no concussing

For those of you who weren't summoned Monday, we had all the King's horses and all the King's men here to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. (In case there is any doubt at all, I play Humpty in this--and pretty much every other--scenario.)

Early that morning, I had bent down to kiss Quinn good morning on the bottom bunk, and when I stood, I cracked my head on the top bunk, and down I went like the twin towers. (A tribute to my cherished fellow heathens Brandy and Adam, who love a good 9-11 joke.) Quinn says I blacked out for a couple seconds, and when I came to, I could hear them trying to figure out whom to call. Ultimately, (surprise!) they called B, who was home with a gaggle of children and no car. And yet, I assure you, she was the logical choice. So after some logistics the likes of which I will never comprehend (I just know it involved passports, syphoning gas, and I think robbing a convenience store), B arrived to save the day, which, sadly, has become second nature for her. I insisted I was fine, but uneven pupils, slurred speech, and vomiting gave me away and she called the EMTs. Obviously this 20-man brigade staring down at me brought out the absolute best in my confidence level/ability to speak, to say nothing of the fact that I hadn't showered or put on a bra that day, so I was trying to pretend that I looked the same in my cami and yoga pants as (insert cute popular actress) does. Sigh. We refused the deluxe $900 ambulance ride and B drove me instead. Meanwhile, we had more children running around than that compound in Texas, only with less supervision. We immediately set out (and by "we" I mean B) to determine which of our friends we would saddle with this brood, and we ultimately settled on Karen, who I suspect will never answer her phone again. She arrived in 2.5 seconds, and I swear she screeched into the driveway in a cartoon car, ready to be of service, and dressed to the nines, natch. (Please let's not forget that, true to my injury tradition, I was unshowered, mostly undressed, with no make-up, and not even a morsel of wit with which to compensate for my pitiful state. So thanks Karen, for having just gotten your hair done, and for having perfect mascara (which I noticed with my one good eye), and for having the girls nicely displayed, as my own were splayed out all over the floor, much like an octopus' tentacles.)

We were well-advised to go the Silverton Hospital, where a nurse was waiting for us upon arrival. I was in a room within five minutes, and talking with the doc within ten. Mind you, I have no idea what he said, except that I "really got (my) bell rung," lol, and had a major concussion. Then B and I had a misunderstanding about getting a burger, and we headed home in record time to relieve Karen of her zoo-keeping duties.

Meanwhile, it had become unexpectedly sunny and B had a rabbit frying outside so she needed to pack up and leave too. never take my own injuries very seriously, and I always assume I am exaggerating because when I tell stories, I generally go heavy on the hyperbole. You'd think I would have learned when I got cut in half, but I didn't. When B left I started sweeping the floor, and Karen got all authoritative, which I must confess, has changed the dynamic of our relationship, and told me to sit. She made me promise to rest blah blah blah, and enlisted my kids in her Nazi regime, and bid us adieu.

Later that night I went to B's so she could keep an eye on me, which I felt really bad about because she hasn't been feeling so hot herself. I kept her awake the entire night with all my twitching and repeatedly asking if she has a car. She got no, and I mean NO, sleep. I slept the entire day, which was really a slap in the face to B, who hasn't slept since 2005. I'm still really dizzy, and if my speech was a Scrabble hand, my tiles would be blank, except for one B. Maybe a G. And I would just put the on the board all by themselves, unconnected, and hope that you would know what I meant. Sweet sweet B, she knows what I mean. Her text to me this morning was, "Good morning, you little rung bell." Hee hee.

So the doc said I could feel dizzy for a few weeks, and have the blurred vision that long too. I'm taking a gorgeous vicodin/oxycodone cocktail for the pain, and once again, I am so extraordinarily blessed to have my people around me, offering everything they have. (Getting emotional) It wasn't so long ago that I had the emotional/social aptitude of a rock, and valued relationships right up there with compost. These days, I am surrounded by the highest quality men and women friends an old stone like me could ever hope for. Seriously. You guys bring tears to my eyes. (Perhaps in part because I'm listening to Air Supply.) I'd be some shivering rock (with a concussion) without my primo posse. So thank you guys, from my sedimentary core, and my rung bell.

Jesus I may have gone overboard on the vicodin...ya think?

BEEFore and after

As most of you know, B and I have resumed our hard-core starvation and exercise regimen, in hopes of ... LOSING WEIGHT YOU FUCKING IDIOT!!!

Sorry, I'm a little tense.

As I've said before, me no cook, so I am wholly reliant upon the culinary talents/generosity of others, and dining out. Now, I'm a confessed take-out whore, but sometimes, a person has a craving rise up from within for a home-cooked meal. Last night happened to be a free-for-all at my house, which typically means I eat my weight in pasta, followed by a romp in the treat cupboard. Oh how the winds of change have swept through my life, my friends. B and I were at the gym, busting our asses, and all the while I knew I was going home to nothing but Lindt chocolate (which I don't even like, which is why I usually only eat fifteen or so squares) and toast. Neither of which I can have. B, on the other hand, had a beef roast cooking at her house, and I could smell it all through my work out. When she dropped me off, I got tears in my eyes knowing she was going to feast on two succulent ounces of roast, while I was hoping to ignore the cat calls of the ravioli, and the parmesan cheese making eyes at me. At one point I was going to drive to B's and demand some roast, which would have been absurd since I had already been invited. But I couldn't justify the gas. (It's $4.00/gallon, thank you Mr. President. I'm glad I was denied beef, and had to eat flax cereal, so that you could keep lining those neo-con pockets.) I suffered through the night without so much as an Omega-3 Fruit Fish to console me. These are vitamins you see. They are no more special than any others, but when one is significantly restricted in what s/he is able to eat, these Fruity Fish may as well be creme brulee. (Yes Adam, I know you know how to apply the accents.) Last night B challenged me to only eat three fish a day, which is roughly 3/100ths what I was eating. The point is, I suffered all night, and today came my sweet reward. After running some errands downtown, Quinn and I stopped by B's Cafe and she brought me some roast and carrots. I took one bite and screeched out of the driveway so I could get home and heat it up, running down an old lady on the way I think. This picture is multi-faceted. It shows how blessed I was to be spared flax cereal for lunch. It shows B's skill as well as her giving nature. It shows that I stopped at Starbucks for an iced tea. It shows that I really do use the ugly goose-in-a-bonnet dishes I swore I never used in a previous post. And, it shows that ketchup should never, ever, be photographed.


Thanks B. Tres magnifique.

a toast

(That's a tiny roma tomato for perspective.)

As many of you know, B and I joined a gym recently, and have been working our asses off in hopes meeting a specific July weight goal. To augment this regimen, and in B's case, because of diabetes, we've sworn off all delicious-tasting food, in favor of low-carb, low-taste things such as hay and spinach. One thing I am allowed is a piece of Oroweat Best toast, with Adam's peanut butter, and a banana sliced on top. This has become a favorite of mine because, let's face it, bananas are sweet, and this option far outweighs the horse food cereal or a Kashi waffle rock with a drizzle of wanna-be maple syrup.

We've been working out every chance we get, and even got in some good time last night, dashing into the club at the last minute. I went to bed hungry and was really looking forward to my pb & banana toast this morning. So, imagine if you will, the depth of my sadness to discover that the shriveled-up grandma heel of bread was the only piece left. After I toasted it, and it shrank to half its size, I spread a teaspoon of pb on it, and then sliced eight pieces of banana onto it, whereas a normal slice of toast holds an entire banana. I sat down to eat and found myself glaring at this meager meal, but ultimately, ate it in one bite and began the countdown to lunch, which I might add, will be early today.

what begins with B?

An excellent speller though I may be, I am a shitty cook. For real. My life is a series of cleverly planned encounters wherein I and my poor children can benefit from someone else's cuisine. That is, when Todd's not home. He is the cook around here. I confess to allowing Quinn and Reilly more mac & cheese than they ought, and I have bent "moderation" beyond recognition where fast food is concerned. I just hate cooking. I can never think of anything, despite having a refrigerator full of wonderful, mostly organic, options.

Enter B. When she's not cooking for my pitiful ass outright, she is helping me see what I have, and how it can all be combined to make delicious meals, albeit simple ones, because I am retarded. (I know I'm not supposed to say retarded, but I mean it in its intended use as opposed to its malicious use.) ANYWAY, she has taught me to make several delightful snacks, and I made one today. I used leftover bell peppers, onions, and zucchini from the other night, and cooked them up in a pan. I then placed them atop a baked potato, and a little cheese. Lemme tell ya, for a mama who's used to eating mac & cheese from a ladle, this is heaven. (And likely the closest I'll ever get.)


Please don't look closely at my plate. Despite its distinct WalMart chic pattern, I do not have geese in my kitchen. As ever, I am sorry if you do, and are offended.

Thanks B. What am I having for dinner?

good-bye, ruby tuesday...check

Sometimes even a serial over-scheduler outdoes herself, and today is one of those days. I say is because, well, there are many ways in which to interpret 'is,' as we learned from President Clinton, but I used it because my days is still in progress. My Tuesday looks like this.:

Wake up early and not resent everything

Clean my house, including hanging 4,500 of my wet garments so they don't shrink.

Get kids up and ready without yelling.

Post a blog for Gail.

Answer four urgent emails, despite running late.

Straighten my hair (talk about tedium).

Drop the kids off with my mom, after mediating the fight over the BACK SEAT!?!?!?!

Go to the dentist for a cleaning; force them to reiterate how beautiful my teeth are.

Pick up my gym clothes.

Buy .7 cents worth of son-of-a-bitchin' gas.

Hit Old Navy in search of more of a certain kind of elusive socks for Quinn.

Drop in to B's to rifle around for some grub.

Rendezvous with my FANTABULOUS psychiatrist; confirm that I am still crazy.

Return to B's to wait for (K).

Write this blog.

Have dinner with (K), and hopefully drinks.

Have tea with Megan at Starbucks, DON'T FORGET MORE COFFEE GROUNDS for B's garden.

Drop off B's dad's birthday gift in NE Salem.

Hit the gym with B, work our guts out.

Drive B home.

Call Todd to tell him to let the kids stay up so they remember who I am.

Come home and kiss them until they push me away.

Read chapters 3 and 4 to them.

By then it will be sunrise and we'll have Wednesday's list to contend with.

i'll buy that for a dollar!

The last time I went to the dentist, he saw a "shadow" in the root of a tooth that had previously endured everything short of a land mine. He said we'd check up on it in six months, as it would either reveal itself to be an x-ray glitch, or an abcess. Christ.

What could I do? Naturally, I waited three and a half years, hoping that an abcess, like a taunting older brother, will eventually go away if you pay it no attention. It never hurt, nor bothered anyone, nor made inappropriate gestures in public, so I left it to spread silently throughout my jaw bone, assuming it would finally rupture or something, at which point I'd beg for the dentist. That was my plan.


I should mention that I am a dental war veteran, and that I've seen my share of action. Root canals, extractions, fillings, name it. By no means have I been awarded medals of valor, however, for each and every experience has been preceded by a) rocking in the fetal position, b) crying/begging, and c) valium. I am the epitome (or epi-tome, as some might say) of dental-phobic. Hence my egregious gamble with the ominous shadow. Meanwhile, I could just feel my jaw decaying, a false sensation followed by lots of imagined drilling, shots, and those ungodly stakes they jam down your roots. I wasted at least one year by telling Todd we just couldn't afford it, but then, good dental samaritan that he is, he began insisting that I go. Conveniently, I "forgot" for another year, and hedged subsequent queries with my swift subject-changing mojo. (I'm very good at this, but that's for another blog.)

Deep down, I knew I had to go, and last month I finally made the appointment. By the way, the minute I did so, every tooth in my head began throbbing and causing searing pains down my face. People have assured me that because I have endured childbirth, an appendectomy, and the removal of the Tumor that Ate Texas, I would be fine. But I implore you to see that pain inflicted in the past does nothing to nullify pain in the present. Just because I've had babies doesn't mean that ramming a tent stake into my nerve hurts less. Duh. Whether or not I survive is not the issue. I DON'T WANT IT TO HURT!

Back to the day of reckoning. I managed to drive to my appointment, only having moderate myocardial infarction, and was proud to have arrived without an escort. I had my check for $230 pinned to my shirt, like a good little girl, and walked in. I was exceedingly nice to all the receptionists, in hopes that this would karmically help reduce the chances of a runaway abcess. And then I waited. In hell. Finally it was my turn, and when the assistant asked how I was, I unloaded my entire footlocker of anxiety on her, in a manner that resembled vomiting on someone. But she handled it with aplomb, and spent thirty minutes easing my worries. She helped prepare me for my x-rays, which would seal my fate in seconds. Now, it's too late to make a long story short, but praise the Lord, I have no cavities, and the shadow was just a shadow!

Speaking of karma, I didn't deserve to get an A+ today. I deserve to have my teeth fall out in rows, and to be left with bloody, uneven stumps. I'm not a very good person. Maybe today's good fortune was an example of grace, which is much more plausible to me than karma, but that is DEFINITELY another blog. In any event, I told Dr. O'Leary that he was my lucky charm, and then took it too far with a leprechaun joke and made a hasty exit.

The good news didn't stop there. When I floated out to the reception area, I was informed that I was being given a new patient promotion, because it had been so long, and that the cost of my visit would be one dollar. One dollar! I asked if they had any similar deals on liposuction, which got laughs from the young women and disappointed head shakes from the middle-aged women who have already discovered that we are supposed to love our bodies no matter what. Hey, can't blame a Fitzpatrick for trying to push her luck a little, right?

lose, your blues, everybody cut footloose...

Today was the big reunion. We parted on awkward terms, seeing very little of each other before the big break. I was even paying for the offending party to stay away from me. So this is a big deal. I finally found it in my wicked little heart to reconcile...

...with the gym, duh! You guys thought my life had reached soaring heights of drama, and I was really just talking about the gym. Sheesh.

So I went this morning, with all of the accoutrements that make us feel bad-ass there, but really just slow us down. (ie iPod, water bottle, phone--because God forbid I am inaccessible for one hour)

I had my playlist all set. It's called "no shoe dropping," which is a reference to my crippling depression and my subconscious obsession with the other shoe dropping in any and all circumstances. Of course my loyal readers (hi Mom!) will remember that Footloose is the absolute highlight track, and I rocked out to it while doing calf raises, lifting 90 pounds--a very big deal for me.

My workout began with the gluteal interval course on the treadmill, which really got me pumped--pardon the cliche. Between completing that course, and Survivor blasting Eye of the Tiger in my ears, I practically swaggered into the weight room, thinking I was Arnold Schwarzenegger, except he would never have a pink iPod arm band. After completing my set, I returned to the treadmill and selected the most intense incline track, with which I have had a severe love/hate relationship for four years. I should mention that I hadn't showered yet, which is extremely uncomfortable, and I also kept mouthing the words to my music, which wasn't helping me earn popularity points, but the real fun started when I had to clutch the bar with all my might when the incline reached its summit. I suddenly became keenly aware of my greasy hair, my bra straps showing, my pathetic loserness.

But oh well. I refuse to cheapen my proud achievement with negative self talk. There'll be plenty of that on other days. Today I'm basking in the glory of bettering my life. (Queue music)

Still, I was really disappointed afterward when I looked in the mirror and saw Kirstie Alley.

it's in the blood

Having officially survived the grueling demands of this weekend, I am finally at liberty to address the weight pressing on my heart. It's a text Brandy sent me from the doctor's office Friday, and I haven't been free to contemplate it until just this minute.

"Insulin."

I won't soon forget the expression on her face as she walked in with a tester, needles, a handful of prescriptions, and the knowledge that, at thirty, she was insulin dependent. But the look was fleeting, for she immediately set to work on all of the madness to which we had committed ourselves this weekend. To say that B is stoic is to say that the ocean is big. She is a warrior. When gang members bludgeoned someone to death on her street, she chased them away without pause. When I got a tumor last year, she carried my entire family through the week during which we didn't know if it was cancer. She even goes after those meaty, hairy-ass spiders, when I vote to call 911. But this was a blow. A big one. Insulin. Forever.

A lot of people are diabetic and have to take insulin shots. But a lot of people aren't important to me. Sorry, but they're not. She is.

As if insulin weren't bad enough, she has inherited a little collection of setbacks from her parents that makes things even harder, though she'll never complain. She will henceforth be adhering to a diet so strict as to make you cry, all the while whipping up a magnificent, indulgent dinner for the rest of us. And with a smile.

Later she disappeared into her room to puncture herself for the first of a million times, and I admit to feeling really sad seeing her bleed. Worse yet is the sight of her sticking a needle into her stomach. I could easily have passed out, but not B. She was singing a lullabye to Maia the entire time, cool as a proverbial cucumber. I am a huge needle-phobe, so I'm sure my reaction was extreme, but it's still hard to know that she'll be enslaved to this ritual for most of forever.

I know this has jarred her, but not because she has said so. She's shaking it off and moving on, and I am immensely proud of her. As an act of solidarity, I've given up sugar, which I know doesn't compare to a needle, but it's my way of sharing in the sacrifice. I suppose I could also let her stick me... She swears it's no biggie, and she really wants to. Something about the new needles being so small, blah blah blah (feeling faint). Okay B, what I'm trying to say is that I'm so impressed with your strength, resiliency, and good attitude that I'M GOING TO LET YOU STICK ME WITH YOUR NEEDLE!

Hope it helps.

Love you.

(Can I have a cupcake when you do it?)

the little blogger that could

Hey you guys, no fair judging my blogging prowess based on the two counterfeit entries Brandy posted the other night to secure my slot in cyber space. To say that I lack the savvy to get this thing up and running myself is such an understatement I actually think it would be a misdemeanor, but I hope you all know I would never attach the word "neat" to having seen Senator Ron Wyden. (More on that later.)

My zeal for blogging has been tempered, like everything else in my life, with anxiety, my merciless foe. Word on the street is that I'm winning the war, but my recent battle was indubitably lost, and I landed myself in the ER yesterday, minus some stomach lining and sporting some shiny new esophageal lesions. I was scarcely able to sit up, let alone keep you all in stitches with the wit to which you've all grown accustomed. This past year, I've been too busy keeping myself in actual stitches, lol. I've attached a picture of my hospital bracelets for those inclined to doubt my excuse.

For what it's worth I will try to run our rusty, odd-shaped little anecdotes through the polisher now and then and put them on display here when I can, that you may be amused, and grateful, that by comparison, your life is decidedly normal, and possible, whereas mine is absurd and defies all logic and reason. In turn perhaps you will forgive my run-on sentences, my self-aggrandizement, and for god's sake, LAUGH AT MY JOKES! That's really all it's about.