I'm Sure This Would be More Interesting if I Actually Left My House

Tutorial on how to post photos using Flickr or Photobucket

2011-06-26T12:03:00.000-05:00

I frequent a few message board/communities on the Internet. Shocking, I know. Hey, I used to frequent a lot more (and I admined on a few). On one in particular, there are frequent Photoshop contests or other photo-posting going on and people often have trouble with it.

I'm a computer moron. I swear I'm not as nerdy as I appear. If I stumble on something I don't know how to do or don't understand, I simply Google the question. Back when I first got on the Internet (in December 2003), I would ask my friends in Yahoo Messenger the most idiotic questions. If they'd answer, I'd tell them "dumb it down for me. Really, I won't get offended." I used to say "tell me like you'd tell a first grader" but I'm sure a first grader already knows how to do half the stuff I had questions about- or even more, really.

Over the years, I've figured some things out, memorized a few others. One of those things is image-sharing with html or BBC codes. For those who need this tutorial, BBC is the stuff that has these brackets: [ [ ] ] around the url and everything. HTML has these: < > < > around the text.

I can't do complicated html coding unless I can do a copy/paste. And most photo hosting offers that option.

On Flickr, there are two ways to share using HTML- I'm going to show the easiest way.

First, you have to upload your image to Flickr. That should be a given. And it isn't hard to do. I'm starting off with the fact you've gotten that far. Most people seem to think that the link in the toolbar is what you need to post an image. It isn't. You need the direct url to the photo. Or, in the case of Flickr, you just need to click the drop-down menu that is in the upper left of the photo.

You'll want to choose "Grab the HTML/BBC Code" option.

There's an option to choose HTML or BBC- for the Regretsy site and forums, you want the HTML. You can also use that little drop-down menu to choose the photo size. That's what I like about Flickr- you can choose which size to share, without having to go through the hassle of resizing each individual photo. A good size to share on the forums is that 500x375 option, or even the next size up (which is 640 at its widest part).

Photobucket is even easier. Their codes are listed right under the photos if you're looking at them in thumbnail size. Or, by clicking on the photo, the link options are on the right side.

To resize on Photobucket, though, you have to go through the whole thing of actually resizing the photo. Not that hard to do, but its an extra step if you haven't already done it to a decent size before you uploaded it.

Both of those options will link back to the site you've hosted it on- so if you were to mouse-over the image, it would be linked, if you click it, it takes you to the page on Flickr or Photobucket.

If you don't want to do it that way, you need to know the html code for images. All the url at the top in the toolbar is going to do is to link the person directly to your photo on the site where it is hosted. But if you want your photo to show on the page (like they are here), then those two methods are the easiest. Most photo hosting sites have the codes already done and you merely need to copy and paste them into your reply or post or whatever the kids are calling it these days. If you're not sure if you need the HTML or the BBC, its usually listed on the site, near the bottom of the page where you'd leave your reply. Some places have the option to choose between the two. But for this blog, I'll tell you- Regretsy and the forums of Regretsy are html.

I hope this helped.

HAPPY CYBORG BIRTHDAY TO MEEEEEEE!

2011-03-18T11:59:00.002-05:00

Two years ago today, I became a Cyborg Sapien. That's right, I have metal skeletal parts. Back when I had a MySpace, I did my blogging there- and this is when I'd link you to the cyborg blog I wrote back then, but alas, I cannot. I deleted my MySpace a few weeks ago. I saved all my blogs though, but I'm not just going to copy/paste it. This isn't so much about the past as it is about me now. ME! ME! ME!! MEEEEEE!!!

Oh, wait, where was I?

So, two years ago today, I went into my impending replacement with the rosiest rose-colored glasses ever. "It may take as long as a year to fully recover"... not me! "You will have setbacks and may have to re-learn how to walk properly again"... not me! "This is major surgery and it will change your life"... NOT ME!

Oh, how silly was I? Don't get me wrong, I knew what I was getting into. I took the joint-replacement class that I was required to take. My doctor knew I was an Internet geek and gave me some links to read. And I did. I took notes in that class- which, by the way, showed some of the most hilariously low-budget videos of such quality it reminded me of the drunk-driving videos I saw in the bartender licensing class I took about six years ago. I understood this was a huge thing and what the risks were. But, I'd also spent so long in pain that I didn't care. When I got to the point where I was able to have the surgery, I'd been walking with two canes for almost two years. I had been walking with crutches, then a cane, since March 3, 2006 (when I slipped on the icy frost outside my door on my deck and tore up my right knee). Wow, I hear you thinking, How the hell can you remember the date? Well, we live on a fixed income and the third of the month is one of the Social Security disability paydays and I had parent/teacher conferences for Ceej and Jase at 8 AM. I slipped at 7 AM (while, ironically, taking my cane to the disabled guy's shop so he could sand it down for repainting). I went to the conferences on crutches and then drove myself to the hospital.

Why did I drive myself? Because the disabled guy doesn't handle stressful emergency-ish situations very well. While I was gone, he cleaned the entire bathroom. He was angry and snapped at me for a long while, but that's part of his stroke. Don't hate him for that. In his logical mind, he was "helping" by cleaning the bathroom.

So, back to this... My recovery from surgery was a slow process. I would feel better, then push a little harder, then have a setback. So for every two steps forward, I'd take one back. Finally, a year and three months after the surgery, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. I knew I had this problem for years. I begged my doctor for help. But, this was that jerk doctor I had to deal with who blamed all my problems on my weight. Despite the fact that my weight was good till I started to be in pain, then I had the knee injury and bam, Patty is a fatty again. But that doctor refused to see that and just sort of kept me in limbo, giving me just enough treatment to make me think he was helping.

When Jerk Doctor moved on, I was given a new doctor and looky here... proper diagnosis. Here are a few links for you to read if'n you want to-

May of 2010, leading up to my diagnosis.

July 2010, right after my diagnosis.

And, if you know me, you know I went out and started a blog about my fibro.
Pahz lives with Fibro(I did that banner myself).

After I started getting treated for the fibro, my surgical recovery flew into fast-forward. And I'm doing so much better. You all know I do photography now. I'm walking three to four times a week. I figured out that if I walk a little less, I can walk a little more often- which is better, I think, than longer walks that hurt more and that I would do less frequently.

Along with the photography, I'm going to the ren faire more often. This summer, I'll go every single weekend because I'm getting a season pass. And soon, I'll be completely back to my old self, which of course, is my younger self. This whole thing is related to the fibro though, not the knee. I have absolutely no pain in my knee. And I can go up and down stairs. I can walk normally. I can do all the slightly physical things that are required for me to do photography. I've walked through deep snow, I've sprawled out, face-down on my deck, I've stood for long periods of time in the bitter cold, in the summer heat. When I get into the "zone" taking photos, I can forget how the fibro makes me feel. I pay for it later, but during that half-hour or hour when I'm standing in the bitter cold or sprawled out on my deck or leaning over to reach a shot in macro... I forget how shitty I feel. But the knee is fantastic.

By the way, Doc Bones liked the photograph I gave him. I chose a 5x7 in a black matte in a broad black wooden frame. And now I don't have to go back for another two to three years (unless I have a problem, of course). And with the way things are going, there will be significantly less of me the next time I visit. We talked about the skin numbness (will probably always be there) and the sensitivity I feel when I try to kneel down is all normal. I said that I was going to try biking again and he said, "Be careful not to crash!" and I promised if I did, I'd fling my body in the opposite direction of my knee.

If you're on the fence about getting your knee or hip replaced, just slide off that fence and get it done. I would have done mine sooner, but I was stuck with that doctor. I had to wait for him to give me a referral letter. But if you're not hindered by that, then go. Take the classes, research it. See the good and the bad and be prepared for a long recovery... but also be prepared to get your life back. Also, you can find some fantastic support here: BoneSmart-dot-org. I'm not even the youngest person on the board (I'm 41, in case you didn't know. I was 39 when I became a cyborg). So even if you don't want to get medical advice, this is a good place for support. The main site is loaded with information as well.

Now, on to the pictures!

These are from September 2010-

Steve Austin!

And here is Fronkensteen from last year and from when he was a newborn.

These photos were taken yesterday at my appointment.

And... I present to you, FRONKENSTEEN on his second birthday!

March 18, 2009- Cyborg Assimilation....

2011-03-07T19:49:00.000-06:00

On March 18th of 2009, I became a Cyborg Sapien. Back then, I didn't update this blog very often, so I didn't post about it here. I did over on my MySpace, but about a week ago, I deleted my profile there because I rarely used it anymore. (no worries, I actually did save my blogs in a file before the deletion).

But I have a story related to the Cyborg Assimilation and my upcoming two-year follow-up appointment. My two-year checkup is next Thursday. And since I haven't had any knee-related problems in the last two years, I won't have to go back to see him ever again. Unless, of course, I have any problems. But I don't have any follow-ups ever again.

A few days ago, I did a silly video for a website where I answered some questions, interview-style, about my knee-replacement. Things about how bad I was before, how I decided to get the surgery (I didn't, actually), and how good things are now. And even though the fibro slowed down my recovery (which I did mention in the video), my knee is fantastic. And because of that knee-replacement, I am doing things I couldn't do before. And despite this fibro slowing things down, I'll be back to the person I was before all this fell on top of me.

One of those things I'm doing now is the photography. I've sold some prints and one of my photos is even hanging in the Denny's in South Beloit, IL. (and they sought me out- they contacted me about using my photo!). I decided that since this will be my last time seeing Doc Bones (as I lovingly referred to him in my blogs), I would give him one of my "fine art" photos. But which one? I've taken thousands of photos (not an exaggeration) in the last twelve months. I checked through everything I had (it took a few days) and I chose three of my favorites. Then I asked Ceej (my seventeen year old daughter) which one she thought I should give him.

Now, I know I could have gotten a triptych frame and given him all three photos, but triptych frames are huge and I didn't want to overwhelm him with a big ol' awkwardly-shaped frame. (plus, most of the triptych frames I've found are plastic and modern-looking).

So, out of the three, this is the photo she chose:

And there's a story behind it. Back in December, we had a huge storm. Well, the rest of the Midwest had a huge storm. By the time it got here, we barely got any snow. We had loads of wind (oh, so much wind!) and bitter cold temps. But not nearly as much snow as everyone else. You all might recall the storm that caused the Metrodome's roof to collapse. My friend who lives up that way said they got about twenty-five inches of snow from that storm alone. But we didn't.

What we did get, along with those bitter temps and high winds, was an amazing sunset and ice. As soon as I saw that the sunset was going to be good (just enough clouds to create the colors and such), I headed out to my usual spot. There's a school on the outskirts of town, up on a hill, with a cornfield and a line of trees between the car park and the horizon. Great location for sunset photos and I'm not stuck on the side of the road and in danger of being hit by a car. (and no farm folk stop to ask if I'm okay- which has happened twice to me, in two different places, while photographing the sunset). This day, though, I got there a little early. And since I didn't want to just sit in my truck and wait for the sun to drop, I threw my camera into macro mode and took photos of the leaf-less shrubbery and ice around the edge of the car park. And I got some amazing shots. (such as the one above- which was my favorite shot from that day).

To get these shots, I had to step into the snowbank and the plowed-up snow on the edge of the car park. I stepped in and sank, of course. Two more steps, leaning over, my weight mostly on my left leg as I contorted myself to reach out with the camera for the macro shots. In fact, the photo above, I was standing with my left knee (the cyborg knee) slightly bent, leaning forward onto that leg, with my right leg extended behind me. I was leaning forward, holding my camera in my gloveless hand (remember the wind?) at arm's length and I snapped the shot. Then I had to wade back to the flat and plowed area of the car park.

And if I had not gone through that total knee replacement, I wouldn't have been able to do that or get that shot. I wouldn't have been able to stand outside in the sub-zero temps (with even more sub-wind chills) and take all the photos of the ice, the shrubbery, the sunset. And I wouldn't be sharing my talent with the world.

I wrote about this day in my Fibromyalgia blog. ~~clickety-click~~

I think Doc Bones should get to see what he's unleashed on the world.

365 self-portraits? A photo a day of myself? Hell yeah!

2011-02-13T11:57:00.004-06:00

I did it. I completed an entire year of self-portraits. The rules are simple- one photo a day, every day, of yourself. You have to be in the photo somehow, even if its just a fingertip or a reflection. It isn't that difficult of a concept to grasp. One self-portrait a day, every day. For a year.

And today, I did it. I completed my first year of the 365days Self-portrait project on Flickr. All of my photos can be seen here- in My First 365Days Project. That's right, my first. Which, of course, implies I'm doing it again. I was going to take a few days off and then restart, but I like starting on Valentine's Day. It gives that day a new meaning since, quite obviously, the intended meaning is long gone for me. Also, I have a whole mess o' not-submitted self-portraits and a few I used as "mini-challenges" in the 365days group (linked above). This is my "Other self-portraits" set.

But I digress... back to the year in photos.

I had hoped to lose weight this year and mark that obviously in photos. But it didn't happen. Let's start at the beginning. This is going to be a long one, so you might want to grab a drink and possibly a snack.

Here's day one. Taken with my camera on "auto", using a flash. I was standing outside, waiting on the dogs, and just snapped this photo. Not great. Not bad. Just a typical arm's length self-portrait.

My reason for starting this project as opposed to a 365 days project about anything else was- no matter where I am, I'm with me. And since I'm supposed to be both photographer and subject, I figured I could complete it. This is day 365-

I was trying to re-create the first photo (even wearing the same hoodie), but the wind was blowing and its also daylight... but look, you can see Gypsy in the background. Now let's get to the year in review.

So many things happened in the past three hundred and sixty-five days. One of the most important things being that I am now using my camera to its full potential. I've sold a few photos and one of my photos is hanging in the local Denny's Restaurant (not a self-portrait, obviously). I've met so many wonderful people and made some amazing friends. I made new friends- in real life, not just online- and I even lost a friend. He was one of my friends who shared an interest in photography with me.

Some particularly great things that happened this year:

Shawn came to visit from Australia. And I wrestled him to the ground and forced him to be in my self-portrait project. Here are a few-

Day 21, where I told him to stare off in the distance.

Day 23, where I wrestled him down and put him in a headlock. This photo is in a frame above my desk.

There are a few others, but I have to say that this is Shawn's favorite.

Day 43-

This isn't all of the photos with Shawn in them, just a choice few. And this one was sort of a sneak attack. (the railing says, "This is not a photo op").

Day 45 (this was also the day before he left).

So March was great. He even went to a doctor appointment at the Veteran's Hospital with me. We did a two-day trip to Milwaukee and the photos of his trip are in this set on my Flickr. (there are loads more photos, but we've shared them on Facebook).

I took a lot of photos of my eyes and a few of my cleavage. I've been naked in a bunch of photos but the viewer couldn't really tell. (I have great light in my bedroom from the window if the sun is out- hence the naked-but-can't-tell photos). And I have a few were I am naked. And here, I share them with you now.

Day 184-

Day 265- (the giant eye!)

Originally, I was going to write this in order, but it seems to be going out of order, so just enjoy the randomness that is my mind today. During this year, a few neat things happened. I mentioned meeting friends. I went to faire and met up with my dear friend, Angus, and one of his friends joined us and now we're friends. I didn't use any photos of us as a self-portrait that day, but I had a good time at faire and I hope he comes back this year. I went back to the faire a few times with my daughters. And from that...

Day 147- the day I met up with Angus and Mary. On the way home, it stormed like crazy and I got some amazing sunset photos. And my submission.

Day 169- at Bristol Ren Faire with my daughter Christine (aka- Ceej).

Also, at Faire, this happened. Day 204- "Sir Maximilian" (also known as Matthew), this photo is also in a frame near my desk- it shares a frame with this photo of Jane the Phoole with my girls. Not only does Matthew joust, he does amazing leather work. He's an artist, to put it mildly. Maxx Empire Leather (on Facebook).

I think its safe to say we're friends now. Not because of this picture, of course, just in general. I look forward to Bristol this year. But I digress...

Along with meeting the knight (and a few others), I met a group of acrobats (Barely Balanced) and I'm friends with "Medium" (aka Cameron) in much the same way. I don't have any self-portraits with Cameron, but I have a photo of the girls with him. Ceej, Kat and Cameron (on stilts, of course). Ceej has this photo and the photos of her with Jimmy (aka "Large") and Casey (aka "Small") in a triptych frame in her room.

In the Fall, I went to a faire I'd never been to- and it happened to land on my birthday weekend. I spent part of the first day with Jane the Phoole, where we had a long conversation about everything from garb to the final joust at Bristol. And she remained in character, of course, and people stopped to listen to us talking and maybe took photos- I don't know, if they did or not, but I'd be thrilled to know that someone took a photo of me with Jane (that is, aside from me). I've actually known Jane for quite a few years, but this year was the first time we had a chance for a long conversation.

Also on that day, I took an extremely cool photo for my self-portrait. I'd say it was the coolest self-portrait I'd ever taken, but I can't say that because I have photos with a knight, and Jane, my dad, my daughters, my best friend from Australia... my son is in a few as well. So, this is cool, but its not the coolest.

So, here's day 231- Nero's eye.

The second day of Faire was my actual birthday (age 41, thanks) and Jane was in my photo with me. I also regaled her with the story of why I had a bandage on my finger. ("Its quite shocking, really, I was attacked by a sea monster! And it was really amazing since I live in a land-locked area..."- in reality, I was accidentally bitten by one of my Chihuahuas and his little canine tooth punctured my finger. Jane said that was a better story- being mauled by a Chihuahua).

Day 232- where I gave Jane a statement she called a life lesson: "No one wants to breed with a fat Chihuahua"...

Now, in the midst of the summer, I was diagnosed with a debilitating disease. But its okay, don't feel bad! With a diagnosis comes a solution! June 28, 2010, I was officially diagnosed with fibromyalgia. And my self-portrait was taken in the lab, while I was getting some blood work.

SQUEAMISH WARNING!! Day 135 is a photo of a butterfly needle in my hand and a tube full of blood. Scroll past this picture if you're the squeamish type.

Here it is...

Day 135-

My mother was also on IV antibiotics this year. I was the "second on call" if anything was needed. And a few times, I had to give my mom her drugs- she had a PICC line in her arm, so there's no needles here, just my hand in a rubber glove and a syringe (no needle though). SASH- Saline, Antibiotic, Saline, Heparin.

Day 103-

Along with meeting all these amazing people (both online and in real life) and the fantastic diagnosis that changed my life (for the better), my son graduated from high school. Interesting factoid- while I was in labor with him, I watched TV till they turned it off and most of the time, I was watching "Kids in the Hall".

And if you're a fan, you'll laugh at Day 119-

My dog had puppies this year. Day 137 (the day after Ceej's 17th birthday).

We acquired a new dog- Gregg the girl dog with a boy name.

Day 220 (there are other photos with her, but this is the cutest one).

In the middle of November, my seven-year-old Dell up and died. Beyond repair. The experience was so awful, I went outside and up and died. Day 267-

After surviving for ten days, using my son's laptop (which he was extremely generous about letting me use), my parents got me a new computer. Day 272-

I also got to meet, in person, the chick who is like a sister to me. This is our first time meeting after knowing each other for over seven years. This wasn't a self-portrait submission, but it would have been day 222 if I had used it-

Along with the meeting of new friends, I reconnected with an old friend. The last time we spoke was twenty-six years ago (almost to the day!). The Internet brought us back together- well, not "together" in any sense, but it turns out he lives in Wisconsin... five hours to the north. He drove down to see me. And I forced him to be in my day 274-

So, there you have it... my year at random. What have I learned this past year? A lot about my camera. Also, I have amazing eyes even though the left one squints more than the right one. I'm a pretty damn good photographer, self-portraits and otherwise. I learned that I'm tenacious and can finish what I start. I learned that the disabled guy thinks I exaggerate my physical pain, he doesn't think what I do can be called "art", and he doesn't think some of my self-portraits look like me. (Day 364 he said of: "Its nice. It doesn't look like you. Where's the color?").

I have amazing friends. And even though I already knew this, it needs to be stated again: even though I've never met some of these people in real life, they are fantastic people. They are warm and funny and they care about me (and I care about them). Sure, we joke online (usually Facebook) and type in all-caps how much we love each other, but I do. I love my friends.

I'm not sure what else to say about this year- so much has happened and its amazing to me that I can look at my self-portraits and remember what was going on in my life when that photo was taken. Also, before I go, I have to give a nod to my photographer friends. I have yet to meet any of them in person, but they are amazing- they take amazing photos and I can only hope to be as good as they are.

Dear idiot Drivers-

2010-12-11T15:11:00.000-06:00

Hey there! Remember me? A few years ago, I wrote a blog to all of you with visual aids showing who I am and what I do and so on. It involved me having to use a cane, yet still being able to do simple basic things. Last year, I wrote an updated version because I no longer use a cane. (both blogs are viewable here)

Well, its a new wintery season and here we are again. We've had one day with a real snowfall and yet you all are still a bunch of idiots. Why am I talking to you about this now? Because as I type, a big-ass winter storm is heading this way. The Weather Channel's website has changed our expected snow from "six to ten inches" to "nine to fifteen inches"... yeah.

Since my last blog about the snow, I've gotten a new broom.

You see, kids, a "broom" is a magical invention that has been around since the first cave-wife used the brushy end of a stick to sweep the mastodon bones out of the cave. Yes, I know that cavemen and dinosaurs didn't actually live during the same time period, but if you're an idiot driver, you probably don't know that fact.

Just in case you didn't know about all that, here's a photo of my broom. I took this photo today, around noon.

It has a wooden handle and those bristly things at the bottom are what sweeps things. "Oh, neat," I hear you say, "What kinds of things, Miz Pahz?"

Lots of things. Dust, dirt, dog hair, cat hair, broken glass, spilled beads, glitter (though you will be finding glitter till the day you die), and other such things that have been spilled on a tile or hardwood floor. And snow... yes, SNOW! You can sweep the snow off your vehicle by using one of these dandy inventions!

"But... but... I can't get the snow off my vehicle!" I hear you whining. "I'm short... or I have short arms... or I'm sick... or I'm tired... or I'm lazy..."

Well, guess what... I'm short, I have short arms, I'm sick, and I'm tired. Unlike you, though, I'm not lazy. Not only am I short, with properly proportioned arms (as in, I'm short with short arms), I happen to have a debilitating disease that causes, among other things, widespread pain and physical fatigue. On June 28, 2010, I was diagnosed as having fibromyalgia. On any given day, my body is in pain. I could be in so much pain, all I can do is muster the energy to sit in a chair. Other days, I might feel well enough to go to the store. And all the time, I'm tired. Everything you idiot drivers do- like make breakfast, shower, walk around- those things exhaust me.

So, here I am... short, short-armed, sick and tired. Did I mention I'm fat? Because I am. Fat, short, short-armed, sick and tired.

That's my truck... you can see how tall my truck is to me. I have to stand on my tip-toes to see the top of it.

"But, wait..." you exclaim, "In your blog last year, you talked about how you don't need a cane anymore and how your knee is all metal-y and bionic!"

Oh, that's true. But let me cover a list of some of the things I still can't do that are related to the bionic knee.

1. I can't run. Doctor suggests against my running. Some doctors say its okay to run, but my orthopedic surgeon says no.
2. I can't kneel on the ground. I can kneel on a padded surface like a bed or a sofa cushion, but I can't kneel on a hard surface.
3. I can't stand on my tip-toes. I can if I hold onto something (like the side of my truck), but since the surgery, the muscles in my legs have atrophied to the point that simple things, like standing on tip-toes, are difficult to do.

So, you can see my predicament when it comes to reaching the top of my truck. Yet... take a look at this-

My truck, Franky my Chevy Colorado...

And less than ten minutes later...

"OH SWEET DEAR JOBU!!! IT IS A MIRACLE!!! THE SNOW!! THE SNOW IS GONE!!!"

No, calm down. It isn't a miracle. It is the fact that short, short-armed, sick and tired ME-

-brushed off ALL that snow, using just that simple broom!

A BROOM!!

That's right! I used that broom to brush all the snow off my truck, which is a few inches taller than I am. Aren't you amazed?! Do you see how easy this actually is? WHY CAN'T YOU DO IT TO YOUR OWN CAR!? You drive a CAR! You're TALLER than your car! You could brush the snow off with your arm! But no... NO! You clear a six inch space on the windshield because why would you need to see from side-to-side? No, that six inch space directly in front of the driver's seat is all you need.

People like you are the reason people like me want to kill people like you. You're idiots. You're lazy and stupid. And if you don't like it, maybe you should seek me out on a snowy day. I'll be the one leaving the house a few minutes earlier than I need to so I can clear all the snow from my vehicle. You'll know its me because I'll have a broom in my hand.

This broom...

In my hand... my short, short-armed, tired (see my eyes? Tired!), sick and atrophied body... And I'm still more awesome than you.

I don't expect you to learn anything from this. You rarely do.

Smart people, show this to your stupid friends. You know who they are. On days following a snowfall, we ALL know who they are.

"Vlog"... Video Blogging...

2010-12-03T13:05:00.001-06:00

All this time, I had assumed that "video blogging" meant that the blogger would type up all this stuff- these words- and then include a video related to what they had to say- like I do with the Conversations with the Disabled Guy blog. Every so often, I get lucky enough to catch his silliness on video and I blog about it and then include the video for the enjoyment of his 37 followers (or is it 38?).

I've since learned that "video blogging" is actually the act of doing a blog in video form because the "blogger" can't be arsed with typing. With typing? Is typing so freakin' hard? I've got arthritis and fibromyalgia (I have a blog for that too) and I can manage to sit upright and type. How bloody hard is that?

I protested this whole "blog" thing for a while. I even went so far as to call my blogs "My non-blog" because I hate the word "blog". I still do, but I hate it less than I hate the word "vlog". We're so lazy that we can't even say the term: "video blogging" and we have to shorten it to a sound someone makes when they start to throw up while speaking.

"I was just sitting there, stunned that Vera said that to me when- *vlllaaaaaawwwwhhggg* Oh, sorry... I had some bad clams for lunch..."

Have we come to this? Do we really think that we're so important people just want to stare at our talking heads for seven to nine minutes? We're not famous. We aren't. There isn't one damn thing about us that is appealing in a "vlog" (sorry, clams again). The lighting usually sucks, the camera angle is bad (especially those who use the webcam built into their laptops), and I have yet to see a non-famous person who looked good in their "vlog". I don't care how young you are or how thin you are, you look like shit in that video. The lighting is either too dark or it washes you out. Your pale face, staring fish-like into the camera while you bitch about your latest conversation with your mom or how your significant other pissed you off in a dream and then wouldn't admit to it in the sane light of day is not attractive. You might be extremely attractive in the real world, but with that harsh camera play, you are not.

You might be witty and hilarious in conversations with your friends, but you are not in your "vlog". And the "uh" and "um" filler is always delightful. "But, when I do these videos, people like them! I know they do! I can tell!" No, they don't. They're mostly making fun of you. "What about you? You type up this blog as if someone else is going to read it. That makes you just as stupid as us!" Well, first of all, someone who would do a "vlog" doesn't think it is stupid, so they'd never say that. The difference between a typed blog and a vlog is that it isn't quite so self-centered. People read it or not. People interpret it or not. With a video, the "vlogger" is forcing the viewer to see whatever it is they're barfing up from their perspective. You probably weren't "hearing" those questions in a nasally whiny tone like I was in my head when I wrote them.

So, I decided that I'd do a video. I'd do this video because everyone's attention span has dwindled to a split second. And reading is hard! You have to use your eyes, then process the words in your brain, its horrible! I can just watch a video like its a sitcom and have it all done.

A few things- I know what I look like and yes, I'm fat. You don't have to tell me. I'm not delusional. Also, my eyes really are that color and yes, I do hear that a lot. And lastly, you're not a special snowflake.

My take on "video blogging"...

My "Art"- or the lack thereof...

2010-10-11T00:27:00.000-05:00

Back in the olden days, I fancied myself an artist. I could draw with almost anything. I preferred charcoal over pastels, chalk pastels over oil, pen and ink over pencils.

What about painting? I knew you'd ask that. Mostly because I'm writing this and I'm the one putting the dialog out there for "you"- and "you" could be anyone.

I was an adequate artist. I could do still-life, nature, animals, landscapes, seascapes, even people if I didn't have to make them look like someone in particular. Every so often, I'd get lucky and slam out a drawing of a person (usually from a photo) that looked like the person in question. But I couldn't do it every time.

But painting.

Hooo-boy... painting. I disliked painting for many reasons. One reason was that I was raised as an Army NCO's daughter. If you think soldiers get paid low wages now, well, you should have seen it back then. Painting was expensive. Canvases, special paper, decent brushes, the paint itself. Too damn pricey. But, I took art classes in high school. "Drawing/Design" was the name of the class I took. I took "D/D1" and then "D/D2", and after that, it was "individualized study". That merely meant the teacher gave us special assignments and sent us on our merry way. In the D/D class, we had supplies and I got my first chance at real painting. Also, I disliked painting because, unlike a pen or charcoal, I couldn't just set up anywhere to work on my project. I had to have space and room to move and lay things out. If I were drawing, I could pick up any ol' pen or pencil and draw (although I did have and prefer art pencils and such).

I chose watercolors because I do like how it looks on paper/canvas/whatever. And I figured, with so much bravado, how hard could it be? I'll stick to what I know I can do (animals, landscapes) and avoid what I can't do (humans, mostly). We had these wooden easels that looked like the wood shop started rocking horses, changed their minds and left them straight. We got to carry these, with our supplies, wherever we wanted to go on school grounds and do our project. Watercolors and paper in hand, I picked up my easel-horse and set off down the hall from the class. I knew where I was going. To the end of yellow hall, (our high school had color-coded hallways). There was a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked a short service road that led to the football field.

Or hockey rink. I don't remember where the hell it led to, but it was a nice, tree-lined road that curved so a person couldn't actually see the end.

I sat down with my stuff, got everything situated and looked out at the beautiful Autumn day. The leaves were changing colors and falling like soft, orange snowflakes. The sunlight danced through the trees and dappled the ground. Picturesque! I had chosen wisely.

Or so I thought.

I did what any artist would do. I started with what I knew. So I picked up my pencil and started a light sketch of what I wanted. Except the light sketch ended up having a lot more detail than it should have. By the time I was done sketching, it was the end of that class (we had 80 minute classes back then). I spent two weeks sitting by that window, using watercolors.

Picture, if you will, a pencil sketch. All the lines are there, but nothing is shaded in. It looked like something out of a complicated coloring book. I painstakingly filled in everything with watercolor. By the end of this fiasco, I hated watercolor. My "painting" (and I use " " around the word because I'm being generous) was more like a horribly filled-in paint-by-numbers. I didn't want to turn the assignment in because I knew it was bad. But I had to because it was my project and it was due.

When I got the atrocity back in my grubby little hands, I had a "B" for a grade. Why? Why on earth would my teacher give this artistic abortion a "B"? You could see the pencil lines through the watercolor. It looked like I put all colors of paint in my mouth and spat them at the large canvas. I got a "B" because I tried, I followed the protocol (showed details, did shading), and turned it in on time.

It was then that I realized that our art teacher was either sick of teaching people like me or she was clinically insane.

Why am I telling you all this right now? Well, for one, I'm awake at its after midnight. I have no idea why I'm awake, I ingested a pill and a half of muscle relaxer. I should be unconscious and squishy. But I'm not. I'm upright, awake, and decidedly not squishy. Today- that is to say, yesterday (Sunday)- I left the house and took some photos of "autumnal scenes". If you know me and my photography, you know that I have an affection for macro shots. Affection isn't the right word. Obsession, maybe.

I took loads of macro shots of leaves and spiderwebs, and flowers that were hanging on to the last warm days before the cold screams its way into Wisconsin. And, I took a few "normal" shots of Autumn trees. One of those shots reminded me of that painting. I will never forget that painting. I eventually went on to become proficient in watercolors, but it was a long time from "spat at the canvas" look to passable watercolor painting.

Its safe to say that any Fall scene with falling leaves and a slight curve in a path will remind me of that vomit-inducing painting. I have to say that I much prefer photography to watercolors. My photography teacher- Mrs. Richmond- would be proud, I think. Or at least proud of what I'm doing with my photos. (we're trying to raise money for our daughter's orchestra trip to New York City and I'm selling photos on etsy).

And here is the link to the set of photos I took today. I mean, yesterday. That is to say, Sunday, the 10th.

You'll see one of the shots that reminds me of that horrifying painting. I don't even have to tell you which one.

Despite the title, "interesting" came right to my door.

2010-09-14T17:10:00.001-05:00

We have a new puppy and the disabled guy decided that she needed to be in the living room instead of in the kitchen. So he rigged up a little area to keep her in the living room, but safely gated from the clumsy big dog and other Chihuahuas. They wouldn't purposefully hurt a puppy- especially since Luna just had puppies (they're all gone but one). Anyway, the puppy area blocks the front door. It isn't a problem because its short-term. In a few days, she'll be out of the way.

So, when someone knocked on our door, Ceej said, "Its some guy..."

I walked out the back door and came around to the front. I asked if I could help him. I figured he was probably one of those religious door-to-door folks (they came through last week). He said he was looking for some of the signs of when they established this neighborhood. That's not so far-fetched. Aerial maps of this area from the very early 1900s show one house was here, but its hard to tell if its our house or the one next door. Down the street is an old concrete post that used to be a street sign (back before all our cars were twelve feet tall). So I asked if he was looking for anything in particular. As he was talking and pointing, I realized he didn't have a car.

He told me he was looking for a church that used to be around here. The closest church in the direction he was pointing was quite a ways over the hill. I told him that. When he looked at me, he seemed surprised to see me standing with him. I asked how far he'd walked to get here and he said some things about the downtown area- old brick buildings and such.

When I asked him his name, I had to ask three times. When he searched for the words to tell me his name, I realized he was probably not supposed to be out alone. I asked him his name again, to make sure I'd heard it correctly (he has a last name for a first name- which I'm not posting here, but you know the kinds of names that are last names, but can be used as first names). So I asked if he knew my dad- and said my dad's name. He perked up at that name. "It sounds familiar," he told me.

"Oh, well, he's a Mason, are you a Mason?" He perked up a bit when I asked if he was a Mason.

He started mumbling again and I couldn't hear him (the traffic is quite loud at that time of the day- school's let out and such). Through all this, he kept saying "Praise the Lord" and "Praise Him!", sometimes even singing it. I asked him if he'd like to come around back with me and sit in the shade (my house faces West, so it was hot). He started to follow me and I pulled out my mobile. "Let me call my dad, I bet he knows someone who can help..." I figured if he was a Mason, my dad would know him, being a several-time past master.

He said, "Oh, well, okay!" and he followed me to the backyard. "This is really pretty! I like this..." as we passed my little flowerbed and up onto the deck. We sat in the shade and I got him some water.

I asked if he was married and he became confused and went back to praising the Lord and singing. My dad arrived and he didn't know him. So he called the police- which I would have done, but when he perked up about hearing my dad's name and about the Masons.

He was here a long time. He sang the words "Praise the Lord" over and over. Every once in a while, he would look over at my dad, who was talking to the disabled guy in the shop. And I'd tell him again, who they were. "Oh, well, praise them. That's real nice, praise them..." Every time Gypsy would start barking (inside the house), he'd exclaim, "Well! That's a whole lotta noise!" And I'd tell him she was our big dog and why we had a big dog. "He's certainly doing his job!" (scaring people as protection).

I tried to get him to talk, about kids or spouses or where he walked from, but he usually mumbled, asked me to repeat myself or just sighed sadly. Then back to the repeated "Praise the Lord" singing. My dad came back up on the deck and we talked for a bit and I updated my Facebook status from my phone (I had just posted a note about hate mail that I got from a Regretsy troll). Then my dad disappeared to the front of the house. I figured the police were here. He came back and called out, "Hey, [guy's name], there's someone here for you!"

I said, "Let's go around front, someone's here to help you."

He seemed genuinely surprised. "Here? Oh, let's go..." he stood up and my dad said it was his wife.

I left my dad with him and went to talk to his wife. I told my dad to have him watch his step as they came down the steps of the deck. When I walked away from them, Dad was telling him to take his arm.

The man and his wife live less than a half a mile away, almost just around the corner. So he hadn't walked as far as it seemed. She said he keeps trying to go back to the church they passed on the way into town when they moved here. He's a retired pastor. She said he wandered away before, but she always caught him. She called 911 and when she told them what happened, they told her he was at our house. She looked like she had just woken up- slightly disheveled and surprisingly calm for the situation. But by the time I talked to her, she knew he was safe. If I had seen her earlier, she would have been a wreck. Now we know what to do if we see him again, we know where he lives.

After they left, my dad said, "He really needs to be in a home."

It could have turned out much worse and I'm glad it was our crazy house he decided to knock on instead of someone else who is truly crazy or wouldn't have cared enough to help.

This is FIBROMYALGIA!!!!

2010-07-09T14:32:00.001-05:00

Okay, so Gerard Butler screaming "This is Sparta!" in 300 was way cooler and he's infinitely hotter than I am.

I was officially diagnosed with Fibromyalgia (read that with a deep booming voice that echoes) on June 28th. There are so many things going on with it that I didn't realize were fibro related till the doctor said I had it. So, I thought I'd post this blog about what goes on in my body with the Fibromyalgia (remember, deep booming voice that echoes).

Typically, I hurt all over. My muscles ache. For a while, I thought that the muscle pain was related to my joint pain. I have arthritis in my knee- notice that's singular, because I have a bionic knee on the other side- and my wrists and hands. I thought that the pain in my muscles was just radiating from the joints, so I didn't think the two were separate. So, every single moment of every single day, I feel as if I've got the early stages of flu. Achy and slightly hot to the touch. That's a good day.

I wake up exhausted, no matter how much I sleep. (we thought that was a thyroid disorder symptom, but it wasn't this time). I used to be one of those annoying people who was up and energetic no matter what time of day it was (I used to work the night shift). Now I wake up and barely have the strength to drag myself upright and out of bed. But I do, because I got shit to do and that shit ain't going to do itself.

On bad days, I hurt so severely it brings tears to my eyes. Every muscle hurts, every hair on my body makes the skin its attached to ache. It hurts to move, it hurts to be still, it hurts to breathe. And those are the days I don't want to get out of bed. I just want to lie there in whatever position I woke up in and not move.

I have in-between days too. The days that aren't as severe as those bad days and yet they're worse than the good days. Today is one of those days. My clothes touching my skin make me cringe today. My skin is achy. Even the water in the shower made my skin hurt. I used to make fun of those old ladies who wore those big, loose muumuu dresses, sometimes those are called caftans. But I'm guessing those women had the same problem. I've considered finding myself a circus tent to use as a muumuu. As it is, I keep wearing the same stuff over and over because I know its comfortable. I'm wearing jeans two sizes too big and a cotton spaghetti-strapped tank top. I wear huge underwear now too. No more is there anything sexy about my undergarments. If it starts raining, I could take these things off and we could all take shelter beneath them. That's how big they are. I also started buying bras for comfort. I have two now that I never would have worn. They're soft and satin-y and don't look too bad. So at least my bras have some pretty to them.

On those really rough days, I take Vicodin like Doctor House is possessing me. Hang on, I got a bit sidetracked by the thought of being possessed by House. Mmmm... Hugh Laurie...

Okay, where was I? Oh, yes, the Vicodin. I have gotten to where I take three at night and if I absolutely need to, I will take two in the day time. But, I don't like to do that unless I'm going to the store or something else that requires walking. When I went to my fibro diagnosis appointment, I didn't take any pain meds. I had to walk from one end of the VA hospital to the other, then back again and then take the elevator up to the sixth floor where I walked some more. By the time I got to the nurse's triage area, my pain was bordering on a 9 of that 1-to-10 pain scale. By the way, that pain scale is infinitely flawed. Allie Brosh of "Hyperbole and a Half" fame says it so much better.

The doctor prescribed Cyclobenzaprine for me. Its a muscle relaxer, the generic form of Flexeril. I've been on it less than a week. Its supposed to help me sleep. I can say with certainty that it does indeed. The first night I took it, I did so at 6 PM, with my Vicodin. I was in bed and asleep by 730 PM. I was also awake and alert at 230 AM (I normally get up at 4 AM). Now I take it around 730 PM so I can go to bed at a normal hour. But, some mornings, I wake up so exhausted that I can barely stand up. Other mornings, I wake up alert, but sore. If I don't leave the house, I don't worry too much about how much I hurt- unless its a bad day, then I pop two Vicodin just to get through my day. I have to say, as hard as it was to get the Vicodin from the VA doctors, they've been fantastic about upping my dosage as I've needed it.

Below is a list of things that Fibromyalgia (booming, echoing) can cause. From this website.

Stiffness: Body stiffness may be particularly apparent upon awakening and after prolonged periods of sitting or standing in one position or coincide with changes in temperature or relative humidity

Yup... that's me. Sometimes, the humidity causes me to hurt so much that I'd rather not move my body because I know how its going to feel. And sometimes, I let my guard down- like while driving- and when I reach my destination, I'll forget that I've been sitting for an hour and when I go to stand up, the pain screams through my whole body like an angry woman on the Jerry Springer Show.

Increased Headaches Or Facial Pain: Fibromyalgia patients may experience frequent migraine, tension, or vascular headaches. Pain may also consist of referred pain to the temporal area (temples) or behind the eyes. Approximately one-third of patients with fibromyalgia are thought to have pain and dysfunction of the temporomandibular joint, or TMJ, (located where the jaw meets the ear) which produces not only headaches but also jaw and facial pain.

I don't get headaches or an increase in pain. My eyes do feel achy and slightly dry and tired.

Sleep Disturbances: Despite sufficient amounts of sleep, FMS patients may awaken feeling non-refreshed, as if they have barely slept. Alternatively, they may have trouble falling asleep or staying asleep. Some also suffer from the condition, sleep apnea. The reasons for the non-restorative sleep and other sleep difficulties of fibromyalgia are unknown.

I haven't slept through the night in more than five years.

Gastrointestinal Complaints: Digestive disturbances, abdominal pain, and bloating are quite common in FMS as are constipation and/or diarrhea (also known as "irritable bowel syndrome" or IBS).

Let me just say that I've had my gall bladder removed (twenty-one years ago) and the problem related to that got increasingly worse till it came down to me not leaving the house. And if I did, I didn't eat before I left.

Genito-Urinary Problems: FMS patients may experience increased frequency of urination or increased urgency to urinate, typically in the absence of a bladder infection. Women with FMS may have more painful menstrual periods or experience worsening of their FMS symptoms during this time. Conditions such as vulvar vestibulitis or vulvodynia, characterized by a painful vulvar region and painful sexual intercourse, may also develop in women.

I do have increased urgency, but I thought it was related to my water pills, not Fibromyalgia. My "female time" got worse, but that's also related to peri-menopause.

Paresthesia: Numbness or tingling, particularly, in the hands or feet, sometimes accompanies FMS. Also known as "paresthesia", the sensation can be described as prickling or burning.

I have carpal tunnel syndrome, so its difficult to say if the numbness and tingling is related to that or Fibromyalgia.

And this "numbness" is a misnomer. Numbness implies "lack of feeling". Its only as numb as it can be with pain. So figure that one out.

Temperature Sensitivity: Persons with fibromyalgia tend to be highly sensitive to ambient temperature. Some often feel abnormally cold (compared to others around them) while others feel abnormally warm. An unusual sensitivity to cold in the hands and/or feet, accompanied by color changes in the skin, sometimes occurs in persons with fibromyalgia. This condition is known as "Raynaud's Phenomenon".

I also didn't notice this problem till I was asked about it. I prefer my house to be colder than normal people do, but that's me... and I live with it causing cold hands.

Skin Complaints: Nagging symptoms, such as itchy, dry, or blotchy skin, may accompany FMS. Dryness of the eyes and mouth is also not uncommon. Additionally, fibromyalgia patients may experience a sensation of swelling, particularly in extremities, like fingers. A common complaint is that a ring no longer fits on a finger. Such swelling, however, is not equivalent to the joint inflammation of arthritis; rather, it is a localized anomaly of FMS whose cause is currently unknown.

None of my rings fit properly. I also didn't know I had dry eyes till the doctor asked me about it, because I thought my eyes burning was related to allergies. And my skin, when it aches, also itches slightly.

Chest Symptoms: Individuals with fibromyalgia who engage in activities involving continuous, forward body posture (i.e., typing, sitting at a desk, etc.) often have special problems with chest and upper body pain known as "thoracic pain and dysfunction"._1. Often accompanying the pain is shallow breathing and postural problems. Patients may also develop a condition called "costochondralgia" which involves muscle pain where the ribs meet the chest bone. Such conditions may mimic heart disease and are therefore sometimes misdiagnosed. Note: Anyone experiencing chest pain should always consult a physician immediately. [Remember that persons with fibromyalgia can have other health problems!]

Yes. Good golly yes. I thought I was having a heart attack or at the very least, a severe asthma attack. This is the worst of the symptoms I've felt. Only because my big fear is having a heart attack.

Dysequilibrium: FMS patients may be troubled by light-headedness and/or balance problems which manifest themselves in a number of ways.

Again, yup. That's me. A few dizzy spells and a "whoooaaaa, the room is... I'm okay" moment or two.

Cognitive Disorders: Persons with FMS report a number of cognitive symptoms which tend to vary from day to day. These include difficulty concentrating, "spaciness," short-term memory lapses, and being overwhelmed easily. Many fibromyalgia patients refer to such symptoms as "fibro-fog".

YOU SHUT UP!

Leg Sensations: Some FMS patients may develop a neurological disorder known as "restless legs syndrome" (RLS) which involves an irresistible urge to move the legs particularly when at rest or when lying down. One recent study reported that 31% of the fibromyalgia patients studied had RLS.6 The syndrome may also involve periodic limb movements during sleep (PLMS) which can be very disruptive to both the patient and to his/her sleeping partner.

I thought I had restless leg syndrome.

Environmental Sensitivity: Hypersensitivity to light, noise, odors, and weather patterns is common and is usually explained as being a result of the hyper-vigilance seen in the nervous systems of patients with FMS. Allergic-like reactions to a variety of substances (i.e., medications, chemicals, food additives, pollutants, etc.) are common, and patients may also experience a form of non-allergic rhinitis consisting of nasal congestion/discharge and sinus pain, but in the absence of the immunologic reactions which the body experiences in allergic conditions.

Yes, but extremely mild. So mild that we're not sure I have this symptom set.

Depression and Anxiety: Although FMS patients are frequently misdiagnosed with depression or anxiety disorders ["it's all in your head"], research has repeatedly shown that fibromyalgia is not a form of depression or hypochondriasis. However, where depression or anxiety exist concomitant to fibromyalgia, their treatment is important as both can exacerbate FMS and interfere with successful symptom management.

I can say with all honesty that I am not depressed. My general practitioner gave me the Q and A assessment to see if I needed to be seen for depression and the fact we giggled our way through it was sort of an indication that I am not depressed.

It also takes about five years to get a Fibromyalgia diagnosis. And I've had this ongoing problem for just over five years. I asked about it about two years ago and was told, without any testing or questions, that I most certainly did not have it. I swear, that doctor I had then should have been a doctor in the 70s, back when women were just silly and emotional people who should change their hair color to boost their self-esteem. He also shot down my thoughts on restless leg syndrome.

I've had various forms of stress on a near-daily basis since April 13, 1995 (the day the Disabled Guy went from being "Jerry" to being "The Disabled Guy"). Since then, I've had two major surgeries and a few traumatic events (a car accident, a couple knee injuries). And the most recent surgery- the one I had to begin the Cyborg Invasion... I mean, my "knee replacement" surgery- may have kicked off a major bout with Fibromyalgia. So, in becoming a Cyborg Sapien, I pushed the Fibromyalgia into overdrive. And that's not a fun place to be.

Just for kicks and giggles, here's another link to another Fibro website. Over the last few years, I researched this disorder, but I didn't keep track of the websites. But this is one of the recent sites I visited.

Oh, by the way, my Chihuahuas- Luna and Jasper- had puppies last week. Six of them! Here's a photo of Luna and the litter.

Fie-bro-my-AL-gee-uh... "myalgia" means pain...

2010-05-22T19:46:00.009-05:00

Everything adds up. One plus one equals two. It walks like a goat, talks like a goat, smells like a goat... it is probably a freakin' goat.

I finally got my knee fixed. And my knees- even the human one- feel great. But guess what... that's right... everything else has fallen apart. I've been keeping track of all this for years now. And it adds up to fibromyalgia. When my cousin died last year, her father told me that she had been on that pain patch that made the news. My cousin was my age. My uncle also told me that they are figuring that Grandma Viola (his mom, obviously) had fibromyalgia, too. Of course, since she's been gone for over twenty years now, we can't prove it. My own mother probably has it, but she's got a slew of other health issues right now that it would be impossible to name any one thing.

In the past two years, I've become much more aware of fibromyalgia and how it attacks the body. That's right, it "attacks" not unlike Chuck Norris. Only, its more like if Chuck Norris were a massive team of ninjas because fibromyalgia comes on quietly and when it hits, you don't even realize it. This ninja ailment probably runs in my family and for that, I apologize to my daughters. Some research points to the fact that men don't seem to be as afflicted as women. And chances are my own kids won't have a problem, but if they do, I am sorry.

The easiest way to describe how I feel daily is a giant bruise. You know how when you get a bruise of significant size, like say you were at a softball game and someone hit the ball in a wild foul and it slammed into your thigh... you end up with a rather large bruise the size of a baby's head. You can't stop yourself from poking at it because it hurts, but it doesn't hurt. It aches. If I don't move, if I merely sit as still as I can, I feel like a giant baby's head-sized bruise. I'd say at about a four on that stupid pain scale they have at the triage desk in the ER. If I move, the pain in that body part shoots up to an eight. And at the moment, all the pain in my body seems to be rooted in my right hip. That pain goes up to a ten.

They say at "ten", your pain would make you cry. It does. Almost every bloody day, I fight tears when I move. I hate hurting this much.

Every single morning for... I don't even know how long, years now, at least two, maybe more... I can barely move when I wake up. Every single muscle feels as though its been stretched and bruised and pounded. I thought, at first, this was related to foot pain. They say your feet are connected to everything in your body and if your feet hurt, you hurt everywhere. And fibromyalgia makes it hard for your body to achieve a full sleep, so you're always in pain. Pain, lack of sleep, more pain, less sleep, more pain... this circle. Over and over.

I have days where I'm so exhausted that I can barely function. Days where I take a nap and wake up even more tired than when I fell asleep. I have nights were I hurt so much I can't sleep. I lay in bed, my legs elevated (because of the swelling) and I stare at the ceiling. Or the wall. Or the fan. I give it about an hour, sometimes two and I get up. Then I end up staying awake till around three or four AM. Then I get so tired that I have no choice but to fall asleep. And it starts all over again. Tired, pain, no sleep, more pain, less sleep... And it seems that this is probably the reason my knee-replacement recovery took a full year. Every time I thought I could go a little harder, my body would give me a setback, causing me to slow down again.

Technically, I haven't been officially diagnosed, but after all the reading I've done online- and I've done a serious amount of reading from real and reliable sources- it all adds up to that massive, loud, smelly goat. Let me start a few years ago...

Picture it... my life... my body... the mid-2000s.

My thyroid went out of whack again. I was sure of it. I complained to my doctor- who, for these purposes will be called Jerkboy, because he was- that I was exhausted all the time. I could barely drag myself out of the bed in the morning, I would doze off while sitting up. Please, I begged, check my thyroid. (I have had hypothyroidism since I was eighteen years old). Jerkboy claimed my thyroid numbers were fine. But what about my total bodily exhaustion? He tells me I need to lose weight. I'm in pain, from my feet, from my knees... and 'round and 'round we go. We all know the saga of my knees- Jerkboy claims my knees hurt because I'm overweight. I tell him to check my records and he will see I was not overweight TILL the knees went bad.

This is the doctor who would tell me: "If you lost the weight, your knees would stop hurting..." then after a few minutes and discussing my foot pain, "You should stay off your feet." I was supposed to simultaneously exercise to lose weight while staying off my feet to ease the pain.

After another six months of being worn out and in pain and not being able to exercise, I ask about rheumatoid arthritis- it runs in my family. He says it isn't RA. He claims that one of the blood tests I had was for RA. It isn't RA, it isn't peri-menopause, it isn't anything... apparently, I'm just lazy. I ask if it could be fibromyalgia. He shot that down as fast as the ratings of a sitcom after they add a baby. He never even tested me for it. And now, all these years later, I wonder if he ever tested me for RA.

Fibromyalgia cannot be tested for through blood tests. Its sort of a practical test- hands on. There are eighteen tender points on the body that can help indicate fibromyalgia. Its also a process of elimination. Doctors tend to test for everything else- thyroid disease, rheumatoid arthritis, peri-menopause, and they do X-rayz, MRIs, CT scans... all to make sure the patient doesn't have another disease or disorder.

But wait, you say, Patty, you have had all these tests. Why didn't Jerkboy see this? Well, I always thought that Jerkboy hated overweight women. It turns out that he hates all overweight people. I spoke to a person at the VA hospital (he works there, I'm not saying who) and he had the same problem with Jerkboy. He refused to see that he became overweight BECAUSE of the knee problem, not that he had a knee problem from being overweight.

I have a doctor appointment on June 17th and I have a new doctor. She seems to be helpful and she seems to really care about me. She has been helping with some other issues and it hadn't occurred to me to ask her about fibromyalgia because of how quickly Jerkboy shot me down. I have a list of things to talk to her about (that's right, I write down stuff to ask the doctor). And I'm hoping that she says it IS fibromyalgia. Why would I want to be diagnosed with a chronic disorder? Because if we know what it is, we can live with it. If we know what it is, we can take measures, be they drugs or physical therapy or homeopathic, to make it easier to live with.

Treatment is usually something related to easing pain or inducing sleep. I'm not fond of adding another drug to my pharmacy that I already take, but if it helps me, it will help some other issues. I can't exercise, I don't have the energy. Sitting here at my desk, my legs and feet don't hurt. My shoulders are aching, my fingers are moving, so they don't hurt, but they have a sort of painful vibration. As soon as I get up (and I will soon, because my daughter will be calling for a ride home from work), the pain will shoot through my body like electricity. I have to "save up" my energy. If I know I'm going to have a busy day- say grocery shopping- I rest up the day before and I take pain meds before I leave the house. And I don't do anything for the rest of that day. I have to pace my activities.

I thought I was getting my life back when I became a Cyborg Sapien. Hopefully I will get my life back now and I'll be able to enjoy being bionic. Because so far, it hasn't been as much fun as I had hoped.

Chicken Soup won't help this kind of "FLU"

2010-05-12T19:57:00.002-05:00

If you all remember, I fell in love with a book called Drop Dead Gorgeous by Wayne Simmons. I said in my review for that, as well as many posts and comments over the past year+, that I would recommend it to horror and non-horror fans because it was just that good of a story.

Wayne Simmons has done it again. His second offering is another zombie-ish story called FLU...

Simmons goes out, in Belfast again, and weaves a story with fully formed characters that you will end up loving or hating or both. And like the first book, there were characters I hated, then loved, then hated again. I can't say that I outright hated anyone in this story and there were a few that I felt such a connection with that I cried at times. (don't get me wrong, I had some moments of laughter as well- whether or not Simmons intended humor). I was also caught by surprise more often than I would care to admit.

When I write a review, I try not to spoil the story for anyone, especially since the book is still so new. But, I will say that this one is a bit more gory. There are some fantastic descriptions. A few of the characters that I really, really loved didn't meet the end the way I had hoped. But that's how Wayne Simmons tells a story.

I don't know what else to say, really, other than I simply love Wayne's style of writing. He tells a story and he lets us care about the characters. I suppose the generic way to say it is that FLU is "character-driven". To me, it sounds like a weak definition. I love the way he writes the story, the way he describes people, places, emotions- just every single thing about the way he writes. He doesn't throw big, fancy words around to impress. He writes the way most people speak and in those instances where the "big fancy" has to be used, it makes sense. There's nothing false or forced. There have been stories I've read where the writer just didn't seem to "get inside" the character they were writing about, almost as if Jane Austen were trying to write the words for Vin Diesel. Wayne can capture the character in a soldier, an innocent, a rebel, a man, a woman, even a child.

I read this novel in two sittings (I stopped only because I HAD to) and in between my starting it, pausing, then finishing it, I would chuckle to myself when someone would sneeze or cough. "Is it the FLU or is it hay fever?" My kids got a little tired of the joke.

So, if you like zombie, horror, or just plain old good story-telling, I recommend you pick up FLU by Wayne Simmons. And if you haven't yet, pick up Drop Dead Gorgeous, too.

I never considered myself a "girly-girl"...

2010-04-19T17:30:00.002-05:00

I wasn't a total tomboy either. I mean, growing up, I was tomboy-ish. Then at nine, puberty hit me square in the chest and things just sort of happen. But back to today.

As a few of you are aware, there's a time in a woman's life when she rides a hormonal roller-coaster to hell and back. Yes, it takes place from the start of puberty till... DEATH! Okay, not really, but close! Peri-menopause is the "official" name for it and I've been boobs-deep in my hormonal hell for the last four and a half years. There have been a few changes since then, some I've posted about, some I've spared you (and will continue to spare you, because... you know, ew).

Some of these changes mimic a thyroid disorder, which I happen to already be stuck with (since I was 18, no less). Other changes can make you think you're pregnant (irregular cycles, nausea, swelling, some weight gain). And other changes are just plain hairy.

And I mean that literally.

Let me tell a little story... when I was a wee child, we lived about a day's drive from my parents' hometown and their entire families. And we'd visit at least once a year when we lived that close. I had an aunt (I still do, actually) who was one of those vain types. She thought she was the bee's knees (which makes you wonder what's so great about knees on a bee) and never failed to let everyone else know of her bee-knee-ness. However, and no offense to her, she was not. She wasn't all that attractive, in the conventional sense. On top of some minor faults that would have kept her off magazine covers (and those people are freakin' aliens anyway!), she had a very visible mustache. That's right. She had hair on her upper lip that was thick enough for sunlight to shine through. She called it her "kissing brush" and her husband didn't seem to mind. As the years went by, I noticed older women had this a lot. Not all, but some. And some women had really dark hair on their upper lip.

My own grandmother told me that she'd been shaving twice a week for "years"... I was around 20 years old when she revealed that to me. I was shocked. I was always told if you shaved, it would grow back thicker. Turns out that its not true, but whatever!

As I grew, so did my lip fuzz. And for the longest time, it didn't bother me. It wasn't visible to anyone unless they were RIGHT-NEXT-TO-MY-FACE and if they were that close to my face, then chances are they sorta liked me anyway. Then, I hit 34 years old and like puberty hitting me straight in the chest just as I was hitting double-digit in age, peri-menopause reared its ugly and hairy face. That damn fuzz got a little thicker.

On top of that weird lip fuzz, I would get the occasional whisker. Yeah, I know! Who had THAT brilliant idea? One random whisker right in my chin. And of course, I never noticed it till it was long enough to sway in a breeze. When I realized it was not a temporary thing, I became almost obsessed with that stupid whisker. At the first sign of it, out came the tweezers and it was GONE! Then what... oh, another damned whisker! Before it was all said and done- and before I was 40 years old- I had several damn whiskers to pluck. And of course, they're all black and OBVIOUS! So, my weekly eyebrow-plucking became a search and destroy mission for all coarse dark hair that wasn't where it was supposed to be... as in, my eyebrows.

And that damnable lip fuzz just kept growing.

No big deal, I said to my deluded self. Its still really blonde, nobody even sees it and who cares? If Crazy Aunt Mustache could live with it, so could I! Then I noticed that this damn thing seemed to get lighter and darker depending on my hormones. Not a big deal either, because by this time, I rarely left the house. And by this time, nobody got RIGHT-NEXT-TO-MY-FACE, even if they liked me. I never considered bleaching, because most times when any kind of hair-lightening product gets near me, it turns my hair a vibrant orange-y color. And wouldn't that be lovely on my upper lip?

Then a few of the hairs near the edges of my lady 'stache started to turn dark. Oh... okay then... add those to the weekly eyebrow-pluck-whisker-search-and-destroy mission. My hair-harvest became its own ritual. I longed for days of yore, when I was young and cute and that lip fuzz was "adorable" and people still liked to get close to me and enjoyed being around me in a happy way instead of because they had to be near me. (but that's a rant for another time).

More than a few times, I eyed a razor, thinking, "Heck, Gramma did it for 'years'... I suppose I could live with it..." and I came close! I did. I came so very close to touching that disposable Lady Triple-blade of death to my delicate and furry upper lip. But I didn't. Even though I KNOW it isn't true, I still worried that it would just grow back thicker and scarier and more like Crazy Aunt Mustache.

But, I don't think I'm the bee's knees. I don't think I'm even the bee's elbows. I think I'm fun and sometimes interesting. The lady who cuts my hair thinks I'm fun and why would she lie to me?

After months and months of staring at my ever-darkening furry upper lip, today I did it. I did something that is supposed to make me less... matronly. Less hirsute. Less... hairy.

I waxed my upper lip.

I've been to beauty college. I used to do nails. But back in beauty college, you practice on each other. More than once, someone would walk into our room (the nail room, I suppose) and say, "I need to do [insert beauty activity like waxing] this week, anyone want to volunteer?" Of course! In fact, that was the first place I ever had my eyebrows waxed. Who knew it would be a lifetime commitment? Except I conquer mine most of the time with tweezers. I'm telling you this because I've been waxed before. By semi-professionals. I've had my eyebrows waxed, my legs, even my bikini area. And, I've waxed my own eyebrows- with the very same "wax strips" I used today on my upper lip. I've got tattoos! Eight of them! Four of those directly on bone! Two of those on tender inner wrist skin! I'm not a wuss!

Today's trip to vanity hurt like a [expletive about mothers and an activity usually partaken by fathers]! Of all the things I've had waxed in my life, this brought tears to my eyes. And it stung! And it burned! And it DIDN'T GET IT ALL! I took the wax strip and pressed it to the right side of my lip again... and yanked. I had to use tweezers to get the few tree trunks that remained rooted, despite the double-waxing on the one side. Why only one? Because it [expletive usually partaken by married folk on their wedding night] hurt MORE when I did it that second time.

My biggest worry was that my upper lip would turn bright red and swell up. It did turn red at first. But, after about an hour and a liberal application of Neosporin, the redness went away.

As the day went on... my upper lip felt hot and I had to remind myself more often than not to NOT touch it. If I kept touching it, it would in all likelihood, break out. Then I discovered the reason for the hot feeling. The right side is slightly swollen. It is slightly swollen, warm and it stings when air touches it- which is, you know, constantly! When I do get brave and touch it with my finger, its numb. The left side is nearly fine, just a bit tender. It doesn't look too bad, even with the slight swelling. I took some photos, but it didn't really show in a photo.

Why am I telling you all this? You're thinking to yourself, "I've got hair issues of my own and I pluck/wax/bleach myself... you weirdo." Well, I just wanted to give you this piece of advice...

Don't ever double-wax.

I 'member the good old days...

2010-04-09T18:21:00.002-05:00

Back when Patty used to update her blog on a regular basis. Before she started doing that bullshit blog about her knee scar. Whatever happened to it?

Oh, it sort of died out.

Did it now? What a concept, eh?

Well, I was trying to do a thing about how vitamin E oil doesn't always work-

Shhh, you bore me.

But, I was just trying to explain what the point was with that blog-

Yeah, but a blog about a scar? "ooh, my scar this, my scar that... doo-dee-doo-dee-doo!"

Dude, he has a name.

Who does?

The scar... his name is Fronkensteen and he would like to be addressed as such.

Ohh, that's right, Patty names weird and often inanimate objects.

Hey, now, don't go calling Fronkensteen "inanimate"... he's a living piece of tissue, just like you.

Are you comparing me to that hideous scar?

HIDEOUS? Are in mad? Fronky is beautiful!

"Fronky"... whoa... someone needs to get out of the house a little bit.

Dude, I totally have gotten out of the house. I got out of the house on a regular basis all through March.

Oh, that's right. You're Australian friend visited. Now its back to normal, right?

I don't know what you're implying.

You know, "normal", sitting at your desk- even though you have that dandy netbook that Duck sent-

You mean Pete. Pete Fonkling.

*sigh* Of course I do. I do mean Pete Fonkling.

Why did you sigh like that?

Because you've lost your bloody mind.

You're only saying that because we're having a conversation.

What? What do you mean?

Well... if you're so put out by my naming inanimate objects, what's your name?

What do you mean- wait... what?

You. You're not real. You're a creation in my mind. I'm having a conversation with myself as I type it in my blog. I have Chihuahuas at my feet, a German Shepherd snoring behind me on the floor, a budgie chirping away... and "The Simpsons" just ended on FOX-HD. That's right, I've got HD channels now and you're just a figment of my imagination.

*silence*

Seriously? You've got nothing to say to me?

Um... you look pretty today.

::INPUT:: THE ASSIMILATION IS COMPLETE ::END DATA::

2010-03-18T20:27:00.004-05:00

Today, I had my one year follow-up appointment to my "total knee replacement"... why the "quotes" around an obviously true statement? Because my cyborg overlords have required me to state that I am now a fully functional Cyborg Sapien. That's right... cyborgs walk the Earth and its usually where you least expect it.

Cyborgs will walk the Earth. They already ARE! Look around you. Do you see that harmless looking old lady? She’s carrying a too-large purse and reading every label in the soup aisle at the grocery store. Yeah, she’s a cyborg. That young man in the track pants and high-tech new trainers? Yeah, cyborg. They walk among us and there is nothing we can do to stop them.
*BEEEEP*BRRRRRRPPP*BLEEEEP*

REBOOT

Sorry about that. I was repeating an old program from over a year ago. Let me rephrase a little...

I had my follow-up appointment. I apologized to Doc Bones for still being as big as a proverbial house- because obviously, I'm not literally as big as a house. Although I do cast a mighty shadow... I got the feeling he was a bit disappointed in my lack of slimness... in my overabundance in gravitational pull... in my largess, (large ass?)... but I also explained the mish-mash of medical hell I've gone through since the surgery on March 18, 2009. Most recently, I've been diagnosed as anemic, so that's fun and oh-so-conducive to one losing weight. (fatigue, muscle cramps, breathlessness in doing normal activities- to name a few). Plus I have this lovely issue with my feet, which are hellishly painful. Aside from the already-known bone spurs and plantar faciitis, I've also got some "Achilles Tendon nerve impingement". Yeah, sounds delicious, doesn't it? (No worries, I have a podiatry appointment tomorrow- Friday, March 19 for those of you not reading this at the very moment I post it).

Speaking of the podiatrist- and we'll get back to our Cyborg update in a few- last year, that jerk doctor I had (you remember him? Kept telling me I was overweight and THAT was the cause of my problems instead of my knees being the cause of the weight, which is what the problem actually was) told me in the first week of December 2008 that "We've exhausted all other options" and that he'd send me a "letter of reference" so I could see a non-VA doctor for my knee. It took a month to reach me. A MONTH! My new doctor- whom I've been seeing since October '09- told me last Thursday (March 11th) that she'd send me a letter of reference to see a podiatrist. She left the room to talk to the attending physician about my medicines and such and came back in with the letter! Two days later, I got another copy in the mail! That's right... she handed it to me right then and there! That jerk doctor was using it as just another way to dick around with me. I'm so glad he's gone, but I pity his future patients. Good luck, future patients. I hope you're thin and healthy, because he seems to hate fat people (I had some issues confirmed by the lab guy who took my blood last week- he had the same exact problem with that doctor).

Now back to our regularly scheduled update...

The good news is that my body seems to have accepted Steve Austin willingly, if not a bit delayed. My thigh bone is growing over the edges of the implant a little bit. That's good. I tried to get photos of my X-rays, but the monitor in the doctor's office is a privacy monitor, so I couldn't get a decent shot. The white of the X-ray is too bright and washes out the details in the implant. So, yeah, sorry about the lack of photos. I tried to tweak with the color/brightness/nerd stuff/etc in my Photoshop program, but apparently the Cyborg assimilation doesn't include super-nerd-powers that involve instant computer program knowledge. I'm going to have to leave something in the suggestion box at the next Cyborg Convention.

Doc Bones (as he was called for a long while in my older blogs) said that I'm to avoid high-impact activities such as running, jumping and so on. I can bike ride (gotta get a bike that can hold my fat ass), walk, do yoga, and swim and any other thing that doesn't involve my slamming the metal joint into the plastic part in the middle. Doc Bones said that its almost a universal consensus throughout the ortho world that high-impact activities will shorten the life of a cyborg body part. Sure, I CAN run and jump, but then I'd have to have my Cyborg parts upgraded sooner. I want Steve Austin to last as long as he possibly can and I can live a happy and full life without running or jumping. And I don't have to go back for another year.

Of course, if the zombie apocalypse happens, I'm totally screwed.

Pay attention to me! LOVE MEEE! PLEASE!!

2010-02-18T20:59:00.002-06:00

You may not know this about me, but I have a bit of a self-esteem problem. Not overly bad- I mean, I still leave my house without a bag on my head. Sometimes, I'll get down a bit and while I'm showering or putting on mascara, I'll wonder, to myself, "Why bother? Why bother painting the pig?"

I get over it, of course and it really isn't debilitating to the point of keeping me hiding in my bed with the covers over my head and hissing at the daylight. Where my major esteem issues come from is creativity. I used to hate to show people my writing (and look at me now, forcing the Interwebs to hold on to it and display it). I used to draw and paint and shortly before I lost that joy in life, I started doing Chinese calligraphy and Chinese brush painting. I wasn't great at it, but I was okay (see, my own worst critic). I did a few things that I deemed worthy of sharing, framed them and gave them as gifts.

Since arthritis, carpal tunnel syndrome, and bursitis have taken my creative joy from me, I have only two things I can do that are any kind of outlet. I write. I write these blogs and I write really bad fiction. I mean seriously bad. I would never submit the fiction I write to any kind of place for publication. I can and have written decent fiction (I've also been rejected by many a fine publication for said fiction). And I take photos. I love taking photos. I have loads of "scenery shots" in various albums (MySpace, Facebook, hosted on my Photobucket).

The other day, I joined a group on the Flickr photo site. You've probably heard of these- the 365 Days photos. The one I joined is for self-portraits. The photo you submit has to have yourself in it in some way- your portrait, a body part. You can hold an old photo of yourself and take a photo- as long as your hand is visible in the photo. I'm sure you get the gist of it.

My kids all have "lives", of a sort. They don't much care about what ol' mom does online. I get very little feedback from them about anything. It isn't like I'm begging for attention, I just want an honest opinion. And the disabled guy. Sheesh. I ask him about a photo and he'll glance over and say, "Looks fine" and go back to watching TV. Sometimes, he'll grunt a reply at me that sounds like: "Iugnossssfine".

So that's what my blog is about today. Please, look at my 365 Days photos on Flickr and tell me if you like them. PLEASE! Stroke my ego! Pat me on the head and tell me I'm cool! PLEASE! I NEED YOUR LOVE! LOVE ME!! LOOOOOOOVE MEEEEEEE!

Patty's Flikr 365 Days Self-Portrait Set

Seriously though, I'd like some decent feedback on my photos.

For a bonus, I'll show you some cute dog pictures.

A request from my child and random photos of said child

2010-02-07T19:32:00.004-06:00

This is Jason.

He was born on February 8th, nine months to the day from the day his father (the Disabled Guy- he's got his own blog) got home from the Persian Gulf War. How do I know? I counted. The doctor told me I was due on February 2nd. I said I wouldn't have the baby till the 8th or the 9th. He asked me how I knew. I replied that Jerry didn't get home from the War till May 12th. The doctor exclaimed: "That has nothing to do with it!" (actually, it kind of does!).

Here's Jase a month before he turned three years old. (with his dad and two sisters- Kat and Ceej).

Anyway, Jason was born weighing 11 pounds 0 ounces and was 22 1/2 inches tall. Yeah, he was a big kid. I had him natural, no drugs. Yes, go ahead and cringe. It wasn't that bad, actually. His delivery was a lot easier than his sister- Kathrine was born at 9 lbs 4 oz and was 20 1/2 inches tall.

So, a few weeks ago, I asked my delightful son what kind of cake he wanted for his birthday. I expected: "Chocolate" or "an ice cream cake" or "it doesn't matter". No, my son declared: "I want a vagina cake! Not an actual vagina, because on a cake, that's gross."

Being a good mum, I said I'd do my best. I even went to the local adult store to see if they had any cake pans. I got a booby cake pan. I decided if I couldn't figure out how to do a vagina-shaped cake, I could at least do a booby cake. As I share with you the adventures of my cake-making, I'm going to show random photos of Jase.

Here's another taken on the same day as the one above. I bought that purple scarf specifically for "Parents Night" at the football game.

I think he was twelve years old in this photo. But he's wearing my paper tiara.

As I was saying, I'm a good mum and I try to do things for my kids. We don't have a lot of disposable income, living on a fixed income and paying all our bills. We don't give our kids tons of stuff or even have a lot of cash to hand out, so when one of them comes to me with a simple request, I try to do it.

I looked up online, how to make those little frosting roses. I figured I could modify that technique to make the girly bits. Don't go all scientific on me and try to explain the parts of the female genitalia. I know the parts that look like a flower aren't exactly the "vagina" in a proper sense and the whole area has its own name, but so what? I know what the kid meant.

So, I baked the booby cake. For your information, this particular booby cake pan holds about as much cake batter as a 9-inch round cake pan. Here's the supplies. I used cake mixes and canned frosting because I knew it would be a lot of work and didn't want to spend more time on my feet than I had to (we all know the saga that is my knee-replacement story).

Here's the pan full of batter-

It took a little longer than the box's instruction of "27 to 33 minutes". I'd say it took about 40 minutes.

I should have let it cool a little bit longer. So, if you decide to make a booby cake, when you think you've sprayed the pan with enough non-stick spray, you should probably do it again... just to be sure.

I tried to make the frosting a fleshy Caucasian-y type color. I used 25 drops of yellow to 4 drops of red. Then I added ten more yellow. Then ten more... I stopped counting when I got to 60 drops of yellow to that mere 4 drops of red. I decided I should stop because after 60 drops of yellow food coloring, I thought maybe I was putting our internal organs at risk. They'd find our corpses the next day, our skin tinted yellow, cake half-eaten on plates.

Well, this frosting stayed orange. I swear its getting orange-er as the night goes on. Jase and Ceej decided that the boobies belong to a stripper with a fake spray-on tan and she's wearing pasties. It didn't help that when I was trying to put decent nipples on the damn thing, the kids were standing behind me, giggling like fiends.

Here's Jase on October 3, 2009 (also my 40th birthday). It was the night of the Homecoming Dance. I took this photo myself, in my kitchen, with my Canon Digital Ixus. (best birthday gift ever!) This is also the photo I gave to the school to use as his senior portrait for the yearbook.

Now, since the booby cake is done, I still had to make the "normal" cake. I already had one 9-inch round layer of a cake, from that booby cake. So, I made two more. The other cake is three layers high. And, it will have flower-bits on it.

Just like the real thing- each one is different.

As of my typing, the pink flower parts are drying. When they've set completely, I will move them to the three layer round cake. I made that frosting green. No reason, just figured it was a nice contrast to the orange boobies and pink... uh, bits.

Here's a photo of Jase about a month after his 11th birthday. I took this photo with my old-school 35mm Nikon camera with 1200 speed film and no flash. I was standing a little ways back from the guy holding the board. I liked to stay as inconspicuous as possible at Jase's tournaments because I didn't want to make him nervous. I zoomed in, focused on the board and waited for Jase to do his other breaks, run and leap over three kids and do this flying sidekick. I liked this photo so much that I replaced his school photo that year with this.

This was from a different tournament- he used to do a standing sidekick to break a board, then drop into the splits and break the board with a punch, then he'd jump to his feet and do the flying sidekick (pictured above).

One more bragging thing, then I'll post something that embarrasses him because that's my job as his mum. To bake booby cakes and embarrass him.

Here's a video from November 3, 2007. He took the first place trophy over one of his former instructors.

Concrete breaking, November 3, 2007

Patty O'Lantern | MySpace Video

And, here's a video of Jase doing a horrible impression of Steve Irwin. He does it ALL the time- random accents. Before Irwin died, Jase used to do his voice almost constantly. But, now he just does random Australian, Scottish, English, East Indian, and other various and poorly executed accents. But he's hilarious.

This was from September 10, 2006. After he finished, he said, "Aw, dang. I shoulda said "jumper" instead of sweater."

Jason's tribute to Steve Irwin

Patty O'Lantern | MySpace Video

Jase claims he "hates" the little dogs. But I have photographic evidence that says otherwise.

Jase and Bruno.

Jase and Jasper (little dark brown one) and Luna (on cushion above him). They are also Bruno's parents.

So, there you have it. Jase is a pervy football player who can do horrible accents who happens to lie about liking the little dogs.

I leave you with a shot of Jase taking a nap under the watchful eye of Gypsy, our German Shepherd.

cue dramatic music BEHOLD!!!

2009-12-27T18:42:00.004-06:00

BEHOLD!

The POWER of this SIMPLE household item!!

Brace yourselves!

Are you SITTING DOWN?!

This is a photo of my truck after an all-day snowfall!

Six inches of snow!

And, approximately ten minutes after I put on my coat, my gloves, and picked up this SIMPLE household item...

*dramatic music swells, old ladies faint, babies wail in shock, young women fan themselves and even the strongest of men is moved to tears*

That's right! I cleared an entire day's worth of snowfall from my truck using just this simple household item. A humble broom! A BROOM IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD!

A sword couldn't clear snow from a vehicle. It would just push it all around and scratch the living hell out of your paint job.

A BROOM IS MIGHTIER THAN THE PEN!!

A pen can't clear snow! Not only is it too small, it would cause similar, yet smaller scratches as the sword.

On top of all this... the broom, the snow...

I'm working with a slight handicap. How is this? You may remember my blog from a couple years ago when I pointed out that I walked with a cane. Well, thanks to medical advancements in the field of human/cyborg technology, I am now sporting a robotic knee joint. "Robotic" isn't the right word- it isn't free moving or independent from my body- but it is a metal body part and it is inside my human body. Therefore, I AM a cyborg. We prefer the term Cyborg Sapien.

Here is a portrait of my lovely new body part.

He's handsome, isn't he?

I know what you're thinking- "You can clear the snow from your truck with a humble, simple broom because you have a bionic knee. I've seen the TV shows! Steve Austin, Jamie Sommers- they were bionic! They could run and jump and see and hear things! And don't forget that dog! There was a bionic dog!"

You're right. Those "characters" could do all that. But, Sparky, that's fiction. In reality, it takes time to get used to a cyborg body part. I spent six months learning how to walk all over again and after the first real snowfall we had, I'm re-learning how to walk again. My leg muscles were severed because of the surgery and while they're healed, they're still weak in comparison to even a normal person.

Want to see why and how they were severed? No? too bad...

For fun, here's another view of my new best friend.

Here's a taste of irony for you- I named him Steve Austin. That's right. I named him after the fictional character who could run and jump and see (the chick was the one who could hear).

So, what's my point?

If I can drag my gimpy-yet-better-than-last-year body out with my broom and clear the snow from my truck, you can do the same on that vehicle you drive. Tall or short, aside from a big-ass RV, a broom will get the job done.

Where should I start?

2009-12-16T12:26:00.003-06:00

As we can see, I've been so busy that I haven't updated this thing in a while. Busy doing what? Not a hell of a lot, really. I've been tired a lot lately, which saps any form of creativity or inspiration from me. I've had several times where I thought: "Oh, this pisses me off/makes me happy/is awesome/is unusual that I'm gonna blog about it!" only to sit down later and decide I'm too tired to deal with it.

I would explain, but there is too much. Let me sum up. *nods to Inigo Montoya*

We had over a foot of snow dumped on us during a blizzard that started on a Tuesday night and went into Wednesday. (December 8th and 9th) It was what is referred to as "heart attack snow"- wet, heavy. Great for snowball fighting and snowman-building, not so great if you're the poor sod out there with a shovel. I had a desire to rant about crappy drivers from that snowstorm, but I didn't. I have a blog I did ages ago, where I posted pictures of things and gave detailed instructions on how to clear a vehicle. It was two years ago, but it is still accurate for today. Except I don't walk with a cane anymore- which was a key point in the message I was trying to get across. If I, who at the time, walked with a cane, can clear the snow off my TRUCK, then you can get the snow off your car. Here's a link to that blog.

Speaking of my truck, it happens to be a four-wheel drive. I like that because it gives me greater control in stopping and starting, plus I can push through deep snow. Don't get me wrong- I'm aware that "four-wheel drive" means "four-wheel slide" in icy conditions. I'm not an idiot. But any car is dangerous in icy conditions if you don't know how to drive in them. Here's a tip- slow down sooner. And more gradually. That means instead of waiting till the last second to slam that brake pedal, maybe you think about doing it sooner. And when that light turns green- don't hit the gas pedal like its going to give you candy the harder you step on it. Press it gently. I'm old, kids. Not really old, but so old that I remember things you probably don't. There was a PSA (back in the day, we didn't call them that, we said "public service announcement") about driving. They used the example of an egg- pretend there's an egg between your foot and the accelerator. Press gently enough that you don't crack the egg. Try it sometime. You'll be a safer driver and probably increase your gas mileage.

Moving on...

There's a website out there called "People of Wal-Mart". It is almost frightening to see some of the people who go to Wal-Mart. The site claims it doesn't make fun of obviously disabled people. I enjoy a good freak show as much as anyone and some of those people are really messed up. Go to the site (its literally the name of the site with dot-com after it), you'll see. But, they've had a few pictures of older people wearing knee-high black socks with shorts. Think about this the next time you see an old man (or woman) wearing knee-high black socks with shorts and/or sandals. They're probably heart patients. After a person has heart surgery or if they have circulation problems, they wear surgical stockings. I know this because I have to wear them sometimes. I don't wear them with shorts, but that's because I don't wear shorts in general. Those stockings help keep blood clots and swelling out of their lower legs. Don't make fun of them. Don't pity them either, because with new heart hardware and those stockings, they could probably kick your ass like Chuck Norris.

Stepping forward again-

I'm going to recommend some websites for you. Why? Because they're funny or entertaining or even just for the "aww" factor.

First, we have Snopes.com Before you forward that email to send letters to "random soldier" or cards to some sick cancer kid or that "gangs will kill you if..." go to that site. There's an easy-to-use search option right at the top of the page. Type in a few keywords and hit "enter". Then you can check it yourself instead of me doing it for you and emailing the link back to you. Because, as an active snopester, it is my obligation to spread the education.

Cake Wrecks- hilarious! Professionally decorated cakes that have gone horribly wrong. Trust me. Time-suck site. Go and enjoy.

It Made My Day- like their tagline says: "Little Moments of Win".

And a personal favorite- Regretsy- that site takes the worst of etsy (the crafting/artisan site) and shows it off for us to mock, recoil in horror, or laugh. I'm so obsessed with it that I post comments there.

Moving on to some knee talk-

I'm nine months out from my cyborg assimilation surgery. I'm still not exercising like I want, but it turns out not to be knee-related. My feet. Yup, my feet scream a poorly written symphony when I walk or stand for long periods of time. I have various 'itis issues in my feet (I have for about 18 years). I have inserts from the podiatrist, but they don't work for heavy-duty stuff. What's the heavy-duty stuff I speak of? Hauling my mASSive ass around, that's what. It took me a little while to figure out what's wrong with my feet. I spent over three years- March 3, 2006 was the date- staying off my feet, walking with crutches, then a cane, then two canes, then a walker, then crutches again, then a cane... and now that my legs are better (more on that later), I'm doing more. I'm standing to cook dinner, I'm walking up and down stairs more, I go to the grocery store without help. And my feet are protesting. They've taken it easy for so long- despite hurting during that time, at least I wasn't torturing them this way. I'm not quite sure what to do about it, but its nice to know it isn't the Steve Austin knee causing the problem.

Speaking of Steve Austin- he's doing great. I have to keep reminding myself that I can stand with my weight equally on both legs. He doesn't hurt at all. Once in a blue while, the tissue around him aches, but nothing in comparison to my life before this surgery. If I had to rate my progress, I'd say 80%. If not for my feet, I'm sure I'd feel fantastic.

This is my first Winter with the new knee (if you say that fast enough, "new knee", you'll giggle) and I'm a little paranoid about falling on the ice. So, I walk slowly, taking baby steps, shuffling along till I pass the slick area. Also, when I'm walking outdoors, my eyes are constantly scanning the ground in front of me. Back and forth, scan... scan... scan... avoid ice... scan... scan... I want to make the "vwooop-vwoooop" sound the Cylons made in "Battlestar Gallactica". (See, kids, back in the olden days, there was a TV series called "Battlestar Gallactica" where the Cylons were actual robots with one red eye that went back and forth on their faces. Not like this crap- yes, CRAP- you got now with the Cylons who look human and apparently can even get pregnant and birth out a human/cylon baby. Which confuses me, because "cylon" is from "cyborg" which means its part machine, part human. So if a baby is from a human father and a cylon mother, does that make it 75% human?)

Anyway, there you have it... and updated blog for your enjoyment.

I should have done this from the start...

2009-10-25T15:00:00.002-05:00

I thought I was being clever. I should have used my Google-fu before I started.

I need to change the title of my blog. I just Googled "My Bloggy Goodness" just to see what was out there. There was A LOT. And mine was nowhere to be seen.

So a name change is in the works. I could probably just go back to the name of the weekly column I had on a now long-gone website called "The Awesome Report". I didn't come up with the title of my column, but it worked.

I'm known on message boards as "psexypsychic"- except for the snopes urban legends board and the BoneSmart joint-replacement board. I'm FrogFeathers in those places. The column used to be called "psexy's InPsights". Yes, clever, I know.

I will probably let this stew in my brain for days, causing myself unneeded stress and anguish. "Why-oh-why did I think I was the first to come up with "bloggy goodness"?"

The total pain in the ass related to it is that I have to go through a few message boards and edit my signature that has a link to "My Bloggy Goodness".

If you have suggestions... feel free to comment. And no, "the crappiest blog on the Internet" has already been taken. Thanks for the offer though.

Has it really been a month?

2009-10-11T18:23:00.003-05:00

Well, would you look at that... it has been a month!

In that month's time, I've turned forty years old. The knee is slowly, sloooooowly getting better. We went from having warm weather in the 80s (Fahrenheit) to having a low last night of 25 Fahrenheit.

Turning forty wasn't as much of a traumatic experience as one might think. It wasn't the number so much as it was my actual birthday went pretty much un-acknowledged by the people who live in my house. The day before my birthday, my parents took me and the disabled guy out to dinner. They gave me cash- enough cash to buy a new pair of Doc Martens boots. That was a big deal to me. Why didn't they take us out on the day OF my birthday? Because that was also the night of the high school's Homecoming Dance. Every kid and his girlfriend would be out to dinner that night. My mom is still gimping along using a walker. A crowded restaurant with a bunch of screaming teen-agers is not a good place to take a diabetic who uses a walker.

The morning of my birthday, I awoke to two birthday cards. I even uploaded a video of one of the cards- it was that good of a card.

http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=63787222

But I digress...

My knee recovery is plodding along like I'd expect. Well, like I'd expect NOW, after the realism set into my brain and I stopped being that doofy "thumbs up" person in those photos taken before the surgery. I've got a blog about my scar- on the blogspot, "FrogFeathers and Fronkensteen" and so on.

One thing I'm not enjoying about the whole daily swelling thing. With the onset of cooler weather, I don't swell with my "unexplained edema" so much, but my surgical leg still does. Today's swelling is about half of the "normal" kind of swelling I put up with. And no matter what kind of day I'm having pain or swelling wise, my ankle puffs up. You can see the puffed ankle on the left of this picture. The reason the other side didn't puff up and there's a clear dent in the lower leg where it meets the ankle is because I took this photo right after I took off my Docs.

I'm going to physical therapy in Madison now- for my shoulder. Luckily, I DON'T have arthritis there. Its more likely just bursitis, tendinitis... one of those "itis" boys, but not the permanent arth-kind. They physical therapy is not so demanding- nothing like the PT I had to go through with Steve Austin and Fronkensteen.

I should have made up some drawings to explain what's wrong with my shoulder. In fact, I just might... yes... maybe I'll do it and edit them in later... or even just post another blog with the pictures. I know you'd appreciate it. The drawings I did for my knee and foot problems were oh-so-helpful.

And now I leave you with that anticipation... wait for it... waaaaiiiit for it...

Time for Patty's semi-annual random rant...

2009-09-11T19:13:00.002-05:00

Once in a while, I get a bee in my bonnet. That would be annoying, wouldn't it? A bee in your bonnet would get tangled in your hair, sting your head... on to the ranting...

1. The ATM.

The ATM is just that- an automated teller machine. You transfer funds, you get cash, you can even make a deposit (though I don't know who would do that). It isn't for the act of hostile takeovers of a corporation. I have no idea what you were doing, sitting in your vehicle, pounding the keys at the ATM, scanning and re-scanning and pounding and re-pounding those keys. It isn't that difficult of a task, really. Slide card, choose language, enter PIN, choose a task, complete task, get receipt, drive away. If you have some massive banking deed that needs to be done, wouldn't it behoove you to just take it into the actual building? But you didn't... you sat in your car, trying to merge AT&T with Verizon or send messages to the Space Station... just stop! Get out of my way! I had to get cash... it took me less than thirty seconds to get through my task. Learn from it!

2. Drivers.

What the hell is wrong with you people? It isn't even Winter yet and you idiots have crawled out of your dark hovels already. I live on a fairly busy street. In fact, there are no stop signs on the street I live on till it curves up past the local park, and then it is six blocks down from the curve. The side streets either have a stop sign or a yield sign. Let me say, in a neighborhood filled with kids, there are signs all over the place: "Speed Limit 25 MPH" and then there's "15 MPH when children are present". Well, that's nearly all the time. There are three elementary schools in a half mile from my house. There are two branches of a daycare (and "after-school care") down the street. The speed limit is nearly always 15 MPH because kids are nearly always around. In a neighborhood, I do 25 MPH on the nose... yet, you come flying down a side street going faster than 25 MPH and start to turn at your yield sign without even looking in my direction. When you finally flip your head over this way, you slam on your brakes and then swear as I pass you. How do I know you're swearing? I can read lips, Sparky. Cussing out that "stupid fucking truck" and the "dumb bitch" driving it was a little ignorant on your part. And tailgating me when you had to follow me? Yeah, smart move. If I did hit my brakes and you ended up hitting me, the trailer hitch package I have welded to the frame of my truck would have torn up that pretty little fiberglass bonnet on the front of your small car. Pick your battles, Sparky. A two-door sedan against a pick-up truck isn't one you want to start.

"STOP signs" are not a suggestion. They put a full-stop there because it isn't safe to just roll on through. "YIELD signs" mean "slow down, prepare to stop", not slow down slightly, then gun it wildly to get out front of the pack of cars.

I swear, one of these days I'm going to flip out and go Jack Nicholson on your windshield with my cane.

3. Part of a driving thing- TEEN drivers.

You are not indestructible. You are just as frail as I am when several thousand pounds of metal crunches together. I don't know where you learned to drive or if your parents know you're driving their cars in the manner you're driving them, but if you were my kid, I'd kick your ass. Speeding through a parking lot, while there are hundreds of teens walking through? Not smart. Swerving in and out of parked cars? Not smart. Turning corners in the parking lot without looking? You know, you deserve it if you get hurt in an accident. The people you hit, though, don't. And tailgating me when we reach the street, so not a good idea. If you're following me so close that I can't see your headlights, then you'd deserve it if I hit my brakes and you plowed into me. Having been in a rear-ending crash before (as a backseat passenger, in a car struck by a drunk driver), I can tell you I would never slam on my brakes to prove a point. But, if I do need to stop short for whatever reason, how are YOU going to stop before you hit me? Granted, my truck can take a hit better than that car I was in, back in those olden days, but I'd rather not test out the durability of GM's craftsmanship.

4. People in waiting rooms.

Maybe its just me. Maybe, being brought up in the military health system, I'm a little more tolerant about long waits in the ER. But, complaining loudly to no one isn't going to help. Complaining loudly to the receptionist or the nurses, not going to help. In the ER, patients are seen on a severity basis. Meaning, if you come in because you've got the flu or a head cold or whatever other ailment you don't think you can handle alone and then a woman in labor comes in or someone with chest pains or a head injury... yeah, they're going in before you. In case you haven't heard, the ER is for "emergency" medical problems, not your general health problems. I know a lot of people use the ER as if it were a general practitioner's office. But that's what "urgent care" is for... I've used both- the ER and UC. I've gone to UC before, only to be told they couldn't help me and they sent me to the ER. So, stop complaining loudly in the waiting room. Stop complaining to the receptionist or the nurses. They're just doing their jobs. Get over yourself and maybe try nursing your head cold on your own.

4- sub-section A. Children in waiting rooms.

I get it. You can't always get a babysitter for your kid. I've got kids too. I've had to take them places with me before. But guess what. My kids were always behaved. I brought things with us to keep them entertained. I kept them quiet and I didn't let them disturb other people. In case you didn't notice, there are sick people in the waiting room. We were at the ER on Monday night because Jase may have broken his hand. There were three kids, all under the age of two (from three different families) who were allowed to run rampant. They climbed on stuff, ran around screeching and squealing, kept getting in the way of people walking, throwing magazines, and bothering some people who were clearly unwell. Why are they there? They were definitely not sick enough to be at the ER. If you child is running around and squealing in delight as they throw magazines on the floor, chances are whatever is "ailing them" isn't all that bad. There was a man there holding a bucket and moaning loudly. A few times, it looked like he was going to lose his dinner. And you let your kids run up to him and poke at him and talk to him. What if this guy had that dreaded Swine flu? Why would you risk letting your kids get exposed to anything somebody else had? Control your kids, you jerks. I guarantee you if little Junior came over to me and hit me in my surgical leg with the same force he smashed into the guy who was sitting with his head back and eyes closed, there would have been a huge scene and you would have learned some new words when I cussed you out for your parenting skills.

5. Out-of-town guests.

Give me more than eight days notice that you've decided to visit. You know we have animals who live indoors and you know the largest of these animals dislikes strangers. And by giving me only eight days- you're losing a day. I have an appointment at the VA that I can guarantee is going to take nearly all day. Ceej has a dentist appointment. In a perfect world, those two appointments wouldn't have happened on the same day. I got a letter from the VA telling me my appointment was September 11th. But then I called the automated system to get refills and found out that they rescheduled it to the 14th. So, I'll be gone most of that day. The kids will be in school and the disabled guy has to take Ceej to the dentist. I have no idea what your plans were for that day, but hey, if you'd have given more notice (or even called ME instead of the disabled guy), I could have told you about those appointments or had time to reschedule them. As it is, I've had that VA appointment for over a month. Ceej's dentist appointment has been scheduled for almost two months.

Oh and a side-note: if I get home from the VA and find out that my dog was put outside while I was gone, you're going to learn a whole bunch of new words when I cuss out your son for doing that to my dog. All our pets are indoor pets. There is no changing that, I don't care how much you hate animals. My dog isn't going outside in the heat with no shade because you don't like dogs indoors. (I keep referring to a single dog because Gypsy is the 80 lb German Shepherd who doesn't like strangers. The other three are the Chihuahuas who may be loud and annoying, but can't do much harm).

6. Rude people in line.

Much like your cousins, the rude people in waiting rooms, you're all idiots. How is bitching out the cashier helping us move along faster? How is it the cashier's fault that there are no extra lanes open? Can it be the cashier's fault that nobody was scheduled? Or that the people who were scheduled didn't show up? How is berating that person going to get you out any sooner? If it were me, I'd purposefully leave a security tag on something you purchased, just so you get stopped at the door, thereby delaying you further.

You're only making yourself look foolish. And your kids are embarrassed to be seen with you.

7. Fashion disasters.

Okay, I know I don't live in a fashion mecca like Hollywood or New York City. I don't expect people to dress up to go be rude in lines at the store. But, there are little things... don't wear PJ pants out in public! Wearing thick fleece PJ pants in bright green with little Mickey Mouse heads all over them makes you look like an idiot. Especially when its almost 90 degrees Fahrenheit and you pair those thick fleece PJ pants with a small spaghetti-strapped tank top. Oh, and when you wear that little tank top, wear a matching colored bra or a brightly contrasting one. Wearing a skinny-strapped top with a big, wide-banded Cross-your-heart, bigger-than-a-chastity-belt bra... not a good match. Read a freakin' magazine sometime. You'll see your own picture in the "DON'T" column.

I know that last one was a bit petty. Okay, so they were all a bit petty. I can't help it. I've gained some of my freedom back after my surgery and I'm being exposed to these people far too much lately. Winter is coming and I'm sure there will be more rants. Especially of the driving kind. I've said it before, I'll say it again- it all boils down to common sense and common courtesy. Those things aren't very common, though, are they?

Dem bones, dem bones, MY bones!

2009-09-04T12:54:00.002-05:00

I had my six month follow-up with Doctor Bones yesterday (er, that'd be Thursday, September 3rd for those of you who don't read my blogs as soon as I post them. I've no idea why, they're so witty and interesting). Now, I'm not exactly where I wanted to be at six months out.

When I went into this joint-replacement surgery in March, I went in with rose coloured glasses and a deluded grin on my face. I was fully hoping- the key word, hoping- to be back to exercising by May. Then, by September, I would have lost a significant amount of weight. But alas, my scar tissue and adhesions had other plans. And as I mentioned in previous postings, my body is starting over from complete zero. There is no "muscle memory" from which to draw on and expect my body to respond.

So, while I'm not as active as I had hoped to be, I'm much, much better than I was even two short months ago. I was not expecting set-backs. I was expecting forward motion, stalling, forward motion. Not the step forward, fall back crap I've been doing. I mentioned all this before and I expect you kids to take notes, because at my funeral, there will be a test. There will also be an essay question at the end and I like big, fancy words, the more British-sounding, the better grade you will get. Just keep that in mind.

I had X-rays at Thursday's appointment and most of you have already been able to see those pictures because I spammed the fu- I mean, I posted them on several sites (ULMB, Facebook, MySpace, etc). I even texted them to some of you via the fancy mobile phone thing.

Doctor Bones is pleased with my progress. My bend is good, my extension is good (better than good, even). He understands my frustration at walking just a mere half mile to start with because as a youngster (and he's not that old to start with), he suffered an injury that required him to go from ten mile running to a measly 100 yards. So, he "gets it". And he agreed with the VA doctor- my body has no idea it ever walked four miles a day. Doc was a little surprised at how my scar looks. Fronkensteen has spread out quite a bit since his appearance. I told him not to worry, I scar ugly, I fully expected him to look this way. I also expect him to look this way for many, many years. I'm not disappointed. Judging how I feel about my appearance, one would think I'd be vain about the scar. Strangely, not at all. I will show it off to strangers. If I think I may end up where people want to see it, I will wear a skirt or track pants just so I can show it off. Doc was not the least bit surprised to hear that- or that I named both the joint and the scar.

I'm progressing pretty much on schedule. Plodding along really. In the good news side, I went to the Bristol Ren Faire in Kenosha on Saturday, August 29th. I met some long-time online friends. Kat (the oldest) went with me, as well as her boyfriend, her friend, and her friend's sister. I walked the entire faire without a cane. My online friends walked slowly with me (the spouse of one has undergone the same surgery, plus several I truly hope I never have) and we sat frequently. But, I was there for seven hours and did the whole day without my cane. So, that's a huge WIN for me. Plus, I got to wear my ren faire garb and show off a massive amount of cleavage. The best thing about ren faires? Fat girls are in... that's right, I was a supermodel, bay-bee!

Now, maybe you haven't been able to see my X-rays. Maybe you stumbled upon My Bloggy Goodness and have no bloody clue who I am, you just like reading and think I'm mildly entertaining (or, a train wreck and you await the next pile-up of cars). So, without further adieu, I present to you... My bionic knee, Steve Austin!

He's got quite the handsome profile, I think. Doctor Bones referred to him as the "Rolls-Royce of knee replacements".

If you look closely at the second picture (which, by the way, is a picture of a computer screen on which my X-rays were displayed), you can see a bit of bone growing over the top of the new joint. At the top, on the thigh bone, above where the kneecap is- oh, the kneecap is all mine, I got to keep that one.

Isn't he lovely? I knew what it was going to look like, I've seen pictures online. But, seeing him for myself, he is truly awesome. I love my bionic knee. (moreso now because he's starting to feel more like mine).

Also, for your viewing pleasure- ~Link to Facebook Photo Album of my day at the Faire~

Step forward, now step back, now forward, now back...

2009-08-23T19:49:00.002-05:00

...and now to the side, now back again, let's go forward, then we twist, two-three-four and step, two-three-four... and now dip!

Am I dancing? Sounds like it, doesn't it? But alas, there is no dance of happy fun time in my world these days. Oh, nothing bad has happened, in fact a few very good things have happened. Let's talk about the few steps back before we go on to the very good things, shall we?

If you're reading My Bloggy Goodness, I am going to assume you've read last week's Goodness about making progress with a new doctor. Well, as it turns out, her plan for pain management failed. Failed isn't exactly the right word. It worked- in the sense that it took edge off the sharp, stabby, burn-y pain from various body parts. However, it also caused me to swell up. I didn't swell up with the ferocity that I did lo those years ago- wherein I lost feeling in my foot from the swelling in my legs. I had some mild swelling that actually disrupted my ROM. Yeah, baby, that's the professional lingo again... Range of Motion. The swelling stayed mostly in my legs, a little in my hands, and my jeans became uncomfortable, but not unwearable. So, mild failure. I stopped taking the Ibuprofen on Thursday evening (I followed orders for a week just to be sure).

I also started a blog to track any progress made by using Vitamin E oil on Fronkensteen. In fact, that's the name of the blog- "My Scar Story, Fronkensteen's Tale" I took a photo on Day One and planned on updating weekly with photos and whenever else without photos. But, alas, I'm one of a handful of people who get a mild skin irritation from Vitamin E oil. If you click that link up there, you can read the whole sordid tale.

I have the opportunity to meet some longtime Interweb friends this coming weekend (August 29th). One guy is flying in from Texas, meeting up with the few in Chicago and they're going to the Bristol Renaissance Faire in Kenosha. So, I'm invited to go. Great, sayeth I, it will be nice to finally meet these people I've "known" for so long. But, alas, (yes, alas again), that Saturday is the Saturday before payday. We live on a fixed income. For those not in the know, we get a disability payment from the Veteran's Administration because the disabled guy is 100% service-connected disabled. We can pay our bills, buy food, and sometimes, have some cash leftover for fun or slight shopping (like if the kids need shoes or whatnot). We do all right, and on top of our usual bills, we're paying off medical bills in relation to my knee-replacement surgery. So, while we're "okay", things can get tight at times. Such as August. When school fees are due. This year, the fees required to register Jase and Ceej are around $200. That sounds like a lot (and personally, I think it is a lot), but it is much cheaper than when I had Kat in school as well. We're required to pay the $38 per kid for registration- so that's $76 we had to pay this month. Then, I had to buy school supplies. That wasn't much of a hit as I was able to get folders and spiral notebooks and such massively on sale (as in, for 10 cents for the spirals, yeah, no kidding). But, Jase is playing football this year. We had to pay for "camp" for a week. He needed to order a team T-shirt, but we had to do it before September. There is no "save up for August" because the money we get, we live on. Anything extra usually finds a home either in a surprise kid expense or, like lately, the high price of petrol. With the cost of everything going up, one would think the VA would give us a cost of living raise, but not so.

Needless to say, August is a "long month" in the way of finances. So, Kat agreed to pay for me (and her, because she's going along) to go to Bristol so I could meet my long-time online friends. She got a bit pissy about it lately and despite my paying her back the $40 or $50 I'd need from her ($20 admission) a mere two days later, I was considering not going so I wouldn't have to deal with her attitude.

Now, some of the good- today, my dad took their RV up to the RV place to have a special lift installed for my mom. Not a wheelchair lift as she isn't in a wheelchair, but like an elevator platform to raise her up to the steps so she could get into the RV. On Saturday, she climbed into the RV herself, but it was quite a task and it wore her out- but she did it! Well, I drove behind my dad so I could give him a ride home from the RV place after he dropped their huge RV there. And of course, I went in to talk to Mom. How lame would I be if I didn't stop in and see Mom? While we were talking about stuff like her climbing into the RV, TV shows she's been watching and such, she blurted out: "Richard!" (because that's my dad's name), "That thing we discussed? Are we going to do it?" He replied that yes, they were. So she said, "Why don't you do it now then?"

Dad walked into the living room and handed me $200 in cash. "For the school fees," he said. They knew I was on my way to the grocery store to somehow make $80 stretch till next week. Mom said, "Take that to the store with you." So, thanks to my parents paying for the school fees, we're not "tight" till the end of the month. Ceej can go to Magic Waters with her friends, I can go to Bristol to see my friends, and we've got enough for gas and groceries.

I have great parents.

Despite my setback with the Ibuprofen and my swelling, I got a letter from the VA scheduling team. I have a physical therapy appointment scheduled for September 11th. That's the step we need to get my arthritis officially diagnosed. So, that's a good thing. I have a follow-up appointment with Doctor Bones on September 3rd. So, along with everything else, I'm just plodding along and things are progressing as best as I can expect.

So, setback with the Ibuprofen.
Setback with the Vitamin E oil.
Setback with the money (but I knew that would happen this month).

But, step forward with my parents' generosity.
Step forward with the physical therapy appointment.
Step forward with my recovery, so to speak. (well, it wasn't a setback, so to me, that's a step forward).

At long last... possible progress...

2009-08-14T12:55:00.003-05:00

For those who don't know, or those who knew but forgot because you didn't care, or those who knew, forgot, have no idea who I am or why you're reading this blog, here's the backstory-

I am the spouse of a 100% service-connected disabled veteran. That means they pay us a stipend to live on- a fixed income on which to raise three small children (who are no longer small) and they give us quite adequate health insurance (but, no dental... with three kids, no dental, go figure). About ten years ago- no, actually, it has been ten years, we checked yesterday- ten years ago, the Veteran's Administration Hospital in Madison, WI sent me a letter informing me of a "new" program. The CITI program. If you want to know what it stands for officially, just Google it. Basically, they see the spouses of 100% service-connected disabled veterans. Grand, say I. At the time, I was taking one pill a day for my hypothyroid disease. But, it would be free and well-worth the one hour drive (because the adequate health insurance still required a deductible and a co-pay; which doesn't sound like much, but when you live on a fixed income, that 25% co-pay can be a lot). So, seeing the VA doctors would cut down on at least one expense- me.

Shortly after arriving as a patient, I was no longer able to hide my high blood pressure. "Oh, no," I'd say, "I'm fine. I just walked from the other end of the hospital/parking lot/its hot/fasting lab..." and for a while, they bought my excuses. One day, on the electronic blood pressure machine, my BP (how's that for the lingo, Sparky?) was something like 240/170. The alarm went off on the machine. There were two doors to the nurse triage room and nurses and a couple student-doctors rushed in from all directions. "Are you all right? Do you have a headache? Do you need to lie down?" These questions were bombarded at me from all the medical professionals. I had to lay on my left side for a half an hour and they took my BP again. It was lower, but it was still far too high.

What I didn't know was that having it that high, unchecked, could cause a stroke. Not that I'm not well aware of stroke causes and such, I do live with the poster child of stroke victims. I just didn't think it could happen to me because I didn't feel unwell. They gave me a great blood pressure medication and I can't recall the name at the moment. It was a smooth muscle relaxer and it slowed my pulse down. By the way, my pulse raced all the time. My resting pulse was 120 on average. Normal resting pulse of an active adult (because I was back then) is 60 to 80 (tops, even that's pushing it). Well, the medicine worked fantastically. I no longer felt my pulse in my neck. When I say that, I mean, I no longer felt it pulsating in my neck. I could count my own pulse simply by turning my head to tighten my neck muscle. I could feel it without putting my fingers on my neck. I was in my late twenties. High blood pressure is hereditary (thanks, Dad!) and I dealt with a high level of stress on a daily basis.

A few years later, I suffered a long-term lung infection. I assumed that with three kids, what was happening, I was simply re-catching the same cold that was being passed around. One kid gets it, then I get it, then another kid gets it, then I get it, then- and so on. I spent almost five months living on Nyquil Cough (they'd just come out with it then) and just assumed I'd be fine. Till the day I was making the bed and had a severe asthma attack. Eventually, months and months later, they realized that my smooth-muscle relaxing BP meds were aggravating the newly-acquired asthma. So, they changed my BP meds and the asthma was under control. I have a very mild form of asthma. Quite controllable and seemingly only bothered by high heat and high humidity.

So, in less than three years, I went from one pill a day to two pills, then to a plethora of inhalers, to one Advair and a rarely-used emergency inhaler. My medication bill would have been in the double-digits had I needed to pay for this myself. But, the CITI program covered it all.

Now, I'm on a whole mess-'o-drugs. None of them are really all that fun, but together, they'd create a monster pharmaceutical bill. So, I kind of have to stay with the VA doctors.

For the most part, VA doctors are good. They're students and under the very watchful eyes of quite experienced attendings. After a few years of being seen by the "Ruby Team" (they code the team names based on the last four digits of your social security number- my dad sees "Gold Team", the disabled guy sees "Silver Team"), they moved me to the "Women's Health Clinic/Team". I had assumed, stupidly, that the name implied my lady bits were being taken care of- but that's another rant altogether. When I made the switch, they also took from me the doctor I'd been seeing and liked. I was given a young (very young) doctor. I don't even remember that doctor's name. But they weren't great. Rarely listened to me, didn't seem to take my complaints seriously. And when my thyroid went all wonky, they told me that my TSH (thyroid hormone levels) was "in the normal range". Sixty pounds and loss of energy seemed to be telling me different. Finally, in came Doctor Doogie. I call him that affectionately because he was great and I really liked him (and he looked extremely young).

He looked at my TSH and said that yes, the numbers were normal, but had been steadily rising. So, he helped me. And I started to feel better. I liked him a lot. He had been to Australia (which, as we all know and you probably don't care, is a big deal to me) and he even had a tattoo (which I never saw because it wasn't in an appropriate place for showing a patient). When I injured my knee in 2006, he was the doctor who started my care. MRI, physical therapy... and BAM! He graduated! Noooooo, I wailed... okay, I didn't really, but I did ask him to blow an exam so he could stay on a while longer.

Well, of course he didn't. Luckily, I do have an opportunity to see him again- his specialty is Asthma/Allergy and I see that clinic once a year.

I ended up with Jerk Doctor (sometimes referred to as Boy Doctor in my earlier complaints). He saw me, knee-injured, thyroid-messy, didn't look at my past records and declared, "Your knees hurt because you're overweight. If you lost some weight, your knees wouldn't hurt so much."

Uh, no, Doctor, and I use that term loosely, if you look back, I gained this weight after the knee thing, so yes, my knees hurt and because of that, I am overweight.

Three years of this dance. Three, long, painful, swollen years. Oh, and of course, he assumed I was lying on my "food diary" even though I put down that I ate birthday cake and tacos on Jase's birthday that year. This is the doctor who would tell me I needed to exercise to lose the weight, and in the same ten minute conversation would tell me to stay off my feet to ease the foot pain I was suffering. When I learn the art of self-levitation, I'll let you know.

After those three years, Jerk Doctor finally gave me a letter of referral to go off-site for my knee-replacement and that's all recent history.

I was looking forward to seeing Jerk Boy in May. I'd lost thirty pounds after surgery. What did he say to that? "It was that strict hospital diet..." Uh, no. One, I was only in the hospital for two weeks. Two, I was on an unrestricted diet, which means I could have had milkshakes (and I did) with my meals.

Lo and behold, I had an appointment yesterday. Jerk Boy somehow graduated- must not have been graded on bedside manner. Now I have a nice lady doctor. Gender doesn't matter to me because I'm a child of the Army. I'm used to having different doctors of different ages and genders. I've given birth in Army hospitals and I've had a major surgery in one. The VA cannot throw anything at me that would shock me.

My new doctor, Nice Lady Doctor, is great. She's working with me on pain issues. She doesn't assume my weight is the cause of my problems. In fact, she looked at my past records- all the way back to 1999, which is why I know how long I've been going to the VA hospital. She watched my weight steadily climb in my records over the last three, four years. Oh, and the health problems I now have? Got 'em all while I was skinny, so take that for what its worth when you think "obesity= health problems".

At the moment, the main concern is my arthritis pain. We've started a regimen of Ibuprofen. Wait, you say, Don't you have an adverse reaction to Ibuprofen? You swell hugely and it causes other problems? Well, yes and no. NLD thinks it may have been the massive dose I was told to take (800 mgs three times a day). We're starting low-dose and we're going to see if it eases the swelling that causes arthritis pain. If it does, great. If not, we'll move on to something else. I have a follow-up appointment in two months with her. She's also referring me to physical therapy to get a proper arthritis diagnosis, because in the last 20 years of my life, I've never been "officially" diagnosed with the arthritis that I've been treated for- yeah, go figure.

I also found out yesterday, that the VA changed some policies along the past ten years. Such as, if you don't like a doctor for any reason, you can request a change. Before, if your reason wasn't good enough (say religious- females preferring only female doctors), you didn't get considered. Basically, like the Army, you get who you get and you make the best of it. Which is why I stuck it out with Jerk Boy. Now I can call and change. Well, great news, but why didn't they bother telling existing patients about this change?

I'm simply looking forward to living my life as a good Cyborgian Human (we prefer Cyborg-Sapien) and being as pain-free in my human parts as I am eventually going to be in my bionic parts.

And to end on a good note- I did my entire day at the VA hospital in Madison, WI without my cane. So, boo-yah, Sparky.

4 1/2 months post- TKR...

2009-08-04T20:53:00.002-05:00

Yeah, baby, I got that bone-replacement slang down! I'm exactly four and a half months after my Total Knee-Replacement. Or as I like to refer to it: Cyborg assimiliation reassignment. See, before the whole thing happened, I was full of lame-ass jokes like that. Cyborg, bionic, "borg" because I'm just nerdy enough to know its a Star Trek reference. (For the nerd-record, I'm a fan of the original Trek, I've never watched the "next generation", but I do know that sexy Patrick Stewart was, at one point, turned into a borg, and that "borg" is a "cyborg" thing). Yeah, I know admitting that just ups my street cred... bask in it, bask in my awesome nerdy-ness.

At four and a half months, I was hoping that I'd be closer to fully recovered. I was also hoping that I'd be back to exercising on a semi-regular basis by May... then June... Now, I did walk in June- twice... on a Tuesday and then a Thursday. A whole mile each day. When Saturday rolled around, I could barely get out of bed to walk downstairs much less slip on my snazzy white and red Avias and trek a half mile down the road. And I haven't tried since. Okay, that's not entirely true... I've gotten up, put on my walking clothes (as I do every day, my "walking clothes" being a pair of ratty track pants and my neon green "snopes" T-shirt). But, I just can't get out the door. My leg either hurts, or the knee is swollen. Sometimes my ankle is swollen.

I've been sitting around, feeling a bit sorry for myself. Woe is me, I'm not as recovered as I'd hoped to be. I want to walk again. I want to lose this weight. I want to be ME again... and it just isn't happening. I have those days where I barely want to get out of bed in the morning. I almost can't muster the strength- mostly the inner-strength- to deal with the pain and discomfort I feel daily. I'm not really "in pain" in the proper sense of "pain". It really can be described as "discomfort". People who haven't dealt with pain on a regular basis don't seem to realize the mental strength it takes to face each day. That alone can be exhausting. I read something online that described the advancement of post-TKR patients. By six months, one should feel "75% normal". I really shouldn't read crap like that online, I just end up disappointed in myself. Part of my "pain", when it is painful, is scar-related. My scar tightens up and when I move it, I feel like I have to re-stretch it. That's an issue to discuss at my surgical follow-up (September 3rd).

So, as I said, I've been feeling sorry for myself. What have I done to myself? Why was this a good idea? Well, Sparky, if the surgery hadn't happened, I'd still be in daily agony with pain. I would have had to begged the VA doctor to up my pain meds as it was getting to the intolerable point in the daytime. At least now I'm not in any pain in a passive way. I can sit and lay down and move around without tears in my eyes and clenching my teeth in an effort to move my leg. So, progress is being made. Slowly, but surely.

Today on my Facebook (which I seem to like more now, as there's barely a space limit on status updates, unlike MySpace- which gives me 140 characters. Me... only 140 to tell my tale? Sure... *snerk*), my status listed everything I'd done today... all before 1130ish AM. What did I do? Well, I got up, "worked" online, played online, had breakfast, took the dogs out, did some laundry, put dinner in the crockpot (meatballs and sauce), took a short nap, showered, dressed, blow-dried, scheduled a doctor's appointment for the disabled guy, took the dogs out again, went to the store, brought everything in from the store, and started my lunch (I had frozen pizza, I typed my status while it was in the oven). So, it isn't like I'm just lolling around on my back on the sofa, demanding the peasants feed me grapes and fan me with giant feathers.

I may not be walking a mile or more for exercise. I may not be doing my yoga (by the way, I can't get on the floor. I tried. Hilarity ensued and it was difficult to get up, partly from my knee issue and partly from laughing too hard). But I'm doing more and more day-to-day stuff. And I suppose that is a start. I was hoping to lose a significant amount of weight before my next VA appointment. Well, I have that appointment next week and I haven't lost any weight. But then, I have a new doctor and unless this person doesn't speak English and was transported from the 1950s, he/she can't be worse than the insensitive clod I had before. I was hoping to be able to wave the weight-loss in that doctor's face. He was the one who insisted that the reason my knees were bad was because I was fat. Not that I was fat because of the knees being bad (as was the case). But I digress.

So, while I have my days where I feel like an utter failure and can't believe what I've put myself through, I also have my days where I want to clap my hands like a demented monkey, declaring: "Look what I can do!" Then there are times when that demented monkey-clapping and sarcasm blend together and I go into a: "Look what I can do! I can tie my own shoes! YAAAAY!"

"Awww, look at her... she's so proud of herself. Let's give her a cookie."

"Yaaaay! Cookie!" *demented monkey-applause*

The Milwaukee Beer City Tattoo Convention is this weekend. I would like to go (I'd really like to get another tattoo. I haven't had a new one in over a year). But, I won't know till Friday (or even Saturday morning), if I will have it in me to go. I also have to consider the expense as August is the month of school fees and school supplies. Last year's convention was on my birthday (literally). So, this time, its two months earlier. Threw a wrench into my plan, but still... Last year, I gimped around the convention using two canes and barely took any photos. Kat went with me and we were there for a couple hours, had lunch, stayed another hour and then left. I would really like to stay and enjoy the convention and some of the activities.

So, if I can go to the convention this weekend and survive it, it will be another thing to add to my list of achievements. My list isn't grand or full of impressive activities like rock-climbing or surfing, but on it is the fact I can bake cookies and cook whole meals for my family now. And sometimes, that's all I need.

Of kids and competition-

2009-07-26T20:32:00.002-05:00

Years ago, I used to write a weekly column for a website called "The Awesome Report". The website is long-since gone and so are most of my articles. I saved a few, but not all. During my year-or-so time there, I wrote an article about kids, games, rules, and how "kids these days" don't learn anything from competition anymore. It was well-written and bitingly sarcastic. And I regret now, not saving it. It is as relevant today as it was then.

That article was spawned by the change in rules for sparring in Jase's Tae Kwon Do tournaments. Jase (my 17 year old son) has been in TKD since he was 8 years old. For the last two years, he's been training in MMA fighting (Brazilian ju-jitsu, kickboxing, and a class for MMA-style grappling). Back when he was in TKD, we did at least two tournaments a year. Jase did five to six classes a week (four days of the week) and his classes were training for these tournaments. He reached black belt on his 11th birthday. Somewhere along the way, they changed the sparring rules. No kicks to the head for kids under 12 years old.

Let me point this out: kids, when they spar, wear a thick, foam helmet and shin-and-foot guards. So, they're getting a padded foot to their thickly-padded head. And, being under 12, most of them don't have the coordination or strength to throw any kind of powerful kick. So, little Junior isn't in any real danger. What made me mad is that the rule change came about because someone got angry about their kid losing. Head shots were worth two points and body shots were only worth one point. Basically, Junior wasn't good enough or limber enough to throw a kick to the head against another kid of the same age, height, and weight. So, they complained. And they ruined it for everyone.

Not all kids were like Jase- hardcore, driven. He wanted to be the best and he did a damn good job at it. So, he trained hard and he trained in winning. And then they took one of his techniques from him. Oh, he still won and he still did well, but why, why would a parent put a child into a sport KNOWING full well they were going to be kicked and punched? If you don't want your child to get kicked or punched, then don't put them in a sport that, by its English translation, is all about getting kicked and punched. (Tae- foot; kwon- hand; do- art; that is, if memory serves).

So, this article was written about this very thing. And I went on to say that Junior should be in a safer sport, like soccer. But, wait! Wait! Soccer has kicking! What if Junior is on the field and he sees a pack of kids running at him, KICKING a ball? Will he have sudden and frightful flashbacks to that time another 10 year old kicked him in the head with a clumsily-executed turning kick? Will he drop to the ground, sobbing with his hands over his head? I played soccer back when I was a wee tyke. I was the ONLY girl on a team of boys (as opposed to being the only girl on a team of llamas, I guess). I played fullback. I was right in front of the goal. I was in a game where both my parents were in the bleachers. I remember looking at them and then suddenly they were all motioning for me to look ahead. I turned just in time to catch a fiercely-kicked soccer ball right in my face. I fell on my butt (oh, the humility! If that had happened today, the game would have been stopped and my self-esteem would have been boosted by many kudos from the team and the coaches). And the force of the ball busted my lip open. So, I'm gushing blood through my hand and I think I was crying. The referee and coach ran over and suddenly freaked out. I was missing my front tooth. But the problem was, I had already lost that tooth. (in fact, I was missing that very tooth for four years- it was a dental thing, a story for another time). My mother reassured them that my tooth was long-missing.

What did they do? They handed me a towel with ice in it, I sat out for a quarter on the bench and they put me back in the game. Nobody had to change the rules. No one said, "Oh, now we can't let the soccer players kick hard enough to move the ball down the field!" and there were no equipment requirements that fullbacks had to wear helmets with face-shields.

So, what sport should we put our special snowflake, Junior, in? Football? Oh, hell no! He'd be devastated the first time a linebacker plowed into him (and, there's kicking in that sport too, he'd be traumatized). Baseball doesn't have kicking, but it has hard balls traveling at a high rate of speed, usually straight AT a child. Swimming? Oh, we can't do that either- there's kicking in swimming. I'd suggest basket-weaving, but that isn't a sport and Junior could cut his precious fingers on the baskets.

Why am I complaining now? Well, Jase had a fight last night. MMA fight. That is, Mixed-Martial Arts fight. You non-MMA parents might know it from the TV shows involving UFC and "Tapout" and such. I'm not particularly fond of the MMA world, for reasons that belong in their own rant, but it boils down to fighters and general respect. But I digress...

Jase has been training solely in MMA fighting for two years. He's had a few fights, and all but two (one being last night) were forfeited on because the other fighter either backed out or weighed in too heavy (they have weight classes similar to boxing). Jase has trained for two years in actual MMA fighting. Punching to the head, knee strikes, elbow strikes... you know, Mixed Martial arts... He was told shortly before the fight that he wasn't allowed to fight in the style for which he trained for two years. He was told to fight in "Pancras" (or pancrase, depending on where you look it up). Basically, they took all strikes away from the under-18 kids. They changed the fight from Mixed Martial arts to a wrestling match with body punches. And if that wasn't bad enough, the fighters weren't allowed to wear their own gloves. The gloves that they train in, the gloves that are broken-in and shaped to their own hands. They were given brand new gloves that were at least two inches thick and stiff! So stiff that even me rolling it up and sitting my mASSive poundage on didn't break it! They also had to wear shin and foot guards for the first time. I'm actually surprised they weren't required to wear helmets.

So, the kids lost their strikes, their fighting techniques and now could barely do a choke hold because the fat, stiff gloves got in the way. Jase lost this fight because during one of the weird rolling sessions they were reduced to, the other fighter popped his shoulder out. He had one hand pinned under his body (which would have helped him push his opponent off of him) and the other was popped out of the socket, useless as the other fighter pressed his weight against the shoulder. Jase couldn't tap out. He had to start yelling "Tap! Tap! Tap!" because of his useless arm being, well, useless. And if anyone has ever had a dislocated joint, you know the agony he was in. He couldn't get up right away. As soon as he moved, his shoulder popped back into place. I don't think his shoulder was a proper "dislocation", because they don't just pop back in like that. I think he was on the verge of having a dislocated shoulder.

But, either way... the change caused the kids who trained so hard to lose half of their fighting technique. All because someone complained. Because their special snowflake of a child was either training or in a fight and got a black eye. Jase comes home from training, yes, training with bruises and even lacerations. Do I throw a hissy fit? Do I demand a change of rules? Do I expect the equipment to be changed to suit me? No. My son wanted to do this. I signed the permission slip at the weigh-in to allow him to do this to himself. And he knows what he's doing. He knows the risks.

To me, getting pissed off at a sport for typical sport-related activity is like getting mad at a firefighter for running into a burning building. Like those families who bitch about their soldiers being sent off to war. Why are you complaining? The person joined the military. They knew going to war was a possibility. Do families of police officers get mad when the officer straps on a gun and goes out to fight crime? This is why Bruce Wayne never has a decent relationship. He gets a girlfriend and she gets all pissy about the whole Batman thing.

I ask you, parents, to please, please keep Junior out of contact and impact sports. If you want your little special guy to have his self-esteem boosted and not keep score, join soccer (where they stopped keeping score in some leagues) or tee-ball (where they never kept score). I'm glad my kids were raised to know that there's right from wrong, good from bad, and that not everyone is going to win. You compete, someone has to lose and someone has to win. And it isn't fair to the kids who are truly good at the sport, who train hard and work at their technique to have their training be made useless because Junior doesn't work as hard or he doesn't like getting hit in a sport that, by its very name, requires hitting.

I love my scar-

2009-07-22T20:48:00.004-05:00

Looking back over my life, I can remember my first serious knee injury. These twins who lived up the street from us got matching Big Wheels. You remember "Big Wheels", don't you? If you don't, then you should Google up some images. Basically, a giant plastic tricycle. Those buggers were loud.

I didn't have a Big Wheel. I wasn't impoverished, I had a bike, I had roller skates. Okay, my first set of skates were those metal things that clamped over your sneakers, but I still had a pair. So, when one of the twins offered to let me ride their Big Wheel, I, of course, took that opportunity. Never mind I was probably too big for it. Too "big" for a Big Wheel. That's almost ironic.

I should mention now that I grew up on Army bases. Specific for this time in my life, we were at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. Our Army housing duplex was on a hill. Well, it still IS on a hill, but if I were to drive by now, the hill wouldn't seem as large and a different family is living there. You can imagine what conspired as I put my feet on the pedals of the Big Wheel. My body weight combined with the hill and the bigness of the Big Wheel's front wheel (the big wheel, as it were) caused my feet to be sheared from the pedals with such force that they were pulled under the body of the Big Wheel and under the back wheels- which were small, hence the name "Big Wheel", not "Big Wheels".

I don't know how far I was dragged on the concrete. It could have been three feet. It could have been thirty feet. I just remember the sheer pain of my skin being ripped from my knees. I finally managed to tip the Big Wheel over in the grass. The twins (who were named Ronnie and Vicky- for Veronica and Victoria) helped me to my feet and I staggered home. It wasn't far, but with my knees bloodied, scraped, and tears and snot smeared on my face, it seemed like miles.

My mother administered first aid by placing me on the kitchen counter so she could reach my knees and apparently my shins. I kept those scars for a very long time. We tend to scar ugly in my family. That isn't a bad thing, really. We heal fast and the scarring is a symbol for that- big ugly scar= healed wound. My dad had a quintuple bypass in March 1988. In September 2001, he had another bypass surgery. It took the surgeons two and a half hours to cut through the scar tissue and adhesions that formed on his skin and beneath it.

Why am I telling you this? Because I scar ugly too. And before now, it was always just some silly joke about how "chicks dig scars, Dad, show 'em yours..." and such. I've got a 20 year old gall bladder surgery scar. Still looks hideous. My mom has the same scar and hers is a thin white line that is barely visible. Nobody digs my scars.

Till now.

On March 18th, I finally went in for a total knee replacement. I say "finally" because it was a journey three years in the making. And if you're a reader who has followed me on the MySpace, then you know the saga that is my knee. And if you don't, go on over... the last year or so, my blogs have been bitchfests about my knee and my knee problems and the lack of give-a-shit-ness from the VA hospital.

I will say now that I went into this knee replacement thing all smiles and "thumb's up". I'm not kidding. There were three photos taken of me that day. I took one at arm's length in the truck as the disabled guy drove me to the hospital. ~Swollen, grinning, with my thumb up~ There's another taken in the pre-op room (you like that? Yeah, "pre-op", I watch "House MD", I know the lingo) and ~I'm swollen, and smiling like an idiot, both thumbs up~ THEN, for some unknown reason, I had Kat take a photo of me in my room, after surgery. I'm hooked up to a blood pressure monitor, the pulse-ox thingy is clamped to my finger, there's an IV and a pain pump in my leg and some dramatic-looking drain thing. I've got a washcloth on my forehead because I was sweating like a redneck doing long division. ~And I've got a stupid grin on my face and my freakin' thumb up again~ So, literally, "all smiles and thumb's up". Oh, to be that happy again. What the hell was I thinking? Oh, that's right, I was thinking this would all be over and I'd feel great again. I'd forgotten about the "possible twelve month recovery time".

I was under some delusion that I'd be in and out of the hospital and out running laps in no time. Well, I spent two weeks in the hospital. The hospital has rehab therapy right there, so I had excellent nursing care and good food- nothing like the horrible conditions my mother was in when she was in the "nursing and rehabilitation center". That's all I'll say about that because that is, in itself, a whole 'nother rant.

My first look at my scar was the day after surgery. A lovely nurse came in to change my bandage and remove the drain. I asked if she'd take a photo for me with my camera-phone.

~This is that photo~

When they removed the drain tubes, I was left with quite a bruise. I was on blood thinners, which I'm sure contributed to the bruising. But, what I found interesting was that my bruise ~looked like an angry face~, almost owl-like. I still have the marks from that drain (the part that makes up the "eyes" in the face).

I had twenty-six staples. And during the time I had those staples (two weeks), the scar was a thin and perfect line.

~Those hands belong to Phil, mynurse, who removed my staples at 2AM~ because I was awake.

The scar stayed thin and pretty for a little while. I ended up having to go back to the hospital on April 27th for a "manipulation procedure". That's a soft and pretty way of saying, "We're gonna knock your ass out and bend your knee!" It is also referred to as "breaking down scar tissue". In my case, that the scar tissue built up so quickly, it tightened my ligaments and muscles and tendons so I couldn't bend my knee properly. My surgeon chuckling referred to it as "snap, crackle, and pop." Yeah, he's a fun guy. ~One week before the MUA~ (that's "manipulation under anesthesia", yup, gotta knock you out. It hurts THAT much).

The subsequent swelling and bendability has caused the scar to become a thick red line. It is almost like an earthworm. I named it Fronkensteen and I refer to it by name. Not many people think that Fronkensteen is as awesome as I do. I will show him to people, excitedly. "Hey, wanna see my scar?" is the question I ask when the other people ask me about the surgery. I've only been refused one time. I love this scar. Despite the random itching (deep down, scratching doesn't help) and the shocking little jolts of... well, shocks... they're annoying, but it hasn't lessened my love of Fronkensteen. When my leg is straight, Fronkensteen is six inches long. When I bend Steve Austin (that would be the name of the bionic knee), Fronkensteen gets to eight or nine inches. That's right... he's THAT impressive.

~Fronkensteen, last night~ next to a CD (David Bowie's "iSelect"). And of course, the two dots are from that angry bruise-face. Lovely, isn't it?

I put all the pictures into links because I know some folks are squicked out by scar pictures. They're not gross... well, the very first one is pretty shocking because its a fresh incision with all the disinfectant and marker lines drawn on it. Very odd-looking.

I can't wait till I'm fully healed enough to wear sandals and heels so I can wear skirts that don't reach my ankles. That's how much I love Fronkensteen.

Well, here we are... another year has gone by...

2009-07-21T20:34:00.003-05:00

That seems to be my norm over here on the blogspot place. I know I've said I need to update and I try, but then I don't. But, now... with the MySpace pissing me off with its new ways of posting blogs with pictures or links and whatnot, I may just start using this more and more.

If you don't follow my MySpace, well, let me just say that the last ten blogs or so were kind of lame. They were more about my medical problems (from girly issues to my total knee replacement surgery) than they were of the fun, sarcastic things that I've come to love.

So, in the coming days, I'll post a few blogs that I'll copy/paste from my MySpace blog. I'll have to go through and save them anyway, if I decide to delete my MySpace. I probably won't delete it, no matter how much I whinge about it. My kids have MySpaces and they're on my list there. If one can't stalk their own children, what can one do?

Hopefully, I'll remember to keep going here and hopefully you'll continue to follow along with my ramblings.

Honestly, I should update this more.

2008-06-20T20:03:00.002-05:00

I don't know why I haven't.

I have a MySpace blog.

I have a crappy Yahoo 360 blog I rarely use because I was under the impression that 360 was ending its run.

Maybe I'll just keep updating here. I doubt anyone will notice, but hey! It gives me an excuse to be online.

Some Observations-

2007-08-05T16:10:00.001-05:00

These are just some things I have observed in the last few days. Take them as jokes, take them seriously, I don't care. And if you think these are directed at YOU, rest assured, we probably haven't met in real life, so this isn't about YOU...
1. Ladies... ladies. When you wear trousers of the "stretch" type- you know, they're like those stirrup pants of the 80s, thin material, usually not denim... yeah, those. When you wear those, please, do NOT wear bikini underwear. No matter how thin you are, you will have noticeable and awkward-looking panty lines. I don't care if you're built like a brick shit house, awkward panty lines are unflattering on you!
2. If you're a fat girl- yes, FAT. Not "plump", not "chunky", not "fluffy"... fat... FAT like ME... don't wear a spaghetti-strapped tank top without an over-shirt. And if you happen to be FAT and have toned arms and think you can wear the strappy tank top in public, PLEASE, PLEASE do NOT wear a big, white, broad-strapped "granny" bra under it! Please! It looks awful!
3. If you reach an intersection at the same time as another car, and you wave them on... "go on, go ahead"... DO NOT tailgate them! Why did you let me go ahead of you if you were going to crawl that far up my ass? Who are you? Why are you so close to me? If I tap my brakes, will you stop in time or will your forehead be imprinted with my license plate? How will "America's Dairyland" look embedded in your face?
4. Please don't tell me that if I drink more water, I won't swell as much. I have a medical condition. I have tried it all- I take medication, I drank nothing but distilled water, purified water, diuretic teas, herbal supplements... when someone says, "I have tried it all over the last X-many years..." chances are, we have TRIED IT ALL! (X=3 ½ for me).
5. Don't tell me to read the new Harry Potter. I haven't read the old Harry Potter. Nor have I read ANY of the Harry Potter books. I know I'm a witch. I know I believe in magic, but Harry doesn't interest me. Have you SEEN Daniel Radcliffe lately? Google "Daniel Radcliffe, Eqqus" and you'll see him nearly naked. Yes, I know he's the same age as one of my children, but dayum, that boy is HAWT!
6. Control your bloody kids! You're in public! Don't let them run up and down the aisles at the store! Don't let a four year old walk four aisles down from you to play with little toys while you're in line at the express lane. Have you heard of "America's Most Wanted"? Yeah, you know the host? John Walsh... maybe you should read his book "Tears of Rage"... Adam was five years old when he was taken.
7. Don't complain to me about your kids being unruly and you don't know how to control them. You're the parent, its your JOB... do you go to work and tell your boss: "I can't do it, I don't know how..." No, of course you don't. If you have a challenge at work, you figure it out and fix the problem. Parenting isn't part-time work, even if you have a day job. And, I don't begrudge you who are trying... at least you're TRYING.
8. Don't tell me I'm too old for something. I know I'm too old for those little horsey-ride things outside the Dollar store, but you don't see me trying to ride them. I dye my hair because I can. I dress this way because I can. I wear Chuck Taylor high-top sneakers because I can. I do surveys on MySpace because I CAN. I know I'm almost 38 years old. And guess what- I'll be getting a tattoo again this year too. You're never too old for INK!
9. Don't tell me my pick-up truck is ruining the Earth. What do you think your piece of shit is doing? That smoke coming from the tailpipe is doing more damage than that herd of cows out there.
10. Until you've lived with a stroke victim, don't tell me he isn't a victim. "He's a survivor!" Well, of course he is. We know that. But, he's also a victim. If you knew him before, you'd know he's a victim. And you know what- he's DISABLED... he isn't "exceptional" or "special" or "differently abled". He prefers the word: "Handicapped". It doesn't offend him when I call him "the disabled guy" on a message board or in a blog. He knows I do it and he doesn't care. If you say: "Disabled" to him, he'll reply in a desperate voice: "Disassemble? No disassemble!" and then laugh hysterically. (That's from a movie called "Short Circuit" for you kids...)
11. Don't tell my that my online friends aren't real. They are more real than some people I know in real life. Just because we haven't met face-to-face doesn't mean they are any less human. I've got some terrific online friends and the only problem I have with them is the fact they don't live closer. Internet hugs aren't the same as real ones. And I have a few friends I'd like to hug.
I think that's all I have for today. I'm kind of tired. Our AC isn't working properly- it seems to be a blower problem, not an overall big machine issue. I tend to swell up in the heat from my MEDICAL CONDITION and I'm kind of cranky. Does it show? Hey, if you know a heating/AC guy who is willing to work for trade... I don't know... like, for readings or wood-working, send him my way...
I'm kidding, of course...
but only a little.

So...

2007-07-27T12:32:00.000-05:00

I've been a member since 2004 and have never posted a blog here. Why is that, you ask? Well, I claimed that "I don't blog". Then I was drawn into the Yahoo 360 thing. Shortly after, the cult known as MySpace got a hold on me and I blogged there. I still do.

I also used to write a weekly column for a now-defunt website called The Awesome Report. Most of my blogs are written in the same style I wrote there. Why? I don't know, I suppose it is just my style. Most of my blogs will be copy/pastes of the other two blogs. Why bother, you ask? Because in my mind, I'm a celebrity and everyone wants to know what's going on in my life.

Why, yes, it is pretty in the world I live in. The skies are lavender and the cows give chocolate milk!

Thanks for reading. If you'd like to catch up on the comings and goings in my life, you can see it all on my MySpace Blog... I know you're curious! Afterall... housewives are oh-so-interesting!