This morning, I had to emerge from my holiday fever dream for some reality– luckily, it was a meeting with my good friend, mentor and partner-in-crime Nan.
If you’re not a regular, Nan and I have been working together for a decade. I’m an author assistant of sorts for her. She’s congenitally blind and a super-talented writer and editor. That’s why she’s one of the team at Parisian Phoenix Publishing.
Nan had written an essay, a humorous essay, “Large Object,” about my daffy life and my ineptness with my own calendar.
I slightly overslept, perhaps because of my killer strength workout last night– I benched 100 pounds with Andrew at Apex Training to meet my “Christmas Challenge.”
It wasn’t a good lift– but it was two sloppy reps that I technically lifted off my chest.
What was even more exciting was the full-body engagement I experienced during the lift. I haven’t been taking my muscle relaxer, Baclofen, and my legs have been stiff (and I wonder if some other symptoms I have had recently relate back to skipping meds) so I cramped pretty badly during the lifts. I came home and took the Baclofen and have continued it today, especially since yesterday I had a small trip.
So by the time I hauled my butt from bed on this damp, rainy, uncharacteristically 50-degree December day, I decided to take a Wawa coupon and get a free egg white, cheddar, honey turkey and spinach Shorti (with hot honey for the condiment) and man was that both basic and satisfying. (My blood pressure has been high, and up until yesterday I had been completely forgoing caffeine but that’s another story.)
I then swung by Panera for my free iced coffee as a member of the Sips Club. I love Panera’s coffee. This all meant going to Nan’s house backwards– which was a tad confusing especially in the rain. Do you ever do that? Get confused because you’re going the opposite way as usual on familiar roads?
The essay Nan wanted to cover was, like I mentioned above, “Large Object.” I giggled so hard while typing this because she captured the whole scenario so vividly. She also allowed me to do some footage for TikTok to introduce her on our Parisian Phoenix TikTok account.
From her essay:
Angel had a doctor’s appointment, a writers’ group audit and a job interview already on her calendar. As she checked her upcoming days, she suddenly started to laugh.
“Oh my,” she said, “on Monday, my calendar says, ‘LARGE OBJECT.’ I have no idea what I meant.” I quipped, “What? The meteor will hit your roof? The dinosaur will arrive in your backyard Monday morning? Santa’s sleigh practicing badly?”
Nancy Scott
The essay mentioned our love of planners, and I told Nan I finally got around to reviewing all of them that I had ordered for 2024. Then, I showed her the “winner.” And once again she ooo-ed and ahh-ed and lamented that if she only had the sight to see these calendars. And one day, I promised we would look for Braille versions.
Upon returning home, I prepared the TikTok video and received some packages as part of the Amazon Vine program. Once was a surprise for the Teen. And it made her very happy. A corset. Frankly, I was relieved it fit.
If you miss my ridiculous banter, you may want to visit ParisianPhoenix.com because most of my activities now relate to the publishing company because I’m trying to develop enough business to make a living now that Stitch Fix has closed its Bethlehem warehouse.
Speaking of Stitch Fix, one of my friends who has gotten fixes religiously since I started with the company got an email today that whatever warehouse shipped her fix instead of ours did not scan the package as it left the facility so neither Stitch Fix nor the carrier has a record of it. Therefore, if she does not receive a fix today or tomorrow, she is to let them know as then they have reason to believe it is lost.
Yup. Did I ever mention that we were the most efficient, safest working warehouse in the network?
Random Cat Photo: Touch of Gray
Anyway, back to my day. I started my day assisting the Teenager with course registration at her college. She is studying BS psychology and had a good plan. She had courses and backup courses and I planned on catching up with my NaNoWriMo word count (if you don’t know what NaNo is or you have opinions about the NaNo controversary, my take is here) before meeting Nan and a poet friend.
She could not get into ANY of her classes, nor ANY of her backups, nor ANY classes at all in her department. With my help, we found Intro to Women’s/Gender/Sexuality studies, Theory of Religion and Intro to Sociology. She’s also hoping– but probably doesn’t have a chance–to get into astronomy. The professor was on of her pet-sitting clients.
With this new course load, I think she should apply for an interdisciplinary major of her own design, the new BA in Cult Leadership.
I managed to pull 500 words for my novel before heading out to get Nan.
I decided to give Nan her “Christmas present” early. I put that in quotes because I would have gotten it for her regardless of the season. It kept popping up on the available Amazon Vine items that I can review. If you’ve heard about Nan enough, I probably don’t have to tell you she LOVES NASA. She has followed the space program since before man landed on the moon.
Nan won’t go out for the day if there’s a NASA event going on. She has cable simply so she can watch NASA TV.
I got her a decorative desk piece that has an astronaut on the moon with some sort of moon lander or rover. And the space suit has a ledge where you can place your cell phone and the lander thing is a pencil can. The most impractical gift for a blind person. It’s a sculpture you can’t see, with features for items you don’t use.
I’m relieved to say– she loved it. She loves that she can put her two pens that she keeps for sighted friends on her desk. She loves that the sculpture has enough detail that she can look at it. And she loves that for the first time, she has something space-themed she can display.
We took it up to her room and arranged it on her desk and headed to our appointment. We had made arrangements to meet a new friend, we’ll call her the Italian Poet. We were workshopping some of her poems.
Now here’s some motivation/inertia for you: If you write, paint, photograph, whatever, you must find others who share your artistic sensibilities and draw from their energy. Sometimes you share feedback, sometimes you seek inspiration together. Sometimes you learn, sometimes you teach. But the union of people in a space can build spirits and keep you going.
And after Italian Poet encouraged me to pursue my educational goals and I prodded her to finish her Ph.D., Nan and I embarked on our annual tradition: Gobbler bowls at Wawa.
We live a simple existence. Then we taste-tested a peppermint watermelon sparkling water. Nan did not approve. I did. But, as Nan says, I do seek out the weird stuff.
The Teenager used Nan and I for a photography project.
I went to the gym for leg day where I squat 120 pounds on the barbell for eight solid reps. Definitely liking that!’
My secret hope for this weekend was to run to Washington DC and visit my traveling companion M. He has to work this weekend, so I ended up chatting with him briefly on the phone and accompanying The Teenager to Quest for bloodwork.
Like me, The Teenager has difficult veins, but I’ve had good luck with one particular Quest office I book for all my blood draw needs.
Apparently in addition to being tiny, The Teenager’s veins like to hide. They did manage to extract the goods, but it took a heat pack, some patience and some trial and error.
Since the bloodwork required fasting, we stopped at Sheetz where The Teen loaded up at carbohydrates so I swung by Dunkin for an egg wrap to balance her choices. She had a client meeting at 10 and at 9:45 the employees at Dunkin couldn’t find our order.
I told the Teen to leave me and I’d read a book in the lobby until her return. So here I am.
I’m reading The Last Train to Key West by Chanel Cleeton that I ordered through Bookshop.org. The book is the next selection for the book club at Mary Meuser Memorial Library where I serve as a trustee.
In the lobby with me, there sits three men of “Middle Eastern” descent, probably Lebanese or Syrian, all jabbering away in Arabic, one of whom The Teenager and I recently met in our local CVS.
Shortly after I arrived, the woman with two toddlers whom I saw at Quest came in. She treated her kids to donuts, probably as a bribe after sitting in their collapsible wagon at Quest.
Yesterday, The Teenager came with me to see M3GAN, which I had an interest in because of an episode of NPR’s podcast Pop Culture Happy Hour.
The weather had turned rainy and dreary, making the cold January dusk seem later and more ominous than it was.
And when we walked into Regal– there was no one in the lobby except one employee behind the concession stand desperately trying to find things to do. (We scanned my Regal loyalty card and it said my visits were at negative four. That amused me. I attend about once movie a year, and I think the last one the Teenager bought the tickets online because it was her movie.)
The big sign in the outdoor-facing booth where viewers used to queue as little as three years ago (I remember because it was one of my few sad post-break-up attempts at a Tinder date) read “Buy Tickets at Concession Stand” but the little room stood so oddly barren and the theater so damn dark I thought I had entered The Walking Dead and was about to try and loot the place for stale Jujyfruits and processed nacho cheese sauce (two of my favorites). Excuse the extreme run-on sentence because it’s Saturday morning and I’ve been trying to write this since Thursday night and now I’m getting swept up in the mood.
When I googled my spelling of Jujyfruits, this clip came up and I did not watch Seinfeld “back in the day” and I love a fresh Jujyfruit, I had to watch it. Let me share:
The Teenager, as I paid for the tickets, surveyed the concession menu and grimaced. I could tell by her body language that the prices had been a sucker punch. She asked me if I had a quarter as we traversed the long, empty (and silent) corridor to the last theater in the corner. I had one, and she had been obsessing for days about an everlasting gobstopper. I gave her my quarter and she raced to the boxy red gumball machines and moaned when she discovered her sugar fix of choice was fifty cents.
I suggested she go to the car for a second quarter, which she did after much deliberation. I handed her her ticket and opened the door to the very empty theater.
I forgot to check my tickets for seat numbers. I’m “of that age” that this assigned seats at the movies doesn’t make sense to me. I plop my butt in a chair and receive a text from The Teenager.
“The car is locked.”
I heard the theater door open and I was about to toss the fob at her when I realized it was a rather rotund man with a soda and a vat of popcorn the size of my head (including my frizzy shoulder-length curls) walked in. And he sat just enough behind me that I could hear his chewing and have that cozy feeling that the dog had come to the movies with us.
The Teenager returned and I offered the keys and she announced that she had surrendered the hunt for the confection. She asked what seat was hers. She looked at her ticket and pointed out we should have been exactly one seat over on the other side of the aisle. I thought it pretty impressive I had almost selected the seat the lovely person at the concession stand had assigned to us. And, my anxiety made me debate for the next ten minutes whether we needed to move to the other side of the aisle in the empty theater. I stayed put. And no one else came into the theater so it was not an issue.
And this was when the theater lit up with an advertisement that they needed employees, and I may have chortled.
“To do what?” I asked the teenager.
Now I fully intend to write a review of the movie, and I hope my brain can do a good job as I forgot my journal so I did not jot down notes. I then thought I would make some notes when I surprised the teen with dinner, but as we go on with the story you’ll see why I did not.
And when I checked my email after the movie, I noticed Regal had sent me an email while I was at the film offering me fifty percent off a popcorn for National Popcorn Day.
The Teenager darted toward the door after the movie declaring that she hated it, in that same tone that she used to tell me how much she hated summer camp. That she attended nine summers in a row.
“Am I driving?” she asked. And there may have been a reference to what was for dinner.
“I figured I wouldn’t feel like cooking…”
“Do you want me to make something?” she interrupted.
“I was thinking of IHOP, I’ve had a craving for pancakes,” I said.
She was in. But when we left the parking lot of the enormous, confusing shopping plaza, it was pouring rain and my windows fogged up faster than the car could defrost them and my astigmatism made it impossible to see with nearly-a-half-century-old eyes. I turned into the opposite side of the highway and went away from the IHOP instead of toward. Traffic and eyesight meant we went almost half way home before we found a spot to turn the car away. But we wanted pancakes.
And not comforting, grill-greased diner pancakes, but sickeningly sweet IHOP pancakes. Meanwhile, the Teenager googles IHOP’s hours because we’ve had a long day at this point and I don’t want to fight my way there and learn they closed at 6 p.m. or even 7 p.m. (It’s about 6:50 p.m.)
But as she typed– she typed IGOB instead of IHOP and we have a good laugh about IGOB because that sounds like her kind of place. Like an all-you-can-eat buffet where you show up and they pile food in front of you and you shove it all it your gob. (Did you know: apparently gob is British slang?)
We made it to IHOP and we drive around the building through the parking lot. All the lights were on but the place was empty. We practically drove up to the front door and there was one person, hunched over the counter by the register, scribbling on a tablet, or maybe dead. The former Howard Johnson’s/America’s Best motel beside us was literally falling down. I tried to park the car nicely in the streaming rain and I totally missed the lines.
“I’m driving home,” The Teenager said.
“Please do,” I replied.
Now, the theme of Zombie Apocalypse was running amok in my head. I felt like I had entered a dystopian fantasy. And part of me wanted to give up and forget pancakes.
But… pancakes.
And I had Christmas cash in my purse that the Teenager had given to me and I had traded her electronic funds into her checking accounts because she knows I like to have a cash reserve. The budget is super tight the next few months and I have pledged to minimize use of my Amex until I replenish my savings. Especially if I am approved for the service dog wait list.
This week might be a week of last hurrahs.
We walked in and it became apparent there was one employee in the kitchen and one in the front of house. The hostess/server announced they were closing in twenty minutes, which really meant the kitchen closed in thirty minutes but close enough, right?
I suggested maybe we should go and the employee’s demeanor changed.
“Oh no,” she said. “You’re good.”
(Maybe she realized serving us would be more interesting than standing around doing nothing for an hour?)
The server, Holly as the receipt later said, started telling us all the things we were out of.
“We just want pancakes,” I said.
The Teenager ordered the cupcake pancakes and I ordered the protein lemon ricotta pancakes with mixed berry sauce. Tossing protein powder in pancakes makes them healthy, right?
As we waited for the pancakes, which may have taken eight minutes (we were in and out in thirty minutes, including the five minutes I watched out server hand wash dishes before coming to take my money), The Teenager (using her waitress eyes from her time in the business) spotted a very dirty five under a ketchup bottle. We passed it along to Holly. She was grateful.
IGOB.
The bill came to $25.63, which I remember because I counted out the 63 cents and The Teenager kept thinking nickels were quarters (kids today), and I left $40.63. Yes, I left a $14 tip. Hopefully I brought Holly some joy, or helped her pay a bill, who knows? The place was so desolate it felt like it was the right thing to do.
Then I went home to these two. Foster Louise the Tripod acts like FURR kitten Jennifer Grey is such a threat. But Jenny keeps trying to be friends. They cuddle me from opposite sides of the bed. Louise gets my right; Jenny gets my left.
I ran out of juice yesterday. Fatigue, lack of good sleep, adrenaline from publishing Larry Sceurman’s The Death of Big Butch (see a post by Larry on the Parisian Phoenix website today, click here), anxiousness regarding doctors’ appointments and my service dog application, the toll of my various foot and leg issues, and the excitement of my traveling companion, M, coming to visit all caught up with me.
Let’s start with a joke. Because it’s Monday. And we can all use a laugh. And this is clever.
What’s the worst thing you can read in Braille?
Emma Tracey, the Blind Co-Host of the BBC All Access Podcast
Before work, I went through my collection of protective toe devices. The little foam doo-dad the podiatrist gave me is looking rather worn and tatty, especially since or perhaps despite the fact that I’ve been hand-washing it.
The larger gel separators I wore over the weekend, held in place with the bunion wrap, seemed too big and the pressure hurt my toe more.
So, today I tried out the gel-line toe protector sleeve, which, according to the instructions, they make long enough for your finger. Doesn’t that make it a digit sleeve?
As instructed on the package, I held it up to my toe and then used scissors to trim it to the right size. And I wondered if the piece that remained after the cut might be large enough to use like a toe right to cover the damaged flesh and the portion of toe that rubs. This wouldn’t actually separate the toes, but it might eliminate the friction.
I decided to try it.
It fit! “Waste not, want not,” after all.
I wore my obnoxious patterned Vans sneakers (that came in one of The Teenager’s fixes. She proclaimed them hideous but I fell in love with them.). Ready for work.
We won’t talk about the fact that I struggled hard to get my socks on this morning. Sometimes my lack of mobility makes be feel like a T-Rex when I need to do stuff with my feet.
Today I handed my doctor-filled-out, official form for workplace accommodations to my supervisor.** Now my supervisor has been working in the other side of the warehouse. He will be there relatively long-term. This had me nervous, and I kept checking my work email seeking some sort of acknowledgement. None came.
Until first break, I clocked in at 100% of the Daily Minimum Expectation. But I fell behind after break. The official numbers don’t account for our 10-minute paid breaks. By official numbers, I was probably 102% or more before first break. By my numbers, I was around 98-99%. My numbers account for the breaks.
Around the halfway point of my shift, I had fallen to 97%. And then I got a phone call and Siri read me the voicemail. My examiner had called, stating that she would be denying my intermittent leave request if she did not get my form from my doctor by 5 p.m. Apparently, she’s in Arizona. Her 5 p.m. and my 5 p.m. are two different things.
I had filed for intermittent FMLA leave November 9, because the shift change I was forced to make in late October has made scheduling my doctor’s appointments nearly impossible. The company that administers the claims for my employer sent a form to my doctor, but it took nearly a week for me to find out which doctor, because I had given them the name of my primary care physician and my specialist.
The neurologist received the form November 12. (I know because the neurology office sent me a receipt and the parent hospital sent me a bill, which I had to scan the receipt and mail to the hospital over the weekend.)
My specialist couldn’t start the form until I paid the fee. For some reason, the office did not tell approach me about this until November 22. They called me while I was at work and I had to call them back once I had my wallet and was off the warehouse.
When I called them back, of course I was placed on a call-back list. I received the follow-up phone call mid-shift the next day (November 23), but luckily I had my HSA credit card in my pocket and I answered the call. I paid the $30 with funds from my HSA.
Now, the paperwork had a due date of December 9. But remember, November has a little holiday called Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving occurred on November 24 this year. My physiatry/neurology specialist called me around 1 p.m. Monday November 28. We had experienced computer problems in the warehouse and I had come home early. She spoke with me while she filled out the form and promised her nurse would fax the forms by the end of the week.
I had an appointment with my specialist December 9, so when I hadn’t heard from the examiner by the end of my work day December 8, I emailed her. I wanted to confirm she had the paperwork. And I wanted to file an absence for December 9, as I had two doctors’ appointments that day. She did not response until today, December 12, because she had been out of the office December 9.
Because she had been out of the office, she gave me the extra time to file the forms. But that extra time was four hours. I can’t even reach my specialist within four hours.
I emailed both the examiner and the neurology office, but heard from neither by the time the neurology office closed today. I guess this means my claim for a leave will be denied. I hope I can open a new one and either resubmit the prior form or ask the specialist to update the date on the form, or worst case contact my primary care physician and have him do a form and also attach the specialist form. “Luckily,” I’m still having issues with my toe which means I will probably see plenty of doctors.
Sigh. I mention this because this is what I’m obsessing over while I’m struggling to get my numbers at 100%. And I’m mentioning this because I am capable, and I can often find work-arounds other people don’t think of. But what if I were a disabled person that relied on caretakers and support staff? What if I had to rely on more people to coordinate these things? What if I had communication difficulties? It is exhausting to advocate for oneself.
Fast forward to lunch. I want to say my stats were at 96% or so. Our employer offered full day Voluntary Time Off for tomorrow and at this point I was stressed out enough to apply for it. I don’t have the money, but I also don’t feel like I have the stamina.
After lunch, my stats kept falling. They had reached 94% when someone “in charge” approached me to ask what my accommodations were because one of my peers (my sassy friend) had mentioned it to her. My supervisor had mentioned my accommodations to this person but she misinterpreted his concern to be about something else, until my sassy friend inquired about me. I think my sassy friend has become our elected leader.
After our final break, one of my teammates (who always supported me when we were on our own shift) brought me the easier work for me to do. Basically, he brought me the work already in boxes so I didn’t have to retrieve the items in the cart. I finished the day at 98.4% of DME which is amazing when you consider that about 75 minutes earlier I had been on track to complete 94%.
In addition to all of this, I never did hear back from the neurologist nor the examiner. The neurologist’s office is closed now. And when Arizona time reaches 5 p.m., my claim for intermittent leave will be denied.
And remember my toe? I had substantially less toe pain today than over the weekend, and no general foot pain.\
And I got the VTO for tomorrow.
Now the answer to our joke…
What’s the worst thing you can read in Braille? Don’t Touch!
Emma Tracey, the Blind Host of the BBC All Access Podcast
And yes, I called Nan and asked her if she had ever heard this joke. When she heard it, she nearly bust a gut.
** If you’re new here, I have diplegic cerebral palsy and have worked in a warehouse folding clothes for two years. Today they changed the system of how they measure our efficiency. We used to get our weekly numbers averaged into our performance figure but starting today, they evaluate the figure daily. Without official accommodations, I won’t meet the daily figure. My typical performance is pretty similar to last week, when I did 101%, 101%, 101%, 94%, and 100%. When you average that, my performance is 99.4%. But I miss the mark usually one day a week. Now they only give us two days to miss in a month.
Thursday is my Saturday for those who don’t know or can’t keep track of my schedule.
Since my schedule change— from second shift to day shift— I have met with my friend Nancy (poet and essayist and blind lady with a wicked sense of humor and simple approach to life’s joys) usually every other Thursday to work on her writing commitments.
Recent changes in her life have made that every Thursday now, as I help her with some errands, and then I changed trainers at the gym and the teenager now works out with us so Nan gets Thursday morning while the teen is at school.
It’s automatic in my brain. As automatic as my standing Friday morning chiropractor appointment.
But what happens when we get together is never ordinary. Or the same two weeks in a row.
Like today we were going to see if our local Family Dollar had the individual creamers she likes. Except they weren’t open. So we opted to go to ShopRite.
And somehow— I got turned about driving there and thought I was on the wrong road but I wasn’t. So we zigzagged all over the place and eventually I had to Google map the grocery store.
We finally made it to ShopRite and the first thing I saw was a single serve bottle of orange juice— which Nancy is always looking for.
Then I saw fried chicken, still warm out of the oven. $9 for eight pieces. I had to get it. And I knew damn well I’d probably end up eating in the car.
Nan and I went through the various salads and deli meats— I picked out some broccoli slaw and ultra sharp cheddar for Nan and some black pepper Cooper for myself.
And next we saw small partial loaves of rye bread in the bakery. And muffins.
And so it went.
We found the items we needed, items we didn’t and a slew of things that we want to buy in the future.
The cashier actually addressed Nancy and understood to speak so Nancy could locate her.
And then we were in my car eating warm fried chicken at 9:15 a.m. Nan hadn’t had fried chicken in ages, and she kept saying she didn’t want any. But I insisted and handed her a drumstick.
She said it was delicious and that she’d forgotten that she likes fried chicken. And I said I’d be good on the fried chicken front for probably at least six months if not a year.
And then she pulled wet naps out of her purse.
After retrieving Nan’s laundry and taking her groceries home, I brought Nan back to my house for chai and well, the plan was poetry. But we got sucked into NASA briefings (crew4 and Axiom) on YouTube.
Nan listened to the briefings and pet the dog while I cooked some random items for her to share with the teenager and I. Nan enjoys my cuisine so when she comes over I try to send her home with a meal.
Sometimes you need to have fried chicken with a friend, in the car, for breakfast.
Yesterday must have been “doctors return patient messages” day because I heard from both my primary care physician’s office and my gynecologist’s staff.
But before I get to that… because that info will primarily be about the female reproductive system and how my issues in that area are compounding the impact of my cerebral palsy (and I know that’s an exciting topic), let me start with the humor in this beautiful Friday morning.
But perhaps the humor started last night with the fire drill at work. The fire alarm itself sounded like crickets chirping in a field. I supposed the sound gets lost in the depth of the warehouse.
The Bizzy Hizzy released us at 9:30 p.m. last night, which is fantastic for my aching body that is still trying to figure out what the hell happened to my hip. (Read about that here.)
I got up this morning hoping to be well-rested and pain-free. I woke up a cuddly Khloe and another phone call from my gynecologist— but I’m skipping those details for now. Let’s just say I have an appointment with them on October 22 and the person who made my appointment has a cat named Mr. Doodlehead.
Khloe
I go downstairs, let the dog out and noticed the Met-Ed truck at my neighbor’s house. The noise of the bucket truck scares the dog. We go inside. I put coffee in the Keurig.
The power goes out.
The bucket truck drives away.
Our own neighbor tries to chase down the crew. Another neighbor starts pacing the sidewalk. A third guy— yes all these people are men— stands in the yard and stares. (He’s the apparently live-in boyfriend of the resident. It’s a weird situation because they met on the internet and I was told it didn’t work but now he appears to be living there after two dates.)
After a little while, I realize I don’t want to open the fridge but I really should have breakfast so I’ll go out. My leg and spine still feel weird after Wednesday’s rather dramatic adjustment— I veto walking to the teenager’s favorite mini-mart gas station. Besides, they might not have power either.
At this point, the dog brings this from the kitchen:
Poop in a can
As if the cat food can wasn’t delectable enough, the teenager must have tossed a bag of animal poop in it. Poop in a meat can! What a treat.
I put on my shoes about to take the dog to Dunkin’ and I realize— I have no idea how to open the garage door manually. So I sit back down and work on the memoir I am proofreading.
But I need food.
So eventually I brave it.
The dog had tried to convince the kittens to play and lost that battle so she needed a pick-me-up, too.
The trip was uneventful. Except I had to drive around the building an extra time because I got to the speaker before I had my order ready. You can see me feed the dog a turkey sausage, egg and cheese wrap here.
And when I got home I realized—
I have no idea how to reconnect the garage door opener.
Now the health stuff…
I am on day three of taking CBD oil.
I am recovering from anemia caused by stress and heavy menstrual bleeding. My menstrual cramps hit me in my spine every two weeks, first for ovulation then for the actual bleeding. My spine already has issues with my SI joint because of all the years of walking crooked due to cerebral palsy. Despite my history of an active lifestyle and my current training program, the pain is getting worse and harder to treat.
CBD cream has been very successful in relaxing tense and spasming muscles in my back.
The gynecologist ordered some blood tests — I go Monday — and the PCP won’t see me until November 2 and I have instructions to follow up with my gynecologist in the meantime.
They requested and I got abdominal and transvaginal ultrasounds which revealed small growths (a benign cyst and a fibroid) in my uterus (looks like adenomyosis) which due to my age will probably cause more pain until menopause.
To alleviate this, they are going to give me the Mirena IUD in two weeks. Which is funny, because the proposed treatment for my back pain is a contraceptive device when I’m 46-years-old and haven’t been that kind of intimate in more than two years.
Fingers crossed that it helps. And that insurance covers it because it costs a thousand dollars.
I had two copper IUDs (Paragard) in the past. The first one lasted the whole ten years. The second was so painful I asked them (honestly begged them) to remove it after the first year.
I have spent most of my life loving the morning, popping out of bed at 7 a.m., and falling asleep by 10. I did my best work as a “morning person” and loved the rhythms of the sun.
I don’t think that has changed. But in my current job working for fashion subscription service Stitch Fix at their Bizzy Hizzy warehouse.
I had a choice of day or evenings, but the prospect of waking up before 5 a.m. every day did not appeal to me.
Even though I traditionally considering myself a morning person.
Now I get my mornings to wake up without an alarm clock, enjoy the sun, make appointments and merely use my favorite part of the day for myself.
And if I come home from work exhausted and sore, I can collapse in bed.
I have come to appreciate a beauty in the middle of the night— the stillness of what is normally busy and crowded, the darkness of businesses and houses. There’s a hush that falls over the world.
I received a phone call from my daughter while she was at her pet sitting job last night. She asked if we could go for a drive. She wanted to listen to music and try my car’s sport mode. She wanted to explore country roads and laugh together.
I took the dog out one last time as both the dog and my daughter relieved themselves (though my daughter was indoors). The dog and I sat in the hammock and waited for her.
And cuddling with an almost 60-lb pit bull/mastiff/black lab mix in a hammock is both riotously funny and dangerous.
I even tried to take some photos.
It didn’t work.
So we left at 10:30 p.m. and with gas more than $3 a gallon we drove for an hour. We even left the state. And when we got closer to home, I spotted a generic “food mart” at a Shell station with all the lights still on at 11:45 p.m.
The teenager loves a good gas station mini mart.
In character for us, we pulled a u-turn and visited a mini-mart stocked with a wide variety of characters, where I think I was being eyed suspiciously because we were wearing masks.
We picked out some snacks: Lipton Pure Leaf tea was on sale for 2/$3.33, an Oreo brownie, and some 7-layer burrito flavored Combos. The bill came to almost $10.
I had the cherry hibiscus iced tea and it was amazing. The Combos tasted like eating tacos.
Driving through some more questionable neighborhoods, we saw police interviewing some women in cheap flip flops and got passed by an SUV with Florida license plates.
I made my daughter laugh by imagining her picking a fight with somebody twice her size, and then almost made her pee herself laughing when she asked the psycho princess cat Touch of Grey sit for a Combo.
“Are you teaching her tricks?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Since she’s crazy, instead of getting her to cuddle and be sweet, are we rehabilitating her for a career in the circus?”
We both cackled.
“What’s next? A little pink tu-tu to match her collar? Teaching her to dance and spin?”
The teenager curled into the fetal position laughing.
These are the memories I will cherish. Simple, poignant moments in the middle of the night. The ones that chronicle who we are.
The other day I asked myself— what would happen if we approached our everyday lives like a writer taking notes for a travelogue?
Interesting that I thought of this now, as Facebook reminded me that 5 years ago I was in Somalia eating fruit so succulent it was like ice cream. I remember the dark wood of the built-in wardrobe of our hotel room, the way the guard at the top of the stairs would chit-chat with me as he rocked his plastic lawn chair with his gun across his lap.
That was also the week I decided to overhaul my marriage— because as I was traveling the streets of Mogadishu trying to interpret the paintings that adorned the shops and watched a women make coffee on the side of the road amidst traffic, I realized I had my laptop in Somalia with all of our household information. If anything had happened to me, I didn’t know if my husband knew how to log into our bank account or when to pay the mortgage (or how much it was or who receives the payment).
I suddenly realized my own mortality. And that my control of everything needed to change.
To return this ramble to the idea of a quotidienne travelogue, I always blog while we travel, even to places more mundane than Africa, and M, my traveling companion, would always sit down with his phone and his cigarette about to read the link I sent him.
“Oh good,” he would say, “Let’s see what I did today.”
Life at the Aviary
The colors in the room— vivid pink (almost a fuchsia) walls in semi-gloss, teal swirly floral-paisley curtains and a yellow patterned duvet color with pink sheets adorned with white polka dots— created a cheery environment that brightened exponentially with every ray of sunshine that crept in through the three windows facing south.
The birds grew more animated as the sun intensified, three adult parakeets and three freshly hatched chicks under three weeks old and a Goffin’s cockatoo, a mini-parrot who expressed her nervousness by barbering and plucking her own feathers. Even bird teenagers are prone to rituals of self-harm.
Once awake, I strolled down to the living area, also decorated boldly but simply with sky blue walls with a hint of turquoise and a chalkboard wall under the stairs with a variety of notes. The furniture included a cushioned bench, cozy teal chairs, and an emerald green loveseat that sat oddly low to the ground.
I sipped a very hot cup of coffee with cream not brewed but steamed for me as if it were espresso. Cats swirled at my feet, including one with a gruff, tired face. He wore a Captain America collar. When he moved, his gait revealed his amputee status— having lost his front left leg to kitty cat cancer.
After this, I traveled back to the aviary chamber to help care for the birds. I handled these tiny chicks!
My companion and I departed shortly after our “chores” to have breakfast at Tic Toc Diner. My companion has a love of chocolate milk and pancakes. She insists that both always tastes better at a diner.
I discover what might be my new all time favorite breakfast: Eggs Benedict Florentine with garlic and tomato. As a poached egg is one of my favorite things on Earth, it only gets better when we add some nutritionally dense spinach smothered in hollandais sauce.
The pleasures here and simple and the environment chaotic.
Yesterday I returned to work at the Stitch Fix Bizzy Hizzy after 3 weeks out with the Coronavirus.
I worked an eight-hour shift processing women’s returns. It was a new work center for me and I’m frequently amazed at how many work centers I haven’t learned. It sure make what could be mindless, monotonous work more interesting to slowly learn everything in the building.
I haven’t really got to know anyone well at Stitch Fix though I am consistently surprised by everyone’s kindness. Today I wore a cropped sweatshirt and one of my colleagues whom I don’t know at all chased after me worried that my exposed back would leave me cold. She then realized I had a beige shirt on underneath and chuckled, only to still tuck my sweatshirt under the strap of my little pack.
Speaking of making friends… The nursing staff usually changes over after the evening shift clocks in. The day shift nurse is the sweetest, most outgoing person. I imagine in other settings she would have a wonderful bedside manner. She said she was worried when she hadn’t seen me in so long and me being me said there was merit in her concern as I had Covid.
Then she peppered me with questions about my symptoms and my experience.
But after we clocked in, she didn’t leave. She did the regular rounds through the warehouse. And she made it a point to check on me every time— and make sure I had the stamina to make it the whole shift and that I was drinking water.
I ended up processing 252 pieces which is probably a mediocre number. I felt like I had worked a 10-hour Black Friday shift from my Target days, and all I did was stand there. But standing is hard for me since my cerebral palsy has made my body crooked and led to issues with my S1 joint. AND two weeks ago I felt like I had run a marathon when I walked the 20 feet from my room to the bathroom.
My only Covid complication was having a prolonged coughing fit during our meal break when a piece of Raisin Bran tickled my throat wrong and I couldn’t stop choking!
Today when I arrived she asked how I was feeling, and how I slept last night. My supervisors keep asking how I am as well. They didn’t have me assigned to a department so I ended up in direct-pick. It felt so good to move!
As for tonight’s numbers, I picked 64— which is half the bare minimum number they like. But here is the good news: They let us go early so I only worked half a shift. My step count remained consistent with my pre-Corona figures.
One interesting fact, in addition to my weakened fortitude, is how challenging it is now to wear my mask especially while performing labor that gets my heart rate up. The nurse encourages me to wear the lighter disposable masks so I can breathe easier and not get so “hot” (if that makes sense).
I’ve also kept my calories at around 1500, with a lot of good protein and wholesome foods which, as I increase my activity levels should lead to some improvement in my current weight and fitness struggles.
My heaviest weight ever— not including pregnancy— I hit last week at 154.5. I’m not even 5’ 4” so that is unacceptable. But today I was 151.5. I managed to lose three pounds so far by tracking my macros and calories.
So now, with work done, I am celebrating as only a mom would. I started a load of laundry, fed the cats, ran the dishwasher and while I wait for the wash (which I will need to take down yesterday’s loads and hang tonight’s) I will pour a gin drink and watch The Tudors with my cockatoo Nala.
The teenager should be home around 10 from her pet sitting job. Teenager two will be going to visit her mom to watch the ball drop.
Angel Ackerman 