Notes From Slothville

I've been out of commission for the past several days. Sick kid. Lack of sleep. Ennui.
The child is back at school and feeling much better. It was only a bad head cold and sore throat, no fever, thank goodness, which put all of my Swine flu fears to rest. At some point, I'm guessing production on the vaccine will increase and we can all get protected, if we so choose.
For now, I will keep spewing the up side of obsessive hand-washing.

But I'm not going to beat myself up over the lack of ambition, the desire to simply sit back and be a sloth in human form. I liked it.
An entire weekend was wasted on the couch with the latest dvd's and a new book. Nope, I'm not even going to feel a little bit guilty.
As a refreshing change from staying up too late, I actually made it into bed last night at 8p.m and managed a full eight hours of sleep (a dose of Nyquil was a huge help). Still, I cringed when the alarm went off at four a.m.
Money used to motivate me at work. Now the thought of a nap is what gets me through the workday.
As my dear friend, M, would say: "You do like your naps, don't you?"
Yes, M, I do. And it's nice to know my couch is waiting for me.

Official

Several years ago, I lost a long-time job. As much as I hated this particular job and my bosses, and the lack of morale that had permeated the building, I was still in shock the day they called me in to tell me my services were no longer needed. First I laughed, long and loud, right in front of them. They sat and stared politely, if not a bit bewildered. Then, days later, when the reality of it finally sunk into my brain, I had a mini-panic attack while doing laundry. In the middle of throwing a load of wet clothes into the dryer, I became chilled and dizzy. My chest felt tight and I had to sit down. My whole life, my identity, had revolved around that job. What the hell was I going to do? It wasn't just about money, there was another adult in the house, still gainfully employed. I had been employed in one career, and one career only, since graduating from college in 1981. It was the only thing I knew how to do, and I'd always felt that I did it rather well. As working mom, it was also the perfect career to help me meet my daughter's needs, too.
I wasn't trained to do anything else and I was scared.


As it turned out, I was out of work for almost a year. But it was a good thing because during that time, my grandmother was dying and I went home to help my family. They had taken care of the old woman for all the years I was gone, hundreds of miles away, and now I had the chance to ease some of their load. I also brought along a journal, the thought being that I could finally get some writing down on paper. Writing; I was always too busy, to unsure of myself to really give it a try. And I'd graduated with a degree in Journalism.
I managed to put together some nice little paragraphs, snippets really, about my grandma and my family. Trying to make it all segue into an interesting tale, or essay, was another story. It was dawning on me why so many of the people I knew who called themselves writers had to take on other jobs to survive.
I signed up for a writing workshop and after eight weeks, managed to finish two essays. Both were eventually published in two separate anthologies.
Did this qualify me as an official writer? To date, my writing skills have earned me grand total of forty dollars. In my mind, that doesn't sound too professional. But I kept at it, it was fun, therapeutic even. I wrote my first short piece of fiction, a love story about a young couple and naturally, tragedy ensued. It's been three years since I started it and I'm still re-writing, and I even managed to find another job, one that offers a regular paycheck. At some point, it may be time to say farewell to my characters, Sam and Sophia, and start fresh with a brand new story.
My first full week as a fifty year old woman and I'm disappointed to admit that I've not achieved my goal of finishing a novel by the half century mark. Well, actually, that's not quite true. A couple of years ago I participated in National Novel Writing month. It takes place every year in the month of November. The goal is to finish a fifty thousand word manuscript, and that's exactly what I managed to do. I even have the downloaded certificate, my award, to prove I was capable of quantity, not quality.
And so, for the right here and right now, I will keep plugging away at this blog...and keep a journal at my side.

What I Learned From the French

Two days. Two women. Paris, France. A 50th birthday. It was the whirlwind I'd expected. The City of Lights did not disappoint me. Saturday night it was dinner at a small cafe on the Champs de Elysees, next weekend I'll be helping out at the Spaghetti dinner at my daughter's school.

"M" and I made it to the top of the Eiffel Tower, we marveled at the Arc de Triomphe. We blasted through the Louvre with two goals; to see the Mona Lisa and the statue of Aphrodite. We accomphlished both and then ran to catch the train to Versailles. Marie A's Palace was over the top, lots of gold and decadence. M and I agreed the peasants had every right to revolt!

Contrary to what some of my American friends believe, the French were not rude. They were lovely, polite and more than happy to help a language-challenged U.S. citizen.

 When it comes to food and fashion, the French adhere to the "less is more" policy.

I've learned that you can't go wrong with black and a beautiful scarf. The women may not all have been beauties but they all possessed a simple,elegent style.

The French also understand the concept of portion size when it comes to their meals. A serving of pasta arrives at your table in a small bowl. It's not swimming in sauce.The Boeuf (beef) Bourguignan contained just a few chunks of tender red meat in a delicate wine sauce, accompanied by small pieces of potatoes and carrots. And of course, one has to have a glass of wine. Please notice that I said glass, as in one glass, maybe two. I have a feeling that for the majority of the French, wine is simply another part of the meal, not a reason to keep drinking until you can no longer stand. Of course, I could be wrong.  People sit and talk and enjoy the company of their friends, with a bite of food being consumed at a slow, leisurely pace. I'm willing to bet they don't suffer the gastrointestinal troubles we do in the states.

They also smoke...alot. But they walk everyday and everywhere.

Delicious food. Good Wine. Great art. Forty-eight hours isn't nearly long enough to fully grasp a new culture, but I sure can appreciate it.

Winging It

Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you did not do than the things you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.  Mark Twain


I am not a "spur of the moment" kind of person. I like to have a gameplan, an outline on the events that will affect my life. Sure, there will always be the things that will be out of one's control, no matter how organized the plan, but for the most part, I enjoy playing it safe. But as I get older, I've been trying to change, trying to free myself up to new opportunities.
That's why I'm headed to Paris for the weekend to celebrate my 50th birthday. Yep, that Paris...the one in France. It never would have happened without "M". She's the catalyst for this impromptu voyage, and she's also my traveling companion, and the one who arranged the itinerary.
At some point, probably several years ago, I must have mentioned how I hoped to get back to Europe before hitting the half century mark. Did I really bother to take myself seriously, of course not. Life was crazy, there was a child to raise and a job to report to during the week.
But "M" didn't forget. She booked our flight, reserved a hotel near the Eiffel Tower, and then, knowing my unease with surprise, called me a couple of weeks ago to tell me and let the idea sink in. She understands my need to plan.
So we leave this afternoon, after my workday ends. It'll be a short trip, and we'll pack in as much of the excitement of Paris that we can in two full days. My family is more than capable of taking care of themselves, in fact I'm certain both hubby and child do the happy dance whenever I'm gone.
So Paris awaits me and M. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to give my guidebook a once over and recheck my suitcase.
Au revoir!

My Dehydrating Quest to Kill Germs

My hands are very dry today. I've been going crazy with the liquid hand sanitizer and it's taking a toll on my skin. The Swine flu frenzy is well under way, and while I ponder whether or not to get the vaccine, the hygiene freak inside me is having a field day. I carry a mini-bottle of sanitizer in my purse, as well as wipes. I use the pump bottle provided at work on my way to and from the ladies room, the kitchen, and the elevator. I think twice before scratching my nose with my hand, opting instead to use my sweater-covered arm.
And of course, the huge debate continues: Is the vaccine safe? Are we idiots if we don't get it. What about companies forcing their employees to get vaccinated?

Currently, from what I understand, there is a limited supply of the H1N1 Vaccine available, and right now only a select group of people can get it, like pregnant women and those with compromised immune systems. Once those in the higher risk groups are protected, the rest of us schleps can get vaccinated, if there's anything left.
My daughter and I have both received the seasonal flu vaccines, we had no side effects, not that I anticipated any. People who claim they always get the flu after getting a flu shot were probably already getting sick, at least that's what my doctor tells me. Still, like many other people, I too had my questions about the Swine vaccine. After a long talk with my daughter's pediatrician, a true non-alarmist, I was left very reassured. The good doctor says it's a safe vaccine, produced in a very similiar way to the seasonal variety. She recommended that my daughter get it as soon as it was available to her, and me too.
In the meantime, I'll keep slathering on that hand sanitizer.

I went shopping today in search of a black turtleneck sweater. Sounds simple enough, right? This Fall, however, is apparently not the season for turtleneck sweaters. Huge cowl necks, button ups, scoop necks, v-necks, but nary a turtleneck to be found. I finally settled on a simple cable knit, the scoop neck variety. I can always spiff it up with a scarf around my neck.
But I'm getting off track. The real reason for my post tonight is to vent on a very disturbing fashion trend from the past that seems to be making a comeback...stirrup pants.
I was in a fairly hip boutique this afternoon and there they were, on a rack all to themselves, in black, no less. For a minute I was confused, my head felt dizzy as if in the throes of a vertigo attack. I had a strange flashback from somewhere in the 80's. But then I thought, this can't be right, it's 2009, who would be dumb enough to try and resurrect a style of pants that actually made mom jeans look hip?
This continued to bother me on my drive home so I decided to do some online investigating. Ladies, I'm terrified to say that my discovery today is not an isolated incident. I found pair after pair, after pair, available online. Neiman Marcus even offered a top line designer pair for $895.00! Okay, I'll concede that the size 0 model wearing them certainly helped...but they're still freaking ugly pants!

Facets Away

Lower back pain, it's a true pain in the ass (well, close enough) that's for sure. At some point in the evolutionary chain, we went from walking on all fours to scuffling along on two feet, and that's when all our problems started. I sometimes wonder if Cro Magnon  man or Mr. Neanderthal, after a tough day of hunting and gathering, sat down on a bed of fur wondering what to do about the nagging pain in their lower spine.
My own back pain started after the birth of my daughter almost sixteen years ago.  I'm convinced that while the little darling was growing inside me, she managed to knock my pelvis out of whack, which has led to years and years of searching for ways to make the pain stop.
You name the treatment, and I've probably tried it; chiropractic, physical therapy, decompression therapy, deep tissue massage, and a bizarre hands-on manipulation where the practitioner pressed down on my pelvic region and told me to think about urinating.
Yoga and pilates classes, yep, tried those as well.

Relief from all of the above would be short and sweet. Nothing seemed to provide a permanent solution and apparently the two arthritic discs in my lower left back weren't bad enough to require surgery.
I tried to keep a smile on my face and stay positive despite the pain.

But now I think I've found the doctor who can make me pain free again.
Today he performed a little something called a lumbar rhizotomy. In a nutshell, he cauterized the facet nerves that were generating all of the agony from my degenerating discs. If all goes as planned, the treatment should last anywhere from nine months to two years.

"In some cases the pain never returns, " said the doctor, a man who has the potential of topping my all time favorite human being list.
Two to three weeks from now, I'll learn if this rhizotomy thing was successful. Tonight, I'll get comfy on the couch with an ice pack on my back.