told me if I had any further problems to contact her.
This really gave me a sense of accomplishment because I was proactive and it resulted in a credit on our account. I'm proactive all the time though, with little reward. Take last night at Wal-Mart, for instance. For weeks now the Great Value brand hamburger and hot dog buns have been priced .97 on the shelf, but they repeatedly ring up at $1.13. The cashier always adjusts it down for me, but they never make any effort to call a manager over or tell someone so that either a. the price on the shelf can be corrected or b. the price the register rings up can be corrected. This frustrates me, so last night I decided to go to customer service. I explained to the woman what was happening and she gave me this blank, I'm-off-in-an-hour-and-I-could-care-less look. She offered to adjust my receipt and I told her that had already been done, but that either Wal-Mart or their customers were getting screwed, and the issue needed to resolved. She told me the outside vendors change the prices on the shelf, at which point I told her it was a Wal-Mart brand, and she fumbled for words and then said she'd let someone know. Sure.....
This really gave me a sense of accomplishment because I was proactive and it resulted in a credit on our account. I'm proactive all the time though, with little reward. Take last night at Wal-Mart, for instance. For weeks now the Great Value brand hamburger and hot dog buns have been priced .97 on the shelf, but they repeatedly ring up at $1.13. The cashier always adjusts it down for me, but they never make any effort to call a manager over or tell someone so that either a. the price on the shelf can be corrected or b. the price the register rings up can be corrected. This frustrates me, so last night I decided to go to customer service. I explained to the woman what was happening and she gave me this blank, I'm-off-in-an-hour-and-I-could-care-less look. She offered to adjust my receipt and I told her that had already been done, but that either Wal-Mart or their customers were getting screwed, and the issue needed to resolved. She told me the outside vendors change the prices on the shelf, at which point I told her it was a Wal-Mart brand, and she fumbled for words and then said she'd let someone know. Sure.....
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Summer 2009
Since it has been months since my last post, I thought I'd do a brief recap of the summer: went to South Africa for a week with our friends, bought our first home, and that's about it! After all the angst concerning whether we'd get the house or not, I was approved on my own, meaning Brett didn't have to take on any additional debt (his student loans are all in his name only). We closed on September 17 and moved in the same night. We absolutely love it. We spent the first weekend attempting to be home improvement super heroes by installing our own cabinet hardware in the kitchen. it turned out pretty good! There is still so much to do, so much you don't think about when you live in an apartment; you need a water hose; you need a weed wacker; you need to buy air filters; you can't put chicken bones down the garbage disposal! There's a completely new attitude toward your living space-you care if you scuff the walls or if there are fingerprints on the fridge, because the walls and the fridge now belong to you.
There is so much I could write about our trip, but it would take days and I just don't have the time. I took about 500 pictures and have only posted about 200 of them. If you'd like to see them, they are on my Facebook profile. We were blessed to be able to go on safari with Melissa's family so there are some really cool shots of "exotic" animals in their natural habitat! We would love the opportunity to go back, but the latest buzz is that Delta is considering selling the school, which would mean we'd lose our benefits. That's been the talk since we've moved here, though, so we'll see.
We also had an awesome opportunity to go to South Africa this summer with our friends Ben and Melissa, who are originally from Johannesburg. It was the trip of a lifetime! We got to fly first class both ways for free, because of the boys' employment with Delta. Boy was it sweet! The flight was 15 1/2 hours and the seats laid down completely flat. They fed you CONSTANTLY and the food was incredible! The total cost for both of us to fly round trip in those same seats would have cost $18,000.00! Who would ever pay that?!
There is so much I could write about our trip, but it would take days and I just don't have the time. I took about 500 pictures and have only posted about 200 of them. If you'd like to see them, they are on my Facebook profile. We were blessed to be able to go on safari with Melissa's family so there are some really cool shots of "exotic" animals in their natural habitat! We would love the opportunity to go back, but the latest buzz is that Delta is considering selling the school, which would mean we'd lose our benefits. That's been the talk since we've moved here, though, so we'll see.
On a more somber note, I found out about two months ago that my x-husband, Nathan Hallisey, passed away. Though our relationship was poisoned with our addictions, I seldom think of the bad times anymore, and it was hard to accept his passing. Nathan was bright, quick-witted, and always willing to help out a friend. He loved his family and would have given the life he lost for any of them. Though we didn't keep in close contact, we exchanged hello's on Facebook from time to time, and I will miss watching and learning about the happenings of his life.
I hope to keep up with the blog again now that we've closed on the house and things have started slowing down again. I've started couponing and I'm anxious to share the deals I find so that perhaps others than find them, too!
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Very Quick Update
Still working on getting that first house! We signed a contract on our "first pick" today, Savannah Park Townhomes at Heathrow. Link to virtual tours, etc. is here: http://www.realtourvision.com/tour/BU/tour.view.new.php?utl=BU-9695-JG0FY9-01
After their preferred lender gave me a glowing pre-approval, I found out yesterday, after making an appointment to sign the contract today, that I was suddenly no longer approved. Apparently, the lender pulled my credit again and my Bank of America Visa payment showed a monthly payment that was higher by $66.00. This is because I use that card to pay our bills, then pay it down by that same amount at the end of the month (thus resulting in the accumulation of reward points). I made a very large payment on the 23rd, which did not post to the account until the 26th. The lender pulled my credit on the 23rd, so the balance shown didn't reflect the large payment. Now I have gone just about mad about how a $66 payment increase (which I've already taken care of paid down to BELOW the payment she saw originally on my credit report) could disqualify me. In the end, the builder assured me they work with other lenders and could find someone to qualify me. So I signed the contract with a 30 day financing contingency. I should have been really excited today, but I wasn't. They gave me a bag full of booklets and paperwork to go through, but I'm not even going to touch it. I don't want to get any more emotionally attached than I already am if it turns out I can't get qualified. I ran my front and back end numbers on this and truthfully, if I do qualify for it, it truly will be a miracle.
They break ground on "our" house next week. I'm still looking at other properties in the meantime. I am afraid I got my hopes up for nothing :(
After their preferred lender gave me a glowing pre-approval, I found out yesterday, after making an appointment to sign the contract today, that I was suddenly no longer approved. Apparently, the lender pulled my credit again and my Bank of America Visa payment showed a monthly payment that was higher by $66.00. This is because I use that card to pay our bills, then pay it down by that same amount at the end of the month (thus resulting in the accumulation of reward points). I made a very large payment on the 23rd, which did not post to the account until the 26th. The lender pulled my credit on the 23rd, so the balance shown didn't reflect the large payment. Now I have gone just about mad about how a $66 payment increase (which I've already taken care of paid down to BELOW the payment she saw originally on my credit report) could disqualify me. In the end, the builder assured me they work with other lenders and could find someone to qualify me. So I signed the contract with a 30 day financing contingency. I should have been really excited today, but I wasn't. They gave me a bag full of booklets and paperwork to go through, but I'm not even going to touch it. I don't want to get any more emotionally attached than I already am if it turns out I can't get qualified. I ran my front and back end numbers on this and truthfully, if I do qualify for it, it truly will be a miracle.
They break ground on "our" house next week. I'm still looking at other properties in the meantime. I am afraid I got my hopes up for nothing :(
Sunday, May 17, 2009
House Hunting, Mother's Day and P90X
If I've seemed MIA lately, it's because I've allowed two things into my life that are eating up a lot of my free time: house hunting and P90X. With interest rates low, my credit score higher than its ever been, and the real estate market being the best for buyers it might ever be in mine and Brett's lifetime, we've decided to buy our first home in Florida. This has meant evenings and weekends filled with MapQuest, model homes, and meeting our realtor to tour listings. It has unfortunately also meant that I've been spending every spare second online checking out listings, taking virtual tours, and searching the public records to find out how much they originally bought that house for. There is so much to know, and so much to consider. Should be buy a single-family home? Should we opt for a townhome or condo? Should we stay in Sanford, or move further out to DeBary, where our dollar might go farther? Can we afford the payments plus the association fee? Should we focus on new construction or look for a fixer-upper?
I've literally spent hours online looking for "the perfect place" that, obviously, doesn't exist. Then there's the issue of my credit. We're trying to qualify in my name alone, as Brett has already amassed a considerable amount of debt in his own name with student loans. My credit has been terrible since 2000. I attribute it to a number of things including not listening to my parents about getting into debt and, of course, that "drug" thing. When my mortgage broker initially pulled my credit last month, he determined I'd have to pay off the last remaining collection accounts that still showed on my report. I paid them off and got letters from all the creditors saying such. It boosted my credit score quite a bit, so I should be in good shape.
Another time-sucker the past 30 days has been P90X. If you aren't familiar, it's a 90-day boot-camp style training program designed to get you in the best shape of your life in 90 days. It comes with a nutrition guide, but I haven't been following it, as my goal wasn't to lose weight, just shape up. The workouts last an hour to an hour and a half six days a week and are absolutely grueling, which is the main reason I've stuck with it even this long. With other workouts I've tried, I might have broken a sweat, but at the end of the workout I never really felt like I had done all that much. After these workouts, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt I've burned calories and pushed my body to the absolute limit. My 30 day results are what I expected; I'm bigger all over. I've definitely gained some much needed muscle, but because I've been working so hard, I've also been eating a lot! This is supposedly normal, and my hunger and weight gain should level out during month two. The most impressive result I saw in my 30 day before and after pics was the magical "lift" the workouts have given my bottom! It's amazing!
Lastly, Brett and I went up to my parents' house for Mother's Day. Mom and I had a yard sale to raise money toward a down payment on mine and Brett's new place. It was a beautiful weekend, so we spent a lot of time outdoors. Here are some pics...
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Juvederm Round 2
I got another tube of Juve this a.m. The last round still left me with fine wrinkles, and I wanted a complete fix. A friend of mine works for a dermatologist, and if you can believe it, I got an entire tube FOR FREE! This time, I opted not to have my face numbed. It was painful, but not bad, and when it's time to get it done again in a few years, I won't get numbed. Much easier to endure a little discomfort than a half a day with a numb face. However, I did have a random panic attack as the physician's assistant was finishing up. He had a little goop left so he put a bit in my chin where the crease is (no, I'm not self conscious about it, but it had to go somewhere!) and it hurt more than I expected, but again, nothing serious. It triggered a panic attack and I had to lie back and put my feet up-how embarrassing!
Here are the pics: original before, after 1 tube of Juvederm, and after 2 tubes. I am already bruising a bit but this guy did an awesome job!
Original Before
After 1 tube of Juvederm
After 2 tubes of Juvederm
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Sweet Non-Rev Dreams
We'd planned to go to Manhattan this weekend, however New York has a late spring break and flight loads were awful, so we ended up going to Atlanta instead. Our friends Ben and Melissa, also non-revers, joined us. Things went seamlessly. We got 1st class on our flight from Daytona Beach (DAB) to ATL, which was my first time flying 1st class. I must say, it will spoil you. The leg room is incredible, the service impeccable, and you get as many snacks as you want! 
Once we landed, we got our rental car, which I'd booked the night before. The rate was $25.00, and with tax, it was supposed to be $38.00. Not so! We were taxed 34% (???) and with the mandatory insurance and refueling charge, it came to $110!! Next time, we'll take a shuttle or something! We went to Cracker Barrel for breakfast, and then spent the day at Six Flags, where I proceeded to burst a blood vessel in my left eye on the Batman ride, while experiencing the positive g's. SWEET! 
I remind you of what happened the last time I burst a blood vessel in my eye in 2005:
I'm looking forward to scaring small children for the next month or so.
We ended the day with dinner at Panera Bread in the Atlanta airport. We got 1st class on the ride home on the 1st flight we listed for. Finally, a little non-rev luck for me!
Once we landed, we got our rental car, which I'd booked the night before. The rate was $25.00, and with tax, it was supposed to be $38.00. Not so! We were taxed 34% (???) and with the mandatory insurance and refueling charge, it came to $110!! Next time, we'll take a shuttle or something! We went to Cracker Barrel for breakfast, and then spent the day at Six Flags, where I proceeded to burst a blood vessel in my left eye on the Batman ride, while experiencing the positive g's. SWEET! I remind you of what happened the last time I burst a blood vessel in my eye in 2005: I'm looking forward to scaring small children for the next month or so.Here are some "plane pics" of Daytona Beach, Stone Mountain, Georgia, and Atlanta.
We ended the day with dinner at Panera Bread in the Atlanta airport. We got 1st class on the ride home on the 1st flight we listed for. Finally, a little non-rev luck for me!Easter 2009
A few pics from Easter 09 at my parents' house. Brett was the sickest I've seen him so that Sat. night we went to the urgent care to get him checked out. He has a sinus infection and got an antibiotic. The doc also told him he had a heart murmur. He's never been diagnosed with one, and it's quite a scare for us, as it could affect his ability to renew his 1st class medical, and without a first class medical, you aren't flying. He went to the doctor here in Florida once we got back and that doctor told him he did have a heart murmur, and scheduled him for an ecocardiogram tomorrow. Please pray for good results :) 
I made Brett an Easter basket this year and made a candy trail from the couch to the kitchen where I sat it.
Gidgit got a brand spankin' new bone, which she proceeded to take outside and bury. It's the first time we've ever known her to bury or hide anything, and for a while we blamed my parents' dog of taking Gidgit's bone and hiding it. Later, my mom was in her garden and noticed some loose soil in one spot. A little digging uncovered Gidgit's "booty."
Monday, April 13, 2009
Weighing my Options
You'd probably never guess it to look at me, but I've struggled with my weight, or my perception of my weight, since I was 19. I've starved myself, exercised like crazy, dieted, and puked enough meals to feed a small African nation. The result has always been the same: I'm never happy.
21 year old Tubby Misty
28 year old, sober, hormone free Misty
19 year old anorexic Misty
21 year old Tubby Misty28 year old, sober, hormone free MistyAs I've gotten older, I've accepted some things about my body: my legs will always be muscular, never skinny and bird-like; I will always put weight on below the waist first; my thighs will most likely always meet in the middle. It's the way I'm made, and I'm okay with it. I'm thankful that I HAVE legs and arms, and a functioning, healthy body. And yes, I know that I am thin, and fortunate to have been blessed with what seems to be one incredible metabolism!
So here's my beef: A little over a year ago I went off of birth control, because I thought it was making me crazy. That, combined with having stopped drinking 2 years ago resulted in my shedding about 17 pounds. The last few months, though, I've been having horrible mood swings, so I decided to go back on birth control. Immediately I gained 7 pounds in 3 weeks. 3 WEEKS!!!!! I know "I can afford it" and all that crap, but come on-would YOU willingly sign up for 7 extra pounds that you KNEW was a direct result of a medication?
So which is better-normal, non-hormone induced body weight with multiple personality-like mood swings, or 7 extra pounds of PURE lard and a positive attitude?!
I even purchased an exercise DVD last week, The Firm 30 Minute Firm and Burn, and have done it the whole week. I've been cutting calories, and keeping track of what I'm eating-the whole 9 yards. The early results? As usual, I build huge muscles in my legs, but don't burn the fat off them, so the muscle merely pushes the fat forward, making my legs look "bulky".
Oh it's a no win situation. No matter what size a woman is, I don't believe she can ever be content. It's so silly, all this fuss about appearance. It could all be altered in an instant by some sort of accident or trauma. Our bodies are not who we are, they're just the flesh-suit we live inside of.
So, if you're a woman, and you've learned the secret to body contentment, let me know how you did it!
Monday, April 6, 2009
Because of My iPhone
You may have heard of the movie "Because of Winn-Dixie" in which a series of events happen to a lonely little girl because of a loveable dog. This blog isn't about that. This blog is about a series of very frustrating, very unfortunate events that all occurred because of my iPhone. It begins with my first non-revenue flying experience this past Friday, which I'd taken off from work to fly to Chicago. An internet-based group of pilot wives I am a part of, http://www.pilotwivesclub.com/, was hosting their first face-to-face meet up there this weekend and I'd planned to attend. Meanwhile, Brett was hopping a jet to Indiana for the weekend to visit his cousins. In the interest of time and detail, I've decided the best way for me to present this sordid tale is by time-line.
Friday
6:00 a.m.-Brett leaves for the airport to fly to Indiana
8:00 a.m.-Brett boards jet, gets first class, heads to Cincinnati to connect to Indiana.
8:30 a.m.-I go to the dentist to get a temporary crown re-glued
10:00 a.m.-I arrive at airport, see that flight to ATL looks good, but connection to ORD (Chicago) looks like a no-go. The guy next to me at the gate overhears a conversation I have on my iPhone about possibly diverting to Milwaukee (MKE) from ATL and then driving to ORD. He tells me the flight leaving from the gate before mine (which he is on) is headed for MKE by way of Cincinnati. Call Brett. He’s in ATL boarding the flight to IN.
10:30 a.m.-Visit the incredibly rude gate agent and list for the Cincy flight.
11:14 a.m.-Cincy flight is a no-go. Visit incredibly rude gate agent again and get completely ignored. Wait for kinder gate agent to arrive, re-list for original MCO to ATL to ORD flight. Meet 9 year veteran flight-attendant recently retired with Lyme's disease on her way home from getting medical treatments. Chat with her while waiting for flight.
12:55 p.m.-Board plane to ATL-flight is full, so no first-class.
2:05 p.m.-Arrive in ATL at gate A19. Call Brett-he’s made it to IN. Meet Nicole (pilotwivesclub) who has just been bumped from an earlier flight to ORD at gate A20. Walk with her to re-booking station to try to list for MKE flight. (Still both currently listed for 2:55 ORD flight.) Rebooking agent will not list us for MKE flight, which departs about a half hour after the ORD flight.
2:30 p.m.-Back to gate A20. Meet up with Bec (pilotwivesclub) who is also listed for the 2:55 ORD.
2:45 p.m.-Brief discussion with Nicole, Bec, and a 21 year old girl (headed to Chicago to visit her sister and "go clubbin" for her birthday) about the differences between Blackberry (Nicole's choice) and iPhone (Misty's choice).
2:50 p.m.-Check voicemail on my iPhone. Note to self to call mom at next opportunity.
2:55 p.m.-ORD flight is, as expected, a no-go for all 3 of us. Move to gate D1A to try for MKE flight.
3:20 p.m.-Arrive at D gates and confirm we are listed for MKE flight. Looks good; looks real good-like we'll all 3 be on.
3:30 p.m.- Eat an orange; get juice and pulp all over myself, but I'm starving.
3:35 p.m.- Collect personal items and get ready to board. Call Brett to tell him I’ve made the flight-wait, where’s my iPhone?
3:36 p.m.-I really can’t find my iPhone?
3:37 p.m.- Seriously, I just had it.
3:38 p.m.-Furiously sort through carry on several times.
3:39 p.m.-Where could I have left it? What should I do? I need to call Brett. Should I go back to A20? Perhaps I left it there. Or at the orange stand. Or just down the terminal.
3:40 p.m.- Make irrational decision to go search for my iPhone. Tell the girls not to wait up, I’ll make it to ORD one way or another!
3:41 p.m.- Rush back to gate A20.
3:50 p.m.- Arrive at gate A20. No one is there. Sneak around counter but don’t see that my phone has been turned in.
3:52 p.m.- Back on the tram to gate D1A. I’ll never make it.
4:05 p.m.-Arrive at D1A. I can still see the plane, and the jet way is attached. Break out in a run.
4:06 p.m.-See gate agent walk out of jet way, back into the terminal, pulling the jet way door closed behind her. “Is Milwaukee done?!!” “Yep, that flight is out of here.” Debate whether to argue with her. Decide it is useless.
4:07 p.m.-Ask gate agent to check flights for me. Milwaukee-no good. Chicago-no good. South Bend-no good. Orlando-no good. Detroit-no good. Savannah-no good. Jacksonville, FL-no good. Orlando looks the least not good. I request she list me, with an upgrade (which means I get priority over everyone except paid passengers and emergencies).
4:15 p.m.-Move to gate A16. Back to the A gates. Stop by A20. New gate agent there. Has she seen my phone? Yes, someone turned in a phone about an hour ago, she gave it to the re-booking station.
4:20 p.m.-Wait in line at the re-booking station.
4:25 p.m.-Speak to the rude agent at the re-booking station. She goes into the back and looks for my iPhone. She advises me that lost and found bucket was dumped into the city lost and found cart about twenty minutes ago and I need to check with the airport lost and found, but she doesn’t know where it is.
4:30 p.m.-Consult airport map. Lost and found is in the main terminal. No time to get there. Should I go? Should I try for this flight? I should try for the flight.
4:35 p.m.-Try to locate a pay phone. Found one, insert quarter and dial Brett’s number. “Please deposit 75 cents”. No more change.
4:36 p.m.-Go to the nearest retail store-a sandwich shop. Wait in line 10 minutes to get change. Finally get to register. “Can I get change for a dollar?” “Oh you should’ve asked me that while I had the register open with the last customer, I can’t open it now.”
4:37 p.m.- Finally get change, go back to pay phone and call Brett.
4:40 p.m.- Lose it.
4:55 p.m.-Orlando flight is a no go. Even with my upgrade, I was number 54 on the standby list. I’m told I’ve been re-listed for the next flight out of ATL to MCO, departing from the E gates on the opposite end of the airport.
5:15 p.m.-Wait in line for more change.
5:30 p.m.-Locate pay phone, call Brett to let him know I missed the flight. He tells me he has tried to call lost and found, but they are closed until Monday. Great.
5:50 p.m.-Arrive at E gates. Wait-these are the international gates-I must be in the wrong place. Go to gate on seat request ticket. Next flight is to Madrid. Wait in line to speak to gate agent.
6:15 p.m.-Gate agent advises that flight has been relocated to different E gate. Move to said E gate.
6:20 p.m.-Do not see my name on the standby list. Go to rude gate agent to make sure I’m listed. He says I’m not, lists me, and says “we’ll see what we can do”.
6:30-7:45-Get bumped from several other flights to various locations. Decide to see if I can even locate lost and found. Go to main terminal (out of secure area). Locate payphone, call Brett. He’s listed me for a 9:15 p.m. flight to South Bend that I just might make.
7:50-8:15-Go back through security, back to A gates. Get a black bean cheeseburger and fries from Chile’s and eat dinner-I’ve walked miles around this airport and I deserve it.
8:20-Begin making way to departure gate for South Bend flight. Stop by Delta departures board to make sure flight is still on time. Flight has been cancelled.
9:00-Go get more change.
9:20-Search for hotel kiosk or call center to get a room for the night. Can’t find it. Call Brett to see if he can find a hotel for me. I’ll call him back in 10 minutes.
9:30-He’s found one, but the rate is $150.00. Tell him I’ll find a cheaper one and call once I get to the room.
9:45-Look for a phonebook. No one has a phonebook. Where can I find a phone book? No phonebooks by payphones anymore. Ask a nearby Delta Clear agent if he knows of a hotel I can call. He directs me to a wall of hotel placards with phones to contact them. There is, of course, a line.
10:00-Begin calling hotels. No vacancy. No vacancy. No vacancy. No vacancy. VACANCY. The Sleep Inn, book room, call for shuttle.
10:15-Outside, wait for shuttle-it is FREEZING!
10:30-Hop shuttle along with two seasoned Delta pilots, who are good company and allow me to vent about my first non-rev flying experience.
10:35-Arrive at hotel, call Brett, and go to bed.
I’ll stop with the time line at this point. After I got to the hotel, I had Brett call the girls (pilotwivesclub) to tell them where I was. They called me shortly after, and suggested some alternate flight routes to Chicago for tomorrow. I wanted to go, but was leery of traveling to cities I didn’t know without my iPhone. Blast you, iPhone!! How week I am without you! If, upon realizing I’d lost my phone, I’d reacted rationally and not hyperventilated thinking of being without it, I would have been well on my way to MKE, and then on to Chicago. Nevertheless, the next morning, after sharing my continental breakfast with one of the Delta pilots from the day before, I headed off to the airport to try, try again. I rode the shuttle in with Rick (pilot from day before), a pilot wife I didn’t know and her mother-in-law, and some skeevy Delta pilot, obviously impressed with himself, who “never flies non-rev unless forced to.” It was great to be able to chat with other non-revers and share my frustrations. Each of them had their own non-rev nightmare, but all said that flying non-rev wasn’t typically that difficult. Skeevy pilot suggests that I didn’t get a flight because I was wearing flip-flops. Kick rocks, Skeevy pilot, I never wear anything but flip-flops unless forced to.
I got to the airport and arrived at my gate with no problems or issues. I was feeling rather embarrassed by my reaction to losing my phone the day before. Ashamed that I’d become so attached to a stupid device that I actually missed a weekend with the girls in order to find it. I begin to insert Twizzlers into my mouth for comfort. As I am rethinking the events of the day before, I notice the elderly lady seated next to me, missing half of her left index finger, and wearing a walking boot on her left foot, digging through her carry on baggage rather hurriedly. It is obvious she has misplaced something, but I don’t pay much attention. She’s in her 80’s, so I assume she’s lost her teeth or perhaps a bottle of medication. After a good search, she heads to the gate agent, speaks with her briefly, and the gate agent hands her the telephone. She makes a call and hobbles to her seat, quite flustered. Then I hear her mumble something that just about makes me laugh out loud-“Stupid cell phone-who needs them anyway!” Turns out, she left her cell phone at her hotel that morning. As she begins to tell me how crippled she feels without it, I feel my shame melt away, and find myself commiserating with her.
I made the flight to South Bend that morning, and had a wonderful day with Brett’s cousins exploring Indiana. Some pictures are below. On our return home, we made it to Atlanta, but still couldn’t get to Orlando. We ended up flying into Daytona Beach and having friends pick us up.
I think I got a crash-course in non-rev flying. I’m sure there will be many more horror stories to tell in what I hope will become my many travels. In several years, time will coat this experience with a golden glaze, and it will become just another funny story to tell.
Brett's cousins Josh, Courtner, and Sarah
Jodi and his new baby, Chloe.
Jodi and his semi-new baby, Adam! 
Stephanie, Jodi's wife, Adam, and Courtney
A new 'stache for the collection. "Steakstache"
Downtown South Bend, Indiana
Notre Dame Campus
Brett and I at Notre Dame
Now we can both say "yeah, we went to Notre Dame"
"Touchdown Jesus" on Notre Dame Campus
Friday
6:00 a.m.-Brett leaves for the airport to fly to Indiana
8:00 a.m.-Brett boards jet, gets first class, heads to Cincinnati to connect to Indiana.
8:30 a.m.-I go to the dentist to get a temporary crown re-glued
10:00 a.m.-I arrive at airport, see that flight to ATL looks good, but connection to ORD (Chicago) looks like a no-go. The guy next to me at the gate overhears a conversation I have on my iPhone about possibly diverting to Milwaukee (MKE) from ATL and then driving to ORD. He tells me the flight leaving from the gate before mine (which he is on) is headed for MKE by way of Cincinnati. Call Brett. He’s in ATL boarding the flight to IN.
10:30 a.m.-Visit the incredibly rude gate agent and list for the Cincy flight.
11:14 a.m.-Cincy flight is a no-go. Visit incredibly rude gate agent again and get completely ignored. Wait for kinder gate agent to arrive, re-list for original MCO to ATL to ORD flight. Meet 9 year veteran flight-attendant recently retired with Lyme's disease on her way home from getting medical treatments. Chat with her while waiting for flight.
12:55 p.m.-Board plane to ATL-flight is full, so no first-class.
2:05 p.m.-Arrive in ATL at gate A19. Call Brett-he’s made it to IN. Meet Nicole (pilotwivesclub) who has just been bumped from an earlier flight to ORD at gate A20. Walk with her to re-booking station to try to list for MKE flight. (Still both currently listed for 2:55 ORD flight.) Rebooking agent will not list us for MKE flight, which departs about a half hour after the ORD flight.
2:30 p.m.-Back to gate A20. Meet up with Bec (pilotwivesclub) who is also listed for the 2:55 ORD.
2:45 p.m.-Brief discussion with Nicole, Bec, and a 21 year old girl (headed to Chicago to visit her sister and "go clubbin" for her birthday) about the differences between Blackberry (Nicole's choice) and iPhone (Misty's choice).
2:50 p.m.-Check voicemail on my iPhone. Note to self to call mom at next opportunity.
2:55 p.m.-ORD flight is, as expected, a no-go for all 3 of us. Move to gate D1A to try for MKE flight.
3:20 p.m.-Arrive at D gates and confirm we are listed for MKE flight. Looks good; looks real good-like we'll all 3 be on.
3:30 p.m.- Eat an orange; get juice and pulp all over myself, but I'm starving.
3:35 p.m.- Collect personal items and get ready to board. Call Brett to tell him I’ve made the flight-wait, where’s my iPhone?
3:36 p.m.-I really can’t find my iPhone?
3:37 p.m.- Seriously, I just had it.
3:38 p.m.-Furiously sort through carry on several times.
3:39 p.m.-Where could I have left it? What should I do? I need to call Brett. Should I go back to A20? Perhaps I left it there. Or at the orange stand. Or just down the terminal.
3:40 p.m.- Make irrational decision to go search for my iPhone. Tell the girls not to wait up, I’ll make it to ORD one way or another!
3:41 p.m.- Rush back to gate A20.
3:50 p.m.- Arrive at gate A20. No one is there. Sneak around counter but don’t see that my phone has been turned in.
3:52 p.m.- Back on the tram to gate D1A. I’ll never make it.
4:05 p.m.-Arrive at D1A. I can still see the plane, and the jet way is attached. Break out in a run.
4:06 p.m.-See gate agent walk out of jet way, back into the terminal, pulling the jet way door closed behind her. “Is Milwaukee done?!!” “Yep, that flight is out of here.” Debate whether to argue with her. Decide it is useless.
4:07 p.m.-Ask gate agent to check flights for me. Milwaukee-no good. Chicago-no good. South Bend-no good. Orlando-no good. Detroit-no good. Savannah-no good. Jacksonville, FL-no good. Orlando looks the least not good. I request she list me, with an upgrade (which means I get priority over everyone except paid passengers and emergencies).
4:15 p.m.-Move to gate A16. Back to the A gates. Stop by A20. New gate agent there. Has she seen my phone? Yes, someone turned in a phone about an hour ago, she gave it to the re-booking station.
4:20 p.m.-Wait in line at the re-booking station.
4:25 p.m.-Speak to the rude agent at the re-booking station. She goes into the back and looks for my iPhone. She advises me that lost and found bucket was dumped into the city lost and found cart about twenty minutes ago and I need to check with the airport lost and found, but she doesn’t know where it is.
4:30 p.m.-Consult airport map. Lost and found is in the main terminal. No time to get there. Should I go? Should I try for this flight? I should try for the flight.
4:35 p.m.-Try to locate a pay phone. Found one, insert quarter and dial Brett’s number. “Please deposit 75 cents”. No more change.
4:36 p.m.-Go to the nearest retail store-a sandwich shop. Wait in line 10 minutes to get change. Finally get to register. “Can I get change for a dollar?” “Oh you should’ve asked me that while I had the register open with the last customer, I can’t open it now.”
4:37 p.m.- Finally get change, go back to pay phone and call Brett.
4:40 p.m.- Lose it.
4:55 p.m.-Orlando flight is a no go. Even with my upgrade, I was number 54 on the standby list. I’m told I’ve been re-listed for the next flight out of ATL to MCO, departing from the E gates on the opposite end of the airport.
5:15 p.m.-Wait in line for more change.
5:30 p.m.-Locate pay phone, call Brett to let him know I missed the flight. He tells me he has tried to call lost and found, but they are closed until Monday. Great.
5:50 p.m.-Arrive at E gates. Wait-these are the international gates-I must be in the wrong place. Go to gate on seat request ticket. Next flight is to Madrid. Wait in line to speak to gate agent.
6:15 p.m.-Gate agent advises that flight has been relocated to different E gate. Move to said E gate.
6:20 p.m.-Do not see my name on the standby list. Go to rude gate agent to make sure I’m listed. He says I’m not, lists me, and says “we’ll see what we can do”.
6:30-7:45-Get bumped from several other flights to various locations. Decide to see if I can even locate lost and found. Go to main terminal (out of secure area). Locate payphone, call Brett. He’s listed me for a 9:15 p.m. flight to South Bend that I just might make.
7:50-8:15-Go back through security, back to A gates. Get a black bean cheeseburger and fries from Chile’s and eat dinner-I’ve walked miles around this airport and I deserve it.
8:20-Begin making way to departure gate for South Bend flight. Stop by Delta departures board to make sure flight is still on time. Flight has been cancelled.
9:00-Go get more change.
9:20-Search for hotel kiosk or call center to get a room for the night. Can’t find it. Call Brett to see if he can find a hotel for me. I’ll call him back in 10 minutes.
9:30-He’s found one, but the rate is $150.00. Tell him I’ll find a cheaper one and call once I get to the room.
9:45-Look for a phonebook. No one has a phonebook. Where can I find a phone book? No phonebooks by payphones anymore. Ask a nearby Delta Clear agent if he knows of a hotel I can call. He directs me to a wall of hotel placards with phones to contact them. There is, of course, a line.
10:00-Begin calling hotels. No vacancy. No vacancy. No vacancy. No vacancy. VACANCY. The Sleep Inn, book room, call for shuttle.
10:15-Outside, wait for shuttle-it is FREEZING!
10:30-Hop shuttle along with two seasoned Delta pilots, who are good company and allow me to vent about my first non-rev flying experience.
10:35-Arrive at hotel, call Brett, and go to bed.
I’ll stop with the time line at this point. After I got to the hotel, I had Brett call the girls (pilotwivesclub) to tell them where I was. They called me shortly after, and suggested some alternate flight routes to Chicago for tomorrow. I wanted to go, but was leery of traveling to cities I didn’t know without my iPhone. Blast you, iPhone!! How week I am without you! If, upon realizing I’d lost my phone, I’d reacted rationally and not hyperventilated thinking of being without it, I would have been well on my way to MKE, and then on to Chicago. Nevertheless, the next morning, after sharing my continental breakfast with one of the Delta pilots from the day before, I headed off to the airport to try, try again. I rode the shuttle in with Rick (pilot from day before), a pilot wife I didn’t know and her mother-in-law, and some skeevy Delta pilot, obviously impressed with himself, who “never flies non-rev unless forced to.” It was great to be able to chat with other non-revers and share my frustrations. Each of them had their own non-rev nightmare, but all said that flying non-rev wasn’t typically that difficult. Skeevy pilot suggests that I didn’t get a flight because I was wearing flip-flops. Kick rocks, Skeevy pilot, I never wear anything but flip-flops unless forced to.
I got to the airport and arrived at my gate with no problems or issues. I was feeling rather embarrassed by my reaction to losing my phone the day before. Ashamed that I’d become so attached to a stupid device that I actually missed a weekend with the girls in order to find it. I begin to insert Twizzlers into my mouth for comfort. As I am rethinking the events of the day before, I notice the elderly lady seated next to me, missing half of her left index finger, and wearing a walking boot on her left foot, digging through her carry on baggage rather hurriedly. It is obvious she has misplaced something, but I don’t pay much attention. She’s in her 80’s, so I assume she’s lost her teeth or perhaps a bottle of medication. After a good search, she heads to the gate agent, speaks with her briefly, and the gate agent hands her the telephone. She makes a call and hobbles to her seat, quite flustered. Then I hear her mumble something that just about makes me laugh out loud-“Stupid cell phone-who needs them anyway!” Turns out, she left her cell phone at her hotel that morning. As she begins to tell me how crippled she feels without it, I feel my shame melt away, and find myself commiserating with her.
I made the flight to South Bend that morning, and had a wonderful day with Brett’s cousins exploring Indiana. Some pictures are below. On our return home, we made it to Atlanta, but still couldn’t get to Orlando. We ended up flying into Daytona Beach and having friends pick us up.
I think I got a crash-course in non-rev flying. I’m sure there will be many more horror stories to tell in what I hope will become my many travels. In several years, time will coat this experience with a golden glaze, and it will become just another funny story to tell.
Lovely South Bend Regional. Very small airport. Even has it's own tornado shelter.
The street Brett's cousins live on.
The plant that Brett's cousin Jodi works at. When we stopped to take a picture, some jerk pulled up and started questioning why we were on "private property."
Brett's cousins Josh, Courtner, and SarahJodi and his new baby, Chloe.Jodi and his semi-new baby, Adam! Stephanie, Jodi's wife, Adam, and CourtneyA new 'stache for the collection. "Steakstache"Downtown South Bend, Indiana Notre Dame CampusBrett and I at Notre DameNow we can both say "yeah, we went to Notre Dame" "Touchdown Jesus" on Notre Dame Campus Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The Absolute Joys of Womanhood
It's 1:16 a.m. on Wednesday and I'm awake. Several years ago, this wouldn't be out of the ordinary, however I'm in bed by 10:30 most every night these days. I'm awake right now because my body is confused. Three weeks ago, after dealing with what seemed like violent mood swings for several months, I decided to go back on birth control in hopes that the hormones would "level me out." WRONG-O! Instead I feel even more crazy, IF that is even possible. Each morning I wake up has been like opening Pandora's Box; will I be playing the role of crazy Misty, sad Misty, happy Misty, angry Misty, mellow Misty, etc.? I've also gained 7 pounds in 3 weeks. That kind of weight fluctuation could seriously leave me with stretch marks! And now, the issue of sleeplessness. My body is exhausted, but my brain is wide awake, though you can guaranty it won't be in the morning, when it's time to go to work. My stomach hurts, I'm constipated, and I've got a whole host of other physical issues I won't get into for the benefit of any men who might stumble across this posting. Overall, I am MISERABLE, and the past few days I've been unable to put on the happy face that we women are expected to wear whilst dealing with our hormonal challenges lest we field the same question from every soul we come in contact with; "Time of the month, hun?"
I hate the idea of taking hormones in general, so I give this birth control 2 more months. Hopefully my waistline and energy level can take it.
I hate the idea of taking hormones in general, so I give this birth control 2 more months. Hopefully my waistline and energy level can take it.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Seriously, Dr. Phil?
The Octomom-just drop it. I know you're only covering it because you're "all about the kids" but after a month of shows featuring her and her unfortunate brood of diaper-fillers, one starts to get the impression that you're (gasp) capitalizing on her celebrity! The woman had 8 babies on top of however many she already had. We'll probably end up paying for her to raise them as we fund government aid programs with our tax dollars, but we do that everyday anyhow for crackhead moms, heroin moms, hooker moms, etc. I don't know why everyone has jumped on the 8-baby bandwagon, but I sure wish the wagon would pull outta town.
Here's something "octo" and much more entertaining.
Well...it has 8.....legs?
Here's something "octo" and much more entertaining.
Well...it has 8.....legs?
Monday, March 23, 2009
More Botox/Juvederm Before and Afters
Here are a few more before and after pics. I admit I photoshop'd a couple acne scars/bumps out of them both; hey, they're WAY close up!
Before
After (taken Sunday, March 22)
It's amazing the things you notice about yourself when you look at your own picture long enough. Who knew I had a crooked nose? (no, I am not considering a nose job AT ALL!!) I just never noticed it was slightly crooked!
Still not real impressed with the Botox, but the website does say 4-7 days. I can still scowl, but not as well.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Faye Dunaway
Let me go ahead and say this stuff for you and get it out of the way:
1. You are incredibly vain.
2. You don't need it!
3. Wow...there are hungry children out there.
Feel better? Great! Now you can enjoy viewing my before and after "Juvederm" pictures knowing that I know that you know that we both know gettin' injections is a completely self-indulgent act of vanity!
The pics below are my before and after. Please note that my entire face was numb in my "after" picture, so I do appear a bit slack-jawed. I'm also a bit swollen, and obviously I have several red marks where the actual injections went in. However, I wanted to be able to show how I looked IMMEDIATELY after the procedure. I will take another "after" picture in a few days to show any bruising I may have, and also once more after that to show the finished product.
BEFORE
AFTER
I am already extremely pleased with the results. My parenthesis lines literally vanished in what took about 30 minutes. The doctor told me the results would last anywhere from a year, to a year and a half. The procedure was completely painless. The doctor was an oral surgeon, and the shots he used to numb my face were the exact same shots they use to numb you for dental work, and are injected into your gums from the inside of your mouth in the same manner. They even numb your gums before they inject the shots. Once your face is completely numb, and I mean completely numb, the doctor marks your face, and takes about 3 minutes to inject the Juvederm and smooth it out. You see results immediately.
I also got Botox today. I got 15 units injected between my eyebrows for the "11" lines. You are not numbed for Botox, nor do you need to be. The needle they use is incredibly small and aside from some very mild burning upon injection, there is no discomfort. I gotta tell ya, so far I'm not real impressed with it. It doesn't feel or look any different. Granted, it is supposed to take 2-4 days for the Botox to "relax" your muscle, thus disabling you from frowning, which disables the wrinkle. I guess I just need to be patient. I can still frown and furrow my brow with ease. We'll see how it goes in a few days, and I'll post pics at that time, though it would probably be more effective to post "after" pics in about a month, as it takes about that long to fully see results. Botox is supposed to last me about 6-8 months.
So there you have it; I'm becoming "well preserved". If you have any questions about it, feel free to ask.
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