tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30826605655344742212024-03-04T22:20:20.824-06:00Clothed in WordsWrapped around me, in layers and drapes, lay words and phrases and alphabet shapes. They kiss my ears, my toes and my arms, keeping me tickled and happy and warm.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-70049523564578847342016-11-14T11:51:00.000-06:002016-11-14T11:54:03.591-06:00Social Anxiety and Panic Attacks: Conversational Difficulties and The Messy RoomSomeone asks me to walk through a door, into a room I've never been in before. There is a door on the other side, straight ahead, that I need to reach as quickly as possible. I'm being timed. This is the concept of conversation, and getting a thought from my brain to my mouth. The more stressed out I am, the more problems I have, and the more problems I have, the more stressed out I get. What can start out as barely nothing can snowball into a total panic attack. Let me explain, using the imagery of this room.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Sometimes there is absolutely nothing in the room, and it is well-lit. <i>(Feeling Chatty! Good eye contact, conversation flows well)</i></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Sometimes there's a dimmer switch keeping the light at twilight visibility, and there are tables and chairs and couches and piles of paper stacked everywhere that I have to walk around to get to the door. <i>(Looking around while talking, mixed eye contact, a lot of "um"s)</i></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Sometimes it's a hoarder house and nearly impossible to pick my way through the trash, but <b><i>eventually I make it</i></b>. <i>(No eye contact, not answering you right away, subdued discussion. You may feel like I don't want to be there, which isn't necessarily true at all)</i></li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
These are all pretty normal situations, and most people have felt at least those first two at one point or another. But sometimes, it's one of those situations and someone turns all the lights off. I'll be walking along and <b>BAM</b> out go the lights. I pause and wait for the lights to come back on.<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Sometimes it's just a brownout and they flicker back on immediately and I can go on my way. (<i>Pausing between sentences, struggling to find simple words</i>)</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Sometimes they stay off a little longer. (<i>Long, uncomfortable pauses, I look very disconcerted, and people stare at me while I struggle to remember how to speak or come up with a different words that can replace the word I'm trying to think of. This makes me panic because they are waiting for me to speak, which triggers even more pausing</i>)</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>And sometimes they stay off so long I sit down where I am and when the lights come back on I don't know which door I'm supposed to be walking toward. (<i>"What was I saying?" "What were we talking about?" Often I have completely forgotten what was mentioned less than thirty seconds ago. This is the pause that happens when I start a grilled cheese, turn around in front of the stove, and have absolutely no clue that I'm cooking anything until I smell burning. These pauses can happen anytime and they are the reason I am not allowed to cook without a timer and why I always keep my keys next to my son in the car until he is fully buckled.</i>)</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
The worst, though, is when the lights go out in the hoarder house and like some horrible haunted house, someone comes up three inches away from my face with a strobe light blinking just slowly enough that I can't pretend it's a flickering light. And then that someone starts blaring sound bytes of people screaming and honking horns and babies crying and paper ripping and books falling off of desks. Then someone starts poking me, tripping me, shoving me. <b>And I'm supposed to still be able to find that door, because remember I'm being timed.</b><br />
<br />
When I pause when I'm talking to you, I'm trying to get through that room. When I'm pausing and crying, stuttering and having trouble breathing or getting words out at all, I'm in that last room. <i>It's not you, it's me</i>. And what I need is a REAL dark room with only pure softness and nothing scratchy and no words or sounds or weird smells or anyone touching me. <b>Only breathing.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Trying to talk on the phone unless I'm in that safe space is like a game of panic roulette. Sometimes I can focus easily and make coherent thoughts, but that's not often. I don't do well with verbal messages, so if I'm trying to listen to you and also process everything that is happening where I am and also come up with meaningful things to say, it's not going to work. I need all my senses taken away to focus on speaking with you. This is why I prefer communicating through text, where I can formulate a message without worrying about the long awkward pauses, and I can look back at what you said since by the time I have gotten to the end of your sentence I have forgotten what was at the beginning.<br />
<br />
If you want a meaningful conversation with me, by all means call me on the phone and play roulette. I will totally try it <i>if that's what works best for you. </i><b>But you might not get the best me.</b> No matter how flighty, impulsive, or inattentive I sound on the phone, that has nothing to do with how much I love and appreciate you and your thoughts, and I hope that you don't give up on me. Next time may be better.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-14928295260649085592016-11-02T13:55:00.003-05:002016-11-02T13:55:55.052-05:00*facekeyboard*I have just been informed that when I republished my post from 2015 about my colonoscopy so my friend could read it (I had taken it down because I thought maybe it was just too embarrassing), that it went out to everyone who subscribes to my blog. I don't know why I didn't realize that would happen. I had thought that it would just restore it to the 2015 publish date and that would be it. I feel like an idiot now. An EXTRA-embarrassed idiot.<br />
<br />
*sigh*<br />
<br />
WELL ENJOY IT, OKAY.<br />
For the record, the surgery was successful and I haven't had any problems in the year since it happened. So I've got that going for me.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-89624717010179784512016-07-19T12:34:00.000-05:002016-07-19T12:40:40.866-05:00Monthly Nuisance<div class="tr_bq">
I feel like this happened in Heaven:</div>
<blockquote>
<br />
<b>God:</b> "Hello, Eve. Welcome to your heavenly home. You are the first woman of Earth to come home to me. Do you have any reflections on your life?"<br />
<b>Eve:</b> "Really God? PERIODS? You couldn't have just made our bodies reabsorb that or something?"<br />
<b>God:</b> "It couldn't have been that bad. Here's some chocolate.."<br />
<b>Eve:</b> <i>*growls, grabs chocolate*</i></blockquote>
Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-2631436681935540232016-06-15T11:07:00.000-05:002016-06-15T11:07:35.927-05:00ShameHow do you make yourself feel better when you've done something that goes against your belief system? Even if all your friends say, "Hey you did the right thing," or "You apologized so it's okay," how do you deal with the shame of knowing that you have failed yourself? Sure, your loved ones probably won't think much less of you, because they understand that we all fail sometimes, and they forgive you without a second thought. But how do you forgive yourself?<br />
<br />
My own advice to someone asking this would be, "Don't dwell on the past because you can't change that. You can only change the future." Easy to say, harder to do. I have a lot of regrets in my life - things I've done, things I've said, people I've hurt, people I've ignored, things I've forgotten, things I can't forget. It's taken me a long time to come to terms with the person I was in my twenties. I don't like that girl very much. But it's been my practice to say that regret is a useless emotion and if I hadn't been that girl, I wouldn't be the woman I am today. Saying that only works, though, when I'm proud of the woman I am today. <br />
<br />
And today I am not proud of the woman I am today. Today. This very day. I am not proud of the Julia from this 24hr period. I said something to someone that was fueled by rage and hurt, and it was in turn hurtful. Apologies, though given, did not fix it and in fact damaged the relationship irreparably. Someone asked why the person I hurt was hurt at all, when I only spoke the truth. I said,<br />
<br />
"<span style="background-color: white; color: #010101; font-family: "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">One man's truth is another man's attack. No good was going to come out of posting something so filled with rage on his page. I could have approached it calmly, in private, telling him I found it hurtful, and it could have been resolved peacefully once it was determined that the post in question wasn't intended to represent his feelings about [the incident] at all. Instead I chose to take the antagonistic route. That's on me. Life lessons, I guess."</span><br />
<br />
<i>That </i>is the truth. I didn't have to act the way I did. How can I preach words of love, compassion, and understanding, and then act without those very things? I failed the test. When it came down to it, I didn't have what it took to be the person I want to be. And I am so filled with shame for it. I took the day off work to reflect on my behavior and to spend time with family in a constructive, loving environment. That sounds really "hippy," but there's something about the unconditional love from a toddler and the love of someone who knows everything about you - good and bad alike - that is healing. And today I need healing. I need love, kindness, and compassion. I need to forgive myself, and to take my own words to heart. Every moment is another chance to begin anew. Even though I keep failing, keep messing up, keep losing friends, I do help people. I do fix things. I do make new friends to help heal the broken pieces in my heart.<br />
<br />
I am not a ruined person. I am just human. If there were no shame, there would be no growth.<br />
<br />
Today I will forgive and love myself for being human.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-50254036562007415432016-06-14T15:13:00.001-05:002016-06-14T15:15:44.994-05:00Why is Amazon Prime Not a 2-Day Guarantee anymore?<div class="chat-system-message chat-system-message-info" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; padding-bottom: 7px;">
<div class="chat-system-message chat-system-message-info" style="box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; padding-bottom: 7px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.7px; line-height: 19px;"><b>Scene: Tuesday, 2pm</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.7px; line-height: 19px;"><i><b>Friend (lives 45min from me)</b>: My two day Prime shipping means things arrive Friday? HOW is that two days? What number system are we using there?</i></span></span></div>
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<i style="color: #666666; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.7px; line-height: 19px;"><b>Me</b>: I think you have to place your order before a certain amt of time, like noon.. but I am certain it used to be much later.</i></div>
<div class="chat-system-message chat-system-message-info" style="box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; padding-bottom: 7px;">
<i style="color: #666666; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.7px; line-height: 19px;"><b>Friend</b>: Well, I can see that, except it says "for delivery on Friday, place order in the next 25 hours" How does THAT make sense? It implies fluid cut off times.</i></div>
<div class="chat-system-message chat-system-message-info" style="box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; padding-bottom: 7px;">
<i style="color: #666666; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.7px; line-height: 19px;"><b>Me</b>: Idk. It makes me mad.</i></div>
</div>
<div class="chat-system-message chat-system-message-info" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.7px; line-height: 19px; padding-bottom: 7px;">
This conversation reminded me that I had an order to place that was still sitting in my cart. I added a pair of lefty scissors for my little Southpaw to the order, and then placed it. Lo and behold, same problem. What is going on? I started a chat with an Amazon representative and other than a moment when he totally OWNED me by explaining 2-day shipping does not mean 2-day <b><i>delivery </i></b>(Yeah Brandon, I know you did a little victory dance at your desk) and a hilarious moment when he called me "a great costumer" (the only person I costume is my kid at Halloween) it wasn't at all enlightening. </div>
<div class="chat-system-message chat-system-message-info" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.7px; line-height: 19px; padding-bottom: 7px;">
Can someone else interpret this interaction for me? Why is Amazon's handling/fulfillment taking longer than it used to? How will we know when something is a 2-day Prime or 3-5-day Prime item? Does this lessen the value of Prime? With online shopping becoming more and more popular and Amazon's presence growing to Jack and the Beanstalk Giant proportions, can we expect Prime to mean "3-5 days" in the future? </div>
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You are now connected to Brandon from Amazon.com</div>
<div class="chat-line-group chat-participant-style-0" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.7px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
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<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #ff9900; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Me:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">I placed an order at 2:20pm today, Tuesday, for three items sold by Amazon, all of which are eligible for Amazon Prime. I chose the 2-day shipping option with Amazon Prime. Why are these items scheduled to arrive on Friday, three days later?</span></div>
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<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #146eb4; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Brandon:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">Hello, my name is Brandon.</span></div>
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<span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">Hello Julia, before I look into your account, I would need to verify that you're the account holder. Can you please provide me the name on your account, your e-mail address, and your billing address?</span></div>
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<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #ff9900; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Me:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">Julia [information]</span></div>
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<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #146eb4; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Brandon:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">thanks, and the order number?</span></div>
</div>
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<div class="chat-line chat-first-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; clear: both;">
<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #ff9900; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Me:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">Order# [number]</span></div>
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<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #146eb4; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Brandon:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">appreciate it, just a minute to check the order</span></div>
<div class="chat-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; clear: both;">
<span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">Alright Julia, I can see here that the order is okay, sometimes an order may take some hours extra to be ready for us to ship it. This is one of those cases.</span></div>
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<span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">But for sure it'll arrive on Friday</span></div>
</div>
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<div class="chat-line chat-first-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; clear: both;">
<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #ff9900; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Me:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">Why would it take an entire extra day (as this should be arriving Thursday with two-day shipping) to put together two workbooks and a pair of scissors?</span></div>
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<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #146eb4; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Brandon:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">Well Julia, as you said is two day shipping, not two day delivery. Shipping is the process and duration that an order is in transit onnce it has been handed out to a carrier, meaning that this part of process doesn't include the time that an order may take to be prepared before it ships (Fulfillmnt). This doesn't mean that we can't deliver an order two days later (we do that most of the times), however due to handling and other particular situations, sometimes the package may take more than expected to be ready for shipping.</span></div>
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<span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">once*, sorry</span></div>
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<div class="chat-line chat-first-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; clear: both;">
<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #ff9900; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Me:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">I guess I just don't understand why Amazon was always able to manage 2-day Delivery for all of the years I've had Prime, but suddenly in the last few months to year I can't count on that.</span></div>
<div class="chat-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; clear: both;">
<span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">I realize that I am embodying the whiny "first-world-problems" procrastinator customer.</span></div>
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<span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">And this particular order really doesn't need to be here on Thursday, or even within the next week, although my son would love it as soon as possible.</span></div>
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<span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">I just wanted to talk to someone who could explain why there has been a shift in the Prime guarantee. Often I get my things in two days, but it's not a guarantee anymore (Amazon-sold items, I mean).</span></div>
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<div class="chat-line chat-first-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; clear: both;">
<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #146eb4; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Brandon:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">I understand your point, I really do. And all we want is to give you the best service we can, if in the past month you've been having problems, I apologize for that, I can promise you that I will report that and we will work in order to fix it. You've been a great costumer and we really appreciate that.</span></div>
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<div class="chat-line chat-first-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; clear: both;">
<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #ff9900; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Me:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">There aren't any specific circumstances you can fix, really, but thank you for the offer to report them. I was spurred to ask this question by another friend who also has Prime and also has been seeing slower ship times, so I don't think it's just me. It is disappointing because sometimes I will delete an order from my cart because I realize that I cannot get it in time for whatever event I needed it for, and I have to go with an inferior product from my local Walmart (the only store with any kind of selection near me). So I suppose if there is anything to report as a problem, perhaps just general customer dissatisfaction regarding ship times.</span></div>
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<span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">Thank you for your assistance today.</span></div>
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<div class="chat-line chat-first-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; clear: both;">
<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #146eb4; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Brandon:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">It was my pleasure Julia, is there anything else I can offer my help today?</span></div>
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<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #ff9900; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Me:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">No, I do not believe so.</span></div>
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<span class="chat-display-name" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #146eb4; display: inline; float: left; padding-right: 10px;">Brandon:</span><span class="chat-message" style="box-sizing: border-box;">Thank you so much for giving me a chance to help you today and talk to you, Julia. I hope you have a great day, and thank you for being part of the Amazon Family.</span></div>
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Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-37482059428335617272016-05-30T17:00:00.003-05:002016-05-30T18:19:16.517-05:00First Family Camping Trip<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i>Note: Click on pictures if you'd like to see them larger.</i></div>
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Everybody in the semi-rural Midwest goes camping at some point. Some go more than others. It's a rite of passage, really, if you live anywhere outside of major cities. Over the last twelve years, Julie and I kept saying that we wanted to go camping, but we clearly didn't want to go badly enough to make it happen. Then our little man came along, and ain't nobody wants to go camping with a 2yr old. Now that he's nearly four, however, it seemed like the appropriate time to introduce him to this national pasttime.</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Curious-George-Goes-Camping-Margret/dp/0395978351?ie=UTF8&qid=1464629644&ref_=tmm_pap_swatch_0&sr=1-1" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9LIPdhT8ReQhZh1es_ErbGMCFQ03DBS24MuE3mLUKpJmUPqzENmjF0bPwI4r2TcQ5om3w63vNtDzek6-AE_a0eiq9QNHB1KgAphwP4a0aYA_XkfiZvezoGAdMuOUwzpWyxNXGnin-VRI/s200/camping1.jpg" width="200" /></a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Peppa-Camping-Trip-Candlewick-Press/dp/0763687413/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1464629578&sr=1-1&keywords=peppa+pig+camping" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipcqQN8D8BLRECutnFPWJmuM9gXw55zbfoKmhDHY_9Nfta9mCSa3z_Bs8yHF-vdHFx-uKHbObsJ19Upt0jp0yrgw5XXKwPg5iOr8ckE5QYB9DNEJhreQ1gZu41tfSne6aLjdj3yTZ-Z88/s200/camping2.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Biscuit-Goes-Camping-First-Read/dp/0062236938?ie=UTF8&qid=1464629680&ref_=tmm_pap_swatch_0&sr=1-1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCjUhe8V-0yKepCRkFEhgMTAYva_AVG11hp00FgHGFlXJbHpX3ByaooAT7kVRAFP0Z8RA-u7MVIQQksTDUxF5AWS8kn1WeGgKAzPMNHC4TtW0F9SE3Xyrri_T-FoK4M_2z5qZGuPcBcUk/s200/camping.png" width="133" /></a></div>
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We began with books, subtly mentioning the topic, and discussing how FUN it was to sleep in a tent and cook over a campfire. We started telling our friends we were going to do it, and looking at local campgrounds. Then for Mothers' Day Julie and I gave each other expensive camping stuff - a fancy tent and a double sleeping bag. Now we'd guilted ourselves into HAVING to do it. If we chickened out, everyone would know. So we picked a date - Memorial Day Weekend - and started picking up supplies. Suddenly, the forecast was predicting rain. What!? Everyone knows it can't rain over three day weekends! After a lot of wishy-washy beating around the bush, we sadly planned to go to the <a href="http://www.discoverydepot.org/" target="_blank">Discovery Depot Children's Museum in Galesburg</a> instead. Saturday evening it rained nearby and when the wind picked up and the skies got dark we patted ourselves on the back for making such a responsible decision.</div>
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Sunday dawned with bright sunshine and a text message from my friend: "Going to camp? No rain in the forecast today or tomorrow." Crap. No, we'd made our choice. I responded, "We're going to Galesburg today and camping in the yard this evening." We were going to "camp," just not off our property. Best of both worlds! Then Julie called the campgrounds. Apparently it was going to be $60 to tent-camp, and there weren't many spots open. She told me to make the decision, so I said that we'd stick to our <i>much </i>cheaper Galesburg plan. Just a few minutes later, she told me that she was overruling me and we were going camping. WELL, OKAY THEN. We hurried to get everything together, eat lunch, and get out there. We still didn't make it until 2:30pm, an hour after we'd planned to be there.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Pretending we're not terrified</i></span></td></tr>
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Boy this place was busy. Every spot was taken, and even spots I hadn't realized were spots were taken. I'd never been out there during a busy weekend before, and had no idea it could even be that full. It did not look like fun, it looked like a family-friendly Woodstock. Jasper was missing his nap, it was hot and muggy, our car was packed full, and we didn't even know if we'd have a spot to camp. We pulled into the host camper spot, and Julie knocked on the door. And waited. And knocked. And waited. Finally she pulled out her phone and called them. It turns out that the host campers were busy with a <i>golf cart parade</i> and we needed to wait patiently for them to return. No. Lie.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>My golf cart is more festive than your golf cart</i></span></td></tr>
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They finally came back and asked us if we wanted electricity or not. We said, "Sure" (gotta plug those phones in, amirite?) and they took us (we followed their fancy golf cart) to the sunniest spot in the park. It was completely out in the open, no trees at all, surrounded by campers, and looked to be roughly the temperature of the surface of the sun. "There's a plug over there by that camper you can plug into," they said, pointing over to another campsite. We decided we didn't need electricity after all. We said as much, and they told us they'd show us another spot. This spot was also awful, and they were pointing out more electrical outlets in other camper's spots. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I assured them that I was incredibly grateful for their thoughtfulness in trying to find us an outlet, but we really didn't need one after all, and could we pretty please have a spot with shade for our ginger boy? Oh, of course, they reassured us. They understood. "Wasn't there a guy who just left on the dam?" they asked each other. Oh. No. </div>
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We headed out of the camping area. As in, no more camping people. Just boats, water, and the dam ahead of us. They were legit going to make us camp on the dam. Suddenly, they pulled up in front of a hidden camping site. It was the only camping spot on this side of the lake, secluded, a bit hard to get to, and PERFECT. We said we'd take it. With Jasper asleep in the back, we unloaded as much as we could and then Julie drove off to pay for the site and pick up some firewood. "Get that up while I'm gone!" Julie shouted as she headed off, pointing to the 8-person tent we'd never set up before.</div>
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L. O. L. </div>
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Did I mention that I hadn't gone camping in 23 years, and for her it had been more like 3+ decades? This was a recipe for failure. Well, I gave it a shot, and nearly gave myself heatstroke in the process. This is as far as I got before she returned, shocked I'd even attempted it:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiySGGNjdjf23C1PZ-ScxtmpZK65JlTdTqEtYfOswDtrZPhAbgk7fGeapClakp_WhN-ex02bZPUGPtik6PjZEYg7IKjHfcYWheNa9-xsYxGyaNuO6FrlETBHDpGW8c8Vm_Be_Yv9_ibipE/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6086.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiySGGNjdjf23C1PZ-ScxtmpZK65JlTdTqEtYfOswDtrZPhAbgk7fGeapClakp_WhN-ex02bZPUGPtik6PjZEYg7IKjHfcYWheNa9-xsYxGyaNuO6FrlETBHDpGW8c8Vm_Be_Yv9_ibipE/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6086.jpg" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZdpO4brdUseMjLlcS6A3sNPvBblF5sXg4ovZAoLTm_YqnMtLub98c5lM6FmlNm4vItY9gnbNDyf3sB6snEJdNp8DXaJwHEtYWxdB_FHJXBj9U9LOC1MtVvgm7wMhFUj50wg8P5kpNBH0/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6084.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZdpO4brdUseMjLlcS6A3sNPvBblF5sXg4ovZAoLTm_YqnMtLub98c5lM6FmlNm4vItY9gnbNDyf3sB6snEJdNp8DXaJwHEtYWxdB_FHJXBj9U9LOC1MtVvgm7wMhFUj50wg8P5kpNBH0/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6084.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Jasper didn't think much of my efforts.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Oh my God she expects me to sleep in that?</i></span></td></tr>
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Luckily, we worked better together. Jasper chipped in as well after seeing what it would look like if I were left to do it all by myself.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Thug Life</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;"><i>Jasper was pumped to try out his Paw Patrol camping gear</i></span></td></tr>
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We sat down to congratulate ourselves on managing to get the tent up without having to call in the authorities, and relax for a moment. I asked Julie how much the site ended up costing, and she sheepishly admitted that she had misheard the host camper on the phone and it was apparently only twelve dollars for the site. Not sixty. My poor, deaf wife... When we realized it was close to 5pm and Jasper hadn't eaten anything all day but a grilled cheese and some loose cereal, we thought maybe it was time to unwrap the new camping gear and cook something besides nacho chips for the kid.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Do you know how many marshmallows this thing could hold?</i></span></td></tr>
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Now, Julie had been telling me for several days about this AMAZING treat she'd seen online. Apparently if you get some pie filling and stick it between a couple pieces of bread and then toast that over a campfire, it tastes JUST LIKE PIE. Well, of course we had to try it. After we finished our hot dogs, Julie got out the brand new can opener and opened up the cans of pie filling. She got apple, and I got cherry. We debated putting butter on the outside of the bread but decided that would taste too much like grilled cheese, so we went plain.</div>
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<b>Step 1: Fill the bread</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifuXbZznv3_SmY6_MlwQyPnf0Q5gjv8aJ2moNXyMb2WboOMNRdT_LHw-d8YixOAH2cVr_AW_RUIRRxMrFMH-IvEk4PDhJt3dH7HZSdW5hyphenhyphenVwxwOCFlp5VVchHhjZ9gt-hDrn0kxtw__qg/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6132.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifuXbZznv3_SmY6_MlwQyPnf0Q5gjv8aJ2moNXyMb2WboOMNRdT_LHw-d8YixOAH2cVr_AW_RUIRRxMrFMH-IvEk4PDhJt3dH7HZSdW5hyphenhyphenVwxwOCFlp5VVchHhjZ9gt-hDrn0kxtw__qg/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6132.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Step 2: Cook it like a pro</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5WY4y9bU8ZI3ZbiP0I0z6nyQ22srOcDWf06w0-kK0IEYPF1Tqc9AfKowSuoW11AmCFjnXc_M3V2jOBshoex8ryZUKBs2vLUMNLqZcsjq2if3DwU0g2W9YZ0cPItFcYZTSJzCBYhz_vnM/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6134.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5WY4y9bU8ZI3ZbiP0I0z6nyQ22srOcDWf06w0-kK0IEYPF1Tqc9AfKowSuoW11AmCFjnXc_M3V2jOBshoex8ryZUKBs2vLUMNLqZcsjq2if3DwU0g2W9YZ0cPItFcYZTSJzCBYhz_vnM/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6134.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Step 3. Admire toasted "pie"</b></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJnGlaNxj5K4837mUU96hyphenhyphen-x4hZAAQtYZIB0RJX-0rzPsTCssiryt79YyvFPvTzfKO-YksyYY_MwkDt5xq8v_UCJFqLn1pUXzAT0-8GvoAHUFnZ-57sRebRR-45ToJc8iUfMP8fgO6vEg/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJnGlaNxj5K4837mUU96hyphenhyphen-x4hZAAQtYZIB0RJX-0rzPsTCssiryt79YyvFPvTzfKO-YksyYY_MwkDt5xq8v_UCJFqLn1pUXzAT0-8GvoAHUFnZ-57sRebRR-45ToJc8iUfMP8fgO6vEg/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6136.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Mine wasn't terribly attractive</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyQ9wakRkEUsAHcAa1AFuM5lCPpbBEYm43p9wod4yeaV-Q5jkvSoJi_f1-x2HfmhTqGmFrh00mj9yCIbRZrgLiaPiN8G8Tm1No_xCX20cQv28C1E4R5XAttZV1Hj-LJX3Mto7Z5sSuinY/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyQ9wakRkEUsAHcAa1AFuM5lCPpbBEYm43p9wod4yeaV-Q5jkvSoJi_f1-x2HfmhTqGmFrh00mj9yCIbRZrgLiaPiN8G8Tm1No_xCX20cQv28C1E4R5XAttZV1Hj-LJX3Mto7Z5sSuinY/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6140.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Julie's was fantastic looking</i></span></td></tr>
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<b>Step 4: Consider filling</b></div>
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<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8GoMWfDn4MJgHMHdW9N7K2JOkQVLhmYBs1DPStSOvTEYPI4awagnoK090TAa7zL1ydc8nr3d5kmkcRYSRc0MloQPk7exEgn9HG6V9r7dRjAV7Z_ar8rOeWr3_kVf2hElfkLhX7cGGGTw/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6137.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8GoMWfDn4MJgHMHdW9N7K2JOkQVLhmYBs1DPStSOvTEYPI4awagnoK090TAa7zL1ydc8nr3d5kmkcRYSRc0MloQPk7exEgn9HG6V9r7dRjAV7Z_ar8rOeWr3_kVf2hElfkLhX7cGGGTw/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6137.jpg" width="400" /></a></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO6HSRQdosUiA1NI9OCMaFhtEa9Olmfm4wCoH1KMChoUBUMioyr_dG9y6JEsVefc8URogsWeWK6UzzTs1eDPMNm5vyOKOnv9DMGVWXfhw5yzByVPJEybIcSctBwoQvqj9YwjxvMSNyfkU/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6141.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO6HSRQdosUiA1NI9OCMaFhtEa9Olmfm4wCoH1KMChoUBUMioyr_dG9y6JEsVefc8URogsWeWK6UzzTs1eDPMNm5vyOKOnv9DMGVWXfhw5yzByVPJEybIcSctBwoQvqj9YwjxvMSNyfkU/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6141.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Step 5: Reaction face</b></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMUinmZ6HnpkW_UBmgZzBmwtr4U2x2rNHfn1EbJk_uP81fjEJZEZUufMiO8lrZpWvwItu46YiN1WAvPlxp78xbTWlCm7y9iKmW9KMWevZWeclshLMGWW7hD_NB11P6A1bHIGDRU6qU54g/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMUinmZ6HnpkW_UBmgZzBmwtr4U2x2rNHfn1EbJk_uP81fjEJZEZUufMiO8lrZpWvwItu46YiN1WAvPlxp78xbTWlCm7y9iKmW9KMWevZWeclshLMGWW7hD_NB11P6A1bHIGDRU6qU54g/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6139.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">How the heck am I going to put this into MyFitnessPal?</span></i></td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLvzTJgCoHyVLfWj7ZszpnzpbE2rvaPJyV0eJSfbBdK-agVs1PSvMhmhlWC0qFQa2ljs9ku93jMnQcju34ew1Ehp5QaOKL1t9j0pUvWcBq5pLvgPLJMh4dugNNbVpzfu0Koi34bgxKU6c/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6143.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLvzTJgCoHyVLfWj7ZszpnzpbE2rvaPJyV0eJSfbBdK-agVs1PSvMhmhlWC0qFQa2ljs9ku93jMnQcju34ew1Ehp5QaOKL1t9j0pUvWcBq5pLvgPLJMh4dugNNbVpzfu0Koi34bgxKU6c/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6143.jpg" width="266" /></i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">This is her "Meh" face</span></i></td></tr>
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Verdict: Meh. It didn't taste like pie, it tasted like pie filling on toast. Those cooker things would have made bitchin' grilled cheeses though. We were looking forward to lunch the next day.</div>
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With dinner under our belts and no electronics to distract us, we set about enjoying the peace and quiet. Julie and Jasper played a little Tee Ball, and I went around taking some pictures of the campsite.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_C33qyoA6A-YggqQltebwATDKMiHtvrgZzIR6G337ZY7APdtxh33HaH1R5SFIkgrdKDv426-yHIwk7SNTTODC3s3cnjWjJoJGa3tjPVZfghaNB08Qb5aUcSEnyeT6Tk_utC90y0X3D4/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6170.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_C33qyoA6A-YggqQltebwATDKMiHtvrgZzIR6G337ZY7APdtxh33HaH1R5SFIkgrdKDv426-yHIwk7SNTTODC3s3cnjWjJoJGa3tjPVZfghaNB08Qb5aUcSEnyeT6Tk_utC90y0X3D4/s320/FirstCampingMay16-6170.jpg" width="213" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiV1CoQPFrCA5uzTDaR-zPD0eZnUkOqtPHvlYH-gWi2NiVxYem6VKStvqDIvF2hECK8E345ZyZViq28CQliCAe54heXkuHVnvcEGDiP9Ztlzrx3dbOG3humxbz79bp4E-HSEpPP9W_a-o/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiV1CoQPFrCA5uzTDaR-zPD0eZnUkOqtPHvlYH-gWi2NiVxYem6VKStvqDIvF2hECK8E345ZyZViq28CQliCAe54heXkuHVnvcEGDiP9Ztlzrx3dbOG3humxbz79bp4E-HSEpPP9W_a-o/s320/FirstCampingMay16-6147.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiV1CoQPFrCA5uzTDaR-zPD0eZnUkOqtPHvlYH-gWi2NiVxYem6VKStvqDIvF2hECK8E345ZyZViq28CQliCAe54heXkuHVnvcEGDiP9Ztlzrx3dbOG3humxbz79bp4E-HSEpPP9W_a-o/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6147.jpg" imageanchor="1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_C33qyoA6A-YggqQltebwATDKMiHtvrgZzIR6G337ZY7APdtxh33HaH1R5SFIkgrdKDv426-yHIwk7SNTTODC3s3cnjWjJoJGa3tjPVZfghaNB08Qb5aUcSEnyeT6Tk_utC90y0X3D4/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6170.jpg" imageanchor="1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg1xsa5Rej8ubhoGC3qwPP2Fv2SILsxWoanjIDddpGVKi9rlZ9yHXcvD073goYBrH5AuXOlS_2LjyjGH4aQCAL24qM-9QWqAXSxlroJLw1y-QLhH3PTcXqJowaNktDBgRf5EevI80PFLk/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6125.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg1xsa5Rej8ubhoGC3qwPP2Fv2SILsxWoanjIDddpGVKi9rlZ9yHXcvD073goYBrH5AuXOlS_2LjyjGH4aQCAL24qM-9QWqAXSxlroJLw1y-QLhH3PTcXqJowaNktDBgRf5EevI80PFLk/s640/FirstCampingMay16-6125.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0000ee;"><u><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUvNZWmwUHGaYgoRhnsi47nyW54g4gTj5ITOA0MCTcHiHNh7L91-2Rgsch76Jet-crv59GXZxQ-v38XbcG903_2yIZ94Rf_LHgEI-m71abjlZWlfsSuO4Kb28J4_bqQtM0ztgDYGZQHE/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-174922.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUvNZWmwUHGaYgoRhnsi47nyW54g4gTj5ITOA0MCTcHiHNh7L91-2Rgsch76Jet-crv59GXZxQ-v38XbcG903_2yIZ94Rf_LHgEI-m71abjlZWlfsSuO4Kb28J4_bqQtM0ztgDYGZQHE/s640/FirstCampingMay16-174922.jpg" width="640" /></a></u></span></div>
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Finally Julie left to go give our cats their medicine, and pick up a few things we'd forgotten (pillows, toothbrush, etc.) I peed in the woods and then took Jasper on a walk. We saw some geese, played "Going on a Bear Hunt" a few times, and generally spent the next few hours hanging out and having fun.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVYD7d5uA1Ps54HG1S9RxHKe76ig_HiSD4S1qV5fyNB7ew4O6umHEFfkMgAPNt6hh-RQZYuVyIu3PsSsTRKFTHhUMf9X1jLAFTKjTyFwek86wiFDO42xAgahkkzm4TFYrwpVOl24QCYaQ/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6182.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVYD7d5uA1Ps54HG1S9RxHKe76ig_HiSD4S1qV5fyNB7ew4O6umHEFfkMgAPNt6hh-RQZYuVyIu3PsSsTRKFTHhUMf9X1jLAFTKjTyFwek86wiFDO42xAgahkkzm4TFYrwpVOl24QCYaQ/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6182.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVYD7d5uA1Ps54HG1S9RxHKe76ig_HiSD4S1qV5fyNB7ew4O6umHEFfkMgAPNt6hh-RQZYuVyIu3PsSsTRKFTHhUMf9X1jLAFTKjTyFwek86wiFDO42xAgahkkzm4TFYrwpVOl24QCYaQ/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6182.jpg" imageanchor="1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhROblaRBLjbT23zrJbq9Umxmrzx-Sitj-NO1UIf9xRA-y6ldp2oFYJwR2A-UOLhNmeDPc2QFPSvI6TcV2dV9QKBH9Z4BVizXsUti6Bf-q7CdH_7iitZid5695wsFaWNCUOd35Vmy4pMYY/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6224.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhROblaRBLjbT23zrJbq9Umxmrzx-Sitj-NO1UIf9xRA-y6ldp2oFYJwR2A-UOLhNmeDPc2QFPSvI6TcV2dV9QKBH9Z4BVizXsUti6Bf-q7CdH_7iitZid5695wsFaWNCUOd35Vmy4pMYY/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6224.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEssXX5pKs8oQ0I09K_aQovHehZfUp5Axn_C5oE3uTDtlXob2VocEYefQooU_JHwIyNwq0rYSuQCckDeTXYKtThiqrFvq3X0ocxxSlQ1pLmZOzga31XCRT1ChuHx7ZgDIx3mTwKJqA_c/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6262.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEssXX5pKs8oQ0I09K_aQovHehZfUp5Axn_C5oE3uTDtlXob2VocEYefQooU_JHwIyNwq0rYSuQCckDeTXYKtThiqrFvq3X0ocxxSlQ1pLmZOzga31XCRT1ChuHx7ZgDIx3mTwKJqA_c/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6262.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>If I make this face enough she'll stop making me pose</i></span></td></tr>
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Finally it was time to settle down and head to bed. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNi8Wf20Dk_rMWI5eXF-OqV0fGDUfu7dgnAI6NaAKHnxLo-f3pJcKm9xKsqh_b1LkocZQSK1WyVvnM-iHahaagidzQ4ndcaCViKkgjtBGIEm-ZF57Rs4LYpsDa_4HBmkk9munnLQqzK48/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6277.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNi8Wf20Dk_rMWI5eXF-OqV0fGDUfu7dgnAI6NaAKHnxLo-f3pJcKm9xKsqh_b1LkocZQSK1WyVvnM-iHahaagidzQ4ndcaCViKkgjtBGIEm-ZF57Rs4LYpsDa_4HBmkk9munnLQqzK48/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6277.jpg" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwySaZxfczwLqFg6OQLlJtmSN26X103fV0UYOhplkqqBmsCZc8Yb0TD33t0Zh4jIhkcUHxj8qJpanuN1_LFiDVGEZOkn4YQnKzA-DukBHd3ao27Q-4DpAxjbGEX-ykWFHqKy1F_hOTvb0/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6290.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwySaZxfczwLqFg6OQLlJtmSN26X103fV0UYOhplkqqBmsCZc8Yb0TD33t0Zh4jIhkcUHxj8qJpanuN1_LFiDVGEZOkn4YQnKzA-DukBHd3ao27Q-4DpAxjbGEX-ykWFHqKy1F_hOTvb0/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6290.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Jasper was so tired he conked out on his own after reading a few books, and eschewed the s'mores we offered to make. If he'd been a teenager and in town we would have assumed he was attempting to sneak out, but as it was he was just really tuckered out and excited to use his Paw Patrol stuff.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzozRpnzERzcZinXfgOZtBXepZt9hILE2i6ztzmsuGKcURXSu1pr5BRbb0Kc1hmCf_H_TpgS-7rDQpK_Gl87VUuCajW3lEAx5Pabj1_Ho9OAqGBo5gW_SU7AVbJo2k_fyZJWpYJiq7vCE/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6292.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzozRpnzERzcZinXfgOZtBXepZt9hILE2i6ztzmsuGKcURXSu1pr5BRbb0Kc1hmCf_H_TpgS-7rDQpK_Gl87VUuCajW3lEAx5Pabj1_Ho9OAqGBo5gW_SU7AVbJo2k_fyZJWpYJiq7vCE/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6292.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>If only every night's bedtime were this easy</i></span></td></tr>
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Julie and I spent a few hours chatting and eating s'mores - at this point all notions of diets were out the door - and enjoying each other's company. It's been a while since we just sat down and chatted, and it was nice to have that quiet time to ourselves. We congratulated ourselves on our procrastination, as if we'd arrived earlier and on time we never would have managed to get the sweetest spot in the campground. Hooray for dumb luck! Also, can you request camping spots? We want that one EVERY TIME. And we do want to go back. It was so nice.</div>
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Well. I mean. Until we woke up to thunder (Julie insisted it was "a jet" - for 20 minutes) and a kid who'd gone above and beyond the bedwetting call. Once I got Jasper awake I got him completely naked and then put into a new shirt. Before I even considered putting pants on him I walked him outside to pee. He didn't want to wake up, he didn't want to get changed, and he REALLY didn't want to go outside to pee in the bushes. He demonstrated his annoyance at me by swinging around and peeing on my bare feet. Thanks kid. I'll get you back someday, just you wait.</div>
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We packed up as fast as we could, but still ended up getting pretty wet. We were really disappointed, as we'd been looking forward to a camp breakfast and grilled cheeses for lunch. Still, we'd done a lot of packing up the night before in order to secure the campsite from any critters, and it didn't take as long as it could have. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwG-RmJ0bIeUNB3enSSk_2Qk870m2VJMTMmzxxnRUXg2fbmGQn1RfUXAjuVAWRnm6-7cg8V1rwsiZKPH9pnusS-nbWB9sYLWJw-eIhg3SfWKZGnWuYSLWDRKWh_bPd6q_MZdk5222gJiA/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6293.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwG-RmJ0bIeUNB3enSSk_2Qk870m2VJMTMmzxxnRUXg2fbmGQn1RfUXAjuVAWRnm6-7cg8V1rwsiZKPH9pnusS-nbWB9sYLWJw-eIhg3SfWKZGnWuYSLWDRKWh_bPd6q_MZdk5222gJiA/s640/FirstCampingMay16-6293.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Bungee cord gathering in the rain (AKA Karma for peeing on Mama)</i></span></td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL-XsuepDhogcrVgkqkM17wrt8xpV0GY4oAYQvcJtHn489e-v4zkFazV5f2rotnDZ_v8mYT3oYWrfrywjUXVdU39UDCrX63mM8reUlCUb64k2LYcl03-HHJxFPiQYBUkwl7R8i6SUZb3Y/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6299.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL-XsuepDhogcrVgkqkM17wrt8xpV0GY4oAYQvcJtHn489e-v4zkFazV5f2rotnDZ_v8mYT3oYWrfrywjUXVdU39UDCrX63mM8reUlCUb64k2LYcl03-HHJxFPiQYBUkwl7R8i6SUZb3Y/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6299.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>"No rain in the forecast" ;)</i></span></td></tr>
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Naturally, as soon as we had fully packed up and backed the car out to head home, it started clearing up. By the time we were leaving the park, it was sunny again. Like, brilliantly sunny, gorgeous, would have been fine if we'd been staying another night, perfect. Oh well.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsR1ld7fuc2Ou2dt4lIgnSNUfhh6tv5DiCGvgJoSsADtSQgqdvAIrhHJkrBID_Jz0Iel8x7wBDvqTaEHdRL703Rv7loanIpv4CfryzKJX0SzI-v7BfGp48aT9kXfOFq931DcG6deoLYqM/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6308.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsR1ld7fuc2Ou2dt4lIgnSNUfhh6tv5DiCGvgJoSsADtSQgqdvAIrhHJkrBID_Jz0Iel8x7wBDvqTaEHdRL703Rv7loanIpv4CfryzKJX0SzI-v7BfGp48aT9kXfOFq931DcG6deoLYqM/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6308.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Not even out of the park limits yet</span></i></td></tr>
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We got home and unpacked, then got the stuff out to make a great brunch. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, milk, and juice! Jasper even finally tried bacon for the first time, and he really loved it. He also loved the bath he needed after such a wild adventure. Mama and Mommy couldn't wait to take their own baths, either... we needed ours almost as badly! Check out Mama's curly hair after that rain!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZY0KAObe8ivY9WJyL89reSyngBWz3dlaBfVunAdbG9zAnf1kQz3wLGgYBbtGfiY_I1uuHrBYET7YDTUdB0qfB7n5zzA-IYjGekroT7GrbP5zyhKhp1mybfa7X91S7hDYr11g73GHrMs/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6322.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZY0KAObe8ivY9WJyL89reSyngBWz3dlaBfVunAdbG9zAnf1kQz3wLGgYBbtGfiY_I1uuHrBYET7YDTUdB0qfB7n5zzA-IYjGekroT7GrbP5zyhKhp1mybfa7X91S7hDYr11g73GHrMs/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6322.jpg" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihGctuHYTZnx3WqW1CsEwDc5I8EXbv3i1MRaygEJm-rBcqZL-x1fx8x9CUQ9DVYdygmdl4tmSSlH9jWbtWwTXQUKgdlk1l1ngkaDGdki-_Ke_J47pgIWiPDbpzdt3ywuB0YYs_ghDdRac/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6314.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihGctuHYTZnx3WqW1CsEwDc5I8EXbv3i1MRaygEJm-rBcqZL-x1fx8x9CUQ9DVYdygmdl4tmSSlH9jWbtWwTXQUKgdlk1l1ngkaDGdki-_Ke_J47pgIWiPDbpzdt3ywuB0YYs_ghDdRac/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6314.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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Julie and I had set some stuff out in the sun to dry up, and after brunch we put up the tent so it could dry out. Jasper discovered we'd put the tent up, and suddenly couldn't wait for naptime. He evidently thought we were going to allow him to chill out in the back yard for his nap while we stayed inside. In a few years, I'm sure we'll be perfectly happy to do that, but I doubt he'll be as happy to take naps! Luckily, he's got his very own tent to use, and we set it up in his room for his nap.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCP_rvcLTKl_aGmCDVu_KqQDZtXbhzocRSTQi1A8YTj37Thy-BEECsGHW6ZbCuQmz_ZUR9Emd_ymWIfRxiLe2pNXLpVLypKZiUsLgicuuoVtG5-ZmnedCIVK2-9oNpxPTGv-zCxsI9rM/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6335.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCP_rvcLTKl_aGmCDVu_KqQDZtXbhzocRSTQi1A8YTj37Thy-BEECsGHW6ZbCuQmz_ZUR9Emd_ymWIfRxiLe2pNXLpVLypKZiUsLgicuuoVtG5-ZmnedCIVK2-9oNpxPTGv-zCxsI9rM/s640/FirstCampingMay16-6335.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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What a great time, even though it rained!<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVrhaZRzpoRZ4MFqn3uIxpOasAdZsCYVdoVHGMjeH87zscFAGp7fefFy7IhrlB5f7jbJEyKUjmtCxSib4n2jerZtw7BXpc_MjaS-dzD8zC1AK0yQspRc3n7ZAT0QfTYEVKe3zNh5sXXQk/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-142013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVrhaZRzpoRZ4MFqn3uIxpOasAdZsCYVdoVHGMjeH87zscFAGp7fefFy7IhrlB5f7jbJEyKUjmtCxSib4n2jerZtw7BXpc_MjaS-dzD8zC1AK0yQspRc3n7ZAT0QfTYEVKe3zNh5sXXQk/s400/FirstCampingMay16-142013.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Before Camping</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfyhCmhsKWjgEQZ-eFVyk4CXxvKsahAzeLmpzaePnsqEEIPC9izrZJAZ7n7uhcrix-IkO2IUZGdlw03Ug_aOFsjwV0eULYS-TIcTHncF2IQR0hZ3Om_Gv-osUi2eHS5fKBZNRB8t5xzE/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfyhCmhsKWjgEQZ-eFVyk4CXxvKsahAzeLmpzaePnsqEEIPC9izrZJAZ7n7uhcrix-IkO2IUZGdlw03Ug_aOFsjwV0eULYS-TIcTHncF2IQR0hZ3Om_Gv-osUi2eHS5fKBZNRB8t5xzE/s400/FirstCampingMay16-6301.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">After Camping</span></i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Su4AL4zz4cndvU69hUdSX1Q8GsvQLD-6W5wpJvNhcdVn2YpshgNAUXoNNHUHiAFZHQb3MvKMFbSNfQtl_3uOnK__6PN58TeV0lNEai9aKgLiYxxIb3PbD5GYbb0yJzmGNdH-WFss0zc/s1600/FirstCampingMay16-6311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Su4AL4zz4cndvU69hUdSX1Q8GsvQLD-6W5wpJvNhcdVn2YpshgNAUXoNNHUHiAFZHQb3MvKMFbSNfQtl_3uOnK__6PN58TeV0lNEai9aKgLiYxxIb3PbD5GYbb0yJzmGNdH-WFss0zc/s640/FirstCampingMay16-6311.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Thanks, <a href="http://www.macombspringlake.com/" target="_blank">Spring Lake Park</a>, for being a wonderful place to make memories of our very first camping trip as a family! We'll be back!!!</div>
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P.S. Check out Jasper's thoughts on the trip <a href="http://littlemanjasper.blogspot.com/2016/05/first-camping-trip-may-29-30.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
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Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-81028872610115971682016-05-12T07:08:00.000-05:002016-05-12T07:12:26.045-05:00Feeling PanickyNew things scare me. They scare the pants off of me. In fact, I usually just avoid new things so that I don't have to worry about losing my pants in public. Sometimes, however, those things are necessary. Like actually giving birth to the baby I got myself pregnant with. Apparently once it's in there, it has to come out one way or another... The pants really <i>did </i>come off in public that time...Anyway, I digress. Three years ago I started thinking about graduate school. My employer offers this amazing benefit of 6hrs of in-state tuition EVERY semester. That's incredible. At first I didn't avail myself of this opportunity because I had no desire to be back in school. I needed to focus on just having a "real job" for a while. Then I was focused on having a baby. After I finally started sleeping again after the baby arrived (a year later), I realized that I'd actually fallen in love with librarianship and I really wanted to be an official one. I wanted to be able to say I was a librarian without getting the stink-eye from people who had the real degrees. And there was a way to get a (nearly) free degree. I would be stupid not to take them up on it.<br />
<br />
So I applied, got accepted, and then had to go through with it. Two and a half years ago, in January of 2014, I left my baby for the very first time ever and spent a week with strangers in what my program calls "boot camp." And oh boy, was it. There was an incident at the end that I kind of hope I'll have forgotten about in another decade or two that involved hysterical crying in front of the entire cohort after my final quiz essay got deleted right in front of me, two minutes before the time was up... I was fairly sure there were bets on whether or not I'd be quitting the program. I was sure thinking about it myself. But that was after staying up all night long to finish a paper (turned it in at 5:45am!), and I decided to give myself at least a semester to see if I could handle it. And I could.<br />
<br />
In fact, this program turned out to be one of the best decisions of my life. Only taking two classes a semester allowed me to really focus on each class and give them the attention they deserved. I turned in every assignment (with only a few extensions), and after that darned boot camp class gave me a B+, I got straight As (even a few A+s), leaving me with an overall GPA of 3.98. I am incredibly proud of myself. I accomplished this feat while working full time, parenting a toddler every moment I wasn't working, and often on my own as my wife works several jobs to make ends meet and is usually gone in the evenings and weekends, especially in the fall. On the other hand, now my kid knows how to play on a computer better than I did at the age of 15. Hey, cheaper than the babysitter we used to have to get on my school nights. By the end of this program we had a real routine down pat.<br />
<br />
Now, however, I am facing a new challenge. Graduation. I'm terrified. It was scary enough in high school, with people holding my hand at every turn, and a practice session. In college, it was pretty horrifying, but at least I was familiar with the campus and had sat through a couple previous ceremonies for friends. Now, though, I have to travel three hours to the campus, pick up my cap and gown from a building I've never been to (in person, I sure as hell stalked that place on google maps and with pictures and building blueprints), assemble at another place I've never been to, and then yet another place. <br />
<br />
This is a three day event for me. <br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Tomorrow we'll drop our son off at daycare where he'll wait to be picked up by one of his dads for the weekend. We'll drive to our hotel that is half an hour away from the city (because when I booked six months in advance everything within a half hour radius was booked solid), then drive to the city to pick up my cap and gown. Then back to the hotel to steam it and finish freaking out for the evening. </li>
<li>Saturday we'll wake up excruciatingly early and drive to .... some... parking spot.... on a super crowded campus... and join the thousands of people who will be there to see their undergraduate, graduate, or doctoral candidate student graduate. This place is so big that I won't walk that day. I'll just stand up in a big fat group of my friends. My poor wife will likely be sitting alone in this stadium. Then we're free for the rest of the day, hopefully to meet up with friends for lunch or dinner, and probably to do some tourist-y type graduation pictures. </li>
<li>Sunday we have to do it all over again, except on a smaller scale. This one will be my program's convocation. This one I'll be walking in. This is the one that will make me feel like I've really graduated, I think. Then we'll probably have lunch and head back home to pick up our son where he'll have been dropped off at our friend's house. Then I will be able to relax.</li>
</ul>
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Did I mention it's all going to be on live feed? If I fall down, ERRYBODY'S GONNA KNOW. I have to go through with this. I have to do it. When it's over I'll be so glad I did it. But holy crap am I scared. I took today off to basically clean my house and calm myself down so I'm not rushing around having a panic attack tomorrow. Ha. Who am I kidding? That's exactly what's going to happen anyway. Send me a kind thought if you have a moment this weekend. Or, if you want to watch me fall on my face, here are the links to the graduation ceremonies:</div>
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<b><a href="https://ensemble.illinois.edu/app/sites/index.aspx?contentID=aDajVzi95E-o4mHIdeHQ6A" target="_blank">Part 1</a>:</b> Saturday, May 14th at 9:30am
(Campuswide ceremony, I will be standing up with my fellow graduates in a large
group, 2hrs)</div>
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<a href="http://www.lis.illinois.edu/current-students/convocation/broadcast" target="_blank"><br /></a></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.lis.illinois.edu/current-students/convocation/broadcast" target="_blank">Part 2</a>:</b> Sunday, May 15th at 9:30am
(Smaller ceremony in which I will cross the stage, 1.5hrs)<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
P.S. I'll be wearing a dress so my pants can't be scared off of me.</div>
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Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-22121576121771393262015-11-23T10:55:00.000-06:002015-11-23T10:55:27.680-06:00Things You Don't Expect to be Included in Potty TrainingThis morning I got out of the shower. Jasper was sitting on his little potty next to the big one. He had pulled the lid up on the big potty (the seat was down) and had put his arm on the seat and was resting his head on his arm.<br />
<br />
"Ew, don't lay your head on the seat!" I said.<br />
<br />
He sat up and looked at me, and repeated, "Ew, don't lick the seat!"<br />
<br />
What? I'd looked away at this point and looked back at him just in time to see him lean down and lick the seat, and then look back up and me and laugh, with shining bright eyes.<br />
<br />
"LOL FUNNY!?!?"<br />
<br />
No, kid. That is not funny. Now get away from the potty so I can puke. EW.<br />
<br />
-3yrs, 3mos.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-87520685856268208542015-10-13T17:06:00.001-05:002016-11-01T18:25:14.755-05:00Colonoscopy/Botox Surgery Live Blog. This is happening, people.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So I have to
have a super embarrassing surgery. I’m
getting Botox. In my butt. In my anal
sphincter, to be precise. I can get into
details if you’d like, but we all know you wouldn’t like. The short version is that I’m literally a
tight-ass and together with my IBS it’s causing problems, so I’m getting Botox
injected to help it relax just a little. I’m praying it’s not enough to cause
problems of another sort. Oh, and a colonoscopy while he’s down there, just for
fun. I thought I’d do a sort of live-blog of my prep and surgery in case anyone else has to
go through this and is terrified of what awaits. I’ve been polling my friends, and I’ve heard
both “it’s not a big deal” and “I wanted to kill myself,” so here we are. I’ll
be completely out for the surgery since apparently Botox needles hurt like
crazy, so my very sweet colorectal surgeon said I needed to be asleep. Bonus
points for not being able to say ridiculous drugged-up things during my
colonoscopy. By the way, I have a problem with talking about bowel movements
and can only call it poop or farting if I’m talking about it with my child, so
this is mostly an exercise in openness and not being embarrassed. And using
words like poop. And fart.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkzZfsbEzrq9R9-Fpds99r41xISatu1hO0hL7za6CB-u_m9eqZuobt_fJrXSf6kedthpRGQeKUWrtQgFBQNTzsxmSP0jQ8La4_74BHqV8Wg6W727IMFaSgnPuu-Uq-MAkVvH0Ld7eCdpY/s1600/tumblr_lgn6r7vPM01qa6j6co1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkzZfsbEzrq9R9-Fpds99r41xISatu1hO0hL7za6CB-u_m9eqZuobt_fJrXSf6kedthpRGQeKUWrtQgFBQNTzsxmSP0jQ8La4_74BHqV8Wg6W727IMFaSgnPuu-Uq-MAkVvH0Ld7eCdpY/s320/tumblr_lgn6r7vPM01qa6j6co1_500.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My toddler
is out of state for the week, visiting his dads, so I am going to be able to
poop in peace the evening beforehand, when my entire system needs flushed. I
had to move the surgery once because I hadn’t consulted my wife and it turned
out that she had scheduled workers to come into our basement that day/evening
before, but she would be gone. So I would be the contact person for that, as
well as having to deal with a toddler, as well as “the cleanse.” Nope. I moved
it to the week my son would be gone, and then later they tried to move the
surgery to the following week because of a surgical room conflict, but I went
into bear-mode and explained that they would, in fact, FIGURE. IT. OUT. And
call me back. So they did. And now
instead of an early morning surgery, I will be having it sometime around
noonish. Here we go!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><u>T-Minus 2… I
don’t know how that works. The day
before the day before the surgery. </u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMlKVwjpciPCTuZeX6zcDNbaWipzwuzjo0GIB8B6WK4KpIHTqIJQuMHlE63TZcRQbZAU_3_TYIKRvAsWamjCHjEJaqWDBe3BbVHPUbN91Isacv6yFkLG1A9tb7eptx6DP1t84NX8d9xcI/s1600/20151013_164024.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMlKVwjpciPCTuZeX6zcDNbaWipzwuzjo0GIB8B6WK4KpIHTqIJQuMHlE63TZcRQbZAU_3_TYIKRvAsWamjCHjEJaqWDBe3BbVHPUbN91Isacv6yFkLG1A9tb7eptx6DP1t84NX8d9xcI/s320/20151013_164024.png" width="291" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No Fun, Ever</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I’m eating
anything that can’t run away from me, trying to build up my blood sugar…. Who
am I kidding? The prospect of not being able to eat anything for a day and a
half is terrifying. I’m eating like I’ll never eat again. Chips? Check. Tacos?
Yes, please. Soda? In the name of blood sugar, of course. Cherry cheesecake?
DOWN THE HATCH. At this point I remembered something about not eating red
foods, and dug out my pre-surgery paper. Sure enough, no red foods, but I have
a couple hours until it’s clear liquid diet time. At midnight I am supposed to
switch over. Sounds like time for candy, to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><u>The day
before the surgery.</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I wake up
hungry. This is not a good sign. My wife gets to sleep in, as it is Columbus
Day and her school still celebrates it. I lie in bed contemplating how badly I
really need this surgery, then sigh and take a shower. I consider shaving, and
then decide I’ll save that for tomorrow morning so I’m extra fresh for them. I
take my regular pills with some unsweetened almond milk and feel like a badass
for breaking the rules. I head to work, and once there with my rumbly stomach I
reach for my Cabinet-O-Goodies so many times that I eventually make myself a
sign and stick it on my keyboard.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXrnAQ66F3KrjcqKdAwqhbaQZQIB3WszJNrB6UAkGGWkuqHNE3KGBBw_HYdIPModgyKyk0O5NWllalIqGxB4JzHrlo8H6-vk9p4R6C7sbpohdYCwXa2LzjL4O8vrSIPNuV6ysxEIe15V8/s1600/20151012_120236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXrnAQ66F3KrjcqKdAwqhbaQZQIB3WszJNrB6UAkGGWkuqHNE3KGBBw_HYdIPModgyKyk0O5NWllalIqGxB4JzHrlo8H6-vk9p4R6C7sbpohdYCwXa2LzjL4O8vrSIPNuV6ysxEIe15V8/s400/20151012_120236.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">NO FOOD</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have Poop
#1 of the day at work thanks to the one private bathroom in the building. It’s
painful and there’s bleeding, so I’ve already started the day off nicely. This
pain, nonexistent when I haven’t pooped in a day or so, will stick around for
hours and hours after a bowel movement, especially if I’m sitting down. With
the extreme amount of pooping coming my way, I know I’m in for a GREAT
EVENING. I leave for the store at noon.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
At the
store, I stop by the pharmacy to pick up my Miralax/Dulcolax duo that the
office said they called in for me, and hold up a line of people while my hot
young male pharmacist guy runs around looking for it. After a big to-do about
it being on the shelf and getting it for me in which they had to open up
another line, he gets out a bag from behind the counter that he’d previously
pulled out when I told him my name. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well what’s
that, then?” I ask him, pointing to the bag. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Uh….” he
says, checking the label. “Polyethylene Glycol.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What the
hell is that?” I question, sighing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Um, I’m…
actually not sure,” he admits, and checks the system. Super inspiring. “Oh, it’s the pharmacy version of the Miralax
I just got you. It’s cheaper.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I’ll take
the cheaper one, thanks,” I say.
Duh. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Do you want
me to go get the Dulcolax?” he asks, helpfully.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I sigh
again. “No, help these people behind me. I’ll just figure it out myself.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Unfortunately,
all it said on my instruction sheet was “4 tablets Dulcolax.” It did not say
whether this needed to be the “gentle overnight” version, or the box with four
suppository tablets for “fast relief” that worked within 15 minutes to 1 hour.
Given that I was supposed to take these tablets after everything “ran clear,” I
eventually went with the gentle overnight version. No need to force more
diarrhea than was necessary. One of the nurses from the office called to let me
know that my Botox was approved by the insurance (nothing like last minute
approvals), and she also confirmed that I’d chosen the right laxative. Whew!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I picked up
the other items on my list, and a few others that occurred to me while at the
store. I pushed my cart up to a checkout aisle with a nice older lady behind
the counter. She smiled kindly as she beeped across: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<ul>
<li>My new soft-cushiony toilet seat</li>
<li>Four
soups and cereal for my recovery meals</li>
<li>Two packs of lime Jell-O (Why the hell
does nearly every Jell-O out there include red dye? There was red, orange,
purple, and blue in one big pack. Thanks, but I don’t want them to think I’m
dying, so I’ll stick with the more expensive individual packs)</li>
<li>Two large
candles</li>
<li>A six pack of 7up</li>
<li>Four 32oz Gatorades</li>
<li>Two jars of bouillon</li>
<li>Dulcolax</li>
<li>Hemorrhoid pads</li>
<li>Extra strength, fast relief Tylenol</li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I had already paid for my pharmaceutical Miralax, so she didn't have to handle that one. The
checkout woman had clearly had this procedure done before, judging by the rueful
smile she gave me as she said, “Have a nice day….”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbPMSm16Tj7KR2PD1YlaXL-Bzmq8npeFj5qPlXixoShZ2Gr-D0qKWgBFVHWQWFCtL9DnzAEJllDW_rBxiwjVfjXu2UYrt4Eog0-Pn3TSr-AZGcrm9o-ghH-farKZxHBZMhEkOPIrWpIk0/s1600/20151012_131232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbPMSm16Tj7KR2PD1YlaXL-Bzmq8npeFj5qPlXixoShZ2Gr-D0qKWgBFVHWQWFCtL9DnzAEJllDW_rBxiwjVfjXu2UYrt4Eog0-Pn3TSr-AZGcrm9o-ghH-farKZxHBZMhEkOPIrWpIk0/s400/20151012_131232.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Loot</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>1:25pm</b> – I
put away the cereal and take one bite, because I’m a badass, as previously
stated, and Don’t Feed The Bears rules don’t apply to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>1:30pm</b> – I
install my very first toilet seat. Our old one had a crack in the seat, and I
need some fresh cushion for the evening’s activities.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:00pm</b> – I
eat my first Jell-O cup. If this were college and that had been a shot, I’d be
drunk by now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:15pm</b> – My
wife comes home from her hair appointment and gently asks me how I’m doing. I
admit I haven’t started yet because I’m scared. I contemplate making some
broth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:30pm</b> –
This Chicken and Herbs broth is freaking amazing. I think I might be able to
handle a liquid diet, minus the laxatives. Well. Maybe for like a couple days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:35pm</b> – You
know what would be delicious with this broth? Chicken. Noodles. Crackers.
Something to bite. *sigh* Okay I really
have to start this laxative stuff soon.
Ish. Soonish. By 3:30 at the latest. I know they said 2pm, but that was
before my surgery was rescheduled for four hours later. I want to feel full as
long as possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:38pm</b> – I
start watching the CW TV show Beauty and the Beast, from the beginning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:40pm</b> –
This show has an amazing soundtrack.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:42pm</b> – This
show is fascinating. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:43pm</b> – Not
a big fan of the line, “Does she have a husband? Boyfriend? Lesbian
lover?” Why not just say “Does she have
a husband? Boyfriend? Wife? Girlfriend?”
Ugh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:45pm</b> – I
light one of my new candles. I might be stalling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:57pm</b> – The
elixir has been mixed. My wife comes home and asks me if I needed any Depends
undies for the following day, and I smack my forehead. She is amazing and
offers to pick some up for me tonight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>3:00pm</b> – I
drink my first 8 ounces. That wasn’t so bad! Pretty tasty, with my cherry frost
Gatorade! (The clear/white kind, remember.) My wife reminds me to put on some
comfy, easily removed clothing. I set a timer for the next drink. I go pee to
make some room for all this yummy laxative juice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>3:15pm</b> – Okay,
here goes round 2. Nothing is happening yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>3:30pm</b> –
Round 3. Still delicious. Still no poo.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>3:39pm</b> –
Feeling kind of farty. But not really. Like that feeling you get when you know
you’re going to be farty soon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>3:45pm</b> –
Here goes 4! Still nothing happening, I think to myself, and then suddenly I
race to the bathroom. SURPRISE! POOP TIME! Except for the surprise part, it
wasn’t too bad. The drink stuff is half gone now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>4:00pm</b> –
Fifth drink down, three to go. Feeling okay. Now I’m worried about surprise
poop though. You know, we’re potty training my toddler and a few times we just
put the potty out in the living room in front of the television. For just a few
split second I consider moving the television into the bathroom…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>4:11pm</b> – I
can’t tell if I have to pee REALLY BADLY or I’m about to poop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>4:13pm</b> –
Both. I feel like this would be a lot more enjoyable if I didn’t already have a
really severe anal fissure. There is no cramping or pain as far as the colon
goes. Just some discomfort for me at the booty.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>4:15pm</b> –
Here we are on drink six. Okay this is getting tedious. I am starting to be
concerned that I won’t like Gatorade after this…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>4:30pm</b> –
Nothing much to say. Watching Poldark now, which I’m really enjoying. Aidan
Turner is fun to watch. Just had my seventh drink. One to go!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>4:38pm</b> – Uh
oh. TO THE BATHROOM!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>4:45pm</b> – THE
LAST OF IT!!! Oh crud. Not the last of it. There is still one more
to go.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>5:00pm</b> – And
that’s it! Well, until the Dulcolax at 6pm. TMI here. Well, really this whole
post is TMI… So I had to poop again, with that incredibly urgent feeling. TMI
ahead: It’s really a strange feeling to poop so much liquid and with so much
force that it feels like you’re peeing… but not. Not at all painful. Just a lot
of liquid. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>5:25pm</b> –
THEY FOUND COPPER IN THE MINE!!! Uh...
that is not a euphemism, and might be a spoiler if anyone reading this is actually watching Poldark.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>5:28pm</b> – To
the toilet again. This is my fifth bathroom trip since starting this. The
liquid is nearly clear now. It’s so
weird, to feel this super urgent need to poop, go with force, and then
immediately be done. Normally when I
have diarrhea I’m on the toilet for far too long. Now it’s almost faster than
just going pee. Here’s a question – how
did they determine exactly how much laxative was needed to get a person to the
finish line? Who tested that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>5:52pm</b> –
Bathroom trip #6. I’m starting to get hungry again. Maybe some more broth? Or
Jell-O? The possibilities are endless. I must say, I could definitely have done
this with my three year old here. I’ve been in the bathroom a lot, but no more
than any other night when I have diarrhea and he’s here and I’m dealing with it
on my own. And really, this time I’m not cramping and feeling nauseated, so
this is actually better. I am feeling a bit tired, though.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>6:16pm</b> – On
the toilet again, just for a bit. I was supposed to take that Dulcolax fifteen
minutes ago, but I got distracted by facebook and writing bad poetry on a
lark. And damn am I tired. I could fall
asleep right now. It’s only 6:30… should I? I feel like maybe I should “eat”
something before I do that. Maybe I could lick a marshmallow or something?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>6:35pm</b> – I
finally took the Dulcolax. I rewarded myself with another hot cup of broth, and
a Jell-O for dinner. Both of them! Living large, people! Side note: my bowels are kind of cramping
now, but not like normal… like they’re suddenly dehydrated? I don’t know how to
explain it, but it hurts. I might go for some Tylenol in a short while.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>6:47pm</b> –
Bathroom again. I just want to go to bed. Waaaaahhh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>7:03pm</b> – Uh
oh, toddler wants to Skype. Fast bathroom break just in case. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>7:04pm</b> –
That was a very good idea.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>7:23pm</b> –
Four books read over Skype later, my spirits are up and I think it’s time for
some more broth!! I’ll try beef this
time, since it JUST occurred to me that I picked out “chicken and herbs” and
there are… um… herbs in it, and they specifically said “no pulp” so I probably
wasn’t supposed to drink broth with floating spices… Whoops. It was delicious, though.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqGevS6UBnSn5CuoNerK8fMj1Zt6SiI4VS5zIf7HZSH8aQnK6ylUTvMcOhJT4sf4GKKFFn9dmBjYBcTBVgMGN0o-eaM3QYBwLvpCOlfacOzUlL8A2WbXNwJZF-J_WL0liYIzgmy4nhwdo/s1600/20151012_142613.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqGevS6UBnSn5CuoNerK8fMj1Zt6SiI4VS5zIf7HZSH8aQnK6ylUTvMcOhJT4sf4GKKFFn9dmBjYBcTBVgMGN0o-eaM3QYBwLvpCOlfacOzUlL8A2WbXNwJZF-J_WL0liYIzgmy4nhwdo/s400/20151012_142613.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Broth Is Amazing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>7:34pm</b> –
Distracted by facebook again. Why isn’t anyone here to microwave me some
broth??<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>7:35pm</b> –
Bathroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>7:40pm</b> –
Making more broth. Fairly certain that the bag of Salted Caramel Peanuts
sitting on top of the pie safe just solicited me, and then taunted me when I
staunchly refused. I consider sneaking some of them into the hospital for an
aftercare snack.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>8:00pm</b> –
Toilet, toilet, sitting on the toiiiiiiiiiiilet<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>8:40pm</b> –
Mmmm this candle smells good. As I run
past it to go to the bathroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>8:46pm</b> – I’m
really cold. I think I’ll cuddle up with a book in a blanket. I wonder if being
cold has anything to do with losing all the food keeping me warm from my
insides out?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>8:57pm</b> –
Broke out the hemorrhoid pads during this bathroom trip. Can I just remind all the women out there to
keep that away from your cootchie? Because witch hazel on the cootchie feels
about what I imagine wiping yourself with hot wing sauce would feel like.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>9:30pm</b> –
Things are slowing down pretty well now. Everything is clear coming out, and
there isn’t much sense of urgency now. This is what, toilet trip #14? Whew. I
should probably reward myself for this bravery with some Jell-O. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>9:35pm</b> –
Does rainbow sherbet count as a “clear liquid?” Asking for a friend. A very
hungry friend.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>10:45pm</b> –
With no further toilet trips and barely able to keep my eyes open, I’m using
the bathroom and going to bed. I think the worst is over.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><u>The day of
the surgery.</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>12:10am</b> – I
just woke up to use the bathroom in a most urgent way. Also, I noticed that it
wasn’t clear anymore. I hope that’s normal and it’s not a problem for them
during the surgery tomorrow!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>3:50am</b> –
Ugh. Still having diarrhea and now it’s the kind where I don’t feel good.
Intestinal nausea? I keep feeling like I’m going to have to go more, and
generally “don’t feel good.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>7:50am</b> – I
wake up for good and use the toilet and there is only pee. I feel totally fine,
and not even really very hungry. I’ve lost 2lbs since beginning this “cleanse.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>8:35am</b> – I
am getting really nervous. The last time I went under general anesthesia was twenty
years ago when I got 5 teeth pulled for my braces. Back then I didn’t know the
risks, really. Now I’m all, “Say your goodbyes!” I text my friend to make sure
of the time she’s picking me up to take me in, and she reassures me, and I get
a couple of messages from other friends wishing me well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>8:42am</b> – The
wife turns on SportsCenter. I secretly consider canceling everything and just
staying home and watching Netflix or reading in the bedroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>9:05am</b> – I
gather my clothes to take a shower. I’m going about all of this like it’s a
funeral, moping and choosing dark solids. I’ll be showing up in various shades
of gray. I suddenly remember that I have to take my rings off (or they'll take them or tape them down) and I get sadder.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji20roj9T86R6ZLdu75XrLiU-xfqP9I8xTDdDEh9_WamLly99gQpOZVyL7A5L_MSutr-HWhMZUSNuuxjnq8iO0csx_v8NO3xnhTjBub9neRln-oLqnTWRPU6g0DqAEFeu-Wxad_SZrTEU/s1600/20151013_090750.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji20roj9T86R6ZLdu75XrLiU-xfqP9I8xTDdDEh9_WamLly99gQpOZVyL7A5L_MSutr-HWhMZUSNuuxjnq8iO0csx_v8NO3xnhTjBub9neRln-oLqnTWRPU6g0DqAEFeu-Wxad_SZrTEU/s400/20151013_090750.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Ring Holder</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>9:38am</b> –
Body clean. Check. Shaved. Check. Wearing comfy neutral-colored clothing
because that’s my safe space. Check.
Ooh, I should paint my nails…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>10:25am</b> –
Okay, I’ve emailed my professor to let her know that I may or may not be able
to attend my online class tonight at 5:30pm.
I’ve done my forum post for the day.
I haven’t painted my nails. My friend will be here in fifteen minutes.
I’m freaking out a little.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>10:34am</b> –
I’m not panic sweating, YOU’RE panic sweating!!!! I reapply deodorant. I have to pee, but am
waiting to do it because I know they’re going to make me take a urine pregnancy
test when I get there, even though I haven’t been with a man in eleven years,
and the last contact I had with semen was in November of 2011 when I got
pregnant. On purpose. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>10:40am</b> – My
friend arrives to pick me up, since my wife has to be at the house to meet the
construction workers who arrive just as we need to leave. I have just
panic-applied fingernail polish to my hands, and she catches me waving them around
like a crazy person. She drives me to the hospital.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>10:56am</b> –
Check in. I feel like the sexiest colonoscopy patient ever, with the rest of
the people in the waiting room being 65+.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>11:16am</b> – My
professor emails me back. “<span style="background: white; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">I do remember you
emailing about this, and I appreciate you keeping me apprised of developments.
Please know that I do not expect you to be in class on the same day you are
having any kind of surgery, let alone one that requires general anesthesia.</span>”
Challenge accepted. See you at 5:30pm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>11:50ish am</b> –
Head back to the Pre-Op with a nurse person. She tells me, speaking roughly 426
words a minute, to strip down completely naked except for my socks. (Like a bad
porn flick?) She gives me booties to wear over the socks, a gown to wear, and a
gown-robe for privacy. And a urine specimen cup. I have to go pee, thankfully,
and so I can fill the cup with my non-pregnant pee.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>12:10ish pm</b> –
The anesthesiologist comes in to talk to me, and explains how the anesthesia
will go. I would fall asleep quickly and wake up quickly with no real side
effects, since I wouldn’t be intubated. “It’s an easy way to go,” he says. I
start laughing and ask him to please rephrase that, as I’m already a bit
nervous. He apologizes and laughs along with me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>12:30ish pm</b> –
I am hooked up to an IV and a blood pressure cuff and given the thing with
controls to the TV in my waiting area, as well as buttons for “Sad” and “Potty”
and what appears to be “Winged Nun” according to the pictures. They bring my
friend back and she talks me down from my “I’m leaving” ledge. She also
snickers through my super embarrassing answers to the questions they ask me, promises
they’ll never hit facebook, and offers to let me attend her next gynecological appointment for
revenge chuckles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>12:50pm</b> –
Time to head back! They kick my friend out, pull back the curtain, and wheel me
down the hall into an OR, where my anesthesiologist is NOT THE SAME GUY. Larry
informs me that the doctor I spoke to was the HEAD anesthesiologist and that is
totally different. Well okay then, Larry. Take me to Funkytown.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>1:00pm</b> – I’m
so drunk. The room is spinning, but it’s spinning UP. Everything is going from the
floor to the ceiling. That is totally weird. So is going from sober to drunk in
like 1 minute. They can’t find my
surgeon but they know he’s around. They discuss texting him or calling, and
decide on texting. I have no problem staying mildly drunk, so I kind of hope he
takes a while.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>1:05pm</b> – My
surgeon arrives and seems annoyed with me, and asks me questions about if I’m
having diarrhea. He’s Brazilian so I can’t figure out if it’s his accent or my drunkenness,
but I’m like, “I’m not pooping right now, but I certainly did last night…” They
all laughed at that, so tension is relieved. I get the impression he wants me to understand
why I am there and getting a colonoscopy, so I parrot back the information he
quoted to me during our first appointment, about how I self-diagnosed myself
with IBS and that was not okay and he needed to check me out. “Right,” he
says. I zonk out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBPt6QURT6QC2OdjdmBYOjnw73zWOzokgnB58cByMDyYV7w1ACKnE7JrENVxZyOG6dOPwNkBrWy6lZKqdoo3IWOKsWw_SjYi9jQpPvEoEmVn5ziUmsxuHWm72J6Y7dkk7Fow0BIIW2cI/s1600/black-windows_542931.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBPt6QURT6QC2OdjdmBYOjnw73zWOzokgnB58cByMDyYV7w1ACKnE7JrENVxZyOG6dOPwNkBrWy6lZKqdoo3IWOKsWw_SjYi9jQpPvEoEmVn5ziUmsxuHWm72J6Y7dkk7Fow0BIIW2cI/s320/black-windows_542931.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like This</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:00pm</b> – I am
back in the pre-op area, which is now post-op. My butt hurts, but no worse than
it has been after a bowel movement in the last six months. I’m still a bit
drunk so I’m asking questions and re-asking them a few moments later. I am not farting at all, which is excellent
news. Everything I read about colonoscopies said I would be farting a ton.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:05pm</b> – My surgeon
says something about it going fine and he’ll see me in two weeks for my
follow-up appointment and then he’s gone, if he was ever there at all. Maybe a
nurse said this. I am helped into a chair and given some water to drink. Sweet,
sweet, sweet water. I cry because I wanted my surgeon to stay and chat with me
about what was happening, and I feel like everything is happening too fast and
I don’t understand what’s going on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:10pm</b> – My
friend comes back to be with me, and moments later my wife does too. They chat
while I get naked and dress again, locker-room style, pulling on my undies
underneath my robe, etc. My friend informs me that her eleven-year-old daughter
has the same sports bra as me. Although I suspect mine, being three years old,
is a bit nastier than her kid’s. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:15pm</b> – My
friend and my wife argue about who’s going to take me home (who has the easier
car to get in and out of), and finally my friend with the mini-van wins.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:30pm</b> – I get
into the house, still sucking on my water. Wife arrives just after we do, and
my friend unlocks the house with her key. I get the mail and show her my newly
arrived credit card with a picture on it that she took. We say goodbye to my
friend and she goes home, and I head to the kitchen, where I promptly shove a
chocolate chip cookie and a handful of salted caramel peanuts into my mouth
before my wife can stop me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:35pm</b> –
There are workers putting wall anchors into our basement, and there is
intermittent jackhammering going on, as well as ridiculously loud country music
playing. Thank goodness I didn’t expect to be napping.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>2:45pm</b> – I’m
on my second bowl of cheddar broccoli soup and halfway through a package of
peanut butter and jelly crackers, and my wife has promised me that I get to
have Jimmy Johns for dinner if I am good and don’t throw up anything I’ve just
shoved into my mouth. I assure her that I am a champ and can keep it down. She
also fills my now-empty water cup with 7up, which I have determined I like a
lot better than either Sprite or Sierra Mist. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>3:00pm</b> – I am
now constantly peeing. Thanks, IV and new liquids. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>4:26pm</b> – The
anesthesia has pretty much entirely worn off. I don’t know that I would go
driving right now, but I suspect if I did I’d be okay. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>4:50pm</b> – Okay, I probably shouldn't have eaten so fast. The diarrhea is back. Luckily, now I can take some immodium... Back to life as normal, I guess. Class starts in 25 minutes!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Overall,
this was a pretty decent experience. I think that if I had to do it again, I
would. My only hesitation would be making sure someone could be with me at the
hospital, and probably making sure there weren’t too many people at the house
with me the evening before. If you have
to get one done and are worried about the experience, I would say don’t
be. I don’t believe for regular
colonoscopies you get put all the way out like that, but even so I don’t think
it’s probably too terrible. Everyone was really nice and it was not too
traumatic at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>7.5/10,
would Colonoscopy again.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-57675061351218240822015-03-01T15:52:00.003-06:002015-03-01T15:52:51.028-06:00The Best Chicken/Vegetarian Salad Evaaaaaaar.Raise your hand if you think chicken salad is delicious, but way too hard to figure out how to make at home. Raise your hand if you secretly love chicken salad but you're a vegetarian and don't want to eat it (see note at bottom). Raise your hand if you made something requiring cubed chicken but you have leftovers and have no idea what to do with them.<br />
<br />
Put your hand back down and print off this recipe and go to the store.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Ingredients:</b><br />
1/2 can garbanzo beans (chickpeas), drained and rinsed<br />
2-3 stalks celery, rinsed and chopped<br />
1/2 small/medium white onion, chopped<br />
1 cup red grapes<br />
1/2 cup-1 cup chicken, cubed and cooked<br />
1 tablespoon mayonnaise<br />
1 tablespoon miracle whip<br />
1 teaspoon honey mustard<br />
1 teaspoon dijon mustard<br />
1 tablespoon lemon juice<br />
1 teaspoon dried dill weed<br />
salt and pepper to taste<br />
<br />
<b>Tools needed: </b><br />
Food processor (not necessary, but makes things easier)<br />
Large bowl<br />
Mixing spoon<br />
Cutting board<br />
Knife<br />
<br />
<b>Serves:</b> About eight sandwiches<br />
<br />
<b>Directions:</b><br />
1. Drain and rinse chickpeas. Shell them if you're feeling fancy, but it's not necessary. It just tastes smoother.<br />
2. Add 1/2 can of chickpeas, the celery, onion, chicken, and grapes into your food processor.<br />
3. Pulse mix until well chopped. Do NOT create paste. This should still be chunky.<br />
4. Empty food processor into large mixing bowl.<br />
5. Add mayonnaise, miracle whip (this can be simply one or the other if you prefer), and the rest of the ingredients. Mix well.<br />
6. Serve. Refrigerate leftovers.<br />
<br />
<b>Notes: </b>Best served in pita bread. <u>To make vegetarian, skip the chicken and boost the chickpeas.</u>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-69844219488031707862014-09-17T10:59:00.000-05:002014-09-17T11:50:41.936-05:00School Pictures (and why I care so much)Every year when I was growing up, there was a big build-up to School Picture Day. What would we wear? How would our hair look? Would it be a good picture, or completely terrible? We'd wake up that morning and our mom would fuss over us, making sure that we looked as good as she could possibly manage, regardless of the haircut we'd chosen or the ridiculous style trends of the time. She almost always vetoed t-shirts, and absolutely nothing with words on it. That was NOT acceptable. She would hairspray my hair (a big deal) and I would try to move as little as possible all day until the picture was taken. Then we'd wait weeks to see how we'd managed, and only if they were truly awful did we get retakes done. This was the only formal picture we had taken all year. Once every few years we might get a formal whole-family portrait done, but those instances were few and far between, and usually were only done when our church wanted to do a new directory. They were far too expensive to have done on a regular basis. Sure, we had plenty of informal pictures taken, and those showed our real personality. Those pictures were for the frames around the house, and for the photo albums. But each child had their own special binder full of school pictures, just for them. It was a chronological progression of cuteness to awkwardness to almost-adulthood, and upon graduation, we had them all displayed in a picture frame at the graduation party, a reminder of each of the years we'd studied and worked to get that point.<br />
<br />
My grandfather enjoyed photography. My mother enjoys photography. I enjoy photography. It's a thing. It's a thing that we each grew up loving and doing as a hobby, though I have been able to turn it into a side business venture (currently on hold while I'm in graduate school). I have taken tens of thousands of pictures of my son over the last two years, and many of them have been worthy of framing. None, however, compare to the plain, dressed up, ridiculous-faced school pictures he's gotten taken at daycare. They don't compare, because there is no comparison. One style of pictures, to me, is NOT equal to another style of pictures. It's not that those photos are any better (more often they're worse) or more deserving of being framed. It's the tradition behind them. You're taken from your class to the picture chair or X on the floor. You're forced, under bright lights, to smile at a camera and a photographer you've never seen before. You wait for weeks to find out how they turned out, and more than likely wish you hadn't looked at them. It's a rite of passage.<br />
<br />
This year, I bought Jasper a dress shirt just for his pictures. I carefully watched for the Picture Day announcement, and delightedly prepared him that morning. I took a back-up polo shirt to daycare and put it in his locker "just in case." I fully expected him to be scared or unhappy and take a terrible picture, and was actually looking forward to that a bit. That evening, sure enough, they said he'd cried for his pictures. Oh well, I thought. There are always retakes, and who knows? Maybe I'll just order some crying pictures anyway. The next day, I sent him to school in a hand-me-down "I [heart] Mommy" t-shirt. That evening, when I picked him up, his teacher told me that they got him to smile really well that morning. WHAT? Apparently, unlike every other year I've ever experienced school pictures, including his last two years of daycare, they had TWO days of pictures and because he'd cried for the first day, they took him down the second day to try to get a better one. No, they hadn't put him in the back-up polo shirt I'd left in his locker.<br />
<br />
If you know me, you know that I try to be pretty care-free, but I get exceedingly controlling about some things. Pictures are one of those things. School pictures are one of those things. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. There was supposed to be a collared shirt, and I was supposed to know it was happening, and he wasn't supposed to be wearing a t-shirt, let alone one with words on it, let alone one insinuating that he preferred one parent over his other three! That's right. He has a Mommy, a Mama (me), a Daddy, and a Dada. How could I give his dads an 8x10 for their wall of Jasper wearing a t-shirt saying "I [heart] Mommy"? I know I'd be annoyed if they had taken him to get pictures done when he visited them, and they handed me an 8x10 of him wearing a shirt saying "I [heart] Daddy". This coparenting thing is hard sometimes, but we try especially hard to be considerate of each other's feelings that way.<br />
<br />
So I got Jasper's pictures back today. He sure did smile great in that t-shirt. In fact, if he'd been wearing almost any other t-shirt, I would have probably said, "Meh, it'll be a funny story someday" and let it go without retakes. His smile was that great. But with everything combined (not being told about it, not using the back-up polo in his locker, having an I [heart] Mommy shirt) I kind of emotionally lost myself. I didn't cause a scene or anything, but I have been unable to concentrate on anything else. People think I'm overreacting, and maybe I am. But I know myself, and I know this would bother me every single time I thought about it, and every single time I went through his pictures. This isn't how School Pictures were supposed to go. It didn't happen the right way!<br />
<br />
I recognize that I'm too controlling. But that's who I am. I am a controlling person, and sometimes about extremely minor things. Yes, I am able to see the Big Picture in life. Does this picture matter in the long run? Does this matter to my son's health and happiness? No. In fact, he probably would be mortified to know that it's this big of a deal to me. Does my wife care about it? No. Do his dads care? I don't know, I haven't talked to them, but I suspect they'd feel it was annoying, but a silly mistake. That's the big picture. For someone with anxiety though, it's the little picture things that help us keep our shit together. The house is a complete mess. That's okay, because I have organized my ebook folders, and I made order in this small way. Laundry hasn't been done in forever. That's okay, because I know where all of my pairs of shoes are, and they are all in the same place.<br />
<br />
You can't love me if you don't know me, and you can't know me without knowing that I must have control over a lot of the little things in my life to feel at peace. School pictures are one of those little things. It might seem silly or trivial to you, but to me they represent my childhood, and I have to get it right for Jasper's. He doesn't have to be smiling (I've got plenty of those), but they have to be done in the correct way. If you can recognize that this is important to me, and support me in my ridiculousness, then you probably love me a whole lot.<br />
<br />
A friend told me today when I was complaining about this to her, "You don't have to explain. We all have things we think are important that others see as silly or trivial." That was the first sigh of relief I took all morning. I'm sure that she didn't really agree with or understand my feelings, but she let me know that it's okay to feel one way, when everyone else thinks you should probably feel another way. And that was exactly what I needed to hear.<br />
<!--3--><!--3--><!--3--><!--3--><!--3--><!--3-->Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-25023622032079731292014-06-30T11:46:00.000-05:002014-06-30T12:04:04.211-05:00The Reason Margaritas Were InventedAs every parent knows, there are certain rites of passage that each child (and his or her parents) goes through – some good, some bad. The first diaper change, the first smile, the first roll-over, the first crawl, the first steps. The first time out of the carseat and into the front of the shopping cart. This brings me to the little-thought-of rite of passage my son and I experienced on Sunday. The first shopping trip out of a cart. Oh, he’d been in stores without being in a cart before, but usually it was just to the flower counter and back outside, or inside a small store like the Dollar Tree for a card. No wait. I think I used the carts in there too…Anyway. Sunday we went to both Farm King and Hy-Vee without using carts. While I wouldn’t say it was a mistake, I will say it was an experience I don’t care to repeat, as much as I know I have to.<br />
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First we went to Farm King to pick up a roll of wire to fix my 1930s metal porch glider. Now, I’m not stupid, but sending me to the store to pick up a certain (yet unknown) gauge of wire is like sending your four-year-old to the store to pick up a new memory card for your camera. I can do it, but I don’t know where in the store to go for it, and I don’t know the specifics of what I need. So I walked into Farm King, holding my toddler by the hand, and turned left, toward Customer Service and the tools.<br />
<br />
Jasper dashed off to the card aisle.<br />
<br />
I retrieved him, and guided him into the main aisle, deciding to just ask at Customer Service where I might find wire. Jasper stuck out his hand and discovered the taffy candy display was VERY crunchy sounding and VERY colorful. I gently disengaged his hand and prodded him along to the Customer Service desk. Once there, I sat him on the desk with my body pressed against his knees and lower legs, to prevent him from standing up and tap-dancing next to the register. I spoke to the very kind and helpful representative, who called a worker from Hardware to come and look at this ancient wire I had. Apparently this worker was supposed to go on his lunch ten minutes ago, and when he said something about 12.5 gauge wire in a 10lb bundle, my eyes glazed over – and he was not amused. I regretfully had to interrupt him and tell him that I understood nothing of what he said, and that he had my permission to talk to me like I was a child to explain it. I said that I needed about 20ft of wire “the size of this one,” as I held up the piece from my glider. He almost imperceptibly rolled his eyes and told me that 10lbs would hold a hell of a lot more than 20ft. I explained that I knew that, and I was just letting him know that as long as the wire matched and it held At Least 20ft, I wanted it. He grunted and shuffled off to Hardware to get it. In the meantime, my son was quite through sitting still. I put him on the floor to move his legs around a little. However, he assumed that I meant he was now free to explore the store. By the time the man from Hardware returned, I’d already saved a display of sunglasses, and run almost to the front doors to catch Jasper as he made a run to escape. I profusely thanked both the man and woman as I paid for the wire, explaining it was my son’s first time out of the cart, then sighed my relief as Jasper and I escaped the store on purpose.<br />
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Now I had to go to the grocery store. All I needed was a bundle of cilantro (Walmart was out the day before) and some orange ginger sauce (which Walmart hasn’t carried for a while, but I really desperately wanted to make some stir-fry). I didn’t need a cart for that. He was just bored in Farm King, but in the grocery store we’d be walking a lot. On Wednesday I’d picked up Jasper’s (one week older) buddy from daycare and stopped at County Market on the way home. I didn’t use a cart with him, and he was a responsible little angel, following me around the store with the air of an eight-year old. If he could do it, that meant that Jasper was probably at about the same skill level.<br />
<br />
How bad could it be?<br />
<br />
He calmly walked into the store with me, and I asked him if he’d like to push the tiny green toddler-sized shopping cart. He pushed it once and then walked away from it, so I opted to just walk with him and carry a basket. He did very well as we walked to the produce section. I congratulated myself on my well-behaved child. Then, as I stood unbelievingly in front of the empty spot where cilantro should have been, trying to think how on earth I could rescue dinner without it, he tried to steal a lemon. And salad dressing. And tried to start an avalanche of cucumbers. Well crap. I decided we’d have stir-fry for dinner instead, and grabbed his hand to guide him past the cookies to search for the aisle with the Asian food.<br />
<br />
Son of a gun, they didn’t have my darned orange ginger sauce. They had two types of ginger teriyaki, but I wanted the orange ginger. Jasper was getting antsy, so I set the basket on the floor so he could play with it while I chose from the sauces available. And by play with it, apparently I meant “fill it up with anything in reach.” In went a huge bag of chow mein noodles (which we didn’t need). Well that was satisfying. He turned to the shelf and grabbed a can. Then he threw it into the basket as though he were warming up for his first pitching gig in the major leagues. I gasped and checked the can for dents (none) and then put it and the noodles back on the shelf. “No no, Baby, we don’t need those. Gentle hands.” He ran away down the aisle and I had to go get him and carry him back, apologizing to the sweet older woman next to me for bothering her, saying that I was disappointed I couldn’t find the orange ginger sauce. She replied in a thick accent with a question about the sauces available, but I didn’t get a chance to answer her as Jasper was squirming to get away from my arms, which must have been excreting a toxic substance and causing him pain, and I hustled down the aisle to prevent him from kicking her.<br />
<br />
Well darnit I didn’t want to leave empty-handed, so I took my toddler to peruse the salad dressings, in hopes they’d have something I could use instead. He shot into the aisle with his left hand outstretched, heading for the pickle jars. Most parents can understand my sense of terror at this action. I ran after him, grabbing his flailing hand just before he swept an entire row of glass jars of dill pickles onto the floor. The sigh of relief at avoiding this catastrophe was probably louder than it should have been. I guided him to the salad dressings, where he went limp and rag-dolled onto the floor. I left him there and picked up two dressings that might work for dinner. Once I’d put them in the basket, I picked him up and asked him to follow me. He cheerfully did. We made it halfway down the aisle, and he fell down. I’m pretty sure it was on purpose. He laughed, and then caressed the cold hard floor like a drunk in the bathroom after a long night of partying. I sighed again and said, “Come on, let’s go!”<br />
<br />
He did <a href="http://i.imgur.com/BVvxt.gif">The Worm</a>.<br />
<br />
Now, I realize that I can’t expect my toddler to behave like an angel his first time out of the cart, but I think it’s acceptable to at least hope he’d refrain from terrible dance moves from the 70s. I took Jasper’s hand and helped him up, then walked him to the soda aisle, stopping every six feet or so, so that he could fall to the floor and touch it. I don’t drink much soda, but after this shopping trip, I figured I deserved a six-pack of Sprite. By the time I put it in my basket with the two bottles of gourmet salad dressing, Jasper had made a fast break for the checkout lanes – or at least in their direction. I sincerely doubt he was looking to hold a place in line for me. This lengthy run was suspiciously done without falling even once, so it’s clear that his shoes weren’t the problem here. I ran after him and caught him before he collided with anyone’s cart, saving him from permanent grate lines on his face.<br />
<br />
Holding Jasper’s hand, I aimed for a nearly-empty checkout lane. He fell down. I picked him up. He broke away from me and overshot the lane, so that I had to run after him again. When I turned back to the checkout lane, a woman with a full cart was waiting for me to get in front of her. She motioned me to go ahead of her, and I said thank you. Gone are the days of politely declining and insisting the other person go first, regardless of how many items I’ve got. Now it’s a ruthless race to get ahead of anyone with more than one item. After I said thank you, though, Jasper fell down again. And again. And again. And again. I finally apologized to her and explained that it was his first time out of the cart, and told her that maybe she should just go ahead and go in front of me. Her face brightened with understanding. “No,” she said. “I’ve been there. Please go first.” I wanted to cry with gratitude. Not from being able to go first, but because this well-dressed, perfectly coiffed, pleasant woman wasn’t judging me for my inability to corral my son, or my mismatched, grilled-cheese-covered outfit and flip flops, or my previously tight bun having unwound and frayed around my face, hanging down my back, or the sweat I’d broken out into after chasing him all over the store. This woman knew what I was going through, and she wasn’t judging me. Well, maybe she was, but she was doing a great job of being polite and pretending she wasn’t, anyway.<br />
<br />
I put down my basket and picked up my 40+lb son. As he struggled against me, I gently nudged the basket with my feet the remaining distance into the lane – about four feet. He was wiggling out of my arms, so I put him down and picked the items out of the basket and put them on the conveyor belt. Meanwhile, the checkout lane next to us was empty, so Jasper had plenty of room to run in circles. He made a run for it once or twice while I was trying to get my debit card out of my purse that was magically still on my shoulder, but I caught him. A minute and a half later we were on our way out of the store, toddler in my arms. He struggled again and I asked him if he wanted to walk. He lunged for the floor and I put him down so that I wouldn’t be the mom who dropped her baby on his head at the grocery store. I took his hand, and he held it like a perfect little gentleman all the way to the car. Except for when we were going across the crosswalk, where he rag-dolled on me twice as a car waited for us and I had visions of dropping my purse and my bag of groceries and scooping him up out of the path of danger.<br />
<br />
When we got home, I put him to bed for a nap and got my mug of leftover margarita out of the freezer, chopping at it with a spoon. When my wife came in from her own casual and relaxing trip to Walmart, she asked me how my trip went. I glared at her and took a spoonful of my iced deliciousness. “Next time it’s your turn.”Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-74604485296552772732011-09-11T13:12:00.002-05:002011-09-11T13:12:30.856-05:00Pride is a nasty thing.I should know. I wouldn’t admit it to you yesterday, but I pride myself on my listening skills. I listen to what my loved ones are saying, and I make the appropriate responses. They’re heartfelt, don’t get me wrong. But I pride myself on really understanding them.<br />
<br />
I just had a phone call that really blew me away. Someone very special to me had to repeat something she’s been telling me for a long time, something I always “heard” before. But this time she spelled it out, and I really understood. And I felt like a jackass, because all this time I thought I was such a good listener and I just couldn’t figure out what the problem was. Maybe the problem is that I don’t actually hear what people are saying to me. I know I do this with Wife all the time. I don’t tell her things, because I’ve already told BFF or other friends, and I just assume I’ve told her. I know this really bugs her, but I’ve never actually done anything proactive about it.<br />
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Well you know what? I’m starting over. I’m going to start listening—really listening. Take notes if I have to. Because pride really does go before a fall, and I just fell really hard. And if I want to pick myself back up again, I need to pay some serious attention to what people are saying to me.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-23622915570678615202011-09-02T15:05:00.000-05:002015-10-29T15:06:23.940-05:00I Dream of You, You KnowI dream of you, you know<br />
I dream of your eyes<br />
I dream of the skies<br />
You'll see when you play in the snow<br />
<br />
I dream of the things we'll do<br />
I dream of your laughs<br />
I dream of the paths<br />
We'll explore and create some brand new<br />
<br />
I dream of your little hands<br />
I dream of your nose<br />
I dream of your toes<br />
Oh I've got so many plans<br />
<br />
I dream of the day you'll be here<br />
I dream of your face<br />
I dream of the place<br />
It's becoming ever so clear<br />
<br />
I dream of you daily, my sweet<br />
I dream of my child<br />
So wild and beguiled<br />
The darling I can't wait to meetJuliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-44030283805149918042011-07-25T13:01:00.002-05:002011-07-25T13:22:25.117-05:00All You Need Is Love<i><b>By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another. </b></i> [John 13:35]<br />
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I know some people believe it to be impossible, that a woman in a lesbian relationship could consider herself a Christian, but I do. <br />
<br />
I don't follow every single rule in Leviticus--in fact, find me someone who does, and I will give you $25 (I was going to say $100 but I really can't afford that, on the off chance someone knows a real stickler for Old Testament rules). There is one rule professed throughout the Bible, though, that I do take to heart. <br />
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Love one another.<br />
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Love.<br />
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What is love? <i>"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails." </i>[I Corinthians 13: 4-8]<br />
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This is my rule--the one I live by. Love one another. Many people think that this passage only applies to the love between a couple, read at their wedding, but it doesn't. It applies to every moment of your life. It applies to the person in front of you blocking your view at the movie theater, it applies to the parent with a screaming child two aisles over, it applies to the scruffy-looking "delinquent" teenager on the street in the city. <br />
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This isn't something that only applies to Christianity. I know many other religions practice love and forgiveness as a main component of their belief, and many people who do not practice any sort of religion act with much love, forgiveness, and kindness in their lives. I'm just saying that I myself am a Christian, and that is my inspiration for my life.<br />
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If you ever wonder why I find it difficult to immediately suspect someone of malice, this is why. If you ever wonder why I am always say things like, "Well maybe they were trying to do this, and it came across wrong.." it is because I am trying to see things from their point of view. I am trying to protect, trust, and hope. If you ever wonder why I find it ridiculously difficult to choose sides in an argument between my friends, this is why. Because it breaks my heart. I want forgiveness to prevail. I want happiness and love to abound. But most of all, I love them, and to cut that love off once it has been given is like cutting out a piece of my soul.<br />
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Don't get me wrong. There are people in my life that I really can't stand. There are people who drive me crazy, and I am NO saint. There is one woman in particular who has hurt me enough that I'm fairly certain I will never be able to forgive her, and when I hear that bad things have happened to her, I can't stop myself from feeling a sense of smugness. I am a sinner, just like everyone else, and that is just one of my many faults. Everyone has their own faults, their own sins. Everyone struggles with something or another, but I can't help thinking that with just a little bit more love in the world, how much kinder the world would be.<br />
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I read an interesting quote this morning:<br />
<i>"Forgiveness is the scent that the rose leaves on the heel that crushes it." </i>- John Arnott<br />
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I think that pretty much sums up how I feel about life. People will hurt us, consciously or unwittingly, every day. People say things, do things, or perhaps ignore us completely in an effort to be hurtful. Sometimes they do it without even knowing how upsetting their words or actions are. Who you are is determined by how you respond to the situation once it has been catalyzed. <br />
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One of the things I am most ashamed of, is a friendship that was ignored for too long. We both said things we may or may not have meant at the time, and in between many hurtful things were said and written. I am pleased to say that we are friends again, but in the end it wasn't me who made the first step toward reconciliation. I will always be ashamed of that. She will always remain the bigger person to me, the one with the bigger heart. She was the one who embodied the Word of God, the Lord's commandment to love one another. She doesn't know it, but every time I speak to her I think of how much I admire her for that, and my heart warms knowing that we are finally in contact again.<br />
<br />
So, Christine, this post is dedicated to you. Thank you for showing me that forgiveness and love is a way of life, not something we pick and choose on whom to bestow. I love you.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-32727611584634466702011-04-20T21:50:00.001-05:002011-04-20T21:51:14.320-05:00Time Travel and MeWe've been having a Doctor Who marathon this last couple weeks. For those of you who don't know what that television show is about, it's a British sci-fi series about a time traveler from another planet (who looks <b>surprisingly </b>human) who has human friends, and he can travel anywhere in time and space. They go on great adventures together, and in fact rarely go anywhere <i>without </i>having a great adventure--some more fun than others.<br />
<br />
One of the problems that The Doctor's human companions have to deal with is "life after The Doctor." They become accustomed to traveling universes all over time, and to live back among humans who have no idea that there is life on other planets is their idea of a monotonous hell. To plod along living life one day at a time, with many days being mundane--how could anyone live like that? They don't understand how to readjust.<br />
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My job consists of many different little tasks, but the majority of time I spend copying and pasting information between programs. The end result is a fantastic conversion of important paper documents to the Internet for your viewing pleasure, so it's definitely all worth it--just boring at times. Today I was walking out of work after a particularly mind-blowingly boring afternoon, and had the sudden thought that I wished The Doctor would come sweep me away from this life and whisk me off to various new worlds. It's a time machine, right? I could come back to this exact moment?<br />
<br />
Then I thought about the movie Click. It's an Adam Sandler movie about a man who gets a remote control that controls his life instead of his television. He realizes he can skip past all the dull parts of his life, and thinks he's won the lottery. But after a while, the remote control begins to learn his habits, and overrides his choices and soon his whole life is over and he has missed out on all the best things.<br />
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Would I really want that? Sure, it would be nice to visit another time and another place. Heck, I'd love to just visit next week and get some lottery numbers. But I know I wouldn't want to give it up, all that traveling. I'd keep going until I was too old to go anymore, and then come back to what? My family would have all grown old without me, my friends would be gone, my pets would be long gone, and I'd be all alone in the end. And I would have missed out on all of life's small joys, like finally realizing the fun and beauty of planting a flower bulb, or sitting on the porch listening to a soft thunderstorm and the rain patter. Sure, I'd love to skip past the snowy months, but then I'd miss out on the crystallized patterns on the windows.<br />
<br />
So, I think, ultimately.... yes. Vacations can be wonderful, but in the end the best part of life is being at home with your loved ones, living each mundane little day as it comes. <i>One. Day. At. A. Time.</i>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-50209878831128054732011-04-17T14:50:00.000-05:002011-04-17T14:50:29.614-05:00The DefeatistI am one of those people who analyzes everything, and more often than not my analyzing borders more on over-analyzing than anything normal. If you're still with me, thanks. So today is one of those days when I should feel happy and chilled out. The sun is out, it's not too hot and not TOO cold. My wife has put down the computer and taken up the landscaping job I started over the last few weeks. We actually have progress in the area, and have put in two little bushes. It's her mom's birthday. And I don't want to do anything. I don't want to be productive, I don't want to go in public, I don't want to talk to anyone, and I feel like a fat, lazy, ugly, slob. My face keeps breaking out and I've gained weight. <br />
<br />
I know what to do to stop it--to reverse it (well, the weight thing. The acne thing is 9/10 a mystery), but I can't bring myself to do it. I don't. Want. To move. I'm tired, I'm convinced people hate me because of things I've said or done, and I can't find any clothes to wear. I just want to go back to the bedroom, lie in bed for a week watching television and speaking to no one, and when I come out it will be wonderful spring/summer weather outside, I'll be rested and have magically dropped thirty pounds, my friends will all be clamoring to speak to me, and my face will no longer resemble a twelve-year-old's. And I'll have a British accent. I think that might make me feel better, too.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-54709094162072757542011-02-08T17:57:00.002-06:002011-02-08T17:59:54.676-06:00Today Was a Bad DayI just got home from the store. I sat in the car and considered spending the night there. It seemed like a good idea, especially since I couldn't get the key out of the ignition. Oh, I could take the key out, but I most definitely didn't have the emotional strength to do it. And then I thought of the Butterfinger ice cream I just bought. It motivated me to get out of the car and climb in the snow drifts surrounding my driveway (I'm parked at the way back since there are three cars ahead of me in the driveway this week) and get into the backseat for the few bags of groceries. The first bag I picked up contained the orange juice, which was 50% of the reason I was even at the store to begin with (since after the Super Bowl I picked a fight with Julie and left the OJ on the kitchen table all night instead of putting it away). The bag sliced open and the juice dropped out. I almost shut the door and left everything in there. But no... the ice cream. Also, Heather is on her way over in a few minutes, and then I'd look like a jackass because she'd insist on helping me with the groceries once I told her where they were. But I didn't. I brought everything in. And now it's waiting on the kitchen floor for me to put it away, which I won't do until Heather gets here and sees that I haven't done it and I feel guilty enough to do it. I fed the cats, because I can't look at their poor meowy faces too long when I know Julie won't come home and do it.<br />
<br />
I had a breakdown today. A complete and total sob session within full view of a lot of people. Heather offered to come over to be with me so I won't be alone tonight. I can't do this anymore. I can't do it. I can't feel like this. I can't let every little thing hit me like an emotional mack truck and let it run me over. Repeatedly. I'm not excited about anything. And then I am, totally gleeful. And then I'm not again. It's been going on for a while, and I've been trying to be "me," the me I'm supposed to be. But this is a me no one wants to be. And people are beginning to notice. I suppose this says it best, this excerpt from an email I wrote tonight. In order to understand it, you should know that I've been slowly attempting to wean myself off my medication because... well I guess I'm stupid and thought I could. I thought that, in a controlled way, not just cold turkey, I could "be like normal people." There was another, more significant reason, but I'm not ready to discuss it. Here's the excerpt, minus a few personal remarks:<br />
<br />
"I'm going to see the doctor. The more I think about this situation, I think a lot of it has to deal with me being chemically imbalanced. That doesn't go away, like regular depression, and I've been fooling myself thinking I was just plain depressed, when I knew the doctor said (in 2003) I had a chemical imbalance. I need to find out if I can continue taking my medication... Up until I find out, I'm going back to doing the dose I've been on for a year. I've been sitting here having some seriously dark thoughts like being just fine with not waking up tomorrow, and all of the sudden I thought, "wait... wait... I remember this conversation with myself... the last time I had it, I was in college and having horrible life problems like... not making good choices, saying stupid things and regretting them, hurting friends, and crying at everything. EVERYTHING. Well, except for when I was fighting with people. Oh........ JUST LIKE NOW." ...it is ridiculously unhealthy to attempt to live like this."<br />
<br />
<br />
So here I go to the cabinet, to give myself a dose of anti-depressant, and to the kitchen floor, to get out my Butterfinger ice cream. Because I deserve it, damnit.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-84957031611387174432010-12-19T18:20:00.001-06:002010-12-19T18:21:13.800-06:00Bah.Do you ever get so caught up in living your own life that you forget to think about how your closest friends are living theirs? I mean, you know what's going on but you don't do the right thing? Or you don't even know what the right thing is to do it?<br />
<br />
Today I was walking on a mountain path with a couple friends and my wife. I was so busy talking to my wife that when my friend fell I saw it happen but thought she just tripped. I yelled back, "Let me know if you need anything..." Really she fell off the edge, but luckily another friend was there to catch her.<br />
<br />
That didn't really happen. Not like that. The mountain path was emotional. But do you get what I mean? I hate it when stuff like this happens.<br />
<br />
I feel like a scuzzbucket sometimes.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-66096806649240528672010-11-21T12:16:00.001-06:002010-11-21T12:16:22.418-06:00DreamstateI had a dream this morning, just before I woke up. I don't think I'll share it, but it made me realize that one of my fears about being a mother is stronger than I thought. My cousin is giving birth today and I checked her status last night before I went to bed, so I can only assume that's why I dreamed what I did (which actually had nothing to do with her but it was awful). I have dreamed the same thing in variations for a little while now, and there's a tiny part of me that worries... if you dream something often enough.... is it because it's going to come true? God has worked through dreams countless times. Why should I be any different? I can only hope that's not what's really going on.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-40376561902359227332010-10-29T12:36:00.000-05:002010-10-29T12:36:33.990-05:00Another LanguageEvery time I watch the movie Avatar there's a scene that speaks to me. It's where this guy Jake is learning about the Na'vi culture and language and he's told that there is a phrase, "I see you," that means something more than just the words. It means, "I see you, I see into you, I see who you are, and I accept you. I love you." I wish there were a word or phrase for that concept in the English language. Sometimes I read blog or facebook posts where I don't really have anything to contribute, and if I post a comment it will just be empty words. <br />
<br />
I wish there were something I could say that meant, "I read this, and while I read it, every heartbeat was dedicated to you. I will think about this far longer than it took me to read it, and I will think about it again later today--maybe even tonight, tomorrow, or a month from now. I think about you a lot. I read this and acknowledge your pain/love/sentiment. I was here. You are a part of me and I understand what you are saying. I see who you are--your inner thoughts--and I love you. I just have nothing to contribute at the moment. But <i>I was here</i>."<br />
<br />
I suppose I could just go with "I see you," but would that make me something of an Avatar geek?Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-6617139694301070832010-10-23T11:15:00.001-05:002010-10-23T11:16:55.631-05:00Speaking of babies.....We want one. We want some. We want children badly. For those of you who think we don't deserve one because we'll instill bad values--with all due respect, go jump off a dock. You can have your beliefs and your prejudices, but they are wrong. I am going to be a great mother, and Julie is going to be a great mother, and we will <i>both </i> be mothers. There won't be a "mom" and an "aunt." We are going to have children of our own, and it will be soon. I won't be telling you right away, since it's something that I don't want you to have any part of ruining. There are some of you who ruin everything for me by telling me I'm doing it wrong, by telling me I'll mess things up, by telling me God sees me and is unhappy. Don't pretend you know what goes on in God's omniscient head.<br />
<br />
Have you ever watched me or Julie with children? Have you ever seen the love in our eyes? Do you have any idea how much effort we will put into raising the most tender-hearted, educated, humor-appreciating, God-fearing children who will ever walk the planet? It's not like we intend to just "go get knocked up." We're doing this the right way. This child or children will have mothers who love them, and yes! FATHERS who love them! I want our children to have fathers. I know that might blow your mind, but I'm not some man-hating lesbian who thinks that men only ruin things. I think fathers are incredibly important and every child at some point will want to know who had a part in creating them--and I want our children to be able to know and love <i>all </i> of their parents.<br />
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So when I call you to tell you we're expecting, if you answer with anything other than "Congratulations!".... if you answer with a sigh, if you answer with a sarcastic "Well, that's great," ... if you answer with tears of unhappiness, you cannot reasonably expect to be a large part of our children's lives--because I don't want them to have to dread coming to see you, knowing how you judge our family. I don't want to drop them off to stay with you only to hear later the lies you've put into their heads. I can promise you that the first time you hurt them by telling them that their family is not a real family will be the last time you see them.<br />
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So, speaking of babies... we're going to have them, we're going to love them, and we're going to be prouder of them than anything else we've ever done in our lives.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-65814047859220337442010-10-07T14:32:00.001-05:002010-10-07T14:32:53.235-05:00Officially Annoying.It seems that suddenly there are a lot of things in my life that need to be officially done. We needed to officially get our marriage application notarized. We needed to drive over to Iowa to get officially married. We got our official marriage certificate but now need certified copies of our birth certificates (which I might have to have the application notarized, since I don't have the original one) and to send our official marriage certificate with it to the social security office so they can send us our new official social security cards. But I'm not sure if I should just drive it down there so that I can hand it to them in person. But I would have to take a whole day off to do that. Then we have to take our official social security cards, after waiting two weeks to get them, and take them to the DMV and hope and pray that the official office will agree to give us new official driver's licenses. Why is this so hard? Why can't Social Security team up with the states and automatically send out new cards when the name change is indicated on the marriage certificate?!? After all that, I have to contact a ton more people to get my name changed, like utilities, credit cards, not to mention my employer, because I need a new name plate—and do I change my email or not? I've been using that one a long time... It's all very frustrating, and the more I think about it, the more irritated I get. I don't have time to get a ton of things notarized, and why the heck don't we have a social security office closer than an hour away? It's not like this town is THAT small!! Oh, big whoop, so we have someone here on the second Wednesday of every month from 9:30am-noon. Seriously? Once a month, there's someone here for two and a half hours!? SERIOUSLY?!?Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-76788583653209100992010-09-17T14:47:00.002-05:002010-09-17T14:47:13.835-05:00PolarizedWhy the ups <br />
and then the downs <br />
why do they feel <br />
<i>so real </i><br />
and then seem <br />
so wrong<br />
<br />
I catch myself letting one event or one person's words bring me down for the rest of the day. I'll be crazy excited about something, and then one little thing can ruin the whole thing for me. I can't decide if I need tougher skin or if those things really should affect me like that.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3082660565534474221.post-78269757477016136532010-09-14T16:06:00.001-05:002010-09-14T16:06:39.810-05:00ConfusedOn days like today I alternate <br />
between <br />
throwing things <br />
and <br />
biting my nails <br />
and <br />
falling asleep <br />
and<br />
dancing<br />
and <br />
laughing<br />
and <br />
crying <br />
and <br />
foot-kicking <br />
and <br />
hiding from the world <br />
because <br />
on days like today <br />
I have no idea how to put into words <br />
all the things that I feel.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13336090116524608136noreply@blogger.com0