Car Conversations Round Deux

Earlier this month I blogged about the car conversation with my husband, and alluded to the fact that it was only one of many.  This morning's was rather amusing, and makes us sound kinda smart, so I thought I'd share. 

Me:  For the party tomorrow night, we only need to bring beer.  And I want to bring a hostess gift, like flowers.

Him:  Or a live skunk.

Me:  No.  I do shopping, you do logistics.  I'm not shopping for a live skunk.  Actually I think I might change shopping to procurement.

Him:  So I'd have to fill out forms in triplicate...I'd get a skunk from someone.

Me:  No, all the forms come to me.  They can be in duplicate, in tripulate.  Wait, tripulate?  Okay in whatever math levels we'll take them to.  All mine.

Him:  Capulet, Montague...

Me:  Exactly.  I'm just not procuring a live skunk.  Or a dead one before you go there.

Him:  What?  Not a dead one either?

**********

In other randomness, yesterday one of my co-workers called me a Metal Goddess.  As in Heavy Metal music.  If my sister were still talking to me and heard this story, she'd laugh until she threw up.  

The New Roasting Pan

A few years ago, we had Mr. Eggshells' snowbird parents in the area for the summer.  As they had picked up their tent stakes about 3 months after we married, and lived 8 hours away in the first place, we hadn't spent all that much time together prior to this.

Mr. Eggshells had grown up in a rural area, on ranch acreage that had once held livestock, and the nearest town populating at almost 3000 people.  Conversely, I grew up in the multicultural, decidedly urban, and hugely populated Greater Vancouver area in Canada.  Needless to say, we have slightly differing perspectives on life, and greatly different experiences with flora and fauna.


The parental units had been helping us with yard work (read:  doing it for us), since we had crazy schedules and commutes.  I was working from home on this beautiful sunny summer day and so the three of us had been chatting on and off as my day and theirs allowed.  They had spent most of their day outside in the yard, coming in later as they'd finished working.


Around 5 pm I decided to put a load of laundry in the washer, which is located in the garage.  Basket in arms, I descended the two steps into the garage.  As I went to turn the corner to reach the laundry area, I froze at the sight in front of me...a giant humongous rat.  Of course, I did the only reasonable thing, which was scream, drop the laundry and run into the house to call my husband.  (Yes, folks, 40 years of women's liberation completely destroyed in one second by a rodent.)


While on the phone, hysterically telling my husband we have big, giant, mutant rats invading our home, I walk into our family room where the parents are relaxing.  Hearing me, Dad leaps up to go investigate (note, also raised in a rural setting). Mr. Eggshells is still trying to calm me down and understand the gibberish while navigating the freeway, and he asks me to wait a moment while he gets the driving settled down.  During this interval, Mom (note, also raised on a ranch) quietly asks me if I'm sure it's not a squirrel.


The question stops me dead, thoroughly indignant and I reply,  "Of course not!  I know the difference between a rat and a squirrel.  Squirrels have bushy tails." 


While she's laughing, I head back to the garage and resume my histrionics while watching Dad trying to find the offending creature.  He's wielding a broom and poking into the dark recesses of every potential rodent hiding spot. My husband, not realizing what has gone before, now asks me if it wasn't a squirrel I saw.


"What is it with you people?  No, it's not a squirrel.  They have bushy tails.  I know I wasn't raised on a farm but they have squirrels in the city.  THIS IS NOT A SQUIRREL."


"Okay, okay.  I'll pick up some D-Con on my way home.  It'll be fine, I promise."


"I'm not doing laundry until that thing's gone!"


"It's okay, just let me get home.  I'll take care of it."


At this point, Dad confirms that he can find nothing in the garage that shouldn't be there.  Mr. Eggshells arrives home, and they do another search.  By now, I'm sure they all think I've just imagined it, or that it somehow escaped.  


About a week later I'm driving home and Mr. Eggshells calls me.  


"I believe you."



"Excellent, do I get any context?  Or is this just a general all-purpose belief?"


"I believe that you saw what you thought was a giant rat."


I can already feel the terror rising when I ask, "What I thought was a rat?  What do you mean?  What's going on?"


"It's okay I've taken care of it."


"TAKEN CARE OF WHAT?"


"What you saw was a juvenile 'possum."


"A WHAT?  HOW DO YOU KNOW THIS?  DID YOU SEE IT?"


At this point, I need to digress a little in the story and mention that we'd hosted the parents to a steak barbecue the weekend before.  Unfortunately, our grill had run out of propane before the steaks were done.  So we finished them in the oven, in our roasting pan.  We'd left the pan to soak in the laundry tub and, like we often do, forgot that it was there.


"Well, yes.  But I've totally taken care of it."


"You need to tell me NOW what's going on."


"Okay."  Deep sigh.  "I had to look it up on the web to be sure, but it looks like a juvenile possum.  I found it in the roasting pan."


"The roasting pan?  Oh, in the laundry tub?"

It's just waiting to get me.

"Yes, it was dead.   I think it drowned."


Now I'm feeling ill, and kind of bad for the poor creature, but not enough to not be glad that it wasn't still roaming around my garage waiting to lunge at me.


"Okay.  Well at least I wasn't seeing things.  So you've gotten rid of the remains?"

"Yes.  And the roasting pan.  I considered just cleaning it up and not telling you but thought that might be bad."


"YES.  Yes, that would be very bad.  Good husband.  Good good husband."


"Yes, I thought it was best."


"Thank you!  Yes, that is definitely best.  So that's a huge relief.  No more animals that shouldn't be around here!"


The next day, the parents stopped by as we were on our way out - to get a new roasting pan.  


"See?  I TOLD you I wasn't seeing things.  And that it wasn't a squirrel."


Dad got the last word...


"The rest of the possum family must be around your yard somewhere."


Mom starts laughing as I stare at him dumbfounded and Mr. tries to steer me away.

Possum tail

Squirrel tail

The Morning Commute

Since my job transfer back to my "old" office, Mr. Eggshells and I have been commuting together.  Better for the environment, and some quality couple time. Although considering that for at least one half of those daily commutes, it's morning, I'm not so positive on my use of the word "quality" up there.


The Mr. and I have a fun dynamic overall...and we're both not morning people.  Below is a conversation we actually had this morning, based on my best pre-coffee recollection.  (Of course, it may also be an amalgam of several of these types of conversations, since they occur with alarming frequency.)


Names have not been changed, as there are really no innocents here to protect.  Well, except me.


**********


*The Mr. stretches a hand over and pretends to cut off my left hand.*


Me:  No, you're not allowed to amputate my hand.


Him:  What?  Since when?


Me:  Since always.  Not allowed.


Him:  But it's a present.  It's better to give than to receive.


Me:  I would prefer candy or flowers over amputation.


Him:  But amputation's on the list?


Me:  Not really, but on that list, it's last.


Him:  But it's in the top 5?


Me:  No, we're not talking about everything, just those three items.  And amputation's last.


Him:  That's not fair.


Me:  It's my list.  It doesn't have to be fair to you.


Him:  Not to me, to amputation.


Me:  *stares mutely at him*


**********


And the people at his work think they have it rough...

Acting like an Idealistic Healer

With focus at a premium I was unwilling to pay this afternoon, I was taking a turn about the dance floor with an old partner, the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator.  Much like a zombie craving brains, I was feeding the randomness of character creation with some good old-fashioned personality/character archetypes.


Really, I had you at zombie, didn't I?


My personality type is INFP, aka Idealist aka Healer, aka Actor (Um, what?  That just seems way too extroverted but okay whatever, internet).  All in all, the available definition is pretty spot on, including the parts about how I basically manage the world through intuitiveness and trying to maintain harmony.  It also reminded me I was creative.  (Okay, to be fair, I've had friends saying the same thing recently, but this is the internet....so therefore it must be true!  ;) )


The issue I'm now facing, is that while my own personality type makes it easier for me to investigate and understand others', I'm not exactly sure how to make it translate into believable characterizations.  It's also entirely possible I'm way overthinking this. 


When I read back on my creative writing from years gone by, I'm always surprised at how together it seems...like I was present for the writing.  I don't know if that makes sense, but I spend so much time now trying to focus, I have no true idea if what is being produced is even comprehensible, much less entertaining.


I did also learn today that my personality archetype's standard disorder is histrionics.  Which is a word I've loved since a child...it just reminds me of dramatic tantrums.  And almost (almost) makes me believe I'd be allowed to get away with that.  

The Quiet Night

I love the night, when the house is settled.  It's not particularly quiet, with the sound of the dishwasher running in the kitchen, the heater coming on now that we're moving into Autumn. But all the other beings here are sleeping or near enough to....and it's just me with my thoughts.


Some nights that's not good.  When thoughts take me down a restless path, ruminating on situations and circumstances that I can't reclaim and can't lay to rest. 


Other nights, like tonight, it's just peace-making.  Where I can enshroud myself in the comforting focus that is usually so hard to attain during the day, and where I can regain a little sense of myself.  


At this time of year, I'm taken back to so many distinct memories, and all of them bear the weight of emotional discourse.  They flow over me like water over well-worn stones, pulling me gently along to their conclusion.  


It would be easy to say that I could stay there forever, but I know myself too well.   But for now - for tonight - it's enough to visit.


Nights like tonight, I can believe anything of myself.  My goals, my dreams, all there for the taking.  I just need to reach out.

Breathe

A friend of mine recently reminded me to Breathe.


I know that this is rather unusual...after all the mechanics of human breathing are pretty much managed at the brain stem level (function without serious consideration) and since I've made it to the realm of the "over 40 crowd", it's apparent my brain stem has been working just fine for awhile.


The cool thing about breathing though, is that we humanoids can also actively manage to regulate our breathing for a variety of reasons.  What initially comes to mind is breathing through pain or as part of an exercise regimen such as yoga or tai chi.  The deliberate style of breathing that means you're conscious of how the air actually feels in your body and letting the action of breathing become the focus.  For the rest of this post, I'll call this out with a capital "B", for Breathe.


I can recall twenty or so years ago (no, really, I can!), my Psychology 2-oh-something class had me recording and managing my stressors and subsequent reactions.  As part of the study, I was introduced to a variety of techniques to manage my stress-response.  This proved to be very handy, because one of the foremost ways to manage stress is to breathe through it, and you rarely need anything more than the equipment you already have with you to do it.  


Having an anxiety disorder, I do have a tendency to 'ramp up' quickly and end up in a place where I simply cannot manage my level of investment into whatever the situation is.  This can cause no end of volatility in an otherwise neutrally chaotic existence (LOL).  The solution?  Breathe.


And reminders to Breathe.  I had a large note above my computer monitor in my last office, on a bright neon green 4"x6" post-it note.  "Breathe" was one of the items listed (another was stretch) and it really did work to help me remember to stop and take a moment to ground myself.  


I've had a variety of stressors battering at me over the last couple of weeks, and I haven't resurrected the sign in this new office.  I think it might be time to find a place for it.  

Putting the "Gee" in Gynecological Exams

As the title suggests, this topic will be about lady parts.  If you are at all squeamish or sensitive to this subject STOP READING NOW.

*Plays a soothing violin concerto for those leaving, and sends you off to your happy places.**

Okay we're back.  So I'm guessing that the rest of you have either seen it, want to see it, or are okay with talking about it.   ;) 

About a year ago my doctor's office declined to renew my prescription for the happy pills that keep me sane, mainly because I hadn't been in to see my doctor for over a year.  Relatively understandable, but it would have been a little nicer to have some sort of heads up rather than the immediacy of "Hey, you're out of pills and we're holding your already tenuous sanity hostage until you come in and have a full physical."   Especially since the clinic had specifically made a point of assigning Mr. Eggshells and I doctors so we'd have these kind of reminders. (Actually, to be precise, the clinic had a hissy fit and *made* us pick doctors.  So that we'd have primary physicians who would be up to date on all our stuff.  Then set it up so we'd have different doctors.  I'm still not sure, years later, how this was of any benefit to us.)

Nevertheless, I agreed to come in if they agreed to give me an interim prescription to keep me going (because withdrawal is a bigger bitch than I could ever hope to be!).  Turns out that my doctor had left the practice almost a year before (ah, now I see how it benefits me to have a single doctor...not) and that I would need to see someone new.  It was also time for my annual exam, so it was decided that we'd do the meet 'n greet at the same time, a kind of "get to know you" from the uterus on up.

Now for those of you enlightened and fearless males in the audience who hung in there despite the subject matter, there are just a few things to know about the average gynecological exam.  The exam itself generally includes an external visual exam, a bimanual exam (checking the uterus and ovaries), and a speculum exam (using a speculum tool to open the vaginal walls and finally, a Pap smear of cells from the cervix is taken with a swab to be tested for cervical cancer.  There may also be a breast examination.

Squick-inducing

By the by, Mr. Eggshells says that the word speculum "makes guys go kinda squicky".  I don't doubt it...that thing looks like a gigantic duck bill.  
  

Surprisingly, the annual isn't the highlight of most women's day either.  While it's not particularly painful, it's awkward and uncomfortable.  And unless a woman is used to hopping up on a table and getting into the stirrups to expose her nethers to all, it's also a little on the vulnerable-making.  (Plus, unlike similar scenarios, there are no dollar bills being tucked into your panties while you're on display...)


But that's okay because these are doctors and nurses, medical professionals who have seen it all.  They're there to perform a very necessary service in preventative health care.  At least that's what we tell ourselves when convincing ourselves to keep that yearly appointment.  


Now this was not my first exam by any means, but far back in my history lurks the spectre of that initial exam so many thousands of years ago.  That doctor, who for all intents and purposes looked like a female, I'm fairly certain was really a hybrid shifter of Lovecraftian ilk.  Details not required, but the upshot of the whole thing was that it did not go well.  At all.  For either of us.

Needless to say, between that experience, a subsequent one where a doctor actually told me to relax because it was just like sex (um, WHAT?!), and my generalized anxiety,  that these exams are a bit of a minefield for me.  Staying centered, breathing through the stress, and communicating with the medical staff are key things for me to do to make it a relatively tolerable experience for all of us.  

Because two things will happen if it's not...my pelvic muscles will shut down and that is the end of the exam, and my kick reflex will work quickly.  Not necessarily in that order.  (Oddly enough, doctors are very interested in not getting kicked in the face during an exam...who would have thought?)


Back to last year...with my new doctor.  Who is, coincidentally a NEW doctor.  Fortunately he's a new doctor with a sense of humor.  Unfortunately he's a new doctor with a sense of humor like my husband's.  For those of you privileged to know Mr. Eggshells, you will know that one of the kinder ways to describe it is "odd".  What's awesomely horrific in a husband is not necessarily so in a doctor.  A doctor with a speculum.  


The clinic building dates back to the 1940's or 1950's.  I'm not sure who designed the interior offices, but I do know that they have not thought out the entire position of the examination table or the potential ramifications of certain types of examinations on said table.  I can only surmise that at one point either tables were smaller, or people were all midgets.  I cannot think of any other reason why they would set a room up so that the doctor basically has put his head in a sink to do an exam. 


So here we all are, the sink, the badly-positioned bed, the new doctor, the nurse, and me in the stirrups.  And I forgot the most crucial part of the process - letting my new doctor know that he needed to use the smaller speculum.  (Yes, likely TMI, but there is a point to telling you this and not just cuz I can!  :P) 


After a couple of misses with the larger speculum, I remembered...funny how blunt force trauma and searing vaginal pain can bring you back to what's really important.  We then commenced the gymnastics of the "speculum swap" to be able to actually finish the exam.


Now new doctor, while feeling completely HORRIBLE for the misses, has also flipped into what I can only assume is his safe place when stressed...humor.  Which is also, fortunately, my safe place.  He starts cracking one-liners at me.  I tell him about the urban legend about the older woman at her annual exam.  We're now completely busting a gut and the nurse...well the nurse was not impressed with either of us.  Seems she left her sense of humor at the door.


Then it was time for the breast exam...so it was time for round two of awkward, since the exam table was a mere inches from the wall.  To be able to examine my left side, he had to wedge himself into the few inches of space against the wall.  Still cracking jokes, by the time he told me he'd just have to climb on top of me to do the breast exam, I was hysterical with laughter. 


Exam finally over, they left me to get dressed and when the doctor returned, he introduced himself as if we'd never met and we started over.


Two weeks later I was at my follow up and Mr. Eggshells was with me for his initial.  The doctor introduced himself, and with a completely straight face, Mr. Eggshells told him that for his examination he'd be needing the small speculum as well.   ;)   


He's our favorite doctor EVER!
   

Quack!

RSS Subscription and Follow via Email Added

I took a few minutes to figure out the RSS links and email sign up.  So if any of you who may be out there want up-to-the-minute updates on my 3x a month posting...LOL  Feel free!

Grief is Exhausting

I'm scanning photos today.  It's taken me a full 10 years to manage to do this, not because of time or technology, but because I needed this long to be able to mentally and emotionally do it.

And you know what, it's still not soon enough.

But I'm getting it done.  Because part of me needs to lay it to rest.  Part of me needs to fulfill a promise.  And part of me needs to get this house under control and the box of irreplaceable photos in my family room is not secure and also underfoot.

My parents were married on December 3, 1966.  The photos I'm scanning are from the official photographer's selection book that my Mom had held onto after 20 years, divorce, remarriage and several moves.  I don't know if she was saving them for my sister and I for "someday" or if they were just part of the things that never got cleaned out.  It was after her funeral that my step-Dad opened up the boxes of memories and let us have our pick.

***brief interruption for a good cry and a hug from the Mr.***

I took the wedding photos and promised my sister I'd have copies made for her.  My intentions were to do that while it was all fresh and new...and then Dad got sick and I was busy taking care of him until he died.

After that the next couple of years are really just a hazy blur.  Which makes sense, because lucidly managing that much pain is just not comprehensible to me, even now.  Logically I know that I have a lot more to process but processing takes energy, and often energy I don't have to spare.

Which is why when I take on projects like this, it feels just like the wound being re-opened.  Sometimes when that happens, it's hard to know if it will ever heal, or just have periods of dormancy where I can ignore it.  

I still don't know if losing someone slowly to illness is better or worse than losing them quickly, like in an accident.  I'm still confused as to how my sister can go through that same experience of loss of both parents in such a short time frame and still be okay with turning away from her only sister.  (Although, to be fair, I'm sure she believes that I did the turning away.)  I'm pretty sure that if she had been the one who had the photos I wouldn't get a copy.  I'm just not built like that...even if she doesn't care to have them, even if she doesn't want them because they're from me, I can't in good conscience withhold them.

And so I've been scanning.  Maybe because I want to be the better person.  Or maybe I want to remind her that despite how she feels or acts now, she was part of the family that I was.  And that no matter what choices we make now, that is a fact that can't be changed.

Mostly I think I'm scanning so I don't have to lose the pictures like I lost the people.  At least I have my memories...which I may even manage to write down one day.

One day.

**Edited to add:  But at least now I know why I've been sick for the last week.   It's always like this pre-processing.  I just hadn't had it happen for so long I didn't recognize.  

Belief

I've been thinking about belief lately, particularly with respect to the definition "a state or habit of mind in which trust or confidence is placed in some person or thing."  Other definitions discuss the trust placed after examination of evidence.


While trust relationships could be the subject of several posts, what I'm thinking about more is what happens when we actively show trust in people around us.  Trusting others with our feelings, our possessions, our esteem, even our physical well-being can be a really scary thing...since the very act of trust makes us vulnerable.  Even the word confidence implies a level of intimacy and care that should be implicit.  Which makes sense, when you consider that usually trust grows the longer we know someone.  Even when the trust is shaken or damaged, it's the previous experience that allows for even the possibility of rebuilding.


When I think back on my life experiences and how I got "here" from "there", I'm always amazed.  How much of what I've been able to endure, and how much of what I've been able to accomplish has been because someone believed in me?  From my family, to teachers, to friends, to my romantic relationships, to co-workers...the list goes on and on.  From the simple words casually said "you can do it" - to the unspoken lessons that reinforced to me my value as a person in others' eyes, my core personality has been bolstered, padded and fabric'd with my worth to others'.  (Yes, I'm a sofa!  LOL)


Which is not to say that I haven't had relationships or experiences that weren't devaluating...there were some of those too.  For the most part I've tried to remove those sorts of influences from my life, but that's not necessarily a choice that everyone can facilitate.  And I have to say that the overwhelmingly positive experiences where in the majority when it came to framing my interactions with the world at large.


It's truly heartbreaking when I think of all those people out there who have never been told and never been shown they have value.  How much individual potential is wasted because there is no belief or trust shown?   


Based on recent work experience, it can be a lot.  Obviously details are not appropriate, but as I'm attempting to work within a team where there is little to no trust given or received, it's damaging to the end result and makes the journey to it a whole heck of a lot of not fun.


So maybe it's the hippie in me, or maybe it's just my inclusive nature, but shouldn't we all be cheering each other on? 


By the way, my friends, I believe in all of you, and truly value your presence in my life.  :)