"Open" MRIs and Utter Stinking Misery

So, my amazing boy got his green belt in Hapkido on Saturday.  His kicks are getting so much higher and stronger.  Broke his boards.  I'm superbly proud of him.

Yes, he's blurry here.  He's actually always blurry.  It's part of what makes him so special.

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Today was my MRI.  What a mess.  What an all-day, drawn out, expensive mess.  Appointment was at 11 am in Rockville, Maryland.  It's a bit of a drive, and we were unsure of how the traffic might be, so we headed out at 9:00 a.m.  Got there killer early, and they took me killer early, which I thought was great.  They take me back, and it is clear I'm not going to fit in that machine.  It's not the "high field open MRI" I was promised.  Instead, it's a "sit down, magnets on either side" gig, with a space between the magnets that makes a coach airline seat look spacious.  I'd have been okay (I did fit), had they not also needed my arms flat to my sides, with my elbows pulled back against my ribs, AND the coil around the bad arm.

THAT wasn't happening.

So they wound up calling their other location--the one that actually HAS the open (not sitting) MRI. They could see me today--at 2 p.m.  Almost a four hour wait.  It was a half-hour drive (to Chevy Chase), so we decided to go straight there.  Figured we could park somewhere, maybe nap.  

Who knew there's no parking in Chevy Chase?  No free parking, anyway.  Considering all the Louis Vuitton, JCrew, and Tiffany's scattered about, I suppose the surfeit of parking meters and high-priced lots shouldn't surprise me.  It would have been 18 dollars to park for the six hours we were going to need (longer, it turned out), so we decided "screw it" and headed back home.  We had just enough time, once home, to grab a credit card to cover the parking (which still wound up being ten bucks), grab a snack, and hit the bathroom.  Then it was back on the road again, back to Chevy Chase (which is a lovely area, though the uber-snobby shopping tells me it's not an area that would likely welcome me).  We got there half-an-hour early, but wound up not being seen until an hour AFTER my scheduled appointment.  

I can't begin to tell you how exhausted I was.  Am.

First off, to the people of the Washington DC/Northern Virginia/Maryland area?  Give a girl a break, ENUNCIATE.  Seriously, the folks in this area have the mushiest, slushiest, laziest way of mouthing words, it's all blurred together in this "yezmm, canahaveyashurazcod" slop.

WHAT?  Seriously, what language is that?  Because if it's something exotic and you can't help it because English isn't your native tongue, okay--you speak slower, I'll lean closer, we'll throw in some hand gestures and a bit of charades and we'll make it work.  But if you're a native English speaker?

Stop chewing your damned tongue, stop slopping your lips together and SPEAK CLEARLY.

Thank you.

Anyway, they finally bring me back, and, speaking of English as a second language, the tech is Ukrainian.  Lovely accent, easier to understand than the mushmouth up front.  However, like so many medical professionals, she doesn't actually LISTEN.  She says, "Okay, left arm."  I say, "No, right arm."  She repeats, more loudly, "LEFT ARM."  I assumed I must be misunderstanding her, because otherwise, she just blew me off.  She had me lie down, and then told me to scoot all the way over so my LEFT arm was in the middle of the "bed."

"It's my right arm."

"No, it's you're left."

"No, really, it's my right arm--right here." (I point to the mass in my right arm).

"Not left?"

"Not left."

"The papers say left!"  (imagine angry Ukrainian voice).

"I'm pretty sure the paper reads 'right distal forearm.'"

"It says LEFT!"

"Okay, but it's NOT left, it's RIGHT."

She scuttles from the room, huffs back a few minutes later, telling me to scoot over to the OTHER side of the table so my RIGHT arm is in the center.

And then comes the agony.  She keeps telling me to scoot farther and farther, until my other arm is hanging off the table.  She tells me I have to rotate my arm in, hold it close to my side, keep it turned, AND don't move.  My arm is clasped to my side, wrist bent and fingers resting on the table, helping support the arm (see, the shoulder and deltoid have been hurting badly for a week now, so any sort of twisting like this is painful from the get-go).  She asks if it's comfortable, I tell her "No, it's not."  She asks if I can manage.  And I say I think I can.

And I probably could have, if she hadn't come back in after 20+ minutes, practically shouting, "Mass?  This is for a MASS?"  I agree, yes, it's for a mass.  She makes a rather rude noise (a sort of a "tschah!") and leaves.  Comes back with two vitamin E gelcaps and some tape.  The second time I've had OTC vitamins taped to my arm as a marker today.  Then she shoves and muscles my arm back into the now VERY painful position she demands, and we start ALL OVER AGAIN.

About 15 minutes in, my upper arm (where the tricep [specifically the tricep brachii longus] meets the scapula [shoulder blade]) begins to twitch.  Just small spasms, but nothing I can do about it. She bursts in and admonishes me to be still, that she's seeing far too much motion.  I explain that I'm being as still as I can, but my arm is spasming and it's beyond my control.

Another "tschah!"

By 25 minutes, my whole arm is searing, burning with pain, and the muscle spasms have spread. By 30 minutes?  My whole arm is trembling and my fingers, which were supporting my arm?  Give out.  Not all of them, just two.  They slip, and that's that.  

I lift my other arm and flag her in.  She rumbles the table out of the machine, and I start to explain what's going on, and . . .

I burst into tears.

This isn't my first rodeo, I've had a number of MRIs.  But I've never had one go bad on me like this.  I've never had a problem being still and being in and out in a relative jiffy.

I've certainly never cried at the tech.  I think I scared her.

Might have something to do with two hours of sleep, a two hour job that turned into an eight hour day, months of fear, and a LOT of pain.  She kept asking what to do to make the arm stop freaking out, but kept shooting down everything I suggested.  We finally, through creative use of wedges and foam bits, managed to get the arm in the right position, get the coil in the right spot, AND have the arm resting in such a way that it wasn't tensed and balanced on fingers.  

And then we started AGAIN.

Another 40 minutes.  My back, my knees, my shoulders, my arm, and, of course, my head?  All a mess.  And when I asked her if the scans were better, she made a noncommittal sort of "eh, better" noise.  Which isn't encouraging.

I should have gone to Fauquier and used their wide-bore MRI.  It's nasty, it's claustrophobia-inspiring, it's snug, but they do the job quickly and correctly. Sure, it would have been a fifty dollar copay, but free parking and we wouldn't have had to drive to Maryland.

Twice.

Maryland, where gas is markedly more expensive than just a few miles south.

Now, I'm not dogging the tech--I'm frustrated with the time and the hurt, not with her.  She seemed a nice enough lady, though her expressions of frustration weren't particularly comforting.

While driving about, we were sure to take the Capital Beltway, seeking out any of the six teabilly truckers who accomplished nothing with their diminutive "Truckers for the Constitution" joke.  Like yesterday, like the day before, and like the day before that, they were nowhere to be found.

On the way home (the second time), we stopped by the Bolger Center.  It's the place my husband was staying when he decided he wanted to move to the east coast.  For reasons I understand far better than anyone suspects.

Now, because it was a federal holiday (Happy Meteors Discovering Dinosaurs Day), we couldn't drop off the CD at my surgeon's office.  So we'll have to go tomorrow, drop off the CD, make a new appointment, and hope Hubby's boss is understanding.

Speaking of hopes, let's all cross our fingers that the MRI place, which has a contract with my insurance provide, doesn't mean what it says in the financial forms.  A lot of "we don't care what preset amounts your provider may think we'll accept--we have our own ideas, and you're responsible for the full amount, your insurance company be damned" language.  Let's also hope my insurance company pays for the in-office x-rays the surgeon took last week.  Because if not, I've already sunk us, and we don't even have a diagnosis yet.

Health care in America.  Where families routinely have to choose between health and financial solvency.

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And that's that.  I'm going to try to snag a few minutes of sleep before the boys come home from Hapkido.

Stephen Kinging the World one Hanging Basket at a Time

Well, our boy successfully completed his belt test--he now has a fancy yellow belt with a black center stripe.  Next test will be for green.  A lot of regret that we didn't keep him in martial arts since those early days, but we never were able to find a school that didn't have that crappy "fight club" thing going on.  A bunch of bad-asses with lousy attitudes . . . and those are the senseis.  Still wish there'd been a place, though.  He's doing great, his kicks are picking up more height, and he's really developing confidence, but imagine where he'd be if we'd been able to keep him in it from age six?

Here he is at six:

Yes, he's the  magical blond with the flying feet of flames.  

I have to say, we love the martial arts studio here.  The owner is great.  Our politics don't mesh, but they don't need to--he's a good man, is patient without being a pushover, and he really does look for the best in his students, then helps them to work bringing it to the surface.  I feel like we really lucked out when we found him.

On the down side, our boy didn't manage to break his second board--the "kick" board.  The folks testing for yellow did, but they were using easier kicks (as they should, they were testing for a lower level), plus they're both already in Taikwondo.  Or is that Tai Kwon Do?  Dunno.  Another young man who was testing for green was partnered with our boy during the test.  Very nice young man, I think the family is Mormon (a comment his mother made about tithing).  Plus they just have that feel to them, our boy noticed it, too, said they felt like they were from Utah.  Anyway, after our boy missed his kick/board-breaking, this other boy also failed to break his board.  

I think it was intentional.  I think he "messed up" for our boy.  I think he saw how troubled our son was by his failure to successfully break the board and so he blew his, too.  I never would have said that to our boy, but he came to ME and told me that's what he thinks, too.  And I said?

There's no way to know, but if he did, that was a terrifically kind thing for him to do.  Hang on to it, and maybe someday you can, to use a tired phrase, pay that forward to some other person.  

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We made a few gallons of homemade laundry detergent last night.  Or, actually, we made it the night before, let it sit for 20 hours or so, and then dispensed it into gallon jugs.  It gelled up like squid snot, but hubby didn't mind just getting in there with his bare hands and breaking up the slimy chunks.  It smells like what it is--borax, washing soda, and ivory soap.  If you smell really carefully, you'll catch the undertone of lavender, and that's because we added a little lavender to the mix.  We used some last night on the sheets, and they came out smelling and looking clean, which is all we ask, right?  The cost?

If we use all of the borax, Ivory soap, and washing powder, that will put us down around ten bucks.  For approximately 600 loads of laundry.  

Seems a good deal, and I feel better about the chemicals and such.  I'm considering making powder next time, but it does seem that lessens the savings--adding gallons of hot water really does seem to stretch the ingredients out.  And I don't really mind the squid spit gig--what spilled on the floor mopped up great and cleaned the floor!

Our recipe, if you're wondering, was simple:

1/2 cup Borax powder

1 cup Washing Soda (not baking soda)

1 bar Ivory soap, grated in the food processor

We melted the soap flakes on the stove top in five cups of water, and added three gallons of water to the Borax and Washing Soda.  When the soap was melted, we stirred them all together in a large bucket, covered it, and let it sit for 21 hours.  Then we mixed/stirred/declotted it and poured it into containers through a funnel.  

One small piece of advice--if you're going to use old detergent/colorsafe bleach containers, wash them WELL.  We didn't, and the peroxide from the colorsafe bleach reacted with (I'm guessing) the washing soda and pressure built.  Yes, we caught it before it blew, set it in the sink and let it foam until the reaction was done.  Funny, but could have been a mess, had we put them downstairs immediately, you know?

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Speaking of laundry, do me a favor?  If someone says, "I just busted my behind making this because it's something I wanted to do," don't  leave a comment making it clear that you think it's a waste.  I posted about making the detergent, and here are the first two comments I got:

Okay, I need to know that you'll pass on the rest exactly why?  And worse, you've got a better, simpler recipe--you buy Tide at the store?  You know, how about, "That sounds really cool!" or even "Not my cup of tea, but I think it's cool that you're doing that!"

Not everybody always needs to know that you're above something or you feel disdain or you think that whatever is a waste of time or effort.  Seriously.  Just as, when someone says, "I love Enya," you don't have to respond, "I can't stand her--I think she sounds like a dying moose!"  Truly, you do not have to offer up negative commentary every time someone posts something.  Or even most of the time.  If I had five bucks for every time I've refrained from posting my disagreement/disdain on some bit of idiocy on a friend's wall, we'd be rolling in it.  

Now, just to be clear, I'm not talking about advice or tips or, "Oh, I tried that and it burned down my kitchen."  No, I'm talking about the disdainful, aren't I so funny posts that make it clear how supremely above whatever you are.  Hey, if you're THAT far above it, why on earth would you be blowing the time posting about it?

And, to be fair, I also got some supportive posts.  But the first two rankled just a bit.  Worse because I DO like these folks.  But sometimes the negativity is a real downer.  Or maybe I'm just too sensitive.

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Boy, that sure was depressing.  Sorry.  

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Speaking of depressing, my younger sister announced she's joining the military.  Or, rather, has joined.  We never knew each other until just a few years ago--she's 20 or so years younger, and such an amazingly smart, pragmatic, realistic person.  I'm not happy about her decision--it scares the hell out of me.  On top of the inherent dangers of being in the military, there are the additional horrors that come with being a woman in the military.  But she's got a lot of student aid debt and a lot of hopes for the future, and those hopes include further education, which she cannot afford.  So I understand her reasoning, and, while I'm no big military fan (neither is she), I'm proud of her for making a decision to improve her situation.  Took a lot of guts.  But man, it makes me sad.

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One last thing.  I have a hanging planter with pansies which lived over from last year.  Or, rather, half of it did--the other half the birds have shredded away all the insert fibers for their nests.  So I bought a new planter and insert (larger) and just transplanted the pansies.  This gave me a half-planted pansy container, so I bought a packet of pansy seeds to fill in the other side.  Except they didn't look like pansy seeds.  I know, because I've planted pansy seeds before, I've cracked open the seed pods from my pansies to see what's inside.  Those are small, black seeds.  These?  Were large (think almost peppercorn-sized), bright green seeds.  And you know what?

I planted them anyway.  Hey, maybe they've encapsulated the seeds in little fertilizer pods, right?

Or, speaking of pods, maybe they're something more sinister?  I stood out there, laughing while planting, imagining the Stephen King scenario where the folks from the CDC and NSA have me in a small, white room, and they're saying, "Hang on--you knew they looked mutant, you knew they looked totally wrong, and yet YOU PLANTED THEM ANYWAY?"  End of the world, and all because some dippy housewife from Virginia opened that door and gave the alien species a foothold in her garden.  

Her garden where she enjoys the flowers, the trees, the beauty, and the sky, thank you very much, Mr. King.

Kevin McCarthy in Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  Mr. McCarthy (or we think it was him, anyway; he may have been "podded") died in 2010 at the age of 96.  That's a long time.  Turns out he was Mary McCarthy's brother, which is fascinatingly and oddly ironic, considering her politics and the era and their last name.  I love history.  

Just found this article.  So (probably) no freaky pod alien species from my hanging baskets.  Boy, I feel better!

Don't say "Anal"

Wow, lesson learned!  My blog takes "okay" hits.  A few comments here and there. Not a star (yet--share me!  Link folks up!).  I take respectable enough traffic, I suppose, but nothing spectacular, especially when it comes to folks leaving feedback.

With one notable exception.

Back in September of 2012, I wrote an entry titled "Anal Glands, Huh?"  About my dog's grooming experience.  That entry?  Has taken ten + times the hits most of my others have garnered, and has raked in dozens of spam messages.  Dozens.

So, I guess there's a lesson there.  Put the word "Anal" in my titles more often . . . and keep those comments moderated.  Laws, yes.

We watched Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince on Blu-Ray last night.  Not the first time, of course.  In the lead-in, there is an advert for a remastered version of the The Wizard of Oz.  Hubby, who hates that show, was completely captured because Toto looks SO much like Charlie.  So  now he wants to rent it.  LOL!

Well, our boy tested for his yellow belt in Hapkido last night.  The only one of the white belts to be invited to do so.  The others?  One is much newer, and the others have pretty abysmal attendance and participation records.  So it was just our boy for the yellows (others were testing for yellow-black (degree), red, and brown.

I haven't seen him at Hapkido in months.  I've avoided it because I felt I was making him nervous.  I wanted this to be his to do without any perceived pressure or self-consciousness.

Needless to say, I was floored by him.  So much he has committed to memory, so much he is daring to do.  He made no mistakes, he was wonderful.  And he even broke a couple of boards, one with a hand strike, one with a kick.

I am super-proud of him.  He managed to memorize his Korean, and did an all-around fantastic job.  Even the husband of the new red belt took a moment to tell us how very well he was doing for a first belt test.

Of course, it's not his first belt test.  It's just his first REAL one.  This was so much more involved and serious and demanding than the self defense martial arts he loved so much so many years ago.  This was real.  Absolutely.

I wrote a review of my amazing, magical, wondrous new keyboard of joy and perfection.  Here it is:

Logitech K800

Making more candles tonight.  Blue, this time, with a wonderful mahogany/sandalwood scent in palm wax.  Figuring out the amazing crystal formations you see with the palm.  I'll post some pics when they're done.

Updated to say "they're done."

Loving the crystalline gig with the blue ones (palm wax)

Speaking of candles. we ordered from a company called Candlewic, based in Doylestown, PA (very close to the town of Perkasie we were eyeing when first looking to move back east).  Found them online, only to later discover they're the same company as "Country Lane Candle Supplies," which stocks most of the mega-craft stores around here.  The shipping charges are steep (as they seem to be with most of the candle places we've looked at), so we made sure to order everything we wanted.  When the order came, the shipping receipt stated that the patchouli scent was on back-order.  Okay, fair enough.  But then, a day after delivery, I get an email telling me that the patchouli was out of stock, is NOT on back-order, and I won't be receiving it when it comes back in stock--I can reorder then.  Translation?

They want to nail me for another 12 bucks or so in shipping on a $2.75 product.

I responded to their email, told them that wasn't okay--I want the patchouli, my packing receipt states it's on back-order, and I want it shipped.  They ignored my email, did not respond, did not do as I asked, and refunded my card.

No more orders through Candlewic.  Way to blow it, kids.  Not that they likely care--they appear to be a very large company, and very large companies tend to let customer service take back seat to making a few extra bucks.

So our next order--some soy wax, a few scents (including the patchouli), and a few molds--went to a smaller company.  When the order comes, I'll let you know how it went.

I promised some amazing bad paneling, and fully intend to deliver tonight!  A HUGE thanks to Leif, who has kindly given permission for me to search his archive of awful in search of prime examples bad paneling!

Perfectly awful--blond paneling AND dead fish!

And a quick little note, just for a special guy in my world--don't argue Australian crime statistics with me in support of weakening gun control laws and then quote the NCPA to my BMJ.  Like the Kochs and Carl Rove are going to give me a fair, unbiased analysis.  Goodness, no wonder you can't think.

Turns Out

There's a lot more to making candles than I used to think there was.  At least if I want them to burn nicely.  There are half a dozen different types of wicks I'm going to need for the different waxes I want to try.  We've been working just with paraffin right now, have made seven candles (three orange with a spicy/cinnamon/clove-type scent, four red with a woodsy/conifer kind of smell) just for practice, seeing how the wicking works and such.  We have some beeswax and some palm wax, too.  Looking to order more wicks and some nice scents.  Bergamot, sandalwood, patchouli, a cinnamon/nutmeg/clove/holiday-type, and one more, haven't decided yet.  We have green, blue, and red coloring, and can experiment with that.

What are we going to do with the candles?  I don't know.  Burn 'em, I guess?

Epinions still in flames.  Doesn't mean I won't keep writing.  Hope you read--that's what keeps me in wick money, you know.  It's a site I'm very fond of, and this will pass.  I've been writing there for 13 years.  In web years, that's like gold watch territory.

My boy is testing for his yellow belt next weekend.  Hapkido.  He had a purple belt in some martial-y art thing when he was younger, but it was a thing offered through the public schools as a self defense for kids program, not really serious.  This is a real school, and it means a lot to him.  He's excited, and so am I!  That the test costs 55 bucks.  Not so exciting.  Dang.

Anyway, it's late and it's time.  More tomorrow!

Steampunking Art

If you've read back through my stuff, you know that I have, for years now, been on the lookout for a vintage mourning locket that was my mother's.  It had been a gift to her from the wife of her father's (my grandfather's) business partner back in Hallstead, Pennsylvania.  It was a large (around two-plus inches long by over an inch wide) gold or pinchbeck (I don't know which) mourning locket with deep scrolling and a large, rectangular black stone--I believe obsidian, but maybe not, maybe onyx.  It was not jet, and it was almost certainly not glass.  I know those things.  The inside was missing the glass, and was an uneven, pale enamel blue.  The chain was incredibly muscular and substantial, a brilliantly heavy box-link chain that was obviously meant to be with the locket.  My mother gave it to me on my wedding day, and, as far as I can tell, the husband of that day stole it when we split up in Provo, Utah a year later.  It's been 28 years since I've seen that locket, and I'm still looking for it.  It means more to me than I can adequately explain.

What does that have to do with Steampunk?

Everything.

You see, I know folks who are completely taken, captivated even, by the whole steampunk thing.  And hey, that's fine, have fun, it's harmless, it's creative, and if it takes your imagination to new heights, that's wonderful.

What isn't so wonderful is how some steampunk folks have taken to snapping up vintage jewelry and tearing it to bits for their own "reimagined" art.  This destroys me, it tears ME to bits.  I can imagine someone taking that amazing, beautiful locket for which I have searched years and tearing the stone off, replacing it with some dippy beetle made out of soldered coathanger and a Heineken bottle cap or some other such thing.  And it makes me almost crazy with preemptive grief.

I've heard the cry, "It's ART!" but I disagree.  It's "art" like me breaking into the Louvre with a can of spray paint and "reimagining"  Da Vinci's Virgin of the Rocks is art.  The locket itself is art.  To deface it would be vandalism.  If you want to pull apart jewelry and watches and recreate other, new, steampunk-y things, then please, please buy cheap, knock-off jewelry from Burlington Coat Factory and Walmart.  But please don't go to antique shops and vintage stores and snap up treasures for the purpose of defacing them!  If it's the "old" look you're after, it's no big deal to distress metals to make them look vintage.

Please!

And enough of that.  Been thinking about the whole "fiscal cliff" deal and how it doesn't really fix much on the sequestration front because all they did was kick the can down the road by a couple of months.  So we don't really even get to relax much.  We're just caught in the idiot waiting and worrying game again.  Or still.  Thanks, guys.

My son's Christmas card from his Aunt finally came yesterday.  Open and no money.  Yes, she actually put CASH in the card.  So now we're torn.  Do we tell her the card came opened with no cash, or do we just let it go and give him the cash out of our own pocket?  I don't know, but I can't help but feel just a tad pissed off here.  Who puts cash in a card these days?  Why would anyone do that?  My mom also sent a card, and it showed up the same day, also opened.  But she had included a check, not cash, and the check was still there.

Grrr.

Going shopping tonight.  Going to work very hard to keep it cheap AND to load up on fruits and veggies instead of crappy snacks.  It's time to rein this in before my blood sugar becomes a real issue again.

Speaking of real issues--going into week three without seeing any lice.  We're pretty sure we know who they're coming off of, and there's not really anything we can do.  It's another boy in Hapkido, really unkempt, seems mentally troubled, perhaps autistic?  Bad body odor, really greasy hair.  No, I don't believe any of those things give you lice--case in point, my kid with the clean hair and the fresh-smelling armpits.  But this boy has problems with being touched, and the only time we find lice on MY boy is after he's been paired for sparring with the boy I'm talking about.  And he is FOREVER scratching at his head.  I'm thinking he has a wowser infestation and won't let anyone in close enough to see or do anything about it.  So we'll just keep doing what we're doing--when my boy comes home, he rinses his hair, and then I thoroughly lice comb him and blow his hair out to fry the bastards.  I don't see another option that doesn't damage the studio owner (and he's a nice man) or cause that disturbed boy harm, and I'm not looking to have him thrown out or whatever.  So we lice comb.  Now that we're aware of the problem and the likely source, we should be able to stay on top of it.

And before anyone says anything about me being mean by saying I think the boy is likely autistic?  My boy stopped talking right after his first birthday.  And he stayed non-verbal for over a year.  At the same time, he began developing odd repetitive tics and took to screaming and hitting himself whenever anyone sang or whistled.  We spent years working with him to get him past the spectacular Asperger's gig he had going on.  And there are still issues, though most are so dramatically improved that the average person dealing with him doesn't notice.  So I'm not being mean, I absolutely sympathize with the boy and his parents.  So much so that I'll put up with my boy being exposed to lice up to three times a week.

And, finally?  Bad paneling!  Bad!

I really do think the lighter ones offend me the most.  Nothing like a little "blond" paneling to make my fingernails itch.

Christmas Tree Day/I May Scream Myself to Death

Well, we bought a lovely tree yesterday--nothing from Walmart, we're not doing that place anymore.  After today's revelation about creatively cutting employee hours to deny them even the abysmal health benefits they were getting?  All done with Walmart.  We have Wegmans, we have Costco, both of which have terrific records when it comes to pay and benefits. 

Anyway, the tree.  It's a Fraser Fir, same as last year.  Got it from a little lot over by Sudley.  Local folks who bring in trees from North Carolina.  Sad about the Fraser Firs, though--apparently, some nasty non-native insect has decimated the old growth Frasers.  They reproduce eagerly, so there are plenty of babies, but once they're large enough for their bark to start cracking and giving an opening, they may be toast.  Apparently, they thrive in Scotland, so that's something.  Until some dip introduces some awful non-native thing there, too.

Our Fraser Fir--pay no attention to the horrendous mid-decorating mess.

We were a bit worried about the dog with the tree--after all, is it realistic to bring a live tree in the house and expect a dog to not lift leg?  Luckily, we've had no issues thus far.  Of course, the decorations aren't on yet.  Let's see how that goes, chewing-wise. 

Last night, our boy announced that he'd found a louse on his arm earlier in the day, after his Hapkido session.  He had tried to put it aside, but it had escaped somewhere in his bathroom.  So I took the fine-toothed, rat-tailed comb and went over him.  Nothing.  This morning, I was taking a shower.  After shampooing my hair, I looked down at my hand to see two strands of hair being held together by . . . what was that?  Was it moving?

Was it a damned LOUSE?

Yeah.  Yeah, it was. 

One is a coincidence.  Two?  Two is something more sinister. 

Once again, it was time to check heads.  This time I checked our boy's while hubby checked mine, and then I checked hubby's.  Nothing.  NOTHING!  Now, it's not like I don't know how to look for lice--last go-round, I mastered parting off the hair and checking, line-by-line, for those bastards.  No lice on either of my men's heads.  Our boy does have what looks like maybe nits, but not down near the scalp--these are 1-2 inches up the hair shaft, which isn't indicative of a going infestation. 

After all the combing through and checking, I feel a tickle on my bare leg.  I look down, and, sure enough, there's a LOUSE on my leg.  Smaller than the first ones, but absolutely a louse.  No mistaking it's blood-filled little abdomen. 

What the hell?

So that's another 40 bucks in lice treatments.  It's not that this has been an ongoing thing--the last (first) infestation, which only affected our boy, was  back in early July.  Five months ago.  This is a whole new group, and here's the thing--we don't hang out with anyone, really.  The closest contact we have with anyone is shopping, visiting various historical sites, our boy's Hapkido, and hubby's daily bus commute.  My money's on Hapkido, since that involves a lot of close contact and rolling around on the mats.  Whatever it is, I've gotta say, I'm unhappy.  You know I hate ticks, but at least ticks don't lay EGGS on you.  Of course, lice don't have the potential to give you possibly deadly diseases, so I guess it's "ick" factor vs really dangerous. 

But ICK, you know?  I really may scream myself to death.

Our boy just started another online course, this time with hubby.  A course on logic and arguments, offered up by Duke University.  We're really liking this Coursera gig--gives us the opportunity to fill in any gaps in our boy's education.  He's got the basics, but this gives him those electives. 

Anyway, I need to give up my post on the computer so they can get back to work.  It makes me very happy to have them sharing the time!

The tree--not done yet, I'll likely fiddle with it for a few days.  But done-ish.

Giving Thanks

I don't usually engage in the whole "I am thankful for" gig.  Mostly because people assume that one must be thankful TO some grand being somewhere.  I, of course, am not thankful to any ghosties or beasties.  Because I don't want to hassle with the idea that I somehow SHOULD be, I tend to avoid the language altogether.  When I offer up thanks, it's a general, universe/life/existence/happenstance thing.  No deities need apply.

Which is not, of course, to say that you can't have your deities--if you lean that way, I am happy for you.  I hope it brings you great joy.

Anyway, back on point--I just spent two hours doing the "obligatory family phone calls" shuffle.  Gonna take me a minute to get back to where I was in my head.

Thankfulness.  Right.

I started to write this with the little Pakistani girls in mind.  You know, the ones braving Taliban bullets to obtain an education?  And my mind wandered to my own education, something I was so disdainful of when I was a child.  See, I didn't have to worry about being shot or having my family's home firebombed.  No, I had it just slightly easier.  Easier enough that I could look at that risk-free education as no big deal.  I read about these brave girls and their courageous families and I realize just how very lucky I am.

For that, I'm thankful.

Last night, I was cold.  My hands and feet, which tend toward the Raynaud's, were icy cold.  This used to be devastating for me, keeping me awake for hours.  I've found the cure for cold hands and feet when trying to sleep--a warm Cairn Terrier.  Charlie sleeps on my legs, and my whole body warms up.  So this Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for my first little rat dog.  He's a keeper, a sweetheart, a comedian, and a heating pad all wrapped up into one carrot-eating, rolling-over-and-playing-dead, squirrel-loving bundle.

Speaking of thankfulness, we just gave Charlie his first ever Thanksgiving organ meat feast.  Ew, but he sure was impressed.  Impressed enough that he kept kicking around his dish and trying to make more magically appear.  Happy Thanksgiving, Charlie!

The car is back home--picked it up last night.  Haven't seen it in the daylight, so don't know how well they matched the paint.  Regardless, I'm thankful my husband wasn't compacted by the 18 wheeler that did three grand worth of damage to our new car.  Hopefully, come March when our premium period is over, I can be thankful for our insurance company NOT screwing us on devastatingly high new rates.  Cross your fingers.

Our boy is really opening up at Hapkido.  Getting to know the other people, learning to relate on a more grown-up, easy level.  He's having fun, he's learning, and he's coming to more openly relate to other people in social situations.  For that, I am very thankful--it's been a concern.

Speaking of being thankful where our boy is concerned, let me just say that, as we watch hubby's nephew do his level best to be a cautionary tale (you know, if you can't be a good example, be an excellent cautionary tale?), I am SO thankful that our boy isn't striving to be an utter waste like his cousin.  His cousin, which is super-sad because the kid really does have a sweet heart inside that homophobic, blustering, "look how cool I am" exterior.   Sounds harsh, I know, but the kid just turned 18 and is about to be a "daddy" for the THIRD time.  Smokes, dropped out of school, can't support the kids he already has (his mom has custody of one, the STATE has custody of the second), and, whoops!  Here comes a third!  An epic git by any estimation, and, by comparison, my boy is Einstein, Lincoln, Socrates, Isaac Newton, and Carl Sagan all rolled into one.  My boy's a good kid, but it sure does help to have the nephew around.  Keeps everything in perspective.

On a slightly snarky-seeming, yet absolutely sincere note?  I am indescribably happy that I will NEVER, EVER have to utter the words "President Romney."  Joy!

And finally?  I am thankful to have that family that, so often, drives me batty.  Doing the "phone call shuffle" may be a pain, but not being able to do it would be a whole lot worse.  Holidays were never very good with my family--too many fights, too many pitched emotions, too much stress in the air.  Some day, I'll tell a tale or two of Thanksgiving with my mom, of sneaking into the kitchen every few minutes to turn the oven down from the blistering 475 at which she thought a turkey must broil away to dust, only to have her stomp back out and crank that bugger back up.  Surreptitiously creeping to the oven to dump can after can of chicken broth into the pan in a desperate attempt to be spared another year of utterly flavorless, lumpy gravy.  Maybe not good times, and maybe long-distance makes it all easier, but my times, and funny in hindsight.

A couple of funny things--the first maybe not as funny as the second:

1) Went to the store last night to pick up some last-minute things for tonight's dinner.  Hubby whipped out the debit card to pay . . . and it was rejected.  DE-nied!  We knew we had sufficient funds, so we wound up going to the bank.  It was late, after hours, but hubby hoped it was a problem with the store's machines rather than our account.  No such luck.  Hitting the bank's site on his phone, hubby was informed that, by paying for the car repair with the debit card, we had "exceeded our daily transaction limit."  Good thing I had fifty bucks cash hanging out with the emergency kit, huh?  No, the irony of having a limit to how much of my own money I can spend hasn't escaped me.

2) For months, we've been giving Charlie, our Cairn Terrier, chunks of carrots.  Just a round of raw carrot while we're preparing julienne for pasta or whatever.  He runs around with them eagerly, parading about, really, then drops them at our feet.  All this time, we've assumed he just wanted to play fetch, and so we've picked up the carrot and thrown it.  He chases it down, brings it back, and drops it again.  A fun game, right?

Turns out he didn't want to play fetch.  No, he wanted us to break it up into smaller pieces for him so he could more easily chew it.  Yeah, don't we feel stupid?  Imagine how frustrating that must have been for him, bringing the carrots for help in eating and, instead, having us throw the things across the house each time.  Poor Charlie!

On a wildly unrelated note, if you've any familiarity with the cemetery at Old Frisco, Utah, please drop me a note.  I'm on something of a quest. 

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!  Be safe, love, be loved, and enjoy!

Spinal Crackers in Space

So, the x-rays finally made it to my gp's office (though my usual gp is out on maternity leave and my original choice for gp is handling her cases).  Still no promised call, though.  Instead, I received a single page interpretation from Fairfax Radiology, with a scrawled note from the gp once again recommending the in-house physical therapy we can't afford right now.

The radiologist's findings?

Spine, Thoracic Three Views

History: back pain

Comparison:  none

AP, Lateral, and Swimmers views of the thoracic spine:

The vertabrae are intact and aligned.  Vertabral body heights are normal.  Disc heights are mildly narrowed throughout the thoracic spine with small anterior osteophytosis.  No focal lesion or fracture.

Impression: mild degenerative disc disease throughout the thoracic spine.

Not as bad as it could have been, but man, the pain really is getting pretty danged irritating.  We already know I have multiple blown discs in the lumbar/sacral regions. Bet the cervical spine's a mess, too.  I know that the way I sit at the computer and the way I hunch over the iPad to play Monopoly with our boy likely makes it worse, but everyone agrees this originates with my 1993 car accident. 

Marvy.

I'll do some digging, see what I can find for exercises and the like to make this better.  Supposedly, it responds well to non-surgical approaches. 

It's the first Saturday Hapkido class for our boy.  He is so loving this!  Wish it didn't cost so much--it's basically the cost of the physical therapy I'm not getting.  No, my PT isn't more important.  I've got mild spinal degeneration, holding off for a year or so isn't likely to do me much harm, considering I've had this back ache for most of a year.  He is so happy about this, and he is doing so well--no way I'm messing that up.  He needs this, and I need for him to have it.

Did some digging and found my old OB/GYN's assistant on Facebook.  No, that's not as creepy as it sounds--she's the one who found the mystery mass, and she asked that I let her know how that resolved.  But then she left my old doc's office, and I didn't know where to find her.  Found her on Facebook this morning (she, too, had moved out of state), and just dropped her a note letting her know what the mass was and how things turned out.  She was a wonderfully nice woman, very smart, very up on her research, and really was a joy.  In as much as you can miss the person manning the speculum, I miss her.

Only three hours of sleep last night, hence the weirdo title for today's blog.  It makes no sense to me, either.  Going to hit the hay again as soon as Hapkido is over.  Have a wonderful Saturday!

Crybaby Cry

So, more on the physical stuff I mentioned the other day--I've been struggling with pain in my right elbow and arm, plus my fingers and, for a few days, the palm of my right hand.  Sometimes the pain is pretty much gone, other times it's loud and proud.  It can come and go in the space of hours, with devastating pain (the elbow) almost disappearing with just an Advil or two.  The hands gig is new, but that elbow?  That rat bastard's been hurting me on and off (mostly on) since last September.  That's a year ago.  It seemed to be a result of packing and moving, and it took seven months to clear up.  While the range of motion never returned, the pain went away for a few months. 

Until a couple of weeks ago.

That pain came back with such a vengeance I wound up lying awake, crying from it.  Wound up at the doctor, spitting out another copay we can't afford.  The verdict?  ANA and Sedimentation Rate tests are normal.  RA Turbid/RA Factor?  Ever so slightly elevated--normal is 0-13.9, I'm at 14.3.  I mentioned the pain I've had (again, since moving last September) in my back, between and beneath my shoulder blades.  She ordered an x-ray.  We'll see what that says.  She recommended physical therapy, but my insurance wants a hefty chunk per session, so that's not happening any time soon.  She recommended a rheumatologist, but that's going to wait until the x-rays are back.  As I have a history of squamous cell carcinoma (two years ago, smack on my face), gastric ulcers, an irregular heartbeat (I take Metoprolol for that), and am diabetic, the odds of finding a medical/pharmaceutical solution are slim.  I have started taking fish oil, curcumin, and a combination of glucosamine, chondroiton, and MSM.  Yes, there has been an improvement--not much, and I understand that these things, while often reducing the need for pain medication, probably don't do much for inflammation.  But needing fewer NSAIDs means less hurt to my stomach, my heart, and my kidneys.  And that's certainly worth something.

So, on the subject of crying, I was cruising through the morning news stories and found a gem about how 70% of women with chronic ailments like arthritis wind up divorced.  Often because of the physical deformity that can result, and also because of the loss of mobility and inability to perform tasks they used to be capable of.  I thought about bowling the other night, how I sat and watched while my husband and son bowled.  I didn't dare try because my elbow and hands are so achy.  I had a good time, but sitting here thinking about it, I burst into tears.  One more thing wrong with me. 

No, I don't think Tommy's going to hightail it, but it's still an unbearably sad thought.  Imagine being crippled by arthritis and then having the one person who should always be there for you say, "So long--too much hassle, and damn, your hands look scary!"

Tailbone has taken to hurting again.  Because there always has to be something new and exciting.

On a happier note, we got our boy uniformed and paid up for his Hapkido.  He's very happy.

Hapkido and Misfit Children

So, even though we absolutely cannot afford it, we've enrolled our boy in Hapkido.  He did a few years of martial arts when younger, and he was really quite taken with it.  This is three nights a week, and I'm pleased with the lack of edge and attitude from the Master/Sensei.  I'm not getting the "badass" vibe you often get off martial arts places.  That's good--we're not after badass.  We're after self-confidence, improved concentration, and an ability to effectively defend himself.  That there are four or five other teens in Hapkido is good, too.

Speaking of self-defense, it would appear that all the friendships on the street are over for him.  The one household that still had much to do with him (though he was the "friend of last resort") has become suspect.  DJ, the younger of the two boys, has taken to spending all his free time with the animal-killing, lie-telling, thieving kids across the street.  You know, the ones not permitted in our house because they steal and tell big, whopper, dangerous lies?  He only comes to our door in their presence now--always late/after dark, and always asking if our boy can come outside to "hang out."  That child has NEVER asked if Sean can come out--he's always come here and asked to come IN so they can play video games or Nerf.  But suddenly he wants Sean outside in the presence of the rat kids and Armen.  No way.  Our boy feels certain it's a trap, and I agree--they've gotten bold enough that they stand down the street and chant his name, ridiculing and hassling him.  I think they're looking to get him outside and alone in the dark and possibly do him harm.

Oh, and speaking of the rat kids, the cops were on the street last night.  Four cop cars, all in front of their house.  After a few minutes, they went to the end of the circle and parked in front of DJ's house.  We're thinking maybe Armen is in trouble--after all, he's already got a record at 13 years old, he and the rat kids are bad for being out and about at 1 am, his parents and all older siblings are drug addicts (and his mother's a prostitute, to boot), and he's the only kid around here who hangs out at both the rat kids's and DJ's.  Can't be sure, but if it turned out he'd gotten up to something awful, no one here would be surprised. 

And one more "speaking of"--speaking of getting up to something awful, I think we're going to have to install a security camera outside.  We feel pretty sure that, if we put up our extensive Halloween decorations, those kids will tear them to bits.  They're just that type.  So, if we can't afford the camera (I found a good one for $160), we're going to have to wait and put up our decorations on Halloween night.  Which is sad.  But the alternative is having our stuff bashed to hell by the neighborhood rats. 

Goodness.