I'm Baaaaaaack!

I’ve spent the past couple of months pretending nothing was wrong with me, which is exactly why I’ve been a negligent blogger. When you are diligently attempting to ignore the proverbial elephant in the room and what is bothering you, it is most assuredly the only thing you can ever think of. So, when you try to write about something other than what’s on your mind, you find out that the only thing that is on your mind is what is on your mind and you end up totally screwed. Now that I’ve come clean with all of you, I actually feel much better. Which coincidentally means writing is all of a sudden possible again. Your Google Reader should be afraid. VERY.VERY.AFRAID.

So, for the quick health update: The blood pressure meds appear to sort of be working. They are bringing my systolic (top) blood pressure down, but it hasn’t done much to the diastolic number (bottom). I venture to guess we’ve complicated the situation because it is now around 112/92, which is anything but normal. In fact, Google doesn’t even provide me answers on that one. The naturopathic educator at work analyzed my eyes today and told me I wasn’t going to stroke out. Since allopathic medicine hasn’t done shit for me, I’m taking total comfort in her assessment. Oh and for those of you offering kidney’s, I’m suddenly feeling a considerable amount of love towards anyone with A+ blood types.

Now, on to serious business; I need a Halloween costume. Correct that, I need two Halloween costume ideas, one for me and one for Craig. We have committed to attending a huge Halloween party, of which costumes will be required. It took every last brain cell I had to come up with Kate’s BUTTERFLY costume, so I am spent. Butterfly, can you handle my overwhelming genius? A butterfly. I can’t believe no one has ever thought of that before.

Current ideas:
I Dream of Jeannie and the astronaut man
A flapper girl and gangster guy
Angela and Dwight from The Office (I so LOVE this idea, but let’s admit, it isn’t much of a costume)

I need your ideas. If you have a vote, please let me know. If you have a better idea, I’ll totally send you my piss-poor excuse for a kidney. Fair trade?

I can't think of a title that doesn't contain explicatives regarding this topic

Since December, I have been somewhat of a medical mystery. I spent months and months battling inexplicable medical problems, while being referred from specialist to specialist. I’ve become acquainted with so many “ologists” that I should be eligible for some honorary doctorate degree. The referrals, appointments, and tests became so frequent that I am sure people at work must have thought I was sneaking out for a gin and tonic, or an afternoon nap, because most assuredly having that many appointments to attend to was simply not possible.

The news started coming in this form: “Well, the good news is it isn’t your bladder. And I guess the bad news it isn’t your bladder.” “Well, the good news is it isn’t your stomach.” I think you are getting my point here. And if you let your imagination wander, you’ll realize that the tests necessary to affirm such news are far from a leisurely walk in the park. Come July, I decided I was done. OVER IT. NO MORE. Although answers were illusive, it appeared that nothing remarkable was wrong with me. Plus, dealing with the pain and problems suddenly didn't seem quite as torturous as what they were putting me through.

You may remember in August I also ended up with a fluke visit to the emergency room, where my blood pressure was suddenly elevated. And ever since then, it has been a royal pain in my ass. Two weeks ago, I went in to see my family doctor for a flu shot. When the nurse took my blood pressure, it was 155/101. They no like that. Heads started spinning, charts started flipping, lab order sheets were flying, and plans were being made for MORE TESTS! I sat there, quietly blinking, contemplating how incongruent this was with my plan for all of this to be done. However, my blood pressure had different plans and was the ostentatious one dancing on the tables, while screaming, “Look at me! Look at me!”

Casually, my Doctor said, “Lyndsay, are you under a lot of stress?”

“Um, no Doctor. Let’s see, I haven’t been able to stay out of the Doctors office for the past 10 months and I come here to get my preventative FLU SHOT and I now have more health problems than when I came in!”

Not only am I very low risk for hypertension based on my age, lifestyle, and family history, there is incredible concern because apparently one doesn’t go from fine blood pressure to problems overnight. Yes, one more piece of proof that I don’t follow directions well; hypertension is supposed to be a gradual process. I left that appointment with orders for an EKG (results fine!), echocardiogram (results fine!), and a 24-hour blood pressure monitor (results not so fine!). Last week I got to donate vial upon vial of blood for testing, and started my blood pressure medication . So far, it isn’t working, which is perhaps not as funny.

I spent months laughing about how outrageous all of this has been, but it’s bordering on being not so funny anymore.

It appears that something really is wrong with me and I’m sick of it. And I get to wait ten more days to see if this last round of tests has provided any answers. All I have to say is that if I end up needing a kidney, don’t think I’m not going to come looking here.

Wanted: funny thoughts, a pro-bono personal assistant, chocolate, and uncomplicated relationships

There are few things in life that make me cringe more than the thought of become a statistic. When I first started blogging, I found numerous data taunting the fail rate of new bloggers, many discontinuing the habit after mere months. Undeterred, I pressed on, fully confident in my ability to defy those odds. Slowly, I went from posting daily to a few times a week, to once a week, to a new pathetic low of EIGHTEEN days without a blog post.

That does not mean I haven’t forgotten about my lovely blog over the course of the last EIGHTEEN days. In fact, I have had nothing but great intentions to write. Actually finding the time to do it and acquiring a clear enough mind to do so intelligibly has been the challenge. On second thought, if I am waiting for a clear mind and intelligibility, we might as well all give up now, right?

Frankly, you don’t want to listen to me right now anyway. I’m overworked, sleep deprived, knee deep in unfulfilled obligations, needing some quality friend time, and having a hard time being my positive, cheerful, optimistic self. AS IF. Okay, better stated, I’m crankier than normal and trying to make sure I don’t drop any of the 3 million balls I’m currently juggling, all while trying to refrain from punching people in the face. I am mentality picturing the blogging entries that could have filled these past EIGHTEEN days and feeling relieved for the art of self-control.

But you didn’t come hear to read about that, did you. Heck, I couldn’t be witty if you bribed me with front row Jack Johnson tickets right now. Aren’t you glad you stopped by?

However, I do still exist and that has to count for something, right?

Me: Version 3.0

Is it possible to wake-up an entirely different person?

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve come upon the realization that I actually like to cook. More impressively, I’m not half bad at it. Yeah, I know, absolutely incomprehensible. Apparently it has been the bad attitude, lack of planning, distaste of washing dishes, and absence of time that have stood in my way all of this time.

Over the past two weeks, Kate and I have perfected two variations of granola. We’ve also managed to miraculously create a kick-ass roasted red pepper hummus. On another night we made oatmeal-wheat-banana pancakes. Shockingly fan-freaking-tastic. I’ve also become a sheer genius at making swiss oats; if there were a swiss oat making competition, I would certainly be medal worthy. Queen of the oats.

However, I didn’t realize quite how out of control I was until today at work when I told a coworker that I had ordered a pizza peel and 5 quart dough bucket to make some artisan bread this weekend. Her head promptly rotated 180 degrees; she exited my office and inspected the door just to confirm that she had entered the correct office.

I simply cannot explain this transformation. The domestic fairy must have visited in my sleep. I am hoping next time the patience fairy, Banana Republic fairy, anti-procrastination fairy, or extra-hours-in-the-day fairy shows up instead.

I’d love to know what fairy is needed at your house …

Strike a pose

Last month, we were required to get our professional pictures taken for work. The organization I work for thought it was essential for the management team to have their mug shots on our website and for each of us to have our shot to use for press releases and such. I had a hard time paying attention to the rest of the message, I sort of blacked out after “pictures taken.”

There is nothing less compatible with me than getting my picture taken professionally. In almost every studio shot I’ve ever been unfortunate enough to see of myself, I look about as relaxed and comfortable as someone with a stick lodged firmly between their cheeks. For good measure, I swear I develop some sort of exaggerated tourette’s syndrome and my facial features start jockeying for most distorted. My lip curls, my eye squints, my nose starts running away from my face, or some freaky combination of the above occur. A photograph not even a mother could love.

When we showed up at the studio on the day of the pictures, I looked the photographer square in the face and said, “You have no idea what you are up against here, but you better do I good job.” I didn’t know he took me seriously until I realized that he took about 25 shots of me and about 10 of each of the others in the group. Yes, it took TWENTY-FIVE shots to make me look decent. No, I don’t mean 25 of those kind of shots, although that would certainly help.

Earlier this week our proofs arrived at the office. I hoped they might spontaneously combust before my eyes were subjected to such torture, but they didn’t. And believe me, there was torture, about 24 images of pure torture. However, one came through to save the day and the life of the photographer at the studio. Not perfect, but considering what he had to work with, at least acceptable. I can live with it and can now begin to repair the damage done to my heart by this entire fiasco. Do they offer workers compensation for such ordeals?



As my colleagues looked at my picture, they unanimously agreed that, “It’s a nice picture, but it just doesn’t have enough attitude.”

No shit, I said, “I look so sweet, innocent, and friendly, I didn’t even recognize myself.”