Countdown

8 packing lists.
2 hot pink and leopard-spotted luggage tags.
2 medicine containers- 1 human, 1 canine.
6 new sweaters.
2 sleep masks, one saying, 'Genius At Work."
4 paperback books.
2 umbrellas.
1 journal, 1 crossword puzzle book, 2 ipods.
16 GB of memory between 2 digital cameras and a flip videocamera.

Our vacation begins in 89 hours.

Not that I'm counting.

Alien in the Cereal Aisle

I made braised pork chops with apples and thyme butter sauce for dinner. My own recipe, nowhere near as sophisticated or complicated as it sounds. We ate in front of the television while we caught up on the football games we missed this afternoon.

It seems a little thing now, cooking a meal and sitting down to eat it, but I remember not too long ago when it would have been impossible for me.

Anorexia is knowing you're dying but refusing treatment because you're afraid of the medicine. It's much more complicated than that, I am simplifying, but at the very depths, the brain needs a certain amount of nourishment for any other kind of therapy to be effective. You have to start eating again before you even begin treating the reasons behind your refusal to eat. The truly sad part is most people see the food going in and assume everything is now fine- crisis averted, panic is over, on to the next problem. Really all you're doing is fueling the battle looming on the horizon.

When I was in treatment in Baltimore, the charge nurses took us on "therapeutic trips" to grocery stores and restaurants and held cooking classes and seminars to desensitize us to food. To me, each trip felt like landing on Mars. I didn't feel more normal tagging along behind six other emaciated girls and three nurses, discussing the merits of the different varieties and flavors of Ensure. There was something odd about pretending to be normal and knowing you're failing miserably. At looking at the young mother picking out apples for her daughter and wondering if you could take the rejection if you asked them to please take me with you I don't belong here.

And in the end, it really wasn't that we were afraid of food- or recipes, or cooking- most of us could arrange a four-course dinner party for 12 in 30 minutes flat. Our problem was sitting down to the table we set, eating the food we prepared, then leaving the table and letting ourselves go on with our day.

My parents say I don't give myself enough credit for what I've accomplished. It's probably true. I'm much more apt to punish myself for what I did yesterday than pat myself on the back for what I did ten years ago. The truth is what once was so difficult is pretty easy now. I guess "normal," like everything else, is a sliding scale.

While normal changes, the memories don't. I still remember being the alien in the cereal aisle, unsure of the changes she was seeing, yet knowing going home the same was not an option. And hoping desperately this new world would have a place for her after all.

Strawberry-Flavored Prozac and Rose-Colored Glasses

Got my flu shot yesterday. At Target. Because, really, is there anything you can't get at Target? If Heaven has a symbol, it's a red bullseye.

But I digress.

Waiting in line for the pharamacist to key in my paperwork, I noticed a strange flipchart listing the flavors available for flavoring medicines for kids. Because I have no regard for the pharmacy's sign to "Wait behind the red line and we will call you to the counter when your prescription is ready" and more importantly, I was bored, I picked up the chart and started flipping through. Not only did the chart list the available flavors, but it also gave flavoring suggestions for popular drugs.

Prozac is best with raspberry, banana, or orange. Vicodinitussin (never heard of it, but by God the next time I'm in pain I want some) is best in lemon, cherry, and strawberry. Ritalin, apparently, was good with anything. And on and on and on. Although some flavors were available, like chocolate-covered banana and watermelon, they didn't seem to be recommended for pairing with anything, which leads me to believe they were actually worse than the taste of the medicine itself.

While usually I would worry about a nation more concerned with making its medications more palatable for the privileged than making sure the bad-tasting medications are available to all, I'm trying to see the good side of the situation. The glass half-full, if you will. When I come up with the good side I'll let you know. In the meantime, pass the lime-flavored Tramadol. I think I have a headache.

Jesus Fish

Last weekend, I parked the Barbie Jeep in the grocery store parking lot, looked both ways, and was nearly sideswiped by a blue-haired old lady in a dented Nissan. After the obligatory two-second check to make sure all appendages were still attached, I looked back at the lady, who threw her hands up in the air and, if my rudimentary lipreading was indeed correct, cursed me and the woman that bore me. The Nissan then pealed off, startling a woman maneuvering a stroller out of the store, and landed in a handicapped parking spot. I couldn't help but notice the shiny Jesus fish prominently displayed on the trunk.

I don't profess to know the ways of the Almighty, but vehicular manslaughter is probably not one of the things Jesus Would Do.

Call me jaded, call me (gasp) unChristian, but I've begun to draw distinct relationships between how Christian someone says s/he is and how Christian s/he acts. It seems to me the more someone protests to be godly, the more leeway they allow themselves in actually acting that way. A recent experience on I-95 cemented this theory when a car displaying five Jesus fish--

Really? Does five make you extra-extra-Christian? Faith isn't Kentucky Fried Chicken, folks--

cut my mother-in-law off when we were trying to exit the interstate. Another experience featured a person spouting hate speech about homosexuals peppered with biblical verses taken out of context.

A Jesus fish is not a get-out-of-hell-free card.

Maybe it's just me, but I think the world would be a much better place if people started viewing their faith as a calling rather than celebrating it as a trophy. In the end, it's more about what you take into your heart than what you display on your car.

Back in the Saddle Again

Eight years later, I'm back in a Highland dance class, hopping, shuffling, and pointing. We haven't gone over the sword yet, but it's coming- I feel it.

It was wonderful.

And my worst fears were completely unfounded- I'm not sore at all today.

So I guess I have no excuse and have to go to work today.

Pog mo thoin, dance class. Pog mo thoin.

A Farewell to Arms, part II

"Please don't think I'm nuts, Dr. S, but I feel so strange- like my arms are getting shorter."

"I've heard that before."

"Whew. I'm glad it's not weird or something."

"Oh, it's weird. I've just heard it before."

A Farewell to Arms

Sitting in the doctor's office, 5 PM, bloodwork check.

"I don't know, honey, I've just been feeling weird."

"Like what?" He leans in and takes my hand, his thumb lightly stroking my palm.

"I can't explain it, really- I feel like my arms are getting shorter."

He leans back, scootches his chair over, and goes back to his battered back issue of Smithsonian.

Happy 2nd anniversary, sweetie.

It's five 'o clock somewhere...

This Blog Brought to You by the Umbrella Corporation

So during lunch I race to the local library to pick up the book waiting on hold for me there. Pride and Prejudice. And Zombies.

I scout out the usual shelves, hoping the website was wrong and there were copies of the other new arrivals for me to check out and devour over the weekend. Finally, I go to the hold shelves and pick up my book.

Pride. Check.

Prejudice. Check.

Zombies. No check.

I raced all the way across town to pick up a copy of a book I already have? Without the extra ultra-cool zombie violence? Are you kidding me? Plus, what am I supposed to do? Go up to the checkout desk and complain about being given a classic of British literature?

Freaky people trying to shove straight Austen down other people's throats.

Is Her Nails Prettier Than Mine Is?

A partial list of television shows I've watched since being left alone in the house:

Saved By The Bell: The College Years (I don't remember co-ed suites at college. Actually, I don't remember rooms big enough for that much furniture. Or full kitchens. Hey, wait a minute...)

Saved By The Bell: The Not College Years (Ahh, high school. Nope, don't remember any of this, either.)

Ace of Cakes (Oh, wacky, wacky Duff. You amuse me so.)

The Next Food Network Star (Four episodes- Melissa so did not deserve to win. But at least the Asian woman is gone- I grew tired of her explaining she was Korean every time she appeared on camera. "These are Asian pears, and did you know I'm Korean?")

So You Think You Can Dance Parts 1 and 2 (Way to go Evan! My favorite dancer is still the guy that jumped the couch in the Singin' in the Rain Broadway routine, but woo hoo to you! Now if you can just hire someone to kneecap Brandon...)

16 and Pregnant (2 episodes, and more funny quotes than one can possibly imagine. For example, "I just want to go out with some friends and drink some beers. It's hard work getting into the Air Force.")

The Secret Life of the American Teenager (4 episodes- ABC Family was running a marathon. Don't even get me started- but I will note that casting Molly Ringwald as the MOTHER in a dramedy makes me feel very, very old. Know what this show needs? Yep, you guessed it. Duckie.)

Bridezillas (2 episodes- I finally had to force myself to go to bed after Karee cursed her mother-in-law for letting her bridesmaid buy leopard-print shoes and get acrylic nails 1/4-inch too long- you can imagine my delight when I checked msnbc this morning and discovered Karee had been arrested because her appearance on the show violated her parole. Now that's reality tv.)

So officially the IQ-level in the Schaefer household drops no less than 50 points when the alpha male is away.

Hurry home, honey. My brain hurts.

Miller Time

A particularly soul crushing day at work.
It's been five o'clock somewhere since 10 AM.
So I plan on parking myself on the couch with a margarita, a book, and hours of mindless television.
Woe to thee who interrupts me.

Ren Faire

Since I last posted my car has been in and out of the garage twice, ants invaded and were repulsed from our home, horrible creepy wormy things infested our shrubbery and were summarily dispatched by my husband's Rain (Reign?) of Death, and I was made a princess by a dragon. I'm assuming you believe the parts about the ants and bagworms and car problems, so here is a picture of the dragon.
I don't know why the woman is doing calisthenics in the background, but she brings me fairly close to my point.

Renaissance Faires (in America at least) don't have anything to do with the Renaissance, do they? As we drove ye olde Liberty eastward Saturday morning, Travis and I tried to pinpoint dates for the Renaissance, hoping to help orient ourselves into the time we would be stepping into.

We probably shouldn't have bothered. If the Middle Ages had a Walmart, that's what we stepped into. The first reenactor we met greeted us with a hale "Huzzah" that fit him only slightly better than the woman's kilt and black fannypack he wore around his waist. Then there were the harem girls. And there were many. Predominantly one size- too large to be wearing coins, veils, and little else. Historical accuracy took a backseat to what was 1) comfortable, 2) cheap, and 3) "close enough to medieval times." Who cares if there weren't ninjas in Dark Age Europe- the costumes look cool- let's wear them!

Neither comfortable nor cheap, but "close enough," the dragon was the best part of the festival (for me anyway). A little man wearing a green velour hooded costume in 90 degree heat, his main reason for being there was selling ice cream. He might actually have sold some, too, between dancing ("I'm doing the dragon dance- that's 'cause every dance I do is the dragon dance. It's nice when it works out that way.") and frolicking with the other Fairegoers.

As we were leaving I overheard the dragon begin to tell another merchant what he did in "real life." I walked away before we could hear more of the story. Ants, bagworms, car troubles- that's the stuff of real life. Sometimes it's nice to stay in the fantasy, even if it has only a tenuous grasp on the truth. And even if it's only for a couple of hours.

Criteria for Deciding Whether Or Not To Eat A Bug

I grew up without cable television. It just wasn't an option in my hometown or my parent's house, for that matter. (And the fact they got a satellite dish after my brother and I moved away is completely beside the point.) Even as an adult, I have only had regular access to cable for about a year now. And no, it still hasn't lost the "present just opened on Christmas morning" novelty yet.

Unfortunately for me, I have an addictive personality and and my imagining of my skill level departs wildly from that wonderful state called, ahem, reality. This makes for interesting aftermath after watching the Food Network. Two hours with the mavens of food television and I believe I am the more faux, less French reincarnation of Julia Child.

The Discovery Channel, however, is much, much worse. Ever seen Survivorman? How about Mythbusters? Now you know where I'm heading with this. Les Stroud, the Survivorman himself, is my television hero. And, consequently, he has the only show after which I don't leave the couch saying, "Now I could DO THAT." He does weird things, he sleeps in weird places, his basic goal is not to die or critically injure himself while on camera. This is not the troubling part of the show for me. I've done a lot of odd things and have slept in odder places. No, where Les and I part ways is his criteria for deciding whether or not to eat a bug.

He has three.

I have one.

Maybe that's why I don't have my own cable show.

Yep, that has to be the reason.

15 Steps, then a Sheer Drop

"How come I end up where I started? How come I end up where I went wrong?" I can't shake the feeling that somehow I've been here before. All is back to normal. Or as "normal" as I get. And yet I still have this weird feeling of deja vu. I guess sometimes I wonder if the storm is really over or if I'm just sitting in the eye of the hurricane.

I need to remind myself success isn't always measured by winning the game. Success is surviving to play again tomorrow.

The Obligatory "Really, I'm Much Better Now" Post

Happy puppies.


Butterflies.


Rainbows.


Lollipops.



I'm feeling much better now, I swear.



Watching some reruns of Cops helped, I think. :-)

Working for the Weekend

T and I were out until 1 AM Saturday morning. Listening to an Elvis impersonator. No polyester jumpsuits, but three costume changes, which I thought was pretty impressive. Three chances to resurrect the pompadour hairstyle that tended to collapse under the strain of the spotlights and frantic pelvis shaking. But I digress.

The point of the story is I have been tired and out of it all weekend. I would like nothing more than to pull the covers over my head and hibernate until Wednesday, but alas, I am gainfully employed and saddled with "adult responsibilities." Two of which include laundry and getting the week's groceries.

I like getting groceries, but I don't understand one thing- the food I put in my cart on Sunday afternoon is almost never the food I want to eat during the week. I get home from working all day, open the gaping maw of the freezer, and wait for inspiration to strike, not sure what I'm hoping to see, but you can be damn sure whatever it is, it isn't waiting for me there. The sad truth is the decisions I am committed to on Sunday become what I am stuck with on a Tuesday.

Along with a heaping dose of CBS (crybaby syndrome, for those not familiar with this ailment), I seem to have a huge case of "Is this it?"itis. I feel like I'm perpetually in standby- I've spent so much time waiting to get better, waiting to finish college, waiting for the deployment to end, waiting to feel normal again, waiting, waiting, waiting for something to happen, that I don't know how to really enjoy the present. I fear life really is in the space between and I'll end up missing it all.

And so tomorrow morning I'll get up and go to work and pretend that what I'm doing means something to someone, that I'm really doing it for something other than a paystub, that I'm doing more than just waiting for the next weekend. It seems a crime that the one thing I spend the most time doing- 8 hours a day, 5 days a week- is the one thing in my life I could walk away from and never look back.

Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum

A guy at work told me he thinks I'm getting taller.

I think it's his backwards way of saying I've lost weight.

I like to think it's because he's shrinking.

But I guess it's all in the way you look at things.

CODE NAME: Auntie

I became an auntie for the second time on Thursday and yet again, no one threw me a shower.

Just kidding, of course.

Well, sort of.

I have to admit registering for things for my wedding got into my skin in a bad way- T and I still periodically find ourselves checking the front porch for packages from Bed, Bath, and Beyond.
There's an almost carnal thrill to going around a store with a price gun, but it seems to me that baby registries would be the grand carnivale of shopping experiences. Not only are you picking out your own gifts, but you can justify your choices by saying they're for someone else. It's the capitalist equivalent of a plenary indulgence.

All kidding aside, I'm very happy to have another little niece to love and spoil with impunity.

Picture Game

Kim tagged me and Kara, Kara already posted hers and I caved under peer pressure....

Here were the rules...

***Rules***

1. Go to your Picture Folder on your computer or wherever you store your pictures.

2. Go to the 6th Folder and then pick the 6th Picture.

3. Post it on your blog and tell the story that goes with the picture.

4. Tag 5 other glorious peoples to do the same thing and leave a comment on their blog telling them about it.

And here's the story--

It was about 5:30 PM Wednesday, May 8, 2008- I was waiting very impatiently for my husband to finally come home from an eleven-month deployment in Kuwait. It was the longest day of the longest eleven months of my life. We were married the previous September while he was on leave- I guess you could say I'm a modern-day war bride. I know as a military wife I signed on for possible future deployments- I just hope I can be as strong for my sweetie as he is for me. Hoo-ah.

Sunday

One day I aspire to be half as cool as my pets.

They Finally Found Me

Okay, I admit it. The only reason I signed up for Facebook was so I could read up on people who graduated from high school with me. I wasn't planning on adding friends or anything- it was just going to be my little duckblind on the information superhighway. Until my brother and sister-in-law found me and sent me emails inviting me to be their Facebook friends. Which led me to send out a host of other friend invites to people I haven't talked to in years.... and assorted family members I only see on holidays. So if you get an email from me, please be nice and respond.

A couple of months ago I undertook a similar project when I was phenomenally bored at work. I googled the best and brightest from my high school class and then surfed the alumni website. In hindsight, I didn't really need to know that Bapu was finished with medical school and working on dual doctorates in Economics and Business Administration. Or that Amanda had been editor of the Harvard Law Review. Or that Priya was married on an elephant. Nothing good can come from knowing stuff like that. Especially when your days are spent rearranging commas for nearly illiterate engineers and consultants.

Googling my name will get you nowhere, so let me fill you in. I didn't graduate on time or from my first-choice college, but I did graduate. With honors. And my health. There was no Asian livestock at my wedding, but there was the man of my dreams and Reader, I married him. And I haven't written my book yet. Truth be told, I'm not even close. But I promise you it will happen.

The internet can help you find a lot of things, but it can't help you find yourself. And it certainly shouldn't be used to define you. Regardless of the number of friends, doctorates, or pachyderms to your name.

And Liberty for Kate

I got a new car.

And I'm still having trouble believing it myself.

No end save victory

Three months.

Three baby showers.

Three wins in baby shower games.

Coincidence?

I think not.

Sheer skill, baby.

Lotto anyone?

An Ode to Roushie Dog

Just realized I've never posted a picture of the family dog, Roushie. Roushie T. Biggins to be exact.

He isn't exactly Lassie, but he isn't Cujo either. Okay, some, including my Dad, would beg to differ, but I feel a lot safer with him around. I don't worry as much about being alone in the house during WLC with Roushie on patrol.

I've never had a dog in the house- our dogs were always outside when I was growing up. The hair everywhere- including my shower mat and shower where he likes to hang out- takes a lot of getting used to. But snuggling with a drowsy dog before getting up for another day of work is certainly worth it. And nothing beats a doggie smile to welcome you home in the evening.

Holiday Takedown

Just finished undecorating the Christmas tree, a chore that is never fun, but certainly necessary to keep from looking like a forgotten cousin of the Beverly Hillbillies. I do know people who leave up their tree until Valentine's Day, changing from Christmas to Winter to Valentine's decorations. I just don't have the inclination to prolong a season that already seems to begin right after Labor Day.

There's something calming about removing the ornaments one by one, winding the ribbon garland back into a roll, putting the boxes back in order. It gives some order to the end of the season. Unlike the neighborhood department stores, nothing is on my floor, broken into a million pieces and 50-no-75-no-90% off. There's something very disheartening about seeing people fight over discounted tinsel, once the fa la la la las are gone, it's back to push and shove, every man for himself.

I love Christmas. But I also love the getting back to normal time that comes after Christmas. The continuing, and the starting over. It's hard to live up to Christmas expectations every single day. We hold our breath that our houses are clean enough, the presents are good enough, the food is tasty enough, until we finally realize enough is enough. We celebrate in November and December, we exhale in January.

Resolved...

I resolved not to make any resolutions this year. Not because there isn't LARGE room for improvement, but because I hate knowing I've broken one. Or several. Or every one I've ever made. I don't know why we feel we must tie the albatross of failure around our necks as a way of celebrating the New Year. So this year I didn't do it. At least I didn't write one down. That counts, doesn't it?

Like most people, I would like to use my time in 2009 getting physically active, dare I say it, fit. I'm not expecting miracles from my little appointments with the elliptical trainer. I doubt anyone will be mistaking me for Beyonce anytime soon.

Okay, K, I hear you laughing- I meant besides the obvious reasons no one would mistake me for Beyonce.

So T, my most intrepid, most handsome, and most able-to-put-up-with-my-silliness companion, and I go to the gym near our house whenever we can. We try not to go when it's too crowded- a difficult feat right after New Year's. I like seeing all of the people in the new workout gear they got for Christmas, although I expect WiiFit may have given some of the gyms a run for their money this year. I prefer Guitar Hero and we don't have a Wii (yet anyway- no hint there, I swear honey- although I know the way we operate), so I guess I'll have to stick with the gym.

Hopefully we'll keep going. I have a feeling the monthly gym membership fees will be a pretty good inspiration after good intentions lose their power. So if you're looking for me, I'm the one in the baseball cap singing along with her ipod and trying not to fall off of the equipment. I would like to say that's a joke, but I did end up severely spraining my ankle during my introductory consultation appointment at Curves three or four years ago. And yes, I'd like to say that was a joke too.

Resolved, exercise can be dangerous to the health. But so can making resolutions willy-nilly. And I'm usually a big fan of doing things willy-nilly.

kms 2009